Infiltration Rescue

“Congratulations,” she said, her tone begrudging. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“You tell me.”

She had the files he’d sent, which included a social media footprint of his undercover identity. He watched her click through the pages. “Nicholas L. Dean,” she read. “Former botanist at DuPont Industries. Born in Madrid, grew up in California. Graduated from Seattle University. Married three years. Currently on sabbatical.”

He knew the information by heart.

“What’s the L stand for?”

“Lorenzo.”

“Is that your real middle name?”

“I don’t have a middle name. I have two surnames, Diaz from my father and DeLuca from my mother. She was Italian.” He made the sign of the cross on reflex. God rest her vibrant, rabble-rousing soul.

“Nick Dean is Italian?”

“Half Italian, half English.”

She didn’t comment on the erasure of his Latin heritage. Silva might not have preached white supremacy in the old days, but he’d embraced this faction of modern online extremists. They had similar goals, to destroy progressive America. Nick could pass for half-Italian—he was half-Italian—and he wanted to get recruited. Pretending to be European seemed wise.

“Do you speak Italian?”

“Si, lo parlo.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the profile, searching for flaws. “You’re thirty-eight?”

“Yes.”

“What do you know about botany?”

“More than they do.”

“How?”

“My father is an agricultural scientist. I worked for him in college.”

“I thought your parents were in Venezuela.”

“I’m adopted,” he said. “Let’s focus on the profile.”

“Okay,” she said, agreeable. “Why are you on a sabbatical, Mr. Dean?”

“I had a health scare from using pesticides on the job. I’m recovering, but I won’t work in commercial agriculture anymore. I want to live on a green farm, away from technology and corporate greed and dangerous toxins. I need clean air, and...spiritual guidance.”

“Not good enough.”

He didn’t bristle at the criticism, because it was her job to give him honest feedback. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Everyone’s going green these days. Half the women in Portland are talking about toxins and doing cleanses. Ordinary people don’t seek out cult membership after a minor health scare. You need more. You need an emotional reason.”

She was right. He felt it. But emotions weren’t his element. “It doesn’t have to be a minor health scare.”

“What if you’ve got a terminal illness, and you believe you’ll be cured by faith?”

“If I’m sick, why would they recruit me?”

“You don’t have to be sick, just terminal. You have a few years left. You can work. You’re still strong, physically.”

“But not mentally?”

“You need a believable weakness. If it’s mental, all the better. Because you’re very fit and they will consider you a threat.”

He glanced down at his athletic physique. He stayed in shape. He jogged and lifted weights. Maybe it would be easier to feign a disease of the mind, rather than the body. “I’ll look into brain tumors.”

“Great,” she said brightly. “What about your wife?”

“I don’t have one yet. They won’t assign a partner until I’m closer to recruitment.”

“You should think about how someone who loves you would react to your illness. It might be easier for you to imagine her emotions.”

He nodded his understanding.

“She won’t be under the same scrutiny as you. If she’s young and pretty and demure, she’ll be accepted.”

“How young?”

“Younger than you, ideally. She’ll be judged on her looks and her ability to have children.”

“What about her job skills?”

“A medical background would help.”

“So I should try to get a hot blonde doctor in her early thirties?”

Her lips parted in surprise. He hadn’t intended to describe her, at least not consciously. He’d been thinking about Silva’s penchant for blondes, which she’d mentioned weeks ago. “Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “I didn’t mean...”

“Me?”

He forced himself to meet her eyes. “I believe this is what you call a Freudian slip.”

Color rose to her cheeks at his rueful confession. The blush did nothing to detract from her beauty. On the contrary, a flushing woman made his mind go places it shouldn’t. He needed to move on before this conversation went any further off the rails.

“The agency wouldn’t allow a civilian to do that kind of job,” he said.

“Noted.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to—”

“Definitely not.”

They were agreed, then. She’d rather jump off a bridge than pretend to be his wife, and he shouldn’t have implied that she’d be perfect for the role, because she wasn’t remotely qualified. He’d like to have her in his bed, but that was a different thing, and also not happening. Nothing was happening.

Nothing whatsoever.

He couldn’t stop fantasizing about her, and she seemed interested in him, but there would be no sexual affair. If the investigation progressed the way he hoped, he’d go undercover soon. He’d probably never speak to her again.

“Tell me about your colleague,” she said. “The one you lost.”

Although this topic wasn’t much of an improvement from the last, it saved him from an awkward spiral of lust and regret. He struggled to find the right words to describe his best friend. “He was a good man. A good investigator.”

“Was he your partner?”

“No, I don’t have a partner. We teamed up a lot, though. He was the type of guy you could count on. Tough, dedicated, calm under pressure. He wasn’t the best husband, but he was a top-notch agent.”

“Why wasn’t he a good husband?”

