Close Quarters

by Emma Harrison

  As soon as he hit the dance floor, Vaughn made the snap decision to travel along the wall, taking the longer route. It would probably be faster than trying to cut through the tightly knit partyers in front of him. He moved as fast as he could, heading for the door he’d seen from above, hoping he wasn’t too late.

  Sidestepping a couple of lovers who were mauling each other next to the exit, Vaughn reached into his jacket and placed his hand on the butt of his gun, just in case. Then he turned to the side and slammed through the door.

  The pelting rain hit Vaughn’s face, and the first thing he heard was Marianna’s scream. Vaughn withdrew his weapon and whirled to the left. What he saw made his blood run cold. Carlos had Marianna pressed up against the wall, his face buried in her neck. She looked at Vaughn, her makeup running down her face from the rain, her eyes terrified. This guy wasn’t trying to assassinate Marianna, he was trying to rape her.

  “Get away from her!” Vaughn shouted, aiming his gun at Carlos’s head. He had to blink rapidly to clear the raindrops that were gathering around his eyelashes.

  “Michael!” Marianna shouted.

  Instinctively, Vaughn ducked, and Roberto came flying into view, having lost his balance from the momentum of his missed blow to Vaughn’s head. He righted himself quickly and threw a right hook, which Vaughn easily blocked. He backhanded Roberto with his gun, then spun around and landed a roundhouse kick directly to his jaw. There was a loud crack before Roberto went down, knocking his head on the rain-slicked concrete.

  “Roberto!” Carlos shouted, finally releasing Marianna. She slid to the ground, hugging her knees, as Carlos advanced on Vaughn. Once again, Vaughn trained his weapon on Carlos’s chest.

  “I wouldn’t take another step if I were you,” he said.

  Carlos stopped and raised his hands in the air, swallowing hard. His thin white shirt was plastered to his heaving chest as he stared at the barrel of the gun.

  “Up against the wall,” Vaughn said, gesturing with his gun. Carlos did as he was told, and Vaughn pulled out his handcuffs and secured the man’s hands behind his back. “You can have a seat,” Vaughn said. His gun still trained on Carlos, he whipped out his cell phone, called Chloe, and told her to alert the NYPD.

  Vaughn glanced down at Marianna’s form against the wall and felt himself soften toward her slightly. She looked very wet, very small, and very scared.

  “You all right?” he asked, standing over her.

  Marianna nodded slowly, her eyes locking with his. She was still petrified, but also grateful. Vaughn smiled reassuringly as they heard sirens wail down the street. Maybe from now on, Marianna would trust him.

  5

  VAUGHN WALKED INTO MARIANNA’S hotel room, leaving her outside with two of her father’s security men, and performed a quick sweep of the room. He checked closets and looked behind curtains and under beds until he was certain the space was secure. When he opened the door to tell Marianna to come in, she was leaning against the wall, chin tucked, Vaughn’s trench coat pulled tightly around her small frame. They had already been to see her extremely concerned parents, and Marianna had put on a great act for them, telling them she was fine and Vaughn had protected her. She’d basically laughed the whole thing off.

  But now, seeing her all withered and broken, Vaughn realized that what had happened had affected her more than she’d let on.

  For the second time that night, Vaughn’s heart went out to her.

  “It’s all clear. You can come in,” he told her, stepping back.

  Marianna lifted her head, shaking her damp curls back, and slipped into the room. She walked into the center of the thick pink carpet and paused, staring off toward the window.

  “Are you okay?” Vaughn asked gently, keeping a safe distance from Marianna. She looked coiled, like she might lash out if anyone got too close.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said finally. “I think I just need to get out of these clothes.”

  She handed Vaughn his jacket, crossed over to the large dresser against the wall, and pulled out a few things. Then she trudged slowly over to the bathroom and paused in front of the door.

  “Where’s Dominic?” she asked over her shoulder.

  “Your father sent for him,” Vaughn told her.

