Blonde Ops

by Charlotte Bennardo, Natalie Zaman

  His face fell. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No one will tell me what happened or where she is because—” I stopped. Probably because the First Lady was coming. Now that I thought about it, it seemed like suspicious timing. Was that why I thought I saw agents everywhere? Did they think that someone would try to get to the First Lady through one of us? Did they think I was a security risk? Was my record actually coming back to haunt me, as Dean Harding threatened?

  Dante’s brow wrinkled. “When did this happen?”

  Coming out of my paranoid reverie, I shook my head. “The day before yesterday.”

  “Morning?”

  I tilted my head. “I think so, why?”

  “Was it a car accident?”

  The skin on the back of my neck prickled. “Yes.”

  He looked back at the café. “Adriano’s brother Nunzio—drives the ambulanza. They cleared an accident not far from your office yesterday morning.” He shook his head. “Americans. They don’t know how to drive in Roma. They think the roads are bigger than they are.”

  My heart lunged into my throat. It had to be her. What were the odds? American, a car accident near the hotel, and on the same day that Parker didn’t show up for work?

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “I’ll ask Nunzio and he’ll find out for you.”

  I threw my arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you!” I felt better with the thought that I had a good chance of finding Parker now. So much for the Secret Service and their protocols—I had friends with connections on the local level. For the first time since Parker disappeared, I felt … hopeful.

  We pulled apart. The lights around the piazza glowed like little moons in the deepening blue velvet dusk. Dante’s gaze held mine. Closer …

  And as if on cue, music started to play—but not a romantic, a “Bec is in Rome, about to enjoy the most romantic kiss of her life” music. It was a twangy melody with a reggae beat, cutting into the night, the mood, and my brain. Total buzzkill.

  It was the phone Parker gave me before she went AWOL.

  TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

  No one wants to kiss alligator lips! Always cover yours with a balm or gloss to keep them irresistibly soft.

  10

  Who dared to interrupt my Juliet moment?

  I sighed, reluctantly backed away from Dante, and fished in my pack for the phone. The screen glowed out with a number I didn’t recognize. If it was Sophie … that might be awkward. I hadn’t gotten around to finding out how she felt about Dante. I slid my finger across the screen to unlock it and answered the call.

  “Hello?” I said.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  There was a bit of a crackle on the line, and then, at last, a voice practically blared out of the speaker.

  “It’s about time,” a man growled. The words came out deep and gravelly, and with a bit of an accent I couldn’t place. Not like Dante’s. It wasn’t Aldo, Ugi, or the designer Gianni either.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he interrupted my chance.

  “What went wrong?” he demanded.

  “You tell me.”

  That was Candace.

  “I gave you all the information I had,” he said.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it. The call was live, but clearly it wasn’t meant for me. I should hang up—

  “Ortiz is a good agent,” Candace answered him sharply, “and there’s no reason for anyone to believe it was a hit. It’s too soon.”

  A hit?

  As in an assassination attempt? My hand gripped the phone tighter.

  The man let out a short harsh laugh. “I have good reason to believe what happened to Parker Philips was definitely no accident, timing aside.”

  I felt my knees tremble at the mention of Parker’s name. My breath caught and I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. I must’ve looked upset because Dante frowned at me, a wrinkle of concern on his brow. I held up a finger, motioning for him to wait.

  “Tell me how you know,” Candace demanded. “From the initial evidence I saw, it was unavoidable.”

  “I can’t discuss this over the phone. Meet me at the warehouse on the river at Passeggiata di Ripetta. Look for the Arturo i Fredo Transporto sign. Nine thirty.”

  “See you then.”

  And the call ended.

  Passeggiata di Ripetta.

  I repeated it over and over in my head to commit it to memory. Then I looked at Dante. “That was Candace,” I said with a nervous laugh. “I have to get back.”

  “It’s too late for work. She’s pazza. Crazy.” He made little circles next to his temple with a finger.

