by Tinnean
Chapter 1
It was New Year’s Day, but that didn’t matter. Trevor Wallace, the man who ran the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security, said, “Come in,” and I came in.
This past year hadn’t been a bad one. I had gotten my usual bonuses and commendations. All that was left was to tie up a couple of loose ends for The Boss—and yeah, that was with caps—and then I’d see what I was up for: blonde or brunet for bed, Italian or French for dinner.
Ned, the day security man, wasn’t around, but I didn’t give it much thought, figuring he was in the can. He was an older man, and he’d been having problems with his prostate.
I passed his station and took the stairs to the seventh floor. Elevators were for the careless.
My secretary wasn’t at her desk in the outer office, but that didn’t surprise me either. None of the support staff were required to work on any of the major holidays. Most of the agents and directors weren’t either, but I hadn’t achieved the position of senior special agent by taking the odd day off. As far as I was concerned, I was always on the clock.
I turned on my computer, but instead of the wallpaper with Robert Sperling’s face in a bull’s-eye coming up—I’d lost good men because of him, and one day I’d make him pay in spades—a Word document opened.
By order of the President of the United States of America:
As of this date, the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security has been disbanded, and your services will no longer be required.
It was signed by the CEO of Huntingdon Corporation.
“What the fuck?” I wasn’t buying this. I stormed up to Trevor Wallace’s office on the tenth floor.
Ms. DiBlasi, The Boss’s secretary, sat staring at her monitor.
“Is Mr. Wallace in?”
“Where else would he be?” She turned to face me. Slow tears rolled down her cheeks.
Oh shit. The world must be coming to an end. I’d never seen her exhibit any emotion other than a supercilious disdain.
But I was too steamed to even knock on the door. I just shoved it open and stalked toward the desk. “What the fuck is this bullshit?”
The Boss’s elbows were propped on his desk, and his face was buried in his hands. His Glock was on the desk before him. He looked up, and it was as if he’d aged a hundred years.
“It’s over. Huntingdon has been forced into bankruptcy court.”
“But—”
“The vice president somehow learned that Huntingdon was a front for the WBIS. He’s made sure all funding has been withdrawn. I’m sorry. He’s always had a hard-on for me.”
“I guess it’s just as well he never asked you to go hunting with him.”
The Boss laughed, but it was a hollow sound at best. I’d never seen him look so lost.
“What will you do, sir?”
He nudged the gun.
“Don’t give the bastard the satisfaction!”
“It’s not a question of satisfaction, Mark.” He’d never called me anything other than Vincent. More than anything, that signified this was the end of… what? An era? The world as we knew it? “The WBIS has been my life. I’m too old to start again, and I have no intention of moving down to Florida to wind up in some senior citizens retirement facility listening to my arteries harden and playing canasta.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” It was hard to accept that The Boss was in his midseventies. He’d always been strong, vital, and in control.
“Don’t be. I’ve had a good run.” He studied me carefully. “You, though. You’ve got a long way to go. The CIA has put out feelers for you.”
“Already? How long have they known?”
The Boss scrubbed his face. “Their e-mail showed up just after the one from Huntingdon.”
“Bastards.” I laughed bitterly. “As if I’d work for those fuckers.”
“I’m requesting you do just that, Mark, if only to show them what the best can do.”
It would be like bending over and asking for it, and if anyone but Trevor Wallace had asked this of me, I’d have told him to eat shit and die. But I respected The Boss more than anyone on God’s green earth, and so I’d do it for him.
I felt my throat start to clog, something that hadn’t happened since ’91 when I’d learned Tio ’Ze, one of the decent men my old lady had somehow managed to bring home, had gone down in a nor’easter.
I cleared my throat and extended my hand. “It’s been an honor, sir.”
“I can say the same, Mark. Good luck.”
As I walked toward the door, I heard The Boss thumb the intercom and request Ms. DiBlasi to come in.
She was walking around her desk as I came into the outer office. Her eyes were dry now, and her lips were in a firm line.
“Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“Help me?”
“With the WBIS disbanded, you’ll need another job.” And at her age, it wouldn’t be easy to find something comparable to what she’d had here.
“Thank you. Trevor always insisted you were a good man.”
“And you didn’t agree?” I grinned to show there were no hard feelings. She was one of the few women who’d… not intimidated me, because no one intimidated me… but I did respect her.
“Truthfully, I had my doubts. I always suspected you were concealing something.”
The only thing I’d ever hidden was my actual birth date. I liked working in the field, and knowing when I’d been recruited that retirement was mandatory at the age of thirty-five, I’d fudged my birth records. Was she aware that I was going to be forty this year and not thirty-five as my records indicated?
And then I realized it didn’t fucking matter. I wasn’t going to be with the WBIS any longer.
“Thank you for your concern, but you needn’t worry about me. Trevor and I have discussed the future. He’ll handle everything.”
I’d always had a feeling there was something between them beyond employer/employee.
She held out her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Vincent.”
“Good-bye, Ms. DiBlasi.”
