Undercover Lover

by Tibby Armstrong

  The source of her troubled dreams broke through the remaining tendrils of unreality with a particularly hard shake. She blinked and stared hazily into the same eyes that had haunted her sleep.

  “We have to go. Get up,” Günter demanded.

  Jenny turned her head in an attempt to get her bearings. Black and silver bed coverings. Mahogany door wide open. The events of the evening flooded back.

  “Where?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

  Cold air met her skin. He’d whipped the covers off the bed. Not knowing when she’d get a change of clothes, she’d stripped down to her bra and panties before going to sleep.

  Fear snapped through her. Something was wrong. He didn’t have time to explain. She understood and bounded from the bed. The room spun and he grabbed her upper arm to hold her steady even as he thrust her jeans at her.

  “They don’t know about this apartment. You have more time,” a stranger’s voice said from the doorway.

  Jenny thrust her legs into her jeans and fumbled with the button.

  “We can’t risk being trapped in the building.” Günter pulled her sweater over her head as he spoke and she plunged her arms into the holes. It was on backward and she had to right it.

  “The security cameras will pick up your car exiting the garage.” The pronounced r’s in the new man’s accent placed his origins firmly outside New York. Connecticut, perhaps?

  “You don’t give me enough credit, mate.” Günter’s voice sounded smug.

  The self-assured spark in his eyes was enough to give Jenny’s stomach a little flip. She understood something essential about him in that moment—he lived for danger. For moments like this.

  The other man laughed, but the sound was tight. Forced. “I got her bag, our passports, and called Tallis’ pilot. We should be in the air by five a.m. if we can make it to Connecticut without getting picked up.”

  Passports?

  “Where are we going?” she asked, already knowing she wasn’t going to get an answer.

  “Let’s hope the weather holds.” Günter thrust her coat at her. “It’ll slow them down dealing with other problems.”

  Jenny glanced out the window and saw it was snowing hard. Tight-lipped, she put on her coat. She could throw a hissy fit and tell them she wasn’t going anywhere until they told her what was going on, but she wasn’t stupid. If she waited ten minutes she could ask all the questions she wanted in the car.

  As they left the flat, Günter keyed something into the laptop and said, “That should take care of it.”

  The other man had dark-red hair and green eyes. He was slighter than Günter, but really who wasn’t? His attire was so different though, it gave her pause. Wearing tortoiseshell glasses and a tweed jacket, he looked like a professor. A telltale bulge beneath the staid fabric of his jacket, however, said he packed serious heat.

  An SUV idled in the underground garage, its interior already warm when she slid into the backseat behind both men. The professor drove and Günter rode shotgun. Swirling snow muffled their passage along the unplowed asphalt, and the city lights cast everything in a surreal glow.

  She waited until they were well into Harlem before she spoke. “Günter?”

  He didn’t turn, but she saw the tendons tense in his corded neck. Damn, but the man was muscled everywhere. She cleared her throat and forcefully straightened fingers that had begun to clench at the idea of testing each firm bulge.

  “Could you introduce me to the professor?” she asked.

  Günter’s bark of laughter broke the tension, surprising her with a trickle of delight. She grinned despite herself, meeting their driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Simon Jakes,” Günter said, “meet Jennifer Ainsley. Ms. Ainsley, Simon, my second.”

  A somewhat sheepish raised-brow smile met her in the mirror and she made a split-second decision that she was going to like Simon Jakes a great deal.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Günter twisted around in his seat. Their eyes met and desire arced. It was as if his gaze picked up where they’d left off on the dining room floor hours before. He blinked and she watched him bank his fires.

  Mouth set in a grim line he said, “You tell me your story, I’ll tell you mine.”

  He was so dogged and unreadable. A knight and a scoundrel all in one. The puzzle and the contradiction—that’s what made him so damn compelling.

  “Quid pro quo again?” she asked, tossing her hair out of her eyes.

  “Exactly.”