  I might have found that funny if I hadn’t overheard that call. Was Candace crazy—or crazy dangerous? Why did the stony-voiced man say that Parker’s accident wasn’t one? Who would want to hurt her?

  There was Serena. She seemed more pleased about taking over Edge than concerned about Parker’s condition—until Candace’s surprise appearance.

  And Ortiz—but would she hurt—almost kill—Parker and put her own life at risk just to help Candace be in charge of Edge? Would Secret Service agents do that? It seemed so over the top …

  … unless they weren’t really Secret Service agents.

  But they had badges!

  I had no way of checking if they were real without raising a lot of suspicion. Could it be a deeper conspiracy of some type? Either way, I’d find out more by going to that meeting.

  I questioned my sanity, but someone hurt Parker and they needed to pay. And if that someone was Candace, I was going to make sure she got taken down, alligator pumps and all. I looked at the phone. The meeting was at 9:30—that gave me forty-five minutes to get there. I dragged Dante back to the waiting Vespa.

  “I can’t be late, Dante, we have to go. Can you take me to the Hotel Beatrici?” I didn’t want him to drop me off at the warehouse because there would be questions I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, answer. I knew that Dante would insist on staying with me, and I didn’t want to involve him in what could be a dangerous situation, or put him in a position to rat me out. And how could I be stealthy with a gorgeous hunk driving a noisy chameleon-green Vespa?

  “Si.” He looked a little downcast that our date was over. Hopefully there’d be another one soon.

  The ride back to the hotel was chilly, and I snuggled against his broad back for warmth. The city was no quieter than it’d been when I’d left the office; people were still everywhere, walking, chatting, and sipping espresso from tiny cups or dark wine in deep goblets on sidewalk tables.

  When he skidded to a stop near but not in front of the hotel, I jumped off and strapped his extra helmet onto the Vespa, then stepped back.

  “Arrivederci, Bec,” he said softly, his eyes shining in the lamplight.

  “Ciao, Dante.”

  With a smile, he buzzed out of sight.

  No kiss, but still, a bella notte—while it lasted.

  Quickly I walked a block away from the hotel to hail a cab, not wanting to bump into the agents, or even any hotel staff who could run to Candace tattling about my comings and goings.

  I hailed a taxi.

  “Passeggiata di Ripetta by the river,” I said to the driver. Scanning around, I was pretty sure no one saw me.

  As soon as I shut the door, the cab took off with a squeal and a lurch that slammed me into the back seat. The old guy who picked me up at the airport was agile; this woman was a lunatic on a suicide mission. She took a hard right that sent me sliding across the seat so that I almost hit the door. I gripped the seat belt and tried hard not to think about car accidents—with Parker on my mind and this daredevil, that was pretty much impossible.

  She slowed only when we reached the river; I could see the lapping water between the buildings as we rolled past warehouse after warehouse. I waved my hand for her to go a little farther in case she didn’t understand. I didn’t want to get out too near the meeting place.
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  “I got you,” she said in English, then looked over her shoulder at me. “Interesting tourist site.”

  I met her eyes in the rearview mirror. Her lips pressed into a thin line, a disapproving look on her face.

  “Be careful, bambina,” she said. “You want I wait for you?”

  There were no people or cars or cabs out here. And who knew what was lurking in that warehouse besides Candace and whomever she was meeting?

  “Si,” I said. “I won’t be long.”

  I hoped.

  She nodded, cutting the engine and shutting off the lights as I slid out. I heard the click of the door locks.

  Staying in the shadows, I walked around the warehouse, and spying the faded Fredo Transporto sign, I knew I was in the right place. Around the corner of the building, I passed cracked windows grimed over with soot and dirt and eventually found a door. After a quick glance to make sure no one was around, I ran up to it and stopped in dismay. It had an electronic keypad lock. Cracking this would cost me extra time that I didn’t have. Lucky for me, it was a cheap setup. I didn’t have the equipment for disabling a more sophisticated system. Carrying the necessary tool in my luggage, even if I had it, would have instantly gotten me yanked out of the security check into a room for a full body search and interrogation.

