by Odell, Terry
Down here, bikini-clad women sashayed past his chaise on their way to and from the bar, many slowing down and offering flirtatious smiles. As they strolled by, he couldn’t help but think this was an ass man’s paradise.
Focus, idiot.
Fingering the St. Christopher’s medal hanging around his neck, Jinx concentrated on his new persona and cover story.
“Shouldn’t be much different from role-playing computer games,” Zeke had said.
Only this time, it was face to face, not behind the security of a computer. The lives that might be lost were real, and there were no do-overs. No replays. Hours of briefings at the compound were one thing. Having to create and maintain his cover among strangers was another thing entirely. His stomach was doing the rumba, not listening to his brain.
Role playing. You can do it.
Jinx squeezed his medal for luck and set the Margarita next to the two empties on the round glass-topped table beside his chaise and picked up his cell phone. He fit right in. No surprise that at least two-thirds of the people around the pool were either talking, texting, or messing with a tablet. They would just as soon cut off an arm than go unplugged.
He scrolled through his contacts for the number he and Zeke had set up. Should anyone be able to trace the call, it would appear to go to a dummy communications company—the one he’d supposedly been fired from. A reliable piece of intel he’d gathered was that this resort was a so-called recruiting ground for the cartel.
He thought about Dalton, the team member who could fit in anywhere, scam his way to wherever he needed to be. This would be the perfect assignment for him, but—and it was a big but, because he was still among the missing—Dalton’s historic compulsion to eliminate drug lords meant it was likely he’d have run into people he’d met up with before.
Realizing he was procrastinating, Jinx pressed the call button. Zeke answered immediately. “Treadwell.”
“How’s everything at the office? Any progress on the new project? Assuming you’re allowed to tell me now that I’m persona non grata.” They hadn’t gone so far as to create an actual code, but keeping their transmissions short, vague, and in character on the slim chance someone was listening, seemed prudent.
“Slow, but we’re getting there,” Zeke said. “Don’t see why they cut you. More hands would help. Although the Aussie thinks he’ll have one of those bugs worked out by sixteen hundred.”
Which meant they still hadn’t located the team. From the original message Fozzie had sent, they’d learned the team had disappeared, in all probability taken wherever the creeps planned to move Crystal Montlake. Now what they needed was an insider, and Jinx had been elected. All he needed to do was infiltrate the cartel’s communication center, figure out where everyone was, and get them out. Oh, and as long as he was there, plant a program into their system so they could monitor communications and let the agencies responsible for dealing with drug traffic into the loop.
Sure. Piece of cake.
His stomach did another rumba.
“What’s it like down there?” Zeke asked. “Have you met anyone interesting? Started networking for a new job?”
Jinx scanned the area. No sign of Crystal’s stud. “Not yet. I’m sitting by the pool, soaking up a few rays. Getting the lay of the land.”
“And probably whining about your sorry lot to anyone who will listen,” Zeke said.
Despite Jinx’s reluctance, making himself a target was the plan, and he’d been getting the word out, per instructions. Fozzie, meanwhile, had been screwing with the cartel’s communication system so they’d be hunting for a new recruit.
“I was shafted, and you know it.” Jinx scanned the pool area again.
Crystal’s friends had provided a decent description of the man Crystal had gone off with. Based on the sketch a Blackthorne artist had created, the stud in question bore a strong resemblance to Rafael, a drug lord Blackthorne, Inc. had crossed paths with on numerous occasions. And Dalton held a particular grudge against him. No wonder he’d modified the extraction plan.
“Anything else?” Jinx said.
“Best action’s usually at the bar,” Zeke said. “Catch you later.”
Jinx disconnected and checked the time. He had two hours before Fozzie’s final step was in place. He gulped down his drink, trying to get rid of the dryness in his mouth. Time to become a field operative.
Role playing. You can do it.
Jinx rose. Holding the back of the chaise for support, he did his best imitation of an intoxicated retreat toward the tiki bar at the far end of the courtyard.
