Spy Games

by Gina Robinson

  “Ouch!” The blue pellet that hit me stung. I grabbed my chest and rubbed it, trying to take the sting away, trying to digest that I wasn’t dead and there was no blood, looking frantically between Huff and Van, both of whom looked peeved, but fine and completely intact. Huff was cursing.

  “No ‘I’ve been spied’ shirt for you,” Van said to Huff, who scowled back at him.

  I let out a relieved breath and tried to stop shaking. Just stop shaking. And breathe.

  Our fellow CTs huddled in the corner, watching us “die.”

  Behind his podium, War frowned. “Game over. Three dead. Four”—he shrugged—“possibly alive. If the gunmen don’t panic.”

  “We never panic.” Ace pulled his ski mask off. “Sorry, guys,” he said to us. “If we’d been real terrorists and this”—he shook his rifle—“wasn’t an Airsoft gun, it would have been two to the head for each of you.” He grinned slowly and pointed to where he’d made his entrance. “From way back there.”

  Still shaking, I looked up at Ace. “You guys really know how to get the adrenaline pumping.” I was breathing hard. “I figured this was a simulation, but still.” I tried to smile and held out my trembling hand so Ace could see. “Look at me.”

  Across the room, Kyle pulled his mask off and let the others go.

  Huff bent and picked up the toy bullet from the floor where it landed after bouncing off his chest, and cursing, tossed it at the wall. “So close.”

  “And yet so far,” Van added, tossing up and catching his bullet, showing great restraint in not saying, “I told you so.”

  My heart was still racing. I was shaking, and totally frustrated with myself. This had only been a simulated attack, and I’d gone to pieces and done everything wrong.

  Van handed me my bullet. “A souvenir.” He paused. “You okay? We’re theoretically in heaven now. You can calm down.”

  “Or hell,” Huff added with a wry note to his voice. “In which case…”

  I put my head in my hands. “I’m so sorry. I got you both killed.” I tried not to sound as upset as I felt.

  Van shrugged.

  “Live free or die,” Huff said. “No way they were taking me hostage.”

  Ace slapped his hat against his leg. “I really hate shooting women. They never take it well.” He looked directly at me. “Do you need to sit a minute longer?”

  “I’m fine.” I wasn’t exactly fine, but I was calming down.

  Ace offered me a hand up.

  On my way back to the table, I bent to retrieve my purse. My Beretta had slid partially out. Its black muzzle peeked above the rim, giving my purse the appearance of a snout. I slid my lethal darling back out of view as I scooped up the purse, hoping no one had seen it.

  About the gun—only my gun dealer and the government knew for sure. If I ever needed to use it, I wanted the element of surprise on my side. Despite oodles of target practice, I wasn’t sure how good my aim was going to be under duress.

  Honestly? I had a love/fear relationship with my piece. After a gun safety course and diligent hours at the firing range, I’d almost lost my fear of it. Almost. Mostly, I depended on it as a last line of defense. Equal force be damned. If Ket came after me again I was going to use it and face the consequences later.

  Seeing it now brought back the first fleeting seconds of the intrusion. What if Huff hadn’t grabbed me and knocked my purse out of reach? Would I have grabbed the gun? Used it?

  A brief flash of horror, starring me shooting Ace and Kyle, flitted through my head. I was still trembling, but determined to overcome my fear and become a kick-ass woman totally able to protect herself, as I fell into my seat, clutching my purse.

  Huff returned to his spot next to me and shot me a concerned look. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  He looked skeptical as he poured me a glass of water. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

  I doubted it.

  “You. You. And you”—War was back at the podium and on the warpath. He pointed at Van, Huff, and me in turn—“failed this hostage pretest. If this had been a real situation, you’d be dead.

  “In the event you’re ever taken hostage—stay calm, do not make any sudden or suspicious movements, comply with all demands, never challenge a hostage taker…”

  After War’s lecture, the seven of us went directly from the meeting to the hotel bar to unwind, carrying our bags of uniforms with us. It was Sunday evening and the bar was quiet. Just the odd business traveler or two. We pushed two tables together, set our BDUs on an adjacent table, and ordered a pitcher of beer. I was flanked by Huff on my right and Van on my left. Steve immediately began bending Van’s ear.

