Ready, Aim...I Do!: Missing

by Debra Webb

  “Maybe.”

  Her leg rubbed against his as she sat forward once more. She reached out and gently turned his chin her way so he had to meet her gaze.

  “Explain.”

  “You said you didn’t drug me. What if the person who did wanted me indisposed so I wouldn’t have an alibi for your death today or the guy last night?”

  “You’ll notice news of my death is highly exaggerated.”

  He picked up his phone and showed her the other reports he’d tagged. “Yes, I’m making assumptions, but the first event that might be related happened within eight hours of my arrival in Las Vegas.”

  “Did you have orders to shoot me?”

  He patted her knee. “No. My orders were to wait here in Caesar’s for the compromised agent to contact me.”

  She turned the water bottle around again. “Like I told you this morning, I’m supposed to follow the virus vial. No backup required. It’s my personal challenge to spot the buyer. My assignment isn’t that complicated.”

  There was a little furrow between her brows that he was starting to learn meant she wasn’t telling him all of it. “But you were desperate enough to haul me out and marry me last night after shooting at someone tailing you.”

  “You can let that go anytime. I promised you a quick divorce.”

  “Gin, last month my director was set up.”

  She nodded. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “I received a note at the wedding reception that said, You’re next.”

  “Is that some kind of joke? A male version of the catching the bridal bouquet?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I didn’t tell anyone in Mission Recovery about it.”

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t want to get into all of his reasons, especially because she’d been one of them. “I questioned the waiter who delivered it, had it tested by a friend in the lab and got nowhere. Wasn’t much point in sending it up the line.”

  “But you think the note is related to what happened to your director.”

  “Yeah. Whoever rigged the setup nearly succeeded.” Mission Recovery had suspects but hadn’t moved on them yet. Jason wasn’t privy to all the details and had assumed it was due to a lack of evidence. Now he wondered if there was a bigger problem. “What if my office hasn’t mentioned an active sniper in Las Vegas because they believe I am the shooter?”

  She rubbed a hand along his arm. “Relax. Even if the local police decide to announce a sniper is active in town, you have airtight alibis for last night and today.”

  “Not if the woman who drugged me had succeeded. That’s my point. Whoever is setting me up didn’t expect me to have an alibi.”

  She tugged at the sleeve of his robe. “But she didn’t and you’re welcome.”

  “Thanks, but whoever hired Frost wouldn’t have expected your intervention.”

  “Which means we’re in more danger than before?”

  “It’s a possibility we should consider.” And the list of suspects who knew who he was, what he could do with a rifle and his general location last night was ridiculously short. “Who knows about your mission here?”

  “You know I can’t answer that, Jason.”

  “Fine. Let’s go back to the question of who wants you dead.”

  “A great many people, I suppose.” She shifted, crossed her legs. “I told you, none of them are here.”

  “What about Isely?”

  “He’s never seen my face. He has no reason to connect me with anything he’s done or plans to do.”

  “And still he followed you last night.”

  “So the man has instincts.” She bolted to her feet, but he caught her hand before she could stalk away from him. “Explains his longevity in a treacherous career as a black-market weapons dealer.”

  “It scared the hell out of me.” It wasn’t at all what he meant to say, wasn’t at all professional. He was about to cross a line good agents stayed well clear of. “The bullet hole in that chair. The knife at your throat.”

  Her gaze softened and her lips parted. It reminded him of last night for some reason. He needed a new memory, something full of life to burn through the haze left by the drugs and to break the icy grip of nearly losing her at the pool. A new memory he wouldn’t forget no matter which direction their careers took them from here.

  “Is that the doting husband talking?”

  He shook his head and gently pulled her down into his lap. Her sultry chuckle faded to a sweet silence full of promise and potential. Her gaze lingered on his mouth. He pushed the vibrant red silk of her hair behind her ear, then cupped her nape and drew her mouth closer to his.

  Close enough to kiss. The first touch of lips, sweet and gentle, turned needy from one beat of his pulse to the next. Her mouth was still cool from the water she’d been drinking as directed. But that didn’t last long. She grew hotter and hotter with each swipe of their dueling tongues.

  He lost himself in her soft sigh of pleasure and when she shifted, straddling him, he tugged her hips closer, let her feel how much his body wanted hers. How much he needed the connection she’d offered from the moment she walked into that bar.

  Her hands parted his robe, pushed it away from his shoulders. Her touch created such a craving inside him, a craving his body knew only she could satisfy.

  With a soft scrape of her teeth on his lower lip, she leaned back, her hands hot on his shoulders, her breath coming in little pants as she rested her forehead on his. “Wait,” she whispered.

  Looked like the ground rules had just been demolished.

  She sat back a little more and he fisted his hands at his sides because he wanted to hang on to her, to keep her close and never let go. His every instinct screamed it was the wrong move. Excuses, bargains, everything but an apology wanted to come spilling out of his mouth, but he bit back all of the words.

  Nothing he said would do any good.