  “He’s in for a tongue-lashing he’ll never forget,” Marianna said with a sigh. She turned to look at Vaughn, her brown eyes uncertain. Her nose was red from crying, and her makeup was still smudged and smeared. “Do you think . . . would you mind staying for a little while?”

  Vaughn swallowed. He definitely had a soft spot for vulnerable women. That was something Betty would tell him to work on if she knew. A CIA agent couldn’t have any such weaknesses—it would make him too easy to manipulate. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hang out until Marianna was comfortable enough to go to sleep. After all, watching over her was his job.

  “Sure,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll be right here.”

  Marianna smiled in return and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Vaughn sat down on the couch and pushed up the sleeves of his black sweater. He thought about turning on the TV but resisted. It was Marianna’s room, and she was the one who had been attacked. He would wait to see what she wanted to do. He heard the hair dryer hum to life and sat back to wait

  When Marianna emerged a few moments later, her hair was up in a high ponytail and her face was makeup-free. She wore cozy slouch socks and a pair of black leggings topped by a huge Harvard sweatshirt. She looked like any other college coed, except she was a touch more beautiful than the average Jane.

  “Stylish, huh?” she said, noticing him eyeing her outfit.

  “Better,” Vaughn replied truthfully.

  “Not into glamour girls, then?” Marianna asked, flopping onto the couch beside him. “Actually, I’m not surprised.”

  “Women don’t need all that stuff,” Vaughn told her, slumping down a bit, getting comfortable. “I don’t know what makes them think they do.”

  “‘Society,’” Marianna joked, making air quotes with her fingers. Then her face fell and she scooted down into the couch as well. “I guess if I hadn’t dressed the way I did tonight, Carlos and Roberto would have never—”

  “Don’t finish that sentence,” Vaughn said, his eyes flashing. “You’re a smart woman. You know as well as I do that there’s no excuse for what those guys did.”

  Marianna nodded slowly, staring across the room at the blank TV screen. “I still can’t believe it. I’ve known those guys since I was still crawling. We used to finger-paint together, go riding at their father’s estate. . . . I guess you never know who you can trust.”

  Vaughn’s thoughts instantly turned to his former friend, Don Hewitt, a guy he’d trained with at the Farm and grown to trust with his life—until he’d revealed himself to be a traitor and killed Vaughn’s mentor, Steve Rice. After that, Vaughn had been certain he’d never trust anyone again. But over the last few months, he’d learned that without trust he and Chloe would never be able to pull off a mission. Sometimes you just had to put your life in someone else’s hands. Sometimes there was no other option.

  “I hate to ask this, but you don’t think they’re part of La Rappresaglia, do you?” Vaughn asked.

  Marianna scoffed, toying with the hem of her sweatshirt. “They have neither the originality nor the intelligence. That’s probably why I always thought they were harmless.”

  The sorrow in her voice touched Vaughn, but he could think of nothing comforting or wise to say, so he sat there in silence, waiting for Marianna to continue. She was so different now that she’d let her guard down—or had it torn down. Ever since the cops had shown up to haul Carlos and Roberto off, there hadn’t been one quip, one insult, one fake flirtation. Vaughn would have almost liked this new Marianna if not for the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her out.

  “Do you think La Rappresaglia is going to succeed?” Marianna asked suddenly. Her skin seemed somehow paler in the
dim light from the couch-side lamp. “Do you think they’ll kill my father?”

  “Not if we can do anything about it,” Vaughn answered automatically, the words coming out as if they’d been programmed. He knew the CIA would do everything it could, but so far La Rappresaglia wasn’t giving them much to go on.

  “I’m worried about him. These people seem serious,” Marianna said. “My parents try to shelter me from these things, but I’m not stupid. I know what goes on in my own country. I know that the hatred these people feel for my father is real.”

  She sat up straight as she spoke and tucked one leg under her, turning to face Vaughn. He followed her lead and pushed himself up as well. Serious conversations demanded a more serious posture. He looked into Marianna’s eyes and saw something very familiar reflected in their depths.

