The Intelligence Unit Series

Camila had spent the last week in an FBI safe house. A thorough search of the scene where Thorn's body was found-not the murder scene, according to forensics-had yielded no physical evidence to trace the murder to anyone, let alone Archer or Portia. The Intelligence Unit hadn't been able to identify the gun used to kill Thorn, although they did know that it hadn't been the gun used to fire those warning shots into the ceiling of Remington Financial, which ballistics had also matched to the warning shots fired at seven of the other robberies and counting. It still wasn't close to enough evidence to make a case against Portia and Archer without Camila's testimony, though, and despite the fact that they'd had shockingly few tips come in on the BOLOS for both suspects, that meant she still had to stay in hiding. Weird that she didn't exactly hate it.

Putting her sketchbook down, she stretched and padded to the kitchen for a snack. Okay, yes, she hated that she couldn't go outside or call Delia to promise she was really okay, and she really hated the idea that there might be a brother-sister murder duo just waiting for her to show her face again before slinking out of the shadows to silence her forever. But she felt safe here with Roman. Happy and secure in a way that she hadn't felt...well, ever. Here, tucked away from the job she didn't love and the familial disdain that had been crushing her for over a decade, Camila felt cared for. Accepted. Seen.

"Hey," Roman said, sending an all-too-familiar thrill zinging through her chest. Wrapping an arm around her from behind, he peered over her shoulder into the fridge. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," she admitted, melting against his chest and smiling. "You?"

"Sure."

Camila grabbed the jar of salsa from the top shelf, then turned to take a bag of chips from one cupboard and a bowl from another. "It's not Juan's, but I guess it'll do."

"As soon as we get out of here, I'll take you back," Roman promised. "We can eat all the chips and salsa you want."

A bittersweet pang unfolded in her belly, making her smile slip for just a second before she reclaimed it.

Of course, Roman noticed. "Being cooped up in a safe house can be really frustrating. Are you okay?"

"I think I'm a little too okay with staying here."

Her words had escaped before she could stuff them back down and, ugh, too many great-s*x endorphins were addling her brain. "You know what, forget I said that. I'm in this safe house because there's a credible threat to my safety. I don't want that, and I'll be really happy when Archer and Portia are caught."

Roman nodded, picking up the bowl she'd placed on the counter and filling it with salsa. "You know, for the past six years, I've pretty much slapped a lid over every emotion I've had," he said, the change in subject so abrupt that Camila could only blink. "I thought it was a good thing. You know, keeping myself safe from the emotions I knew were going to be really shitty to wade through. But I'm starting to learn that even complex feelings can't stay inside forever. If now isn't the time you want to air yours out, that's okay. But when I said solidarity, I meant it." He sat down on one of the bar stools at the counter, giving her room to sit beside him if she chose, but making it clear that it was her choice. "You've listened to me spill some pretty heavy stuff. If you want to talk, I'm here. The field isn't the only place I'm always going to have your back, Camila."

The words, the true indivisibility with which Roman had delivered them, unraveled something inside of her, and she opened her mouth to let the words pour out.

"It's not that I don't want to go home. I do miss my space. These blank walls kind of give me the shakes."

"Yeah, this place is definitely pretty bare bones." Roman shook a handful of chips from the bag, placing them on a paper towel in front of her before digging back into the bag for himself. The gesture was so normal, as if they were talking about what to binge watch over the weekend or some new Thai place that had opened up around the corner, and it made it that much easier for her to keep talking.

"But when I'm here, I feel...I don't know. Safe. Not just literally," Camila added, "although the round-the-clock guards, high-end security systems-plural-and having you literally right here with me all the time helps."

"Calloway will be happy to hear that," he said with just enough of a smile to make her smile, too.

"It's not just that. I feel like I can be myself here. I can draw as much as I want, knowing that no one's going to raise an eyebrow and ask when I'm going to stop doodling and focus on a real career. I don't get out of bed in the morning knowing I'm heading to a job I just don't love. I feel protected, yes, but I also feel strong. Like if the shit hit the fan with Portia and Archer, I'd freak out a little, yeah, but then I'd take a breath and use my wits to try and stay safe."

"Like you did in the vault," Roman said.

She nodded. "Yes. But as soon as I leave here, all that other stuff becomes reality again. I still won't love my job, and my parents will still think I have no direction. My family will probably treat me like even more of a baby-God, they've probably turned my apartment into a literal fortress by now. Part of me wishes I could stay here, where none of that is close enough to touch me, you know? I just"-Camila broke off, frustration burning in her chest-"I'm tired of not doing what I love. I'm tired of being not enough." Roman moved in an instant, his fingers under her chin and his gaze steady on hers. "Hey. You are always enough."

Her heart lurched. "My family doesn't think so."

