Grant made a precise turn and marched through the doorway with Bounter close on his six. Holding the door open, the captain seemed to emit heat as he passed. He stood at attention facing the desk, even though the ruse was unnecessary now that the captain had closed his door.
“How dare you wear that uniform!” he spat. Then he was right in front of Grant. “You were discharged for a reason. It’s a slap in the Navy’s face for you to show up like that.”
Grant remained silent. He felt as small as he had three years ago when he’d faced Captain Lockhart in a standoff. He could almost feel the cold metal of Logan’s gun in his unsteady right hand. He couldn’t come up with the words he needed to diffuse the situation, and his lack of response seemed to incite the captain more.
“I’d never have agreed to this meeting if I’d known you’d pull this stunt.”
“Captain, it was our idea,” Agent Bounter offered.
“And who the fuck are you?” he stormed. “You’re certainly no sailor with a stance like that.”
Bounter gave up his attempt at standing at attention and reached into his back pocket. “FBI Agent Lucas Bounter, sir.” He handed over his badge.
“Organized Crime Task Force,” the captain read before flinging his badge back to him. “All I know is the FBI called this meeting. I didn’t think I could refuse, so I agreed. Then they inform me Grant Madsen’s coming in.” He slid back in front of him. “Joe told me you got out of the state pen. Have you committed a federal crime now?”
“No, sir.” This was going a lot worse than Bounter had said it would.
Bounter cleared his throat. “Captain, Mr. Madsen’s been pardoned for his crimes. Will you calm down, sir?”
“You come in here in fake uniforms, and you expect me to calm down?”
“We did it to protect you!” Bounter exclaimed.
He finally paused. “What do you mean?”
“Will you let us explain before you give yourself a goddamn stroke?”
Grant’s eyes widened. He’d never heard anyone speak to the captain that way.
Captain Lockhart laced his arms across his chest. “Fine,” he conceded. “Sit. This better be good.”
Grant relaxed and followed Bounter to the conference table. A deep line creased the captain’s forehead—probably a sign of disgust. He pursed his lips and nodded toward the table, where Grant took a seat. As he joined them, Grant noticed that he and the captain sat ramrod straight on their chairs, making Bounter look like a slouch.
“Captain Lockhart, you have a drug problem on this base,” Bounter began.
He blanched. “I most certainly do not.”
Bounter opened the folder he’d brought and removed several enlarged photos, which he fanned out on the table. He waited for the captain to inspect them. “I believe these are your men here, smoking weed?” He pointed to another photo. “Buying meth?”
“How do you know that’s methamphetamine?” Captain Lockhart demanded.
Bounter arched his eyebrow. “We know, sir. It’s what we do.”
The captain sat motionless for several moments. “Okay.” He scooped up the photos. “I’ll have these men arrested today.”
“No, you won’t.” Bounter snatched the photos back. “Arresting these men won’t put a dent in your problem.”
“And why is that?”
“There are officers involved.”
“That can’t be true. I trust my officers.” He gave Grant a sideways glance. “Well, most of them, anyway. Why should I believe you?”
Grant finally spoke. “Because I’m setting up a sale to them as we speak, sir.”
His lips parted.
“Captain, allow me to explain,” Bounter said. “Grant’s working undercover for us, infiltrating the Russian Mafia down in the city. When the don and his guys discovered Grant was former Navy, they wanted him to be the go-between. They’d already established contact with men on this base, but thought the officers would more likely trust one of their own. This drug problem runs deep. That’s why my bosses had us dress in uniform to protect you.”
“Why do I need protection?”
“Because after this deal goes down and you arrest the ringleaders, we can’t let the Russians or the officers connect the dots between you and Grant. We have to keep this on the down-low.”
The captain sat back in his chair, his hands folded in a tent. “That’s why you had me pretend this meeting was with Lt. Davis. The uniform’s for Grant’s protection too, then? So nobody recognizes him later?”
Bounter nodded.
