In the room of a cheap motel, an old-school alarm clock on the nightstand made a ticking sound when the numbers changed.
Arnie checked his watch. The Mission Impossible-style instructions he’d received were something his extensive training and experience made almost humdrum normal. The second he answered the call and gave his call sign, he stepped through the looking glass into another world.
The motel clerk barely glanced at him when he registered under a work alias. This wasn’t the type of place interested in checking an ID. When he got to the room, the first thing he did was text the room number via an encrypted app. It wouldn’t be long before he found out what the fuck was going on.
Worry toyed with his need for calm. Whatever this was, he knew it wasn’t going to be simple or easy. His suspicions were confirmed when he answered a two-rap door knock, and a trio of very obvious Secret Service agents crowded into the room.
Well, fuck me sideways, he thought with no amount of excitement at the prospect of working with the grown-ups. Secret Service involvement meant this thing reached pretty high. The knowledge was not comforting—not one bit.
“Special Agent Burns,” a beefy bald guy said by way of introduction. The words were not intended to be a conversation starter, so Arnie stayed mute.
Agent Burns held up a small device handed off from a second agent. He recognized what it was and realized this situation was seriously lit.
“Ocular scan, sir. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Trying to appear nonchalant, Arnie presented his eyeball.
Seemingly satisfied, Agent Burns nodded at the other agents.
The third agent stepped forward. When he was face-to-face with the stern figure in the standard-issue black suit, he realized the agent was female. She held a square, lidded, black box—opened it and curtly demanded his electronics. All of them, including his watch.
Once he surrendered everything, including his wallet and a silver wrist cuff, Agent Burns wanded him from head to toe with a sophisticated instrument new to Arnie.
At the conclusion of all this, he was waved to a rolling desk chair to await lord only knew what.
Two distinct raps on the door, and in walked a young guy with what he thought was a portable clothes steamer. It turned out to be a robotic detective that moved a laser sensor over every inch of the room—even inside the toilet.
This was some high-level shit, he thought.
“Clear,” the robot tender grunted before exiting.
Nobody moved or spoke, so neither did he. The air around him was filled with something he’d come to recognize through the years. Blind allegiance. These guys were the real fucking deal.
Three minutes later, the floor dropped out from under him when the cheap motel door opened and in walked the second lady of the United States accompanied by the secretary of state.
He leaped to his feet, reviewed what he knew about protocol, and then all but shit himself when a few seconds later, the vice president walked in wearing a wary, panicked expression.
Gobsmacked and on high alert were the only way to describe how he felt. He listened intently as his unlikely visitors spelled out a deadly scenario capable of inciting an international incident.
In a nutshell, the second family’s college-age daughter got recruited and trafficked by a far-right-wing contingent out of Germany with deep ties to some very, very bad actors. A boy had sucked her in, of course. The two of them pulled off an elaborate plan to escape her security detail. By the time anyone realized what was happening, the two were on foreign soil, where they promptly vanished.
Rather than admit the truth, the national security agencies and the White House concocted a cover story. Eventually, Interpol stumbled on her whereabouts.
The heavily armed cell of far-right neo-Nazis planned to marry her off, at gunpoint if necessary, to one of their hard-core extremists as a way to force a seat at the table of power.
The plan was ludicrous. Didn’t they realize fucking with the United States was a sure-fire way to bring the full force of America’s security, diplomatic and military apparatus down on top of them?
What fucking idiots.
He spent five seconds feeling sorry for the vice president and his anguished wife, then he got into the zone.
MI 6 was monitoring a group in Dresden. They offered to inconspicuously insert him. Once he was background noise, infiltrating the Munich cell wouldn’t be a problem. It would be his call if a military extraction was needed. They wanted to avoid an armed confrontation at all costs, which was exactly why he’d been chosen. He’d be able to read the situation on a deeper, more meaningful level than through conventional surveillance. Infiltration was a specialty skill. Lucky him.
This type of assignment was what covert actions on steroids looked like.
With the message delivered, the vice president and second lady exited.
Arnie faced the secretary of state, a formidable man with extensive diplomatic bona fides. He was clearly unhappy but fully expected Arnie to take this one for the team.
“The president is watching,” he said. “So is the German Chancellor.”
“Understood, sir,” he replied.
The secretary looked at Agent Burns. They didn’t talk—not that anyone could hear—and then he left.
Arnie was surprised when the special agent offered his hand. “Good luck, sir.”
The handshake was brief. He asked, “What happens next?”
“We keep the phone and watch. Sorry, but you know this drill. Agent Pria will return your wallet. Your people are here.” He looked at his watch. “You have ninety minutes to wheels up.”
As the Secret Service detail left, in walked Izzy and the NIGHTWIND tech guy, Milo Crawford.
“Guten tag.” Izzy sniggered. “Or is it was ist los?” She shrugged because Felicity Toy didn’t give a shit.
“Take your shirt off,” she snapped. “They ordered a neo-Nazi shithead, so a neo-Nazi shithead is what they will get.”
She reached into a duffel bag and pulled out a pair of hair clippers. “Get ready for a transformation.”
