They stared at each other for a long moment.
“I’m sorry,” Cassidy replied, feeling torn. If I hadn’t gone in there, what would have happened to Izzy? She remembered her conversation with Brad Sawyer, and Bruce’s comment: So you’re saying we have dirty cops bringing in runaways? With shock, Cassidy realized what would have happened if a band of crooked cops had shown up at the warehouse that night instead of the fire department.
Special Agent Harris nodded at her partner. “Bring the evidence, please,” she asked. Without a sound, Special Agent Santiago rose and left the room.
Cassidy looked to Bruce for reassurance. Evidence? But his eyes gave nothing away.
Special Agent Santiago returned with a clear plastic bag labeled with a small white sticker. Inside the bag was a gun.
“Do you recognize this weapon?” Special Agent Harris asked as Special Agent Santiago slid it to her.
Cassidy’s pulse thumped hard into her head, and a dull ache was growing at the base of her skull. “Uh…” She remembered Bruce asking her about the bullet hole in the wall.
“Maybe,” she said, which was honest. It looked like any other handgun.
“Ballistics match with the bullet hole in the wall of that room.”
Cassidy gulped down a swallow, trying to moisten her suddenly dry throat. How had they found the gun? She had dropped it into a dumpster. “Dutch told me to take it, and I…” She felt a slow burn rise up her face. “Had to use it when Saxon…came for Izzy.”
Special Agent Harris stared at her for a long moment. “It’s a good thing you didn’t kill anyone.”
“It’s a good thing I had it,” Cassidy said. “Or Izzy and I would be dead.” Yes, it was wrong of her to use a gun without the proper permitting or whatever was required to do so, but there had been no other way.
“I heard one of the girls was rescued,” Cassidy said. It had been eating at her…sometimes she dreamed that she was one of the girls waiting on a mattress.
Special Agent Harris sent a blistering glance at Bruce, then turned back to Cassidy. “That’s not something I can share with you.”
Oops, Cassidy thought.
“We’ll need to talk to Izzy,” Special Agent Harris said to her partner, who was scribbling notes into a binder.
“No,” Cassidy said, her spine going erect. “She’s been through enough.”
Special Agent Harris raised one eyebrow. “Her cooperation is essential. Testimony from her would be very powerful.”
Cassidy thought of Preston Ford. “She’s gone anyways. Even her father can’t find her.”
“Good thing we have you to help us,” Special Agent Harris said.
Cassidy’s eyes went wide. “Wait…what?”
“Maybe let’s take a break,” Bruce said, rising. “Say, fifteen minutes?” He connected eyes with both of the other agents, and a look of understanding passed between them.
Moments later, Cassidy and Bruce were alone in the room, a bottle of water in each of their hands.
“You holding up okay?” he asked.
Cassidy nodded.
“You’re doing great,” he said, giving her a weak smile.
She decided to visit the restroom, maybe splash some water on her face. Bruce pointed to a door at the end of the hallway, then turned back toward the conference room. The cold water helped a little. She avoided looking at her reflection in the mirror and pushed through the door to the hallway, mentally steeling her mind for round two.
Suddenly, a door popped open.
“No fucking way!” a gravelly voice snarled. “You think I have some kind of death wish?”
Cassidy spun to see a figure storm into the dark hallway, his heavy boots scuffing the linoleum. She pressed herself back into the wall as the person neared.
Behind him, the agent she had seen in the main conference room earlier watched him go, the light from the room illuminating his tense face.
As if in slow motion, the figure came into focus: flannel shirt, leather vest, and faded jeans, graying curls at the nape of his neck, and those piercing blue eyes.
Dutch.
Six
Several thoughts crashed together at once in her brain, but her mouth was already moving.
“You’re the undercover agent?” she asked, backpedaling through all of her memories of the search for Izzy, evaluating each one in light of this concept.
“Cassidy,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. The fury in his expression was fading by the second, but what remained was a mix of disbelief and something softer. Regret? Kindness?
“You’re okay,” Cassidy said, relieved. “I tried to find you. I called all the hospitals. I was so worried.”
His eyes flashed with that cocky glint. “Were you, now?” he replied, evoking that same unique form of exasperation she felt whenever he was near.
The sharp click of heels on the linoleum floor made Cassidy turn.
“What’s going on here?” Special Agent Harris stopped and put her hands on her hips, revealing the edge of her gun, holstered beneath her suit coat.
“He’s walking away,” the agent called from the doorway.
Special Agent Harris’s expression tightened. “Shall we open up that file of yours, then, Mr. Harker?”
Dutch glared back at her. “Go ahead, honey. I’ve paid my dues.” He gave Cassidy one last glance, so quick she barely caught it, then he plodded past her. “Find someone else to get their throat slit,” he muttered.
Cassidy watched him go, feeling torn.
Special Agent Harris and the other agent exchanged a glance, and Cassidy heard him sigh. “I’ll work on him,” he said, and disappeared into the office.
“Shall we continue, Dr. Kincaid?” Special Agent Harris indicated the open doorway of the conference room with a sweep of her arm.
Cassidy took one last glance at the end of the hallway, where Dutch had punched through the front doors, his silhouette framed by a square of bright light.
What had they wanted him to do? And how was it that he could refuse?
Once back at the table, Special Agent Harris lectured her on why contacting Izzy was so important, but her mind was replaying Dutch’s outburst. Bruce had warned her that by going after Izzy she was risking the life of someone undercover, who was just getting