The captain took this in. “You’re going undercover with the mob?” he demanded after a moment.
“Yes, sir,” Grant replied.
“Why?”
“I…” He swallowed. “I just have to.”
“What does Joe think about this?” he asked.
“He’s not happy about it, sir, but he said it’s my decision.” He sighed. “I apologize for the uniform, sir. I tried to tell Agent Bounter it wasn’t a good idea, but he insisted.”
Captain Lockhart nodded. “I still don’t like it.” He paused. “But I have to admit you look good in khaki again.”
“Thank you, sir.” He decided to take a risk. “And I assure you I don’t have a gun on me this time.”
The captain’s mouth twitched as he shook his head. “You better not. How’s Joe?”
“Good, sir. His ship should return to Norfolk in a few weeks.”
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
Grant flinched. The captain always had been direct. “Thank you, sir.” When he swallowed, his throat was tight. “And I’m sorry…for what happened between us. For threatening you, sir. It wasn’t right, especially after all you’ve done for me.”
“It wasn’t right,” he agreed. “But Joe’s told me why you attempted that inane robbery: Logan promised to kill him if you didn’t. You should’ve gone to the authorities. But still, I understand what you thought you had to do.”
“Look,” Bounter butted in, “it’s nice you two are catching up and all, but we need to set up this drug deal.”
The captain turned to him. “There is no deal unless I trust the players involved.”
Bounter’s smirk faded. “Right. Makes sense, sir.”
“And speaking of trust, is there any evidence Commander Laurent is wrapped up in this mess?”
“No,” Bounter said. “He hasn’t been involved to our knowledge.”
“Thank God. He knows his officers, and I want to bring him on board to arrange the sting, if the FBI’s okay with that.”
“That would be fine, sir. We’re hoping it will go down within the next week.”
Captain Lockhart rose and went to his desk to call the commander.
Once the call connected and the captain’s booming voice filled the office, Bounter leaned in. “Wow, he was pissed. I take back what I said. You can still be the officer next time.”
“There’ll never be a next time,” Grant replied. “I knew I should’ve refused to wear the uniform. You just don’t do that. I’ve made a complete mockery of the Navy.”
“I don’t think so. I agree with the captain. You look like you were born to wear it.”
Grant looked down at his tunic, fitted neatly over his chest. He wished he’d never have to take it off again.
But that wasn’t his biggest regret. Being on base again, sitting in this familiar office, interacting with the captain…he wished he’d never taken that gun from Logan.
11. Convene
THE NEXT DAY, Grant flipped up the collar of his long winter coat and cupped his gloved hand over his face, hoping to thaw out the frozen tip of his nose. It was almost March, yet it felt like January. He scanned the street one more time but saw just the typical after-school traffic: dilapidated school buses and soccer moms in minivans picking up their high-schoolers. No Russian mobsters in sight.
As he bounced on his numbing feet, he wondered if the trembling in his torso was due to the cold o
r his stress. Although there’d been a blessed reprieve from the nightmares, he still wasn’t sleeping well. Tomorrow night, the deal with the naval officers would go down—sooner than he’d expected. And the moment he thought about Sophie only one floor away from his apartment—the place Andrei knew he lived—his heart would thunder and not slow down for hours. He hadn’t even visited her lately, too worried he might be followed.
All of this combined to make him incredibly foolish right now: hiding in the shadows of an alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of his fiancée. Before arriving, he’d traveled all over the city in an attempt to ditch any potential tail. He seemed to be in the clear now, but he never felt entirely sure. All he knew was he had to see her, and she’d told him she’d started joining Ben for his swim practices on Tuesdays and Thursdays. So he’d planted himself on the path from the school to the pool.
Suddenly he heard Ben’s voice drifting his way. “Fuck, it’s cold!”
The click of Sophie’s heels on the sidewalk provided background music. “It is cold,” she agreed, “but Grant probably wouldn’t want you using that word.”
“Not like he cares,” Ben grumbled.
