Death Angel

crusade, but he had to do the investigation. “Is that the camera?”

“That’s it.”

“Looks to me like it’s working,” Jackson said, but he dialed back the sarcasm until it was barely noticeable.

“That’s because you aren’t paying attention, Special Agent.” The tech was as good at sarcasm as Jackson was. “Okay, there. See that guy drop his briefcase?” He stopped the action, backed up, played it again. Jackson watched a portly businessman trying to balance a drink, eat a hot dog, and carry his briefcase without breaking his stride. When everything began slipping, he held on to the drink and hot dog, and let the briefcase drop to his feet and go skidding across the sidewalk.

“I see him. What about it?”

“Keep watching. I’ll speed it up for you.”

The tech tapped a key, and the people onscreen began scurrying around like ants. About ten seconds later he tapped another key and they slowed down to normal speed. A few seconds more, and Jackson watched the portly businessman sacrifice his briefcase again.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit! It’s a damn loop!”

“That’s right, it’s a damn loop. Somebody got into the system and got the feed, looped it, fed it back to us. Whoever it was is damn good, is all I can say.”

“Thank you for your help,” Cotton said quietly, giving Jackson an inscrutable look. “Mister-?”

“Jensen. Scott Jensen.”

“Mr. Jensen. We’ll get back to you if any other questions come up, but I imagine you have your own housekeeping to do for the time being.”

Scottie Jensen said, “You got it,” in a grim tone, and turned back to his keyboard.

Jackson looked startled at Cotton’s lack of pursuit down an avenue that should definitely have been investigated, but he quickly masked his reaction. As they silently returned to their car, a more thoughtful look replaced his agitation.

What he was thinking was out there-way out there. The Rick Cotton he knew was a by-the-book guy, as straight-up as anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t have any evidence, and if he voiced his suspicions to anyone he’d be laughed out of the Bureau. All he had was his instinct, and it was shouting at him.

He didn’t say anything, not then. He kept silent after they returned to Federal Plaza, went through all the expected motions. Details turned over and over in his head, nuances of expressions that he’d caught, the timeline involved. Everything fit. Nothing was provable-hell, he didn’t know that he wanted anything to be provable, or that he’d act even if there was-but he knew what had happened, knew it down in his bones.

And so did Cotton.

He waited until the day was finished. Cotton headed home to his wife, and Jackson ate dinner in the city, then walked some, absorbing the lights and constant movement around him. There was always something new around the corner, wasn’t there-with people as well as with things. More so with people, come to think of it.

Reaching a decision, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. When he heard Cotton answer, Jackson said, “He did it, didn’t he? You knew he would.”

Cotton was silent a moment, then very calmly asked, “What are you talking about?”

Jackson disconnected the call, not wanting to say anything more. He walked some more, his hands in his pockets. The night air was getting colder by the minute, but he needed to walk a while longer.

First and foremost was the decision he had to make. Would he say anything? The immediate answer that resounded in his head was a firm “Hell, no.” There wasn’t a damn thing he could prove, even if he’d been so inclined, and he wasn’t.

The guy who’d killed Salinas deserved a parade, not an investigation. He’d done it to protect the woman he loved, and, hell, there was something noble in that, wasn’t there? Cotton had sensed something right away, when their meeting with Drea had been interrupted, and going on pure instinct had set the wheels in motion by intimating that the FBI might want to use her as bait. That had been pure bullshit; Jackson knew damn good and well that had never been an option. The only way they could ever have built any case, using her, was if Salinas went bat-shit crazy and killed her-and the guy from the balcony knew that. He loved her, and he wouldn’t risk her, so he’d taken matters into his own hands.

How had Cotton known the guy was capable of doing something like that? The plan had been slick, but the execution of it had required not just a big set of balls but some titanium ones. They didn’t even know the guy’s name, or anything about him. They didn’t have a fingerprint to run, or a facial analysis to try to pin him to any of the locations where shit had gone down. But Cotton had summed him up in one brief, very brief, meeting, and within seconds had a human weapon aimed directly at Rafael Salinas.

In that one moment, Rick Cotton had performed above his own capability, and all Jackson could do was mentally salute. “Way to go,” he murmured to the night.

RICK COTTON SLEPT well that night. Soon he’d be retiring from a long and undistinguished career, but this one time he’d gone beyond his own limits and he felt good about it. He would go even further, doing what he could to stonewall any investigation. Those two deserved their chance at happiness, and he’d try his best to make certain they got it.

Sometimes there was a difference between the law and justice, and sometimes justice had to step outside the law. The proof of that, he thought just before he fell asleep, was that he didn’t work for the Department of Law; he worked for the Department of Justice…and Justice had been served.

THE LAST FEW days had been strained, as if they didn’t know how to act with each other, which Andie supposed they didn’t. On one level their intimacy went deep; their acquaintance had been marked by drama and passion, and deep pain. On a more mundane level, there was a lot they still didn’t know about each other, and only time would remedy that. For now, they walked cautiously around what felt, to her, like a huge elephant in the middle of the room, not speaking of it or acknowledging it was there even though they both went out of their way to avoid it.

She didn’t know what he was thinking, what he was feeling. He was self-contained anyway-that was the understatement of the year-and since they’d left New York he’d walled himself off, emotionally. It hurt her to be around him and not be able to touch him, but not being with him would hurt even more. Oh, she could touch him physically, but the mental barrier he kept between them reminded her of the afternoon in the penthouse, when she had tried desperately to reach him and he’d turned away.

She knew him better now, knew she had nothing to fear from him-the opposite, in fact. No matter what, this man would place himself between her and danger without a second’s hesitation.

Watching him one afternoon, watching him prop his shoulder against the door frame and stand motionless for long minutes at a time, staring out at the sea, her heart squeezed with pain for him. He was so alone, so willing to take all the risks himself in order to protect her, yet once he’d taken those risks he had distanced himself from her. Did he blame her, for forcing him to kill again after he’d sworn he wouldn’t?

She knew how she would feel if someone forced her to do something that would keep her from returning to that perfect place of joy and seeing her son again. She would feel bitter, and alone, and as if there was no longer any point in trying. Was that what Simon was dealing with now?

She stared at his back, trying to read his mood, get some impression of him, but he was as closed to her as she was to herself. He was too close, she supposed; she couldn’t get any insights into his future any more than she could her own.

Backlit like he was, she couldn’t make out his features, but he was surrounded by a nimbus of light that turned his thin white shirt translucent, letting her clearly see the lean, muscled shape of his body. She stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her head until she swayed on her feet and the world around her slowly faded away until there was nothing but him and the light.

He had stood between her and death one other time, his pain and love shielding her, sending a signal, perhaps, that had weighted events in her favor. She had loved, and she had been loved. Her love for her child had been the biggest factor in the decision to let her have another chance, but Simon’s love for her had also been felt.

They were linked; what she did affected him, and what he did affected her. If anyone had asked her if she’d