by Jeanne Adams
“The heels?” He heard her surprise. She wasn’t as used to flirting as she was trying to let on. “Now there’s an image. A smile and high heels.”
“Hotter than hell,” he said, seeing it in his mind. He needed to coast back to cooler territory for now. “So Agent Sexy, what did you find out with your little undercover adventure?”
“Now I’m Agent Sexy? I think not.” Her verbal dismissal of the moniker puzzled him. “I’m just praying I wasn’t Agent Oh-So Obvious.”
That made him laugh. “No, I’m not sure anyone caught on, not even your friend’s date. How’s she know D’Onofrio?”
“Long story.” He heard the rustle of clothing and immediately pictured her undressing.
Biting back a groan at the thought, he said, “I’ve got time.” He’d listen to the sexy purr of her voice for hours.
“I don’t,” she laughed. “Saturday or not, I’ve got work. Tonight gave me about four more reports to write.”
“Sounds…dull.”
He liked her laugh, low, feminine, and husky. “Pretty much. So why did you want me to call, other than to tell me you liked my shoes?”
That snapped the picture of her in nothing but the strappy black shoes, stockings, and a smile back into his mind. Oh, yeah. This one got him in the gut. Not what he needed, or wanted, but sometimes, life threw you an interesting curve.
“Well,” he drawled. “I was hoping for a bedtime story, but you won’t give. What about a tale of undercover work, instead? What’s the lead?”
“Not at liberty to say, Mr. Bromley.” She made his name sound like a caress, and it was killing him. One minute she was being an agent, flirting a bit awkwardly; then she turned that hot voice on and said his name that way. Two parts of one woman, like she was out of practice, or trying not to be interested. Either possibility was a puzzle. He loved puzzles.
“So, Anastasia…” He treated her to some of her own medicine, letting her full name roll off his tongue like a caress. “What do you want from me? Intel? More lists?”
“How did you know my name’s Anastasia?” More rustling of fabric, then he could hear her sit up and her voice changed.
“It’s on your card,” he answered truthfully, frowning. What made her suddenly wary? “Problem?”
“No, no, it’s just—” She hesitated.
“Just?”
“Did you do a run on me, Gates?” The words came out in a rush. “A deep search?”
He frowned. “I did a standard run, got your general information. You know most of your data’s blocked, thanks to your job. Deep search past those blocks is illegal.” He waited for her to agree, which she did. “I read the article you wrote on data mining. Excellent information there, by the way,” he added. “Made sure you worked for who you said you worked for. That’s about it. Why? Is someone running deeps on you?”
“Someone did. The night after I set up our meet.” She muttered something else he couldn’t catch, so he asked her to repeat it. She sighed, but did so. “I said, I don’t know why I’m telling you that. Or why I believe you when you say it wasn’t you.”
“Hard to say.” He smiled into the darkness, relaxing a bit. “But I’m an honest guy. I only lie to the people I don’t like.”
“Hmmmm.” She was back to flirt mode. “So, you like me?”
He laughed when she squeaked a bit. She must have realized how it sounded. “I do, I really do,” he mocked the infamous Sally Field acceptance speech line. “Seriously. I do like you. I’d—” He hesitated, unsure. It had been so long since he’d even considered dating.
“I’d?”
In for a penny, he thought, bracing himself to do something he hadn’t done in a long time. An eternity. He couldn’t even explain to himself what motivated him, but he said, “I’d like to ask you out.” When she didn’t speak for a moment, his gut clenched. To break the tension, he added, “Ana, not Shirley.”
She laughed, and he knew she’d agree. He grinned. Now for the interesting part. “So, can you do that, working on a case, or do I have to get a writ or a special exception or something from a judge?”
They bantered back and forth for a bit, even talked about the art case, but eventually agreed on dinner the following Friday. That would give him long enough to work it out with Dav’s schedule. There was nothing on the schedule next Friday, but if he didn’t put a word in, he’d be on duty.
“Get some sleep, Agent Anastasia,” he said, wishing he could think of a reason to keep her on the phone that didn’t involve art, or the case or anything remotely akin to work.
