My Spy

by Christina Skye

  Good targets, he thought.

  He clicked off the shots and imagined the immediate chaos. The scenarios were satisfying. He'd have his escape routes if he needed them.

  He already knew where the employee lockers were, of course. He'd committed every detail of the building's structure to memory, down to fire alarms, help desk and restrooms.

  His contacts had insisted on that. Everything had to be checked out completely before he tried the key.

  Now he sat at the edge of the food court, holding a paper he only pretended to read and a glass of wine he only pretended to sip. He'd circulated through the building for three hours, waiting for the warning sense of faces seen once too often, but there had been none.

  He sat holding his wine, reviewing his careful instructions and forcing himself to wait. When the afternoon crowds were at their peak, he folded his paper neatly, tossed his plastic glass into the nearby trash bin, and strolled toward the jazz trio near the stairs.

  When he slipped past, brushing them slightly, none of the musicians noticed anything unusual.

  By the time they did, it would be too late.

  “RAY, YOU HAVE A CLEAR LINE OF SIGHT?”

  “All clear, Bishop. No one near the lockers. No one near the outside corridor, either.” Crouched inside two specially connected lockers, the federal agent wiped sweat off his neck. “Good thing, too, because this place is as packed as Times Square on New Year's Eve. You know you can rent this place? It'll only set you back twelve large.”

  “More than an honest civil servant like me can afford.”

  “You sure that intel was solid, sir?” Ray sounded edgy.

  “It was solid.” Bishop, the operation head, stood at a French pastry shop. Dressed in a crisp white jacket, he watched every movement on the floor in front of him. He didn't know why their target was so damned important, only that there were others involved, and the others were higher up the food chain. “He'll be here. No more chatter,” he added curtly.

  The jazz musicians were swaying, straining to reach that perfect chord while bystanders tossed dollar bills into an open guitar case. There was no need, of course. They had been hired for a substantial fee and tipping was unnecessary.

  But some habits die hard.

  Bishop saw movement the same second his lapel microphone began to squawk.

  Shit.

  “Ray, are you clear?”

  “All clear, Bishop. What's the—”

  “Stand by,” he interrupted curtly. What the hell was a SWAT team doing at the back entrance, loaded for bear? And why the hell hadn't he been notified of a situation in progress under his damned nose?

  Interdepartmental rivalry, of course. Sheer bureaucratic incompetence, too. But now he needed answers, not incompetence.

  “Kelly, report,” he snapped.

  “Movement in the loading area. Damned if that's not a SWAT van.” The agent on the roof breathed sharply as if trying to find a better vantage point.

  “Stay low, Kelly. Repeat, stay low. I don't want you made for a hostile target.” Bishop was sweating now, aware of the consequences of failure and furious at the thought of hours of careful planning going up in smoke. He fingered the comm unit inside his white jacket and spoke quietly. “Dade, this is Bishop. Patch me through to whoever is running that damned SWAT op.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  But the connection was interrupted. “Ray, here. We have motion at the stairs. Appears to be one man.” The agent sounded edgier than ever.

  “Kelly, notify SWAT team that we are mobile. All officers engage, locker corridor.”

  The music suddenly stopped. The bystanders fell into a hush. A dozen black-clad SWAT officers in tactical body armor swarmed through the room, wrestling the musicians to the ground and kicking their instruments aside.

  Bishop was on the run.

  Why the SWAT team now?

  “Report contact at lockers.” Ray's voice was tight. “Going out.”

  Bishop heard the metal door bang open and Ray yelling, “Freeze!”

  A boom roared through the line. Bishop, already at the mouth of the corridor, grabbed reflexively at his earpiece. “Ray, do you read?”

  No answer.

  Downstairs the tourists began to scream as they realized a SWAT team had deployed around them with weapons drawn.

  Nice move, you bastard. There will be a stampede in here shortly, and you'll blend in, just another face in the crowd.

