Romantic Fiction by B.G. Lashbrooks

WAITING….

Chapter one:

Anastacia Sorin was screwed.

Dennis had her—and they both knew it. It had been as fair a fight as it could be. Both were small in stature, of the same build and age. Both had at least ten years training in the martial arts, weaponless fighting, and hand-to-hand combat. Both were skilled supervisory special agents with the Child Exploitation Prevention Division of the FBI.

But Dennis hadn’t been up all night fighting nightmares. And she was coolly, methodically, wiping the floor with Ana. Ana’s face hit the mat and Dennis’s knee rammed into her spine. “Do you yield, Ana?”

“Yield.” Ana’s relaxed every muscle in her body, pressed closer to the rubber floor beneath her cheek. Submitted. “Dammit, Georgia! Get off me! Your knee’s sharp!”

“Spill,” Georgia Dennis ordered ten minutes later, as the two women changed out of their sparring clothes and into their regulation business dress. “You’re not up to par today.”

“What do you mean? Just because you beat me…” Ana slipped her trousers over her hips before glancing at her friend. Dennis always managed to look stylish no matter what she wore—Ana would be the first to admit a small pinch of resentment as she compared Georgia’s black trousers to her own dark navy. There was dust on one navy knee, and a safety pin held the trousers together. Ana always somehow managed to look a bit ragtag—especially when next to Georgia.

Even when she borrowed her roommate’s clothes, she never managed to look quite that good. Not that Georgia ever even noticed. A less vain woman Ana had never met, Georgia was gorgeous, with long, curled dark brown hair, large dark brown eyes, and a small, but curvy body, and she never acknowledged that fact. Men looked at her, much more than they looked at Ana’s flat-chested, childishly angular body, her dark, ridiculously straight red hair and clichéd green eyes. She looked like a damned leprechaun. A tiny, redheaded, half-Russian leprechaun who dressed funny and spoke in an even funnier accent.

She never wore green. It just made the leprechaun image much worse. She’d heard the jokes her entire life. Until she’d learned to break boards with her hands and hit a moving target with a .35 millimeter. The jokes stopped after that.

“You were missing blocks you shouldn’t have. Your attention was anywhere else but on me. And, well, you were making yellow-belt mistakes.” Georgia never sugarcoated. And as a profiler and behavioral psychologist, she most often knew exactly what Ana was thinking or feeling. It made it hard to lie to her.

“Nightmares.” Was all Ana said.

“Elevator?” Was all Georgia asked.

“Yes.” Ana didn’t elaborate. She’d told her friend what had happened to her within a month of them first meeting. They were the only female members of the seven-agent team, and always bunked together, and were even roommates, sharing a condo near the center of the city.

The two women knew each other’s nightmares well.

Georgia knew of Ana’s hours spent trapped in an elevator during an explosion caused by a rank bastard Ana and her former partner had been chasing, and Ana knew of Georgia’s dead fiancé—killed in a traffic accident with Georgia one car behind him. The brunette had seen the whole thing. And been able to do nothing about it.

They both still bore the scars. Inside.

“Dreams are the subconscious mind’s way of telling us something.” Georgia said. “Anything different about this dream?”

“No. Still a basic recap of what happened that day, then two months later.”

“No difference?”

“This time, he bleeds to death in the elevator, and I’m trapped with him. For hours. Then he comes back from the dead, and we’re trapped in that supply closet.” Ana admitted.

“And when you woke, how did you feel?”

“Angry. Scared. Sad. Guilty.” Ana listed the feelings she’d felt nearly every time she woke from the dream. Just like Georgia had insisted the first time she helped Ana deal with them nearly two years ago. “When I first woke, I was sure he was dead. Dammit, Georgia. I’ve not had the dream in months.”

“Subconscious telling you something?”

“But what?”

Their conversation was cut short as they entered the large conference room to find the rest of their team waiting, somewhat impatiently.

Dr. Malachi Brockman looked up at their entrance, dark blue eyes warm over the wire-rimmed glasses he wore for reading. Ana loved it when he wore his glasses, made him twice as hot. Malachi was her favorite man on the planet. “You’re both late.”