In the span of forty minutes, Milo embedded a chip in his thigh and ran him through the specs. The location chip included a scrambling feature, so if the group he infiltrated was scanning for electronic signatures, he’d be fine.
Izzy worked her extensive prowess at living disguises to make him over as a right-wing anarchist with a severe buzz cut. She shaved symbols above his right ear and applied a jagged long-wearing tattooed scar on his chest.
Milo handed him a burner phone. “When you land in the UK, one of their guys will give you a replacement. MI 6 does the handoff, and then you’re on your own.”
“Where’s Dorothea?” he asked Izzy.
“She’s gone ahead. You know those UK clowns. Very big on protocols and whatnot.”
Annoyed and stressed out, he started to check the time, then realized they took his watch and snapped at Milo.
“Gimme your watch.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so,” he growled. Snapping his fingers irritably, he barked, “Let’s go. Hurry up.”
Izzy chuckled and told Milo to chillax. “He’s got a thing about time. Either that or a timepiece is his safety blanket. Just give it to him and shut up.”
As he affixed the watch to his wrist, Arnie sneered, “Timex? Really?” When he got back, he was going to make it a priority to introduce young, geeky Milo to the gentlemanly custom of watch collecting.
It was a mad dash to the airport where he boarded a private plane waiting to whisk him to the East Coast. He said goodbye to Izzy as Arnie. A few hours from now when he appeared on the ground in full disguise with an elaborate alias, he’d ping the surveillance radar of several friendly and not-so-friendly countries. Infiltration work was a different animal from tradecraft surveillance or military extraction. Observing wasn’t enough. He had to become one of them and drink the Kool-Aid, so to speak. Only when he understood the conditions in
play could a way forward be found.
As the plane ascended, he realized there hadn’t been a chance to speak with Summer. He looked at his watch, wondered what she was doing, and knew she’d call him as soon as she could.
Then he remembered they’d taken his phone.
After crossing the continent and sitting through a trans-Atlantic flight, he reluctantly accepted the situation. He’d fucked up big time, and all he could do now was hope this goddamn assignment didn’t take long so he could throw himself at her feet and beg for a chance to explain.
Her feet hurt, and if she couldn’t change out of her work clothes and take off her bra soon, things might get ugly.
Summer lifted her phone off the bar to look at the time and check one more time to see if Arnie had called.
The afternoon was a memory, and all around her, the first wave of the dinner crowd filled the restaurant. After her second shift ended, she’d taken the stool at the farthest end of the bar where no one ever sat and immediately called Arnie. To her surprise, the call went straight to voicemail. Assuming he was still tied up with his business schedule, she settled in with a cocktail.
That was an hour ago. Now, she was on her second very dirty martini, made the way Arnie preferred, and actively worried.
He wasn’t answering his phone.
She made two calls and was contemplating a third when Summer caught the bartender looking at her with a pitying expression. There was nothing quite like being publicly stood up at her workplace. She wondered if right this second she was gossip material for the waitstaff.
Ugh. Could the day get any worse?
Why yes, Summer, her inner antagonist chortled. Yes, it can. Wait for it, gurl.
Draining the last of the potent cocktail and snagging an olive off a pick with her teeth, she grabbed her phone with the intention of leaving a message by giving him a piece of her mind for leaving her stranded.
Her butt wobbled on the stool, and she had to squint for focus, but goddammit, she had something to say.
Opening her contacts list, she saw his name right away. A for Arnie.
A righteous fit of pique stiffened her posture. How dare he forget about her?
Stabbing her finger to connect a call, she cleared her throat, ready to leave a message.
“Thanks, you asshole. Thanks for ditching me when I don’t have my car. Now I have to blow all the tips I made today for an Uber.”
The cell phone didn’t allow her to slam the receiver down to drive home her displeasure, so tapping the red end call button felt a little anticlimactic.
Cursing the male species, Summer gathered her belongings and slid off the stool. The alcohol in her system didn’t help her darkening mood. She gripped the back of the stool until the floor stabilized and then launched her body in the direction of the front lobby. Getting out the door took effort as she made her way through the dinner crowd.
On the sidewalk, she scurried away from all the people and leaned against the building. She pulled up her Uber app and ordered a car.
How the hell had the day gone belly up? She was a happy, smiling idiot eight hours ago. The tips she got for the brunch shift was worth the effort. The lunch shift was a bitch—it always was—but she’d made good money so complaining was futile. Things went downhill super fast, though, when she couldn’t reach Arnie.
It only took five minutes for her car to pull up. She scrambled into the back seat of a sedan, mumbled to the driver, and then promptly shut down. Her emotions careened wildly. Should she be mad or worried?
Neither scenario gave her any comfort.
Her dour mood brightened somewhat after walking through her door. Surely, being home would help.
Dropping her overnight bag and purse onto the floor right inside the front door, she tossed her keys into their bowl and did a double take on the framed photograph of Merlin’s cave. Something about the picture had intrigued Arnie.
Anxiety ricocheted inside Summer. Something wasn’t right, but the alcohol confused the situation.
