“Keep me updated, Sabrina,” the chief of staff ordered before following the president out of the room.
“Are you positive the only two aliases the traitor has used are the Phoenix and the Mariner?” she asked as soon as the two men had left.
“So far, yes.”
The secretary dropped her head into her hands. “I’m not so sure our traitor is interested in money.”
“Ma’am?”
“Well, at least that may only be part of their motive.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need more if you want me to make sense of what you’re saying.”
She scrubbed her fingers through her dark, shoulder length hair. “This is about revenge.”
“Revenge?”
“Yes. This is personal. The Phoenix and the Mariner are the only two aliases that can be traced back to me.”
His mind was whirling with questions, but he didn’t dare interrupt her. Not when he sensed a huge revelation on the horizon. She rose from her chair and began to walk toward the screen where Ronoff still stared back at them mutely.
“You asked me if I was sure the Phoenix was dead.”
“And you said you were positive.”
“Knowing your bionic brain, my word isn’t enough evidence for you to be fully convinced.”
Ben wasn’t sure if he was meant to answer, but the words were out before he could stop them. “There are rumors—”
“And they’re exactly that. Rumors. I am sure of this because the Phoenix’s real name was Ethan Lyle.”
Holy shit. “Your late husband?”
She didn’t immediately respond, seemingly lost in her thoughts.
He leaned back in his chair. “How many people are aware of that fact?”
“Aside from the president, the members of the national security team and British Intelligence? Apparently one other.” She turned around. Her eyes were steely. “Ethan would never have used an untrained young woman as an asset. Never. Which means someone else did. And that person is our traitor. A traitor who is going to great lengths to link me to their crime. And before you ask, Ethan never shared the names with me. I knew enough never to ask.”
He was still trying to wrap his head around what she’d just revealed when Dorothy strode into the room.
“She’s gone,” Dorothy announced.
“Who’s gone?” he asked, even though he had a bad feeling who had disappeared.
“How long?” the secretary demanded.
“Best I can tell, thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes!” Ben was out of his seat and racing to the door. “How could you let this happen?”
“She let it happen per my orders, Agent Segar.”
He stopped in his tracks and turned to face the secretary. “Are you crazy? Have you forgotten that Ronoff wants her dead?”
“And have you forgotten that Ronoff believes she is already dead?”
His breath felt like it was traveling through a straw, he could barely get enough air into his lungs. Dorothy handed the secretary a burner phone.
“She used this,” Dorothy said.
“Hmm.” The secretary examined the phone before waving it in front of Ben. “One of ours.”
No! It couldn’t be. He opened his mouth to argue but the only sound that emerged from his throat was a pathetic wheeze. Both women gave him a pitying look.
“Haven’t you heard the expression if you love someone set them free? If they come back to you, it was meant to be. If not—” The secretary glanced over to Dorothy as if the other woman would complete the sentence. Dorothy shrugged.
The straw was getting smaller because now he was feeling light-headed.
“Relax,” the secretary added. “I’m sure of all the women you’ve been involved with, Agent Darby is the most capable of taking care of herself. You didn’t really expect her to trust us to ensure her parents’ safety, did you? Besides, I needed to get word to MI6 she is alive. This was the best way to do it without Ronoff finding out.”
Dots began to swim before his eyes. Hell, yes, he expected her to trust him. Hadn’t they just settled that argument? And still Quinn had slipped away again. He blinked several times trying to focus on the coldhearted, mercenary woman who had practically held the front door open for her. A roaring began in his ears. And then he did something completely out of character. He lunged at the Secretary of Homeland. Fortunately for his career, a pair of strong arms yanked him back.
“Bennett!” Adam shook him. “That’s not how to handle this.”
The damn woman was made of steel because she didn’t even flinch.
“Let me remind you, Agent Segar, that our primary mission tonight is to retrieve the very valuable AI program you lost and to catch a traitor before they sign the death warrant for seventeen people. I’m not here to play matchmaker,” the secretary said matter-of-factly.
He flung off Adam’s hold and tried to regain what little composure he had left.
“Agent Segar,” one of the marine guards said.
“What?” Ben snapped.
“There’s someone at the north gate asking for you.”
His heart leapt into his throat. The secretary had the nerve to raise a delicate eyebrow in an I-told-you-so manner.
“Well, don’t just stand here. Go and get her.” She gestured to the foyer. “We’re going to need all hands on deck if we’re going to pull this off.”
He was jogging down the drive before he realized he had an entourage following him. Adam and Joss were hand-in-hand while Christine shadowed their steps. Dorothy did her best to keep up. Ben stopped suddenly when he spied Quinn chatting up the Uniformed Division officer manning the gate looking as if she had just returned from a walk in the park.
And holding a damn potted plant in her arms.
“What the hell?”
She turned her head at his words. Apparently she and Secretary Lyle were graduates of the same damn spy school for girls because she wore an identical haughty expression as his boss.
“Is that what I think it is?” a stunned-sounding Josslyn asked.
Quinn’s face broke out in a rapturous smile. “No Serengeti wedding is complete without one. Or in your case, four.”
Josslyn actually squealed beside him. Before she could hug Quinn, however, Ben grabbed the damn plant from her arms and shoved it at Adam.
“Ben,” Quinn objected.
“Not. Here.” He glared at Dorothy. “Sign her in.”
Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he marched her up the drive and into the West Wing. The marine guard was stoic as they passed him by. He led her down the hall and outside to a narrow path snaking between the Kennedy Rose Garden and the Oval Office. The agents stationed outside the president’s office gave him a wide berth as he towed her toward the private pool area on the White House lawn.
“Ben,” she said again.
“No.”
He maneuvered them around to the corner of the cabana. Once he was sure they were out of range of the surveillance cameras, he pinned her against the wall with his body. She blinked her long lashes several times, but wisely remained quiet, because he was the one who was going to do all the talking. Not talking. Yelling. Demanding answers. Commanding her to never disappear again.