“What?” When Sophie stopped right next to the open alley, Grant plastered himself against the dirty brick wall. “Your uncle cares deeply about you!”
“Then why doesn’t he come see me anymore?”
“Ben, we’ve talked about this. It’s temporary. He’ll be back.”
“Right.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “That’s what Mom always said about Dad.”
From the shadows, Grant watched Sophie, her face a mix of sadness and frustration. “My mom used to say that about my dad too…when he’d go out of town for business all the time.”
“Hmph.” Ben shuddered in the wind. “Please tell me Daddy Warbucks is giving us a ride home after practice today.”
“Sorry. He’s out of town—”
“For business,” they finished together, and she giggled.
Grant closed his eyes as the sound of her laugh washed over him.
The wind howled, and Ben said, “Screw this, I’m running the rest of the way.”
“But I’m wearing heels!”
“Not my problem!” he taunted over his shoulder, widening the distance between them.
Sophie shook her head then took off with her handbag and briefcase swaying at her side.
Before he realized it, Grant found himself jogging after them. When Ben turned around, probably to taunt Sophie some more, Grant ducked into a store to avoid blowing his cover.
“Can I help you, sir? Something for the lady in your life?”
As he peeled off his hat, he looked at the store employee—a plump woman in her fifties with a saucy smile. A quick perusal of the store displays told him he’d ventured into a lingerie shop.
“Uhh…”
An hour later he pushed through the revolving hotel door and hustled toward Mr. Remington’s office.
“Oh goody, you bought me a present!” came a voice from behind the front desk.
Shit. He turned to find the redheaded receptionist’s eyes widen as her tongue swept across her lower lip. Ignoring the guest approaching the counter, she eyed the hot-pink bag in his hand. “Did you get me some lingerie?”
He hid the bag behind his back. “Well…” He practically jumped when the tall hotel guest swiveled around. The man’s high forehead looked familiar…Where had he seen him before?
The man evidently recognized him too. He smirked.
Hunter! That was Hunter’s partner, a surgeon. What the heck was his name?
His knowing eyes met Grant’s. “Good to see you again, Gr—”
“Mick Saylor,” Grant butted in, offering him an outstretched gloved hand. “How are you, Doctor?”
The man was clearly confused.
Curiosity coated the redhead’s voice. “You know Mick, Dr. Washington?”
In the moment it took for Dr. Washington to regain his composure, his first name—Bradley—suddenly came to Grant.
“Well, yes…yes I do.”
“Are you staying at the hotel?” Grant asked.
“No, I’m picking up a colleague.”
He squirmed as he felt the surgeon’s gaze float down his body.
Still staring, Bradley explained, “We’re headed back to a plastic surgery conference at McCormick Place.”
“Isn’t that awesome he does plastic surgery?” the redhead asked Grant. When he said nothing, her face lit up. “Oh! I bet that’s how you two know each other. You must’ve been Dr. Washington’s patient, right?”
He stared at her, speechless.
She turned back to Bradley. “You did a wonderful job on him. He’s so handsome, I can’t believe it.”
Bradley chuckled. “Now, now…” He glanced at her nametag. “Miranda, you know I can’t divulge the identity of my patients. That’s a secret.”
And Grant hoped he was good at keeping secrets.
“Patient-doctor confidentiality,” Bradley added, winking at him. “You know all about that, right, uh, Mick?”
“Yes, sir.” He wished he could get the hell out of there, stat.
Miranda sighed. “Isn’t Mick so polite?”
Bradley sighed as well before his grin widened. “Unfailingly so. Miranda, it appears you have a bit of a crush on Mick.”
“You think?” she said. Her fair complexion didn’t redden at all upon the admission.
“Is he single, do you think?” Bradley asked.
Grant’s eyes narrowed. Bradley damn well knew about Sophie—he’d met her at that Brazilian steakhouse!
“That’s what I want to know,” Miranda cooed, leaning forward on the counter so her cleavage formed a perfect crease.
