to live off of without taking a second job.”
There was another exchanged look.
“What? What is that?” Sam said motioning between Gifford and Beefcake.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with. We’re actually trying to protect you while securing your help. We can’t talk about it here. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“Am I in danger?”
“Yes.”
Sam swallowed hard. His knees felt quaky. Searching his memory, he tried to think of anything that might smack of danger but came up dry. He lived a fairly quiet life, worked two jobs, hung out with friends once a week or so. He called his parents on Sunday evenings, and he lived alone.
“You must have the wrong guy,” Sam protested. “I’m nobody. I’m just a guy living a completely non-scandalous life with no shady friends. Maybe you meant to pick up a different Samuel James Bahlson?”
Gifford smiled benignly. “We have the right man, Mr. Bahlson.”
The door opened. Sam turned to see what new menace they had waiting for him. The Menace, evidently Agent Cheney, sauntered in. He didn’t look like an agent. He looked like a professional bull rider.
Did bull riders have that many muscles? Maybe a wrestler except when he pushed his impenetrable sunglasses to his forehead, he didn’t have that glazed-over, stupid look. The Menace actually seemed a little too keen for Sam’s peace of mind. He couldn’t be certain, but Sam doubted he could get much information out of this guy.
And since when did FBI agents wear snug black wife-beaters and torn blue jeans? The buzzed haircut beneath his backward-brim black cap and impressively squared jaw reemphasized the wall-ness. There was no breaching to be had here.
Sam paled. “Oh, shit. You’re going to interrogate me, aren’t you? Can you try asking me a question first? You haven’t just asked me anything. Do we really have to go straight into the torture? Should I have an attorney present?”
Agent Cheney pulled off his baseball cap and sunglasses off his forehead—why the fuck had he been wearing them indoors? For intimidation? Damn full-of-himself agent with his muscles and buzzed hair. The point was already made. Agent Buzzcut had to know that. But Cheney shot him an annoyed look, then flicked his gaze toward Gifford.
Sam nearly heard the whip-crack sound effect. Gorgeous and surly. Awesome.
“Sir?” Cheney rumbled.
“Sam Bahlson, meet Agent Jude Cheney. Agent Cheney, I’ve given you the specifics. I’ll be contacting you with more, later.” Gifford pushed a cell phone across the table. “Secure line. Keep the phone on you at all times. Second pair of eyes near the safe house.”
“Is that like backup?” Sam asked.
Gifford and Cheney ignored him completely.
“Yes, sir.” Cheney picked up the phone and tucked it into his front pocket.
Cheney slapped the hat down over Sam’s head, and pushed the sunglasses up the bridge of Sam’s nose almost brutally.
“What the hell?” Sam said as the whole room went into shadows.
Cheney grabbed his arm. “All set. Let’s go.”
Cheney dragged him out of the office. As they went down the hall, Cheney snagged two coats, one leather and one Member’s Only. He shoved the Member’s Only at Sam. “Put it on.”
“If this is a disguise, it sucks. You give me the suckiest jacket to wear and expect no one to notice? Clever. You’re so clever,” Sam muttered.
“Shut up and stay close.”
“Since you asked so nicely…”
Cheney shot him a look. Sam ignored it. They took the stairs down eight flights to an enclosed parking garage. Was the FBI elevator too risky? Cheney opened the passenger side door and helped him in, then jogged around to the driver’s side.
“Sink down,” Cheney barked.
“Because a guy slumped down in the front seat, wearing a cap and glasses isn’t at all suspicious.”
“I don’t care if they see you. They just can’t recognize you.”
“If someone is watching me closely enough to see me enter the office with agents, don’t you
There was another exchanged look.
“What? What is that?” Sam said motioning between Gifford and Beefcake.
“Nothing you need to concern yourself with. We’re actually trying to protect you while securing your help. We can’t talk about it here. We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“Am I in danger?”
“Yes.”
Sam swallowed hard. His knees felt quaky. Searching his memory, he tried to think of anything that might smack of danger but came up dry. He lived a fairly quiet life, worked two jobs, hung out with friends once a week or so. He called his parents on Sunday evenings, and he lived alone.
“You must have the wrong guy,” Sam protested. “I’m nobody. I’m just a guy living a completely non-scandalous life with no shady friends. Maybe you meant to pick up a different Samuel James Bahlson?”
Gifford smiled benignly. “We have the right man, Mr. Bahlson.”
The door opened. Sam turned to see what new menace they had waiting for him. The Menace, evidently Agent Cheney, sauntered in. He didn’t look like an agent. He looked like a professional bull rider.
Did bull riders have that many muscles? Maybe a wrestler except when he pushed his impenetrable sunglasses to his forehead, he didn’t have that glazed-over, stupid look. The Menace actually seemed a little too keen for Sam’s peace of mind. He couldn’t be certain, but Sam doubted he could get much information out of this guy.
And since when did FBI agents wear snug black wife-beaters and torn blue jeans? The buzzed haircut beneath his backward-brim black cap and impressively squared jaw reemphasized the wall-ness. There was no breaching to be had here.
Sam paled. “Oh, shit. You’re going to interrogate me, aren’t you? Can you try asking me a question first? You haven’t just asked me anything. Do we really have to go straight into the torture? Should I have an attorney present?”
Agent Cheney pulled off his baseball cap and sunglasses off his forehead—why the fuck had he been wearing them indoors? For intimidation? Damn full-of-himself agent with his muscles and buzzed hair. The point was already made. Agent Buzzcut had to know that. But Cheney shot him an annoyed look, then flicked his gaze toward Gifford.
Sam nearly heard the whip-crack sound effect. Gorgeous and surly. Awesome.
“Sir?” Cheney rumbled.
“Sam Bahlson, meet Agent Jude Cheney. Agent Cheney, I’ve given you the specifics. I’ll be contacting you with more, later.” Gifford pushed a cell phone across the table. “Secure line. Keep the phone on you at all times. Second pair of eyes near the safe house.”
“Is that like backup?” Sam asked.
Gifford and Cheney ignored him completely.
“Yes, sir.” Cheney picked up the phone and tucked it into his front pocket.
Cheney slapped the hat down over Sam’s head, and pushed the sunglasses up the bridge of Sam’s nose almost brutally.
“What the hell?” Sam said as the whole room went into shadows.
Cheney grabbed his arm. “All set. Let’s go.”
Cheney dragged him out of the office. As they went down the hall, Cheney snagged two coats, one leather and one Member’s Only. He shoved the Member’s Only at Sam. “Put it on.”
“If this is a disguise, it sucks. You give me the suckiest jacket to wear and expect no one to notice? Clever. You’re so clever,” Sam muttered.
“Shut up and stay close.”
“Since you asked so nicely…”
Cheney shot him a look. Sam ignored it. They took the stairs down eight flights to an enclosed parking garage. Was the FBI elevator too risky? Cheney opened the passenger side door and helped him in, then jogged around to the driver’s side.
“Sink down,” Cheney barked.
“Because a guy slumped down in the front seat, wearing a cap and glasses isn’t at all suspicious.”
“I don’t care if they see you. They just can’t recognize you.”
“If someone is watching me closely enough to see me enter the office with agents, don’t you
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