Hot Property

by Susan Johnson

  Although, he wasn’t really in the market for a permanent arrangement—so what the hell was the point? He wasn’t sure he wished to mess with his relatively peaceful existence.

  Dostoevski had said, “If everything on earth were rational, nothing would happen.” But at the moment he was inclined to favor the rational over self-indulgence.

  He was laser focused on the hunt for Harry.

  He’d head back to Ely for a day or so, square up his affairs, give Tony the lowdown on the firefight and his coming hunt for Harry; Tony had power of attorney for him should anything happen. Then, he’d drive down to the Cities and make sure the plane was ready on Thursday.

  When Zoe called, he’d already been home for a couple of hours and was watching the evening news with a beer in his hand.

  Singularly elated on seeing her name come up on his caller ID, he wrote it off as simply recall of all the mind-blowing sex. “Hi. How’d it go?”

  “I’m safe and sound in my undisclosed location,” Zoe replied.

  “Good. You had an uneventful journey?”

  “Smooth as silk. Rosie says hi.”

  “Hi back. I’ll give you a call when all our outstanding issues are resolved. Stay put until then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Zoe teasingly replied. “And thanks again,” she softly added. “I’m in your debt.”

  The softness of her voice sent a little warm buzz up his spine, but he said, cool and collected, “Better wait on your thanks, babe, until you hear the final report.”

  “Well, a thank-you for everything up to now, then.”

  “Back at you. Expect a call in a week or two.” Temperate and crisp—all business.

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured.

  Afterward, he sat with the phone in his hand until the beeping dial tone caught his attention. Setting down the phone, he shook away the tantalizing but inconvenient memories and, rising to his feet, walked toward his study. A few moments later he was online with Alan, concentrating on what he should be concentrating on—firming up the details of their operation.

  On the Near North Side of Chicago, Rosie MacNamara gazed at Zoe over her martini glass and said with a lift of her brows, “He must be something special.”

  Zoe had flipped her phone shut and was studying the olive in her martini. Looking up, she met her friend’s blue-eyed gaze. “Oh, yeah—definitely special. Unfortunately I’m not the only woman who thinks so.”

  “But you’re still in contact, right? He’s taking care of business for you. Some guy who doesn’t give a shit wouldn’t have done what he’s done or be doing what he’s doing now.”

  Zoe had given Rosie a severely edited version of her time with Nick. She’d explained Nick’s help with Willerby’s men, of him possibly assisting her some more, but she hadn’t mentioned any artillery battles or attack helicopters. Rosie wouldn’t have believed it anyway. Who the hell would? Anyone who heard the whole outlandish tale would most likely suggest she find herself a good psychiatrist, get some Prozac, and stop reading spy novels.

  “We’ll see what happens,” Zoe said, neutrally. “I’m pretty much in the dark about the eventual outcome of my problems or his. But, hey, I’m not complaining about all that’s transpired. It was really nice knowing him, and if nothing else comes of it, I’ll at least have some world-class memories.”

  “Define world-class,” Rosie said with a grin.

  Rosie had naturally curly red hair, a can-do attitude, and a smile that could charm the birds from the trees. Plus she didn’t take no for an answer.

  “Let’s just say, better than average memories,” Zoe replied, keeping it simple.

  Rosie fluttered her fingers in a give-it-up gesture. “You don’t seriously think I’m gonna be satisfied with that tame answer. You gotta share, sweetie. Remember, I tell you everything .”

  Rosie’s blow-by-blow accounts of her sex life were definitely graphic and admittedly titillating. Zoe could likely recognize Rosie’s dates without looking at their faces. “Okay, okay,” she relented. “Nick’s the best I’ve ever had. Bar none, and that includes Jonathan Fuller, who you know very well is a ten when it comes to hot sex.”

  “Oh, baby,” Rosie murmured, lifting her brows in a dramatic leer, “for sure I want details now. Tell me every little thing”—she grinned—“or better yet, every big thing—which I presume is the case.”

  Zoe blushed.