  If he understood anything about this particular woman it was her ruthless independence. His physical desire was obvious enough. And mutual, he surmised based on her passionate response to him. Beyond that, what could he offer that she might accept?

  She touched her lips with her fingertips, but he didn’t think she meant the move provocatively. Her eyes were dark as she studied him. He felt a precious opportunity slipping through his hands and there was nothing he could do.

  Not yet.

  “I’m going to take a shower and dress for dinner.”

  He nodded.

  “We should choose a restaurant. Not, um, room service.”

  He nodded again.

  She walked out of his line of sight, her feet padding softly across the thick carpet. Then she stopped.

  “I need to keep an eye on that vial. And we have to get a line on whoever is setting you up.”

  Business. It was the right answer, the safe topic. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He heard her feet once more, but he waited until the sound of water running in the shower reached him before he got up from the sofa.

  His damn imagination gave him an all-too-clear picture of what she would look like, hair slicked back from her face and soapy lather slipping over her curves.

  Clinging to his willpower, he grabbed his shaving kit and suitcase from the room and headed for the bedroom suite on the other side of the penthouse.

  Chapter Eight

  Mission Recovery headquarters

  In the wind.

  Holt stared at the message on his monitor, still not quite able to comprehend how Grant had avoided the perfectly crafted noose. The man always followed orders, always found a way to succeed whether the assignment was tedious or overwhelming.

  He’d put him in Las Vegas and told him to wait. What the hell had happened to the scheduled pickup? Painting the miscommunication as a failure, he’d ordered Grant out of the area, and now he was practically a missing person. In the wind. He was certain the contact wasn’t implying Grant had actually boarded a plane.

  Why in
God’s name had one of their top Specialists chosen this particular moment to buck a career-long pattern of obedience?

  Feeling like it was his neck caught in the noose Holt tugged on his tie and undid the button at his throat. He struggled for a deep breath and refused to give in to the hard knot in his chest.

  Everything—everything—was riding on this. Grant might have unknowingly botched the latest battle, but Holt could still win the war.

  The only good news was that local law enforcement hadn’t gone public with the sniper theory and therefore Grant didn’t have clues to develop a theory of his own.

  Leaning against the wide window, he stared out at the dark landscape, not caring to see the stars or the moon or anything else beyond the dark haze of his own frustration.

  He should have shifted Grant’s role in this. He should have been clever enough to find a different method. But it was too late now and all the should-have-dones weren’t going to get this resolved.

  Like all the Specialists in Mission Recovery, Holt believed in success above all else. Setbacks were temporary, and a Specialist embraced by added motivation often overcame the obstacles that discouraged others.

  He looked around his office, reminded himself what was on the line. It was all the motivation he needed to take the next step.

  He buttoned his collar and straightened his tie before he opened his office door. Nadine sat at her desk, doing whatever she did to keep him organized and connected to Specialists deployed on various assignments.

  “Has Specialist Grant arrived?”

  “No, sir. Were you expecting him?”

  Yes, actually. But he could hardly say that to Nadine. “At this morning’s check-in I ordered him back to D.C. Has he booked a flight?”

  Her monitor flashed with different logos and windows as she started her search. “Nothing on his corporate credit card. I’m checking airline manifests now.”

  “Thank you. Check his personal accounts and any aliases you know about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nadine would have some leads, but Holt knew Grant had others. Every Specialist had alternate identification or knew how to create it quickly. Holt leaned against the doorjamb while he waited, the only sounds the soft instrumentals of the classical music Nadine preferred and her fingers on the keyboard.

  “Anything?”

  “Not so far. I can have the analysts dig deeper if you like.”

  Holt sighed. “We can give him some time.” His personal cell phone started ringing. “Let me know when you get something,” he said as he picked up the call and headed back into his office.

  “Holt.”

  “Are you trying to renege?”

  Isely. Holt wasn’t surprised, though he knew how to fake it for the right effect. “Why are you calling me here?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I’ll deliver as discussed.”

  “Ah, that is good. Things so often get messy when we improvise.”

  What the hell did that mean? “Patience pays off,” Holt reminded him. The game wouldn’t be out of balance for long and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the first one to blink. “Your patsy is still in town.”

  “True. And with a lovely new wife who is complicating matters.”

  Holt barely restrained his shock. Grant was married? How did Isely know that before anyone here at Mission Recovery? “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “It is out of character and off script,” Isely bit out, his cold voice a clear indicator of his brutal intentions. “Do not cross me, Deputy.”

  The call ended before Holt could reply. Damn the man and this whole twisted business. And damn Jason Grant for choosing the absolute worst time to mix romance with a mission.

  Holt looked back at his screen. Who the hell had he managed to exchange vows with if the woman who should have him contained had missed him?

  “Sir?” Nadine’s voice followed the beep of the office intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “I have something you should see.”

  “Bring it in.”

