Free Skin Deep by Mark Del Franco Page A

didn’t react or say anything.”
    “I did. I . . .” She paused, remembering.
    “What?”
    She didn’t meet his eyes. “I used a sending instead of the headset. It was instinctive.”
    “And against protocol. Do you still say he didn’t speak?” Foyle said.
    She shifted in her seat. Foyle was right. Mission protocol dictated that the fey vocalize in order for there to be an audio record. Sendings were frowned upon unless they were explicitly part of a mission plan. “I’m not comfortable where this is going, sir.”
    Foyle swiveled his chair and looked out the window. “He was dying, Crawford. He was a smart guy. He had to know. Last words are important. Whatever he said would have been important. I don’t want to tell his family his last words were to ask for help and no one answered.”
    That part was true. On that point, he was sincere. The waves of essence Laura sensed confirmed how troubled he was. “As soon as I remember anything, you will be the first to know,” she said. It was a lie, of course. It would depend on what she remembered.
    “How long have you been with InterSec? Two years?” he asked.
    “Nineteen months.” She didn’t add that she’d created Janice only after Foyle requested someone from InterSec with druidic and SWAT training. That first mission for him had been a low-key surveillance. Dull. He needed a female druid because the female target often went to the gym.
    “Shit rolls downhill, Crawford. For an old swamp, D.C. has a lot of hills. Think about where you stand. Go find a desk. Dismissed.”
    She stood, feeling awkward. While it would have been a stretch to describe her relationship with Foyle as that of friends, they had been collegial with each other. His sudden aloofness again made her think she was being set up for something. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. In the past, she had put in more time than nineteen months to set someone up for a fall. At least when she did it, she knew she was taking down a bad guy. If Foyle was setting her up for something, she couldn’t fathom what it was. Either he was genuine in his anger over Sanchez, or Janice Crawford wasn’t supposed to walk out of that apartment building, and he didn’t know what to do with her now.
    Gianni was on the phone on the desk opposite Sinclair. He gave Laura a cursory nod when she returned to the vacant desk but continued his conversation. Sinclair shifted sideways and leaned back against the wall. “How’s your head?”
    “Concussion. Nothing serious.” She pulled out the PDA. Hornbeck had called personally, and Saffin was worried his next step would be an unannounced visit. She didn’t want to send any response in front of Sinclair, so she slipped the PDA back in her pocket.
    He stretched his long legs toward her and crossed them at the ankles. “I was scared shitless when I saw you and Sanchez. I thought you were both dead.”
    His vocal inflections indicated honesty. She did a quick check on him, but his strong body essence didn’t reveal subterfuge. She decided to go with a bit of vulnerability and truth. “You know, I wasn’t scared the entire time until I saw Sanchez. Not when we were getting shot at, not when I had to deal with the Inverni or when the crates came down on me. But seeing all that blood and Sanchez sitting there with his hands around his neck made everything real in a way I’d never thought about. I’ve never had anyone die on me before.”
    Janice was supposed to be young, with little experience. The part about the fear was true. Being in the line of fire was always scary. Even the most battle-hardened felt fear, although they didn’t like to admit it. Laura had seen plenty of friends and colleagues die in the line of duty. It never got easier, and it was always horrifying. She made a mental note that Gabrio Sanchez was the first cop Janice Crawford saw die. It was part of her history now.
    “It wasn’t my first.” The tone in Sinclair’s voice indicated a