Choked Up Read online

  And, of course, the fucking cat had liked to sleep with Pearce at night.

  "Pearce?"

  He blinked at Izzie and realized he hadn't responded to her yet. Before he could figure out what to say, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  "Sorry, give me a second." He pulled out the phone and flinched when he saw the display.

  "Uh-oh. Is it Mark?" Izzie asked.

  "No, AD Harris."

  "Better answer it," Izzie said, and started toward the interview room. "You know how he gets. I'll pick up the questioning."

  Pearce steeled himself, then answered the call. "Pearce."

  The Assistant Director's deep voice rumbled through the connection. "This is Harris. I need to see you in my office."

  "How long can it wait?" Pearce asked. "I'm kind of in the middle of talking to a suspect."

  "I know what you're working on, and I also know SA Raker can finish that up. My office. Now."

  Pearce grimaced as he disconnected the call. He hadn't done anything lately to earn one of AD Harris's legendary tirades. As he made his way to the elevators and waited for the doors to open, Pearce thought back on the last few months. He'd been confined to a cubicle and assigned to conduct database searches for agents in the field, what was referred to as light duty, because of his injuries sustained in Detroit back in February. After that had come six weeks' suspension for disobeying orders when he'd inserted himself into SA Durang's case, during which he and Mark broke up a terrorist plot from a North Korean group. With time on their hands, they'd gone to Barbados and tripped into a whole new level of hell, so another six weeks had been tacked onto his leave for him to deal with the fallout from that. So he really hadn't had the time to get into trouble. Since he'd been granted permission to return to the field upon his return to work, Pearce had been on time for the daily briefings and kept his attention focused only on those cases to which he was assigned. As far as he could remember, he hadn't gotten into any really serious arguments with the other agents. At least, nothing he would consider serious.

  A few minutes later, when Pearce stepped in AD Harris's office, his questions, which most likely would have come out sounding more like demands and gotten him into even deeper trouble, died on his lips. Another agent sat in one of the two visitor chairs in front of AD Harris's desk, and Pearce's surprise at seeing the man wiped out his combined nervousness and irritation. As Pearce closed the door, the agent stood up and extended his hand.

  "Agent Pearce, very good to see you again."

  Pearce flashed a tight smile and shook the man's hand. "Agent Bata. It's been a long time."

  Bata gave a quick nod and waved for Pearce to sit. When Bata returned to his own seat beside him, Pearce took a moment to look the man over. Malak Bata had been the Special Agent in Charge of the investigation into the Kings of Rebellion terrorist plot in Detroit. Mark had overheard the plans and gone to the FBI, which was how Pearce had met him. Bata was of Pakistani descent, short and thin, five foot five, six at the most, and maybe 145 pounds, with quick dark eyes that didn't miss a detail. Pearce had the feeling Bata was tougher than most agents twice his size.

  "What brings you to the mother ship?" Pearce asked, then wondered what it had to do with him.

  "It has been an interesting few months in Detroit since you left us, Agent Pearce," Bata replied. "After you helped put a stop to the Kings of Rebellion terrorist plot in February, we were able to put most of the members of that group in custody. We’ve spent much time searching for the last lingering participants in the plot, but have had no luck."

  A cold wire seemed to wrap around Pearce's gut and slowly tighten. Now he knew why he had been summoned to Harris's office. They wanted his help tracking down the last remnants of the Kings of Rebellion, namely Robert Morgan, FBI agent turned domestic terrorist. And, regrettably, Pearce's ex-lover.

  "Well," Pearce said, looking between AD Harris and SAC Bata. "Sounds like you've still got some work to do there in Detroit. Anything we can do here in DC to help out?"

  "It's kind of you to inquire," Bata said with a thin smile. "You are the person who may be able to help us the most."

  Pearce looked down at his hands clasped tight in his lap. "Well, I'm sure any agent here could provide what assistance you need."

  "It's a bit more involved than you're aware, Pearce," AD Harris said. "Bata needs help with a number of cases the Michigan State Police and Detroit PD have tossed to the FBI."