“A man’s entitled to a drink or two when he gets fired, don’t you think?” Jinx said to the bombshell of a bartender in the skimpy bikini. He settled onto a barstool, swaying and gripping the edge of the bamboo-trimmed bar. “I am—was—the best damn RF engineer at Treadwell, and I’m still the best damn RF engineer anywhere.” He hid behind his dark glasses, afraid everyone could tell he was a total phony, afraid they’d see his words for what they were. A script. One that needed a lot more rehearsing.
“Hey, you!” Jinx pointed to another bartender. Male, mahogany-colored skin, bright white teeth, and sporting a tank top that did nothing to disguise a well-developed six-pack. “You know anyone looking for a damn good engineer? And I’m second to none in cell phone security.” Jinx tapped his chest. “I’m newly available.”
The man nudged the woman out of the way. “I’ll take care of him.” He extended a hand to Jinx. “Welcome, Señor. I’m Ric.”
“Rick the bartender?” Jinx said. “Casablanca? Bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”
The man shrugged and set a coaster in front of Jinx. “In truth, my name is Ricardo, so I don’t mind. What can I get you?” he said in English with only the slightest trace of an accent.
“Aside from a job? How ’bout a beer. ’Druther have a Scotch, but we unemployed have to watch the budget. Blowing most of my severance pay on this place.”
Ric set a chilled bottle of Dos Equis and a frosty mug in front of Jinx, along with a tall glass of ice water. “Important to stay hydrated.” At Jinx’s glower, Ric lifted his palms in a submissive gesture. “Hey, it’s routine. Boss insists. Not good for the resort image to have people passing out. I haven’t seen you here before, and we don’t want any of our guests suffering from heat issues.”
Jinx grumbled a thanks and downed a third of the water. He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t talk like... you know... a local. You from around here?”
“Originally, yes, but I went to school in the States.”
Jinx wiped his mouth. “And you ended up here?”
“My parents are getting old. This way, I can be closer. And the money’s good.” He cut his gaze to a bevy of women in scanty swimwear sitting at the far end of the bar. A shapely brunette lifted her glass in his direction. “The fringe benefits aren’t bad, either.”
Jinx checked the time. Things should be hitting the fan pretty soon, creating the need for a specialist in communications. He motioned for the tab, making sure his room number and cover name were big and bold when he signed it. He fished in his pocket for cash, and slid a twenty across the bar. Picking up his beer, he said, “I think you were right about too much sun. I’ll finish this in my room. Thanks for the advice. And if you hear of anyone hiring, think of me.”
Ric pocketed the twenty, giving Jinx a conspiratorial smile. “Gracias, Señor.”
Maintaining the pretense of being unsteady on his feet, Jinx worked his way across the courtyard to the hotel lobby, where he went straight to the elevators. He entered the suite through the bedroom door, figured he had time for a quick shower, and turned up the volume on his cell. He set it beside the sink where he’d be able to hear it ring, vibrate against the counter, or see it light up if a call came through.
The hot water washed away fatigue and tension, but Jinx couldn’t afford to get too relaxed. Gritting his teeth, one eye on the phone, he flipped the temperature to icy-cold and stood there unt
il he was chilled, but alert. He stepped out of the shower and reached for St. Christopher, which he’d left on the counter while he showered. He slipped it over his head, wrapped a towel around his hips and headed for his suitcase, which stood empty on the bed. His heart jumped to his throat.
Chapter 4
“Good afternoon, Mr. Nix.” The voice was husky and female. Unaccented. Confident.
Jinx squinted toward the suite’s sitting area. Bright afternoon sun glared through the gap in the flowery draperies, painting a golden ribbon onto the carpeted floor. From his vantage point, he couldn’t see into the room.
