Despite It All by Reese Knightley

 

Forest

His fingers gripped the door handle when the chopper landed on the roof. Yeah, not his favorite thing to do. Another one of his hates to chalk up there with the cold.

“See ya,” Howard said.

“Yep.”

One red eye and two helicopter flights later, he placed his feet on dry land. Well, it wasn’t dry land, more of the wet tar roof on top of the steel and glass Federal Building, but it counted.

It didn’t move.

Inside to the left was a wide hallway that led to the only office on the top floor. He’d asked Parish once why he’d wanted to be all alone up there and the man had said it made him feel like a king. He’d kindly, and with some cheek, told the guy he wasn’t the king.

He didn’t get two feet down the hallway before the insistent buzz of his cell phone had him tugging it from his pocket.

“Hi, mom.”

“Hi, baby. Did you get the electricity bill?”

He smiled at her sing song tone of voice. “Did you run the heater with the door open?”

Her tinkling laugh echoed through the phone.

Catching the cell between his jaw and shoulder, he pulled a packet from his pocket and tucked a mint flavored toothpick between his teeth.

“Can I call you later? I just got to work.”

“Yes!” She laughed. “I want to know all about your vacation.”

“Snow.”

“Oh, you!” She chuckled, ending the call before he could say goodbye. His exuberant, over-the-top, enthusiastic mother had helped him stay sane over the past six months. Tucking his phone away, he chewed on the toothpick.

He popped his head through the open door of Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge Rob Parish—FBI Counterterrorism Division II’s office.

The view at the far end of the massive room always snagged his attention. Just beyond the glass doors of a large balcony lay the Pacific Ocean. He’d grown up swimming in that ocean from the age of eight to twelve until his grandfather migrated them to Montana. The water was a perfect backdrop beneath a roiling, storm-filled sky.

“You wanted to see me?”

Parish looked up from his laptop and waved him in. Rob Parish was a slender man, pushing sixty, balding, and wore a pinstriped blue tie with his steel gray business suit.

“Shut the door.”

Using one red sneaker, he booted the door closed with a thump and took a seat in one of the wide, brown leather chairs in front of the messy wooden desk.

“What happened to your shoes?”

Behind a large oak desk filled with papers, Parish squinted at him over a pair of brown-framed reading glasses.

He waggled his eyebrows and moved the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other with a grin. Being at odds with Parish was part of his cover in the office and around other agents, but when the door was closed, he didn’t need to worry. He crossed one ankle over his knee.

“Like them?”

“Make sure you change.”

He snapped his teeth against the minty wood. Lightning flashed over the ocean where a tempest billowed on the horizon. Three back-to-back storms would slam into the coastline in a few hours, bringing with it thunder and lightning and several inches of rain.

“How was your vacation?” Parish leaned back in his chair, the man’s voice pulling him back from the view.

He sighed and held the man’s kind gaze. “Short by two days.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.” He’d take rain over snow any day.

“This is the next guy on the list.” Parish tossed a report across the pile of papers and it slipped over and landed on the edge.

“You called me back for the next mole?”

“I did, but there’s something else that I need to talk to you about, son.”

Something in the man’s voice stopped him from reaching for the report.

“Summer Peterson missed her check-in.”

He went completely still. “What do you mean, missed?”

“She didn’t call.”

“Her report date was two days ago.”

“I know.” Parish ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “She didn’t check-in. I just found out today.”

Which meant she could have potentially been missing for thirty-two days. Sweat broke out on his upper lip and he rubbed at his forehead. When a knot suddenly tightened in his stomach, he was glad he hadn’t eaten.

“Today? Why didn’t Robert call you?”

“He said he left me a message two days ago. I didn’t get it.”

“Do you believe him?” He rubbed at his mouth.

Parish rolled back in his chair to the small fridge that sat behind his desk and grabbed a bottle of water.

“Yes. Do you?”

He took the offered bottle and fumbled with the cap, but the damned thing refused to open.

Special Agent Robert Shawl was Summer’s FBI contact. Summer adored him. Robert was a stand-up guy, a straight shooter, someone he himself had counted on several times in the past.

“Yeah. Robert cares too much for Summer.”

“Here.” Parish got up, came around his desk, and took the bottle.