“Thanks, I will. You too.” Damn, she sounded as reluctant as he was to hang up. He checked his watch. Two-thirty. He needed to be up by seven-thirty. That was short, even for him. “Sleep tight, Ana. And call me if you need more intel.”
She laughed as she hung up, and he enjoyed the sound as he continued to stand in the darkness. A date.
Something caught his eye, and he forgot about the date, and Ana. The watchfulness that had saved his ass in Iraq alerted him now. A trickle of unease had him tensing, scanning the darkness.
A movement to the left. He eased down, dropping to one knee to crouch in the shadow of the pillars. Silhouetted for the briefest moment, a slight figure scurried along the top of the rough security wall. There were sensors on the ground on either side of the wall, but no one had wanted to damage the decorative stone and brick structure of the original fencing.
Last time I let historic preservation prevail.
Gates eased his PDA from his pocket and texted by feel.
Sighted 1 intruder. Top of SE wall. Disabled sensors? Going 2 alert Dav. Send squad, recon & do 911.
The phone vibrated briefly, letting him know the on-duty crew had gotten the message. Gates slipped around the portico. If he was quick he’d only be visible in the porch lights for a second.
Two of the windows next to his head exploded in a shower of glass the minute he stepped into the light. He hit the deck, rolling to the far side of the inset door, and yanked the phone from his pocket.
Switching to walkie-talkie, he growled, “Shots fired, hit the windows in the front door. Missed me. Gotta have night vision. Let the cops know.”
The sudden whoop of a siren split the air. Lights sprang up all over the compound as the intruder hit one of the full-alert tripwires. It was possible the team had done it, but he doubted it. The wall wasn’t predictable in its width, and pivoting to fire a weapon from the top of it wasn’t the smartest thing.
Gates’s smile was grim. It was a twenty-foot drop along most of the backside of the seven-foot fence, and the contractor he’d hired had planted thorn bushes along the miles it took to circle the estate. Most likely, the intruder had left him a nice blood sample if nothing else.
“Boss? You okay, boss?” Declan’s voice rang out, and the kid appeared at a run, weaving to avoid fire if there was any, putting his back to a column.
“I’m fine. Single shooter, so I think we can stand down on the evasive maneuvers,” Gates stood and moved away from the wall. Another of his security team tapped on the interior glass. They signaled thumbs-up. Dav was safe, and within minutes he got word that his employer was going on to bed.
“No rest for the wicked,” he said, trudging toward the cart Georgiade had brought around. The other team had already headed out along the exterior of the wall. He and Declan would take the interior.
At four-forty-five, they found the spot where the gunman had fallen. The sensors had pinpointed it within twenty feet, but it took them a while to check the ground and begin the search along the proper stretch of wall. Sure enough a welter of broken branches, some bloody thorns, and several hanks of black fabric lay strewn around the area they illuminated with heavy-duty flashlights.
“Thompson,” he radioed back to the team at the driveway. “We’re ten feet past marker fifty-two. Bring Detective Baxter along to collect evidence,” Gates snapped. He was tired and angry. The sensual buzz he’d had from talking to Ana
had evaporated, and he was well on to full-out pissed.
How had the shooter known they were back?
The serious possibility of an inside leak reared its ugly head. And why had he been targeted, not Dav? They were built so differently, it made no sense. Perhaps it was a warning. Either way, there was another organization in play. They’d managed to mollify the last two Central American groups who’d sent hits on Dav, turning the contact to advantage rather than death. It had been exhausting and dangerous, but in the end, profitable.
More flashlights winked on and moved toward him. He wondered if any of the company phones would show an outgoing call at the time the limo left the gallery. He’d check that himself. People could—and frequently were—stupid enough to use a traceable phone for such things.
The necessity of that unpleasant task left him feeling hollow, momentarily defeated. He could guard against intruders, help redirect business issues that devolved into personal attacks, but traitors and crazy people never followed a type of any kind. They killed for reasons other than greed, and seldom for glory. Whatever cause they espoused was usually so personal, so unpredictable, they couldn’t be traced. Or prevented.
