Drew had just seconds to decide on a course of action. It would be just his luck if the brew master stopped by today for his daily tasting before Drew took care of the body. Or the stand-up comedian tour guide on duty was running ahead of schedule.
There was only one thing to do—rebury Martel beneath the hops until he could get an NCS cleanup crew in to remove the body. He eyed the stacks of fifty-pound bags beside him and grimaced.
He hefted one of the bags he’d removed earlier and paused before he tossed it on Martel.
Sorry, buddy.
Later, his crew would give the body a thorough going-over before returning it to CSIS. It wasn’t the best plan he’d ever come up with, but on the fly on the first day of a new job, with the heady scent of beer in the air, it was the best he could do.
No doubt RIOT is responsible for Martel’s death.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t thought he’d be walking into a murderous mess right off the bat.
Two to the head. It was the most effective way of shutting a man up. But it wasn’t pretty to look at.
The room was clean, the kettles gleaming and sterile. The efficient hum of machinery and the bottling machine in the next room filled the air as Drew hoisted the bag of hops onto Martel.
And wouldn’t you know it? Just at that moment his cell phone jangled over the white-noise buzz of the brewery, playing the distinctive ring he’d set up for Staci’s calls. Pointing a figurative arrow to Drew and his furtive body stashing. At least she was still alive, unless this was RIOT calling on her phone to extract a ransom.
He picked up immediately, putting the call through on his Bluetooth. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“I had the most horrendous lunch with my mother, no thanks to you.”
He let out a sigh of relief. “Lunch with your mother?” he whispered, huffing as he covered poor Claude with another bag of hops. “But you’re back safe and sound at the town house, right?”
No reply at all.
“Stace?” He dumped another bag on Claude and reached for another, imagining the worst.
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly? You either are or you aren’t. I told you to go straight home. That was the plan. You agreed.” Damn, he did not need her running around off plan in the open, playing target for SMASH. “Where are you?”
“The grocery store. I need to pick up a few things then I’ll head straight back to the condo. Promise. What can possibly happen at the grocery store?”
Plenty.
“Where are you?” Staci whispered back, mercifully picking up on his need for secrecy. “Why are you whispering? I can barely hear you. Please, please don’t tell me you’re someplace you shouldn’t be.”
“No, I’m not someplace I shouldn’t be. You are.” He dumped yet another bag of hops on Claude. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Why did it have to be so hot in the brewing room?
He went for another bag, feeling like a contestant on a game show.
How many fifty-pound bags can you stack on a dead body while placating your wife on the phone? Get ten on the dead guy in a minute and win a million dollars!
“Why don’t I believe you? Do you have your gun on you? I hope you have your gun on you,” she said, sounding way too much like a mother hen. He could hear the frown in her voice.
“Yeah, I have it. Look—”
“You’re huffing and puffing. Why are you huffing and puffing?” She paused. The silence was ominous.
“I’m at the gym.”
“You are not at the gym,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“It doesn’t sound like the gym. And if you were at the gym, you’d speak up, not whisper.”
She was smarter than he gave her credit for.
“Okay, you caught me. I’m having a nooner with a hooker.”
“Drew! That’s not funny and it isn’t noon. Do you want to try a third lie?”
“I’ll stick with two. Here’s the truth—I’m having a sack race.”
The woman drove him crazy! If she’d just followed orders …
He grabbed another sack and glanced at his watch. He had to work faster if he was going to get Claude’s hop burial mound finished and get out before being caught.
She didn’t reply. “I don’t even know how to respond to that,” she said, finally. “But if it’s a joke, you’re losing your edge.”
He was not. It was pretty damn funny if you knew the truth.
“Stace, in and out at the grocery store—no lingering, no loitering, no shopping until you drop. Get your groceries. Get out and make sure no one is tailing you on the way home. If they are, use what I taught you about losing a tail.”
“Fine, sure, whatever,” she said. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”
“Back at you. This isn’t a game, Stace.”