  Pearce frowned. "The police have handed over cases to us? Must be something big."

  Bata cleared his throat. "Although the city of Detroit has come out of bankruptcy, and the new mayor is fully engaged in bringing the city back, there has been a continuous reshuffling of top police management, and I believe the department is more than happy to hand off as many cases as they possibly can. The Michigan State Police are helping more and more with local law enforcements throughout a number of communities, but their resources are also stretched thin." He reached down to a soft-sided briefcase resting on the floor beside him and extracted several manila case folders. With raised eyebrows, he held up the files. "May I show you what it is we are investigating?"

  A stern and frightened voice inside Pearce's head shouted, No! But with growing unease, Pearce felt himself nod and got up to follow Bata to the small round table that took up a corner of Harris's office. His fingertips tingled, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

  Robert Morgan. This had to be about him. It was the only explanation for why both Bata and Harris wanted his help. A ghostly ache started in his right shoulder, the old stab wound delivered by none other than Morgan himself as he'd held Pearce tied to a chair in that abandoned house. Things would have gotten worse for Pearce, too, had Mark not interrupted Morgan and saved him. Now, Pearce caught himself rubbing his shoulder and lowered his hand as Bata spread out on the table black-and-white photographs of four different crime scenes.

  Shock sent cold, sharp needles through Pearce, and for a frightening moment, he feared he might pass out, his eyes widening as the images dredged up long-buried memories.

  "As you can see, we have a serial killer on our hands," Bata said. "The positioning of the bodies. The way in which the victims were murdered. A few other similar details. All of this points to one killer."

  Pearce's mouth was dry. He had questions, quite a few questions. They snapped inside him like live wires, but he couldn't seem to focus enough to decide which to ask first. It was like trying to pick one conversation out of a crowd of people all shouting at once.

  "Agent Pearce?" Harris asked, his tone much quieter, softer than Pearce was used to. "Are you all right?"

  AD Harris's question and tone brought Pearce back to himself. He swallowed, nodded to Harris, and looked at Bata. "How did he kill them?"

  "Strangled."

  Pearce's stomach rolled, and the chicken wrap he’d had for lunch seemed on the verge of coming up.

  He fought through it and asked, "Why come to me about this? I'm sure you have well-qualified agents in Detroit who can take this on. Why me?"

  Bata gestured to the photographs, and Pearce could not keep his gaze from dropping to them again. Four men, all apparently in their early twenties, lying on their backs, arms stretched out to the sides, heads turned to the right. Now that Bata had explained they had been strangled, Pearce could see a dark-colored scarf tied tight around their throats and the dark shadow of bruising just visible above.

  "As you can see," Bata said. "There have been four victims. In the right palm of each, a small slip of folded paper was found. A few words were written on each note, but it wasn't until this last victim, found two weeks ago, that we were able to decipher the entire message."

  "What was the message?" Pearce asked.

  Bata extracted a small notebook from his inner suit coat pocket and consulted it. "The first note read WAITING FOR YOU. The second read COME FIND ME. The next read STILL WAITING, and this last message read, JEREMY GREENE IS THE KEY."

 
; "Fuck me," Pearce said and turned away. He paced the room, fists clenched, teeth grinding together.

  Bata's tone was quiet, referential, as he said, "Jeremy Greene was your stepbrother. He was murdered when you were very young."

  "I was seven," Pearce said. He leaned his butt against Harris's desk, fingers gripping the edge. His mind reeled, flashing back to that awful time when his stepfather, Roger Greene, a detective on the local police department, had learned his nineteen-year-old son, his oldest child, had been murdered. It had been a difficult time for all of them. Pearce's mother had married Roger a year earlier, and the families had finally just seemed to figure out how to blend together. Pearce had really looked up to his new stepbrother, and Jeremy's death had left him stunned and bereft for months.

  Pearce cleared his throat. "He was the oldest of my step siblings by my second stepfather's first marriage."