I was reaching for the doorknob when one shot rang out and then another. I paused for a second and then opened the door and left.
Chapter 2
“Working late, Mr. Mann?”
“Yes.” I’d gone down to the cafeteria, hoping it was still open. Fortunately, it was.
“That sucks on Christmas Eve.”
I smiled and shrugged. “I’m sorry to delay you, Matt.”
“No problem. We don’t have much left, but I can make you a sandwich.”
“That will be fine.”
“Mr. Vincent was here just a little while ago.”
“Oh?” When word had spread throughout the intelligence community that the WBIS had been disbanded, there had been an air of almost riotous delight. But then when we’d learned that Mark Vincent would be joining the CIA, the Company had held its collective breath. How would a man labeled a sociopath fit in?
The answer was not well. He was mocked, although never to his face, and one after another, the men who were chosen to partner him requested future assignments with anyone other than him.
“Yeah. He’s working late too.”
“Hmmm.”
“He’s not a bad guy.”
“Oh?” I frowned. I disliked when I repeated myself. “I mean, why do you say that?”
“He talks to us. Kind of like you do. Found out my kid had to have her tonsils out.”
“Jessica? I hadn’t heard.” That must have been when I was out of the country. “How is she?”
“She’s doing good. Mr. Vincent asked me how she was doing too. None of the other officers even know her name. Here you go, sir.” He handed me a Styrofoam container. “R
oast beef on rye, salt and pepper, hold the mayo. Chips and a pickle on the side. And a bottle of water.”
“Thank you.” I reached for my wallet.
“Nah, it’s okay, Mr. Mann. Merry Christmas!”
“Thank you again, Matt. And Merry Christmas to you.”
I took my dinner back up to my office. Intriguing that Mark Vincent, with his reputation for being stone cold, would show any kind of interest in people whose positions were so far below his.
I’d been observing him since he’d been with the Company, learning some very interesting things about him, and this was just one thing more to add to them.
My dinner finished and the debris disposed of in the trash, I sat at my desk and stared out the window. Although it was getting late, the sky was light, a wash of nimbostratus clouds; the threat of snow was ominously hovering over this entire portion of the East Coast.
It looked like we were going to have a white Christmas.
The door of my office opened unexpectedly, and I turned my head, an eyebrow raised. I’d given Janet Watson, my personal assistant, the afternoon off, so there was no one to screen my visitors.
“Hey, Quinn!” David Brendan Cooper sauntered in, grinning. We had worked together for some years and had been friends just as long.
“DB. The least you could do is knock,” I complained mildly.
“We’ve known each other too long. Listen, I’m calling it a day. You want to go out and have a drink, maybe grab a bite to eat?”
“I’d like to, but there are a few more reports I need to complete and file.”
“All work and no play, Quinn.”
“Yes, I know. Perhaps another time.” I smiled at him. I could afford to give him a few minutes’ conversation. “So what have you been up to?”
“Same old, same old, but never mind about me. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Why would I be anything else?”
“It’s your turn to deal with Vincent.”
“Yes, he was transferred to Operational Targeting a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry you’re stuck with him, Quinn.”
“But you’re damned glad the last thing the Company wants is Vincent within a hundred yards of our computers?”
“Sorry.” DB looked sheepish. Since that was the department he worked out of, he knew he’d be spared working with Vincent.
“Don’t be.” I brushed back the lock of hair that was always falling into my eyes. “He’s really not that bad, you know.”
“Are you shitting me? He’s Vincent!”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Listen, Quinn. I heard how you tried to be nice to him in the cafeteria once.”
“So you’re listening to gossip now, David?” He was coming very close to crossing the line with me. “Officers of the CIA have nothing better to do than pass on rumors?”
“So you didn’t?” DB never did know when to give up. That was part of what made him a good officer.
I’d seen Vincent a time or two in the cafeteria. The man ate alone, his face stony. The one time I had tried to converse with him—and it was only because Mother had raised me better than to not give anyone the benefit of the doubt—he had given me a cold grin.
“Still think I was the one who shot you?”
About a year and a half before, I’d gone to a deserted warehouse on the Patapsco River to make a buy. Bruchner, the scientist who’d developed a renewable, nonpolluting form of energy, had been unaware the company he was working for fronted for the WBIS, and when he realized that, he panicked and contacted the Company in order to make a deal: the plans and prototype in exchange for protection, a good deal of cash, and a new identity.
In the midst of our exchange, I’d been shot. The scientist vanished, leaving behind his invention in the briefcase he’d brought with him.
Mark Vincent had appeared out of the shadows.
“I suppose I should thank you for aiming low?” I kept my words and expression slightly bored, in spite of the fact that my leg wound felt as if a red-hot poker had been laid on it, and was still oozing blood.
“If I shoot, Mann, I shoot to kill.” And he’d managed to get his hands on the briefcase and disappear.
Another player on the field, this one representing the military, had succeeded in retrieving it from Vincent, but only after shooting him.