Because he was thirsty, he didn’t bitch like he normally would have and instead, took several grateful swallows. The cold liquid felt good on his throat. He only realized he was gasping when Parish placed a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Forest?”

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” Don’t panic. Just keep it cool. He took in several deep breaths, just like the psychiatrist had taught him. After a moment, Parish removed his hand and returned to his chair, but the older man’s eyes were filled with worry.

“She’s missed her call-ins before,” Parish reminded him.

He knew that. It was one of the reasons he wasn’t totally freaking out. She had a habit of running late. Especially now that Rick was gone.

“How’s your wrist?”

“It’s good.” He guzzled the water, hoping it would take care of his dry mouth and end Parish’s questions.

“Tell me the truth.”

“What are we going to do about Summer?” His fist clenched. The organization Summer had infiltrated had ties to a terrorist group led by a big player they’d been hunting for years. He tugged his phone from his pocket and checked it, but there were no messages from Summer. Had they killed her? Crap, don’t think like that.

“Forest.”

“Damn it! It only goes out on me every once in a while.” He opened and closed his fingers around the plastic bottle, it crackled loudly in the room.

“When it’s something small?” Parish stared at his hand.

“Exactly, like a lid or cap. What are we going to do about Summer?”

“Let’s not panic. She’s missed her call-in by four days once.”

“I know, but that was before Rick. I’m worried about her.”

“Me too. That’s why I called the Secretary of Defense.”

“Why’d you call Dave?” He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful and it wasn’t that he didn’t love Dave, but… He made an irritated sound in his throat and slumped back in the wide leather chair. “I can find her.”

“Look, I need you on the mole. I have an office full of agents I can’t trust.”

“You can trust some of them.”

“Yes, and you’re damned busy going through over two hundred suspects.”

“It’s one hundred now.”

“One hundred suspects,” Parish amended, slowly rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “We are going to need Dave’s help.”

“I can bring her home!”

“I need you on the leak. Let Dave handle finding Summer,” Parish replied patiently.

His foot dropped to the ground and he sat forward, fists clenched, but Parish ignored him and tapped the report on the desk.

“I’ve assigned Agent Hardier to partner with you. See if he’s the mole.”

“Don’t you think it’d be better if I checked him out without him in my face?”

Parish sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Just see if you get a bad feeling from him.”

He picked up the file and flipped it open. Two sentences in, he was ready to punch something. This guy was going to be a nightmare. Hardier had a bad reputation. The agent walked a thin line between keeping the law and breaking it. He was known for bending the rules, and had earned a reputation of not one to be messed with around the bureau.

“The guy’s an asshole.” He snapped the folder closed. “I’m searching for Summer.”

Parish rubbed at his temples and stared at him over the rim of his glasses. “For once, Taylor, just follow my orders. You’re Summer’s next of kin on record. I can’t have you on this case.”

That was the crux of the matter. Follow FBI regulations and stay away, or go after her himself? He snapped his teeth against the toothpick. If he wanted to stay in the FBI, this would be his life. He was the best man for this job and Parish knew it, but they were clipping his fucking wings.

It wasn’t hard to see that Parish wanted to strangle him. It wasn’t new. He’d known Parish for years, just like Dave. And just like Dave, he could still frustrate the hell out of the guy. That was what made his cover so easy.

But if Parish thought he was going to stop looking for Summer, the guy was dead wrong. It wouldn’t matter if they told him no. It wouldn’t matter if Hardier was partnered with him, he was a master at disappearing.

“Anything I need to know?”

A flash of sheet lightning lit up the water and he gazed at the lonely sight. He itched to be gone.

“I already told Hardier he was partnering with you.”

“How’d he take it?” He turned from the view.

“He wasn’t thrilled.”

“I bet. I honestly think it’s someone out of the South building.” FBI South was their twin site only it wasn’t as big as this one. They’d taken over the other building because of the overflow of personnel. Two buildings, one of the reasons it was taking him so damned long to investigate the staff.

“Find out.” Parish grimaced.

“Oh, I will.”

“I also need you to run the morning meeting tomorrow, Rogers’ mom is sick.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Parish eyed him with one of those stern looks that wasn’t really stern, but he was saved from giving the guy a hard time when fingers tapped on the office door.