  Sliding my backpack off, I pulled out my penlight. A swift look up assured me I was still alone. Using my hand to shield the light, I turned it on and searched the ground near the door.

  Not too far from the walkway was a patch of dirt, bare of grass, dried and hard packed. I ground it with my foot, creating a powdery dust. I scooped up a small handful, went back to the door, and gently blew dirt onto the keypad. The penlight showed it stuck to four numbers: 3, 5, 6, and 8, where residual skin oils remained from repeated pressing on the pad. It was almost like dusting for fingerprints.

  That meant only twenty-four possible combinations if it was a four-digit code string. It wasn’t a high-end lock, so it probably had a shorter sequence of numbers and wouldn’t freeze up with too many wrong combos, like a computer would after three incorrect passwords.

  I began with 3, 5, 6, 8.

  Then 3, 6, 5, 8.

  Sweating, I rushed. Being caught picking a lock on a warehouse would be the most legitimately jail-worthy thing I’d done to date, taking me from hobbyist-hacker to criminal-cracker.

  Focus! If Candace or the man shows up early …

  5, 6, 3, 8.

  Click!

  I slipped in and closed the door behind me. A dim bulb hung from a rusted metal beam cast a weak circle of light. Stacks of boxes lined the walls. I peeked into one; it was empty except for some straw packing, old newspapers, and splinters of wood.

  A garage-type door on the far side of the building began to slide open, and I quickly slunk around a stack of smaller crates, careful not to bump into them. First one, then another dark car drove through. I moved a bit farther back; I didn’t know who or what I was dealing with, and at the moment I couldn’t think of a plausible lie as to why I was in this section of town, in a locked warehouse, at this time of night. Oh yeah—and uninvited.

  I gulped. I knew Candace had some sort of martial arts training; I saw her demolish a huge rolling wardrobe rack with a well-placed side kick when a designer tried to make her wear his reworked polyester leisure suit on an episode of You Want Me to Wear That? The expression on his face told me and the other four million viewers that it was for real.

  Before the engines shut off, I dashed into a box that had fallen onto its side and eased the lid closed. There was a small crevice where the wood had cracked, leaving me a slit to see through. Out of the first car, nearer to the feeble light and me, stepped Candace. Gone were her couture suit and coordinating bag. Even the alligator pumps got the night off. Now she wore dark pants, a dark jacket, and dark shoes.

  From the second car, farther back and swathed in darkness, two figures emerged. The bulkier one stood off to the side. The other was tall, but I couldn’t see either of their faces. All I could dimly make out was the profile of the second man; slouchy, with a big nose. He loped farther back into the dark with an uneven gait, probably maneuvering around the debris that lay all over the floor.

  Bec, you are stupid. If something goes wrong, no one knows you’re here except the cab driver—if she hasn’t left. What if Candace and company check to make sure the place is empty?

  “What happened to your information?” she demanded, interrupting my mini panic attack.

  “Beautiful as always, Candace.” It was the gravelly voice of the man on the phone.

  She huffed, then gave a grudging nod. “Thanks.”

  “Come now,” he tsk-tsked. “You need to relax, slow down. It’s the way things are done in Italy.”

  “I can’t afford to ‘relax,’” Candace said hotly. “That hit—”

  “—clearly missed its intended mark,” he finished for her. “It put a glitch in my plans too. I shared what information I had. It should have been enough. Obviously someone didn’t use it.”

  “It was more than a glitch,” Candace grumbled.

  What was the “glitch”? That Parker was hurt instead of killed? It was becoming clearer to me that Parker wasn’t simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, an innocent person in an everyday car accident. She’d been in someone’s way.

  The Man continued. “It won’t be the last problem, I’m sure. If you can’t do your job, then there’s no sense in wasting my time with future meetings or exchanging information. I can’t afford any more unexpected surprises and neither can you.”

  “Don’t worry. I can do my job, whatever it takes,” she said, her tone quiet and menacing.

