by Trish Loye
“I’ll see what I can come up with, Red.”
By the time she navigated them to within a couple of blocks of the hotel, they were ribbing each other like any member of her unit. Marc’s quick wit and humor reminded her of the friends she’d left back home. It put her at ease.
Was that calculated on his part? Something inside her twisted painfully as she parked the car and got out. Damn. This was driving her crazy.
Marc grew silent as he limped beside her to the hotel.
“How’s the leg?”
“It’s fine.”
“Really? ’Cause from the way you’re walking, I’d say it needs a break.”
“I just sat on my ass for a seven hour car ride. It doesn’t need a break.”
“Touchy.” She pursed her lips. “What’s got you worried?”
“I’m not—”
She just looked at him.
“My instincts,” he said. “I feel like I’m missing something, and I can’t pinpoint what it is.”
She nodded. “Okay. I get that. We’ll just be extra cautious.”
His head tilted as he watched her. “Thanks.”
She turned her face away from his scrutiny and ignored the butterflies swirling in her stomach from his perusal.
She paid in cash for a room and then suppressed a groan when there was only one bed. She did not want to end up snuggled up to him again.
Liar.
Quinn dumped her pack on the floor and went to the window. People wandered the street below, mostly business people in their suits, with a smattering of tourists. She’d blend easy enough in her pants and t-shirt, though it would be better if she had more upscale clothes and could pretend to be a downtown shopper.
She glanced at Marc’s outfit. It had only been a day, but their clothes were both dirty and sweat-stained. Nothing said “on the run” more than sweat stains and, in Marc’s case, a scruffy beard. “We need fresh clothes, and you need a razor,” she said.
Marc scratched his jaw. “You don’t like stubble? I thought all women liked the rugged look.”
His hand rubbed along that bristly jaw, and her throat went dry. An image popped into her head of Marc rubbing that jaw along her sensitive skin. How it would feel.
“What are you thinking?” His voice was low and his gaze intense.
She looked away. “Nothing.” She stared at the bed. The bed, where too many forbidden thoughts lay.
Omigod, get a hold of yourself, Quinn. Stop looking at the bed!
She turned back to the window to hide her burning face. “I think only a certain type of woman likes the mountain man look,” she said crisply.
“Mountain man?” he mumbled. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
He came to stand beside her and scanned the street below. When he didn’t say anything further, the warmth gradually left her face. She breathed out a silent sigh. Crisis averted.
“What type of woman?”
She started and turned to him. “What?”
“What type of woman likes a mountain man?”
Her heart stuttered. He stood so close. And he smelled so damn good. Trees, gun oil, and underneath…something spicy. She wanted to lean closer and breathe in a bit more of him.
Quinn forced herself to step back. “Women who read romance novels and chase happily-ever-afters.” She didn’t see the need to mention the stack of romance novels sitting by her bed at home. There was nothing wrong with wanting a little happiness when she wasn’t working. Whether or not a guy had scruff made no difference to her.
Such a liar.
His head tilted and he leaned against the wall. “You don’t believe in happily-ever-after?”
She took another step back. Better safe than sorry. “No. Do you?”
“No,” he said. “And yes.”
She snorted. “Waffle much?”
“My parents still love each other. I believe some people can find that ever-after thing.”
She leaned against the wall behind her, mimicking his pose. “But?” Why did she even care?
“But it’s not for me.” He straightened and then sat on the bed. Closer to her. “You don’t believe in it either,” he said. “Why not? What’s your sob story?”
“No sob story,” she said. “I was raised by a single mom. She worked hard, loved us and was an amazing woman. I just haven’t seen a couple together who wasn’t wearing on each other by the time they’d gotten over their lust. I think there’s lust and there’s friendship.”
“You don’t believe in love?”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. She sure as hell hadn’t seen any evidence of it, but then she had taken a pretty lonely path. She hadn’t had time for serious relationships when she was young, and now… How did she meet a man who was her equal, but didn’t resent her for it? Or a man who wouldn’t question her disappearing on missions? “It’s not that I don’t believe. I just think it’s rarer than people think, and it’s not in the cards for me.”
He leaned back on his arms. His t-shirt stretched tight across his muscled chest. “Why not?”
She looked away from the chest that made her mouth water, avoiding Marc’s question and his gaze. How had they even started talking about this? “What’s your story?”
He stretched his hurt leg out, focusing on it, but not before she’d seen the darkness in his eyes. “Not much to tell,” he said. “I believe in love. It’s real, and it’s out there. But I had my chance and it’s gone.”
She stilled at his low words and the steel in them. “What happened?”
He waited so long to answer she thought he wasn’t going to. “She was killed.”
Holy fuck. She couldn’t even imagine the pain of that. “How?”
Marc’s face had a cold look when he turned to her. “She betrayed her country and it cost her her life.”
A few things clicked into place. “She was Russian?”
His eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“You spoke Russian that first night.” There was no harm in being honest about this. “You said the name Ilona.”
