Dark Secret (DARC Ops Book 1) by Jamie Garrett

Author:Jamie Garrett [Garrett, Jamie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wild Owl Press
Published: 2016-04-04T07:00:00+00:00

12

Mira

Her directions that night had been simple. Exit the freeway at Georgetown U, drive parallel to the Potomac river until she reached a dead end, park along the crumbly-bricked abutment of a long-demolished bridge, and then wait for Jackson to spot a not-so-candy-white 2012 Jetta with a recently missing front-left hubcap.

Not having crossed the river in days, the outing was a nice warm up for her "healthy" return to the office the following morning. That was the irony, it taking fake sick leave for Mira to actually get sick. Something about not eating or sleeping was making her feel like a week-old bucket of dirty mop water. She should be able to handle this. All she'd done was employ an old college trick, spending her nights cross-legged on the living room floor surrounded with books, markers, and loose papers, her back bent over a laptop, her elbow propped on a box of wine. If it was good enough for college...

She was obviously getting too old for all-nighters. At least, for three in a row.

After parking beneath the noisy freeway, Mira rolled her windows down, cut the engine, and took a deep breath of car exhaust and Potomac seaweed. She reclined her seat until the rear entrance to the historic Potomac Boat Club was just barely above her steering wheel.

The rower's clubhouse was a curious old Craftsman style structure. A half brick, half green and white wood-shingled building that faced out to the river. It even had a listing in the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. It was also headquarters to one of Jackson's more athletic hobbies, one that seemed more fitting for his muscular arms than cross-wording or answering phones in a monkey suit. Her eyes drifted shut and she could almost see it in her imagination, just a few hours ago, Jackson leading a surging rowboat with his arms flexed and working hard, his body sliding forward and back rhythmically as sprays of sun-golden water pelted against his bare chest. She could see him after, maybe taking a shower in the clubhouse, with more drops of water curving around the peaks and valleys of a muscular paradise, frothy mounds of soap running smooth down the ripples of his abs.

Maybe that was why he was taking so long. She couldn’t really blame him. If given the chance to join him, she knew exactly how much time and hot water she'd use up before letting him even think of toweling off.

Mira was suddenly compelled to open her eyes, to focus on the dark silhouette of the clubhouse doorway. It hadn't opened once since she'd arrived. Were it not for the club's lit windows, each of them opened for the spinning blades of old-fashioned fans, Mira would have not only assumed that the building was empty, but slated for the same fate as the bridge next-door. Both structures were over a hundred years old, and through those years they'd certainly collected their share of D.C. ghosts. She hoped that Jackson wasn't one of them, that he'd make good on his word and emerge from the shadowy doorway at any moment.

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