Crossing Lines by Adrienne Giordano

1

Two Weeks Later

Shane steppedfrom the stale air of the convenience store into sunshine and early warmth of what would be an odd 80-degree May day. Pedestrians veered around him, some on their way to the el station half a block up. At 7:30 on a Tuesday morning, the streets of Chicago swelled with commuting warriors.

Hell, at this hour, even a man with his background took his life into his hands on the street.

Typically, he’d be at the bar already, prepping the kitchen for the lunch rush and checking stock on anything the cook might need. Say, the all-important cheddar cheese. Which, according to the text he’d received thirty minutes earlier, they were out of. And holy shit, how could that be? He got an order twice a week. One on Monday, one on Thursday. Yesterday had been busy, but not that busy. How the hell did they go through his entire order in less than a day?

If his biggest problem was a lack of cheese, he’d count it as a good day. Someone had probably stored the wayward cheese in the wrong spot or he hadn’t received the full order. Either way, something got fucked up.

He hooked a left at the corner and headed the last two blocks to the bar. A woman fell in step next to him, impressive considering his long stride and her being at least half a foot shorter.

She stayed right with him, her gait steady.

A normal person wouldn’t think twice.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been normal — whatever that meant — in two years and the hairs on his forearms danced. He gripped the grocery bag and slid his gaze in her direction. Long dark hair fell over her shoulders. Straight nose. Soft, rounded cheeks. Tiny freckle on the left. Her whole look made him think Iowa farm girl and he definitely didn’t know any of those.

He cleared his throat, picked up his pace, hoping she’d get the idea that she should back. The fuck. Off.

And yet . . . nuh-uh. He let out a low grunt as she triple-timed her steps to keep up. Some people didn’t take a hint. Now he’d have to let her know he wasn’t interested in anything she was selling, handing out or preaching.

He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Do I know you?”

“Not yet.”

Interesting. Sweet voice to go with the farm girl look. In his experience, those were the women to fear. The ones who’d work a man to a vulnerable spot — say naked — and then shove a .45 under his chin. Or other parts worth protecting. He cleared his throat. “Okay.”

“I need your help.”

His help? What was this now? As much as he wanted to halt and ask her just that, he wouldn’t. He’d keep moving, his mind wandering to the knife strapped to his ankle.

“Sorry,” he said. “All out of help. Have a good one.”

“I was told to expect surly.”

Surly? Sweetheart, you have no idea.

“Who told you that?”

“A friend. A mutual friend.”

Shane finally stopped, stared straight ahead at the traffic snarling the intersection. He looked down, studied her for a solid thirty seconds. The deep brown eyes that bordered on black, the fading bruise on her cheek. The scar above her perfect eyebrow. Someone had put hands on this woman. Rough hands.

As much as he hated it, not his problem. Once upon a time maybe, not now.

“I don’t have a lot of friends,” he said.

“You have a few. And one of them said you could help me. You know what I’m talking about.”

She whipped a magazine page from her jacket pocket. A restaurant ad with a tiny map at the bottom showing the establishment’s location. She pointed at it, gesturing to a spot not even close to where they stood.

Overhead came the rumble of an incoming train and a woman wearing a short skirt and blazer stormed toward them, half running, her briefcase bouncing against her hip. Shane stepped back, let her blow on through so she didn’t miss her ride.

She offered a little extended eye contact. “Thank you.”

He went back to the current woman occupying his mind. The one with the dumbass ad and sexy brown eyes.

“Who’s this friend?”

“I can’t say. Not here.” She glanced to her right, then over her shoulder before going back to the map. “So, three blocks, you say?”

“Four,” he replied, playing along.

Because, shit on a shingle, one thing was obvious, whoever this woman was — outside of being a lost tourist — she didn’t want to be seen talking to him.

“Someone sent you?”

“Yes.”

Son of a bitch. For two years, he’d been so goddamn careful. Every day, every minute, every second. No contact with loved ones. No holiday meals. No brownies from his mother.

The brownies haunted him. All hot and gooey fudge still warm from the oven. Heaven.

But…hang on. She said she needed his help. Not the other way around. If it were his cover blown, she’d be offering help.