He was deathly afraid that this was a vendetta, one that couldn’t be solved with money or jail time. If the old family discord was rearing its ugly head again, he would insist on calling in some additional help. His security measures were comprehensive, but they’d need a special team if it turned out the Gianikopolis feud was heating up again.
“Bromley?” a voice called from beyond the bobbing flashlights coming toward him.
“Here!” He flipped the light he held from side to side.
The detective the county had assigned to Dav’s various cases hiked into view, along with a slender crime scene officer. For once Baxter had on jeans, boots, and a heavy canvas coat to keep out the chill, far more practical for this night’s work than his usual dark suit.
“Damn mess, this,” Baxter drawled as he shined his Maglite around the smashed landscaping. Baxter’s Texas burr made the words softer than the sentiment. He was a solid cop, but his finite county resources didn’t stretch to chasing international-level assassins.
“Got some blood, some cloth.” Gates directed the CSI officer with his light. Two of his team came up with a portable floodlight and got it working. The tech nodded her thanks but didn’t say anything, so Gates turned back to Baxter. “Not much else to go with. Tracks go nowhere. Can’t find a vehicle trace either,” Gates said, with a grimace and a flick of a hand toward the tracking dog his team had hurried out to the scene.
The dog was tugging at the end of the lead now that he’d come back from a run halfway down the scrubby hillside without alerting. The would-be assassin had evidently had a car waiting, and had disappeared fast. “One of these days I hope we actually catch one of these sons-of-bitches.”
“Tell me about it.” Baxter added his own testy note to the night’s lament. “Mr. G okay?”
“He was on the back side of the house. Didn’t even know there was an issue till the alarms went off.”
“So, who’s pissed at him this month?” Baxter grunted as he moved carefully through the thorns to the wall itself.
“The usual. Central American cartels. United Arab Emirates. Hong Kong conglomerates. Fellow Greek shippers who didn’t get business. Half of America’s corporate movers and shakers. Most of them don’t go in for shooting first, however. They’d rather kill him financially.”
“Yep, the usual,” Baxter muttered, peering at the wall. “Kelsey,” he called to the tech, waiting for her to finish bagging something before he pointed at the wall. “Got some marks here, maybe climbing pitons, but there’s some trace. Want me to get it?”
She shook her head. “Nah, I’ll do it.” She shot a look at Gates, but continued to silently collect samples where the bushes were flattened before rising and making her own careful way to the wall, bags and envelopes in hand.
He watched for a moment or two as she dug minute metal fragments from the stucco and brick, but turned back to Baxter when the man cleared his throat.
“So, off the record, you got any idea what this is about?”
Gates shook his head. “Not this one. On or off the record, I have no idea. We’ve been clear for months on the thing with Hong Kong, and the other one from Honduras. Nothing brewing to warrant a threat.” He frowned, his tired brain working slowly. “I don’t know, Bax. Seems more old-fashioned Ninja-style. Most hits these days are pretty straightforward, on the street, in the car, sorts of things. This?” He gestured at the wall and the bushes. “This is both professional and amateurish since they shot at me. I don’t know what to make of it. Besides, I’m better at the business security part of things than I am at this.”
Baxter nodded, and checked the tech’s progress. “I don’t think there’s much you need me for yet. Or that you need to be here for,” he added. “You look like hell. Go get some sleep.”
“Yeah.” Gates managed a smile. “That’ll happen.”
“So, what did you think?” Jen said as she lounged on the couch in her condo as she and Ana shared a pizza on Sunday night.
“Of the guy?” Ana pretended to be confused to buy time.
“Uh, yeah.” Jen’s sarcastic response was immediate. “I give you chapter and verse on the date, the Prometheus thing, the private jet to Vegas on Saturday, the whole deal, and you’ve barely batted an eye. You’ve got something smoking in that mad mind of yours. You’ve hardly heard a word I’ve said.”