  The screams from the plaza level rang in John Bishop's ears as he caught up with the other team members. Ray was sprawled next to the open locker. The floor was red where he'd fallen. “Suspect is on the run. I want him alive.”

  Bishop's hands wrapped around his service pistol as he sank down beside Carlos Ray's motionless body in its darkening red pool, fighting his grief at the sight of a good man down.

  “Report,” he snapped.

  His earpiece squawked. “Kelly, sir. I apprehended the target at the service elevators.”

  “On the move,” Bishop said curtly. It took him less than thirty seconds to reach the elevators.

  Kelly was cuffing a man facedown against the floor.

  Bishop nodded to his agent, who pulled the suspect to his feet. He had to fight an urge to take blood for blood.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  Bishop recognized the man from the delivery van instantly, but gave no sign of it. He motioned to another agent, who read the suspect his rights with harsh, barely controlled anger.

  Bishop turned away while the murderer demanded a lawyer again. Bishop was putting it all together now. The SWAT call had been a diversionary tactic, a carefully timed anonymous tip—apparently having to do with the musicians in the food court. Just the sort of thing to set up panic among D.C. law enforcement.

  He looked down at Carlos Ray, at the blood soaking his shirt from his head wound, then put away the emotions until he had the luxury of mourning a man he'd considered one of his closest friends. Right now he had a job to do.

  This was one interrogation Bishop wanted in on. He wanted to lean hard, then lean again, and he swore he wouldn't stop until he'd squeezed out every useful piece of information.

  Not that it would bring back his friend.

  The suspect was still shouting for a lawyer when Bishop motioned to one of his agents. “Take him out the front way.”

  “Sir?”

  “The front, I said. And don't rush. They'll have someone in place, watching the building.”

  Too bad they hadn't gotten any higher up the food chain with this op. Letting the suspect leave the apartment in Virginia had been a calculated plan, but despite all their surveillance, the man had been damned careful never to make contact with his handlers.

  The one phone call in the nightclub had come out of the blue. The surveillance team hadn't been able to make a trace in time.

  Bishop wanted those handlers bad. Someone was going to pay for Carlos Ray's death.

  His voice hardened. “Be sure that the suspect's visible when you take him outside, understand? I want them to know that their little fish just got hooked. Let them sweat for a while.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  SAM AWOKE IN A COLD SWEAT, THE COVERS TWISTED AROUND HIS legs. He heard the roar of a bus and children screaming and it took him a minute to realize it was a dream.

  Another damned dream.

  He shook his head, angry that the dreams were getting sharper, wondering when he'd stop dreaming about the accident and start remembering something useful.

  For an instant images flashed before his eyes. He caught the sound of water slapping and trucks backfiring. Or was it another kind of motor?

  Suddenly the noise began again, and this time it was one voice, high and thready.

  Not a dream. It was Annie.

  He was down the hall in two seconds, Glock level while he scanned the room at a crouch.

  Annie was alone, sheets at her chin, looking pale and frightened and trying not to. “You can put away
the gun. I had a bad dream.”

  “I know how that feels.” Sam put down the Glock and sat beside her. “Marsh?”

  She nodded mutely, reaching out for his hand.

  “Yeah, you'll probably have a few of them.”

  Annie didn't say anything, but her grip grew tighter.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head, her face too pale, her eyes too dark. “No. You're sure Taylor is okay?”

  “Izzy checked right after Reynaldo did.”

  “Does she know about me?”

  Sam shook his head. “You can tell her yourself tomorrow when you feel better.”

  Annie nodded. “That would be best. I don't want to worry her.” She took a hard breath. “About the dream—it was raining and he was there, laughing. He had the scarf again, and I couldn't get away from him. I was so cold.”

  So frightened.

  Sam guessed she wasn't giving him all the details, but he got the picture. “Scoot over.”

  She was shivering when he lay down beside her and pulled her against his chest. “Cold,” she said.

  “It's the storm.”

  Both of them knew it wasn't.