“It was a long time ago.” He got up and went to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. End of discussion. He probably already regretted opening up to her.
As water ran, Quinn checked the time. Thirty minutes until she was supposed to meet Damien. When Marc came out of the bathroom, she was ready. “I’m heading out. I’m going to grab us some food and fresh clothes. Stay here.”
“What happened to equal say?”
“Your leg needs rest. I’m not retrieving the flash drive without you, but we’ll blend better with new clothes.” She narrowed her eyes and took in his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Damn, she wanted to linger over her perusal. “I think I’ve got your size figured out.”
“You’ll make me blush if you keep eyeing me,” he said in a deadpan voice.
She laughed. “I don’t think anything could make you blush.” She checked her weapon and took her phone. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Underwear,” he said. “Boxer briefs.”
Her face heated, and he smiled. “I like finding things that make you blush.”
“Whatever.” She strode from the room, ignoring the burning of her skin and the laughter of the man who’d caused it.
15
The door swung shut behind Quinn. Marc ran a hand through his hair. Why had he told her about Ilona? He hadn’t told anyone about her. It had been so long ago, in his first year working undercover for CSIS. He hadn’t even known Ilona was also a spy until he’d been dating her for three months. He’d been a trusting fool.
And he wasn’t one anymore.
He strode to the door; his leg twinged with every step, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Quinn was up to something, and he was going to find out what it was.
He followed her to a store, keeping well back so she didn’t see him. She must have sensed him, or maybe she was just that careful, because she stopped frequently to check her surroundings. In a department s
tore, she quickly picked out pants and shirts for them. He almost laughed and blew his cover at the look on her face when she covertly snagged a package of underwear for him.
He continued to follow her through the store, always keeping out of sight. She didn’t talk to anyone and wasn’t on her phone. Maybe she’d been telling the truth. Maybe she had just wanted him to rest. If she went to get food next, then he’d stop tailing her and head back to the hotel. He’d need to be back there before her anyway.
After the department store, she paused outside and checked her hair in the reflection on a store window. Classic maneuver to check for a tail.
He hung farther back for another block. She ducked into a restaurant. He frowned. It looked like a sit-down restaurant, not take-out. He waited outside, but she didn’t come out.
He cursed his leg as he shuffle-jogged around the block to the back of the restaurant rather than going into it to check for her. He stopped before he entered the back alley. It took him a few moments to locate her crouched beside a trash can, watching the back door of the restaurant she’d come out of. He waited almost out of sight on the corner of the street.
She finally shook her head and strode out of the alley. Her eyes scanned the area. He ducked just in time, and then waited longer than he normally would before taking a quick glance around the corner.
She was gone.
Fuck.
He almost stepped into the open to look for her, but some instinct held him back. He stayed hidden in an alcove between two storefronts, his view of the alley limited. A car honked in the street, and the driver shouted at someone crossing the road in front of them.
It had to be her. She knew she was being followed and was now hunting him.
He darted into the closest store, an explosion of white lace and sequins. An elaborately carved ivory desk blocked those wandering in off the street from getting to the frothy white dresses lining both sides of the shop. A small dais and three-way mirrors were at the far end.
A fucking bridal shop. His luck.
A woman stood on the dais, wearing a puffed-up gown with two other women crowing over her. One looked over at him. “I’ll be right there,” she called in Spanish.
“No hay problema,” he said.
Three white chairs that looked as though they’d break if he sat in them lined the wall. He sat in one and picked up a magazine, ducking his head to hide his face while he pretended to read about the latest bridal styles. Thankfully his dark hair blended in with the majority of the residents of Colombia.
Just in time. A familiar ball cap-wearing woman strode by the window, checking out the interior before she passed on.
Thorough. Competent.
Just what he’d expect an SRR operator to be.
Marc set the magazine back down. She was almost as good as him.
Almost.
He left the store and followed her at a farther distance than he had before, barely keeping her in sight. She passed a number of take-out places and a small grocer without stopping.
“What are you up to, Red?” he asked the air.
He followed her to a street filled with art galleries and cafés. She ducked into an alley opening and stood in the shadows, her gaze trained on one café in particular. It had a few tables set out front. Quinn’s focus seemed to be centered on the man at a table with a coffee in front of him. His dark hair showed a bit of silver. The man took off his sunglasses to check his phone. Strong jaw, clean shaven, and wearing a white button-down and khakis. He could be a businessman or an affluent tourist.
He was neither from the way Quinn stared at him.
She frowned, scanned the area and stiffened. Marc followed her gaze. A pair of men sat at a restaurant patio within sight of the café, and no food on their table. Neither made any attempt at conversation and from the way they watched the street, Marc would guess they were looking for someone.
What was going on? Was this Quinn’s handler? Or was she meeting with someone to sell Bishop’s flash drive to?
But whoever Quinn was meeting, it looked as if they planned to double-cross her. He automatically checked the surrounding rooftops.
