Page 54 of Lock ’N’ Load

Clear green eyes held his for several moments. “Sounds like there’s a story there. Care to elaborate?”

“No.” The word came from his mouth with more force than he intended. “We have more important matters to discuss than”—my fucked up life—“my past.” Still, he’d enjoyed the spirited banter, finding she was easy to talk to and smart as a whip. Not that he was surprised. And she hadn’t even noticed that she’d just had an entire conversation with him without stammering once. “This reporter, Thomas George. Did you get around to researching him yet?”

“No. I didn’t get the chance before the fire, and after that, I assumed my boss would assign someone to contact him.” She frowned, and a look of worry came to her eyes. “Do you think he really did?”

“He’d be stupid not to. Someone tried to kill you just for overhearing that chat, and the wording indicates George knows something critical enough that Lukashin’s boss ordered him stopped.” He hooked his fingers into quotation marks as he said the last word. “I’d say Thomas George was on their hit list before you ever made the top ten.” Which presented one helluva dilemma.

As a sworn police officer, Matt was ethically and duty-bound to protect someone if he thought their life was in danger. But this was a CIA matter, and like Trista, he wasn’t an operative. Sure, he had most of the training and skills, but that didn’t classify him as a field agent. Regardless, he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. What’s more, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Trista’s boss was hiding something, and not just because Matt didn’t have clearance.

He opened the desk’s side drawer and pulled out a cell phone, handing it to her. “This is a burner phone. Unlisted and untraceable. Call your boss and ask him if he had someone call that reporter or notify the local PD that there might be a hit on him. Put the call on speakerphone but don’t tell him I’m here. If he asks where you are, don’t tell him.”

Hesitating for only a moment, she stood and dialed, putting the call on speaker.

“Hello,” a voice Matt recognized as Wayne Gurgas answered.

“Wayne, it’s Trista.”

A lengthy pause followed before Gurgas replied, “Why are you calling?”

Odd, Matt thought, surprised he hadn’t asked Trista how she was doing, what with nearly being murdered in a fire less than twenty-four hours ago.

“I’ve been thinking,” she answered, looking at Matt. “I’m worried about that reporter. Thomas George. Did you or someone else call him or notify the police that he might be in danger?”

“For Christ’s sake, Trista. This is classified information you’re discussing over an open line.” There was another pause, then a door slammed shut in the background. “I told you to stay out of this.”

“So you did warn him?” she asked.

“I’ve had someone trying to reach George for days. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of him.” Another pause, this one lengthier. “Where are you staying?”

Matt shook his head, re-emphasizing his warning.

“Someplace safe.” Her brows knit together, and it was obvious she was just as suspicious of Wayne’s responses as he was.

Matt heard a click and grabbed the phone, ending the call.

“Oh my God.” Her eyes went wide.

“Yeah.” He powered off the phone. “He started to trace the call.”

“Why would he do that?” She sank into the chair.

“I don’t know.” But he damned sure wanted to find out where she was.

While Matt had been out, he’d also called Buck. His boss had informed him that Gurgas had changed his mind, wanting to put Trista in a safe house of the CIA’s choosing. Something had niggled at Buck, and his boss had refused. From Buck’s description, Gurgas had gotten severely hot under the collar, trying to pull rank. Buck stood his ground and eventually Gurgas backed down. For the moment, anyway. Although Buck suspected he hadn’t heard the last of Gurgas and ordered Matt to stay far away from Langley.

“I wonder if he really has someone checking up on George?” She began tapping her fingers on the desk, then looked up at him. “Even if I can find Thomas George, it would be an operative’s job to contact him.”

“Do you see any operatives around here?”

Grinning, she turned back to the computer and began clicking away. The speed with which she pulled up one database after another was nothing short of amazing. She really was a computer prodigy. A brainiac. Most computer geeks he’d met were just that. Geeks. She, on the other hand, was one hot geek.

In less than three minutes, she had a home address, phone number, and employer information. Thomas George was a freelance investigative reporter who wrote a lot of articles for the Arlington Sentinel. George lived in Charlotte, North Carolina, a six-hour drive from Langley.

Using the burner phone, he called George and left a message on the man’s voicemail urgently requesting a callback. He debated calling the Charlotte police, but not having any contacts in that department meant he had no assurances they’d take him seriously. Besides, word might get back to Langley that a CIA K-9 officer was snooping around, way off his turf.

“Dinner’s up,” Nick’s deep voice came from the kitchen.

“Go ahead,” he said to Trista. “I’ll be there in a minute.”