  She turned into his heat, putting her arms around his waist, shivering hard. “Would you stay for a while?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Sorry to whine like this.”

  “Yeah, you're a real whiner.” Somehow Sam kept his voice light. “No question about it.”

  “Do you get dreams?” she asked softly.

  He frowned over the top of her head, his fingers tightening. “Sure I do.”

  “What do you do about them?”

  Gut it out.

  Throw up.

  Tell yourself it's normal to see dead people all around you and be scared spitless.

  “Just remember it's a dream. The dreams go away, Annie.”

  “Will they?”

  Sam sure as hell hoped so. “Sure they will. Scout's honor.”

  She pressed closer. Sam felt his body react instantly, hard with need for her.

  But he only touched her hair, drawing her head down against his shoulder. There were a lot of things he wanted to do in bed with Annie O'Toole.

  Right then, holding her gently while she slept was good enough.

  “SAM. ”

  The whisper brought him awake in a blur, grabbing for the gun tucked under his pillow.

  “Only me. Izzy.”

  Annie murmured and turned away, asleep again in seconds as Sam eased away from her. He glanced at the alarm in the darkness and shook his head.

  “I held her off as long as I could,” Izzy said apologetically.

  “Held who off?”

  “Taylor. She's out in the courtyard and she swears she'll call Buzz if I don't let her in to see how Annie's doing.”

  “Hell,” Sam muttered.

  The horizon was hidden by a gray wall of clouds. His brain felt equally fogged as he dragged his fingers through his hair and sat up. “Let me throw some clothes on. Then you can send her in.”

  He stood up carefully, trying not to wake Annie. He was reaching for his jeans when Taylor burst through the door.

  “How is she?”

  Sam jerked the jeans in front of him. “She's asleep,” he said gruffly.

  Taylor's face was white and she seemed oblivious to his near nakedness.

  “Let's go outside for this,” Sam muttered. As soon as Taylor turned around, he pulled on his jeans and followed her down the hall. “The doctor sent something to help her sleep.”

  “Why didn't she call me herself?”

  “I don't think she wanted to worry you. She looked pretty shaky.”

  “I'm her sister,” Taylor hissed. “She's supposed to worry me.” She stalked into the living room, her expression stony. “She always does this, so damned determined to handle every little thing by herself. I could strangle her.”

  “She doesn't like to bother people.”

  “Of course she doesn't. Saint Annie never wants to upset anyone. That's why I have to hear everything secondhand!”

  She made a watery sound and Sam realized she was crying.

  Oh, hell, not that. He could handle grenades, artillery, and heat-seeking missiles.

  Anything but tears.

  “I'm going to kill that maggot.”

  Sam assumed she was referring to Tucker Marsh. “Get in line,” he said grimly.

  “You get what's left of him, pal. I've already talked to a doctor friend who told me about a nice little injection that will leave him impotent for life. Then there's a nasty alkaloid from Guatemala that will give him blinding headaches, followed by gradual vision loss and muscle wasting.”

  Sam winced.

  “After that, I'm going for the big stuff. I'm going to tie him down and cut off his—”

  “Whoa.” Sam cleared his throat uneasily. “I don't think the publicity would help Annie or the spa very much. Legal eagle neutered after spa weekend from hell?”

  Taylor rolled her shoulders as if they hurt. “He deserves it. He should have his miserable skin flayed, inch by inch.”

  Sam couldn't have agreed more, but he wouldn't let Annie's sister get involved. “Your sheriff will handle him.”

  “Marsh is already in custody in town. I just checked. But Buzz has gotten calls from three judges who are aghast at what they call an unfortunate misunderstanding. What if Marsh gets out on bail?”

  “Don't worry, he won't get near Annie,” Sam said grimly. “From now on she won't be going anywhere alone.”

  “Nice thought, but she won't listen.” Taylor sighed. “She'll nod and she'll take normal precautions, but with Annie Sum merwind comes first.”

  “Not this time.”

