Hard Target

by Tibby Armstrong

  “Don’t ask any questions, David. Don’t ask and we’re even.” Günter pulled in and expelled a deep breath. “Everything forgotten.”

  Simon widened his eyes at the peace offering. Günter’s willingness to let go of his anger over a press debacle David fomented last year was unprecedented. Honesty meant everything to the man, and he rarely forgave transgressions. Yet, he promised to wipe the slate clean if the musician stayed the hell out of Simon’s business now. David’s lips thinned, but he nodded his agreement to the bargain. Simon resisted the urge, but barely, to throw himself face first on the ground and kiss Günter’s feet.

  “Go with him. Make certain there’s no press.” David addressed Günter then turned to his sister. “Jenny. You’ll stay here. With me.”

  “We’re not taking anyone but Dr. Jakes.” Alex wrapped her hand around Simon’s arm and turned away from the growing crowd of unwanted witnesses.

  Simon went without protest. Time to put a stop to this before the press really did arrive to catch Simon in cuffs. They’d been standing out in the open like this for close to ten minutes. He’d have to explain the whole business to Günter later, but not now.

  Leaving her partner to handle cleanup and Günter right where he should be—which was to say uninvolved—Alex marched Simon toward the van. A smile twitched about his lips.

  “Shut up,” she snapped when Simon chuckled, triumphant. “You’re not getting your own way. You’re getting my way.”

  He snorted. “Sounds familiar.”

  They approached the van and Alex withdrew a fob from her pocket. The van alarm chirped.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She took the bait though she had to know she’d regret it.

  “Just what I said.” Simon shrugged. “You usually get your own way because it’s easier than wrestling you to the ground and stuffing a sock in your mouth.”

  “I can’t help it if you’re crap at hand-to-hand.” Her shoulder jerked as she slid the side panel door open.

  That was a bullshit comeback if he’d ever heard one. He’d bested her on more than one occasion. Though it hadn’t been a sock that found its way into her mouth after.

  Alex motioned him into the rear passenger seat. The inelegant schripp of the seat belt as she pulled it out and settled it around his waist mirrored the ragged edge of his nerves. Being this close to her, her scent—a quiet crispness underlying the warmth of her herbal shampoo—made him curl his fingers into his palms with the urge to tug the pins from her hair. He snugged closer to the seat, digging the cuffs into his wrists in a concerted effort to keep arousal at bay.

  He thought she’d step away and close the door. Instead, Alex reached for his breast pocket. Attempting to escape her touch, he hunched one shoulder, then realized her intent. One brow raised, he tilted his chin downward to follow the motion of her hand toward his chest. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “I already frisked you and managed to survive the contact.” One slim hand poised over the lapel of his tux.

  “Yes. But that was before…” Ignoring his warning, she reached inside his breast pocket for the documents she sought.

  As he knew she would, she came away with a fistful of soaking-wet, dark-blue passport-shaped papers. Staring down at her hand covered in dark dye, she took a faltering step away.

  “Great. Just great.”

  Simon bit down on an obvious smile. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He’d released a dye packet in his pocket when he’d realized he was being watched. The ink, which hadn’t leaked through the jacket lining before she’d frisked him, had gone unnoticed until now. Oh, revenge. It tasted so sweet. Even in teeny tiny little bites.

  Fingers splayed, Alex made a futile search of the glove box and swore when she came up empty.

  “I didn’t know the FBI had a Smurf division,” Simon said, unable to refrain from laughter any longer.

  Alex stalked toward the rear of the van. With a roll of paper towels and some glass cleaner unearthed from a bin, she proceeded to stand in the parking lot where she sprayed her hand repeatedly until Ryan returned. Walking with long, angry strides, the agent had Günter in tow.

  Blue bottle poised over her hand, the sweet chemical scent of the cleaner permeating the air, Alex stopped spraying to watch her partner’s progress. “I thought he wasn’t—”

  “He said he’d go to the press if we didn’t bring him along.”

  Oh fuck. Simon’s stomach churned. The level of lies and subterfuge Simon had perpetrated in Günter’s company, under his employ, amounted to a Mount Everest of betrayal. Once he heard everything, their friendship and business relationship would disintegrate.

  Alex tossed the towels in the rear. Günter said something about grabbing Simon’s go-bag from his car and disappeared across the dark lot. As they waited, Alex got in the backseat and continued rubbing at her hand.