Or trying to hack his balls off.

“Beetlejuice,” she said.

Shane started moving again, faster this time, away from her. He didn’t know her, didn’t want to know her and sure as hell couldn’t risk blowing cover for her.

“I’m sorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I can’t help you.”

But he’d have a conversation with the guy who’d given her the emergency code. No doubt about that.

Cemeteries,in Shane’s opinion, were great for covert meetings. No security cameras, no guards stationed at the gate, no nosy employees after five. Yep, pretty much, St. Augustine’s Cemetery fit the bill just fine. Particularly at night.

He parked his nondescript — vanilla, no sprinkles — Chevy on the street behind the cemetery, hopped the iron fence and made his way across an open area where gravesites had yet to be claimed. At the southernmost point of the field stood a mammoth mausoleum painted a bright white and finished off with decorative columns along the facade. He took his time, enjoying the comfort of warm night air. Here, city chaos didn’t exist. Here, in the blackness, all was quiet and for the brief minutes it took to cross the cemetery, his mind absorbed the peace. Took it in. Reveled in it.

Soon enough, that calm would be gone.

At the back of the mausoleum, away from the security cameras that only monitored the public areas, he unlocked the employee entrance using the key he shouldn't have kept from his maintenance job two years earlier. On the other side, a wall of damp heat welcomed him. No air-conditioning in the stairwell. Only in the mausoleum itself. Which, Shane supposed, made sense for the folks visiting loved ones. The loved ones most likely didn’t give a shit. They were, after all, dead.

He jogged to the basement level, then used the flashlight on his phone to guide him along a narrow walkway beside stacks of grass seed, fertilizer and other supplies. At the support beam, he hung a left and hustled to the long-ignored three-foot air vent built into the cement.

He’d discovered this little gem one morning while searching for an extra shovel. To this day, he wasn’t sure what had made him pull the louvered grate from the wall and inspect behind it. Then again, his curiosity — er, nosiness — had made him one hell of a Recon Marine.

The vent, as evidenced by the stuck grate he almost broke his hand trying to budge, obviously hadn’t been used in years. Still, he’d forced that sucker off and peeked inside at the metal ductwork that ran straight up. At that point, he’d abandoned his search for a shovel and jumped straight into the mental rabbit hole that led him to an air vent big enough for someone to crawl through. Six inches above the opening, on the back part of the shaft, he’d found a rusted, quarter-sized hole and man-oh-man the curiosity hog inside him went ballistic. He had to know what was back there. Had to. He’d jammed his six-foot-three body into the confined space and poked his finger through the hole. Rust flaked away and the dirt behind it collapsed, revealing a dark, hollow space. Shane had retreated, grabbed one of the shovels he’d come to the basement for and opened that hole wide enough to fit his body through.

Exactly what he intended to do now.

He climbed in, resetting the grate behind him. On the opposite wall, he removed the second grate he’d installed to cover his handiwork and climbed through to the tunnel on the other side.

Back in the day, coal mining wasn’t uncommon on the outskirts of Chicago and Shane had discovered part of an abandoned mine.

Now, failing to appreciate the dank, closed-in space, he picked up his pace, marched into the tunnel's darkness with only his phone lighting the way. Another ten yards.

But, damn, he hated tight spaces. No. Wrong. Confined spaces weren’t the problem. Being trapped was the problem.

And wasn’t that a pisser, considering his current life circumstances? Nothing like being a prisoner in one’s own life.

At the end of the tunnel, he reached a door he’d installed a lock on. Just in case, you know, someone like him stumbled upon his super-secret hidey hole. He checked the knob. Unlocked. Crazy son of a bitch is here. Shane pushed the door open, stepped into the storage space, complete with old tools and blasting caps, and found Dustin — Dusty — slouched in one of the fold-up soccer chairs. Couldn’t exactly squeeze office furniture through a barely three-foot opening. An oversized camping lantern threw shadows over the walls and illuminated Dusty’s ever-present I’m-slightly-amused look.