“Sorry, sir.” They said in near unison as they took their seats.

“Sure you are.” Brockman smiled. Ana was late at least once a week. Brockman never chastised. “We’ve all been summoned to Conference room A.”

“Great.” Ana whispered to Georgia as they immediately stood back up to follow Brockman and the other four men out of the room. “Now what?”

“We’ll just have to wait and find out.” Georgia shrugged, slinging the backpack that carried her laptop and various other necessities over her shoulder. Ana knew there would be some candy shoved in the bag somewhere. Georgia was diabetic—and used sweets to stave off low blood sugar. The backpack went with her everywhere.

Ana had stuffed a spare set of throwing knives in there, as well. Georgia made a good pack mule with that bag and Ana took advantage of it. They rounded the corner, looked through the window into the largest conference room in the St. Louis field office. “I don’t think this is going to be good, Georgia.”

“Me, either.” The other woman eyed the room filled with people.

Some Ana recognized. Some she didn’t. Holding court in the center was the Deputy Director of The Midwest Region of the FBI. Edward Dennis looked a lot like his daughter, Ana thought again.. The man was cold, imposing, larger than life. And terrifying.

And that had just been when she and Georgia met him for dinner the night of Georgia’s thirty-second birthday eight months back. He hadn’t grown any less terrifying in the subsequent months, although Ana was warming to him slightly.

He scared Ana, and not many men did.

He nodded in his daughter’s direction, and Ana caught the slightly older woman’s smile. Deputy Director Dennis loved his daughter—there was no doubt about that in Ana’s mind—and that was the only thing that made him appear human. And somewhat approachable. Plus, he’d been by their condo on numerous occasions to see his grandson, four-year-old Matthew–Ana’s absolute favorite kid on the planet.

“Wow. They called out the big cheese on this one.” Special Agent Whitman said from behind the two women. “Isn’t that the…”

“Deputy Director?” Georgia asked, a touch of mischief in her voice. Ana smirked. Whitman was young, obnoxious, the newest transplant to their unit in the CEPD, and both women enjoyed tormenting him when possible. He took it so well.

“I heard he was a real cold bastard. Heard he fired this SA for messing up his lunch order last week.”

“I don’t think he’s cold at all.” Georgia said. “Daddy’s always been shy.”

“Daddy?”

“Hmm, Whitman, Dr. Dennis, Deputy Director Dennis—you think they’re related?” Ana widened her eyes comically.

Whitman said nothing, just moved away.

“You know, we probably shouldn’t tease him that much.” Georgia said as they took their seats on the left side of their Unit Chief. Whitman, Tompkins, and Royal took the seats on the right. Chalmers took the seat on Ana’s left. “One of these days he’s going to take us seriously.”

“You’d think he’d know to take you two seriously to begin with. Ana, love. You’re cheek is swelling slightly.” Brockman frowned at the two women. His glasses were gone, Ana realized, but that didn’t detract from how attractive her dark-headed, blue-eyed boss actually was.

“Georgia beat me up, boss.” Ana snickered. “This time. I’ll take her next time.”

“Sure you will.” Tompkins smirked, leaning forward to look at the two women. His black-rimmed glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them up with one finger. He was such a skinny little nerd, with his brown hair uncombed and his shirt stained and untucked, but Ana loved him. Fiercely. “You two still running neck and neck?”

“Dead even. Ana beat me last week.” Georgia said, as the conference room door opened and one more team entered. The man in front was large, tall and muscular—at least six feet four, in Ana’s estimation, broad shouldered, with chestnut hair and a handsome face. She’d seen him before but couldn’t place him. He was followed by several other agents, including an incredibly young redhead, with hair nearly as dark as Ana’s and an unbelievably gorgeous blond. The redhead was a good kid, a bit odd, but someone Ana knew well enough to say hello to in the elevator. The blond made Ana feel even more self-conscious in the pantsuit she’d filched from Georgia’s donation pile a few weeks ago when the other woman had done her ritual spring closet cleaning. Georgia loved to shop and made room for new purchases regularly. Ana hadn’t had to buy clothing in nearly a year—and it was all thanks to Georgia’s castoffs.

