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Dying for Keeps

Agents of Trait

Entangled Publishing, LLC

Scream

Josh Marron thumped his fist on the desk. "I'm telling you we can't run an op with nothing to go on."

Greta wanted to scream. She'd been hired specifically for her ability to pinpoint trouble. "And I'm telling you something is wrong." She started pacing in front of Marron's desk, her hands fluttering. "The missions are off. They have been for a while. Can't you see it? There's no pattern. There has to be a structure to it all."

She saw patterns all the time. In everything from sports scores to contrails in the sky. The world, in all its variety, followed certain paths. Things lined up. Most people couldn't see any of it, but Greta couldn't stop. It was why this was making her so crazy. The only pattern their recent missions formed was ... random. Nothing in life was random, no matter how much people wanted it to be. Which meant something was seriously screwed.

"And unless you can tell us where to look for all this wrongness, my hands are tied. You aren't asking for a mission, Greta. You're asking for an all-out hunt for something you can't define!"

She should have brought Nico with her. He would have convinced Marron to do something. He was amazing with people — all of them as far as she could tell. People weren't her strong suit. She didn't understand how their minds worked or why they couldn't grasp the things she saw so clearly. "How often have I been wrong?"

"Do I need to remind you about the raccoon incident?"

One mistake didn't make her a failure, not by a long shot. She was not slacking off, and she certainly wasn't losing her edge. "One time! One." She clenched her hands tightly in an effort to still their motions. "It started with Takamaki," she said, reminding him of the incident where Cal Burrows had to stop an arms deal. "Who in their right mind tries to demo and sell nerve gas at a sci-fi convention?"

"Who ever claimed that asshole was in his right mind?"

This so wasn't the time for jokes. "Fine. Then explain why us, and not the FBI? Or Homeland? Then the ridiculous case Marissa and Trevor were sent on with the Mafia? For a supposedly cursed painting that could change the path of organized crime forever? A painting?" She didn't wait for him to retort this time. "Top it off with an attack on our servers and the Senator Carrington mess that Jodi and Finn had to deal with. How can you not see that none of this should have fallen under our purview?"

Marron scrubbed at his face. "Two of those missions were issued directly from Secretary Rickards. He makes sure we have funding. He makes sure we get paid. If he says jump, I'm sure as hell not going to ask if maybe it might be better to have another agency play hopscotch with him instead. When my boss gives us a job, we do it. When I give you a job, you do it. You want to have any say in anything, fucking give me some evidence there's a mission to send you on. Otherwise, get the hell out of my office." When she didn't move, he added, "Dismissed, Agent Gallagher." Marron flipped open his laptop and started typing.

Greta blinked. He'd moved past even pretending to coddle her ego, that much was certain. The way his fingers flew over the keyboard implied his entire concentration had shifted to his new task. However, she often had people continue to interrupt her work when she had moved on in similar fashion. Perhaps the dismissal wasn't as final as it seemed. "Sir, I'm not trying to argue —"

"Yes, you are. Now get back to work."

Apparently it was final. Jaw clenched, hands balled, Greta had no choice but to do exactly as he ordered. She stalked to the door and slammed it behind her, the rattling of the glass stretching her already frayed nerves to the breaking point.

He wanted evidence? She'd find it.

Or she'd make it.

Fuckin' Perfect

Nico bolted off the couch when Greta entered the office. Considering the near-purple color of her skin, something had happened while she'd "gone to get coffee." The absence of coffee was also a big tip-off.

"What's going on?"

With the way her entire body shook, she looked like a cartoon character that was literally ready to explode. She tried to open her mouth to speak, but all that came out was, "Arrrggggh!"

Six months ago, he wouldn't have even attempted to touch her, since she ran hot and cold with regard to physical contact. But their time as partners had taught her to accept that Nico wouldn't touch her without cause, and it had taught Nico that platonic touching was the best way to get her to focus and calm down. He ran his hands down her arms, gripping them loosely, just enough for her to notice — just enough for him to want to do more. What he wouldn't give to be able to gather her in his arms and kiss away whatever worries plagued her. Then again, he wouldn't mind doing that naked, either, feel the soft warmth of her skin pressed to his ...

Fulfilling his romantic — or lust-filled — fantasies wasn't on the agenda at the moment though. "Trouble, look at me." When nothing changed, he said it again, adding a little more oomph to the demand. "Look at me."

She did, but she frowned. "That doesn't work on me."