He clutched at the towel. Swallowed. Whoever it was, she knew his name. His real name. Had his cover been blown already? What was he supposed to do? Deny who he was? Stick to your cover story had been drummed into his head as rule number one. Could she have seen him at the pool, followed him up? But how did she get into his room?
He glanced toward the bathroom, where he’d shucked his clothes before showering. Even swim trunks would be better than a towel, especially when meeting a woman. And his cell phone—his silent cell phone—was still on the counter.
“I unpacked your clothes,” the voice went on.
Well, that solved one mystery. “Um… thank you.”
“Not good to present a rumpled appearance, and things get so wrinkled if you leave them packed, wouldn’t you say?”
“Um… I guess so.” Okay, this was getting ridiculous. He decided to stick with the plan. “You’ve got the wrong room. My name is Brand. Stephen Brand.”
“Brand, Nix. What’s in a name?”
“And you are?”
“You can call me Elle,” she said.
“L? That’s not a name, that’s a letter.” He thought about moving toward the sitting room, but decided he was better off where he was. This was getting too 007 for him. Next thing you knew, she’d be pulling out gizmos that looked like money clips but detonated nuclear weapons.
A throaty laugh floated across the room. “That’s Elle. E- L- L- E.”
You can call me, she’d said. Not, my name is. But it was a start.
“Pleased to meet you, Elle. Would it be asking too much for you to explain what you’re doing here? In my room?”
“Waiting.”
Jinx tried to channel Dalton. Or Fozzie. Or anyone with a clue of what to do in this situation. He heard muffled footfalls on the carpet. Backlit against the glare, a silhouette appeared in the passageway between the sitting room and bedroom.
Still too shadowy to make out details, there was no mistaking the curvaceous figure of the voice’s owner. Or the gun clutched in front of her chest.
“Hey, take it easy.” Jinx kept one hand on the towel as he raised the other above his head. “I’m unarmed.”
“You could have a weapon strapped to the inside of your leg under that towel,” she said.
He wondered if she was going to check. Or if he’d mind. In the light, her features went well with her body. Her hair, shiny and brown, was braided into a plait hanging over a shoulder. Diamond stud earrings caught the light.
Tanned skin, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and wide, full lips glistening with peach-colored lipstick.
She wore a see-through, white blouse unbuttoned low enough to reveal what he assumed was a blue bathing suit top, not her bra. Under other circumstances, he’d be glad to confirm it.
White slacks hugged her legs—and he’d bet she had a great ass, but again, circumstances didn’t warrant wasting time thinking about it. She wore low-heeled sandals, and her toes were painted a coral that matched her lips, and—his eyes returned to the gun she held—matched her fingernails as well.
There was a vague familiarity about her, but nothing he could place. One of the poolside women, he decided. One of the smiley, flirty ones, although she wasn’t smiling now.
“I assure you, I’m weaponless,” he said.
Her gaze ducked to the towel, and she smiled. “You’re right.”
“Let’s stop playing whatever game you’re playing. Let me get dressed, and we can talk.”
As if she’d decided she’d put him through enough, Elle nodded. “I recommend the beige slacks and the polo with the palm trees.”
He backed away, then opened the louvered doors to the closet. Okay, so she knew more about his wardrobe than he did. He found a pair of beige slacks. The polo, he guessed, would be in the dresser. Along with underwear, he hoped. He tossed the slacks onto the bed and yanked open the top dresser drawer. A few pair of socks, and yes, thank the Lord, underwear. His usual boxer-briefs, but new. Heat rose to his neck as he thought about this Elle person handling them. And what about Grace buying them? How did she know? As far as he could recall, he’d never discussed his preferences with anyone. He gathered everything and turned toward the bathroom.
“Where I can see you,” she said.
“What? Sorry, lady, but I don’t think we know each other that well yet.”
She mumbled something he didn’t catch, then pushed past him into the bathroom, leaving a light floral perfume in her wake. She came out holding his cell phone. “All right. Two minutes.”