She made it to the bedroom in a less than straight line and tore off her waitress clothes. Her shoes were next, followed with a loud sigh as she freed the girls from their bra bondage. After the strangling confinement was gone, she massaged her boobs and felt some relief.
The art of the sloppy hair bun was made sloppier by fumbling fingers. When she bent forward to allow gravity to help the process, she stumbled and banged her knee on the edge of a chair.
Getting something in her stomach to soak up the martinis she consumed led her into the kitchen. She whipped open the refrigerator door and grimaced when the first thing her eyes lit on was a can of aerosol whipped cream.
Pushing it aside, she rummaged through the rest of the contents. A takeout carton of beans and rice from the restaurant had been on the top shelf too long, so she tossed it in the bin.
There wasn’t a lot in the way of actual food. A jar of pickles wasn’t going to do it. Same for the little containers of goat and feta cheese she brought home from Trader Joe’s.
In the end, she took the mindless way out and made a peanut butter sandwich drizzled with honey instead of jelly.
Cross-legged and half-naked on her Brady Bunch sofa, Summer tore into the sandwich and tried really hard not to feel sorry for herself.
When a glob of honey escaped the sandwich and landed squarely on one of her breasts, she wiped it off with a finger that she then licked.
The combination of boobs and licking was all it took for her to fall apart.
Body shuddering waves of fear tore through her until she shook all over. It wasn’t just that he didn’t answer his phone. It was that each call went straight to voicemail—a sure sign the phone was turned off.
Why would he turn it off after making a production out of adding his details to her contacts and securing a promise from her to call him the second she was free?
Her earlier thoughts around something feeling off quickly morphed into a stomach-churning fear that something was, in fact, very, very wrong. This wispy shadow of a fear she wasn’t ready to face lurked on the edges of her mind.
Finding it difficult to swallow the sandwich, she abandoned it and shut down her thoughts before they led her into troubled waters.
Maybe, instead of borrowing trouble, she should call the hotel.
Scrambling off the sofa, she located her phone and searched for the Four Seasons Biltmore Resort. She didn’t hesitate or think it through before she called the number.
When the front desk answered, she asked for Arnie Templeton’s room and was promptly informed no one by that name was registered.
Had she said his name wrong? She searched her brain for the memory of him answering a personal call with what she assumed was his last name.
“Oh, um, well, he’s in a private bungalow,” she mumbled.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the resort has several private bungalows and villas. Without a name, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you.”
She mumbled her thanks and apologized before ending the call. Her hand shook as she put the phone down.
“No one registered by that name.”
Her spoken words hung in the air.
Had she been played?
No! No way. What they had was real. He said so. Didn’t he?
Soul-crushing fear made it difficult to breathe. A war broke out inside her with two opposing points of view hurling bitter words, breaking her spirit.
One part of her stood firm and resolute. This was a misunderstanding. Arnie had declared his feelings. They even spoke the L-+word. She was being silly, and as soon as he was able, he’d call.
The other voice in her inner dialogue was far less optimistic. She was an idiot for throwing her innocence away on an obvious playboy. The suggestion she was no more than a notch on his bedpost made her physically ill.
Unsure what she should do, Summer locked up, turned off the lights, and headed to her bedroom. On the way there, she stopped in the bathroom, took car
e of business, and then as she was turning off the light, she glanced at the trash can and saw pieces from the box of condoms they barely bothered to use.
She was numb as her feet moved. In the bedroom, she looked around, and all her mind’s eye saw was Arnie and the night of passion they shared.
Something snapped. With an uncontrollable rage, she ripped the sheets off the bed and piled them in the middle of the room. Wrapping her shaking body in a blanket, Summer curled up on the stripped bed with her head on a pillow with no case.
When she couldn’t get warm, she dragged a duvet-covered comforter over her as well. Inside the cocoon, her mind raced from one heartbreaking scenario to another until, exhausted and wrung out, she fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning unfolded in silence. She rose, took a shower, and got dressed by rote.
Every time desperation made her check for a message or a missed call, the silent phone mocked her.
By ten o’clock, she knew the only thing left was to go to the hotel and try the direct approach. Maybe he left a message for her. She could hope, right?
Donning an eggplant-colored sweater and a nice pair of pants, Summer completed the outfit with a cute pair of ankle boots and her best casual jewelry. She wasn’t about to show up at the Biltmore dressed like a waitress.
Fluffing her blow-dried hair and throwing on some makeup helped her feel less like an imposter or, worse, a kid.
On the way to the hotel, she drove through Mickey D’s and did a quick park and stuff of a cheesy biscuit and a regular Coke. Grease and caffeine helped ease the morning after an alcohol event.
Her heart rate increased the second she pulled up to the entrance and a valet approached. Part of her feared this was a bad idea, but she had to have some answers.
“I won’t be long,” she told the valet attendant as she handed off the keys.
Smoothing a hand down the side of her sweater, she made sure everything was where it should be and walked confidently toward the entrance. A guy loitering by the front door caught her attention. He was young, not much older than her, but what stood out was his conservative appearance. This was Southern California. Santa Barbara was a beach community. The guy’s suit screamed Brooks Brothers—not exactly wardrobe for a five-star beachy getaway.
Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3) Page 28