"Well, they're wrong." For a beat, then a few more, Roman looked at her, his hand moving down to her shoulder, his expression thoughtful. "Let me ask you this. If you could do any job, anything in the world and money was no object, what would you do?" "But money is an object," Camila protested, and the corners of his mouth kicked up.

"Not to be harsh, but you're not very good at this game."

At the c'mon gesture he made with his hand, she caved. "Fine. If money were no object"-she made an exaggerated lift of her brows-"I'd be an artist."

"And you've never thought of pursuing that as a career...why?"

She laughed. "Because I like to eat?" Very few artists ever made enough money to turn it into a career all by itself. The vast majority of them were like her, drawing or painting on the side.

"Okay, fair," Roman said. "But I'm not sure you're thinking outside the box."

He had her attention in full. "What else is there?"

"Tons. But specifically, I'm thinking of your ability to visualize facial details and get them into drawings with accuracy. The FBI is always looking for sketch artists, and so is the police department. Frankly, after the work you did on this case, they'd probably fight over you." Annnnnnd just like that, Camila's jaw was on the kitchen floor of the safe house.

"Okay, but I don't have any training. Like, at all," she protested at the same time her heart began to gallop and her brain moved in three different directions at once. "I have no résumé to speak of."

"I didn't say it wouldn't be work," Roman said. "You'd have to create a portfolio. But I'm sure you could ask Sinclair and Calloway for references. And, let's face it. Your work is incredible, Camila. It speaks for itself."

She sat on her bar stool, entirely poleaxed. She couldn't possibly just apply for a job with the FBI.

Could she?

"Okay, but what if I apply for a job and they laugh in my face, then turn me down? Then what?"

He tilted his head, considering her question. "Well, there is a possibility they'd turn you down, although I highly doubt anyone would laugh in your face, first. But there might be an even bigger question to ask yourself." She waited, and he said, "What if they don't?"

Camila had no idea how four simple words could slide between her rib cage and into her heart so easily, but here she was, with this man's belief in her filling her chest. "Do you really think I'd have a chance?"

Roman laughed. "You're a force of nature, sweetheart. If you decide you want it, I don't think there's a roadblock in the world you can't tackle."

"Thank you," she whispered, sliding off her bar stool to wrap her arms around him.

He gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Solidarity."

"Solidarity," Camila said back.

But what she really meant was, "I love you."

***

Roman sat backagainst the couch in the safe house living room and aimed a high-level frown at the laptop in front of him.

"You want us to come back?" he asked, at the same time Camila said, "What does that entail, exactly?"

Sergeant Sinclair looked at Camila, although the tiny frown that twitched on his lips as his gaze passed over Roman's on the way wasn't lost on him.

"That is an excellent question. Obviously, we wouldn't have made this decision if we didn't feel that the threat to you hadn't decreased significantly. There's been no sign of Archer or Portia Whitlock anywhere in Remington for nearly three weeks. No unusual activity in your apartment building or at your workplace. No phone calls or emails to your school or personal accounts that look out of the ordinary. That said"-he gestured to Capelli, who was sitting in the Intelligence office beside him-"once you return, we'll still put several safety measures into place in an abundance of caution."

Capelli pushed his glasses over the bridge of his nose and nodded. "We'll do regular check-ins, either in person or on the phone, with a code word. We'll also install two panic buttons in your apartment, much like the ones you have in the safe house now. They'd be temporary, of course, but we'd leave them in place for as long as the team deems them necessary."

"It would be for a while," Detective Garza chimed in, and weirdly, Roman was actually starting to like the guy.

Camila took a breath, but thankfully, she didn't argue. "Okay. I don't love any of that, but I do love breathing, so... it seems reasonable. Anything else?"

"We're lucky in that the school where you work is pretty tight with their security," Capelli continued. "Given the fact that there's a two-step sign-in process for all visitors and the dozens of cameras both inside the building and out, plus the two full-time security personnel on campus on any given day, it's highly unlikely that someone as smart as Whitlock would try to harm you at work. We do have to consider the safety of the students and your co-workers, as well as yours, though, so we'll still put some additional measures in place there. But we can coordinate those through the school staff."

"That's good," Camila said. "I wouldn't feel right putting anyone else at risk."

Garza shook his head. "We also have a couple of options to make sure we know where you are all the time. I know that might feel kind of..."

"Invasive?" Camila said, lifting her brows.

"I was going to say overly cautious," Garza replied. "But the options we've got in mind aren't intrusive. No one will be tailing you or watching you directly via surveillance, and we wouldn't listen in on your conversations or anything like that." Camila paused, and Roman felt a twinge of relief that she seemed to be considering the extra precautions. "Okay. So, it would be more like using the GPS in my cell phone to know where I am?"

"You've got the right idea," Capelli said. "Just not so obvious."

"Tracking her car would give us good visualization via satellite," Roman said, and Capelli arched a brow at Sinclair.