  Taylor measured him slowly. “You might be the one to convince her.” Her brow furrowed. “You look pretty dangerous yourself.”

  “I can be,” Sam said quietly.

  Taylor studied him some more. “I gather that nobody's supposed to know you're here.”

  He nodded.

  “But I know.”

  “If you talk, I guess I'll have to kill you.”

  Taylor smiled faintly. “Can I steal that line for a book?”

  Sam crossed his arms. “It's all yours.”

  “I suppose you know there's a pool going.” Taylor paced to the big window. “As of last night, the bets were running in favor of Han Solo.” Taylor's eyes narrowed. “Myself, I think she'd be better off with the Wookie.”

  “Hard to find a massage table big enough for a Wookie,” Sam said dryly.

  Taylor rubbed her arms. “So what happens now?”

  “Annie rests, whether she likes it or not. She also cuts back on her work, like it or not. Izzy and I will handle her protection.”

  After a long time, Taylor nodded. “Okay, that works. I just wish I could do something, too. I hate being the spacey, scattered one.”

  “Anyone who thinks that has to be blind.”

  “Thanks.” Taylor sniffed once, then picked up her big leather bag from the sofa. “I'm going to sit with her. But don't plan on going anywhere.” She leveled a finger at Sam. “I have a lot more questions for you.”

  ANNIE AWOKE DISORIENTED, HER FINGERS CLUTCHING AT THE sheets. Her temples throbbed and her mouth hurt. She took a shaky breath, remembering the night before.

  “Sam?” she whispered.

  “Hey.” Fabric rustled. “Glad you finally woke up.”

  “Taylor?” Annie reached out for her sister's hand. “What are you doing here?”

  “You think you could keep me away?” Taylor turned the bedside lamp to a dim setting, stiffening when she saw Annie's face. “Marsh did that?”

  Annie gave a little shrug.

  “I'm going to eviscerate him,” Taylor hissed. “I'm using manicure scissors, and they're going to be very dull when I do it.”

  Annie's hand tightened. “Don't. And don't encourage Sam, either.”

  “That man doesn't need any encour
agement, thank heaven. He likes Marsh even less than I do.” Taylor studied Annie in silence, her eyes anxious. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet.” Annie sat up carefully. “Marsh mentioned you being a problem. Did he try something?”

  Taylor pursed her lips. “I ran into him after I left the spa yesterday. He got too touchy-feely when I dropped a towel. He also implied that you and he were enjoying hot sex.”

  “What?”

  “Don't worry, I knew it was a lie.” Taylor smiled thinly. “That's why I gave him a karate chop in the family jewels. He didn't look too happy when I left.” Something came and went in her eyes. “Forget about Marsh. What do we do now? Getting drunk is out,” Taylor said. “Having an orgy is no good either, since your hunk looks like the possessive type, at least where you're concerned. Since the orgy's canceled, I thought we could watch QVC and shop for fake leather, but my Visa card is maxed out, so scratch that. That leaves the fallback plan.” She rummaged in her purse and brought out two videotapes. “We've got Multiplicity and we've got Godzilla. ” Taylor's eyes narrowed. “You sure you don't want to talk about anything first?”

  Annie shook her head, plumping up her pillow. She tossed Taylor the remote. “Crank up the terror of the sea.”

  TWO HOURS LATER THEY WERE SIDE-BY-SIDE ON THE BED, FINISHING their third bowl of popcorn. Taylor had had to go home for more popcorn, but after that they'd settled in for some serious film criticism.

  They had trashed the acting, the special effects, and the scene in the Park Avenue tunnel when the phone rang.

  “Annie, this is Buzz. How're you doing?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “What's that banging noise?”

  “Godzilla just dive-bombed a New York taxi cab. Taylor came down and we're watching movies.”

  “It's good she's there.”

  Annie glanced at the bedside clock. “Buzz, you didn't call me at five-forty-five to make small talk.”

  “No, I didn't. You feel up to taking a little walk down to the main building?”