The old sting still hit, though he was used to the fact that he’d never pleased Big Bill. But if his operation succeeded? Well, he’d please him then, all right.
The door opened, and a beautiful young woman in a black suit stepped out, an electronic tablet in one hand. Bill didn’t remarry after his young wife died fifty-five years earlier, but rumor had it that from that day on he lived like the original James Bond and fucked every gorgeous woman he could get his hands on. Still? Shit, who knew? Anything was possible with the old bastard.
She gave Roger a warm smile.
“Mr. Drummand can see you now.”
Yeah, the way all sons want to be greeted by their father’s assistant. “Thanks.” He stood and entered the ultimate man cave, a library stacked with rich leathery first editions, a desk that matched the importance of the man behind it, and a view of Georgetown that gave the town house its three-million-dollar price tag.
Maybe he should ask his father for Lila’s blackmail money since the man commanded hundreds of thousands for a speech and still gave them frequently.
“Hello, Bill.” He knew better than to call him Dad or Father. From childhood, he’d been instructed to use his first name. It was a wonder he didn’t have to call him Mr. Drummand.
“Roger, have a seat.”
He didn’t get up to come around the mountain of mahogany to hug his son, of course. His body was still strong, if smaller, and even his face, though wrinkled, maintained its handsome structure. Roger hadn’t inherited that. None of his father’s “presence,” in fact.
“Did Ashley offer you coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
Smoky eyes narrowed. “Are you.”
It was not a question. “Last time I checked. Why?”
He folded his arms and leaned forward to put his elbows on the desk. “I’ve heard something, Roger, and I feel it’s only fair to go directly to the accused source to find out the truth.”
Son of a bitch, she told him. She didn’t wait for the money, she didn’t go to Florida, she fucking told him. Shame and fear heated his whole body. He would deny everything. The one thing he was positive of was that Lila Wickham was working on conjecture, not fact. That made her a good spy, but not a great blackmailer.
“What would that be, sir?”
“I’ve heard you’re spending agency money and time and personnel to track the man you discovered embezzling from Guantanamo Bay.”
A modest amount of relief cooled his gut. “The money was never recovered, and I feel certain he knows where it is. If I catch him accessing it, not only do we have him red-handed again, but we could return five hundred thousand to the US government and put that thief back in prison where he belongs.” And where he could do the least amount of damage to Roger if he ever talked to the wrong people. “I think that’s the right thing to do.”
His father nodded slowly, never one to argue about what’s right. Doing the work of the government was what was right; his unwavering loyalty to the cause was what kept Bill Drummand alive.
“You need to stop.”
“Why? You don’t think he’ll lead me to the money?”
“I don’t care, and neither should you. It’s not a priority any longer and successful agents look forward not backward. You know how I feel about rear view mirrors.”
Fighter pilots don’t use them.
He’d heard the words in every speech. “The government is short a half a million dollars, sir.”
“The government has enough money, Roger.” His glare shut down the argument far more effectively than the words. “Enough to pay for an agency chief of staff position opening in a month, and I want you to have it.”
Roger’s jaw almost dropped. Oh, he’d enjoyed his share of nepotism in his career—his last name opened plenty of doors within the CIA. But his father had never actually gotten him a top-level job. “That would be wonderful, sir.”
Bill’s steely eyes narrowed. “There will be, of course, the usual process to vet you and an in-depth investigation of all your current projects.”
Shit. “Of course.”
“But there will be nothing untoward,” he said confidently. “You are my son.”
Roger blinked. Had he ever, in fifty-five years, heard Bill say that with any amount of pride? He couldn’t remember, but just the hint of it actually tightened Roger’s throat. His father’s approval was all he ever wanted, and all he never had. Until now.
“I am indeed you son, sir.” He cleared his throat and willed himself not to get emotional. Bill hated emotions.
“You’ll have to be approved by the director himself, but we’re golfing next week.” In other words, Bill had that approval in the bag. The golf bag.
“I’m happy to meet with the director myself.”
His father laughed, enough to show he didn’t think that meeting would amount to a pile of shit. “I’ll handle it.”
Then Bill stood, meeting over. “You’ll do a good job, Roger. Don’t waste money. Don’t waste time going after things that are already done. Don’t forget that the United States of America pays your salary and your job is to keep it safe, not rich, so prioritize. Prioritize.”
Bill’s favorite word. “I certainly will, sir.”
Bill nodded and gave a slight gesture of dismissal toward the door. Without so much as a handshake, Roger turned and left, his shoes echoing in the wide, high entryway and out the door into the chill of Washington, DC.
If he didn’t pay Lila Wickham, he could lose this opportunity. He’d lose the chance to gain his father’s approval. He had to pay her. And, irony of ironies, she was the one in Florida trying to get a lead on Mal.
He dialed a number he knew by heart and listened to half a ring before it was picked up.
“What?” Lila Wickham’s bitchy English accent jarred him, even though he was expecting it.
“Why haven’t you checked in?” he demanded.
“Too busy having sex with the pool boy while I get a European facial. What do you want?”