He didn’t move from his spot. Just sat there, long, jean-clad legs stretched in front of him, as he stared out from under his sideswept bangs and the bill of his ancient ball cap.

And as happy as Shane was, and always would be, to see his old friend, he’d sent him a text via their emergency-only burner phones, summoned him to this place that ensured privacy and lessened the risk of being seen together, to rip him one. “How many times I gotta tell you to lock this door?”

“Wha, wha. How many times I gotta ask you who the hell cares? If someone we don’t know walks through that door, we’re screwed anyway.”

Shane tromped across the fifteen-foot room. Along with the soccer chairs came a portable table with a canvas top. He’d like to lean on it, get right in Dusty’s space, but the table would definitely collapse under his weight and he’d wind up doing a face plant. At which point, his friend would laugh his ass off.

Instead, Shane propped his hands on his hips, took a long pull of damp air and focused on a crack in the cement. Part of why the CIA had once loved Dusty was he could work a man’s nerves. Absolutely burrow under the skin in record time. He screamed surfer dude with that shaggy hair and easy gait. Throw in the laid-back attitude and all of it wrapped around a brain that knew how to make the sanest of the sane go abso-fucking-lutely nuts.

“You flaming asshole,” Shane said. “You stole my cheese.”

In response, Dusty made a noise. That cross between not laughing and laughing. The you-bet-your-ass-I-stole-your-cheese laugh.

Shane waggled a hand. “Don’t try to deny it. I pulled my security video. You broke into the bar last night. I saw you walk straight to the cooler.”

“I didn’t break in. I have a key. And the code to your alarm. Not exactly high-level operative shit.”

“I’m changing the locks and code. And speaking of codes, you gave our emergency one to that sexy brunette. I can’t believe you sent her to me.”

“You’d rather I sent her in your front door? Maybe made her an appointment?”

And there it was, the admission. Crazy fucker trying to get them all killed.

“I’d rather you not send her at all.”

“Exactly! Dude, I needed to get you out of the bar to talk to her and you always hit the market in emergencies. You should vary your pattern.”

Ha. Now, he’d get a lecture from the guy who’d put all of them in jeopardy? “Fuck off. My patterns were great until you got involved. It’s not enough we’re watching our own sixes, you want us to watch hers too?”

“It’s a damned fine six.”

Shane squeezed his eyes closed, prayed for patience — and his mother’s brownies. His mother’s brownies always made a bad day better. He’d kill for one of those effing brownies.

He opened his eyes again, gave Dusty the mother of all death glares. They’d met six years ago at Fort Huachuca during training for the CIA’s Special Activities Division. Shane, then a Recon Marine, had been on loan to the CIA and serving as a member of SAD’s Ground Branch. Dusty, two years younger, had been recruited from his position as a CIA field operative because, in short, he was a flipping engineering genius. They’d been friends, brothers, ever since.

And right now, Shane was pissed and like any brother would, he’d summoned his buddy to their hideaway for an ass-kicking. Typically, they met here only when the stresses of living undercover became too much. When they needed a few minutes with someone who knew them as Bobby MacGregor and Terrence Whitley, their birth names. That’s what normal people did. They socialized with friends. They connected.

Only Shane and Dusty and their other friend, Trevor, did it in a drafty room at the end of a forgotten tunnel under a mausoleum.

What a life.

Shane held his hands out. “Are we running a charity for wayward operatives? Hell yes, I’d say no. It’s me, you and Trevor. That’s it. We start helping people, word gets out and we’re toast. You wanna die? Because I don’t. Whoever this chick is, whatever her problem is, talking to her compromises us.”

Because the badasses looking for a couple of blown CIA guys and a former DEA agent would pay a mighty sum for the opportunity to scrape the skin off their bones.

Layers at a time. Until they sucked their last goddamn breaths.

“Sully sent her.”

Shane’s head dropped forward. Just…bam. Sully. Otherwise known as Jonathan Sullivan. That asshole had been part of Dusty’s last SAD team and hadn’t done him any favors.

“Sully? Are you serious right now? How can you trust that guy?”

“Oh, hey, now. He’s an asshole, but trust is different. He wouldn’t sell out an agent.”