  “How do you think they did it?” Peewee asked the group-at-large from across the table.

  Peewee wasn’t called Peewee for no reason. He was a short guy with short-guy syndrome—cocky, full of himself, and belligerent. He was one of those dark Italian men who’d benefit from having his back waxed. I’m all for hair, but I think moderation is the key. I sure wouldn’t want to clean his bathroom. Think Drano in the industrial size.

  I’m a quarter Italian, which means I’m used to descriptive nicknames. All my Italian relatives have them. And they usually have to do with height or food.

  Despite the expensive cut of his clothes, Peewee had thug written all over him. He looked like he’d be more comfortable wearing one of my cousin Ceci’s “damifino” baseball caps. His last name was Canarino, which meant canary in Italian. His uncle was Sil Canarino, a notorious Hollywood PI who was currently in jail awaiting racketeering charges. Sil was probably Mafioso, so the story goes. I had no reason to doubt it. Which made Peewee dangerous. Ket had always been impressed by him, which tells you something right there.

  Just my bad luck that Peewee was at the one FSC session that had a last minute opening for me. If I’d known in advance that he’d be attending, I might have backed out. Unfortunately, I was stuck with him.

  “They who? Did what?” Jim Martin asked. Jim was mid to late forties. Thin, like a runner. Receding hair. And a lawyer. He asked the question with the theatrical quality of the Spanish Inquisition.

  “Broke into our rooms,” Peewee said.

  “Bribed a maid, stole a universal key card or paid someone for it,” Huff said.

  Steve looked up from his intense conversation with Van. “I bet they hacked into the hotel computer and created their own key card.”

  Personally, I found all the possibilities frightening. Was it really that easy to get into a hotel room?

  Huff’s cell rang. He excused himself to take the call.

  Jim let out a noise of disgust at the theories set forth. “Occam’s razor. Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. Given two equally valid explanations for a phenomenon, one should embrace the less complicated formulation. The hotel simply let them in because FSC has an agreement with them as part of our vacation package.

  “We signed a waiver when we paid our fees. If you read the fine print, you saw that FSC has the right to spy on us and invade our privacy using whatever means they deem appropriate. And we’ve agreed to hold them blameless.” Spoken like a true, smug lawyer.

  Peewee looked at Jim as if he wanted to wipe that arrogant expression off Jim’s face with a good right hook.

  Cliff ordered another pitcher of beer and complained about the uniforms. “No shorts. The weather’s warm and no shorts.”

  “That’s what scissors are for,” I said.

  “You want to come help me make some cuts?” Cliff shot me a leer.

  “You wouldn’t like the kind of cuts I’d make.” I gave him a slow smile to soften my rejection. Cliff, unattractive as he was, wasn’t used to women turning him down. I imagine he used the director card to his advantage whenever possible.

  “I might. Try me.” He held my gaze as he swigged his beer.

  “No, thanks.”

  Cliff turned to Jim. “Why do the young, attractive women ignore me unless they know who
I am?” He spoke as if I wasn’t right there where I’d have to be deaf not to hear him.

  You only had to have a pair of eyes to know why. “I know who you are,” I said.

  Thank goodness Huff returned and eyed my glass. I’m not usually a drinker, but I’d already downed a beer without much trouble and was working my way through a second, and beginning to feel pretty relaxed and slightly flirty. Not smashed enough to go for Cliff. That was about a keg off into the future. But a light buzz always made me flirty. Flirty, then sleepy. Yeah, I was a lightweight. Tonight I was glad for it. I wanted to forget the day. Forget it all and just have some fun.

  “I promised you a drink,” Huff said. “A real drink. What’ll you have?”

  I never drank the really strong stuff. Never anything straight up or neat. I preferred unsophisticated girlie drinks with lots of rum and fruit, capped with whipped cream. In other words—dessert.