“I know.”
The line went dead.
He dumped a sack of hops on the faint bloodstain Claude had left behind and wiped his dripping forehead with his arm.
He just hoped those particular bags of hops never made it into the wort to be made into beer. As brand manager of Hook House Ale, he’d have to make sure they didn’t. Bloody Ale didn’t seem like the best direction to take the brand.
A few more bags and Claude was completely buried. Drew was drenched in sweat. Never let them see you sweat took on a whole new meaning.
“Rest in peace, buddy,” Drew whispered just as he caught a flash of motion in the overhead viewing windows. He dropped to a crouch and went over his options.
There was only one way out. He decided to take it boldly, hoping no one who’d recognize him would see him. Hoping no one would see him at all. He turned his back to the viewing window and strode out as fast as he could without breaking into a run. Then he texted Emmett.
* * *
That’s what I get for accidentally marrying a spy, Staci thought. A normal husband would have asked about her lunch and sympathized with her over the travails of dealing with her mother. Would have at least let her spill a few of the dreary details.
Instead of scaring her and making her afraid to go into the grocery store. The grocery store, of all places! The worst danger she faced there was boredom while she waited in the checkout line and scanned the tabloids. She had no use for them. They never told the truth.
A regular husband wouldn’t have left her creeped out and fearful, looking over her own shoulder, and wondering what exactly he was up to and how dangerous it was. Would Drew be home for dinner tonight? Or end up on a slab at the coroner’s office for her to identify? Or would she be the one on the slab?
Oh, hang it all! She was going into that store and buying something for dinner. The question was—what?
Friday night was traditionally their going-out-to-eat evening. Of course she’d love to go out to dinner. With Mandy, not Drew. She craved a good chat with her best friend and wanted her advice and perspective. As a spy’s widow, Mandy was full of valuable insight and knew how to sympathize. But under the current circumstances, the odds of Drew allowing that were exactly none.
And she was not going out as a couple, to be seen in public. In their hometown. And not just because of the sniper who’d shot at her yesterday. The very thought of bullets whizzing by her head, missing by inches, gave her a major shudder. And yet the idea of her mother finding out about her “reconciliation” with Drew from someone else scared her nearly as much. She already had Sam to worry about.
Sam! She grabbed her phone and texted him, begging him to keep his silence a little longer, saying she hadn’t found the right opportunity at lunch to tell her mom.
Staci blew out a breath. At least what she told Sam wasn’t a lie. Now for dinner. What to make?
She surfed the Food Network site on her phone, looking for a good, quick recipe. Moments later, recipe selected, she opened her car door and slid out.
Oh, good, there’s a Redbox out front. She’d just load up on a few dozen m
ovies on her way out and not have to talk to Drew at all after dinner. They could watch everything on that gigantic TV eyesore he’d bought with their money. She might as well get some pleasure out of it.
Wouldn’t it be nice if Redbox carried Mr. and Mrs. Smith?
She locked her car with a click of her key. She was just about to toss her keys into her purse when she caught a glimpse of the six-inch-long Kubotan on her key ring.
Danger lurks everywhere, she thought again, remembering Drew’s constant warnings. She shrugged. Until she was certain Drew had gotten his man, she may as well have some protection handy. Not that it would stop a speeding bullet or that she thought she’d need it in the produce aisle.
Inside the store, she grabbed a cart and wheeled down the baking aisle, shopping with her keys and Kubotan in her hand.
At midafternoon, the store was sparsely populated with shoppers, mostly over the age of eighty. And half of those rode motorized scooter carts.
Must be senior citizens’ day at the market.
On her way in, Staci had noticed a van from the senior citizen center down the street.
Expertly avoiding an old man on a scooter, Staci filled her cart with sugar and spice and everything nice. And dark, 60 percent cacao baking chocolate. A woman could do a lot of damage with dark chocolate.
