by Layla Reyne
The Jetway connected, bumping the plane and jolting her out of her thoughts. Deplaning, she messaged back. Yacht or ship?
The Ellen.
She did smile then, wide and true. The newest ship in the Talley Enterprises fleet, a major star at tonight’s company party, had been named after the Talley matriarch. It’d been a running family joke that there had been ships named after each of the three Talley daughters, and a few after the granddaughters too, but none yet after Ellen. Danny’s father, TE’s CEO, swore he was saving the best for last, and that’s certainly what was on display tonight. A new flagship to vault TE ahead of its competitors and to send John into retirement with a happy life and a happy wife.
Everything set for tonight? she asked.
Everything’s under control.
As TE’s new Chief of Security, she was in charge of safety for tonight’s event—from guest background checks to on-site security. Most of it was advance work, taken care of well before her trip, but she hadn’t intended to cut her return so close. That said, her deputy security chief, Mitch, was a senior Talley employee; they’d hired extra security for the event; and there’d be no shortage of trained eyes at the party, with FBI agents Aidan and Cam and former agent Jamie all in attendance.
Need to run by my place and change, she texted. Be there in 60.
More like 90.
He was probably right. No longer having law enforcement clearance, she had to go through customs with the masses. But with only her briefcase, go-bag and gun case, which she now had to retrieve directly from TSA, she hoped to make it quick.
If we officially moved in together, this wouldn’t be a problem, Danny added.
It was an argument they’d been having for months. Between hectic work schedules and the news they hadn’t told the family yet, she’d kept her condo and he’d kept his yacht, snatching time together at one place or the other but calling neither their home. They couldn’t go on like this much longer—working or living the way they did. She realized that too and was as frustrated as Danny. But they weren’t going to hash out a solution apart, over texts. That was half their fucking problem.
Before she could reply, another text came through, blessedly letting her off the hook, for now. You don’t need to swing by the condo. You’ve got your Sig. I’ve got everything else.
Everything?
You put it all in a garment bag before you left. Dummy proof.
Danny proof.
Well, not the shoes...
Meaning he’d gone for the highest pair of fuck-me-heels in her closet—sparkly and stiletto, probably—versus the ones that actually matched her gown for the party.
Good.
After his bowtie teasing, and a week away, she had the same idea. If she could make it to the port early.
She texted back 60 and pocketed the phone. Slinging her go-bag over one shoulder, she picked up her briefcase and followed the rest of the first-class passengers off the plane, through international baggage claim and into the customs cattle-call. Six lines were separated by stanchions, forming lanes that led to chest-high booths with customs agents sitting behind glass dividers. Guards stood behind each booth, ready for bag searches if the agent deemed it necessary. All the lanes funneled to the terminal exit behind the booths, with nowhere to go the other direction but back to the gates. She cased the entire area as she did every time through; no changes since last month.
Nearing the front of the line, motion ahead caught her attention. The agent manning her lane’s booth left the box and another stepped in. None of the agents in the other lanes were relieved. Instincts tripped, an anticipatory shiver raced up Mel’s spine, warning bells ringing in her ears, but with ropes on either side of her, and a line of travelers behind her, she couldn’t switch lanes or reverse direction without notice. She kept a watchful eye as she withdrew her passport and carry permit. When it was her turn, she stepped up to the booth and smiled politely, sliding her papers under the glass partition.
No longer traveling on a diplomatic visa, Mel’s passport was new, as was her picture. Singed off by an explosion last spring, her hair, in the picture and months later still, was short and curly, the first time she’d worn it that way since Academy. She was trying to live her life in a lower-maintenance way. And generally failing at it, hair notwithstanding.
The agent glanced up only long enough to make sure her person matched her passport. Typical inspector behavior—maybe the original agent was just called into a meeting, or away on an emergency. The agent scanned the passport under the electronic reader. “Nature of your visit?” he asked.
“Returning home.”
“Of your travel?”
“Business.”
The computer beeped once. Cleared. Two beeps and you were in trouble. Instead of handing back her documents, though, the agent looked up, his hazel eyes assessing. “What kind of business are you in, Ms. Cruz?”
“Shipping,” she answered vaguely.
“And that required you to visit Croatia?”
“It did.”
It did not, at least not in this instance. There was paperwork showing her in Dubrovnik on behalf of TE, but she’d actually been in Vukovar on a contract assignment, chasing a war criminal no sanctioned government agency had been able to capture. She’d gotten her man, or rather, she’d chased him into a snow-covered sunflower field where the very landmines he’d laid had claimed his miserable life.