"We really need to have a conversation about the department's technology budget," he murmured, then refocused on Camila. "I was thinking more along the lines of a smaller device. Tracking only. We've used them with success in the past." "In fact, a device just like it saved Tara Kingston's life a few years ago," Sinclair said.

Roman thought of the A.D.A. they'd met virtually last week, nodding. "Lavalier tracker?"

"It's a necklace?" Camila asked, and Capelli held up a silver chain with a small pendant attached.

"It's a necklace," he confirmed. "The GPS can accurately track the wearer to within about fifty yards."

Camila blinked. "Wow. Okay, that probably can't hurt, right?"

Roman's "no" collided with Garza's, and Sinclair added a head shake for good measure. "It really can't. But we'd rather err on the side of caution to do all that we can to keep you safe."

Roman couldn't have bought a better segue with a thousand dollars, cash. "Are you sure coming back is such a great idea?" he asked, which-of course-made Sinclair frown in return.

"It's been almost three weeks," he said. "There haven't been any more robberies that fit the Whitlocks' M.O., either in Remington or anywhere else in the U.S. We haven't had a single credible hit on the BOLOS for either Portia or Archer in the city. And, Garrity was able to do a complete profile on both of them, further suggesting that he's our guy. Garrity's professional opinion is that Archer is playing it safe and has gone underground."

Dallas cleared his throat from his little block on the video call screen. "I think that it's likely Archer's playing it safe. As all of you know, criminal behavior isn't exactly something we can predict. But it does fit patterns, and Archer is extremely smart, not to mention calculated. I can't imagine he didn't have an exit strategy in place. Yes, there's still a chance Archer is laying low and waiting for Camila to return to Remington." He shrugged. "But given how much risk it puts him at to stay in a city where the police are very actively looking for him, and his face has been plastered all over the local news outlets...statistically, that chance isn't very high. He knows we don't have enough to charge him with anything. Even if we catch Portia and get her to flip on him, we'd still have to find him, too. Hiding is the smarter play."

"Plus, we've had credible reports in the last twenty-four hours from two separate sources saying a man and woman fitting the Whitlocks' descriptions have been seen in Columbus, Ohio," Capelli said, which was news to Roman.

"You couldn't have, oh, I don't know, led with that?" he asked, his heart pumping even harder when he realized how still Camila had gone beside him.

"Do you think it's them? In Ohio?"

"We're doing all that we can to find out," Sinclair said. "Local authorities are following up very carefully and we're working with them every step of the way. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you there's no risk in your coming back to Remington. But, given everything we know, I do think the risk is far lower than it was three weeks ago. I believe that my unit, along with Special Agent Calloway's support, has a good plan for your safety, and I can promise you that even if this lead in Ohio doesn't pan out, we won't stop looking for Archer or Portia Whitlock."

They talked for a few more minutes about logistics, agreeing to move Camila out of the safe house first thing in the morning, then ending the call. She sat back against the couch, no less than four separate emotions on her beautiful face, and Roman put an arm around her to pull her close.

"This is a good thing, right?" she asked, and damn, he had to tread carefully, here.

"There are parts of it that are very good," he said, and she huffed out a soft laugh. "But?"

A feeling he couldn't quite identify twisted in his chest, and screw it. Not being honest with her just wasn't an option.

"But there are parts of it that scare me. Not because I think they're too risky or poorly planned." He'd have put up way more of a fight if either of those had been the case. "And also not because I don't think you can take care of yourself. But the thought of anything happening to you is just..."

Roman couldn't finish the thought, let alone his sentence.

"It scares me, too," Camila admitted, her arms tightening around his body as she leaned her cheek on his chest, and Christ, how could she make such a shitty situation feel so perfect with one simple movement? "But Sinclair is right. We can't stay here forever, and it does seem pretty unlikely that Archer or Portia would come after me now. They have to know that even if I come back to Remington, you're still keeping me safe."

Her words sparked an idea in his head that took off like wildfire. Logically, Roman knew it was impulsive-no. Check that. It was beyond impulsive, bordering on crazy. But there was no logic involved in the way he felt about Camila, nothing he wouldn't say or give or do to keep her safe.

So he said, "Stay with me."

A sound of pure surprise crossed her lips, and she pulled back to stare at him. "What?"

"When we get back to Remington tomorrow, stay with me," Roman said, meeting her stare and not looking away. "Or let me stay with you-I don't care which. I know it sounds crazy, and, okay, it might be a little crazy. But it's not just about keeping you safe. When I'm with you, I feel happy and good and...well, everything. I feel everything, and I used to think that was a bad thing, only it's not, and now I don't want to be without it. I don't want to be without you. So-"

Camila stopped his words with a press of her lips over his. "Yes."

"Yes? You'll stay?" He blinked, but she just started to laugh.

"Oh, Roman. You should know me well enough by now to realize you had me at crazy." She kissed him again, and f**k, how had he ever lived without her? "Yes," she promised. "I'll stay."