Agent-In-Training

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Her dad. If she was talking, that meant she wasn’t dead. Dylan’s tension eased and relief rushed in, enough to take the edge off. But she could be injured. He had to see her for himself.

Dylan ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape strung across the entrance to the alley behind the jewelry store. The plastic banner fluttered in the breeze. Red and blue lights flashed on the brick building’s outer wall, the strobe effect distracting and eerie. A man on a stretcher was being lifted into the back bay of an ambulance.

Dylan paused, torn between needing to assure himself Zara was okay and his duty to print and photograph the suspect. Though this was technically a police case, the fact that one of their agents—well, intern—was involved necessitated the team to work the case, as well.

Duty won out, but the battle was hard fought.

Before the ambulance drivers could shut the door, Dylan climbed in and used his MorphoRadID-2 biometric terminal to scan in the man’s fingerprints as well as snapped off a photograph of the unconscious man’s face.

He sent both the print and the image to his computer while the handheld device wirelessly searched the various government databases. Hopefully, he’d be able to identify the suspect quickly.

Done with that task, Dylan wove his way through the Billings police officers and their crime scene techs to where Special Agent in Charge Max West stood.

As Dylan approached, Max stepped aside to reveal Zara and her canine, Radar. Zara’s face was pale, her hazel-green eyes wide and the pupils large, indicating stress. But she seemed intact, no visible injuries. Radar sat at her side, his ears back, his gaze alert as if he expected more trouble.

Dylan’s heart squeezed tight. He resisted the urge to rush forward, to assess for himself that she was unharmed. This was the second time in less than a year that he’d had to face the reality of possibly losing her. The very thought struck terror in his soul. Because... He shied away from examining his feelings.

He wanted to spirit her away to a safe place where she wouldn’t face danger again. Something she wouldn’t appreciate. She’d always been tough and independent, traits he admired even if they made him uneasy. He reeled in his reaction and lifted a prayer of praise for her well-being.

She’d like that.

He had to get a grip. He and Zara were friends, and colleagues, now. Soon she would go to the FBI academy and become a full-fledged agent. Letting his emotions run amok wasn’t smart or productive. He had to compartmentalize her in his mind.

And his heart. The realization skipped through him like a rock over smooth water.

Billings police chief Robert Fielding stood beside his daughter. He had linebacker broad shoulders, with graying hair and an intense stare. He gripped Zara’s shoulder, clearly in dad mode more than police chief. “You should have called the robbery in and waited.”

Dylan met Zara’s gaze. “What happened?”

Zara pressed her lips together. Obviously she was having a hard time avoiding exasperated-daughter mode. “Radar noticed activity in the alley. I did call the robbery in and wait. Unfortunately, Radar and I were made.” She shook off her father’s hand. “I had no choice but to return fire.”

She’d come under attack. Dylan’s stomach churned.

Robert hooked his thumbs beneath the edges of his utility belt. “I know. I’m not faulting you for defending yourself. You did what you had to. The guy will live.”

Dylan was glad she’d done what was necessary to protect herself but he couldn’t deny his concern. “Are you okay?”

She lifted her chin. “We’re fine.” She turned to her father. “Are we done?”

“We’re not finished here,” Robert said. “Tell me about the driver.”

There’d been more than one burglar? Dylan’s hand flexed around the device in his hand.

“He wore a ski mask, so I didn’t get a look at his face,” she said. “I heard his voice, though. I’d remember him.” She visibly shivered.

Dylan narrowed his gaze, sensing there was something she wasn’t sharing. “What did he say?”

She slanted Dylan a glance and quickly looked away. “Before he drove off, he shouted that I was a dead woman.”

Dylan’s stomach dropped. A wave of fear rushed in, making his blood pound in his ears. His parents had been killed by a man who’d vowed revenge on Dylan’s father. A threat his father hadn’t taken seriously. A mistake that had left a young boy orphaned.

Now Zara had been threatened.

Determined not to let that mistake be repeated, Dylan said, “She needs protection.”

* * *

Zara’s hackles rose at Dylan’s pronouncement. Really? He thought she couldn’t take care of herself? For a moment she focused her attention on the loud Hawaiian-print shirt peeking out from beneath his jacket and covering his official unit polo. She reined in her hurt and disappointment. She swung her gaze to her father, then to Max. “That’s not necessary. Radar and I will be fine. The guy doesn’t know who I am, and there’s no way for him to find out.”

“Unless the press gets hold of this story,” Dylan pointed out.

She knew that keeping the press and the public unaware of their classified missions was paramount to the success of the team. However, because of the dogs, the handlers had to be identifiable in certain situations, so the FBI provided a variety of uniforms and gear for different occasions. But to preserve the secret nature of their work the team’s public relations officer could devise a cover story. Zara assumed that would be the case here.

