by Debra Webb
The bartender delivered her wine and she sipped, rubbing her palm across Jason’s knee. Isely had to believe she was involved with him, that they were simply a couple here to enjoy a long weekend.
“Need a hand?”
“Why, Mr. Grant, that sounds like a wonderful start. I think you’re just the lucky charm that would be helpful to me at the craps tables.”
He shook his head. “I—ah, don’t gamble,” he mumbled with a laugh that sounded almost drunken.
Alarms sounded in her head. A man who didn’t gamble didn’t do Vegas for pleasure. Something was wrong here. “Sweetheart, are you feeling well?”
“Fine.” He picked up her hand and stroked her palm with his thumb. “Your hand is...is so soft.”
And his was quite strong, but something was clearly wrong. Careful not to break cover, she scanned the room for whoever had drugged him. She needed to get him out of here before he was too loopy to walk.
He started to slump to the side, and she signaled for the bartender to settle the tab. Jason managed a signature and she caught the room number he’d listed along with the drink tally. Two beers wouldn’t have put him in this state.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested.
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” She looped his arm over her shoulder and with hers at his waist she steadied him as they maneuvered through the bar.
The gun she felt in the waistband at the small of his back implied he was on the clock and only solidified her theory that someone had decided he was a target for something. As they exited no one seemed to care, not even Isely, but she couldn’t be sure because it took all her concentration to keep Jason upright. His height of just over six feet and lean but muscular build were far more appealing when he was supporting both on his own power.
His hand slid down to cup her bottom and she jumped a little, surprised by his touch. She covered her reaction with a laugh. Maybe he was faking the drunk part. Was he taking advantage and hamming it up, or was there a real problem? It helped the cover, so she wouldn’t complain. She guided him toward the main entrance, hoping the fresh air and surroundings would help revive him if this wasn’t for show.
“What did you have to drink, sweetheart?” she asked. The crowded streets and traffic noise meant no one could eavesdrop and she wanted as much information as she could get.
“A beer. Not even. Oh!” He jerked a bit. “And you sent me a shot of tequila.”
“Ah.” As they walked, she checked his pockets. He had his wallet and his room key. She must have interrupted before whoever started this had finished the job. Well, luck was certainly a lady for Jason tonight. She would ask him later why he thought the person who sent him a shot was her.
“You aren’t really blonde.” He reached over and brushed at the blonde bangs of her wig.
“That’s just for fun tonight, remember?”
“Mmm-hmm. Where’re we going?”
Back to his room if she could manage it. She risked another glance over her shoulder. Damned if Isely wasn’t still on her. What would it take to get rid of him?
She’d worn a disguise, stopped shadowing his seller and left the casino where the transaction was slated to occur. “Give a girl a break,” she muttered, pausing to catch her breath. Her chosen method of distraction was turning into a serious problem.
Next time, she was going with the old school chum routine. No hormonal interference with that diversion. Running into Jason had looked like a fun, sexy ticket out of trouble, but now he felt like a block of cement dragging her down. She leaned him against a palm tree and kept him there with a hand on his hard chest.
She could leave him and call a cop to help him back to his room. Practical, but wrong. “Kiss me,” she said.
“What?” His eyelids were droopy and his grin was that of a sweet drunk, and still it made butterflies circle in her belly.
“Kiss me,” she ordered.
“In a minute.” His hands were warm on her waist. “You hafta say ‘I do’ first.”
She followed his gaze. They were standing under the bright neon lights of an Elvis-themed wedding chapel. To her left, Isely was only a few yards away. To her right, one of the brutal men she recognized from his personal security team was even closer and reaching into his jacket.
Damn.
Why couldn’t these guys just believe the only thing she was into was her man?
Catching a glimpse of the shoulder holster, she made up her mind. Isely and his crew were known to act first and rationalize later. Drugged, Jason wasn’t in any shape to help her. Maybe it was time to play the game their way.
“Well,” she said to Jason, marching the fingers of one hand up his shirt while she reached for his gun with the other. She wasn’t a great shot left-handed, but she only had to create a diversion if they tried to take her. Flipping off the safety, she kept Jason distracted with her body pressed against his.
Isely’s thug had his weapon out now and his attention was locked on her. She didn’t know who or what had tipped off Isely, but his intended method of problem solving was clear. As the thug raised his weapon, she fired through Jason’s sport coat, aiming for the thug’s knee and praying she wouldn’t hit anyone else.
People on the street reacted predictably—a sudden flurry of motion set to the soundtrack of panicked screaming. Isely’s thug was hopping around in pain—she must have clipped his foot—and people caught sight of his gun. He was swarmed by determined citizens yelling for police assistance.
Jason jumped, a delayed reaction to the sound of the shot. He almost fell, dragging her with him. “Steady, sweetheart. That’s just a car back firing,” she lied smoothly.
“It’s loud out here.” He traced the shell of her ear with his fingertip. “Let’s get married so I can kiss you,” he said.
She tucked the gun back into the holster at his back. “If you insist, honey.”
“I do.” He sputtered with laughter when he realized what he said. “C’mon.” He pushed away from the tree and wobbled toward the chapel entrance with the careful determination of a drunk.
