by Ann Aguirre
Foster tore the place apart then. He did it quietly but methodically, and each time Mia tried to ask him something, he held up a hand. They couldn’t say a word until he found what he was looking for. And then he did. In the wall vent in his bedroom he found a small listening device no bigger than a dime.
This was a hell of a mess. One of two things had happened. Either Serrano had decided he didn’t trust him, or more dangerous people had tracked him down. Terrible timing, too, any way he spun it. His options were limited.
If he removed it, the person would know he’d been detected. And if Serrano had sponsored the tap hoping to get some dirt on his second in command, it would strike him strange that Foster had already found it. Disposing of the thing would raise red flags. If it wasn’t Serrano, he could think of a number of unpleasant alternatives.
After debating with himself for thirty seconds, he left the bug in place. Foster walked back to the door, where he’d left Mia waiting. Without saying a word, he took her purse. She had the sense not to protest and he rummaged, looking for a notepad. Thankfully she was as organized as she looked. He scrawled:
Plan B. This location is no longer secure.
“Just let me change my shirt,” he said loudly. “And then we’ll get dinner.”
Play along, he mouthed.
By the way she narrowed her dark eyes, he could tell she’d nearly reached her limit with him. “Sounds great.”
Foster banged around just long enough to lend credence to his statement and then he led her back out the way they’d come. Every muscle tensed as he came down the stairs. By rights he should have a weapon in hand, but if he had to, he could take someone bare-handed. He’d been playing a suit for years, but his reflexes were sharp enough.
There was an old woman walking her dog, and a woman taking her toddler to the swing sets on property. Everything looked peaceful. Normal. Things had never been that way for him, at least not since the Foundation got their hooks into him.
Mia amazed him by cooperating fully as he searched his car from top to bottom, but it appeared to be clean. By the time they climbed back in, he felt the adrenaline. He wanted to fight, wanted whomever it was to come straight at him, but he’d learned that trouble often came sideways or snuck up from behind.
“I’d think you were jerking me around,” she said shakily, “with all this spy-games shit, but I saw your face. You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?”
No, he thought. Lexie had been laughter. He didn’t laugh anymore.
“ ‘ We at the FBI do not have a sense of humor that we are aware of,’” he quoted, remembering the last movie they’d seen together before things went south.
“Men in Black,” Mia said. “Are you saying you work for the government?”
“I could, but it wouldn’t be true.”
“Then what is? Who’s spying on you?”
“There are a number of answers. I doubt you care about any of them, except as relates to your friend.”
“True enough,” she admitted. “I’d rather not have your trouble rub off on me. No offense.”
“None taken. In a nutshell, this is the situation.” Foster summed things up for her, including how Kyra had duped Serrano and eventually humiliated him at the tables, gambling her engagement ring on a high-stakes game of 21. “And then—this is the real pièce de résistance—she held up a sign for the cameras that read, ‘I was only in it for the money. I’d rather die than marry you.’ Quite dramatic. The security footage wound up on YouTube.” He didn’t mention his own part in that, however satisfying it had been.
“That’s . . . more or less what she told me she planned. The sign is new, though. Interesting twist. God, I never thought she’d do it.” Mia closed her eyes. “I can guess that he didn’t take it well.”
“Serrano? No. She’s gone to ground, and he’s hired someone to . . . dispatch her.”
“A hit man,” she said, looking numb. “He’s contracted someone to kill her.”
Foster nodded. “Unless we find her first. That’s why I need your help.”
CHAPTER 18
They rolled into Sioux Falls in late afternoon.
The city was prettier than she’d expected, lush, green, and clean. Kyra drove through to downtown to scope out their options. It had been several days since they’d earned any money, and Rey would get suspicious if she didn’t get back to it soon. Not to mention the fact that she simply missed working.
There was a dive called the Cue Club two blocks south of downtown, which showed promise. She always canvassed a town personally, getting the lay of the land before she looked at the phone book. Kyra had a good memory for locations, and afterward, she’d be able to tell whether a place was upscale, based on the address. Sometimes the assholes that frequented yuppie clubs should be relieved of their money, but they were more likely to contact the police if they thought they’d been cheated. That was why she practiced her art on people who made their money outside the law and hung around in seedy bars.
In truth, she missed the rush of pulling off a more intricate con, but she shouldn’t hang around the same town for more than a few days. As the asshole had said, the Marquis was memorable. If somebody caught up with her, either Serrano or Dwight’s people—man, it was nice to know they cared—it wouldn’t take long to run her to ground.
Next she found a motel with Kelly green neon lining along the roof. The rates were cheap enough and the rooms were clean. Kyra concluded their business without grilling the desk clerk about local attractions. He didn’t look like the helpful sort.
Rey had been quiet today, making her uneasy. She knew he wanted her to confide in him, but it went against all her personal experience. If she told him about the money, what was stopping him from killing her and taking it? Her ability didn’t work on him anymore—and she’d really like to know why—that left her vulnerable where he was concerned. She’d seen him fight. She knew what he could do with his bare hands.
