“I’m sorry.”
She was beautiful close up, her expression warm with concern, skin smooth and fine—except for the cut on her cheek with its ugly smear of blood. He raised his hand to check the wound, and she flinched away, arms coming up in instinctive defense.
They both froze.
His gaze narrowed and lifted to the scar that rode the delicate arch of her right eyebrow. She held herself with poised readiness. Not just the wariness of a law enforcement professional, but the hyperawareness of someone who’d been a victim.
“You’re bleeding.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral as something hot and virulent surged through his blood. He wanted to ask what had happened, but it wasn’t his business and this wasn’t the time.
She raised her hand to her cheek. “It’s just a scratch.”
He nodded, and they both pretended she hadn’t given away something important. They holstered their weapons, and he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she rested both hands on her hips, staring intently at the tiny figures in the graveyard a quarter of a mile away.
“I told you there was something hinky with Van’s death,” she said as they watched as ambulances arrived on scene.
He frowned. “This might not be connected.”
Her expression raked him with so much scorn he almost laughed. Almost. Because a few minutes ago someone had opened fire at his best friend’s funeral and shot dead a good man, endangering countless others.
Someone had murdered a fellow member of the FBI, and there was nothing even remotely funny about that.
Chapter Two
Peroxide seared the small cut on Ava’s cheek. The fumes made her eyes sting and her brain hurt. She’d come close to dying today but hadn’t had time to process that yet. She’d been too pumped up on adrenaline. Too focused on doing her job. The aftermath left her shaken, but she didn’t have time to fall apart—that could come later when she was alone in her apartment.
The paramedic paused before applying a butterfly bandage to her cheek.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
He smoothed the bandage over the ragged edges of the cut and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Looks clean. I doubt it’ll scar. You’ll be fine.”
Ava forced out a shaky laugh. “I hope so. Death by splinter. The FBI would kick me out for sure.”
“Where’d you get this one?” He indicated the small puckered scar on her right eyebrow. It was the second time today someone had noted that childhood injury.
“Kickboxing.” She touched it. The image of flying across her father’s office flashed through her mind. “Didn’t move fast enough.” At least that part was true.
“You were fast enough to dodge that bullet today.”
“Ha. Got lucky I guess.” Training was one thing, but not enough to outrun a bullet. Being shot at definitely wasn’t her favorite feeling in the world, but she hadn’t had time to be scared on a conscious level. She’d just wanted to make it stop. “Thanks for the patch job. Be sure to tell your colleagues how much we appreciate their hard work.”
The EMT smiled slightly as he finished cleaning her up.
It was a miracle Calvin Mortimer had been the only fatality here today. Others had been hurt in the chaos and rush to safety. Twisted ankles. Nasty gashes. One woman had suffered a suspected cardiac arrest.
Ava sympathized. Her own heart had pounded so hard she’d thought it was going to explode.
“It’s what we do.” The paramedic’s eyes held an amused sort of interest. He was good-looking in a dark, smoldering kind of way and reminded her of a boyfriend from her beat-cop days. Another time and she might have asked him out on a date, but she had other priorities.
“Thanks again.” She ditched the gauze she was holding and searched the crowd for Supervisory Special Agent Dominic Sheridan.
There. Standing beyond Van’s casket. She hopped off the step on the back of the ambulance and headed toward him. Sheridan was speaking to her boss, Ray Aldrich, and a bunch of suits while Evidence Recovery Technicians combed the area for slugs embedded in the ground or in tree trunks.
She eyed Sheridan as she skirted around the crime scene tape to the high-powered huddle. He was an attractive guy in his mid-thirties. Tall with brutally short, dark hair, and a strong jawline. It was his eyes that grabbed her. The irises were a rich indigo that saw way too much. She cringed at what she’d given away on that rooftop that morning—things she never revealed to anyone. Things she’d spent most of her life trying to hide. He’d caught her at a weak moment. She’d be better prepared in the future.
Van had always sung Sheridan’s praises, but she doubted he’d been talking about the broad shoulders, slim hips or brooding persona.
Van…
Her lungs squeezed, and the pain in her heart was a reminder he was never coming back. Van Stamos had been her idol and mentor, the person who’d inspired her to join the Bureau. More importantly, he’d been her friend. He’d had faith in her abilities and in her strength of character. He hadn’t cosseted her. He’d pushed and let her push back. Challenged her to be her very best.
Thanks to Van’s support, she had more experience and arrests to her credit than any of her graduating class in their first office assignments. He’d given her that. Given her an advantage within the Bureau because he’d believed in her. He’d always believed in her.
And today he was being buried in a furtive rush as if the world was ashamed of him. The man deserved a heroic sendoff befitting a veteran agent who’d dedicated his whole life to the FBI with unfailing loyalty. Instead he got this dismal dirge.
Kill himself?
Van would never kill himself, and she intended to prove it. He’d been there for her when she’d needed him, now she’d be there for him. She wouldn’t let him down.
Ava strode toward the higher ups, determined someone was going to listen to what she had to say even if it made her unpopular.