The man glared fiercely at Edward Dennis. Ana’s gaze moved quickly to the older man. The deputy director glared right back. “Uh, Georgia…”

“What?” Georgia turned, and Ana knew she saw what she did.

“Who is that?” Ana asked.

“I’m not sure.” Georgia said softly. “But whoever he is…I don’t think he likes my father very well.”

“That’s Michael Hellbrook, ladies. From the Complex Crime Unit two floors up. Wonder what he’s doing here?” Brockman said. “He usually steers clear of any cases or anything involving your father, Georgia.”

“I’ve heard Daddy grumbling but I’ve never met the man. I’m not so sure I want to, now.” Georgia tilted her head to the side as she considered the giant of a man.

Ana couldn’t blame her. Rumor had it that Michael Hellbrook had earned his nickname of ‘Hell’. They said he was hell to work with, and had one hell of a temper, though he was a quiet man.

And the battles between him and the senior Dennis were the stuff FBI legends were made out of. “What’s the deal, Mal?”

Malachi Brockman frowned. “A case, nearly fifteen years ago. Hellbrook’s first, I think. Two agents were killed. Rumor has it Hellbrook blames your father, Georgia.”

“Even after all this time?” Georgia asked. Both women watched the man and his team as they settled into the last row of seats. “Must have been horrible. We’d just moved to St. Louis then. Daddy had his choice of regions. He chose this one.”

Ana suspected the man had also pulled strings to get his daughter in the St. Louis field office, as well. Georgia had spent her entire career in St. Louis, first in cyber-crimes, then violent crimes, then a stint on a Child Abduction Rapid Deployment team, and then CEPD. Ana’d jumped around more. She’d started in Washington four months before the events of nine eleven, in Hostage Recovery. Then she’d transferred to Chicago’s branch of Violent Crimes, before finally coming to Brockman’s notice. He’d handpicked her around the same time he’d filched—as he liked to call it—Georgia from the local CARD team. Tompkins was their computer analyst, and he did a phenomenal job. Chalmers and Royal, they were also handpicked by Brockman.

They worked well together. Even Whitman, who’d not been picked by the unit chief, served his purpose well. Of course, that purpose was basically that of errand boy. Ana sent him for her lunch at least twice a week. He did it, too. Without much complaint.

“If I may have your attention, please.” The deputy director’s assistant began. Ana focused on the stage as the room quieted quickly. Edward Dennis stepped to the front center, immediately commanding attention.

Georgia was capable of that, Ana realized. She’d seen her friend draw attention her way with just the tone of her voice. Georgia didn’t do it often. But when she did, it was highly effective.

Not Ana; Ana preferred to do her work behind the crowd. She was the strategy specialist, the one who planned extraction maneuvers. Ana had grown up in the world of the transients. Her family life had been the opposite of Georgia’s; her father had been nomadic in every sense of the word, taking his little family all over the country in a battered RV. They’d stayed nowhere more than two months.

Her family—her, her mother, father, and older brother—had made their living as peddlers, hocking junk they’d collect from yard sales and selling artwork her mother and older brother would create. Ana had been almost forgotten about, artless and untalented in the ways her family had prized. It had hurt her the way they’d ignored the little girl with her red hair and dark green eyes—a gift from a maternal grandmother that set her apart from them with their dark eyes and hair.

It had surprised them when Ana’d chosen the FBI as a career. She’d deflected, defied the family tradition of being artists and nomads and searched for security in a world they wanted no part of.

She’d not spoken to her family since she’d told them she’d been accepted to Indiana University at the age of seventeen.

Georgia was her family. Matthew, Georgia and Brockman. Tompkins, Royal, Chalmers, even Whitman.

And to Ana, her new family was everything.

CHAPTER TWO

Fin MacLaughlin eyed the crowd of agents with the experienced eye of a master profiler. Some of them would be his new team. And it burned him that he’d not be allowed to pick which ones. Fin was very particular in who he wanted at his back. Yet for the first time since he’d become a Unit Chief six years ago, he’d have no say.