  “You really love your father, don’t you?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds.

  “My family is very important to me,” Marianna replied firmly. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect the people who care for me.”

  Vaughn felt another tug at his heart, and he glanced down at the flowered pattern on the couch cushion between him and Marianna. Just like Vaughn’s father, Toscana had chosen a profession that put him in a dangerous position. The fact that he was an important person who did great things didn’t make the constant worry any easier for his family.

  “Things are not perfect in Italy right now,” Marianna said. “I understand the issues these people have. . . . I do. But I do not believe my father has to die. What will more death solve?”

  “Nothing,” Vaughn said. “But try getting the rest of the world to believe that.”

  Marianna smiled and looked down at her hands. “I want to say something I never say,” she told him. “I’m sorry for the way I have been acting with you.”

  A million sarcastic replies flew into Vaughn’s head, but he refrained from saying anything. He could tell Marianna was serious, and he didn’t want to kill the moment.

  She looked up at him tentatively. “I still think I’m too old for a baby-sitter. My parents think of me as a helpless fourteen-year-old. They’re always telling me what to do and where to go. . . .”

  Here it comes. The “poor little rich girl” speech, Vaughn thought.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not spoiled,” Marianna said, noting the expression of disapproval on Vaughn’s face. “When we are in Italy, I accept protection when I have functions to attend and responsibilities to fulfill—my father’s position puts us all in the spotlight, and it’s fine. But this was supposed to be a vacation for me. A vacation from everything. I didn’t want some stranger following me around.”

  Vaughn processed her argument and realized that she did have a point. Yes, there were people in the world who had much bigger problems, but that didn’t make Marianna’s feelings any less valid. Everyone had issues, no matter what their station in life.

  “I understand,” Vaughn said finally.

  Marianna smiled her thanks.

  “But you can’t blame them for wanting to take care of you,” Vaughn added. “You are their only child.”

  Vaughn saw something flit across Marianna’s face at that moment—anger, resentment—something dark. But it was gone so fast, it was easy to believe he had imagined it. Perhaps she hated that all the focus was on her, being the president’s only child.

  “Well, I am glad you were there tonight,” she told him, looking away again. “Thank you for that.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Vaughn said sincerely. “I only wish I had gotten there sooner.”

  Marianna smiled, and for the second time that night, they locked eyes. Vaughn felt his heart respond with a thump to her unabashed stare. He found himself dropping his gaze to her perfect, full lips—imagining what she might do if he just leaned forward and—

  No! A little voice in his mind called out. He blinked, breaking eye contact, and stood up. Don’t go there, he thought, wiping his palms against his thighs. You cannot go there.

  “I’m starving. You want anything from room service?” he asked, crossing to the phone.

  “No thanks,” Marianna said. She reached for the remote and clicked on the TV. Vaughn felt his shoulders relax as a laugh track blared through the speakers. Just like that, the moment was over, the tension gone.

  Just don’t let it happen again, he told himself as he dialed room service. Romance on the job is never a good idea. Especially when you have to answer to Betty Harlow.

  6

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING VAUGHN woke up feeling rested, refreshed, and, happily, very unromantic. He dressed quickly in a no-nonsense blue suit with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie. As he buttoned his jacket, he stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror.

  “Last night was a blip,” he told himself, yanking down his sleeves. “It was the whole damsel-in-distress thing. Nothing more.” He took a deep breath, smoothed the front of his jacket, and glared at himself, erasing all thoughts of Marianna and her Botticelli beauty. “Get it together, Vaughn.”

  Luckily, Marianna was going to be with her mother and father all morning at the UN, and there was enough security there to protect all of Italy, let alone the first family. After that, they had family events planned for the rest of the afternoon. Vaughn had the day off from baby-sitting to help Chloe and review all the evidence she had gathered while he’d been out with Marianna the day before.

