Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(22)

“Hey, Warner.” There’s no missing the defeat in my voice. “Any chance you can swing by?” I hate talking candidly when I know that the call is being monitored for evidence. It’ll get erased eventually, but you never know who’s listening before it does.

“Doubt it. It’s going to be a long one.” Voices hum in the background. He’s got two other undercover cases going right now, and it seems like he works twenty-nine hours a day, dividing his time among them. “Why? I just talked to you. What’s going on?”

“Sinclair called me. He’s talking about bringing an agent in and having me pull back.”

“Shit.”

My panic sparks. “Shit? Shit, why? How bad is that? How often does this happen?”

He heaves a sigh and says with reluctance, “I don’t know. It happens, sometimes.”

“And what happens to the pulled agents?”

“Sometimes they end up on other cases. Sometimes . . . they don’t.”

A thought strikes me. “What happened to the other undercovers on this case?” The ones who failed.

There’s a pause, and I picture him biting his bottom lip like he always does when he’s not sure if he should say something. “Pushing paperwork in Nebraska or Utah or something like that, the last I heard.”

Perfect. “This is my one shot at the Bureau, isn’t it?” When I applied for the D.C. police force, I didn’t have my sights on going Fed. Being any type of law enforcement—armed with a gun and the power to change a person’s life forever—seemed both daunting and thrilling. But it didn’t take long before I started to excel at my job and commanding officers took notice. That’s when the career questions began. How high do you want to go? they’d all ask. The truth is, I didn’t join with aspirations to be the next female chief of police, or run entire units. I just wanted to feel like I was making a difference. A year in, I was already making contacts in the various units, bored with street patrol. Major strings were pulled by high-levels and I was transferred into the MCU. I figured I was in the right place. Doing undercover work came surprisingly easy for me, and I had one of the best arrest and conviction records in the group. But still, I soon found that the cases weren’t high-profile enough. I scoured the newspapers, reading about big arrests around the country. Those were the ones I wanted to work on. The kind where a bust shuts down terrorist cells, cripples trafficking rings, saves lives. The kind that the Feds typically spearhead.

So I filled out my application to join the FBI, along with about a hundred thousand other people. Without an “in,” I doubt I’ll ever hear from them.

Sinclair is my in.

“Listen, I don’t know what you want me to tell you. Is this case a big deal? Yes. But I can’t say you won’t have other shots. I also can’t say you will. Sinclair can make anything happen if you impress him. If you don’t . . . he can be a real dick. Plus, jobs with the FBI are competitive. The ones who make it are there because they do what they need to do.”

I feel even worse now than I did five minutes ago. “ ’kay. Thanks, Warner. ’Night.” I hang up, his words cycling in my head.

They do what they need to do.

A snort by my heels reminds me that Stanley is waiting, staring at me, those giant bat ears perked. “Demanding little brat.” I crouch down to scratch his belly, my focus drifting across the way, into the fully lit bedroom, while Luke’s in the shower. Searching for an answer.

A part of me simply waiting for him to emerge so I can get another view.

“How do I get through to this guy? Huh, Stanley?”

With an excited butt wiggle, he flips over and pushes his snout past the blinds. When his bulging eyes spy Licks across the way, he throws his head back and begins barking frantically.

“Get back!” I grab him by the belly and drag him away from the window, his claws grating against the hardwood floor. “Our target knows you now. He’ll know we live here,” I scold.

And then I freeze. Suddenly, I know what I need to do.

Deep into the gray area we go, Clara.

Chapter 9

LUKE

The hot water sliding over my stiff, tired muscles felt good. The soap seeping into the puncture wounds on my leg did not.

I towel off, thinking about Rain and that f*cking little mutt. And Licks, for doing absolutely nothing. I swear someone could be stabbing me to death and that fat bastard would just sit there and drool.

I had the perfect “I’m getting laid” card tonight, after her dog bit me. On her knees in front of me, she looked ready to do just about anything to make up for it, stirring my blood and my cock. And then my burner phone had to ring.

And I panicked.

I seem to panic every time that phone has gone off this past week, since Rust handed it to me, along with the numbers of two fences I’ll be funneling his requests through.

It ended up being a short conversation, not that I wanted her overhearing any of it. Rodriguez, one of the fences, saying he picked up a brand-new Jeep Cherokee. I said no, we only buy based on orders coming in from Vlad. Otherwise, we’ll be collecting cars, and that’s too risky. That’s one of Rust’s rules and it’s a sound one.

So far, I just take requests from Rust and pass them on to Rodriguez, and I’m done. Nothing stressful. Sure as hell nothing that seems worth the kind of money Rust has thrown my way.