  “Wow. I haven’t seen you blush since Joey Castlemaine asked you to marry him at Ziggy’s Bar.”

  “I’m not blushing.”

  “Yeah, you are. Are you in luv? Is this Nick guy the one?”

  “Jeez, Rosie, cut it out. He’s just hot, that’s all. No one’s in love.” She’d be incredibly stupid to even think about being in love with a man like Nick.

  “You must like him anyway. That seems pretty obvious.”

  “He’s very likeable. He even cooks—beautifully. And he builds canoes and is a linguist who used to teach Slavic languages at some college out East. He also makes the best espresso I’ve ever had.”

  “Not to mention he’s apparently good in bed.”

  Zoe sighed. “Good doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

  “So don’t keep me in suspense. Start describing.”

  Zoe offered up a carefully redacted version of Nick’s sexual skills, giving Rosie just enough information to satisfy her prurient interests. For the first time in her life she didn’t feel like revealing the particulars of her relationship with a man.

  It should have been a clue.

  At the same time Zoe was politely fending off Rosie’s need to know, Nick was not so politely fending off a visit from Lucy Chenko.

  Lucy had walked into his house unannounced—although not unseen with his advance warning system—and while in the past Nick had accepted her flagrant behavior with equanimity, even warm hospitality on occasion, this time, he offered excuses.

  “You’re kidding,” she petulantly muttered, as he held her at arm’s length. “Since when are you too tired for sex?” With a toss of her short platinum curls, she stared at him pouty and sullen. “Donnie’s out of town tonight and I don’t have anything to do!” The large diamond studs in her ears sparkled as she lifted her chin defiantly and glared at him. “You can’t be serious about sending me home.”

  “I just got back from my outpost camp and I’m tired as hell. Really,” Nick added, slowly releasing his grip on her arms.

  “You don’t really mean it.” She made a grab for his zipper again.

  “Yeah, I do.” His grip was harsh on her hands this time. “Give me a few days,” he said, figuring he could buy some time, maybe change his mind in a few days. At least by the time he returned from DC maybe he’d be in the mood for Lucy’s deviant version of sex.

  “What do you mean by a few days?” she said with a pettish sniff, thrusting out her big boobs barely covered in a pink stretchy chemise.

  “Three or four,” he lied, ignoring her provocative pose, gingerly releasing her hands.

  “For your information,” she said, sourly, “men never turn me down.” She ran her palms over her hips in case he hadn’t noticed her extremely short pink Versace skirt with an embroidered rose conspicuously placed at crotch level. “What if I don’t come back to visit you?”

  “Naturally, I’d be heartbroken,” he smoothly replied.

  “You’d better be.” She scrutinized him for a moment, her glossy pink lips pursed. “You do look tired. You’ve got dark circles under your eyes.”

  “I haven’t had much sleep lately.”

  “Poor baby.” She brushed a perfectly manicured finger down his cheek. “I’ll come back in a few days and make you feel all better.” She smiled, her quantum leap from anger to understanding typical. Lucy’s short attention span and her affinity for Ecstasy one in the same.

  “That’d be just fine.” He smiled, hoping she’d go.

  “I don’t suppose you have any X? I’m out.” Narcissistic self-inter
est, that was Lucy.

  “Sorry. Try Chris at the Moose Lodge. He’s usually got some.”

  “Chris Dawkins?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Really?” Eyebrows beautifully arched, her voice soft as silk.

  “Yeah, really.” It looked as though he was off the hook, Nick decided, Lucy’s purr indicating definite interest. He should have mentioned Chris before. “Tell Chris hey if you see him.”

  “Okeydokey, darling.” She was all smiles now. “Make sure you get plenty of rest.”

  It sure as hell wasn’t his style—turning down sex—but he didn’t give a shit. He was just glad she was gone. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was play rough with Lucy Chenko. Chris could have the pleasure of her S&M games.

  He was gonna finish his beer, find something on the tube to watch, and zone out.

  Time enough in the morning to pack for his trip east.

