Because we’re even now.

  I rescued him twelve years ago, and now he’s rescued me.

  We sit in uncomfortable silence, whereas twelve years ago, our slates were clean and there was so much promise and possibility.

  We were practically giddy from our daring escape from Colombian drug lords without any harm. Well, there was a little harm. Ladd had a bullet graze his ass cheek, but it didn’t prevent him from running like hell with me until we could meet up with my partner, waiting in a rented, armored Toyota Highlander we picked up in Bogota. I’d like to say the CIA had come through with an excellent vehicle, but truth is, we rented it ourselves after I got pulled off another mission to handle Ladd’s ex-fil with an agent stationed in the capital. It’s amazing that in countries rife with violence, you can actually rent armored vehicles. Some even come equipped with mounted AK-47s.

  At any rate, as the other agent drove us safely out of there, I got to see Ladd’s ass for the first time as I dressed his wound. I teased him that he should get a medal for his injury, and he teased me back that it should be for having a great ass.

  We traveled for nearly two hours back into Bogota where Ladd and I were dropped off at the hotel where he’d been staying prior to his foray. I got a room down the hall from his, and the goal was to rest before our flight out the next day. I’d head back to Ecuador where I’d been gathering intel on a corrupt US ambassador, and Ladd would go to Langley for debriefing on whatever mission he’d been on, to which I was not privy, nor did I ask.

  We went to our separate rooms and showered. On a whim, I knocked on his door to see if he wanted to grab dinner and trade war stories.

  He looked strangely different—in a good way—without the aura of danger surrounding him. He had on a pair of khakis and a white button-down shirt, looking every bit the handsome tourist. As a well-trained CIA operative, my go bag was stocked with essentials to blend in as well. I wore an outfit that could pass in any Central or South American country—a loose, flowing skirt with a slit up one side to mid-thigh and a white blouse unbuttoned low and tied in a knot just above my navel. Because the skirt sat low on my hips, a good chunk of my abdomen was bare, and I capped the casually sexy look off with sparkly sandals.

  Before I could get my dinner invitation out, Ladd swept those mesmerizing blue eyes down the length of me, and he did not hold back his interest in me as a woman. Because I am no wallflower, I offered my own appreciative stare.

  He accepted my dinner invitation, and we found ourselves at an outdoor table in a local restaurant. Lanterns were strung above us, and the table glowed with candles. It sat on the edge of a cobbled street, full of foot traffic and young people sampling the Bogota nightlife.

  Across the street, a band played live music and people danced cumbia in the streets. It’s similar to salsa in that it has a quick-quick-slow step beat, and when two people do it right, it’s sexy and intimate.

  Dinner lasted two hours. We dined on bandeja paisa, arepas, and mondongo soup while sipping ice-cold Dos Carreras on tap. The conversation lasted another hour after that, and we barely talked about our shared CIA experiences. By the time Ladd asked me to dance among all the other couples, my head was spinning not only from the alcohol but from the realization that I had met a man who quite simply rocked my world. In my twenty-five years of living, it had never happened before. I’d had boyfriends—young love—and I’d had lovers, but I’d never had a man who interested me the way Ladd McDermott did.

  He had an incredible sarcastic humor but was also humble and self-deprecating. He had big aspirations and even higher morals. He was a patriot who only wanted to do good for the common man. He was a far better person than I was at the core.

  The attraction between us was on a low simmer as we got to know each other, but the minute I stepped into his arms to dance, all I could think about was being possessed by him. My hips moved naturally by way of DNA given to me by my mother’s Argentinian heritage. She was a dancer—classically trained in ballet—but could cut a sexy dance like no other. Ladd was American Irish, as white as they come, but he had immersed himself in Latin American culture during his training at the Farm—the casual nickname for Camp Peary—and while training doesn’t include learning cultural dances, the man had no trouble moving in time with my body.

