Page 71 of The Devoted Game

Before this day ended, she would know all there was to know about Special Agent Vivian Grace.

Twenty

1000 Eighteenth Street, 3:50 p.m.

Ryan dragged out his Zippo and lit a Marlboro.

Seven hours ago, as scheduled, Dr. Kurt Trenton had pulled himself together, despite the objections of his friends and family, and led the tri-organ transplant on former governor Garrett Shelby.

Trenton was a hero. A tragically wounded one, if only in the emotional sense.

He might not be God, but an angel certainly sat on his scrub-clad shoulder. Maybe, just maybe, because he would put himself through the rigors of a lifesaving twenty-hour surgical procedure after his terrifying night in a hell designed just for him, the good doctor was actually a humbler man. Time would tell.

Ryan sat on the counter of the first-floor men’s room and inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette. Worth had given up and authorized him to smoke there since the press whores were still camped outside. A technician had been brought in to temporarily override the smoke detector so the alarm wouldn’t go off every time Ryan lit up.

Worth was officially off Ryan’s asshole list. He still didn’t like him much, but that was because he was a prick.

Pricks were different from assholes. And Worth was definitely a prick.

Getting back to another prick, Trenton’s high-powered attorney had reduced the doctor’s official statement down to one sentence:“Dr. Trenton recalls returning to his car in the hospital’s parking garage and sitting down behind the steering wheel.”

“That’s all, gentlemen,” his attorney had insisted. “He didn’t see anyone or hear anything.”

Trenton’s luxurious Tesla Roadster had been taken into custody by forensics. So far they hadn’t found jack shit. Nothing in the hospital garage that couldn’t have belonged to any one of several hundred other people. Nothing on the security cameras. Nothing at the church.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The media was all over the story. Ryan’s past had been rehashed again. All sorts of speculation about the three victims and the possible perpetrator had hit the papers as well as the television and radio news.

Worth had issued a statement saying there was a possibility the abductions were connected and that the Bureau was investigating that avenue.

Ryan closed his eyes and leaned back against the mirrored wall. The C-4 explosive glued to Trenton’s chest had been fake—a substance similar to polymer modeling clay. The detonating charge had been a small homemade explosive configured from an illegal type of holiday fireworks commonly sold under the table. Basically, a cardboard tube packed with explosive materials like a “quarter stick” or an M-80. Had Trenton not been found before detonation, that charge could have caused a serious enough injury to pose a threat to his life. The reverend had said that he generally started tours in the church by noon on weekdays. That would have been too late, lending credence to the possibility that before being discovered, Trenton could have bled to death.

And that was the thing ... Devoted Fan didn’t appear to want anyone to die. Sure, this last challenge had been a little tougher, but not so much so that the likelihood of failure was greater than the likelihood of success.

Ryan had concluded that the man wasn’t a murderer ... Maybe, under ordinary circumstances, not even a criminal. Yet something hadtriggered him to act, and he was trying to prove some point. Something beyond Ryan’s hero status. Something personal.

But what?

The door opened and Grace walked in, a folder in hand.

“Is Worth looking for me?” Ryan took another drag. He felt like a brand-new freshman skipping class, hiding out in the boys’ restroom.

“Not yet.” She scooted onto the counter on the other side of the sink. That burgundy skirt hiked up, revealing several inches of very nice thighs.

“You have a thing for men’s rooms, Grace?” He turned on the water in the sink, wet the cigarette butt to ensure the fire was completely doused, then tossed it into the waste bin beneath the paper towel dispenser. Color darkened her cheeks. He smiled, couldn’t help himself. He’d done that now and again since meeting her. More irony. This was the last situation that should make him smile.

“Let’s talk,” she suggested, opening the file she’d brought with her.

“Let’s,” he agreed. She could talk all night and he would be content to watch her profile as those lips moved, forming each word. His brain instantly retrieved the imprinted memories of having those lips meshed with his own. So soft and yet so full. The image instantly morphed into other scenarios that included him and that lush mouth. He would be more than happy to repay in kind. He couldn’t think of a thing he would enjoy more than having his mouth on every part of her.

She swiveled her face toward him, stared straight into his eyes. “Stop looking at me that way.”

He ordered his pulse to slow. “Sorry.” But he wasn’t sorry. He was hard and horny and he wanted her again. And again after that. Right here would be fine, right now would be better than fine.

“I want to go over a couple of theories with you.” She turned her attention back to the folder.

“Hit me.”