What complete and total crap. On their last mission, Sully and Dusty had been holed up on a mountain in Pakistan waiting on a target when headquarters got a bogus tip that their location had been compromised. HQ ordered them to abort. With months of work about to be blown, Sully, the more experienced agent, knowing full well he couldn’t ignore an order, let HQ know that overcast skies prohibited flying out.

A total lie considering the stretch of blue overhead. All he’d done was buy the team another twelve hours to complete their mission.

Which they did.

Too bad HQ checked the weather at the team’s location and that led to a brutal tongue-lashing for disobeying orders. Dusty still winced when he talked about it. What came next was a craptastic display of bureaucratic bullshit the agency liked to unleash on their faithful. Sully, as the senior field agent, received a promotion for completing the mission, while Dusty took a grade reduction. And in the CIA, grade reductions stayed in a personnel file.

Forever.

Shane scoffed. “Please. He didn’t waste time selling you out.”

“He didn’t sell me out. Not intentionally. He got a bump and I didn’t. No harm, no foul. This is different. He’s helping her.”

“And what, you trust someone Sully sent?”

“Hardly.”

“Then why are we here?”

From his abused messenger bag, Dusty retrieved a tablet, poked at the screen a few times and tossed it on the canvas table. Any other table, it would have landed with a statement-making fwap. Here, like every other aspect of their lives, it was a mind-shredding silent landing. “After she made contact, I had Sully send me her file. It’s encrypted.”

Jesus H. Christ. Now he was having the not-to-be-trusted one smuggle files out of Langley. Who knew what kind of heat that might bring? “Dude, you’re killing me right now.”

“Don’t care.” He pointed to the tablet. “Read it.”

“No.”

“Read it, you jackass, and you’ll know why I sent her. I’m not letting you leave until you read it.”

Then the asshole flashed an all-teeth smile that made Shane want to bust those teeth out.

Except, down deep, the truth was, he didn’t mind Dusty’s threat. As much as his friend made him crazy, these clandestine meetings were the only direct contact either of them had — well, were supposed to have — with anyone from their former lives. At the very least, it reminded Shane of who he used to be. That he’d once lived an existence where he socialized with friends, called his brother on his birthday or took his niece for ice cream just because he damned well wanted to.

Those simple events, the emotional ties he’d taken for granted and now craved, absolutely hungered for, were gone.

But he was still breathing.

He stared down at the tablet. Don’t look. He knew. Without a doubt, whatever it contained would change things. As much of a pain in the ass as Dusty was, he’d never, not for a second, put Shane or Trev in danger unless it meant something.

To Shane.

And that scared the shit out of him.

How had his life turned into a circus that had him standing in an abandoned coal mine, pining for the company of friends and terrified to read a file?

An itch traveled along the back of his neck and he dug his nails in good and hard, more to feel the pain, to experience something, anything, that proved he was alive and well and thankful for it.

“Goddamn you, Dusty.”

“Just read it.”

Whatever that file contained, Dusty had gone to some trouble making sure Shane saw it.

And Dusty wasn’t a pushover. His cover was as tenuous as Shane and Trevor’s. Sure, they’d gotten new identities, but at any time, one of them could run into an old chum and the lives they’d spent two years building would have to be abandoned. Discarded like used paper.

Dusty had been willing to take that chance.

Why?

The answer was in that file.

Goddamn Dusty.

Shane stared down at the screen that would probably rip his life apart and — Jesus — before he thought too hard about it, picked the tablet up. Done.

A color photo — leave it to Dusty to go for the drama — of a dark-haired woman, her face all kinds of banged up, was the first thing Shane saw. Someone had worked her over. He focused on her eyes and the intense brown he’d seen that morning.

A woman shouldn’t look like this. Ever.

Scrolling to the next page, he found a CIA personnel report. An eyes-only file. Elizabeth “Liz” Aiken had been hired as an analyst straight out of college. After eighteen months, she’d been promoted to fieldwork and by all accounts, she’d been a damned good agent.

At least until two weeks ago when she’d been working an op in Venezuela and had her cover blown.

“Venezuela,” Shane said.

Shit.