  Thirty-five

  It was a Friday night in the Virginia hunt country and traffic on the narrow, winding road had dwindled to an occasional car. By now, most of the DC weekenders escaping the sweltering temperatures in the city had reached their destinations.

  The rain had begun an hour ago—lightly at first, then heavier as two weather fronts clashed in the sultry summer night. Cool air coming in off the Atlantic was meeting the steamy jet stream sailing out of the Ohio Valley. Lightning flashed continuously overhead, the rolling thunder in its wake serving as bass chorus to the fireworks show.

  It was ten fifteen. To the two men waiting in a thicket of brush, 2215 military time. A familiar, instinctive reckoning now that they were on a mission—as familiar as their Kevlar vests, automatic weapons, and vigilance.

  “I’d like this better if the asshole was shooting at us,” Nick grumbled, struggling with the moral ambiguity of his role as executioner.

  Self-defense was one thing—simple and sharply defined. This style of killing was nominally self-defense as well— still . . . it fucked with his head.

  “Don’t be having second thoughts,” Alan muttered. “Harry deserved killing a long time ago.”

  “I know.” Nick had already reminded himself a dozen times that Harry had tried to wack him twice, and innocent men had died because of Harry’s interrogation methods. Unlike Alan though, he hadn’t been trained to kill.

  “This is no time for a conscience, bro,” Alan gently noted. “Harry’ll blow you away while you’re debating right and wrong.”

  Alan was right. Harry wouldn’t hesitate a second. And unless he wanted to look over his shoulder the rest of his life, he had a job to do.

  They were waiting for their target west of a wide curve in the road, their operation planned for this particular evening because of the forecast. Slick roads, less traffic, overcast, and pitch-black—all pluses for them.

  They’d had Harry Miller under surveillance for ten days, tracking his movements around the clock, noting what he did routinely, and what he did not—that in particular. It was the variables that could fuck them up. His visits to Abigail were in the routine category—Wednesday afternoons and Fridays— like clockwork, although he often stayed over on the weekend according to one of Alan’s sources.

  Unless Harry had a weekend meeting, but those were rare. Harry was not a hard-working bureaucrat. He was a lazy fucker. A direct quote from Mike Dunleavy—one of the better analysts who was still hanging in at Langley.

  Mike had given them the heads-up about this particular meeting scheduled for eight o’clock Saturday morning. That meant Harry would be driving home Friday night.

  In a rainstorm, according to the weather forecast.

  And what his watchers had found most auspicious was the fact that Harry traveled to his little love nest sans bodyguards. They decided it had less to do with discretion than fear of competition. Harry’s bodyguards were young men in their prime. He didn’t want them anywhere near his twenty-something ex-Miss Alabama.

  In addition to Harry traveling solo to Miss Alabama, they had been fortunate to have this storm coming in off the Atlantic just prior to Harry’s Saturday meeting.

  “Christ, I’m soaked,” Nick muttered, rain streaming down his face. “What time is it?”

  Alan glanced at his watch. “Coming on ten. I suppose Harry’s reluctant to leave his hot babe. Maybe you should think about consoling the grief-stricken Miss Alabama afterward. I’m sure she’d prefer your hot bod to Harry’s tub of lard.”

  “Not interested,” Nick replied. “She might already be taken anyway.” In the course of their surveillance, they’d seen a young, buff guy in jodhpurs come to visit on one of Harry’s off days. The man hadn’t stayed long, so Abigail Cathcart and her visitor had either gotten off in a hurry or she’d only given him a taste. But it definitely had the look of a blossoming friendship the men decided, watching the couple play footsie through their binoculars. When the two had disappeared into the back of the house, Nick and Alan had moved to a new position, but the bedroom curtains had been drawn so they couldn’t tell whether everyone had been suitably pleasured.

  Although the guy had been smiling when he’d left.

  “Jeez—what if Harry decided to stay till morning with this rain.” Alan checked his watch again.

  “Nah. Remember—he doesn’t like to get up early. Asshole could never drag himself out of his palatial hotel room until ten or eleven.” Harry had always commandeered the best hotel room in whatever Kosovar town they were in.