Nick tugged at his shirt collar. “He was unfaithful. His wife filed for divorce last year.”

“Did they have kids?”

“Two boys,” he said. He’d seen them at the funeral. “This job is hard on relationships. There’s a lot of travel, time apart, hours spent on dark subject matter. You don’t want to take it home with you. It makes you feel dirty. I imagine it creates a divide.”

“You imagine?”

“Well, I’ve never been married.”

“Why not?”

He just shrugged, evasive. He could say he hadn’t found the right person, but he hadn’t been looking. He enjoyed his freedom and avoided entanglements. Watching Chris’s marriage crumble had reinforced Nick’s preference for bachelorhood. He also didn’t want the kind of love his birth parents had modeled: fiery, all-consuming, ill-fated.

“Have you ever lived with anyone?” she asked.

“Have you?”

“My cat.”

He smiled at her answer. “Should we do an inkblot test?”

“I don’t think we need to.”

“You already have me pegged?”

“Commitment-phobe.”

“Takes one to know one,” he replied.

The timer on his phone indicated their hour was up. It always went too fast. This session had felt like a lightning round, perhaps because of his misstep. He couldn’t tell if he’d offended her with the “hot blonde” comment. She’d said he was handsome, but that wasn’t the same. He understood the power differential between them. It was up to him to maintain a high level of professionalism.

There was also something else between them, beyond power and attraction. There was a personal connection. He didn’t want to feel it, but he did. He felt it hard.

“I have to ask you something,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

“What if you’re walking into a trap?”

Her concern surprised him. Even though Silva was a dangerous man, Nick didn’t anticipate trouble. This was a low-threat assignment. He wouldn’t even be carrying a weapon. “That’s highly unlikely, since we’ve never met before, and the conference hall is neutral turf.”

“Just—be careful.”

“I will.”

The screen went blank as she ended the communication.

Nick exited the program and stared into space for a few minutes. He wasn’t worried about the risk he was taking by approaching Silva. The real challenge would be psychological. He’d have to convince Silva he was a true believer. He’d have to kneel at his enemy’s feet in worship. Nick didn’t kneel well.

He shoved away from his desk and went for a strenuous jog, pushing his physical limits. It felt good to relieve some stress. He felt strong. He liked the brain tumor idea. He spent the rest of the evening researching details and practicing his pitch.

Then he worked on his outer appearance. According to Avery, he was too attractive. He studied his features with a critical eye. His hair was pretty good. Thick and healthy. Grunting, he took out his clippers and cropped it close to the skin. The severe cut, uneven in places, made him look slightly deranged. He smiled at his reflection, pleased with the effect. There were other things he could do to change his face, but he didn’t want a complicated disguise. He searched his closet for an ill-fitting plaid shirt and a pair of loose trousers. His slip-on airplane shoes added to the dorky style. He donned an old Timex. It had belonged to his real father, who’d rarely worn the piece. Punctuality had been too pedestrian a concern for Ricardo Diaz.

The next day he arrived in Las Vegas. He cased the conference hall before the event to memorize the layout. Silva was supposed to speak that afternoon, but no specific time was given. Nick attended a morning workshop on the history of religious freedom. It was a mix of right-wing propaganda and misinformation.

At lunch he sat down with a group of “alt-w” members of various ages. Like him, they were here to see Silva. Nick didn’t bother interacting with them. They were the weekend warriors of religious extremism. More spectators than participants. Nick had become familiar with this phenomenon during his stint in cybercrimes. There were thousands of bold and chilling statements made online without any action taken. Which was good, because the world hardly needed more violence. But it was difficult to sort through the chaff for legitimate threats.

“I heard Silva’s not coming,” one of the chaff said. He had a lip ring and a Slayer T-shirt, as if he also dabbled in Satanism. “It’s just his son in the greenroom.”

“He’d better show,” another guy said. “I paid to see him.”

There was a short discussion about Silva and the benefits of polygamy before the conversation switched to the latest government conspiracy against gun rights. Nick wandered off to scope out the greenroom. An unarmed security guard was stationed outside the door. He wasn’t a member of Silva’s militia. Just a basic rent-a-cop.

Nick slipped outside to a shaded terrace, his mind in turmoil. If Silva didn’t show, Nick would have to adjust his approach. He hadn’t prepared for this contingency. On impulse, he used the Skype app to call Avery. She answered on the third ring. She was wearing a snug tank top and fire-red lipstick. The background noise indicated that she was in a bar or café. He wondered if she was on a date. She looked hot.

The surge of jealousy caught him off guard. He shouldn’t be speaking to her in a public setting, on her personal cell phone, outside of their regular consulting hours. He was breaking three rules at once.

“Are you busy?” he asked, his voice low.

“I have a minute.”

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, glancing around to make sure he was alone. “I heard that Silva sent Jonah to this event in his place. What do you remember about him?”