  But eventually, I found myself pressed tight to him, his arm banded around my back, and we swayed in place for the longest time, just staring at each other.

  He seemed neither bothered nor embarrassed by his partial erection against me, and I most certainly wasn’t hating it.

  When he moved his lips near my ear and whispered, “Let’s get out of here,” I realized I had never wanted anything more.

  We went to my room, and after a hot round of making out with our hands probing each other’s most intimate places, Ladd hiked up my skirt, pulled my panties aside, and fucked me against the wall. He was commanding and in control every step of the way, and for the first time in my life, I submitted fully.

  After that, he carried me to the bed, stripped me bare, and worshipped my body with his mouth and fingers for what seemed like hours. We made love slowly, almost desperate to climb deeper into each other.

  It was an instant, transcendental connection that I don’t think either of us could really explain, but before that night ended, I knew Ladd McDermott was going to be the great love of my life.

  “Greer.”

  I blink, hearing my name, and turn my head to Ladd. He’s frowning.

  “What?” I mumble.

  “I called your name a few times,” he says, the lines of worry on his forehead belying his disdain at being around me. “Are you okay?”

  I wave him off. “I’m fine. Just tired. What did you want?”

  “I asked about the blond hair,” he says.

  For a moment, it’s not registering. Then I pick up a lock laying across my shoulder and look at it. “Oh… yeah… I went blond a few years ago.”

  “When I saw your picture in your dossier, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  I bet he wouldn’t. My natural color is a deep chocolate that I never lightened and usually kept cut right to my shoulders. But I’d never tell him how much I’ve changed my appearance over the last several years.

  I’d never let him know that he left such a hole inside me, I’ve not felt like my real self since, so I’ve been trying to reinvent myself into someone new. Nothing ever feels right.

  It’s something I don’t care to discuss, so I change the subject. “I’m anxious to get to Langley. I want to get this disavowal rescinded so I can get back to work.”

  Ladd stares at me with what almost looks like pity, and it makes my skin prickle. “You shouldn’t assume they’ll take you back.”

  “What do you mean? I’m not gone. They only disavowed me because I’d been outed in the press. But that wasn’t my real name. And I can easily change my identity. That was yesterday’s news, and it shouldn’t affect my work with the CIA. They only did it to cut the red tape so they could get a nongovernmental agency to extract me.”

  Ladd looks like he knows something I don’t, but he chooses to hold it close. He merely shrugs and says, “What do I know? I’ve been out for a while.”

  “How long have you been out?” I ask, and then immediately want to cut my tongue from my head so I don’t ask more stupid questions. I don’t care what he’s been up to.

  And yet, I await his answer.

  “Four years,” he replies, tapping his fingers on the table. “I did some contract work for a while, but started at Jameson—the company I’m with now—last summer.”

  I don’t ask him why he got out. I’m pretty sure the answer is the same as it was all those years ago when we were together. Ladd has always been transparent as to his endgame, and I know from my secretive visit ten years ago, when I saw him with his pregnant wife, that he got what he wanted in life.

  I wonder if he has more than one kid now. He wanted more than one. He once joked he’d take an even half dozen.

  It was a beautiful dream, and I told him as much.

  It’s just… it wasn’t my dream.

  Rather than keep the conversation going, I lean back and close my eyes, feigning sleep. Except I’m so exhausted, I don’t feign long.

  I fall into a deep slumber and don’t wake up until we land in Langley.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ladd

  It’s almost two a.m. when we arrive at Langley, and we’re launched right into debriefing. Fortunately, we’d both caught a few hours’ sleep on the plane.

  Greer and I are interviewed separately at first, and we’re waiting now on a final interview that’s being done jointly. It’s a checks-and-balances system to determine if our stories match, especially given that the intel she gathered will be the nail in Mejia’s coffin, and our government will be able to take a major arms dealer out of the criminal equation.

