by Leigh Barker
He took her hand again and led her back across the floor to the double doors and out into the huge hallway, where Merriman was waiting.
“David will take you home,” Christian said. He touched her face softly. “I really did have a wonderful time. Thank you.”
She was puzzled. Was this the brush-off?
Merriman held her coat, and she slid into it, still puzzled. He opened the front door, and David was waiting with the car door open.
Christian stepped up beside her in the doorway. “Do you like seafood?”
She frowned. “I told you I’m a vegetarian.”
He chuckled. “Yes, you did,” he said, and a smile lit up his face. “But you said that just to throw me.”
She thought of rebutting the suggestion, but joined in with the smile. “You were… are just so in control. I thought I’d be a devil.”
His smile broadened. “You can be one of those anytime you please.” He straightened the upturned collar of her coat. “Then, since we have established that you do like seafood. Perhaps you would make my week… my year complete and have dinner with me on Saturday.”
She checked herself from shouting ‘Yes!’ and made a show of thinking about it. But not too long. “I would be delighted to have dinner with you.”
He nodded. “Then I will have David collect you at lunchtime on Saturday.”
Now she was puzzled. “That’s a bit early for dinner, isn’t it?”
He laughed, easy, infectious. “No, no,” he said, bringing his laughter to heel. “David will take you to the airport, and my pilot will fly you down to meet me on my yacht in Bridgetown.”
“What? Where?”
“Bridgetown,” he said with a light frown. “The capital of Barbados. You’ll love it.”
“Oh,” she said succinctly. “I mean yes, I’d love to.” The frown again. “You have your own plane?”
“Of course. Everyone does these days.” He smiled. “I believe John Travolta has five.”
That was a joke. Well, she guessed it was.
He held open the big door. “Then that’s a date. Seafood in Bridgetown on Saturday. I know a lovely little restaurant in Christ Church, overlooking the ocean.”
She walked slowly down the steps, conscious that her shoes could booby-trap her at any moment. As the car moved away, he waved, and she returned it. It had been a good night, though part of her was sorry he’d been such a gentleman. Still, Saturday wasn’t a long way off. And she’d waited—she saw her reflection in the car window and couldn’t lie to it—forever.
Ethan slept through the whole five-hour flight to McCarran International. He wasn’t really tired, but it’s what he did when there was nothing else to do. Store up sleep, because he never knew when he was going to need to call on it.
Kelsey shook him gently, then less so. He opened his eyes to see the passengers deplaning. Not even the landing had woken him, though an unexpected sound, or even a sharp click, would have seen him awake and alert instantly. Also a throwback to his marine days. He thought about that and realized he couldn’t talk about it in the past tense now, since SecNav had reactivated him. Just as long as he didn’t get another tour in Afghanistan. He’d spent so much time in the desert, he was thinking of getting a camel as a pet.
He stood up slowly, careful not to crack his head on the overhead lockers, stretched as much as the limited space would allow, and smiled at Kelsey, who was standing in the empty aisle, watching him silently but with her hands on her hips.
“Okay, okay,” he said, collecting the book he hadn’t read and his soft leather jacket from the floor under the seat. “No need to shout about it.”
Mancini and Rayford were waiting outside arrivals and leaning impatiently on a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. Standard FBI issue. Ethan looked around to see where it had magicked from and saw an identical vehicle driving away into the traffic. The delivery boys. He smiled. Better service than he was used to in the Marine Corps.
“Are you coming now?” said Mancini, a little tetchily. “Or do you like standing here in the blazing sun?”
Ethan glanced up, and sure enough, the sun was doing exactly what Mancini said. He looked at his watch. Seven thirty and still hot. Sunset in half an hour or so. He looked around again and ignored Mancini’s sigh. Okay, it was an airport, with the addition of slot machines, so not somewhere he was keen to stay. “Okay, let’s go into town.”
Kelsey tut-tutted. “I’m supposed to keep you out of town, remember?”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
“Different how?”
“We need a hotel,” said Ethan “Preferably a decent one with proper beds.” And there spoke a man who’d spent too many nights freezing his ass off in a sleeping bag in the desert.