Right now, she trusted him to do the right thing by her, but how far could she trust him? Would his reliability stretch to millions of dollars? No, it was better to keep him in the dark until they reached Fargo. Mia should be there by now. If Kyra had done the math right, Mia would’ve finished her job in Amsterdam, and the last time they’d talked, several weeks ago now, the other woman had said she intended to take a short-term contract in Fargo.
“You’re quiet,” he said, as they stepped through into another motel that was pretty much like the long series of its predecessors.
“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”
Rey paused, his features shadowed by the light from the open door at his back. He pushed it closed and leaned on it, gazing down at her. “Look, I understand. People say things they don’t mean after great sex. All the happy endorphins make them stupid.”
Is that what he thinks? That I’m trying to figure out a way to recant? For no reason she could name, it made her sad that he would assume nobody could mean it, if they said they loved him. Except for her dad, she might feel more or less the same.
“At least you admit the sex was great,” she said dryly, dropping her bag.
She took a step and wrapped her arms around his waist. It wasn’t a natural move for her; over the years, she’d learned to restrain her urges for physical contact. Even now, she half expected the shock, half expected the surge that signaled she’d taken something from him, but she felt nothing but warmth. His arms came around her slowly.
“So you haven’t been trying to think of a way to disavow me?” Though the tone was teasing, his eyes were serious.
“Just the opposite, in fact.”
His brows rose. “You’re trying to think of a way to keep me?”
“Pretty much.”
“Am I going somewhere?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
“I have no plans, but you never know what the future holds.”
Kyra sighed and stepped back. “You can be very irritating, do you
know that? Let’s go.”
“What’s the plan for tonight?” He fell in behind her.
“I won’t know until we get there.” She flashed a smile.
“That’s reassuring. Thank God one of us is a pro.”
They went to the Cue Club. It was a homey place done in dark wood and the occasional neon beer sign. The men wore Wranglers and flannel. The women wore Levis and cowboy boots. Everyone seemed at ease in his own skin, happy, friendly. They were familiar with each other, but not closed to outsiders.
She took a table near the door, and Rey sat on the other side. Nobody there struck a vibe with her. She listened to guys talking about bids on a drywall job versus overdue mortgage payments. One man mentioned how the wife was hosting a makeup party, and he’d been booted out. Another rambled on about peewee football and fantasy baseball. Kyra watched the flow of the place for half an hour before deciding they wouldn’t find any targets here. Oh, she could probably amaze the locals with her talent somehow, but she didn’t want to. Cheating honest people left a bad taste in her mouth.
“I can’t believe it. Everybody in there seems to work for his money. No dirt, no gossip. I wonder where all the dealers, thieves, and bag boys are.”
“It seems like a pretty wholesome town,” he agreed.
She slammed her hand against the table, drawing a few eyes. “Well, shit.”
“Problem?”
“I’m down to my last hundred bucks. I don’t know if it’ll get us to Fargo.”
Well, unless she dug into the stash. Kyra didn’t want to do that until she made contact with Mia, who would help her get the money out of the country. She didn’t know if the bills could be tracked somehow. It might be standard in case they were stolen. In her case, they hadn’t been, but she didn’t want to risk leaving a trail.
“What’s in Fargo?”
“A friend. Somebody who will help us out.”
“Why would she help me?”
“Because you’re with me,” she answered.
He appeared to accept that. “So you prefer not to target honest folks?”
“I like going after people who deserve to lose their money.”
Rey nodded. “So what now?”
“Hell if I know,” she muttered. “It’s usually as simple as picking a dive and identifying the key players. Any ideas?”
Over the years, she’d developed a real instinct for it. Tonight, however, her instincts had gone to hell. She’d led them straight to a family bar, full of married men. Kyra shook her head in disgust.
“None of my ideas relate to making money,” he said.
“Then, what—oh. Don’t you ever think about anything else?”
“I used to. I had hobbies, watched movies occasionally. And then I met you.”
She laughed reluctantly. “You’re good for my ego, I’ll give you that.”
Coming up from behind in soft-soled shoes, the waitress touched her shoulder. She was a motherly type with laugh lines around her eyes. Kyra jerked, but it was too late. A soft little sizzle went through her, signaling whatever she’d taken. This ability was nice, warming, and it rolled through her like honey. It was also rare, but this woman seemed to be equally good at two things, which meant Kyra got dual gifts for the price of one.
As it turned out, she knew how to make a little money. They weren’t screwed for the evening after all. Flashing a smile at Rey, she stood.
“Would anybody mind if I played?” Kyra canted her head toward the piano. It had a tip jar on top, no dust, which told her somebody used it—probably on weekends.
“Help yourself.” The waitress—Molly—smiled at her. “I bang on it a bit myself sometimes on breaks. There’s no entertainment tonight, so it’s all yours.”
She felt Rey watching her as she sat down. Any other time, she would have no idea what to do with the keys, but her fingers settled in place on the ivories and soon the place filled with the soft, seductive notes of “Georgia on My Mind.” The waitress sang, too, every bit as good as she played piano. Maybe at one point she’d dreamed of making a career of it, singing to people instead of bringing them beer.
