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Authors: Beyond Control
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you."
"I want to know who ordered that pathology report. Go in there and get it."
"I'm on it."
Struggling to master his frustration, Kurt signed off. If anybody could unearth the identity of the mystery caller, it was Jim Swift.
And what if that was beyond even his top investigator's powers?
Kurt repressed a shudder. He'd never looked back during his climb to the heights of Washington power.
His work had become his life. His recreation. His mission. His fun.
And Swift and the others under him had become his family. He'd nurtured them, praised them, trained them, given them a sense of purpose. Like Calvin Crandall had done with him, he knew. Only he'd cultivated a more personal sense of loyalty. Nobody was going to sneak up behind him the way he'd gotten the drop on Calvin.
Anyway, there was no need for it. He wasn't going to lose his nerve—or his resolve. He was going to continue as Crandall's director into old age. And if he never got a medal for his service to the country, that was all right, because he was proud of his silent sacrifices and proud of the difference he'd made to national security.
The raid on Maple Creek had been a piece of bad luck. He would find out what the hell had gone wrong there— and set his world right again. He had no other choice. He had acquired too much power.
Stepped on too many toes.
And if one of his enemies caught the scent of blood, he was done for.
* * *
LINDSAY stepped into the upscale Italian restaurant on Nineteenth Street and looked around. It was still early for dinner in D.C., and there were only a few people enjoying the elegant, understated atmosphere. Memories came back to her. Her mother and stepfather had taken her here to celebrate her first job. She knew they were proud of her career. They were still proud of that aspect of her life. And they'd given up asking who she was dating—because they knew there would be nothing new on that front. They'd taken what they could get. She should be grateful for that. Still, she couldn't stop herself from feeling guilty that she would never give them the grandchild they longed for.
She chopped off that thought as the hostess came hurrying toward her.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm meeting someone here." Looking around, she spotted Jordan Walker sitting at a corner table sipping from a tall glass. He looked preoccupied.
But he glanced up as though he knew she'd entered the door. Well, why not? He was waiting for her, wasn't he?
Crossing the handmade tile foyer, she walked up a step into the partitioned dining area.
The intensity of his stare made her heart start to pound—the way it had in her dream.
No. Not the damn dream again.
She didn't need fantasies from her subconscious to make her nervous. The piercing look in the man's dark eyes was quite enough. Still, she'd taken his invitation as a challenge—that she could have a meal with him without experiencing any of the feelings she'd found both frightening and exhilarating.
'Thank you for coming," he said as she pulled out the chair opposite him. He was coatless, and she supposed his blue Oxford cloth shirt was meant to indicate that the meeting was casual. But the tight lines of his face told her otherwise.
She'd taken the Red Line straight from work, then walked from Dupont Circle. Now she felt overdressed in her navy suit and burgundy silk blouse. But she kept the jacket on as though it could serve as a barrier between them.
"What did you want to talk about?" she said.
"Let's order first."
Letting him set the pace of the meeting, Lindsay scanned the menu. Before she could make a selection, the waitress asked if she wanted a drink.
She glanced at Jordan's tall glass of iced tea, then ordered the same before going back to the menu. Any other time the Northern Italian specialties would have tempted her appetite. This evening she wasn't sure she could choke down more than a bowl of soup.
"The Italian bread soup is good," Walker said.
Her head jerked up,
"What's
"I want to know who ordered that pathology report. Go in there and get it."
"I'm on it."
Struggling to master his frustration, Kurt signed off. If anybody could unearth the identity of the mystery caller, it was Jim Swift.
And what if that was beyond even his top investigator's powers?
Kurt repressed a shudder. He'd never looked back during his climb to the heights of Washington power.
His work had become his life. His recreation. His mission. His fun.
And Swift and the others under him had become his family. He'd nurtured them, praised them, trained them, given them a sense of purpose. Like Calvin Crandall had done with him, he knew. Only he'd cultivated a more personal sense of loyalty. Nobody was going to sneak up behind him the way he'd gotten the drop on Calvin.
Anyway, there was no need for it. He wasn't going to lose his nerve—or his resolve. He was going to continue as Crandall's director into old age. And if he never got a medal for his service to the country, that was all right, because he was proud of his silent sacrifices and proud of the difference he'd made to national security.
The raid on Maple Creek had been a piece of bad luck. He would find out what the hell had gone wrong there— and set his world right again. He had no other choice. He had acquired too much power.
Stepped on too many toes.
And if one of his enemies caught the scent of blood, he was done for.
* * *
LINDSAY stepped into the upscale Italian restaurant on Nineteenth Street and looked around. It was still early for dinner in D.C., and there were only a few people enjoying the elegant, understated atmosphere. Memories came back to her. Her mother and stepfather had taken her here to celebrate her first job. She knew they were proud of her career. They were still proud of that aspect of her life. And they'd given up asking who she was dating—because they knew there would be nothing new on that front. They'd taken what they could get. She should be grateful for that. Still, she couldn't stop herself from feeling guilty that she would never give them the grandchild they longed for.
She chopped off that thought as the hostess came hurrying toward her.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm meeting someone here." Looking around, she spotted Jordan Walker sitting at a corner table sipping from a tall glass. He looked preoccupied.
But he glanced up as though he knew she'd entered the door. Well, why not? He was waiting for her, wasn't he?
Crossing the handmade tile foyer, she walked up a step into the partitioned dining area.
The intensity of his stare made her heart start to pound—the way it had in her dream.
No. Not the damn dream again.
She didn't need fantasies from her subconscious to make her nervous. The piercing look in the man's dark eyes was quite enough. Still, she'd taken his invitation as a challenge—that she could have a meal with him without experiencing any of the feelings she'd found both frightening and exhilarating.
'Thank you for coming," he said as she pulled out the chair opposite him. He was coatless, and she supposed his blue Oxford cloth shirt was meant to indicate that the meeting was casual. But the tight lines of his face told her otherwise.
She'd taken the Red Line straight from work, then walked from Dupont Circle. Now she felt overdressed in her navy suit and burgundy silk blouse. But she kept the jacket on as though it could serve as a barrier between them.
"What did you want to talk about?" she said.
"Let's order first."
Letting him set the pace of the meeting, Lindsay scanned the menu. Before she could make a selection, the waitress asked if she wanted a drink.
She glanced at Jordan's tall glass of iced tea, then ordered the same before going back to the menu. Any other time the Northern Italian specialties would have tempted her appetite. This evening she wasn't sure she could choke down more than a bowl of soup.
"The Italian bread soup is good," Walker said.
Her head jerked up,
"What's
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