  She looked out the window, not wanting to renew their discussion now, but he was right. It wasn’t exactly fair to expect answers from him if she wouldn’t reveal any herself. Otherwise there was no reason to trust her.

  “I told you the truth.”

  His gaze rested heavily on her. She knew he was searching for signs of a lie.

  “I just left out an adjective,” she mumbled as her gaze skittered sideways.

  “All right. Which all-important grammatical tidbit did you neglect to impart?” he asked.

  She bristled at his mockery. The anger, however, got her through the words, “Pole dance class,” before she could take them back.

  A slow blink turned his eyes to dark pools of desire. Was he picturing her dancing? She compulsively brought her arms up to cross over her chest although there was no way he could see anything important through the down parka she had zipped to her chin.

  “It’s great exercise,” she defended as she blushed. “And I’m not half bad.”

  He cleared his throat and faced forward again, shifting his position with a shrug of his torso from the seat. “Is that why you lied? So you wouldn’t be found ridiculous?”

  His words sliced at her tattered pride and she jerked the edges together with a resolute, “No.”

  “Were you afraid of your brother’s reputation—what the papers would say—if word got out?” he asked, taking another stab at her motivation.

  “Somewhat. But more like I wanted five minutes away from his goons,” she groused, still stinging from his earlier guess.

  “Tell me what happened after.”

  If she told him everything the questions would stop. She let out the story in a rush. Head cocked to one side, posture alert, he paid close attention to her. She could almost feel him dropping the pieces of everything she told him into a puzzle he’d already framed out.

  “Were you on your way out or on your way in?” he prompted.

  “Out. I already told you.”

  “No. First you said you weren’t going out at all.”

  “I told you why I said that.” She massaged her temples with her fingers.

  “Out or in?” he pressed.

  “Out.”

  “Did you see who attacked you? Could you in fact identify him?”

  “Height? About six foot one. Weight? Maybe two hundred ten pounds. He was more wiry than muscled and wore a ski mask.”

  “Did you bring the drugs with you? Or did it play out like Gray said with your dealer?”

  “What?” She sat forward so fast the seat belt threatened to choke her. “I don’t do drugs.”

  “So, you deal them?”

  “No.” This conversation got more surreal by the moment. “I have no idea where that goody bag came from.”

  He flipped down his visor and quirked an eyebrow at her in the mirror. Using the street term for the drugs had been a mistake. It only served to discredit her story.

  Her face flamed. “Look. I don’t know what to tell you. This is the truth. I’m not sure why someone would plant that garbage in David’s hall unless it was to fry him and me both. The man called me a snitch. Do you think it has to do with David? Is it revenge for his testimony all those years ago?”

  “Possibly.” He appeared to consider the idea only for a moment. “So you lied to the authorities?”

  She didn’t realize she’d been looking out the window at the trek of the snow until she met Günter’s eyes again in th
e visor mirror. “Yes.”

  “And to me?”

  A sinking feeling gnawed at the pit of her stomach. “Yes…”

  “And went out without your security detail?”

  “I already admitted to that.”

  Goddamn security detail. Goddamn press.

  “Lie to me again, or try to escape my protection—for whatever reason,” Günter met her gaze matter-of-factly, “I’ll give your leotard to the press as evidence and report the story myself.”

  Jenny gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, he’d dare,” Simon said with a chuckle.

  “Shut it,” Jenny said at the same time Günter growled, “Stay out of this.”

  Bringing herself up to her full sitting height, Jenny squared her shoulders and gave the only warning she ever intended to give him on the subject. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you ever betray my brother—even if it’s with a story about me—I’ll take you out.”

  Something wicked flickered in Günter’s shadowed gaze and she knew he recalled their tussle earlier that evening. His unexpectedly saucy grin said, I’d like to see you try. Hidden dimples popped to life in his cheeks, shattering her anger.

  “Bring it on,” she goaded him, curious about what he’d do.