  "He was found in the woods a week after he disappeared," Bata continued. "Arms stretched out to the side, head turned to the right."

  Pearce nodded. "Yes. But no note was left with him that I ever heard about."

  Bata shook his head. "There was no note. And, just to be clear, I do not think this killer we are seeking is the same man who murdered your stepbrother. These murders were committed with one goal in mind: to get attention, specifically yours."

  "Jesus Christ," Pearce said and ran his hands over his face. Exhaustion and guilt fell across him like a heavy cloak. Four men had lost their lives just to get his attention. What kind of fucking psychopath did that?

  "This is Robert Morgan asking you to come back to Detroit," Bata said. "He wants to finish what was started between the two of you at the beginning of the year."

  Pearce shook his head as he stared at the floor. "How could he do this?"

  "He's a killer," Harris spoke up, his deep voice full of disgust. "We should have seen it in his psych exams, but we didn't. Knowing what we know now, when we look back at his entrance exams and tests throughout his time at the academy, certain things stand out."

  Snippets of memory whipped through Pearce's mind. He had been involved in an intensely physical and psychological relationship with Morgan when they’d both been in the academy. And Morgan had been the only man who’d left Pearce heartbroken. Since then, Pearce had stuck to one-night stands, two at the most, and furtive encounters in the shadowy back corners of seedy bars.

  Until, that is, he’d met Mark at the beginning of the year. That was when he was called on to help in Detroit with the Kings of Rebellion case, during which he had inadvertently discovered that Robert Morgan was leaking agency secrets to the terrorist group. And if it hadn't been for Mark, Pearce would have died at Morgan's hands in that abandoned house.

  As it was, he felt a part of him had died: the cold, hardened part of him that had refused to love.

  And now he needed to go back to Detroit, track down Morgan, and finish this once and for all. He knew this had to happen.

  Pearce looked up at Bata and heard himself ask, "When do I leave?"

  3

  Mark checked the lasagna again and adjusted the oven down to warm. Pearce was later than usual today, and so far he hadn't answered any of Mark's text messages. Lasagna was one of Pearce's favorites, and it would keep a little longer without drying out, but Mark would need to pull it from the oven soon.

  Just as he picked up the salad bowl to return it to the refrigerator, the apartment door opened, and Pearce stepped inside.

  Mark stuck his head around the wall of the kitchen. Pearce was dressed in his post-workout clothes of sweatpants and a long-sleeved Henley.

  "Hey there," Mark said.

  Pearce glanced his way and lifted his chin in acknowledgment. "Hi."

  "You're later than usual. Everything okay?"

  "Yeah, fine. I just wanted to get in a longer workout tonight, that's all." Pearce disappeared down the hall with his gym bag.

  Mark hesitated. Something was up. It didn't take a genius to figure that out. It was most likely something that had happened at the Bureau, but a tiny doubt always slipped into Mark's brain whenever Pearce showed up acting quieter than usual. The doubt nibbled away at everything reasonable and left insecurity in its wake. Pearce was in a bit of a bad mood, and it didn't always center around Mark's long road back to good mental health.

  But sometimes it did.

  He took a deep breath and slowly released it. He'd had a good day, all things considered. As a matter of fact, he might even go so far as to deem it a breakthrough of sorts. There had been some bravery in him earlier, though it seemed to be scattered now, and he tried to corral it back together. Most nights he would sit in the living room and wait out Pearce's mood, but tonight it was time to do things differently. He returned the salad bowl to the table and walked down the hall to stand in the door to the bedroom. Pearce was at the closet, unloading the contents of his gym bag into the hamper they kept in a back corner.

  "How was the workout?" Mark asked.

  Pearce kept his attention on the items he pulled from the bag. "Good. I did a little longer on the treadmill and stacked up some more weights than usual. I'll probably regret it tomorrow. I really worked up a stink so I showered at the gym, which took longer."

  "You've been working those bank robberies lately," Mark probed. "Tough time with the case today?"

  A cool, thin smile frosted Pearce's lips. "No. The robbery case actually went well."