She wasn’t sure he’d appreciate her current opinion of Specialist Jason Grant as sweet edging toward adorable, but there wasn’t a better way to define him in his diminished state.
Less than an hour later, to the tune of Viva Las Vegas, they were newlyweds with the gold bands, a champagne toast and a “Just Married” limo ride up and down the Strip to prove it.
She wondered how happy her groom would be when he woke up tomorrow morning?
Chapter Two
Mission Recovery headquarters,
11:45 p.m.
Emmett Holt steepled his fingers as he reviewed the detailed reports his assistant had sent to his computer. Apparently a sniper was on a killing spree in Las Vegas. Times, targets—hell, even the type of bullets—pointed to Jason Grant, the Specialist who would one day take over this very office. Director Casey had handpicked Grant for the deputy director’s chair when Holt eventually moved up to Casey’s post, but this development could change everything.
There was never a good time for an agent to go off the deep end, but in light of the recent scandal of false allegations and rumors against the director himself, this was the last thing Mission Recovery needed.
Specialists recruited to their covert agency were above reproach, but it looked for all the world like Grant was about to become the exception. That possibility didn’t sit well with Holt. There was only one conclusion in light of this damning data: Grant, or someone who wanted them to believe it was Grant, was waging some sort of vendetta in Las Vegas.
If it was Grant, Holt wondered how he had secured the rifle. To date, their normal contacts in the area denied seeing Grant. Holt knew someone was lying, but that in and of itself didn’t put Grant in the clear. All Specialists were well-trained in where and how to connect with a helpful associate when they were in the field. He may have purposely gone outside their usual suppliers.
But
why? Had he lost it? Or had someone on the other side made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?
In the past forty-eight hours the sniper—whoever the hell he was—had picked off a couple of irrelevant targets, caused one serious traffic accident and winged a major player in the drug trade. All of which had been kept out of the media. Considering the damper that kind of publicity could put on tourism, the local authorities had been only too happy to cooperate. The shootings looked perfectly random, but anyone with access to his personnel jacket would put Grant at the top of the suspect list.
The grim accomplishment was more impressive considering the Specialist hadn’t missed a single status check-in call since his arrival. Holt suppressed his instincts on the matter. What he believed on a personal level was irrelevant. He had a job to do and no one could ever accuse him of failing to get the job done. He liked Grant as well as he did any of the others but that, too, was irrelevant at the moment.
“Shall I add this to the agenda for the next briefing, sir?” His assistant, Nadine, sat on the opposite side of the desk. Beneath the conservative suit she wore, her posture was particularly rigid as she asked the question. No one wanted to believe the worst. Not even the young assistant he had hired who willingly worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days in an attempt to keep him happy. He vaguely wondered if that was why she kept her hair in a sleek ponytail all the time. He didn’t give her time to patronize salons.
He also wondered if she hated him as much as most who had the displeasure of working for him did.
He blinked away the concept. “No. I’ll handle it privately.” The less anyone knew about this situation the better. If he put it on the agenda for team discussion, Grant might hear about it. And if he knew they were on to him, he’d bolt before they could get a net around him. And if this was Grant, Holt needed to get a net around him as soon as possible.
“Any word from the agent Grant was sent to Las Vegas to support?”
“No, sir.”
No surprise there. Everyone knew Vegas remained one of the easiest cities to disappear in. “Maybe the agent managed to get out without Grant’s help.” Holt said what his assistant expected to hear while his mind worked through the latest developments and numerous other scenarios.
“I’ll keep monitoring the news out there,” Nadine suggested.
Holt nodded. They both understood the harsh reality and the constricting time frame. He wasn’t going to be able to keep the sniper issue quiet much longer. If and when the local police force connected the incidents to a single shooter, they would be obligated to call in federal assistance and warn the public about the threat.
Which meant Holt would be obligated to tell someone in another government agency there was an operative in the area with sharp-shooter expertise, and that would break Grant’s cover.
If Jason Grant remained in Las Vegas, with his stellar career as a sniper, he would become a person of interest within the next twenty-four hours. By hour forty-eight, if he couldn’t offer a valid alibi for the shootings, he’d be in custody or a wanted suspect. A pawn effectively removed from the dangerous game Holt was playing. No one, particularly his superiors, would be happy with his methods. But that had never stopped him before. It wouldn’t now. And that was precisely why they had hired him. He would get the job done, one way or another.
The stakes were high and the risk-to-reward ratio bordered on irrational. But it had to be done, and he was the only one in Mission Recovery who could manage it. On days like this, the baggage of responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders.
His assistant stood. “Shall I attempt to contact Grant?”
Holt leaned back from his desk and turned a pencil end over end on the arm of his chair. “No need. Until we know more, Specialist Grant’s orders don’t change. Get me the director as soon as it’s morning wherever he is.”
“But, sir, he’s on his honeymoon.”
That was right. The director of Mission Recovery had gotten married last month, but work had prevented an immediate honeymoon. “The world doesn’t stop spinning because he fell in love, Nadine,” he grumbled. “As much as Thomas Casey would like to think so.”