  “I still don’t understand why he isn’t armed to the teeth and guarded twenty-four seven after his crew disappeared.”

  “Hubris. Vanity. Stupidity. Who knows? For one thing, he’s a crazy man, although we probably have his babe to thank for the absence of guards. Hey, hey, hey,” Nick murmured, “speak of the devil.”

  A black Mercedes SUV sailed over a distant hill, coming at them like a bat out of hell.

  “Jesus, that’s one heavy foot on these slick roads.”

  “I can see the headline now,” Nick murmured, pulling out one of the disposable phones he’d picked up at a gas station on his way to the Cities. ‘CIA Chief Skids off Road and Dies.’ ”

  Yesterday, with Alan standing watch, Nick had planted the guts of another disposal phone with a small C-4 device on the front axle of Harry’s car.

  It had taken less than two minutes.

  Harry was in the habit of stopping at a small liquor store in a strip mall outside DC and picking up a pint of Wild Turkey on his visits to his mistress. He’d drink the whiskey on his drive and pitch the bottle before he reached the cottage.

  Harry never came out of his love nest once he arrived, nor did he check his car before he returned to DC, so the explosive was safe. Apparently, he felt secure behind the cottage’s security perimeter.

  Harry trusted electronic surveillance.

  Lucky for them electronic surveillance could be jammed or bypassed with the right equipment.

  “What’s chances Harry found the C-4?” Nick murmured, watching the SUV speeding toward them. He was thinking out loud, worried. Wanting to be certain.

  “Pretty much nil.”

  “I’d be happier with 100 percent.”

  “If only. He’s not a complete moron, although his survival this long has more to do with treachery than intellect.”

  The rain was falling in sheets now, the wind blowing hard from the east, compromising visibility.

  But the gleam of headlights winked at them through the rain and dark.

  “Come on, baby . . . just a little closer . . . come on, come on.” Suddenly all the ambiguities were wiped away: Harry’s crimes against humanity rose up in Nick’s mind in all their horror and he knew why he was here. And as soon as the SUV reached the point where the road curved tight to the left, where Harry would have to slow down, justice would be served.

  But Harry didn’t slow down.

  “He must be testing his fucking suspension,” Alan said half under his breath.

  Nick was furiously punching in phone numb
ers. Hitting the Send key, he glanced up, and started counting. “One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three—”

  The C-4 detonated, lighting up the night, and the speeding black Mercedes careened off the road, trailing flames.

  The men were already sprinting through the underbrush, racing toward the crash site.

  Alan scanned the highway as they crossed it. “Are you good now?” They’d planned this minute by minute. He was to stand guard.

  “Yup,” Nick grunted, his adrenalin pumping, the outside world eclipsed, his mind laser focused on what he had to do.

  Running headlong toward the burning car, he screwed on his silencer with a few quick twists of the wrist, slid down the slick shoulder of the road, splashed through the puddles in the ditch, and skidded to a sudden stop, his boot heels sinking into the soft muck.

  Shit. The driver’s door was open. It could have blown out in the crash. Or more likely, Harry had bolted. Fuck.

  Crouching low, his finger on the trigger of his Beretta, he swiftly crossed the patch of ground that had been flattened by the heavy, hurtling SUV, coming up on the car from behind. Cautiously moving forward to the passenger door, he eased upward enough to peer in through the fire and smoke.

  Empty.

  Crap. So much for plans.

  Already pressed for time, now he had to find the bastard before he could kill him. The fire was sure to attract attention, particularly once it hit the gas tank and the explosion lit up the sky. Not to mention, every passing second, Harry could be putting distance between them.

  Although he might not be moving too fast, Nick decided after another glance at the driver’s side. The front of the car was wrapped around a tree, the air bag splattered with blood— another dark smear streaked the pale grey leather of the driver’s seat. Harry might have more than scratches.

  Backing away into the shadows, Nick scanned the area, hoping to find a corpse. Or tracks. But the heavy rain and darkness beyond the flickering light from the burning car limited visibility.