He glanced over his shoulder and found the man’s no-nonsense assistant waving through the glass. With her brown pantsuit and brown hair pulled tightly away from her face, she reminded him of the librarian back in Montana. He, Mason, Rick, and Summer used to torment her by misfiling books throughout the library.

He waggled his fingers and he got a prim look for his efforts. Guess his time was up.

“Well, I mustn’t keep the kids waiting.”

“Hey,” Parish whispered.

“What?” he hissed back.

“That’s a classified report. Be careful with it.”

He picked up the file again and strode to the door. With a flourish, he opened the door and let the woman in. She hurried past him without a glance.

Within seconds, he was calling Summer’s cell, but it went straight to voicemail.

“This is Summer,” her sing song voice said. “Say the secret words and I’ll call you back.” It was the same message from before Rick was killed. She’d never changed it.

“Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater.” He leaned back against the wall near the elevators. “If you get this and you’re okay, I’m going to wring your neck. If something happened to you, then I’m sorry. Call me back if you can.”

He took a deep breath. “And if you can’t? Hang on, I’m coming for you.” He squeezed the phone, ended the call, and gazed up at the ceiling, blinking his eyes.

Taking the elevator at the end of the hallway, it dumped him three floors below in the bullpen.

“My office is cold,” he grumbled when he finally stepped through his office door.

“I’ll get it!” Shay yelled from the small room just off of his office.

“You’re a lifesaver.”

“How about a raise?”

“I haven’t even had one.”

“And your point?”

“You’ll get money before I get money.”

“And I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank,” Shay giggled.

With a smile, he dumped the contents in his arms on his wide oak desk. He loved his energetic assistant. She kept his work organized.

Peeling off the Velcro around his wrist, he took off his brace and shook out the fingers of his left hand. He’d worn the thing too long and now it ached, but maybe that was from the cold. The cold always made it feel worse. Hell, the cold made everything feel worse. And even though this wasn’t five feet of snow, the wind gusting in across the Pacific Ocean was brutal.

After a low thump in the ceiling, the heat kicked on, blowing warmth down into his off-white office. The air rattled his framed credentials hanging on the wall. The other two things on his walls couldn’t be rattled. An embedded safe and a heavy oil painting of several palm trees bent beneath the force of a gray ocean storm, a gift from Summer. A lone coat tree sat near the door with a spare gun holster.

Damn it, Summer. He pulled out his phone and checked for messages.

Nothing. No calls.

Not that they talked often anymore. Every time he turned around, she was off doing something more dangerous than the last. If it wasn’t rock climbing in places she wasn’t ready for, it was drinking herself into a stupor at night, or missing her fucking check-ins.

Spying his black dress shoes tucked beneath his desk, he bent over, reaching for one. Might as well conform even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. Nobody in their right mind willingly wore those shoes.

Shay rapped on his glass door.

“Agent Carver’s on line one.”

“Thanks, Shay.” He dropped the shoe with relief.

She waggled her fingers and her ponytail bobbed as she closed his office door.

He wondered what Bill needed. He’d known Agent Bill Carver for years; they’d worked together back in the day at the FBI White Collar division and even now, they often helped each other on cases.

Bill was one of the good guys working over at the FBI South building, and had a way of finagling him into helping out on one too many cases. Like a tit for tat kind of thing, especially when Bill’s desk was overflowing.

He made a quick decision not to tell Bill about Summer and snatched up the receiver, punching the flashing hold button. Out of habit, he glanced at his office phone and the little display said unknown instead of Bill.

“You’re buying lunch this time,” he announced.

“Check your cell phone.”

He frowned, jerking upright in his chair, heart slamming against his ribs at the robotic, rasping voice. It sure the hell wasn’t Bill.

“Who is this?”

Click.

The line went dead and he dug out his cell phone from his pants pocket and opened it to a new text message from an unknown number.

“Stop digging or she’s dead.”

A sour taste filled his mouth when the screen displayed the bruised and batter face of Summer, hands tied, sitting in a room on a concrete floor.

Leaning forward, he punched the speaker on his office phone and dialed Jerry’s extension.

