Page 80 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Jake and Sanchez sat side by side in identical orange chairs of the UCLA Medical Center emergency room.

They’d been here for a half hour but, to Jake, it seemed like forever.

He was aware of another visitor entering the area and walking their way, but he was visible only in silhouette.

Jake supposed that the person would take one of the many chairs—most were empty—and sit solemnly, riddled with anxiety, waiting for news of a loved one.

But instead he walked directly up to them.

“How is she?”

He looked up to see Eric Williamson.

Jake rose. Sanchez too.

No hands were shaken, and there were no embraces.

Sanchez answered, “Still in surgery. Trying to save her heart.”

Williamson sat. He looked at them and gave a faint smile. “Wondering what I’m doing here?”

Jake said, “We thought you’d been put out to pasture. Thanks to us. We missed the Russian connection.”

“I always wondered about that expression. It’s supposed to mean ‘retired,’ I guess, but aren’t all cows put out to pasture every day? It’s not like they have desk jobs they retire from.”

Sanchez didn’t laugh. Nor did Jake.

At that moment, the double doors to the emergency suite opened and a doctor approached. He was tall and slender and seemed extremely focused and no-nonsense. His name, according to the ID on a lanyard, was J. Singh.

“Doctor,” Sanchez began.

The man had surely delivered unfortunate news dozens, if not hundreds, of times, and Jake recognized that his face had slipped into an expression he undoubtedly used at moments like this.

He knew what was coming.

“I’m sorry. We did everything we could.”

Jake had heard that before. It was word salad. Would any doctor admit they’d done less than they could?

Sanchez sighed. Then she said, “I’ll need her effects.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

He nodded, turned and left.

“Shit, Heron—”

Williamson was shaking his head, and he remained silent.

A moment later a voice from behind them, in a woman’s bright lilt, asked, “Hey, why so glum?”

Jake turned to see Selina Sanchez walking toward them.

He asked her, “How are you?”

“Broke a damn rib,” she muttered, gesturing toward her chest, where the bullet hole in her sweater was still evident.

Allison Brock’s bullet had been stopped by the ballistic vest Ryan Hall had given her when she started to play amateur detective.

But rounds from an Uzi 9mm submachine gun still travel at 1,300 feet per second.

In a battle between bone and lead, the former often loses, even with Kevlar blunting the force of impact.

Selina had been in another part of the ER—that side devoted to non-life-threatening injuries.

Sanchez hugged her sister gently before responding to her question about everyone’s dour expression. “Allison Brock, the woman who shot you, just died.”

“Died?” Selina whispered softly, “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Jake frowned. “Well, Selina, you don’t need to be too sad about it. She did shoot you, after all.”

She waved the comment away. “Oh, I’m not upset about her . I’m pissed for you, Carm. I’m sure you wanted a chance to interrogate the crap out of her.”

Jake had to smile.

Then Williamson turned to his employees. “You might be interested to know that Reynolds was recalled to Washington. He’ll be in the penalty box for a while. He got it partly right. Yes, there was an encrypted message from Brock’s house to the Russian embassy. A burner phone.”

Jake immediately arrived at the only logical conclusion. “But it was Allison who called them.”

Sanchez put a hand on her hip. “Shit. She was the Russian agent.”

“Part of a sleeper cell,” Williamson confirmed. “Anthony Brock knew nothing about it. In fact, she’d latched on to him for intel. He was low-level GAO when they met but was in the process of getting a top-secret clearance, which takes about six to nine months.”

“So Allison was positioning herself for future access,” Sanchez said, “and she worked with Sergei Ivanov?”

Williamson chuckled. “Now that’s the funny part. Not ha-ha funny. But weird. Ivanov was a CIA asset. It took years for the Agency to cultivate him.”

“Hell,” muttered Sanchez. “Reynolds blew his cover.”

“It’s the only reason I can tell you about it. Picking him up drew attention to him in Moscow. He’s burned.” A sigh. “Five years of actionable intel, but the pipeline’s cut off now. Not likely we’ll ever find someone else in his position willing to cooperate.”

Sanchez gave a humorless laugh and turned to Jake. “Remember when Allison said after her husband died, she’d have to start all over again? She wasn’t talking about a new relationship or husband. She meant getting her hooks into another patsy in the government to use for her spy game.”

Jake asked, “Eric? What about Congress? I-squared?”

“The subcommittee apparently liked my answers. They didn’t even seem to mind when I asked a few questions of my own. Like: ‘Could you explain why, in detail, you aren’t willing to fund us at the level I’ve requested, Ms. Committee Chair?’ I think some of them were intimidated.”

Eric Williamson was, Jake knew, a master of intimidation.

Their supervisor lifted his palms. “So I-squared’s permanent. Or as permanent as anything ever is in Washington.”

“And staffing?”

“No action on that. Afraid it’s still just the two of you for the time being. Well, Mouse and Declan, of course.” He got a text and read it, nodding slowly. “Hm. Okay. I’ve got work to do,” the big man grumbled. Without a goodbye, he walked from the ER, texting as he went.

A nurse entered from the operating suites and handed a manila envelope to Sanchez. Allison Brock’s personal effects, which might, or might not, contain earth-shattering secrets about the life of a sleeper agent.

Sanchez dug in her jacket pocket. Jake smiled, reflecting that very few people have official law enforcement evidence bags sitting beside a tube of lip balm.

After she’d bagged everything, they started for the door, Selina beside them.

Sanchez offered, “So, cocktail hour?”

Selina frowned. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Why?” Sanchez asked. “You feeling all right?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” She turned to face Jake. “But if you’re not going to ask my sister out, apparently somebody’s got to take charge. You two run along.” A wink. “And Jake? Have her home by midnight.”

“Lina!”

Jake felt the warmth of what might have been his first full-on blush.

Selina slung her bag over her shoulder—wincing slightly—and strode out the door, leaving the two I-squared operatives alone.

Sanchez looked up into his eyes. She whispered, “Heron?”

“Hm?”

“Have a question.”

“Okay.”

“Back at the Chinampas Grand Resort? When we were on the deck outside the honeymoon suite?”

His cheeks grew hotter. “Vague memory.”

“Yeah, right.” She lowered her voice. “Getting close, playing newlyweds. I want to know something.”

“Go on.” He was whispering too. Noting his heart had started tapping a bit faster. He swayed closer.

She frowned. “Didn’t you think the bathrobes were pretty cheesy, considering what the place must’ve cost?”

“It was the only thing on my mind.”

Then she took his hand and pulled him close.

That lavender smell again.

He lowered his head toward hers.

Which was when their phones buzzed with simultaneous texts, the tones slightly different but each urgent in its own way. They eased apart and retrieved their devices.

“Mouse?” Jake asked.

“Mouse,” Sanchez confirmed.

He read:

I don’t know if you two are doing anything important at the moment but Williamson’s back—did you hear? There’s been an incident. A big one. He needs to see you both, immediately, if not sooner.

The two shared a smile and, after sending brief replies, walked toward the parking lot, where Sanchez’s Suburban was ready to transport them back to HQ, and whatever awaited in their future.