Kelsey eyed him suspiciously and was about to speak, but Rayford beat her to it. “You’re not planning to go to Creech now? You’re going in the middle of the night, aren’t you?”
Ethan nodded slowly. Good kid. “Three a.m. to be exact.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes!” said Mancini. “Let’s get over there and stop jerking around.”
“Four’s better,” said Ethan, and climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV. “Are you coming?” he said to Mancini. “Or do you like standing here in the blazing sun?”
He caught Kelsey’s eye, and she looked away quickly, but he saw the laughter. Mancini started to walk round the front of the vehicle but stopped when Ethan pointed at Kelsey.
“Kelsey drives,” he said. Then felt some minimal explanation was necessary, at least enough to stop Mancini sulking. “She’s got a kid.” Okay, that would do it.
“What?” said Kelsey. “How do you know I have a kid… a daughter? And what the hell has that got to do with me driving?”
Ethan glanced at Rayford, who was watching him with a little smile. “Ask Special Agent Rayford here.”
She turned to Rayford, and Mancini stepped back to the side of the SUV.
Rayford shrugged. “He means Special Agent Lyle will drive more carefully than one of us. More to lose.”
“That’s just total crap,” said Mancini. But he climbed into the back of the vehicle anyway.
Rayford tilted his head questioningly. “Is it?”
Kelsey sighed heavily. “Oh, for God’s sake. Let’s just get going before we get towed.”
They rolled up to the Four Seasons Hotel at the southern end of The Strip. Mostly because it didn’t have rows of slot machines leading up to reception, and in the washrooms.
Ethan picked up his black leather zip-up travel bag, which held pretty much all his worldly possessions, slung it over his shoulder, and strolled over to lean on the rail and look out over the artificial lake, while Kelsey arranged some short-stay accommodation. The receptionist didn’t even blink when she told him they’d be checking out at four in the morning. Strange behavior seemed to be the norm in Crazy Town.
Mancini and Rayford joined Ethan, and they waited for Kelsey to finish and wheel her maxi-cabin bag over. Ethan looked at it and smiled, but kept quiet, a rare thing. His eyes, though, gave the game away, and Kelsey looked down at the bag and then back at him. She squinted and dared him to comment.
“Let’s check out the bar,” said Ethan. “Time to kill, and nothing kills time like a sit in a bar.”
“I’m on duty,” said Mancini, with a tone that implied Ethan should be too.
“Fine,” said Ethan. “You can have a soda.” He strolled over to the concierge desk and handed over his bag for safe keeping, then headed for the bar and a well-deserved beer. Rayford shrugged and set off after him, handing his small and very new case to the concierge. Kelsey followed, wheeling her case. Mancini hung around in the reception for a few minutes, as a token gesture, then came along and sat a couple of stools away along the bar. Ethan took the glass of beer from the barman with a nod of thanks, held it up to the light, and then took a long drink. He put the glass on the bar with a satisfied, “Ahh!” Kelsey sipped a small beer.
>
Rayford drank Coke, but didn’t shout about it. He put down his glass and rested his elbows on the bar. “I don’t get it, Ethan.”
Ethan pushed his stool back a little so he could talk to Rayford without turning his back on Kelsey. Mancini appeared to be sulking, so he left him to it. “What is it you don’t get?”
“Couple of things, really.”
“What the hell am I doing poking my nose into something that is clearly FBI?” Ethan raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Rayford shrugged. “And how come Dryer hasn’t kicked my ass off his investigation?”
“Among other things, yes,” said Rayford, sipping his Coke while eyeing Ethan’s beer.
“Simple,” said Ethan. “First man to fall was marine General Harper, so that makes it an NCIS case. SecNav spoke to your director, and he spoke to your section chief, who told Dryer to kiss my ass.”
Rayford laughed out loud. “Now that’s an image I’ll have trouble shifting at the next briefing.”
Kelsey leaned forward, and her breasts pushed against her white blouse. “Ethan’s got a lot of miles on the clock—”
“Thanks a bunch,” he said with a grin, shifting his eyes off her body.