“Dr. Washington,” Grant finally said, “was Miranda about to call your colleague on the house phone? I wouldn’t want to delay you getting to the conference.”
Bradley glanced down at his watch. “You’re right—it’s getting late. Miranda, could you ring Dr. Peterson?”
“Of course, Doctor.” Miranda’s face was disappointed as she turned to the phone.
Once she was busy, he mouthed a silent thank you.
“Does Hunt know about all of this, Mick?” Bradley whispered.
He nodded and gestured behind him. “I sing most nights in the hotel bar, Capone’s Spirits.”
“Ah. Should we stop by one night?”
Feeling Miranda’s stare on him again, he gave a slight shake of his head. “Maybe you should ask Dr. Hayes. Great to run into you, sir.”
Bradley reached out to pump his hand. “Always good to see you, Mick. Go out there tonight and…break a leg. But don’t let anything happen to that perfect face.”
He chuckled nervously. “Will do.” Only when Bradley turned the corner did Grant feel relief. This undercover thing was getting old fast. So was unwanted attention.
Opening the outer door, he popped his head into the office. “Just wanted Mr. Remington to know I’m here.”
“He’d like to see you,” said Sarah.
He pulled the rest of his body inside. Was Agent Bounter here to discuss tomorrow night’s plans? Had the drug deal gone south?
“You can go on in,” she told him.
He knocked on Mr. Remington’s door and heard, “Come in.” He quietly took a seat when he saw that he was on the phone.
“I have to run, now,” he told the caller. “Make sure you stay focused on your job. I want the governor to receive top-notch service.”
“Is Governor Grogan staying at the hotel, sir?” he asked after Mr. Remington hung up.
“He’s coming in later tonight. Hopefully Miranda won’t be the one to check him in.”
Grant paled. “That was Miranda on the phone?”
“Yes.” He grinned. “She called to ask a question about you.”
He tensed.
“She wanted to know if you were single.”
“Ughhhh.” He drew his hand to his forehead.
&nbs
p; Mr. Remington laughed. “I know Grant Madsen’s engaged, but I wasn’t sure what to tell her about Mick Saylor. Is he on the market?”
“With Miranda, I somehow think it wouldn’t matter.”
“Hopefully she’s not as aggressive with our male guests as with our male staff,” he replied. “So, I had dinner with Will the other night, and he was nervous that the wedding plans are behind schedule. How’re things coming along?”
Grant winced. Planning the wedding was one conversation of many he and Sophie needed to have. But every time he picked up the secure cell phone or contemplated spending the night with her, he worried about bringing her into his world of crime.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those grooms who leaves it all up to the bride.” Mr. Remington’s voice was stern. “My sales manager tells me our wedding receptions go much better if the man gets his say. Last Saturday the groom’s buddies were complaining that we only served two varieties of beer.”
“The horror,” he said, earning a smile from his boss. “To be honest, I haven’t seen Sophie much lately. We’ve got a deal going down with the Russians tomorrow—”
“Bounter told me you need tomorrow night off.”
“Yes, sir.” He felt his heart gallop. “Will that be a problem?”
When Mr. Remington smoothed his hand down his dark blue tie, Grant wondered how much his suit cost. “Of course not. The FBI is your first priority…though Miranda might be upset she won’t get to watch you perform on her breaks.”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and groaned.
“How’ve you been sleeping, Mick?”
His eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up straighter. Then he sighed. “Not great.”
“Bounter said you’re under a lot of stress.”
“I’m fine.” Grant thought about Innochka cowering on that dirty mattress. “I’ll be okay.”
“I’ll make sure of that.” Mr. Remington gave him a mysterious smile. “Let’s go talk to Tomacz, my driver.”
***
From behind the tinted window, Grant watched Sophie and Ben leave the natatorium, chatting animatedly in their winter coats and hats. “Target acquired,” he told the driver.
Tomacz nodded from the front seat of the limo. “Want me to cut them off at the corner?” he asked in his heavy Polish accent.
On Best Behavior (C3) Page 13