“Not much.”

“You never played together?”

“We played chess once, when he was ten or eleven. It was weird.”

“How so?”

“Well, I kept trying to lose, because I thought he’d get mad if I won. But every time I made a mistake, he counteracted it with his own wrong move. He knew what I was doing, and he didn’t like it.”

“He wanted to play fair?”

“I think he wanted to be in control of the game.”

“Was he a bully, like his brother?”

“Not at all. He wasn’t physical. He stayed indoors and studied, even in the summer.”

Nick heard another woman’s voice, along with a waitress asking for their order. “Who are you with?”

“A friend.”

The door opened at his back. Nick glanced over his shoulder as Jonah Silva strolled out. “I have to let you go.”

“Okay.”

“I love you,” he said, as if he was talking to his wife. Then he hung up and plastered a smile on his face. He didn’t have time to wonder about Avery’s social life, or process what she’d said about Jonah’s personality. Ready or not, Nick had to act. He couldn’t afford to let this opportunity go to waste.

“You’re Jonah Silva,” he said.

Jonah gave Nick an impatient glance. He was a striking young man with slick black hair and green eyes. He wore a nice black suit, not the homespun work clothes of his parishioners. And he gripped the railing as if he wanted to hurl himself over it.

Nick ignored his go-away signal and stepped forward for a handshake. Jonah wasn’t so standoffish that he refused.

“I’m Nick Dean. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know you were making an appearance,” Nick said, still pumping his arm. “I’m excited to hear you speak.”

Jonah put his left hand on top of Nick’s to slow the motion. “You are?”

Nick finally released Jonah’s hand. It was the hand of a scholar, smooth and slender. “At your last event, you offered some insightful interpretations of your father’s sermons. I read a copy of the transcript online.” This was true, at least. Nick had scoured every piece of literature connected to The Haven. “Your words moved me.”

Jonah Silva was not immune to flattery. “Thank you, Mr....”

“Dean. Nick Dean.”

Jonah nodded, as if committing it to memory. He didn’t say anything more, so Nick decided not to press his luck. He’d primed the well. If Jeff Silva didn’t show, Nick would take aim at Jonah. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. The younger man might be an easier mark. He wasn’t as closely guarded as his father. Avery had hinted at a boy who preferred intellectual pursuits and wanted to control things. Nick wondered if Jonah had been under his famous father’s thumb too long, itching to take over.

“I’ll see you inside,” Nick said, and left him standing there. Wanting more.

Chapter 5

Avery stared at her phone for a few seconds, lips parted in surprise.

Nick Diaz had cut his hair. And he’d said he loved her?

Her best friend, Corinne, gave her a curious glance as she ordered from the breakfast menu. Avery followed suit, a flush rising to her cheeks. After the waitress left their table, Corinne leaned forward to get the scoop. She’d just flown in from a family trip to the Caribbean. She looked effortlessly beautiful with her fluffy afro and golden-brown skin.

“Who was that?”

Avery wasn’t supposed to talk about her consultant job, but Nick wasn’t supposed to call her cell phone at random hours, either. Her Skype app was synced with her laptop, so he got right through.

“You’re dating someone!”

“No,” Avery said, setting her phone down. Corinne hadn’t been able to overhear their conversation in the crowded café.

“Then why are you on Skype?”

“It was Nick Diaz.”

Corinne’s eyes widened in recognition. Avery had told her about his first visit. “Special Agent Nick Diaz?”

“Shh,” Avery said, even though no one was paying attention to them. “It’s classified.”

“It’s classified,” Corinne repeated. “Mm-hmm.”

Avery laughed at her expression.

“This is the guy you said was tall, dark and handsome.”

“He’s attractive,” Avery said. “But we’re not dating.”

“You’re doing something with him. I can tell. Give me that phone.”

Avery handed it over, because there was no real evidence of their exchanges. There was a profile photo of Nick from his Skype account, just a basic headshot, which Corinne studied in detail before giving the phone back.

“It’s nothing,” Avery said.

“Your face is red.”

“It’s hot.”

“He’s hot.”

Corinne knew some of the details of Avery’s childhood. Avery had confided in her years ago without getting specific. “He’s trying to get close to the people I grew up with. They’re involved in serious crimes, apparently. He called to ask a question about someone, and I think they walked in while he was talking.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He said ‘I love you,’ before he hung up.”

Corinne flapped her palms on the table in excitement. “He’s an undercover cop? You should definitely go out with him.”

“He lives in California.”

“Northern California?”

“You’re missing the point, Corinne. He’s a professional contact on a dangerous assignment. Not boyfriend material.”

“He’s boyfriend material,” Corinne declared. “Or at least phone-sex material.”

The waitress arrived with their food, momentarily interrupting the conversation. They both dug into their plates.