  Greer sits across from me at the conference room table, head bowed and staring at her hands. She has no cell phone as her belongings were left behind in her tiny San Salvador apartment, not that it matters. It wasn’t her personal cell phone so it’s no great loss, other than she has nothing to do but stare at her hands.

  When she walked in about ten minutes ago, I was glad to see they let her take a shower and gave her clean, fitted clothes, even though it’s nothing more than a gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. She still has the same tennis shoes on that I rescued her in.

  Her hair is fully dried because we’ve been in our individual interviews for hours. We were provided breakfast and lunch, but the questions kept coming for hours. Now that the individual interviews are complete, we can wrap up this joint interview, and I can be on a flight to Pittsburgh before dinner.

  I’ve not been engaging Greer as we sit here, and that’s not just because I’m busy surfing my cell phone. My feelings are all over the board where Greer is concerned. We parted on such bad terms all those years ago, and I place the blame squarely on her shoulders.

  Greer accepts that blame, too, and that should mollify me.

  And maybe it did for a while, but now that I’ve seen her again, I realize that maybe I’ve buried a lot of anger over the years, and it feels like it’s threatening to bubble over.

  For about the millionth time, I ask myself why I bothered to go rescue her when I’m still so damn mad at her.

  Because she was the love of your life, dipshit, and she broke your heart.

  Even though she crushed me, there’s no way I could ever leave her to die. I didn’t have it in me.

  And despite the still-sore feelings, I want to know what she’s been up to. Has her life panned out differently than what she wanted? Is she still happy in her career? If I know Greer, she’s ready to go right back out on the next mission.

  I don’t get to ask her, though, as the door opens and a woman walks in. She’s wearing a simple black pantsuit with a white button-down blouse, and her ash-blond hair is pulled into a tight bun. I’d guess she’s mid- to late-fifties, and she wears no makeup. Her eyes are a startling blue, magnified slightly by her glasses.

  Greer immediately stands from her chair, and I presume she knows this woman. I assume she’s high up in the organization. I stand, too, but only out of politeness.

  As the door is on my side of the table, the woman approaches me first with her hand outstretched. “Mr. McDermott, I’m Gayla Newman, director of operations for Central and South America.”

  The operations directorate is one of five major divisions in the CIA. Broken into regions, it oversees a collection of foreign intelligence and covert actions.

  This woman only has two bosses ahead of her: the director of operations who oversees all regions, and the CIA director. I’m stunned to see someone of her level here to manage a joint debrief for one of what is probably hundreds of human intel agents currently in the field.

  We shake hands, and she leans across the table. “Agent Hathaway… I’m glad to see you safe and sound.”

  Greer takes her hand and acknowledges her sentiment by nodding and replying, “Ma’am.”

  “Sit,” Newman says pleasantly, and Greer and I resume our seats while Newman takes one next to me. She has nothing with her. No files, folders, or laptop. No means by which to take notes—not even a recorder.

  She’s not here to debrief.

  Her gaze comes to me first. “Mr. McDermott, I just want to say on behalf of the CIA, thank you to you and Jameson Force Security for helping to effectuate Agent Hathaway’s safe return, as well as retrieval of the valuable information she was able to obtain for us.”

  “Just doing my job,” I reply, not because I’m humble but because there’s something very off about this meeting.

  Newman smiles at me. “It’s unfortunate when one of our agents gets outed and then captured. The resources needed to make recovery are precious, and we’re very grateful that Jameson could partner with us to help save this mission that had gone disastrously wrong.”

  I don’t bother looking at Greer, but I don’t need to, to know she’s probably gritting her teeth over what is a very obvious backhanded slap.

  “Well,” I drawl, holding Newman’s stare, “Agent Hathaway did all the hard work, staying covert for months before successfully stealing the intel. I just helped get her home.”

  Newman’s gaze is frosty. “Yes, well, as that might be, her inability to meet her ex-fil deems the mission a failure.”