  Ignoring the bad feeling in his gut, he clicked on the small icon that appeared on his monitor as Nadine walked into the office. It was a certificate of marriage from one of the many chapels in Las Vegas, signifying the union of Jason Grant with Ginger Olin. “What do we know about her?”

  “I’m working on that now.”

  “Good. What else?”

  Nadine swiped something on her tablet and another document popped up. “I’m not sure how to interpret this, but the marriage isn’t legal. The marriage license application was completed, but the official license has not been issued.”

  Maybe Grant hadn’t lost all of his faculties after all. “See what you can do to sort it out.”

  “Shall I contact Specialist Grant?”

  “Absolutely not. It could blow his cover with whatever angle he’s working on.” Considering he hadn’t returned as Holt demanded, it was only reasonable that Grant was on to something else. But what? He couldn’t possibly know about Isely.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  With a nod, she exited his office and left him alone to sort out a mess she couldn’t fathom.

  His hands clenched around the leather-covered arms of his executive chair. He’d been working this for so long, he’d started to believe the light at the end of the tunnel was freedom, not a head-on collision with a train. If Grant screwed this up with an ill-timed and fake marriage or some off the wall rescue, Holt might just let him take the rap for the crimes about to occur in Nevada.

  There was nothing he could do...but ride it out.

  Chapter Nine

  Caesar’s Palace Penthouse

  Gin washed away the sunblock and massage oil, all the while wishing she had the courage to invite Jason to help her. The hot spray of the waterfall showerhead drenched her body, and she trailed a finger over her lips, unable to put that kiss out of her mind.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She didn’t want to forget it. This time not even thoughts of a catastrophic epidemic could completely silence the part of her that wanted to explore what was happening between them.

  She twisted the handle to cold, telling herself it was only to put more shine in her hair. Ha! Stepping out of the cavern of a shower and looking to the vanity, she realized his personal things were gone from the countertop.

  Sneaky. Smart, but sneaky.

  It couldn’t be called cowardly—that had been her, pulling back from that kiss and practically running away from the temptation of Jason.

  She dried her hair and slipped into a black sheath that zipped up the side. Getting away from the seclusion of the penthouse had sounded like a good idea at the time, but now she realized the error. Dinner in public meant they would have to play the role as celebrity newlyweds, as Jason called it.

  She paused, mascara wand halfway to her eye. They were just caught up in the moment, the atmosphere and the wild feel of the town. When he did that doting husband routine parts of her she didn’t know existed just melted. But that wasn’t a reflection of feelings as much as a commendation of his dedication to the job.

  Except that kiss...

  Her phone rang and Gin jumped. The number meant business, and she couldn’t have been more grateful for the distraction. She set the mascara aside and picked up the phone.

  “Yes.”

  “Our wiretap says the exchange happens tomorrow night.”

  “Understood.”

  She ended the call and resumed applying makeup, enormously settled by the thought of business. She swept her hair into a French twist and reached for the sexy black shoes.

  Ready, she walked out of the bedroom, her strappy heels hanging from her finger and her clutch bag under her arm. She’d packed her lipstick, revolver and cell phone, which was set to vibrate. She wasn’t worried about calls, but she needed to know if and when the virus was on the move.

  It was a good thing the heels were in her hand because the sight o
f Jason made her knees buckle. He wore a navy suit with the crisp white shirt open at the throat. Freshly shaven, he looked so handsome and as sexy as hell. But it was the wedding band that made her wish this moment could be real...that he could be hers.

  As much as she wanted to look at him as a tool, as simply a means to accomplishing her goal, she just couldn’t do it. This was quickly becoming far too personal. She wasn’t sure how to pull back to a professional distance.

  It would have been easier if even the smallest part of her wanted to pull back.

  “You look fantastic,” she said with her brightest smile.

  “Thanks, but I think I must only be a backdrop next to you.”

  She did a little turn for him and then leaned a hip against the sofa for balance as she slid into her heels. “According to the latest intel, the sale goes down tomorrow night.”

  “In the casino?”

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Could be anywhere in the resort.”

  “That leaves us plenty of options,” he said. “Is there a time frame?”

  “Not anything precise.” She patted her clutch. “I’ve got the app open and working. We’ll know when the virus moves, and we can follow it.”

  “Do you have orders to intervene?”

  “Not necessarily, though I’d rather secure the vial than let it out into the world. Why?”

  “Just debating how we ditch the protective detail if it comes to that.”

  She moistened her lips and wiggled her eyebrows. “We can always improvise.”

  “After we eat.” He motioned her toward the door. “I called down to the restaurant and asked them to prepare a table.”

  “Great.”

  “Why make the sale here?”

  She shrugged, looked up at him. “It wasn’t my choice.”

  “I realize that, but I can’t help wondering if this location has significance to the deal.”

  “That’s doubtful. Probably just because it’s a landmark with lots of tourists. An easy place to get lost.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” With a flourish he opened the door and let her proceed.

  But the question got her wondering. Maybe there was a clue to the buyer—or seller—that she’d overlooked.