“Has he given you any signals? Other than saying ‘I love you’?”

“That wasn’t a signal.”

“But you like him.”

Avery took another bite of French toast, shrugging.

“What would you do if he showed up on your doorstep? You’d hit it, right?”

She couldn’t lie to her best friend. “Yes.”

Corinne smiled with satisfaction, as if it was all decided. For her, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for a man to travel hundreds of miles in hopes of a hookup. She was a fashion model. Heads turned everywhere she went.

Avery distracted Corinne by asking about her trip, her family and her love life. They paid for lunch and took a stroll in a nearby park. It was another bright spring day, with flowers blossoming at every turn.

“How’s Chuck?” Corinne asked.

“He’s good,” Avery said. “I saw him at the Tulip Festival.”

“Does he have a dad bod now?”

“He’s got more muscles.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. Do you think I avoid him?”

Corinne kept strolling, her hands in her pockets.

“My aunt Ruth said I’ve been distant since the kids came along.”

“Oh.”

“Well?”

“You know how people with kids are,” Corinne said, waving a hand in the air. “They get all goo-goo gaga. I don’t blame you.”

Avery sat down on a nearby park bench. Corinne had basically reinforced Ruth’s opinion. She agreed that Avery had withdrawn, but she didn’t understand the reason. It wasn’t because new parents were annoying. It was because babies made her uncomfortable. They reminded her of pain and loss.

Corinne took the seat beside her. “I should tell you something.”

“What?”

“It’s about Chuck.”

Corinne and Chuck had dated the summer after high school. It was a brief fling. “Do I want to know?”

“I had an abortion.”

Avery gaped at her in shock. “When?”

“Before I started college.”

“It was his?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Corinne looked across the park, swallowing hard. “I was afraid you’d take his side. He wanted to keep the baby.”

“I had no idea,” Avery said, floored by the confession.

“I was also afraid you’d hate me. I didn’t want to lose you, along with him and everything else.”

“He broke up with you over this?”

“He was young.”

“You were younger.”

Corinne’s eyes filled with tears. She brushed them away with a shaky hand.

“I could never hate you,” Avery said.

“You don’t think I’m terrible?”

“No.” She put her arm around Corinne’s shoulder. “I love you.”

Corinne reached up for Avery’s hand and held it there against her collarbone. They were quiet for a few moments, processing things. Avery couldn’t believe her best friend had kept this secret for so long. More than ten years, and Avery had never had an inkling. What kind of psychologist was she, to be completely unaware of Corinne’s anguish? What kind of friend wouldn’t notice, for that matter?

“I should have told you,” Corinne said finally, releasing her hand. “I’d decided to bury it. God, that’s a poor choice of words.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I don’t know. You seemed upset about being distant from Chuck, and I felt guilty for giving you a flip answer. Then I thought, maybe I drove a wedge between you and him.”

“No,” Avery said, after a brief reflection. Chuck wasn’t the type to harbor deep resentments. He might have been heartbroken after his fling with Corinne, but he’d moved on. “He’s in a good place.”

Corinne offered a weak smile. “He’s not pining away for me?”

Avery smiled back at her. Men tended to become obsessed with Corinne, so it wasn’t arrogance that made her wonder about Chuck. It was experience. “I don’t think so. He seems pretty happy with his life.”

“So why is Aunt Ruth on your case?”

Avery pulled her gaze away. “Oh, you know. The usual. She wants me to settle down. She thinks I’m afraid of men and relationships.”

Corinne didn’t let her off the hook. “You’ve never been in love.”

Avery resisted the urge to point out Corinne’s single status. It was apples and oranges. Corinne traveled all over the world for work, and she’d had multiple love affairs. “I was with Phillip for two years.”

“Phillip was your psychologist.”

“So it doesn’t count?”

“It counts as a messed-up example of what not to do.”

Avery couldn’t argue there. Although she took partial responsibility for the mistake, he’d seduced her. It was wrong for him to date a patient. He’d stopped treating her after their first sexual encounter, but that didn’t change the ethics violation. She’d ended things when she applied for her own license. She couldn’t imagine viewing one of her students, or any other person in her care, as a possible love interest.

“I didn’t mean you,” Corinne said. “You’re not messed up.”

“My mother died in childbirth,” Avery said. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a hippie commune. It was a religious cult. I ran away after she died, and I don’t know if the baby survived.”

“Jesus, Avery.”

“Avery isn’t even my real name.”

It was Corinne’s turn to put her arms around Avery. She cradled Avery’s head against her chest to comfort her. Avery wanted to say that she was messed up, and she always would be. She’d always have a missing piece inside her, a dark mystery. The question mark she’d left on the list was part of her.

“You’re not messed up,” Corinne said again. “You’re kind and beautiful and I love you.”

Avery closed her eyes and tried to believe those words.