Next up, the produce aisle for fresh onions, cucumbers, salad greens, and garlic. A gorgeous display of oranges caught her eye. They’d be delicious squeezed for breakfast.
She pulled her cart to a stop in front of them. As she stopped to smell the oranges, the old man she’d dodged by the sugar, shriveled and small, all baggy skin and blue veins, stopped next to her. How can you tell if an orange is ripe? If it has wrinkled skin. Which meant, she was looking for an orange exactly like him—really wrinkled.
He flashed her a toothless grin, reminding her of a kid on a go-cart.
The old man slumped over his scooter, the complete opposite of anything vaguely resembling virile. Yet lechery oozed off him like bad cologne. He stared at her legs and wedged into her personal space so close the hem of her skirt fluttered in his face.
As jumpy as she was, the last thing she needed was for him to reach out and touch her. She could see the headlines now: WOMAN STABS HELPLESS OLD MAN WITH KUBOTAN IN GROCERY STORE. MAN HAS HEART ATTACK AND DIES.
She moved on to the bananas. So did the old man, homing in so close to her that he bumped her with the basket of his scooter.
“Sorry.” He flashed her another toothy, and yet somehow lecherous, grin.
She ignored him, reached for a bunch of bananas, and froze. Five frightening inches of hairy, scary brown Brazilian wandering spider flew through the air, landed in the bananas, and scrambled toward her. Brazilian wandering spiders are aggressive and fast. One of the fastest on the planet. Staci was not particularly speedy, unless scared. Not so much as she’d like even then.
She jumped back and screamed. Hey, it had stopped the house spider in its eight-legged tracks.
The Brazilian wandering spider, however, was no coward like the common house spider. It had the passionate nature Brazilians are famous for and ran at her with a vengeance, bloodlust gleaming in its mass of eight eyes.
Retreat! Staci screamed louder, flung the bananas across the aisle, and grabbed her cart, ready to make a run for the exit. As she did, she caught a glimpse of the old man.
“Don’t like spiders, girlie?” His eyes sparkled with evil delight. He was positively, maniacally pleased with himself. And holding an empty plastic container poked with holes.
“You! You’re working for the Bevil!” she screamed and pushed off toward the exit, which was at the opposite side of the store.
“The devil, you say?” The old man fired up his scooter and took off after her.
Surely she could outrun a pokey scooter. Those things usually went like five steps per hour, max. Only the old guy’s wasn’t your regular store-variety old scooter. Someone had clearly souped it up.
When the old man kicked it into overdrive, it roared after her with the speed of an Indy racer.
Staci shoved over the display of oranges in front of him and took off. The oranges bounced and rolled every which direction. But the old guy paid no attention to them. Staci wondered if his eyesight was bad. He ran over the citrus without hesitating.
Floor orange juice—made by oranges, squashed by a lunatic old man the Bevil hired to kill her!
She remembered Drew’s instruction—when being followed, take evasive action! She just didn’t think she’d have to use the advice in the grocery store being chased by an old man on a scooter.
She pushed her cart into the old guy’s and let go. Keys jingling in her hand, she rounded the corner into the baking aisle. No way the old man could make such a tight corner in a grocery scooter.
She was wrong.
Damn him, the old man must have taken some trick driving classes. He rammed her cart aside as if it were nothing, and took the corner tightly on two wheels.
Around them, the store was mostly deserted. No one to turn to for help.
“Cleanup in produce. Can we have a mop in produce?” boomed over the loudspeakers as the souped-up scooter from hell and the demon that drove it closed in on her.
He was like Freddy Krueger—impossible to stop. Oranges and corners hadn’t even slowed him down. In the movies, a nice oil slick always stops the bad guys.
Keys jangling in her fingers, she grabbed a bottle of vegetable oil—or maybe it was canola, that was more healthy—but she didn’t take time to look. She unscrewed the lid and dumped it in the aisle behind her.
Old guy hit the oil slick and did a 180.
Staci punched the air in victory. Yes! Escape was at hand.