“Of course, sir.”
His assistant left the office to carry his reports and orders to the Specialists currently on assignment and those preparing for assignments. Alone, he stared at the pencil in his hand.
He silently assured himself things were going according to the plan and it would all be over soon. Eager as he was to be done with it, he knew rushing the process now would bring the whole damn mess crashing down. On him.
He was the only one who could do this. Likewise, he was the one who would pay in spades if anything went wrong.
“Won’t let that happen,” he muttered. He’d come too far to bail out now.
Setting the pencil aside, he turned toward his computer and drafted the email his counterpart was expecting. He read it through twice more and then, taking a deep breath, he finally hit Send.
Chapter Three
Caesar’s Palace,
Friday, November 21, 8:17 a.m.
Jason rolled to his back and squinted against the bright sunlight flooding into the room. His head felt stuffed with cotton, which, in any logical universe, should have dulled the incessant ringing in his ears.
“That’s your phone, sweetheart. You should answer.”
He knew that voice. What the hell was Ginger Olin doing in his hotel room? And why would she be aiming any endearments his way? He flung a hand out in the general direction of the ringing only to have the move stopped short by a warm, soft touch. He dared to open his eyes a crack.
“Careful. I’ve left you a glass of water.” Ginger smiled down at him with a bit too much sympathy as he curled his fingers around the cell phone. “Take the call. I’ll be in the shower.”
Through slitted eyelids, he watched her saunter away, her body swathed in a hotel robe. He propped himself up on an elbow, struggling to clear the fog from his brain. What was going on here? What the hell was wrong with him?
The phone started ringing again, and he saw the number and stern face of Deputy Director Holt on his screen. Damn. This was one call he couldn’t ignore. “Yeah.” He cleared the rough edge from his throat, wondering how Ginger had managed to get him so drunk he couldn’t remember squat. He never drank on duty. “Grant here.”
“Where were you last night? You missed the scheduled check-in.”
He opened his mouth to answer and snapped it closed again. He didn’t know. Based on his nudity, the state of the bed and the woman in the shower, it wasn’t a big leap to figure out what had happened. That still didn’t explain this nasty hangover.
“I tried to contact you all night, but your phone was off. I learned this morning that you missed the recovery. If you have any sense of self-preservation, get your ass on the next available flight out of there or consider yourself relieved of duty.”
“Sir?” How could he have missed the recovery? Agent Olin was safe, right here in the room with him. She’d been in trouble and he’d gotten her out of it. At least he thought that’s how it had gone down. “Sir, I made the recovery,” he insisted.
“You’ve dropped the ball somewhere, Grant, because the package is missing and Agent Conklin never encountered you or your support.”
“Give me a second chance. I can meet with security and—”
“I can’t. It’s too late. Be on the next flight. We will debrief when you arrive.”
The line went dead and for a long moment, Jason stared at the screen, utterly dumbfounded. If Olin wasn’t the recovery, how had she known the code phrase?
She had given him the code phrase, hadn’t she? She must have. He wouldn’t have taken action unless he’d been sure. Although right now, he couldn’t recall exactly what they’d done before coming to the room. It was pretty damn clear what they’d done after they got here.
He rolled to his feet, lost his balance when his vision wavered and landed back on the edge of the bed
. He clutched at the mattress until the room stopped spinning. He’d been hung over a few times. Enough to know this wasn’t the same thing at all. He’d been drugged. But why? And who would do that?
Carefully he looked around, taking in the view of his hotel room. Or at least a room that was identical. He spotted his luggage and wished like hell they hadn’t upgraded him to a suite. The suitcase across the room might as well have been on the other side of the world.
Desperate, he entertained the idea of crawling over for fresh clothes when he heard the water stop running. He would not let her find him weak as a kitten on his hands and knees in addition to the troubling disorientation plaguing him.
Slowly he turned his head from side to side, then up and down until his dizziness eased off.
The shirt and slacks he’d worn last night were scattered across the floor along with a lace-topped stocking and garter. He half expected to see a bra draped over a lampshade. A memory teased him and he twisted toward the door. Yup. There was the blond wig he’d tugged from her head, eager to get his hands in her glossy red mane.
Something had gone down in this room, or at least she’d made it look that way. He wasn’t sure which explanation he wanted to hear most: that it happened, or that he only thought it happened.
He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and stopped dead. The wide gold band on the ring finger of his left hand glinted in the sunlight. He rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t go away. He was married?
His head and stomach protested as he took in the strewn clothing along with this new information. It certainly looked as if they’d started married life with a bang.
No. Impossible. No way in hell he’d forget his own wedding or the inevitable events leading up to it. No way in hell he’d marry a stranger—and Ginger Olin, CIA operative, fit that description. This had to be some ruse she invented to preserve her cover. Except Holt just said he should have rescued an agent named Conklin.
“Damn it all.” He couldn’t make sense of the vague scenes flitting through his mind. She owed him some answers. This time when he pushed to his feet, he kept moving forward despite the sudden tilt of the room. He was grateful when the wall kept him from hitting the floor. He pounded a fist on the bathroom door. “Get out here.”