“Oh, I heard it,” Ana stalled. She didn’t want to admit she’d been thinking about Gates. Or that she’d been running scenarios about the art fraud case. Or that she’d been wondering again about Dav and Carrie.
“So?”
“So what?” She wasn’t going to get away with that one, but how did she tell her best, most supportive friend that the millionaire she was dating was tweaking Ana’s suspicion radar? She didn’t want Jen hanging out with the guy, possibly getting into something she couldn’t get out of, but she hadn’t found anything to hang her hunch on, nothing solid. There were some peculiar things in the files, some weird codes that might even be Agency codes, some stuff about him from New Jersey, but she hadn’t had time to dig them out.
Jen sighed and set her plate aside. “I know you ran him, Ana. I could tell it at the gallery. So let’s get that out of the way. I forgive you, all right?”
Ana was shocked that Jen wasn’t going to ream her. Relief followed hot on the heels of shock. “So when I tell you he gives me the willies, you’ll know why you shouldn’t see him again, right?”
“Nonsense,” Jen parried. “Everybody gives you the willies. Stupid, if you ask me.” Jen made a tsking sound as she recovered her plate. “Look, honey,” she said, a look of sympathy suffusing her features. “You’ve had a crappy run of it. First that married guy in Rome, then the whole work deal and all that crazy scary stuff with your job. You’re gun-shy, I know it and you know it. I’m just sayin’ it’s time you got over it. You’ve never let fear get you, all these years we’ve known each other. I mean, when I met you, after your parents died, you were shy and hurt. You climbed out of that when we were in college, really played the field. Hell,” Jen laughed, shaking her head over the next words. “You blew the field wide open, girl. You went to work for the CIA.”
“I know, I know. But they recruited me,” Ana reminded her. “And I do have skills they need, right? But this guy, D’Onofrio. There’s something about him I don’t like.”
Jen rolled her eyes and continued eating pizza. “I appreciate you trying to save me from myself, honey. Here’s the thing: I like taking the risk, you know? And you used to take ’em right along with me. Don’t you think it’s about time you found that part of you again?”
“Yeah, but Karma’s a bitch, Jen,” Ana managed, feeling old and sad all of a sudden. “I screwed up. Maybe if the married guy hadn’t made me so crazy, I’d have been sharper at my job. Maybe I would have seen
things differently.”
“Bullshit,” Jen answered. “Doesn’t apply. You got screwed with that guy, sure, but I know what you give to your work. You were on the straight there, girl. Whatever was going on with him was over anyway, the minute you found out he was hitched.”
“I know,” Ana said, still fretting. “But Jen, this guy, he’s dating through an agency—don’t you think that’s weird?”
Once again, Jen rolled her eyes. “A lot of people do. He’s not perfect, right? Anyway, I’m going to see how it goes. He’s fun, you know? And what’s not to love about being whisked off to Vegas, and wined and dined?”
Nothing she could say to Jen would dissuade her from her choice. To her surprise, Jen changed tactics on her.
“Enough about me. I saw you being all up close and personal with that sexy stumbler. What was up with that? He was touching you, had his hand on your back and stuff. What’s going down? Did he ask for your number?”
Ana nodded, uncomfortable with the spotlight being turned her way. “I gave it to him.”
Jen sat up, her meal and the brief argument over Jack forgotten. “Really? You did? Oh, my gosh. Seriously?”
“Yeah, but it’s the number for the diner down the street,” Ana said without cracking a smile.
“Aaaaannnna!” Jen’s disappointment was palpable. “You didn’t.”
Ana laughed. “Of course not. I wouldn’t do that to Paolo,” she said, naming the diner’s owner. “I like his food way too much. I had a non-working number to give to anyone who asked, if that came up. They’d get the I’m-sorry-it’s-temporarily-out-of-service message and give up.”
“Why? He was prime,” Jen said, theatrically smacking her lips. “And you could tell he was interested. C’mon, what’s to lose?”
“Who said I lost anything?” she dodged. “I talked to him. As a matter of fact he gave me his number.”
“Really? Oh, man. Tell, tell,” she urged, leaning forward in anticipation.