Dylan’s normally jovial expression had been replaced with one of granite. His kind eyes had darkened with concern, tempering her annoyance. She could see his knuckles turning white around the machine in his hand.

She understood his worry. She knew what had happened with his mom and dad. But his father’s situation had been completely different. There had been no way Brian O’Leary could have known the drunk he’d arrested, George Pitts, would make good on his slurred threat to extract revenge.

The O’Learys had gone out on the Yellowstone River in their boat for a relaxing Sunday afternoon, not expecting George would be released from jail and follow them. George had rammed into their boat, killing himself, Beth and Brian O’Leary. Only Dylan had survived.

Compassion flooded her, and she put her hand on Dylan’s arm. “I’ll be careful. I promise. Besides, I have Radar. He’s getting better every day.”

So was she. The mandatory trauma counseling was helping her deal with the residual shock from the case that had ended in a bomb detonating and the gut-wrenching fear from nearly being killed.

That her partner had alerted on the burglary was a great step in his recovery. Their training with Faith and Thomas at the FBI training center was paying off. And soon, if God granted her prayer, she and Radar would become members of the FBI’s most elite K-9 unit.

She turned back to her father. “Are we done now?”

His lips flattened with displeasure. She wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or the situation. “Yes. For now.”

The device Dylan held chirped, drawing his attention. He whistled through his teeth. “We have a problem.” He looked up, his complexion paling. “The suspect, Kevin Vaughn, is a known associate of the Dupree Crime Syndicate.”

THREE (#u9b4dd49f-d3e4-57c2-a7e5-4a9794616f7e)

Zara sucked in a sharp breath. The cool night air stung her lungs. The adrenaline pumping through her veins revved up. The man she’d shot was part of the Dupree Crime Syndicate. As, no doubt, was the man who’d escaped.

Uh-oh. She was on their hit list now.

All law enforcement agencies knew of Reginald Dupree. He was as ruthless as they came. He’d brought his uncle, Angus Dupree, into the crime business, and together they had built a seemingly untouchable criminal empire that had spread across the US like a virus.

“What are the Duprees doing in Billings?” Thus far the south-central part of Montana had been immune.

“And why rob a jewelry store?” Dylan asked. “Are they that hard up for funds?”

“Once the owner arrives and inventories the store, he’ll know what they took,” her dad said.

“I’ll head to the hospital,” Max said. “I want answers, and Kevin Vaughn is going to provide them.”

“I’ll go with you,” her dad said. He turned to Zara. “Go home and get some rest. You look beat. I’ll send a patrol officer to watch your house.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said with affection. She had to admit she was exhausted and hyped up at the same. “We’ll head home.”

“I’ll follow you,” Dylan said as he fell into step beside her and Radar.

“Not necessary.” She wasn’t some namby-pamby who couldn’t take care of herself. “Radar and I will be fine. Dad’s sending a patrol officer over.”

“I’m sure you will be fine, but I’ll feel better if I make sure you get home safely.” He captured her hand. Warmth spread up her arm. “Indulge me, please?”

As much as she wanted to resist his plea, she knew she wouldn’t. She understood better than anyone why he was playing the overprotective big brother.

After losing his parents, he feared losing anyone else he was close to. A fear most people shared. Her included.

That was where faith in God made such a difference. Knowing He was in control gave her peace. She wished Dylan would turn to God rather than allow his fear to continue to overwhelm him.

“Fine. You can escort us home,” she said. “I have one of Mom’s apple pies to finish.” Dylan had a weakness for her mom’s cooking.

He grinned. “Thank you, bug.”

The childhood nickname irked, reminding her he’d never see her as more than his best friend’s little sister. She slipped her hand from his, determined to guard her heart and act professionally.

They worked together now, and continuing to crush on him, as she had for the past ten years, wasn’t an option. Letting herself hope for more from Dylan would only result in heartbreak. A fate she hoped to avoid.

* * *

Zara lived in a cute little two-bedroom, single-story house in a tree-lined residential neighborhood. Dylan stepped inside, appreciating the homey feel.

He liked the way the hardwood floors peeked out from beneath lively patterned rugs. Leather love seats with colorful afghans draped over the backs, and a glass coffee table wedged between them created a conversational setting. There was no television in the living room, only an old record player and a bookshelf full of record albums, some in tattered covers.

He smiled. “I see you’re still collecting vinyl.”

She shrugged. “Some things never go out of style.”

Her dark ponytail was askew and her complexion was pale in the warm glow of the frosted overhead light. Dirt smudged her pink sweater and jeans. He noticed dark circles of fatigue forming beneath her hazel-green eyes. Concern arched through him.

She’d had a distressing night. Though she was no longer on the job, she’d responded to a stressful situation and used her weapon. Thankfully, the wound she’d inflicted on the perpetrator hadn’t been a death blow. The suspect would recover. But Dylan knew anytime an officer fired his or her sidearm it was traumatic.