A glint of metal across the street.
Shit. A sniper.
He strode forward, the pain from his leg hardly registering. He didn’t try to blend in. Seconds ticked by. He had to get to Quinn before she stepped onto that street. She straightened as though she were girding herself for battle and moved forward.
He snagged her arm and swung her back into the shadows of the alley. She twisted out of his grip and threw a palm strike at his nose.
He blocked the hit. “It’s Marc.”
She stilled, her body in a fighter’s stance. “What are you doing here?”
He crossed his arms. “Isn’t it obvious? I followed you.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t trust you, of course,” he said. “Tell me who you’re meeting and why he has a sniper on the roof across the street?”
She gasped and peeked out onto the street. “Son of a bitch.”
“I suggest we get out of here,” he said.
She nodded. But he held up his hand to stop her. “I need to know who that was. I need to know whose side you’re on.”
She bit her lip. “I’m not sure what I can tell you. Let’s get somewhere safe. I need to make a phone call and then we’ll talk.”
She walked with Marc back to their hotel. They both scanned the crowd, looking for anyone who might be following them. She no longer tried to hide her skill set. Earlier she could have sworn she’d spotted Marc outside the department store where she’d power-shopped some clothes for them. But she’d done everything she could think of to lose a tail. Switchbacks, baiting, and even turning the tables and hunting. But she’d found nothing.
And somehow Marc had still followed her.
She no longer knew who to trust. Damien was her handler and her friend. At least she’d believed that until she saw the sniper on the rooftop. The sniper had watched the street, not Damien. He hadn’t been there for Damien, but for her.
And Damien had been sitting in the open. There had been an empty table against the brick wall of the café but he’d chosen to be in view of everyone. That was what had made her stop and assess the situation. Damien was paranoid, and rightly so. He’d been in this business for decades. He would never choose to sit at that table.
Unless there was a reason.
She’d seen the men across the street and couldn’t figure out why Damien had brought backup. But she’d decided to trust him and go ask.
Until Marc had pointed out the sniper.
What the actual fuck was going on?
She pulled out her phone. Marc would hear her side of the conversation while they walked, but he already knew too much.
“Damien,” she said when he picked up. She ignored Marc’s lifted eyebrows and carried on with her conversation. “I can’t make it.”
“Really?” Damien replied. “That’s too bad. I’m having the most delicious cappuccino considering the hovel of a café I’m at.” His voice was accent-less, even though he was from London. He almost sounded American, but there was still a crispness to his words. He was making an effort to disguise himself, but not a huge one. Or maybe he was just so used to speaking without an accent, this was now his normal. It happened to some operators while on overseas tours.
She kept her voice even. “I don’t have time for a coffee. I’m with someone.”
“Someone? Is he the someone who compromised the mission?”
She frowned. “Why do you think it’s a he?” At her question, Marc’s interest laser-focused on her.
Damien huffed. “The clinic was shot up and people saw a man and a woman leaving it. A man who wasn’t Ian. What happened?”
Damn. She thought they’d gotten away without anyone spotting them. “Pérez’s men came by.”
“And?”
“They were looking for someone and thought that person was in the clinic
.”
“What aren’t you telling me, Quinn?”
She chewed on her lip. “What do you know about Anna Bishop?”
Marc yanked her to a stop, a complete what-the-fuck expression on his face. She waved him off. She needed answers.
“I don’t know an Anna Bishop,” Damien said. “Why is she important?”
Quinn started to walk again and Marc followed. “I was hoping you could tell me. I think she was an operator from the UK.”
“Was?”
“She’s dead.”
Damien hummed thoughtfully. “I haven’t heard of her. Was she the reason why the clinic was shot up?”
“Yes.”
“If she was from the UK, then that would have put her under me.”
They were only a block from their hotel now. “Any chance there’re operators here without Crown approval?”
“No chance,” he said. “I know most of the key players here. Why don’t you come meet me and we’ll figure it out?”
No fucking way. “Are there teams here from the States?”
He sighed in her ear. “Of course. The US has its own not-so-secret DEA office here.”
“What about the military?”
“Not supposed to be here, besides you, of course. Do you think this Bishop belonged to them?”
She halted within sight of the hotel. They still needed food before they went in. And this conversation with Damien had gone on too long. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I have to go.”
“Who was the man who left the clinic with you?” Damien asked quickly. “Is he why you won’t meet me?”
No, it’s because you fucking set me up. But she didn’t bother to answer.
“Wait,” Damien said. “Are you responsible for the shooting in the Plaza de Bolívar?” He sounded almost angry.
“Good-bye, Damien.”
“I never suspected you’d let sex come between you and your op.”
She gasped. He thought she’d abandoned her op because she was having sex with Marc? “Asshole.” She hung up the phone.
She and Marc didn’t speak as they popped into a restaurant and grabbed some chicken and arepas to bring back to the room. By the time they got there, her stomach was growling and her head ached from tension.