“Sup, boss?”

“I need you to trace a cell phone call that came into my personal cell asap and the last call into my office phone.”

He rattled off the number on his cell.

“I’ll wait. Tell me if you get a hit.”

He opened his laptop and signed in. Double checking, he pulled up the encrypted files of collected data he’d stored on the FBI server. The information sat behind a national security firewall and he felt marginally better when everything appeared intact.

“Burner phone, it’s shut off,” Jerry said.

“Thanks.”

Ending the call, he punched in Bill’s number.

“What’s up, Forest?”

“Did you call me?”

“Nope. Getting senile?” Bill teased.

“I guess I misplaced my brains,” he joked and hung up the phone.

He fumbled beneath the edge of his desk. Hitting the button for the privacy screen, the office door locked with a soft click and the wall of glass turned white, leaving him alone, isolated, and unseen. He stared numbly down at Summer’s face, her swollen eyes haunted. Inform Parish or let Dave know? Did it really matter who he called? Parish had reached out to Dave. Shoving from his chair, he hurried across the bone-colored carpet and pushed aside the heavy oil painting.

A metal box sat embedded into the wall and he opened the small door. Placing his thumb on the lock, the small square light turned green and he punched in his access code.

When the section of wall opened soundlessly, he slipped inside, giving a silent thank you to Dave for thinking ahead. He’d balked at first, not seeing the sense in a private room with a secure line to the SOD, but he had to admit it had come in handy. The State department had installed it almost a year ago when the building had been tented during a three-day period for pest control.

FBI would be shitting bricks if they even knew of the room’s existence.

Flipping the light switch on the inside wall, a small table lamp sent a sparse glow toward the ceiling. A narrow wooden table and chair were the only furniture in the soundproof room. When the door slid closed behind him, it locked him inside the tight space and he went straight for the red telephone on the table.

Lifting the handle, he pressed the blinking light. It was the longest few seconds of his life waiting for the Secretary of Defense to answer.

“Forest? What’s wrong?”

“I just got a call from Bill Carver’s office phone, and then a picture of Summer forwarded to my personal cell.”

“I have a burner phone. Forward me the message.”

He slumped down on the wooden chair and sent the text and picture to the number Dave recited. Waiting in the growing silence, he stared numbly at the picture of Summer’s swollen face. I’m coming. Hold on, Summer.

“Jesus Christ.” Dave came back on the line. “Was the voice on the phone Bill’s?”

“I don’t think so, but it was muffled, robotic.”

“We need to discreetly check into that.”

“I had the call traced. It’s from a burner phone.”

“Come to me and we’ll figure out a game plan.”

“I have an agent I’m babysitting.”

“You’re not serious?”

“Parish is putting me in the field with Hardier.” He leaned his head tiredly against the wall.

“Damn it.”

“I’ll be okay. I need to check out Hardier anyway. You know I can handle myself.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but Dave didn’t need to know that.

“Maybe.”

That stung. Okay, yeah, after the accident he might not have been on his game, but he’d snapped back quicker than most in his same position. He could still do his damned job. They were always underestimating him.

“Is that how you really feel?” He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling and the pale circle of light from the small lamp.

“You know it’s not, but I’m worried about you. And I want to introduce you to the unit.”

“I’ve met them all.”

One brooding, dark-haired soldier came to mind, but he slammed the door on that picture. Greene probably wasn’t even on this mission. It wasn’t like they needed twelve Special Forces soldiers barging around Ventura County, California. If Summer was still even in the county.

“Forest, humor me.”

“I’ll lose my tail and meet up with you.”

“I’ll send someone to collect you.”

“No,” he said sharply and squeezed the phone. “If they get a hint that I’ve reached out, they might kill Summer.”

“Listen to me,” Dave said, his voice stern. “I’m sending someone to get you.”

“Dave…”

“Forest, trust me.”

“You know I do.” His breath stuttered. He trusted Dave with his life.

“Act normal then. Leave the building and go to that busy coffee shop we went to last month on Fifth Street and wait there.”

“For what?”

“Contact.”

When the line went dead, he gently placed the handle back on the red phone.

Red for emergencies, red for help, red, the color of blood.

What a fucked-up time to wear red sneakers.