“An update.”
“I could make shit up, Roger. Would that make you happy?”
He closed his eyes. “It would help.”
“I think you’re forgetting who’s calling the shots now.”
“Have you found Mal Harris?”
“I have not.”
“Gabe Rossi?”
Nothing for a millisecond, then, “I wouldn’t know him if he walked into me, so I couldn’t tell you. But I’ll keep digging around. Meanwhile, you better find some other way to get that money, Mr. Drummand. Your father’s assistant just texted me to confirm our meeting.”
Roger drew in a slow breath, wishing he had an answer. As he exhaled, his other phone buzzed. He pulled it out to read a text of his own.
Harris is in Cuba with a woman. See picture. Report on locations attached.
He instantly recognized Francesca Rossi, the hacker from the family of do-gooders. Of course he knew why Mal was taking her there. Of course.
He almost told Lila what had just come in, but thought better of it. She didn’t need to know he had a backup plan, and the longer she stayed out of his way, the better. “Keep looking,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
He hung up before she replied, already knowing what he had to do.
He had to beat Mal Harris at his own game. He had to get back to Cuba before little Miss Happy Fingers could dig into the wrong information. He had to get that money, pay off Lila, and eliminate any evidence of his secret program to place former terrorists in the US to uncover new cells. Then he’d take his new job and do his name and father proud.
He texted the spy who’d sent him the information, knowing his words would go into an official file.
This project is closed and Harris is no longer a person of interest. You may close the reports and stop following him.
He sent the same instructions to two other agents, then skimmed the report on Mal’s whereabouts in Cuba. A documentary producer, huh?
>
Roger knew how to get the money, and he knew Mal Harris’s weaknesses. And if the bastard and his hacker pal died in the process…well, that would be Cuba’s problem. The US wouldn’t blink if “Mitchell Walker” and “Elizabeth Brandt” disappeared in Cuba. As far as the US was concerned, they didn’t even exist.
He turned around and glanced at the multimillion-dollar row house and thought of the powerful man inside. He had to be worthy of being his son. He had to be. No matter who died in the process.
Chapter Sixteen
Mar Brisas was even worse than Mal had feared.
The hostel had a shower in the hall that offered a dribble of water, a used bar of soap that smelled a lot like a goat, and a towel the size of a napkin. But at least he could wash off the mud and clear his head after a long drive to Caibarién.
Maybe Mother Nature had been sending a message with her flash flood: Bad idea, Mal. This woman deserves better than hopeless sex.
How did his nice little arrangement manage to get a handle like that anyway? She’d called it hopeless sex…but she seemed pretty hopeful to get it. And he was starting to entertain something that felt a lot like hope, too. Like hope there could be more time with her after this assignment was over. Which didn’t make any sense.
Except now he didn’t just like her or have the hots for her, he admired her.
Plenty of experienced intelligence agents couldn’t have handled the mess they’d gotten into last night. But an untrained civilian? Any effects of the rum had instantly disappeared, and she’d silently dressed and helped him navigate the dark drive, working as a dependable partner in every way.
She hadn’t complained when they pulled up to a “hotel” in a town that was little more than a decrepit village famous for crabs that walked around on the streets narrowly avoiding being crushed by the horses and carriages that were as common as old rust-bucket cars.
Yes, he admired her. That wasn’t the same as—
“No mas! Basta!”
Mal squinted into the lukewarm, slightly yellowish water that he was being ordered to stop using. If it even was water. But he shut off the spigot and dried.
He stepped into jeans, the only thing he’d grabbed from his duffel bag when he left Chessie in their basement room down the hall. He didn’t want to leave her alone for long, anyway. It wasn’t safe. And it wasn’t…what he wanted.
Shaking the thought along with his wet hair, he headed back, slowing when he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Had he left it that way? Inching it open, he peered into the room lit by only a hint of the morning sun coming through one jalousie window near the ceiling.
The bed was empty. Damn it, that was exactly where he wanted her. Now.
He spun around, wondering if there was another room that she’d taken. She hadn’t even blinked when the owner told Mal they had only one available room. Another bathroom? She’d taken a shower first, right after they’d arrived, and warned him that the only bathroom had lousy water and the owner timed the showers.
Mal took two steps to the bed, since the room was not much bigger than the undersized double bed, spying her soft-sided bag, but not her purse. There was no closet, no other door.
Why would she leave? A slow burn of worry slid up his chest, overpowering anything like disappointment or frustration. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her alone even for five minutes. He snagged his satellite phone from the dresser and bolted, slamming the door behind him.
He marched back down the tiny hallway, up the stairs to the bathroom he’d just left—still empty—and past two other rooms to the front entrance. No one was at the desk where they’d found the owner.
He stepped through the doorway onto a planked walkway under a wooden awning supported by rotted, peeling posts. This part of town was little more than a street of wooden structures, most painted in the same hue of blue or yellow, if they were painted at all.
A few locals peppered the area, but where the hell was she?