“I was going to say,” said Kelsey, straightening up and pulling her black jacket forward pointedly. “Ethan’s got a lot of experience in tracking down Taliban terrorists.”
Mancini sniffed loudly. Ethan looked past Kelsey and waited for Mancini to say his piece. “Something is stuck in your craw,” he said and raised an eyebrow. “Might as well spit it out before it chokes you. Or screws up our mission. And that’ll get us killed.” He squinted at the man. “And you first.”
“Okay then,” said Mancini, getting up and moving to the next stool. “I spent four years at Yale before being accepted into the FBI. Then I had to go through the Special Agent Programs before anybody would even look at me. Then I worked my ass off to get respect. And now what? I’m to report to this…”
Ethan raised his eyebrows. “Jarhead?”
Helpful guy, Ethan.
Mancini thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, okay. This jarhead.” He glared at Ethan, and his jaw hardened as his anger bubbled up. “Probably straight into the marines from public school. Before he ended up in prison or dead in the street.” He was on a roll, and everyone let him get it off his chest. “Unless the judge gave you the prison-or-army speech?” He waited. No response. “And now what? I’m supposed to do what this… soldier—”
“Marine,” corrected Ethan, with a little smile.
“Soldier, marine, all the same. One of these educational failures who bounce into the services when there’s nowhere else to go. I am a law enforcement officer first and foremost. And I’m damned good at my job. I resent being told what to do by somebody whose only contact with the law is in a court. In chains.”
Ethan laughed. “I was wondering if you could talk, son. Seems like you can.”
Mancini glared at him.
Kelsey turned a little in her seat so that she was facing Mancini. “Did you read his file?” She saw the look. “Clearly not. You’re too important to bother reading about some… jarhead.” She leaned forward. “Okay, Special Agent Mancini, law enforcement officer. Let me give you the bullet-point version.” She glanced at Ethan and saw he was still smiling. She wouldn’t have been. “Before being dragged into the marines in chains, he served as a detective in LAPD’s elite Terrorism and Special Operations Bureau for eight years. He was initially seconded to the navy police as a special advisor on antiterrorism, but they invited him in.” She shook her head and looked at Ethan. “God knows why, but five years later, he moved out of police work into Special Operations.”
Mancini was staring at Ethan as she continued. “Missions in Columbia, Iraq, Afghanistan, and god knows where else. All of which are so far above your security clearance it would make your nose bleed.” Her face was flushed along her cheekbones, and it looked for all the world like she was going to poke him in the chest with her raised finger.
“And the final bullet point, Mister Yale Graduate. Ethan Gill has an IQ of a hundred and forty-seven.” She gave that time to sink in. “And yours?” She waited. “Judging by what I’ve just seen, I’d guess it’s in single digits.”
Ethan laughed and shook his head in wonder. He watched Mancini’s expression go from anger, through doubt, to awe. Nothing impresses an academia snob like IQ scores, but to Ethan, that was just the ability to think on his feet.
“A hundred and forty-seven?” Mancini said quietly, like he didn’t believe it.
Ethan shrugged. “I cheated.”
Mancini’s expression changed. Told you so.
“I thought about the questions before I answered them.” He smiled, but only with his mouth. “Never was one for shooting my mouth off without thinking.” He fixed Mancini with a steady look for a moment and then reached for his beer. Subject closed.
Mancini sat and watched Ethan, with a puzzled look on his face and the occasional shake of his head as he thought about the IQ score. Ethan ignored him. They all ignored him. But he was used to that.
“Do you really intend to arrive at Creech in the middle of the night?” Rayford asked, clearly not liking it.
“Don’t care how professional you are,” said Ethan, “just before dawn, you’re going to fade. Your circadian rhythm is at its lowest.”
Kelsey smiled. “Thank you Doctor Spock.”
“Didn’t he discover babies?” Ethan asked with a shrug.
She watched him for a moment to see if he was kidding, but couldn’t tell. “Yeah, before he came along, there weren’t any babies. So it’s his fault.”