  "Yeah? That's good." Mark moved into the room and sat on the end of the bed. "Trouble with AD Harris?"

  Pearce tossed the now-empty gym bag onto the floor of the closet and shut the folding door a little harder than needed. He turned quick and met Mark's gaze for a second before looking away, but it was long enough for Mark to see that he was indeed troubled by and angry about something.

  "No trouble with Harris," Pearce said, his tone sharp. He must have heard it himself, because he stopped, closed his eyes, and took a breath before crossing the room to stand at the dresser with his back to Mark as he emptied his pockets. "I just needed a longer workout. That's all."

  "Okay. Well, I think there's something more going on, but I'm sure you'll tell me in time." Mark stood up and was about to walk out of the room when Pearce grabbed him from behind and wrapped his arms around him in a strong hug.

  Pearce rested his hands on Mark's belly and pressed his face into the side of Mark's neck, his breath hot against the skin. The muscles in his arms were hard and pumped from his workout as he drew Mark back tight against him. Mark tensed for a second, unsure why Pearce was acting so guarded, but when Pearce kissed the spot behind his ear, Mark's will weakened.

  They each let out a long breath in unison, and Mark relaxed back against Pearce's tall, strong frame. "You worry me, sometimes, Agent Aaron Pearce."

  "I know, I'm sorry," Pearce said, lips moving against Mark's skin. "We're okay. Things between us are okay. I just had a tough day, that's all, and right now I need to be with you."

  Mark turned inside the circle of Pearce's arms so he could look at him. "What happened?"

  Pearce answered him with a soft, lingering kiss on the lips. "Later. No questions now, okay? Right now I need you. I need us."

  "I've got to turn down the oven," Mark said, trying to pull away.

  "Leave it." Pearce turned them so Mark's back was to the bed and pushed him down across the mattress. He stretched out on top of him, his mouth and tongue insistent as they kissed. The scratch of Pearce's stubble always turned Mark on, and he moaned around Pearce's probing tongue as Pearce pressed a large hand over his hardening cock.

  "Want you," Pearce whispered between kisses. "Inside you."

  He rose up over Mark and looked down at him, his gaze finally latching onto Mark's for longer than a few seconds, and in it, Mark could see a fresh pain.

  Before he could ask about it, Pearce kissed him again and then moved his lips to whisper in Mark's ear, "Is that okay?"

  "Yes," Mark replied. "Yes, Aaron, always. Please."

&nb
sp; They stood and kissed in between the removal of clothing. Once naked, they embraced standing up, eager cocks pressed tight between them. This was one thing Mark was glad hadn't been affected by the PTSD; his cock was always hard and ready for Aaron. Now, Pearce eased him back onto the bed with his legs hanging over the edge and knelt between them to take Mark into his mouth.

  "Oh, fuck," Mark said with a gasp. "Oh, Aaron."

  Pearce sucked him hard and fast, hungrily, his fist pumping up and down in time with his mouth. Mark writhed beneath him, hands fisting the comforter underneath. They’d had sex many times since returning from Barbados, but it always felt to Mark as if Pearce was holding back, afraid to go too far too fast and frighten Mark off.

  This time, however, was entirely different. This was the Pearce of old, the Pearce Mark remembered from Eric's loft apartment in Detroit where they had holed up in the beginning of the year. There was no leash on this Pearce, no brakes, and Mark realized he had missed this energy and passion. On the heels of that, he suddenly understood he had been the reason it had slipped away in the first place, and a pang of guilt sounded through him.

  But he couldn't focus on that at the moment. All he wanted to think about was the feeling of Pearce sucking him, working his mouth and hand with abandon along Mark’s length like he had in times past. It had been a while since it had been like this, and Mark meant to enjoy it.

  With a sudden hard suck on the tip of Mark's cock, Pearce released him and lifted Mark’s legs. He ran his tongue over Mark's balls, his brown eyes locked on Mark's as he licked and sucked.

  "You clean?" Pearce asked.