Her fleeting sense of achievement was cut off as guards converged behind the booth agent. One held her gun case; the other wore a stern, determined expression. The warning bells in her head chimed louder.
“Is there a problem?” Mel asked.
The empty-handed guard came around the booth first. “If you’ll come with us, Ms. Cruz.” He held out an arm toward the adjacent holding rooms.
“May I ask what this is about?”
The one with her gun case came around the other side of the booth, boxing her in. “Routine checks.”
She kept her voice neutral, despite her growing alarm and impatience. “Gentlemen, I’m Melissa Cruz, the former Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s San Francisco field office, and now head of security for an international shipping company, which has its holiday gala this evening. I need to be going. As it’s Christmas Eve, I’m sure there’s someplace you’d rather be as well. My permits should be in the system and in order.” She reached into the outer pocket of her briefcase and withdrew her get-out-of-jail-free card, handing it to the first guard. “If there are any issues, DOJ will clear them up for you.”
He didn’t bother to look at the card, just shoved it in his pocket. “Ma’am, please.” The perfunctory “please” didn’t rankle half as much as the condescending “ma’am.” Not that she wasn’t used to the address, only that she was accustomed to hearing it with respect, or fear.
As two more guards approached, Mel assessed her options. She could take the four of them out right here, but that would only bring more guards. And more attention from the cattle-pen full of witnesses who were already reaching for their phones, too used to airport disturbances these days. She had better odds, from every angle, if she moved this scene off the main floor.
She lifted her hands, palms out, de-escalating the situation. “Of course. Lead the way.” She followed the guard with her gun case, while the other, after retrieving her documents from the booth agent, trailed behind them. Taking out her phone again, she texted Danny.
ICE not playing nice. Call Price. Gonna be late. Love you.
“We’re going to need that too,” the guard behind her said.
She expected as much, which was why she’d pressed the sleep key after sending her text. When she tapped the home button and brought up the unlock screen, she entered the passcode Jamie had programmed into all their phones.
The screen darkened once more.
For good.
<
br /> She handed it over her shoulder, hiding her smirk.
Don’t miss Tequila Sunrise by Layla Reyne, and the rest of the Agents Irish and Whiskey series, available wherever Carina Press ebooks are sold.
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Copyright © 2017 by Layla Reyne
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Readers, for your continued love and enthusiasm for Nic, Cam, and the rest of the Whiskey Verse team. This world is such a blast to write, and I get to do that because of you! And because Deb, Angela, Anna and the entire Carina Press team continue to provide invaluable editorial, design and marketing support; thank you! And big thanks to my beta editor, Kristi Yanta, beta reader, Kim, the Lushes Reader Group, and my author friends, local and online, who keep me in word sprints and high spirits.
Also available from Layla Reyne and Carina Press
Single Malt
Cask Strength
Barrel Proof
Tequila Sunrise
Imperial Stout
Coming soon from Layla Reyne and Carina Press
Noble Hops
Also available from Layla Reyne
Blended Whiskey
Relay
Medley
About the Author
Author Layla Reyne was raised in North Carolina and now calls San Francisco home. She enjoys weaving her bicoastal experiences into her stories, along with adrenaline-fueled suspense and heart pounding romance. When she’s not writing stories to excite her readers, she downloads too many books, watches too much television, and cooks too much food with her scientist husband, much to the delight of their smushed-face, leftover-loving dogs. Layla is a member of Romance Writers of America and its Kiss of Death and Rainbow Romance Writers chapters. She was a 2016 RWA® Golden Heart® Finalist in Romantic Suspense.
You can find Layla at www.laylareyne.com, on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest as @laylareyne, and in her reader group on Facebook—Layla’s Lushes.
Don’t miss the next book in the Trouble Brewing series:
NOBLE HOPS
Want more from Layla Reyne?
Check out the Agents Irish and Whiskey series!
SINGLE MALT (Agents Irish and Whiskey, book one)
CASK STRENGTH (Agents Irish and Whiskey, book two)
BARREL PROOF (Agents Irish and Whiskey, book three)
TEQUILA SUNRISE (Agents Irish and Whiskey, spin-off novella)
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ISBN-13: 9781488097119
Craft Brew
Copyright © 2018 by Layla Reyne
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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