“Still, it must have been fun practicing,” Ethan said and ignored Rayford spluttering into his Coke. “Way I see it—”
“Hey, barkeep, get over here!”
They looked along the bar at the loudmouth and saw three heavyset guys with beer guts and identical bowling club shirts and baggy shorts. The barman glanced along the bar but kept polishing the glass he was holding. Some jobs are important, others less so.
One of the loudmouths rapped the bar top with a coin. “Hey, you!” He jabbed a finger at the barman, who watched with practiced indifference. “Get your pansy-ass over here and serve your paying customers.”
The barman put down the glass and the cloth and walked very slowly along the bar, glancing at Ethan as he passed. “What can I get you guys?” he asked with strained politeness.
“Pitcher of beer,” said the bar tapper. “And three bourbons.” He pointed at a spot on the bar, as if the barman wouldn’t know what it was for.
The barman picked up a pitcher from beneath the bar and held it under the beer tap. He flicked the tap, and a hiss of foam splattered into the glass. “Sorry, guys, beer’s out.” He put down the pitcher. “I’ll go and fix it.” He turned to walk out along the bar. “It’s all the way down in the basement, so it’s gonna take a while.”
One of them leaned over the bar and grabbed him by the shirt. “Don’t give me that shit,” he growled. “What do you think I am?”
Now, there was an answer everyone knew, but stating it seemed unnecessary, as actions were speaking way louder.
The guy pulled the barman up against the bar. “Pour the beer now, or I’ll decorate this faggot bar with your teeth.”
Kelsey reached into her jacket, intending to get her cop ID, but Ethan raised a finger, and she stopped and watched him slide off his stool and stroll over to the action.
“Hey, boys,” he said cheerfully. “How are you liking Vegas?”
The guy with a handful of the barman’s shirt glared at him. “Get lost.”
Ethan tutted. “Yeah, I could do that. But…” He leaned on the bar and looked closely at the barman’s name tag. “Steve here and me…” He brushed down his shirt. “Well, we’re real close, y’know?”
The guy frowned but kept holding the barman’s shirt bunched in his fist. “Get lost.”
“You already said that,�
� said Ethan. He reached across the bar, took the guy’s hand, thumb to thumb, and twisted it out.
The guy yelped and snatched his hand back, rubbing and shaking it. “You’re going to regret that, faggot!” he growled.
The other two heavies grabbed Ethan’s arms, and the loudmouth threw a great, swinging roundhouse punch that was so wild and slow, Ethan could have ordered another beer and still have ducked. Except he didn’t duck, he snap-kicked him below his kneecap. The guy screamed, lost the use of his right leg, and went down in a messy heap.
Ethan used the moment of surprise to step back and behind one of the men, raised his arm, stepped under it and turned, putting both men in front of him with their arms doubled up across their faces. From there it was just a matter of leaning forward and letting them fall on each other.
He propped himself up against the bar and watched the tough guys sort out who the legs and arms belonged to and eventually get up. They snarled and grimaced, like baboons having a bad day. Then regrouped and faced him in a semicircle.
“Come on, boys,” Ethan said, “do you really think you just fell down by accident?” He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. No response. “That was an aikido technique called futari dori.” He looked at Loudmouth. “Except you. That was just a kick in the shin.” He shrugged. “Sorry, but it was the only thing I could think of at the time. That wouldn’t hospitalize you.” He let them think about it, but he could see they were still itching to tear his arms off. “Last time I took it nice and easy, because my mom told me to be kind to dumb animals. Next time…” He shrugged.
They looked at each other, maybe hoping the others would go first, but their spirit was as weak as their flesh. Loudmouth backed off and pointed at Ethan. “I’m coming back with my gun, you asshole. Then let’s see you do that dancing shit.”
Ethan opened his leather jacket to reveal his Colt M1911 in his belt holster. He winked at the red-faced guy, who turned and limped out of the bar, swearing and promising to be back. His friends walked after him as fast as they could without breaking into a run.
Kelsey clapped slowly, and the barman pulled another glass of beer from the tap that was suddenly working again, and handed it to him with a nod.