That privilege rested with Deputy Director Dennis. And like the older man had said, he had a definite list in mind. And he was about to tell the gathered agents just what he was doing. What changes he’d be making.

“Funding has been approved,” Dennis said. “For a new division. It will be based here in St. Louis. Primary focus will be on a new age of crime. Because today we cannot specialize in one thing anymore. Crimes don’t just cover one area anymore. We have pedophiles committing cyber crimes, we have sex crimes blending into violent crimes, and we have terrorism intermingling with gang activity. This new division will seek to address all those overlaps by the blending of specialists in every area. No more just run of the mill field teams will be coming out of St. Louis. Calls to us—this directorate—will be special requests that only our teams can solve.”

Fin scanned the crowd, tuning out the politick words, beginning in the front two rows. Fifty to sixty people, he decided, crammed the room. Ninety percent were male. Most were in their thirties, forties, or fifties. A handful was younger. Half a dozen were older.

They all had the jaded look of law enforcement in their eyes. It was a look MacLaughlin saw in his own eyes whenever he’d look in a mirror.

Dennis droned on. Fin flexed his prosthetic hand, readjusted it a bit. There was a thread or something between it and the stump that was his forearm. He’d have to remove it later. Right then, he was focusing on the deputy director.

“Our first order of business is the forming of special task forces. The task forces will be functioning for exactly one month. On these teams, we’ll have a mix of those of you from every division, every specialty. At the end of this month, each team member’s contribution will be evaluated, and new teams will be formed in each division based on those evaluations.”

There were discontented murmurs from the crowd then. Fin straightened. He hadn’t known Dennis would be screwing with the teams under his command that severely. People were bound to be unhappy having their teams jerked around. He would be. One man stood, a chestnut haired giant, and glared at the deputy director. “I don’t like it. My team. My choice. Don’t screw with it…sir.”

“Sit down, Hellbrook.” Dennis’s voice was ice, and Fin’s attention sharpened. “I’m not finished.”

The man sat, though with obvious reluctance.

“With all due respect, sir,” Another man said from near the middle of the room. “Our teams are highly functioning as they are. My unit has an incredibly high solve rate. I’m not sure rearranging that will be in the best interest of the Bureau.”

“Dr. Brockman, thank you for your input.” Dennis’s tone was much more welcoming with this man. Fin wondered why. “That brings up another thing. For those of you who are part of a highly functioning team, you will most likely not be affected that much. Unless some of you are reassigned to cover any other holes. We will still have the CARD teams and the CEPD teams. They’ll just be under my jurisdiction instead of Lewis Whiler’s. And the Complex Crimes Unit—you’ll be moving up two floors, as part of this unit, instead of NCVAC. At the end of the month, each unit chief and team leader will have a say in further team assignments. Now, SSA Len will be calling off a list of names of agents to be reassigned. We will also be forming a master task force. This team will be the front leaders. They will be the best and brightest this office has to offer and leadership will be shared between three unit chiefs. When SSA Len calls your name, please stand.”

Fin watched as the first set of agents were reassigned, most having very unhappy expressions on their faces. Another five minutes passed and nearly every agent had been reassigned or told to stay with their current unit.

Dennis stepped back to the front. “Those of you who’ve been reassigned, you’re dismissed. The rest of you, please stay seated. You’ll receive instructions shortly.”

The majority of the crowd filed out. Eleven people remained: Fin, Deputy Director Dennis, the two men who’d spoken—Hellbrook and Brockman, three other men, two brunette women, and two redheaded women.

This was Deputy Dennis’s elite task force, Fin realized. He straightened. Looked them over carefully. Hellbrook was furious, it was in the way his shoulders were rigid. The little redhead on his right wasn’t even listening. She had headphones in, MacLaughlin realized. The three younger male agents were all waiting somewhat impatiently. Fin just glanced over them. The two brunette women were on opposite sides of the room, and seemed opposite in personality, from Fin’s first impressions. One was Hispanic, seemed a bit edgy, squirming in her seat near the front. The other was small, attractive, businesslike. Cool and calm. She turned and said something to the redhead on her left.