Looking up and down the street, a low-grade anger and worry bubbled in his chest, making him fight the urge to call out her name. Where would she—
A trill of laughter and the squeal of a delighted child pulled his attention to a run-down grassy area next to the hostel. Instantly, he saw Chessie standing in the midst of about ten children who circled her like they were dancing around the maypole.
She held her hand high in the air, laughing with them, and then turning to see Mal. “I stepped outside with my satellite phone, and they all appeared like magic.”
Relief punched, surprisingly intense. She certainly hadn’t gone far, she wasn’t lost, and she was only trying to get better reception on the sat phone like Gabe had instructed. So why had her momentary disappearance bothered him so much?
He didn’t know, but he strode across the planked walkway, irritated and annoyed that he’d lost her for even one second.
But Chessie beamed at him, apparently proud of her Pied Piper skills, then did a quick once-over of his bare chest.
“You forgot to tell me you were leaving,” he said, purposely letting her know he was angry.
“You were in the shower, Mal, and I couldn’t get a signal in—”
“Señora! Teléfono! Señora!” one of the kids yelled, jumping up high enough to touch the phone.
She reacted instantly, whirring out of reach and tossing the device to Mal, who snatched it in midair. The kids cheered and clapped like they were watching a sport.
Chessie beamed. “Some of them speak English,” she told him.
“I do!” one of the taller boys, likely nearing his teens, said.
“Me do, too!” a girl added, then put her finger to her mouth. “Pero…no tell.”
They weren’t supposed to brag about it, Mal surmised. A few of them came to him, still anxious to see the phone. “Estados Unidos?” one asked. “Abuelo! Abuelo!”
He wanted to call his grandfather in the US. Mal sighed and shook his head, looking at Chessie.
“No, darling, sorry,” she said, coming to Mal’s aid and his side, putting a hand on the young boy’s head. “But if you help us, maybe we can help you?”
He looked confused and glanced to Mal for an explanation, who turned to Chessie to see where she was going with this.
“If they help us find the family we’re looking for,” she said, “maybe we can let them make one call. It’s like a gift, like the other stuff we brought to give to kids.”
Candy and books, not time on a satellite phone. But it made sense because that phone call might be the one thing they wanted the most.
“Tell them what we’re doing,” she urged. “About the TV show, just to get them talking.”
He gathered them around him in his best Spanish, taking out his phone to show they had two and getting a huge cheer for that. Chessie observed and moved from kid to kid, a casual touch on the shoulder, a genuine smile. She was as comfortable around them as if they were her own family. Yet another thing that was attractive to him, a man who automatically put a wall between himself and strangers.
Trying to follow her lead—how was that for a role switch?—he explained that they were here to talk to children and families about how things might change in their world.
That got a lot of blank stares for this killer documentary idea. Thanks, Gabe.
Chessie stepped in for an assist, crouching down to get eye level with the two kids who spoke passable English. “We have to talk to families, too. Like the Ramos family. Do you know them?”
His eyes widened, and he stared right at Chessie. “No.”
It didn’t take training in intelligence gathering to know that the little potential informant was lying.
“Are you sure?” Chessie prodded. “This is a small town, and we would like to go to their house.”
“It’s a farm,” the girl said.
“Caralita.” The boy took a step back, reaching for his sister’s hand to pull her away. “Vamonos.”
Mal and Chessie shared a silent glance, a lo
t of questions and observations zinging between them with the ease of two agents who’d worked a long time together. With the tiniest nod, she managed to tell him she’d handle the English-speakers, and he should be with the others.
He didn’t argue, letting her take a few steps with the two kids, engaging them with questions and chances to look at the phone.
He kept talking to the ones around him, finally relenting and letting them play with the phone, while he kept one eye on Chessie. After a minute the kids stopped walking away and talked to her. The little girl more than the boy, Mal noticed. Chessie listened, got down on the ground, and started digging things out of her purse.
Gum. Candy. A toy. All the while, they talked. Mal mentioned the Ramos family to his group, but had no reaction whatsoever, just kid-lust for the phone. So he finally let one attempt a call, but it didn’t go through.
He lost a few fans then, but Chessie stood and gave hugs to both her kids. And waved the others over, passing out candy to all of them while Mal just watched and, damn it, admired her some more.
That was unexpected.
The kids scurried off, dancing, laughing, chomping on colorful candy like they’d been given the keys to the kingdom. Chessie came closer to Mal and placed one hand flat on his chest.
“All this gorgeous male pulchritude on display, and I got what we needed with a few bags of Skittles.” She grinned up at him. “The Ramos farm is a few miles east of here. On a dirt road past a big orange tree.”
“That’s…good. But not too specific.”
“Put a shirt on, big guy. We can find it.” She started walking ahead of him, back to the hotel, but he grabbed her arm and stopped her, spinning her around.
“Are you mad I left?” she asked. “Because I only stepped onto the street and… What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.” Without thinking too much about it, he leaned into her mouth and kissed. Not long, not hot, not wet and sexy, but a good kiss nonetheless.
When he backed away, she lowered her glasses to get a better look. “Was that a reward for my top-notch field skills?”
Barefoot With A Stranger Page 15