  Pulses of attraction vibrated along an invisible line strung taut between them. Günter’s expression darkened and heat spread across her belly when he said, low and quiet, “Don’t tempt me, sunshine. Next time I have you underneath me I—”

  “Hey, you’ve got company,” Simon yelped.

  “What are you now, St. Simon?” Günter shot, his annoyance cooling the car by ten degrees.

  “No, I mean, you’ve got company,” Simon clarified with a thumb jerk toward the rearview mirror. A red strobe illuminated the whirlwind of snow outside the back window.

  “Oh fuck,” Jenny said.

  “Hell’s bells,” Günter grumbled and withdrew his gun to check his ammo. “Were you speeding?”

  “In a snowstorm?”

  “Flunked out at Steamboat, did you?” Günter taunted, and Jenny heard a muffled thump as he tucked his gun in the door well.

  “Unlike some people, I don’t have a death wish.” Simon slowed and pulled to the right. “And for your information, I passed Bridgestone with flying colors.”

  “What’s Steamboat? Bridgestone?” Jenny asked, trying to distract herself from an overwhelming bout of nausea.

  “Steamboat, Colorado. The Bridgestone Winter Driving School. Teaches G-men and other sissies like the professor here how to drive in adverse weather conditions without breaking a nail.” Günter’s gaze remained riveted to the car in the mirror as he replied.

  “Where did you learn to drive if you’re so brilliant?” Jenny asked, catching the rhythm of the stress-cutting banter. “The Swiss Alps?”

  The lights flashed closer now, illuminating Günter and Simon in alternating slices of red.

  Günter shrugged. “Actually, yes.”

  A tap sounded on the driver’s side window and Jenny jumped, the pulse of blood so loud in her ears it nearly drowned out the mechanical click-whir of the driver side window.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Simon asked in a friendly tone.

  The man bent low and a strobe of red across his face made Jenny gasp. “Agent Gray?”

  Simon swiveled to look at her at the same time Günter whipped up his weapon to point at the agent’s face.

  “Whoa,” the agent said. “Calm down now. This is a friendly stop.”

  “How did you track us?” Günter asked at the same time Jenny wondered at the coincidence.

  “We have mutual…acquaintances,” Gray said with a feral smile.

  “Talk fast,” Günter said coolly. “My trigger finger cramps in the cold.”

  Gray’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not the one you should be worried about. I took you for someone smart enough to figure that out for yourself. Put on your safety and we can talk.”

  In the visor mirror Jenny could tell Günter’s eyes never left Gray’s face when he said, “This piece doesn’t have a safety.”

  Gray swallowed. “Fine then. You’re being framed.”

  “Tell me something I didn’t know, or stop wasting our time.”

  “Make it worth my while and I’ll give you a head start before I tell the White Tiger or the Feds what I know about where you’re headed.”

  Günter’s shoulders tensed infinitesimally. “And that alias is relevant how?”

  “Let’s just say more powerful people than you found Weber’s death a cause for celebration.”

  Simon swore under his breath before he asked, “How much do you want?”

  Gray’s pasty face flushed darker with triumph, and Jenny wondered who or what this White Tiger was that Günter and Simon didn’t just stuff Gray in the trunk.

  “Five hundred thou and I give you twelve hours head start. One million and I say you’re headed to Rome instead of London. I get a new life in a South American hot spot and you get away.”

  “Flight plans aren’t confidential anymore, Gray,” Simon said, acerbic. “But I’d be interested to see how you could forge one for us without getting us shot out of international air space when we showed in the wrong place unannounced.”

  Gray’s smile turned sardonic. “You’ll just have to trust me, then, won’t you?”

  No one spoke for a long minute. Even with the cold wind blowing snow through the open window the tension in the car made Jenny sweat.

  “I have the money,” she said when she couldn’t stand it any longer.

  Wanting to remain independent—her own person—she’d vowed to herself she’d never touch the funds David had deposited in an account for her, but the circumstances seemed to warrant going back on her promise.