At first he thought she meant the nickname — which he found totally appropriate — then he realized she meant telling her what to do. "I don't know. Considering your eyes are on mine, it kind of looks like it did."

He winked at her and smiled. A return smile wasn't forthcoming, but he'd gotten used to that, too. Smiles were a rare thing from Greta, and he treasured every one. For the moment he had the perfect excuse to stare into her blue-gray eyes and get lost in them.

"I meant that thing you do with your voice. It doesn't work." Yep. That again.

Nico had known for a long time that he had the ability to ... convince people of things. He'd always assumed part of it was superior skill at reading others combined with a charming nature. Then he'd met Greta. This wasn't the first time she'd mentioned him doing something with his voice, and he was pretty sure she didn't mean just putting more conviction into his words. Too bad he couldn't figure out what she did mean, and she'd been unable to explain it.

"Well, you did what I asked, and you don't have purple skin anymore, so I'm calling non-alien-life-form Greta Gallagher an improvement." She made a face as she always did when he said something silly. Whether or not his voice worked on her, she hadn't quite figured him out yet. And that at least put them on an even playing field in one regard. "So, what's going on?"

She waved a hand toward the ceiling, likely indicating the offices upstairs. "Marron. I tried to talk to him about the problem, and he won't listen to reason."

More like he wouldn't listen to ranting.

As much as Nico liked Greta — and he liked her more than he probably should — she struggled to talk to people. Even the amazing eye contact they'd shared earlier was difficult for her. She only fought that battle because she had learned it was necessary.

They'd been working on it for months, ever since he calmly pointed out that when something put her on edge, it was often a miracle if she could string a complete sentence together. She'd been tense when he'd first started working with her at TRAIT, and the stress had only grown over time. He might have worried it was because of him, if not for all the evidence to the contrary.

Namely, the maps and diagrams all over the office. Pins of old missions connected by strings, forming patterns and artistic displays that would be at home in a kindergarten class.

But the artwork wasn't the problem — that was found in the handful of tacks painted red. They connected to nothing. Whenever she had a free minute, she'd try to work them into some other design, find a way to make them fit, but they were always off. One day he'd moved one tack a fraction of an inch to try to get it where it seemed like she needed it. She'd spent the entire day doing calculations and drawings he didn't understand ... Until she finally saw the other pinhole.

It was a confrontation he never wanted to repeat. That wasn't the type of closeness he'd hoped to foster with her.

In the end, he learned not to touch her things. While the work she did didn't make any sense to him, it had a clear and undeniable purpose to her.

Sighing, he tore his gaze away from the red thumbtacks and settled it on her again. Much better view anyway. "So, talk to me about what has you so frazzled, and let's see if we can figure out a plan that he'll be able to get on board with."

They'd done this before, but maybe this time something about her process would finally click for him and he'd be able to help her more effectively. He led her to the couch, and they both sat. For a long minute, she didn't say anything, like time had frozen with the two of them here, knees inches apart, holding hands and looking at each other.

Then the warmth of her fingers was gone, and she waved at the maps. "You know my job is to find patterns that signal trouble."

"Yeah. You have something like a ninety-five percent accuracy, too." When he'd been hired at TRAIT, Marron had told him his partner had unique skills. Then he'd watched her and tried to figure out how she did what she did. When that failed, he tried to just figure out what exactly she did, and he couldn't. It was one of those things everyone accepted about Greta. Her mind worked in mysterious and amazing ways, and no one here was going to look that particular gift horse in the mouth.

"Ninety-five plus or minus three percent standard deviation. One failed mission. Stupid raccoon." Her jaw tightened, and he wanted to reach out and run his hand along it, draw her attention away from the past and back to this.

Perfectionist, thy name is Greta Gallagher.

"Let's not worry about that. Talk to me about what's going on now."

"Okay, all these strings ... they're patterns of activity. Either ones that led to problems or problems that are patterns in themselves."

He nodded, trying to encourage her. "Like serial killers." He could usually hold on to the idea of her work up until this point. Then she lost him. He really hoped this time would be different.

"Exactly. Nature has patterns. Human behavior has patterns. Computers have patterns. Everything does. Most people can see some of them. I see them all."

Which was clearly both a blessing and a curse.

"And the red tacks?"

"They're assigned missions. Not ones I found, but ones that came from the government. Every once in a while" — she waved toward a map of Montana — "the jobs they give us fit into patterns that were already there, like that weird lab they found outside of Kalispell. And sometimes I find patterns after the fact. But so many of our recent missions ... there's nothing."