Kyra sang, low and husky, of moonlight through the pines and places left behind. It was her voice and yet it wasn’t, just her sound powered by Molly’s talent. At first nobody paid much attention, but then Rey came over and clicked on the mic atop the piano. Conversation slowed.
The other woman had apparently worked up a set of songs that had states in the name because those were the ones Kyra found she knew by heart. If there had been any sheet music on the piano, she could’ve played it, but these tunes she played from memory: “Mississippi Queen,” “Kentucky Rain,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” “Tennessee Waltz,” “California Dreamin’,” “and “Yellow Rose of Texas.” She lost herself in the sweet and yearning music.
Reyes watched her. Just when he thought he had a handle on her, she shifted the ground beneath his feet. There was no money guaranteed in this, but right now, she was a performer. She played for the love of it. It might not be her love, but she was giving that waitress a priceless gift, letting her experience her own talent in a way most singers never would. By the time she finished the set, her throat had to be parched, and she’d gathered quite a crowd.
A few people had moved the tables and started to dance. It had to be amazing, doing this. How would it feel, knowing you didn’t have to be the same person, day after day? Kyra Marie Beckwith could be anyone she wanted, at least for a little while. But maybe it eventually got hard to remember who you really were, living like that.
He stood back from everyone else, just observing her. At this moment, she was radiant, energy sparking from her strawberry blond curls, reflected in the shine of her tawny eyes. If she’d asked the people to empty out their pockets, he had no doubt they would. Magnetism like hers could be downright dangerous.
She’d gotten so carried away with the music that he didn’t think she’d even noticed people had started dropping money in the tip jar. There were a substantial number of crumpled bills, but he couldn’t guess at denominations. Most likely it would fill up the gas tank, though, leaving her hundred for incidentals. They’d get to Fargo on it.
Kyra refused all requests for encores at that point, gathered up the bills and waved to her dispersing audience. She almost glowed from the attention, as if she soaked it in like a solar panel. The waitress brought them both a beer.
“On the house,” Molly said, eyes shiny and moist. “You know, it’s the strangest thing . . . you played every song I know, all my favorites.”
She smiled. “I hope I did them justice. They’re classics, aren’t they?”
“More than. You two come back anytime.”
Reyes set his hand in the small of her back as they walked out. He couldn’t help the small, possessive gesture, wanting the other men to know she belonged to him. It had been impossible not to glimpse the desire in their eyes, even the ones who had been speaking moments before of their families. Kyra had a particular incandescence that made a man want to touch her, glory in her warmth.
“That’s what I call a clean con,” she said quietly. “It’s impossible to plan those.”
“Because you never know what you’ll get from someone unless you’ve been watching them,” he guessed.
“Pretty much.” She climbed into the Marquis and pushed her bag toward him. “Count the take?”
He delved into her denim sack-style purse and came up with a handful of crumpled bills. It took him all of a minute and a half to straighten them out, sort by denomination, and tally them up. “Looks like seventy-seven bucks.”
“Not bad,” she decided aloud. “That’s a tank of gas anyway.”
“Back to the room then. You can’t do that again tonight.”
“Right,” she said in an approving tone. “You catch on fast. I must admit, you’re taking this a lot better than I ever imagined anyone would.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” he admitted. “But it’s amazing. Yo
u’re amazing.”
“You’re biased.”
“Maybe.”
Christ, maybe he was.
Reyes fell quiet as she drove. He hadn’t heard from Foster since he’d given the deadline. In anyone else, he might suppose other matters had distracted the man, but Foster had all the focus of a pit bull. He didn’t let go once his jaws clamped down. Worst-case scenario, he’d hired someone else to complete the job Reyes had been contracted for. If that happened, then the decision had been made for him.
“You look worried,” Kyra said, as she pulled into the motel lot.
This late, the neon green gave the place a strange, surreal air. Reflexively Reyes checked for men loitering, motorcycles, or anything out of place. He made sure to hop out of the car first, ready to fight. In fact he kind of wanted to; it would make a nice change from indecision. Belatedly he realized she wanted a response. He wasn’t used to anyone thinking for more than fifteen seconds about his emotional state.
“I guess I am, a little.”
To his surprise, she didn’t ask why. Maybe she had some idea, and didn’t want to get into it. In silence they walked along the cement path to the stairs and he went up first. Everything was clear until they hit the room. The place looked like a tornado had hit it, clothing strewn, mattress slashed, holes in the walls. The attackers had pissed all over Kyra’s stuff, leaving a clear message.
She hunched her shoulders. “Dwight’s guys?”
Unless Serrano had hired some seriously insane SOBs, then yeah. It had to be.
“Do you have any other enemies I should know about? This guy you pissed off . . . is he likely to send people after you?” It was more than slightly ironic for him to be asking her that.
Kyra didn’t even give the question ten seconds’ thought. “Yeah. If his guys find me, I’m dead.”
They have to go through me first. The primitive thought astonished him. He’d kill for her. Not such a big step, given that he killed for money, but he’d never had anybody matter to him enough that he’d be willing to unleash his skills on her behalf, at least not without being paid first. And the twenty bucks that comprised his portion of tonight’s take wouldn’t even buy a minute of his time.