Fin’s gaze followed her movement. The hair was dark red. Warm. Straight. It tugged at him, familiar. The body was small. She moved a lot, her foot tapping, arms crossing and uncrossing. She didn’t want to be there. Brockman reached behind the brunette and squeezed the redhead’s shoulder. She turned, became more visible.

Fin’s hand tightened as a rush of remembered pain shot through him. Starting with his prosthetic. Psychological remembrance of the morning nine years ago, when he’d lost the hand, and of the woman who’d been with him at the time.

Anastacia.

“I don’t like this.” Ana whispered to Georgia. “The teams were fine the way they were.”

“I know.” Georgia whispered back, as Brockman stood and approached the front of the room.

“Gather round.” Deputy Director Dennis ordered. “We’ll make introductions and I’ll explain a bit more about this task force.”

“We’re it?” Georgia asked, looking at her father with clear surprise on her usually calm face. “The task force you spoke of?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Ana watched the man named Hellbrook look at Georgia appraisingly. He snarled. Ana felt her own lip curl in response.

Malachi must have seen it as well. He moved to block Hellbrook’s gaze, a challenging look on his own face. Ana knew then this wouldn’t be good. Not at all.

And Ana always listened to her instincts.

Malachi spoke. “Deputy Director, I’ll begin. I’m Unit Chief Dr. Malachi Brockman; I hold degrees in criminal pathology, psychology, and psychiatry. I head the Child Exploitation Prevention Division. These are three of my team—SSA Dakin Royal, SSA Dr. Georgia Dennis, and SSA Anastacia Sorin. Royal’s a former demolitions expert from ATF. Dr. Dennis is our team profiler. Ana’s our linguist and victim advocate when needed, as well as our extraction specialist.”

Fin watched the man look toward Hellbrook expectantly. Hellbrook’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Hellbrook. Chief and founder of the Complex Crimes Unit.”

“I’ve heard of you.” Brockman said. Fin had heard of him as well. The CCU was the stuff legends were made of. A small team of agents—the unit only had five people in it—who simply took the cases nobody else wanted, or could solve. Hellbrook was legendary.

Fin thought he’d be older, instead of around his own thirty-eight. Hellbrook continued. “This is my agent, Special Agent Carrie Sparks. She’s responsible for all the technological investigations and needs of our unit.”

Another man, younger than either Hellbrook or Fin spoke up. “I’m Lucas Armitage and this is my partner Maria Angel. We’re with CARD under Stephenson. I’ve training in anti-terrorism, and Angel comes from Crimes against Children out of Las Vegas.”

“Reece Ramirez.” Another man said, with touches of a New York and Hispanic accent mingling beneath his words. “I’m with PAVA, as well.”

“Fineas MacLaughlin. I’ll be heading up PAVA now that it’s been moved from Whiler’s section to this new division.” MacLaughlin moved from his seat partially behind Deputy Director Dennis. His eyes immediately jumped to hers. “Hello, Anastacia.”

“Fin.”

Fin didn’t miss the fear that suddenly hit the green eyes he remembered so well. She’d not forgotten him, either. He’d doubted she would. “How are you?”

“Good.” She said the word softly, her eyes darting to the dark-haired woman beside her with a clearly pleading look on her face. She stepped closer to her supervisor.

“You two know each other?” Brockman asked, and Fin heard the suspicion in his words. Fin wondered how involved she was with her supervisor.

The Anastacia he’d known years ago wouldn’t have become involved with a supervisor. It would have been against everything she’d believed in. She stepped back again, the movement one he recognized as a fear reaction.

His gut twisted. She was still frightened of him. Just like back then. She slid half behind Brockman, her action shouting to him that she viewed the other man as safety. And viewed him as a threat.

So many years later and she still managed to make him feel like the lowest form of bastard. He stepped back, deliberately relaxing his body, trying to convey non-threatening signals. He didn’t want her frightened of him anymore.

Her eyes jumped to the prosthetic protruding from his right sleeve. Her eyes flashed, stricken. He turned away, not wanting to make her any more uncomfortable than he already had. He owed her that much. And much much more.

“Deputy Director, shall we begin?” He said.