Just then two old ladies on scooters came around the corner.
“Stop her,” old guy yelled. “She took my wallet! And threw my bananas on the floor.”
At that moment, there were a lot more painful things Staci wanted to do with his bananas. But the old women charged toward her on their thankfully normal, slow scooters.
Old women to the left of her. Old man and an oil slick on the right. What was a girl to do?
As the old ladies maneuvered their scooters to block off her escape, Staci decided playing stuntman and vaulting over them was preferable to being run over by the old man with murder on his mind coming at her from the other side at warp speed.
Staci took off toward the old ladies, hurdling over them in a single bound. She banged her knee leaping over. And stumbled on the other side. But she caught her balance just in time and took off.
Hah-hah! Take that, she thought as she raced down the beverage aisle. She hadn’t hurdled since high school.
But just as she reached the end of the aisle, the old man swung around the corner right in front of her, blocking her escape. He was dusted with flour, which only made him look paler and more ghostly. And disturbingly like a pan ready for cake batter.
“How?” Staci said.
He cackled. “Flour soaks up oil pretty good. Use the whole wheat, though. Less messy.”
She didn’t want to have to stab him. So she grabbed the nearest weapon available, a two-liter bottle of soda pop, and shook it up good. “Come near me and I’ll douse you with diet cola. All shaken up, this thing has the pressure of a fire hose.” She was exaggerating, probably. But it must have had some spray power.
He looked skeptical and shook his head. “Diet cola! Don’t use that. I like the grape,” the old guy said, pointing. “Store variety. It’s cheap and on sale. If you were on a fixed income like me, you’d be more discerning and not waste money.”
“Oh, shut up and leave me alone.” She shook the bottle again.
He ignored her and surged forward, bumping into her before she could move. His dry, leathery hand skimmed up her leg, scratching like the shaft of a feather as he lifted the hem of her skirt and jabbed her thigh with what she thought was his bony finger.
“Hey!” She swatted his hand.
He cursed beneath his breath and bounded out of the scooter to a standing position surprisingly spryly. Before she could register her surprise, he grabbed her right arm, twisted it behind her back so hard she let out a grunt, and thrust a knife against her neck from behind. Standing, he was taller than she expected, over six feet. And surprisingly strong and steady for someone so thin who seemed to need a scooter to get around.
She swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. Drew had warned her to go straight home. Why hadn’t she listened? “What do you want?”
The aged assassin wedged the blade tighter against her neck. “Not what I’m going to get. If I were twenty years younger…”
“What you want would kill you, old man,” she said.
“Oh, but what a way to go.” He cackled and pulled her tightly against him. “Sadly, I’m going to have to kill you. With a knife. I’d hoped to make it cleaner. I thought the spider would do the trick and make your death look like an accident. It’s the deadliest one on earth, you know. And angry as all get-out after I shook it in its box.”
“Ingenious.”
“Thanks. I like to be creative in my work.” He made what sounded like an attempt at an evil, macho growl but came out more of a gurgle followed by a hacking cough.
“Smoker’s hack?” she whispered, trying to buy time as she got a good grip on her Kubotan, which she still held in her left hand on her key ring. It was the kind of brave, lighthearted thing Drew would have said. He’d always said a good quip boasts confidence.
“Pack a day, but I gave it up five years ago.” He wrenched her arm tighter.
She winced and tried to look around without moving. Where in the world were all the other shoppers? The shelf stockers? The deliverymen?
Just then a scream pierced the air, coming from the direction of the produce aisle.
“Guess they found my spider.” He laughed. “That’ll keep everyone busy and out of our hair long enough for me to get my job done.” He breathed heavily in her ear. “Didn’t think an old man like me was a threat, did you? That’s what makes me such an effective assassin.” He smelled of Bengay and bad breath as he breathed down her neck and stared down her bodice.
Diamonds Are Truly Forever: An Agent Ex Novel 2 Page 9