“My boss is the one who tipped you off initially.” Wolfe turned fully in his seat to look at her. “Then, just to make sure, I read your computer files. Friend.” He smiled, and the sight was nowhere near reassuring.

Raider sighed. “We don’t have time for this.”

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Brigid awoke early in her miniscule apartment, her heart thundering. Rain pattered outside, and she stilled, listening for any sound of an intruder. Nothing. No shuffles, or moved air, or the too quiet sense of somebody holding their breath. Muscle by muscle, she forced her body to relax in the uncomfortably soft bed that had come with the apartment. Then she pushed off the bedspread, staying as silent as possible, and padded outside of the tiny bedroom to the living area.

The round dining table was still in front of the door, where she shoved it every night, her muscles straining. Biting her lip, she moved over to the sole window to see the old screwdriver placed in the sill and shoved slightly beneath the sliding glass. Nobody could get in.

Oh, they might try, but she would hear them.

She was just as imprisoned now as if she were still in that cell. Or in one of the dark holes they’d threatened to throw her in if she didn’t cooperate.

Sweat broke out down her back. Her breathing quickened, and she tried to halt the oncoming panic attack, but it hit anyway. She could call her friend Pippa, who also had attacks and would understand. But she had to be careful with Pippa, who was now living with Malcolm, one of the Deep Ops agents.

She couldn’t tell the truth to anybody. She sank to the floor and pressed her forehead to her knees, letting the fear take her for a moment. Until it didn’t want her any longer.

Her phone buzzed, and she let out a muffled scream. Damn it. Scrambling for the counter, she tugged the phone down where she could continue to sit on the floor. “What?” she answered.

“Agent Banaghan. Where’s your report on your unscheduled trip to Boston?” Agent Tom Rutherford asked, his tone authoritative and somehow threatening.

She gulped down air and tried to calm her voice. “I don’t have a report. We went, there was a fight, and we returned home. I don’t even know what the case is about, yet.” She could probably get away with that lie for a day or so. No longer.

Rutherford sighed. The jerk was probably at the office dressed in a hugely expensive suit with his perfect blond hair swept back. What a jackass. “Do I have to remind you—”

“No. Stop reminding me,” she whispered. He held the cards and she did not. She got it. “I’ll get a report to you today, although I don’t have much to say.”

“Good.” He clicked off.