In Graywolf's Hands

She looked at him significantly. “I had a damn good teacher.”

“Haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpanned as he left the room.

Lydia heard the door close as she turned back to look at the man in the bed. He hadn’t moved a muscle since they’d walked in. The only sounds in the room were the ones made by the machines arranged in a metallic semicircle around his bedside.

He looked almost peaceful. It made her physically ill to be in the same room with him.

“What kind of a sick pervert blows up women and children?” she demanded of the unconscious man in a low, steely voice that seethed with anger.

Only the sound of the monitor answered her question.

Impatient, she blew out a sigh. “You’ve got to wake up sometime,” she told him. “And when you do, I’m going to be right here to squeeze the names of those other men out of you. You’re going down for this, my friend, and you’re not going down alone.”

She knew that would be little comfort to the parents of the teenager who’d senselessly died, but maybe it would keep others from following Conroy’s example. Lydia already knew for a fact that this kind of thing had never happened in Bedford before and she wanted to make sure that it never would again. She wanted to do more than send a message to the New World supremacy group who’d been behind this, she wanted to smash it into unrecognizable bits.

With Elliot gone, there was no one to distract her. Unable to remain any longer in the room with a man she loathed with every fiber of her being, she turned on her heel and walked out. She paused long enough to talk to the agent who was sitting at the desk less than five feet from the door.

“I want to know the second he opens his eyes, Special Agent,” she told him. “Not the minute, the second. Clear?”

The dark head bobbed up and down. This was his first assignment. “Absolutely, Special Agent Wakefield.”

Had she ever been that eager? she wondered. When she’d first come to the Bureau, had she seemed this wet behind the ears?

Somehow, she doubted it. There were times when she thought she’d been born old. At other times she knew it was her father’s death and the job that had done this to her.

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