“Sorry, sir. Wish I could help.” Torres lifted a nonchalant hand and checked his mirrors. “But I wasn’t privy to the conversation in the house. If they say they didn’t take your property, then they didn’t.”
“Feel free to jog our memories, Eugene,” Charlie said. “Start by sharing what’s on this alleged thumb drive.”
“This is so unfair. I’m the victim in all this.” Eugene sniveled until he realized there was no wiggling out of telling them. “Fine. Information on a few organizations. I kept it instead of turning it over in case I needed it someday to get out of trouble.”
“Well, it seems to have gotten you into more trouble rather than saving you from it,” Aiden said.
The gauze on Aiden’s arm was soaked through. Charlie removed it and inspected the gash.
He looked down at the deep cut. The wound swelled with more blood and seemed as if it might never stop bleeding. He glanced up at her. “It’s not that bad.”
Granted, it wasn’t a bullet hole. The blade had missed the brachial artery, and she didn’t think the knife had struck bone, but the cut was an inch long, at least half an inch deep in muscle, and was gushing.
This was the definition of bad.
“I got lucky,” he whispered to her as he leaned in. “Could’ve been my throat instead of my arm.”
Her heart lurched. That was so not reassuring. At all.
“Do you know who put the hit out on you?” Aiden asked Eugene.
“Not for certain. There are mobsters in Texas, Louisiana and Mississippi who’d be happy to see me dead.”
That was true. Eugene Potter was in fact Edgar Plinski, aka the Money Magician. An accountant for various organized crime outfits from Houston to Biloxi. The people he’d helped send to prison might’ve put the hit out on him.
Then again, it could be someone on the drive whom he still had incriminating evidence on.
“You must have some idea,” Aiden pressed. “Your life depends on this. Take a guess. Who has the biggest ax to grind with you?”
Eugene’s eyes flared wide as if the answer had dawned on him, but he shook his head. “I don’t know! Instead of interrogating me, isn’t it your job to calm me down? Put me at ease?”
He was hiding something, perhaps protecting someone. In her gut, Charlie was certain of it.
She took out a packet of hemostatic powder from the kit and poured the brown granules into the angry wound on Aiden’s arm, really getting it in there good. On contact with the blood, the tiny pellets swelled, forming a soft gel to clot the cut. It’d form a quick scab that would hold until he got stitches.
After peeling open a package of self-adhesive gauze, she applied the pad. As she gave the wound a little more pressure to help the powder set faster, she caught Eugene’s eye. “The only way you’ll ever truly be safe is if the people on this drive are behind bars.”
Eugene, or rather Edgar, had worked for more than a handful of mobsters but had only turned state’s evidence on two, claiming he didn’t have anything incriminating on the others.
“The marshals at the SSPC are going to look at the contents on this drive,” Aiden said. “They’re going to find out whatever you’re hiding. You may as well tell us, if you have any idea who might’ve put the hit out on you.”
“It’s complicated.” Eugene sat up, keeping his head low. “Let’s just say that someone back home had a lot invested in me. After I testified, I’m pretty sure he blew a gasket. I’m talking off the Richter scale. Okay. Satisfied? Can I have the drive now?”
“Nope,” Aiden and Charlie said in unison.
“Come on,” Eugene snapped.
Torres called the field office on the wireless comms to update their self-righteous, self-important leader, Will Draper, on the situation. Charlie was thankful not to hear how the loss of a good marshal was going to reflect poorly on Draper. It sure would’ve been nice to have a boss who cared more about his people than his career.
Inevitably, Draper would spin this, play pin-the-blame-on-someone, anyone, to keep his spotless hands clean. How on earth he’d managed to avoid the chopping block after the debacle with the breach of their WITSEC list that had occurred on his watch was anyone’s guess. What happened to crap rolling uphill?
Eugene slunk down, muttering curses under his breath, protesting that he was the victim, complaining about injustice, while she finished patching up Aiden’s arm and wiped blood from his skin.
The cut was deep, needed stitches and would leave a scar. Dear God, to think it could’ve been his throat.
Her stomach bottomed out at the idea. It took everything in Charlie not to deck ungrateful Eugene.
She poured antiseptic on a fresh piece of gauze and cleaned the cut on Aiden’s face.
What would she do if she ever lost him?
Sure, they faced danger on a regular basis, and heck, the job was more fun when bullets were flying and they were kicking in doors together and slapping on handcuffs.
But today was different.
Today, hit men had got the drop on them.
Today, Aiden had fallen off a roof where his neck could’ve been the one broken. If the contract killer’s blade had found its mark—Aiden’s jugular instead of his arm...
She pressed a palm to his cheek, caressed his chiseled jawline.
The intimate gesture sent an electric charge up her arm, making her nerve endings stand at attention. His expression, his piercing stare that bored straight to her soul, was just as intimate.
Perhaps more so because she knew he saw the fissures in her carefully constructed walls. When they were together, it was the only time she didn’t feel alone in the world.
“I wasn’t worried.” She blurted out the defensive comment, having no idea where it came from.
She dropped her hand, clenching it into a fist in her lap, and forced a pretense of indifference.
Way to go, Killinger, stepping over the professional line.
But Aiden had a way of obscuring the line until she forgot it existed.
The intensity of his focus didn’t waver, making the car cabin seem too small, with not enough space between them.
He covered her fist with his hand, his fingers engulfing hers. The scorching touch of his palm was hot as a brand on her skin.
“Biyooch’idi,” he said. Liar in Navajo. The low, sensual rumble of his voice sent unbidden heat rushing to her cheeks.
She’d wanted to learn the language after going home with him, surrounded by his large family in the heart of the Navajo reservation—a sovereign territory roughly the size of West Virginia—to bury his mother. It’d been a strange trip for her, considering she no longer spoke to her own mother, but if their roles had been reversed, he would’ve been at her side. Aiden was eager to teach her, to share himself like turning on a faucet and letting her drink until she slaked her thirst, but Charlie was more of the sipping kind. From a disposable bottle.