  I inhaled sharply. What kind of people was I mixed up with? Candace was starting to scare me. I prayed, like the good sisters at St. Xavier’s taught me, to not sneeze, breathe too loud, or do anything that would draw attention to my presence. Panic urged me to run. Now. But slow shallow breaths helped calm my nerves enough to realize that would be the worst thing I could do. Before, I’d always felt safe behind my hacks: I was anonymous, faceless. That would not be the case here.

  Candace rubbed her temple as she paced a step or two to the side. Her footsteps were silent—she must’ve been wearing rubber soled shoes. How convenient for running away from bad guys or sneaking up on good ones. My wedges wouldn’t be as forgiving if I had to dash away. Fashion could be a killer—literally.

  She jammed her hands on her hips, and when she spoke again, her voice took on a worried tone. “I didn’t expect things to start so soon. I need better information next time or you can forget getting any information from me.”

  The Man laughed. “If I remember right, I’m doing you a favor.”

  “That favor backfired,” she shot back.

  “Not my fault,” he said in his grating voice. “Nothing in this business is absolute, you know that. Maybe if you’d done some checking, you would have discovered that. You have to do your own snooping. I don’t have all the answers.”

  Anger bubbled in my throat. I hated how they were talking about Parker as if what happened to her were nothing more than a screwup.

  “I can and will only give you details that won’t disrupt my own plans,” he went on. “Unfortunately, timing is never an exact science—”

  Candace glared at him. “I can’t have a dead First Lady.”

  Dead?!

  Then what did she want?

  Oh. God.

  Did Candace want to kidnap Theresa Jennings? And what part did the Man play in this horrific scene? Was he just selling information, or was he more of a coconspirator or a terrorist? Paid assassin? Foreign spy?

  He said the timing wasn’t exact …

  Could Parker have been mistaken for Mrs. Jennings? She did look like her, I’d said as much when we met. If that was the case, then whoever caused the accident put Parker in the hospital thinking it was Mrs. Jennings. The First Lady wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow—but the culprit
might not have known that. Candace said the timing was off. Maybe they saw Parker and assumed the First Lady arrived early. That explained why we didn’t hear anything about the accident. Was Parker still in danger now that they knew they’d gotten the wrong person? I really needed Dante and his cousin Nunzio to come through with her location—so I could warn her.

  My heart pounded so loud in my ears I was surprised no one else heard the hammering. My foot was starting to go numb from my being crouched down. I shifted my weight—

  —and the box squeaked.

  Damn!

  I held my breath when Candace glanced in my direction. I froze and tried to calm my panic. This could be serious—deadly, maybe. Thankfully, she turned away.

  I had to warn the Secret Service—the real ones—about the threat to Mrs. Jennings. I had intel and they needed to hear it. But first I had to get out of here alive.

  Pack your red leather suitcases, Candace, I thought. You’re going down.

  TRICKS AND TIPS FOR THE EDGE-Y GIRL

  What’s in your bag? You don’t need to be a scout to always be prepared. Always carry the essentials: cash, cards, phone, and keys—that double nicely as an emergency screwdriver.

  11

  The Man’s partner, who’d been standing still by the driver’s-side door mostly out of sight, moved slowly forward. I’d been so intent on listening to the deadly plot that I hadn’t paid him much attention. Now he was heading where Candace glanced—my direction. What would he do if he found me?

  I looked around for a weapon. Next to the crate on the cement floor was a long, sharp sliver of wood. I could count on a million splinters in my palm if I had to use it, but a stab to his calf would put him out of commission—maybe long enough for me to get away. It was too late to take off the wedges if I had to make a run for it. Hopefully Candace and the Man wouldn’t get in on the chase. Gingerly, and oh so carefully, I picked it up without making any noise.

  He shuffled closer and against the pounding of my heart, I tried to inhale silently through my nose.… My eye to the crack, I could see his shoes, highly buffed, pause next to my box. One false move.… The blood thrummed in my ears. How could he not hear it? It was only moments, but it felt like hours that I sat and he stood, only inches apart.