“Please. Everyone have a seat. Files have been provided for each of you. Brockman, MacLaughlin, Hellbrook, you three will be sharing leadership. I’ll leave it to you to divide which areas.” Dennis led the way to the table near the front of the room. “I’ll be blunt. Funding is iffy at this point. If we can’t prove a success, we’re losing both the CCU and CEPDs. Agents will be reassigned to more mainstream units around the country. It’s up to the ten of you to make this work.”

Nobody responded. Everyone paid attention. Fin felt the tension settling around the room’s occupants.

“Sir, I can understand why Agent Brockman and Agent Hellbrook were chosen, but what about the rest of us?” SA Angel asked.

“I’ve carefully reviewed backgrounds, performance reviews, and psychological evals—even on Georgia, my daughter—you’ve all got exactly what I need to make this work. All of you will bring something unique to the table.”

“What will our purpose be?” Brockman stood behind his two female agents, one hand resting on each woman’s shoulder. Their teammate SSA Royal sat to the left of Dennis’s daughter. Their manners all shouted closeness to Fin. Protectiveness.

“Crime syndicates, global acts of terrorism, serial killers. Whatever and whenever a special request is made, I want this division to be able to pull from any unit and form a team more capable of solving the case quickly than just a regular field investigation team.” Dennis said. “Once the trial period is over, you’ll basically go back to your original units or teams, with very minor changes. But this month is a proving ground for the entire new division. If it fails, every one of you is gone, reassigned anywhere. Probably in locations other than St. Louis. If it works—we’ll have a division that is ready at the drop of a hat, skilled, prepared, and trained in rapid responses to any situation.”

“So what do you want us to do?” The daughter flipped open her file.

Fin watched Hellbrook watch the daughter, a derisive light in his eyes. They’d prove to be a problem, he just knew it.

“Work together. You’ve one week for cross-training. Then you’ll be split into two balanced units. And pulling cases.” The senior Dennis said.

One week wasn’t long. Might not be long enough, in Fin’s estimate, as he ran a quick eye over the agents surrounding the table. Hellbrook’s redhead watched everyone, wide-eyed. Fin didn’t think he’d even heard the extremely young woman speak. Armitage and Angel spoke nearly exclusively to each other. Ramirez and Royal hadn’t spoken at all. Brockman still stood sentinel over his female agents. Hellbrook’s eyes kept returning to Dr. Dennis, much like a magnet.

Fin found that interesting.

And then there was Anastacia. He’d never forgotten her, though they’d only worked together for three months. Nine years ago.

He wondered if it was the trauma they’d experienced together or the results of that night in the storage closet that made him remember her so clearly. Or made her fear him so deeply.

He wondered if she’d let him apologize.

He reiterated an old vow to do just that the instant he got a chance.

Ana barely heard the deputy director’s words, her mind instead focused on the past. And on SSA Fin MacLaughlin. He’d changed in the years since she’d seen him last. His hair was shorter, still as dark, the color of the most expensive coffee. His eyes weren’t the warm brown she remembered. They were cold, clouded. He’d smiled a lot during their short stint as partners, though she knew he’d not been happy having her assigned to him. She’d been a liability, he’d told her, and in the end, he’d been right. She’d cost him his hand.

He’d cost her her security. She didn’t know who’d been screwed the most.

They’d been in an elevator chasing a suspect through an old office building. The stairs had been blocked off, too unsafe for passage. So they’d taken the elevator headed toward the roof, where they’d thought the suspect was hiding. If they hadn’t been in the elevator they’d have been killed outright when the explosion had rocketed the building. The elevator had protected them from the initial blast. But the metal sides had collapsed in on them. Fin had tried to pry them open, to get them air, but the doors had snapped shut when she’d tried to slip through—on Fin’s directive—with Fin’s hand trapped between them.

She still heard the scream he’d been unable to suppress in her dreams. Worse, she’d been pinned between his hard chest and the metal doors, her body resting against his trapped arm. For hours. Nearly five hours they’d waited for rescue.

It had been the longest five hours of her life.

She relived them almost every night in her sleep.

And now the star of that nightmare sat across the table staring at her once again.