have got to be kidding,” she said, all Sturm und Drang as she jumped to her feet. “You are not going to give him the crystal.”
She made an imposing sight. Tall, just shy of Morgan’s six feet some, she had the slim figure of an athlete. She wore what Morgan had come to call her uniform: a dark suit with a cuffed white shirt underneath, looking every bit the FBI agent. She’d recently shorn her hair to within an inch of its life. The boy cut only made her gray eyes look larger on her refined face.
“Why would you even think such a thing, Carin?”
“Do not bullshit me, Morgan,” she said, stabbing the air with her finger. “Ten months after I hand you the Eye, Zag writes a check big enough to buy even your filthy-rich ass and I’m supposed to believe it’s not connected? I did not risk my career so that you could trade it in for some easy capital.”
Carin Barnes worked for NISA, the National Institute for Strategic Artifacts. Ten months ago, when David Gospel’s collection of artifacts surfaced—presumably purchased from black-market dealers—the FBI had been on the case. Carin’s job: bring back the stolen goods and deliver them to their country of origin.
Only, like Morgan, Carin and the Eye had a history, the kind that was difficult to ignore. She might be a dedicated agent, but her desire for the Eye went beyond even her duty to God and country. The last thing she wanted was to have such a powerful artifact end up filed away like some X-file project at the Bureau.
Carin had been the special agent in charge when the police confiscated Gospel’s collection of rare artifacts. With Morgan’s help, she’d been able to switch out the crystal for a clever fake.
“I know what you did for us,” Morgan said, stepping in to take both her hands in his. “I won’t throw it away. But Zag might be just what we need. Think about it. Halo Industries and all its resources at our disposal.”
She brushed off his hands. “You’re not thinking. Jesus Christ, Morgan, three weeks after I hand you the Eye, Zag suddenly takes an interest in the Institute? You don’t find that a tad convenient? You didn’t have to bring Zag into your confidence, signing him up for your damn Brain Trust. He knew you had the Eye—he came here just for that.”
“Don’t let your history with the man cloud your judgment.”
Carin’s cheeks flamed red. “Is that what you think?”
“He broke your heart and ruined your academic career. I wouldn’t blame you for carrying a grudge. But a man can change, Carin. It wasn’t so long ago that I committed similar damage to someone I loved.”
“My history with Zag taught me one simple fact. Something you ignore at your peril. You can’t trust him.”
But Morgan pushed on. “Okay. You’re right. You know him better than I ever will. But we’ve had the crystal for ten months and we are no closer to finding out how to harness its unique powers than the day you handed it to me. We need Halo.”
“It’s a bad move, Morgan.”
“But a necessary one.”
She slammed her fist on his desk in frustration. “Do you really think you’re in control here? Do you know how desperately Zag wants the Eye? He tried to buy it off Gospel just months before the man died!”
“Which only means he’s made a careful study of our prize and most certainly has valuable information—information from which we stand to greatly benefit.” He came in close, grabbing her shoulders. “Estelle gave her life for that crystal. What good is it doing sitting in my vault?”
“Estelle?” She shot him a look, her eyes the color of a summer storm. “That would be the woman whose heart you broke and whose career you ruined?”
He had the audacity to smile. “As if she cared about such things. Like you, Estelle had grander ambitions. And what about Markie?” he asked, stepping back. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted for your brother? Why you entrusted his care to me and what we could offer him here? Imagine it, Carin—a crystal that can enhance human brain functions. Let me do my job. Let me find out how the damn thing works. Let me use it to help people like Markie.”
“How dare you?”
Morgan knew he’d overstepped, opening deep wounds. Carin’s brother was a twenty-three-year-old autistic man living at the Institute. Twelve years her junior, Markie was the agent’s raison d’être…and it had been her work on autism—research meant to help her brother—that Zag had sabotaged.
Still, he pressed his point. “Do you remember the day when you brought Markie to Estelle? You’d never even heard the sound of his voice before then. She gave you that, Carin,” he continued, reminding her that it was Estelle’s gift as a psychic that had allowed Markie to utter his first and only words: I love you.
“Let’s finish the job she started,” he said. “It’s what Estelle would have wanted. It should be what we all want.”
She shook her head, looking away. “You’re a son of bitch, Morgan. You know that?”
Carin glanced down at his desk. Suddenly, she reached for one of several photographs and turned it to face Morgan.
The photo showed Morgan’s daughter, Gia, holding his granddaughter, Stella, in her arms.
“You said it yourself, Morgan. You ruined Estelle’s career and broke her heart. Be careful who you sell out this time.”
She put the photo back and walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Theodore Fields hobbled through the parking area toward the front door of his waterfront condo. Damn Achilles tendon. Every morning he woke up barely able to walk, it felt so tight. Now the damn thing was giving him problems even after a long drive in the car.
Seriously, he was beginning to feel ancient.
He switched the bag of Chinese food—it was probably already cold—to his left hand and took out his house keys.
Fucking Zag.
Theodore didn’t consider himself a violent man. But more and more he wanted to shove his fist into that pompous face.
The fact was, Zag de Rozières had everything. Money, prestige, good looks.
And youth. The bastard had years ahead of him to accomplish whatever he wanted in life.
Not Theodore. He had a bitter ex-wife who’d taken him to the cleaners and was still bleeding him for alimony, and a daughter who’d come out of the closet. Last week, she’d brought her butch lover to their lunch together, parading her around for anyone to see.
Fuck. What a bunch of losers.
Theodore hated losers. All his life, he’d been a winner. He’d won the fucking Nobel, for God’s sake. And he was still the man when it came to membrane theory.
But there was Zag, sitting smugly across that ridiculous table and its Tibetan carvings, talking about bullshit like magic crystals and Atlantis. He could publish his silly theories in legitimate journals solely because he had more money than God…as if anything that man came up with could