  Agent Gray took her measure before training his eyes on Günter’s unwavering weapon. Jenny wondered how he kept his grip so steady when adrenaline should be coursing through his system.

  “I’ll text the account particulars to your cell from a disposable phone. You have three hours from then to transfer the money, or I’ll have you all arrested when you land.”

  The agent straightened, but Günter stopped him with a sharply worded, “Gray?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m not going to ask how you knew where we were. I can figure it out on my own. But hear this. I don’t care who you work for—DEA, CIA, or that albino mutant you call the White fucking Tiger. Screw with us again? I’ll screw you to a wall. Literally.”

  “He’s not one of my boys,” Simon muttered. “Got pussy written all over him.”

  “Shut it, Simon,” Günter said. “You playing cheerleader to the CIA is like Leona Helmsley championing the IRS.”

  “Just have this little piece of tail here get me the money,” Gray demanded with a sneer that had Jenny itching for a weapon of her own.

  “Get us out of here before I blow him away on general principle,” Günter said, voice so low it made the hairs on the back of Jenny’s neck stand on end.

  Simon peeled away and proved he’d been paying attention when they taught him how to drive into and straighten out of a skid. They spent the next twenty minutes in tense silence, the only sounds in the vehicle the whoosh of the heater and thrum of the wipers, as everyone processed the evening’s events.

  “How the hell did he find us? I scanned the vehicle before we left,” Simon mused some time later.

  Günter made a sound of disgust and withdrew his wallet. Reaching up he toggled the dome light and held up Gray’s business card. Tracing the raised metallic DEA seal he muttered, “The bastard tagged me. It’s how he knew I was at the club. How he heard so fast about the argument with—”

  Snow and wind roared into the car as Simon let down his window and snatched the card. It quickly disappeared into the night without a word of protest from Günter.

  “That kind of technology doesn’t come cheap.” Simon didn’t bother to say what else they all knew. If some
one like Gray could find them so easily, he was on a payroll for some people—and not just the DEA—against whom they didn’t stand a chance. Not on the lam, if ever.

  “What kind of pompous ass gives themselves a code name like White Tiger?” Jenny asked.

  Simon gave an amused snort.

  “So who is this character?” she pressed when Günter remained silent.

  “Let’s talk about it on the plane,” Simon said.

  Jenny gave him a quizzical look, which he caught in the headlights of a passing car.

  “We can’t trust the car’s clean after Gray. We don’t want them knowing how much—or how…” Simon paused and slid his glance to Günter, “little we know.”

  “I’m sure they know that you know who he is if Gray is waving the name about,” she pushed.

  “The White Tiger used to be the drug-smuggling arm of Durbin Garvey’s UK criminal organization.” Günter wiped condensation off his window as he spoke. “Your father used to work for his London-based money laundering operation.”

  Jenny’s skin crawled at the mention of Garvey and her father. “I’ve heard of Garvey, but not the White Tiger.”

  He looked at her as if he were surprised she’d remembered the name. Truth was, she remembered a lot of things people didn’t expect. As a kid it paid to be watchful, and careful.

  “That’s probably because your father was involved well before Bengal came on the scene,” Günter answered, then explained, “The White Tiger name alludes to the powder in the bag Gray shoved under your nose tonight—also known as Bengal or B in its most pure form. In a show of massive ego, Garvey took White Tiger on as an alias as well as a name for his trafficking operation. He wanted to own the global distribution of the drug.”

  “So…the White Tiger is a person, an organization and a drug?” Jenny frowned. “That’s awfully confusing.”

  “Actually, it is. And that’s partially deliberate,” Günter said. “In intercepted communications it’s not clear if one person, many, or a shipment of drugs is being moved. Makes it difficult to prepare law enforcement responses.”

  Closing her eyes, Jenny tried to recall what her parents had argued about the night her father was killed. All this rang a bell, but the fear from that day hung over her memory, making everything hazy.