  “I’ll take a strawberry daiquiri.”

  “That’s not a Bond Girl drink.” Huff grinned as he flagged the waitress.

  “You can tell them not to stir it if that makes you feel any better.” I smiled back at him.

  Just after my drink arrived, a local quartet of the lounge-lizard variety began playing easy listening favorites from the seventies, along with a touch of disco. I didn’t like the music selection.

  “Dance with me?” Huff’s eyes sparkled with flirtation.

  I shook my head.

  “Come on.” He stood and held out his hand to me.

  “My mother never taught me the Hustle,” I said.

  He motioned me toward the tiny, square dance floor.

  “Or how to disco.”

  “Neither did mine,” Huff said. “We’ll wing it.”

  The beers had relaxed my inhibitions. Not to mention Huff looked damned enticing. Against my better judgment, I stood and let him lead me out to dance.

  “Alone at last,” he said as we reached the dance floor, pulling me toward him and taking me in his arms. He smelled of a woodsy, expensive cologne I should have been able to name, but couldn’t, not with his lean, hard body next to mine, chasing away coherent thought. “I’ve been angling for this all day.”

  I looped one arm around his shoulder. He caught my other hand in his, cuddling it between us, keeping one arm around my waist.

  A disco ball spun overhead, casting its multicolored light over the deep green vinyl-covered booths and wooden tables surrounding us. We were the only couple on the dance floor. As Peewee hooted at us from the table, I felt suddenly conspicuous and exposed. As always, fear of Ket watching and catching me intruded. I stiffened.

  “Relax. Lighten up.” Huff squeezed my hand. “The band’s not that bad.”

  “I’m sorry.” I started to pull away.

  He held me firm. “Did I do something? I don’t think I’ve stepped on your toes yet.”

  I looked at the floor and shook my head. “It’s not you.” I paused. “It’s…it’s my ex.”

  Huff tipped up my chin and raised a brow, giving me a look I assumed was asking if I still had feelings for Ket. “Ah, the ex…”

  “No, not that.” I laughed nervously. “I hate the guy. It’s just…Ket’s the jealous type.” My words came out in a rush. “He’s promised to kill anyone he catches me with. And by his definition, dancing is almost ‘with,’ probably deserving of a sound beating.” There, I’d said it. Ket had just ruined my chances. Again. “I shouldn’t be out here with you. Peewee’s pals with Ket.” I scowled.

  Huff chuckled. “I’ll take care of Peewee. Now relax.”

  “You’re either very brave or very foolish.” I smiled back at him, admiring his moxie. “Peewee’s uncle is Mafioso.”

  “I know.” Huff grinned.

  “You know and it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “You’re crazy. How about this—Ket, my ex, is a personal trainer and steroid-using junkie.”

  “You have good taste in men.” Huff’s eyes danced as he teased me.

  “Had. Tastes change.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Huff said. “I’m a PI. I carry a big, bad gun. I’ve dealt with characters like your ex a time or two. I can handle myself.”

  Huff seemed so confident and unconcerned that I believed him. I relaxed enough to keep dancing anyway. “A PI?”

  “A damn good one, babe.” His voice was sympathetic and convincing. “An ace at tracking, and watching people’s backsides. I could watch yours. I’d like that.” His tone made my heart flutter.

  “I’d like that, too. Though what I’d like best is Ket Brooks’s head on a platter.”

  “Vicious.”

  “What can I say? Sometimes my Salome tendencies just pop out.”

  “I’ve always liked Salome.” Huff tucked a lock of hair behind my ear with the attentive gentleness of a lover.

  “I don’t know what that says about you.”

  “I like women who can dance?”

  I laughed.

  The song ended. As we parted, Huff grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. “R, I need a favor.”

  “Yeah?” I paused beside him just off the dance floor. “Just ask.”

  “Two things.” He paused. “Two top secret things.”

  “Top secret? You’re not working for FSC, are you?”