And ... she was losing him. "Couldn't that just mean you haven't found it yet?"

"That's the problem. If there's a hot spot, the pattern is obvious after the fact — even to people without my skills. Because they can look for it. Increased crime in the area. Weird disappearances. Something is always off, and when you track those things, they point to the hotspot. But these missions ... there's nothing. It's almost like someone dropped bad news on the map like a drip from a jelly doughnut."

He frowned at the maps. Part of him wanted to say that maybe it was just some kind of pattern that she couldn't recognize, some blind spot in her gift. But if that was true, and it only happened with regards to missions that came from higher up the food chain, that was a pattern in itself, and not a good one. Which she would have already figured out.

"You're thinking there's some sort of what? Government conspiracy? They already arrested Attorney General Whiddon after the thing with Senator Carrington's daughter."

She shrugged and looked away from him — a clear sign she was about to say something he wasn't going to like very much. "And why is everyone so very sure she and those thugs who kept attacking Jodi were working alone?"

That was the crux of the problem. And there wasn't a shred of evidence one way or another.

All they had to go on was a bunch of unconnected red thumbtacks.

Fuck.

Greta was glad when they moved from the couch. Sitting there so close had her questioning her sanity. She wanted to touch him more, and that wasn't okay. A long time ago, she'd made a point to clearly delineate the structure of her life.

Family, such as it was, was for casual relationships. These days those consisted of bimonthly phone calls and a visit to drop off gifts on holidays, though she preferred to send a card if she could get away with it. It wasn't that she hated her family or even disliked them. It was simply a matter of them not understanding her and not bothering to try. She left family gatherings feeling rather like the precocious child whose presence is endured at a dinner party rather than enjoyed. So, she simply avoided them whenever possible.

Home was her haven. Now that so many agents were housed in the same complex, it was easy to invite Marissa over for a drink or even to spend an evening discussing Doctor Who with Penelope. At home, she had her books and her cat and her solitude whenever she wanted it. At home, she didn't have to worry what anyone thought because she never had people over who would look at her negatively. She and Nico even carpooled to the office more often than not.

But, work was ... work. Granted, she was friends with several people at TRAIT, and she wasn't sure she would have survived her first year without Marissa, but work wasn't relaxed in the way she could be at home. There was a separation here, a line that she never came close to crossing.

Except with Nico.

For some reason, they both kept winding up with their toes on that line — and she could never quite place how they ended up there.

Like earlier. He'd held her hands. Why? And why hadn't she noticed it for so long? And after she did notice, why hadn't she wanted to pull away? She knew her boundaries, even if he didn't.

One of the rules about work was no touching unless it was sparring or a life-and-death situation. Business didn't generally require physical contact, especially what she did. But as much as she'd expected him to grow bored and look for a different assignment, Nico was still here, every day, in the basement with her.

And they kept touching.

Not every day or all the time, but often enough to notice. She'd started noticing other things about him, too. Like the way his lips went lopsided when he smiled, and he smiled a lot. The way his brown hair was starting to fall across his forehead now that he no longer had to meet military regulation with regard to length, and how she kept fighting the urge to run her fingers through it.

She shook her head and tried to focus on the computer in front of her. While a distraction from her failed meeting with Marron had been welcome, if she wanted to actually solve the problem, she needed to find a trail to follow. Focusing on random news feeds wasn't going to do her any good — not today.

Instead, she once more brought up the program she'd had Cal create for her. She punched in coordinates: Senator Carrington's home, the site of ConDamned, the hotel in Colorado ... All the cases she couldn't account for were logged in. Then she ran scenario after scenario on the map. After including options to ignore any one or two data points, she was still coming up empty.

She had no idea how long she'd been at it when Nico's hand fell on her shoulder. The weight of it was heavy, comforting, like home. It was yet another feeling that didn't belong here. "Hey, you okay?"

"Of course." Why wouldn't she be?

"Okay. You've just been staring at that map for fifteen minutes without doing anything. That's odd, even for you."

His last words made her cringe inwardly. Different wasn't good — not at work.

But he back-pedaled immediately, as if he knew how much it bothered her. "Sorry. I only meant I know what you do involves periods of looking and thinking. I'm just used to you making noise or ... doing something while you're thinking."

"You're used to me?" That implied a level of familiarity she really wasn't sure what to do with — though it probably wasn't how he'd intended it. "I mean used to what I do?"

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Excerpted from Dying for Keeps by Seleste Delaney, Karen Grove. Copyright © 2015 Seleste deLaney. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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