Jinx ducked into the bathroom, shutting the door. And locking it. He finished dressing, wondered if he should shave, but decided against it. He did slap on a little aftershave, though, courtesy of the suite’s amenity offerings. Stephen Brand would probably wear aftershave.
Dressed to her specifications, he unlocked the door and moved into the sitting area, where she’d opened the fruit basket. She paused from spreading cheese on a cracker and gave him another once-over.
“Are you satisfied?” he asked.
“Not bad at all.” She extended the cracker to him, and, when he refused, popped it into her mouth.
He sat across from her, in a floral print rattan chair. “Talk.”
“How about music?” She grabbed the remote and pressed buttons. Salsa music filled the room. She tugged her ear and wiggled her fingers.
When Jinx had arrived in his room, he’d swept for bugs using a clever modification to his cell phone. He’d found one in the bedroom and another in the sitting area. When he’d reported them to HQ, his orders were to leave them alone. Removing them would create suspicion. And along with that order came yet another reminder of rule number one. Stay in character. But she’d obviously turned on the music to mask what they were saying.
Who the hell was she? Had Blackthorne sent her to help? If so, she would have mentioned it, wouldn’t she?
The gun was gone, he noticed. Probably in the large blue-flowered purse sitting on the floor beside the small loveseat, also rattan, with a floral print to match the chairs. All very tropical. He stepped to the sliders and opened the drapes. She didn’t stop him. Not that there was anywhere to go other than the small balcony. He sure as hell wasn’t jumping ten stories. This room overlooked the ocean, not the pool—not that he’d have jumped into the pool from here. He hesitated before opening the slider. “You think someone else has a gun and wants to shoot me?”
“No, and I don’t want to shoot you. I wanted to make sure you’d listen.”
“I’m listening.” He stared at the surf, the sunlight reflecting off the water like so many diamonds.
A deep intake of breath. “We have a mutual interest.” The confidence, the bravado, was missing from her tone now.
Jinx sensed a tinge of desperation. He took his eyes off the water and turned toward her, meeting her gaze. “Which is?”
“We’re both searching for missing people.”
He plucked an apple from the fruit basket and tossed it from hand to hand.
Stay in character.
“I don’t understand. I’m here for a little escape, a little regrouping, a little networking. I just lost my job.”
She shook her head. “My sister was staying here. Got a free five-day stay—a perk through her job. You know, listen to a sales pitch, yada, yada. She never came home. She said she’d met a man, she thought he was her Mr. Rig
ht, and she wasn’t coming home. But she’d never have done that.”
Jinx took a bite of the apple. Chewed. Swallowed. “You know this because?”
“Because she’s gay. I might have believed it if she’d said she’d found Miss Right, but her message—it was a text. She hated texting. If she couldn’t call, she’d have emailed. Sent me a private message on Facebook. But the tone was totally wrong. I don’t think she sent it at all. This was the last place I traced her to.”
“Traced her?”
“I knew she was coming here. We’d talked a few times. Her last cell phone transmission was from this resort.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because I’m a cop.”
Chapter 5
Elle Sheridan studied the man in front of her, wondering if she’d been wasting her time. It was his eyes. Deep blue, thick lashes. Compelling, but all wrong. Cautious, guarded. Maybe a little fearful. Not cop eyes. Not investigator eyes. Soft. Everything about him seemed soft. Untested. As if he was uncomfortable in his own skin. Not what she’d expected.
Had her source been mistaken? Was this the wrong man? When she’d gone through his things, nothing indicated he was anything but a man on vacation. The clothes were all new, but it wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility for a man visiting a different climate. And if he was a Blackthorne investigator, he’d have made sure his cover was perfect. She hadn’t risked opening his laptop—she wasn’t a computer techie, and without someone from the geek squad with her, she didn’t think she’d be able to get anything out of it.
After a week in this resort, she’d made no progress in locating Trish. If there was the slightest possibility this man could help her find her sister, she’d give it a shot.