  He shrugged and shot me an enigmatic grin.

  “Are either of them immoral, illegal, or fattening? ’Cause I don’t do those.”

  “Fattening, definitely not. Illegal, no way. Immoral?” He shrugged. “I have my fantasies.”

  I smiled at his innuendo. “What do you want me to do?”

  He shot me the grin again. “Hide a small flash drive in the ladies’ room here in the bar.” He gave me instructions.

  “Hide a flash drive,” I said. “What’s on it? The secret to cold fusion?”

  He laughed again. “No questions. The less you know, the better.”

  “Oooooh, mystery and intrigue. I love mystery and intrigue, and I need a powder. I’ll do it,” I said when he finished. “And number two?”

  “Mail a letter.”

  “A letter?”

  “A simple letter.” He patted his pocket. “It’s right here.”

  I pursed my lips and made a big show of thinking about it. “I don’t mail explosives, threats, illegal substances, anthrax, or chain letters.”

  “Chain letters?” His grin was practically heart-stopping. He obviously found me amusing. Amusing, fascinating, mysterious…I could go on.

  “Hate those,” I said.

  “That makes two of us. No chain letters. Just a letter to a friend.”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding. “So I hide the drive and mail the letter and then what? War gives me a lecture about the dangers of doing a drop in the ladies’ room? No worries ’cause I always wash thoroughly, and use a paper towel to open the door when I leave.”

  Huff laughed again. “I like you, R.”

  “Wait!” I said as inspiration hit me. “I know. A bunch of double-agents come after me?” I raised a brow, begging for him to continue the gag.

  He took my chin in his hand and smiled as he slipped the flash drive into my hand and whispered instructions on where to hide it without any embarrassment at all.

  My eyes popped open at his knowledge of ladies’ rooms. “You sure? Not every one has them.”

  He nodded, and continued. “And, Reilly, if a bunch of thugs or nasty double-agents come after you, give me up. Show them where you hid the drive.” He pulled me into a hug, and slipped an envelope into my tight back pocket. The man had magic hands.

  “Give you up? You sure? I’m a good liar.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, give me up. Whatever you do, be careful with that Beretta you have in your bag.”

  I was so startled it took me a minute to speak. “You know?”

  “Saw it this evening.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re like that Psych detective and notice everything!” I wondered
if anyone else had seen it.

  “It’s my job.”

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded again.

  “I have a permit to carry concealed.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I know how to use it. I have Bond Girl skills, you know.”

  He nodded, smiling suggestively. “I’m guessing they’re not necessarily of the firearm variety.”

  He’d guessed right there. I gave him a playful smile back.

  He laughed. “You don’t want to use that gun.”

  He smiled at the expression I gave him, confirming his guess. “R, I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not any devious double-agents, not your ex. I have your back.”

  “Good.” I flashed him another bright smile. “While you’re at it, could you warn Peewee he’d better not report anything he sees here back to my ex?”

  “Done.”

  I squeezed the drive in my hand. “Well, there’s no time like the present.”

  Then it was off to the ladies’ room to do the first deed. It’s true what they say about beer—it goes right through a girl. As I headed toward the powder room, Huff returned to the table and said something to Peewee. It may have been my imagination, but I thought Peewee paled. PIs, they had something on everyone.

  There was a line in the ladies’ room. A long one and I was dancing. If I hadn’t been on a mission, I would have ducked into another one. Where had all these women come from? The bar wasn’t that busy. I had a feeling they were spilling over from some other function and hogging the bathroom that I was entitled to by way of actually patronizing the bar. Cheaters.

  I stood in line, impatiently hoping the third stall in from the door magically opened up to coincide with me taking the lead spot in line. Huff had told me specifically to make the drop in the third stall. Guess he hadn’t been counting on the crowd in here. I was wondering how he knew there’d even be a third stall. I didn’t like the ideas that bounced into my head, like security cameras or men lurking in corners. I settled for hoping the person on the other end of the drop was a woman and had scoped out the scene ahead of time.