  No Marianna duty meant no potential flirting situations. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Vaughn’s cell phone trilled, and he grabbed it from the bedside table where it rested on top of his English-Italian dictionary. He’d decided to spend some time brushing up on his vocabulary the night before just in case he overheard something important. Being with Marianna and her friends at the club had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t quite the Italian expert he’d believed himself to be. He was close, but thanks to ever-changing slang, he was not there yet.

  He hit the Answer button and brought the phone to his ear. “Vaughn.”

  “Hey, it’s Chloe. You better get up here. I think you’re right about Dominic.”

  Vaughn’s heart slammed into his rib cage. “I’ll be right there.”

  He slipped his cell phone into his pocket, holstered his gun, and rushed out of the room. One glance down the hallway at the crowd of people waiting for the elevator and he opted for the stairs. He took them two at a time to the HQ floor a couple of stories above, his imagination running away with him. In his mind’s eye he saw Dominic holding Marianna hostage; saw him with a gun to the president’s head; saw him in dark, clandestine meetings with the other members of La Rappresaglia.

  Vaughn felt a hot sheen of perspiration form over his skin as he emerged from the stairwell. What had Chloe discovered? Was Marianna in immediate danger?

  The security at the hotel wasn’t quite as state-of-the-art as the precautions that secured the Outer Rim. Two agents were stationed on either side of the door to the HQ suite, and even though Vaughn had known them for months, they still checked his ID. As soon as they nodded their approval, he burst into the suite. Chloe, Elena, and Barry all looked up from their computer screens. The thick curtains were drawn to block the glare of the early-morning sun from the monitors, giving the room an ominous, almost funereal feel. Vaughn took a deep breath.

  “What did you find?” he asked, quickly crossing the dusky room.

  “Elena’s tap picked up a conversation early this morning,” Chloe told him, rising from her chair. She was uncharacteristically rumpled, and her wide eyes were droopy and rimmed in red, as if she hadn’t slept all night. Her hair was braided loosely down her back, and her white shirt was untucked from her slacks, which had deep creases in the fabric.

  Vaughn glanced at Elena and Barry. They both looked tired and harried as well. There was a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s next to Elena’s computer.

  “Long night?” Vaughn asked, eyeing the bottle.

 
“Oh, we’ll get to that later,” Elena said dismissively.

  “Why didn’t you call me earlier? I would’ve been here,” Vaughn told Chloe.

  “You had a long day yesterday. We called you when we were sure we had something.”

  “Ignore your sympathies next time,” Vaughn told her. “I’m here to do a job.”

  “Got it,” Chloe said with a smile.

  Vaughn smiled back. “Good. Now, I assume you have a recording of this conversation.” He stood behind Elena and Barry, who were both clicking away at their keyboards. He crossed his arms over his chest, all business.

  “Cuing tape . . . now,” Barry said. He reached over and flipped a switch on the nearest speaker.

  “Pronto?” Dominic’s gruff voice boomed from the speakers.

  “Sorry!” Barry exclaimed, scrambling to turn down the volume.

  “It’s me,” a male voice replied, much lower than Dominic’s. An American male’s voice. Barry sat back again. “We got the items you requested. And you might wanna bring a little extra cash. My supplier went above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “What else did he get?” Dominic asked in English.

  “I’d rather not say over the phone, but I will say that you won’t have any trouble threading the needle with this stuff.”

  Vaughn and Chloe exchanged a glance, and he actually felt the air sizzle between them. Oh, how Vaughn loved it when a suspect thought he was being clever but instead gave up the whole game. Up to that point the two men could have been talking about anything from drugs to diamonds. But threading the needle was a euphemism for aiming at a difficult target. That meant weapons.

  There was a short pause on the recording, as if Dominic had also realized his contact’s blunder. Then the bodyguard spoke again. “Where’s the meet?”

  “There’s an old abandoned pizzeria at the corner of Union and Bond in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn. We’ll be there at nine A.M. and we’re leaving at five after, so be on time.”