Actual Stop (Agent O’Connor #1)(8)

Rolling my eyes at yet another blatant display of unprofessional behavior on his part, I made my way to his office. The sooner I got this over with, the quicker I could search for caffeine, and the happier everyone would be.

I entered Mark’s office mildly aggravated and ready to make that fact abundantly clear, but then I noticed the prominent theme of his office décor and stopped.

Pirates, I thought dumbly. Mark must’ve had some sort of weird pirate fetish I was just finding out about. I never ventured anywhere near his office, so I hadn’t known about this quirk. Someone really should’ve warned me. It’s tough to school my face into a completely impassive expression when I’m surprised.

And, boy, was I surprised. Signs of pirates abounded: Jolly Roger screen saver and mouse pad, pirate calendar, skull-and-crossbones coffee cup, little skull heads wearing bandannas as erasers on his pencils, a sticky-note pad, a row of tiny pirate figurines accompanied by miniature ships and cannons and treasure chests lined up like sentinels on the bookshelf. (Admittedly, I wanted to play with those.) A print with a skull and crossbones and the motto “The beatings will continue until morale improves” adorned one wall. A skull-and-crossbones tie even hung lazily from the doorknob.

I frowned as I took it all in. I mean, hell, I like pirates as well as the next girl, but this was bordering on an obsession. One that made me wonder—completely and utterly against my will, I assure you—whether he was wearing pirate boxer shorts. Which then led to musings of whether he was a boxers or briefs type of man. I shuddered, vaguely sickened, and banished the thought.

I’d been so busy examining my surroundings and trying to combat my nausea at the detour my mind had taken, I’d failed to notice Mark was looking at me intently. He didn’t seem particularly happy. I allowed my eyes to hold his for a long moment but didn’t speak. He’d called me in here. He could be the first to break the silence. I’m terribly stubborn about some things, and this happened to be one of them.

“I have just one question for you, Ryan,” Mark said finally, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His eyes were narrowed, and I’d bet that if I could see his mouth through his large, bushy, seventies-porn-star mustache, I’d see that his lips were pursed as well.

I waited impatiently, trying not to roll my eyes or let my annoyance show. I had things to do. I didn’t have time for these ridiculous power games.

Mark let out an irritated huff—presumably at my refusal to speak, though who could really tell—and finally got to the point. “What were you doing on Utica Avenue last night?”

Just beneath the surface of my skin, a flash of blistering cold turned immediately boiling. Of all the accusations I’d been expecting, that hadn’t been an option. I stalled for time and fought to keep my expression neutral. I inhaled slowly, willing myself not to flush. No small task when you have Irish skin as fair as mine. “Excuse me?”

A dimple stood out on Mark’s cheek, indicating he was smirking behind his mustache. I was caught, and we both knew it. “Utica Avenue,” he repeated, a note of triumph in his voice. “What were you doing down there?” His eyes were positively gleeful as he waited for my reply.

Let it be known that, unfortunately, loving my job does not translate to loving my boss. Mark and I’d had a rocky relationship ever since I’d started working for him about eighteen months ago, and judging by the encounter we were currently engaged in, our relationship wasn’t going to smooth out any time soon.

Mark’s title is Assistant to the Special Agent in Charge—AT for short—of the Protective Intelligence Squad, and Meaghan had been right; he did appear to hate me. Ever since I’d transferred, my life had been a living hell, through absolutely no fault of my own. Now, I know that when most people say things like that, they’re usually sugarcoating a situation to avoid taking responsibility for some bad choices. I’m also aware that ninety-nine times out of one hundred, I’m the author of my own misery, which anyone close to me will be more than happy to confirm. In this instance, however, I did nothing more to earn Mark’s disdain than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I swear.

One of the very first threat cases I’d investigated after joining the squad had been a veiled threat to the President of the United States, or POTUS, that’d been included in a high-school senior’s current-events term paper. Normally, I wouldn’t have been allowed over into New Jersey to look into the matter, as the Secret Service is an extremely territorial agency and that particular case was something the Newark Field Office really should’ve investigated. However, I’d grown up in Jersey. I’d actually attended the high school in question, so I already had a rapport with the majority of the kid’s teachers, who’d all need to be interviewed as part of my investigation. Also, my mother had reported the threat, since it’d come from one of her students. In light of all that, the bosses of both offices thought perhaps the investigation would go more quickly if I handled it.

On the afternoon when my life began its downward spiral, I’d arrived at the high school to start the corroborating-interview phase of my investigation. Armed with a copy of an extremely hostile and disturbing rant of a term paper straight from the mind of an angry teenager and mountains of forms to be filled out, I’d been ready to work.

School had just let out as I’d arrived, and I’d been busily dodging hordes of screeching adolescents, cursing the parents who’d had the nerve to raise such inconsiderate, insolent little brats and vowing never to procreate as long as I lived, when I’d caught sight of someone across the parking lot I thought I knew.