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agent?”
“Not yet.”
“How did he sound when you talked to him earlier?”
“Worried. And wary.”
She nodded. “To be expected.”
“You haven’t told me which man you most suspect of being the mole.”
“I consider everyone a suspect at the moment.” She arched one honey-brown eyebrow. “Even you.”
He smiled at that. “Anything new on the FBI angle?”
“I’m not exactly the bureau’s favorite former denizen.”
“Still, you worked for the FBI for almost eight years. Surely there’s a contact left you can exploit.”
Her brow furrowed, and he realized he’d touched a nerve. “I’ve put out some feelers.”
He frowned at her wary tone. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’ve told you everything I know pertinent to this case.”
“The next time you bother to come to my office to talk, I expect you to be the one supplying information. Clear?”
Her full lips thinned with annoyance. “Yes, sir.” She rose like a waterbird taking flight, all long legs and soaring, restless spirit. She stalked to the door in three long strides, then turned at the last moment to look at him.
“I’m going to find out who’s leaking information from this agency, Quinn. No matter who it is. How’s that for a little useful information?” Before he could respond, she was out the door, letting it shut with a loud snap behind her.
Quinn sat back in his chair, regarded the closed door and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a smile.
His intercom buzzed. Line four—Dennison. He felt a flutter of anticipation as he picked up the phone. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
Cain Dennison’s gravelly voice held a hint of irritation. Quinn knew the agent didn’t care for spying on one of his own, even in an attempt to clear his name. “He called two minutes ago.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants a few minutes alone with my grandmother.”
* * *
“SHE’S A WHAT?” McKenna stared at Darcy, certain she’d misunderstood.
“A sort of mountain healer, if the stories are true.” Darcy checked the magazine of his SIG Sauer and slid the pistol into the pancake holster behind his back. He shrugged a thin plaid shirt over his T-shirt and jeans, leaving the buttons open in the front. “Do I look like a local?”
She took in his day’s growth of beard and broad, muscular shoulders, the casual clothing and the baseball cap he pulled low over his forehead. “As long as you keep your mouth shut.”
“I shouldn’t have to speak to anyone but Lila Birdsong.”
“Pretty name.”
“She’s an interesting lady, if her grandson’s stories are anything to go by.” He checked his watch. “I have to go soon.”
“Are you sure you can trust this Dennison guy you called?”
“As much as I trust anyone.” She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t as certain about Dennison’s motives for helping him as she’d hoped.
“You know the protocol for internal investigation is to use an agent’s closest friends against him.”
He nodded. “I’m pretty sure Dennison’s the agent Quinn has assigned to keep an eye on me. So might as well let him. I have nothing to hide.”
“Except me.”
“Quinn already knows about you. He’s already made his choice which side he’s on—yours.”
“How does he know I haven’t gone to the dark side since we all last worked together?” she asked curiously, resting her head against the sofa cushions as she watched him pace a tight circle next to the coffee table.
“I suspect he knows more about your career than almost anyone but your supervisor.” Darcy stopped in front of her, his brown eyes narrowing. “He knows more than I do, certainly.”
“Do you think I’ve gone to the dark side?” she asked, curious.
His smile made his eyes sparkle. “I always thought you were on the dark side, Rigsby.” His smile faded. “Are you certain you’re going to be all right here alone?”
She patted the holstered Glock 27 sitting on the sofa next to her. “Mr. Glock and I will be just fine.”
He took the portable phone off its cradle and set it in front of her on the footlocker coffee table. “You have my cell number memorized?”
“You’ve spent the last hour drilling it into my brain.” Her achy, tired brain. “Just go see what the witch woman has for us. And if you don’t like what she has to say, you have my permission to rob a pharmacy.”
“Duly noted.” He opened the front door and turned to look back at her. “You sure you’re okay to stay here alone?”
“I’m fine. Go. Hurry back.”
She forced herself to remain upright until he was out the door. But as soon as the lock clicked shut, she slumped back against the sofa cushions, gazing at the holstered Glock by her side. It looked far away and heavy.
She hoped the next time the door opened, it would be Darcy returning. Because she was anything but fine—and in no shape to fight for her life.
* * *
LILA BIRDSONG LIVED near the top of Mulberry Rise, below the craggy face of Miller’s Knob, in a small cabin surrounded by dense evergreen woods. Darcy had been there once, with Cain Dennison and a few of the other Gates agents, for a cookout in the brick barbecue pit behind Dennison’s old silver Airstream trailer. From Darcy’s cabin, the drive had taken five minutes.
From Hunter Bragg’s cabin in the middle of nowhere, however, the winding mountain roads and sharp switchbacks took almost twenty minutes to navigate.
Twenty long minutes for something to go terribly wrong back at the cabin where McKenna waited for him to return.
Her temperature had been elevated when Darcy checked it before he left, but not high enough for immediate concern. McKenna had downed a couple of ibuprofen and told him to go meet with Lila Birdsong, although he could tell she was skeptical that Cain Dennison’s grandmother could provide anything useful to stop her wounds from becoming any more infected.
He would normally be as skeptical, but Quinn himself had consulted with Lila Birdsong about herbal remedies that could work as stopgaps in the field, when prescription medications weren’t readily available.
Maybe she wouldn’t be able to come up with anything to help him. But the alternative was getting antibiotics by deception or outright theft.
The road up the mountain topped off suddenly, giving Darcy a good look at the small clearing where Lila’s cabin sat. The Airstream trailer that had been home to Cain Dennison was gone.
But in its place sat a Ridge County Sheriff’s Department cruiser.
The FBI legal attaché in Tablis, Kaziristan, had been a cramped office located at the back of the slightly shabby embassy building. Only one small window, set high in the back wall, let any natural light into the room, but the men and women who’d crowded into the tight space hadn’t had much time for gazing out windows.
Eight years ago, Tablis had simmered in the harsh summer heat, close to