Of course he hadn’t killed Vincent. We’d learned this when he’d turned up at a meeting with my director shortly after.
Oddly enough the WBIS made no attempt to get the contents of the briefcase back.
That damned briefcase. In the end it was worth nothing; the plans and prototype were useless. We came to the conclusion that that was why Bruchner had lost his nerve.
As for the bullet, it had been traced back to a gun issued to someone who worked for the Company. I had been laid up with that wound to my thigh, but some officers had gone after Louis Buonfiglio. They couldn’t discover for certain why he’d shot me, and no one was able to ask him—Buonfiglio had been found dead in his car, and the autopsy had determined cause of death to be a heart attack.
“I could almost feel sorry for Vincent,” I said now.
“Almost?”
I gave DB a faint smile. Mann’s never let anyone see them… distracted. “As you said, it’s my turn now.”
“Yeah, Merry Christmas to you, Quinn.”
Working with Vincent had been everyone else’s worst nightmare. He was sarcastic and snarky, insisting his way was the best way, the only way.
And nine times out of ten, the bastard was right. And that tenth time? It would turn out he was right then also.
Unfortunately, my fellow officers learned this through hindsight, since they stubbornly refused to take whatever he said into consideration.
“Holmes really has it in for you.” The DCI of Threat Analysis had stepped into my director’s shoes when Bram Rayner had taken some leave to help his wife after she’d given birth to a child Mother’s generation would have called a change-of-life baby.
“No, I don’t think it’s me personally. He’s simply trying to find the right fit for Vincent.”
“Dammit, he’s not trying very hard, Quinn!”
“Oh, I’m not under any illusion that this is to be anything other than a punishment assignment for me. Holmes is riding roughshod over everyone.”
“Yeah, and no one says a fucking thing.”
“He does have friends in the Administration.” As a result, the officers in Threat Analysis had no choice but to suck it up.
And now it seemed the rest of us had no choice either.
Except for Vincent, of course. Word had it that when Holmes threatened him with demotion, Vincent had smirked and growled, “I’m working for the CIA. How much fucking lower can I go?”
And that was what struck me. Granted the man was former WBIS, but he was CIA now, and if they’d let him, he’d do a damned fine job, more than a fine job.
But one obstacle after another had been thrown in my—our—way.
“What happened this last time, Quinn?” DB asked.
“Holmes gave orders Vincent was to stay behind and handle the data I sent back, forwarding it on to the pertinent department.”
“What? You always go out with a partner.”
“Not this time. And that was where it stalled.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing was done with the information, and no matter how much Vincent pushed, he was ignored. By the time I returned to Langley, the mission had to be scrubbed.”
“Word was you were really pissed, but we all thought it was at Vincent.”
“No, he did his job.” And when I’d summoned him to my office to confront him, his expression had revealed nothing, but there was hostility in his eyes, as if he was daring me to blame him for this fiasco.
“We could have taken out that terrorist cell,” he’d said flatly.
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, Vincent.” I’d known my own expressi
on had been unfriendly, but at that point I hadn’t cared. My time had been wasted, Vincent’s time had been wasted, and the entire mission had been rendered useless. I’d run my gaze over him. “You’re not wearing your suit jacket.”
“No shit.” There were damp patches under his arms, and I found that strangely erotic.
Although not surprising. Word had quickly gotten around that Vincent didn’t take elevators, preferring to jog up and down the stairs.
“Why did they hire me if they weren’t going to use me?” His frustration was evident.
Reluctantly, I’d had to admit, “I don’t know.”
Vincent had growled out a string of curses, and I felt the tips of my ears burn. I was familiar with rough language, but how had Vincent learned to swear like that? In Portuguese?
I’d put in a call to Holmes’s assistant to make sure he was in, then said, “Let’s go.”
Vincent had curled his lip and stalked out, not waiting for me to precede him. His stride had pulled the seat of his trousers taut over his ass, and for the first time, I’d seen him as more than a fellow officer.
And wouldn’t he laugh his very enticing ass off if he realized I find him attractive, all brown-haired, hazel-eyed, six feet three inches of him?
How that came about, I had no idea. But I wanted Vincent, and lately at night I found myself thinking of him and masturbating. All it took was picturing Vincent under me in bed, his legs pulled so far back his knees brushed his prominent ears. I could imagine at first probing his hole and then sliding into his slick velvet heat. My mouth would go dry, and I’d need to reach for my cock….
Smiling ruefully at where my wayward thoughts had wandered, grateful DB was unable to see my inappropriate reaction, I said, “He’s really not difficult to work with.” Although his reaction to Holmes had been so antagonistic I’d known we’d accomplish nothing and so had sent him back to my office.
“Two words, my friend. Bull. Shit.”
“Seriously, he’s not.” If Holmes would just let us do our job…. “Never mind. I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear my tale of woe regarding our esteemed DCI. So tell me. What have you planned for tomorrow?”
“I’ll probably order some Chinese and watch a movie.” He shrugged.