  Something deep in my chest clenches—possibly empathy for Greer—and Newman turns her attention across the table. “Agent Hathaway, while I am sincerely glad you are safe and returned to your country, you have been disavowed, and we have no intention of changing that.”

  “If I’m disavowed,” Greer says with a forced smile, “why do you still call me ‘agent’?”

  Newman shrugs. “Habit.”

  Greer’s teeth clench briefly before she asks, “I’d like to know why. My true identity wasn’t compromised, only my cover. While I get that would have prevented our government in taking an active role in recovering the intel, it should not prevent my return to work.”

  “I see it differently,” Newman replies. “You are no longer an asset to this agency.”

  “I demand to have this reviewed by the director of operations, then,” Greer says.

  “You can save your time and your breath,” Newman replies, her tone victorious. “He’s already approved my decision.”

  “Then I demand to see Director Rasmussen.” Now she’s talking about the top dog, the head honcho of the CIA, the one who has President Alexander’s ear.

  Newman laughs, genuinely amused. “Good luck trying to get time with him. But you’re more than welcome to give it a go.”

  I have no clue what the hell is going on, but clearly something personal is driving Newman’s decision. This isn’t protocol, and there is no good reason I can see for Greer to remain disavowed.

  No, Newman is doing this to punish Greer and the malice I see in her expression verifies it.

  “Now,” Gayla Newman says as she stands. She looks down at me. “Once again, thank you very much, Mr. McDermott.”

  Her gaze returns to Greer, who stares stonily back at her. “As you know, there is a significant exit process from our agency. You’ll be expected to cooperate when—”

  “Fuck you,” Greer snarls.

  Newman actually jerks as if slapped. “Excuse me?” she demands.

  Greer stands up. “I said, fuck you. You’ll get no cooperation from me. I’ve been disavowed… remember?”

  I’m still pretty bitter toward Greer, so I have to wonder why I want to start clapping right now. Newman’s so stunned, she can’t reply, but Greer doesn’t give her the opportunity. She strides from the room with her shoulders thrown back, not sparing Newman or me a glance before walking out.

  Rising from my chair, I head to the door to follow Greer, but before I leave, I can’t help myself. “Director Newman… none of my business if the Company disavows Agent Hathaway, but I think your attitude toward her was pretty shitty.”

  “Is that so?” she asks smoothly, using her hands to tug her jacket crisply into place.

  “Probably would have been more appropriate for you to at least thank her for the fourteen years of dedicated service she gave this country and for managing to gather important intel that will take down a major enemy of the United States, but that’s just my way of thinking.”

  Newman’s face turns red, but I don’t wait around for her to react. I exit and barely make out Greer turning left at the end of the hallway.

  I race after her.

  ♦

  Sitting in the parking lot of the Embassy Suites, I try to talk myself out of what I’m about to do. I had indeed caught up with Greer after she left the meeting with Gayla Newman. She was pissed and hurt and snarled at me to leave her alone. I couldn’t, though—or at least my conscience couldn’t—when I knew she had nothing but the clothes on her back.

  When I told her as much, she laughed. “I’m a spy, for fuck’s sake, Ladd. You don’t think I would ever leave myself without means?”

  And I knew.

  She’d never leave herself vulnerable. She’d have a contingency plan.

  We walked outside, and she turned to face me. Her voice had softened somewhat, but I could see the pain of anger and betrayal etched on her face. “Thank you for coming after me.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say.

  But then she said all that needed to be said. “We’re even now.”

  And with that, she turned and walked straight to a car parked at the curb. It had dark tinted windows, and I couldn’t see who was inside. I wasn’t stunned that she had transportation, but that she knew she’d need it. Simply put, Greer knew this was coming and was ready.

  She got in the passenger seat and shut the door, and the car pulled away.

  I should’ve headed straight to the airport, but I didn’t. Instead, I went back inside headquarters and had someone arrange a rental car. And then I called Bebe and asked her to find Greer for me.