  “What happened to your…” A minute shake of his head accompanied dawning comprehension. “Dye packet?”

  “Yes.” Alex glanced at Simon, her expression accusatory. “He destroyed the forged passport he was supposed to give to Gibbons.”

  Stuffing down his worry over Günter, Simon popped his brows upward and gave Ryan a what-can-I-say shrug that held more remorse than he felt. Which for this, at least, was exactly zilch.

  * * * * *

  By the time they approached HQ, Alex’s anger with Simon boiled too close to the surface for comfort. She excused herself to change clothes while Ryan mock-processed their prisoner. Likely Simon knew the arrest was bogus by now, but he went quietly along with the procedural sham.

  Chill air from the ceiling vent blew across Alex’s nape. She shivered and pulled her navy-blue polo shirt over her head. The FBI patch prickled her skin as it slid over her chest. Absentmindedly fingering the blue, white and gold emblem, she wrinkled her nose. God, she smelled like a Windex factory. Some peach-scented hand cream covered the worst of the stink, but her blue palm would only fade with time.

  Buckling her belt and repositioning her holster, she assessed the evening’s events. While they’d technically botched tonight’s job, their true intent—confirming Jakes’ and Gibbons’ association—went off smoothly. According to intelligence reports on the organization Gibbons worked for, the FBI’s timing couldn’t have been better. Something big was about to go down and her boss wanted his team on the inside when it happened. Tonight, she and Ryan scored big-time.

  Metal hinges squeaked as she closed her locker door. Stopping by her office, she adjusted the name plate on her desk and scooped up the three-inch-thick file of clippings, photos and reports she and Ryan had painstakingly compiled. This wasn’t revenge, she told herself, taking in the office she’d struggled to earn. It was her job to apprehend criminals like Simon. Shoulders squared, Alex turned off her desk light and stepped into the hall. Mind on the case and a cup of coffee, she ran headlong into a dark-haired man in an impeccably tailored navy-blue suit.

  Assistant Director Larry Roberts loomed over her. “Going home, Agent Valentine?”

  This time of night the empty hallways seemed to stretch into infinity, the glare of the white tile an endless path under the fluorescents. Fatigue made her blink more than she might have, but otherwise she managed to hold the AD’s flinty stare as he seemed to take her measure. He swept her attire, lingering on her jeans and sneakers.

  “No sir.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m making coffee then returning to the questioning.”

  “There’s been a change in plans.” Roberts kept his features absolutely smooth.

  “Sir?” She’d expected a reprimand over her casual dress, not a new directive.

  “Washington reassigned Suarez.” His gaze turned penetrating, like that of the American eagle in the portrait hanging behind his desk. “We need you to step up and fill her role on the case.”

  “What do you mean by fill, exactly?”

  “I mean be Jakes’ handler.”

  Oh h
ell no. No way. “Can’t you find someone else?”

  “What are your feelings toward Dr. Jakes?” Tall and thin, Roberts had always reminded her of an arrow. Straight, unyielding and able to target objects with a very fine point.

  Alex wet her lips and found the FBI logo at the end of the hall exceedingly interesting. Was that a scratch in the blue paint? Someone really ought to fix that.

  “Agent Valentine?”

  “Yes?” She met the AD’s arch stare.

  “Before I promote you to Special Agent in Charge, I’d like to know you can successfully put your oath to the Bureau before any…emotional entanglements.”

  Alex dropped her arms to her sides. “Is that because I’m a woman?”

  “No.” Roberts pinned her with his bird-of-prey stare. “It’s because you’re in love with a criminal.”

  “I am not in love with Simon Jakes.” Her cheeks heated with the emotional force of her denial.

  Though she knew her tone bordered on insubordination she refused to apologize. She couldn’t be in love with Simon. Not after everything he’d put her through. The impossibility and insanity of the notion nearly made her laugh, while the horror of the idea almost brought her to tears.

  “Then you won’t find it difficult to make it explicitly clear to him what’s at stake, personally and politically. For you both.”

  She responded to the only point that mattered. “I don’t love him.”

  “A word of advice, Agent Valentine?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Remember where your loyalties lie.” The AD’s already thin lips threatened to disappear altogether. “Don’t let the past cloud your future.”

  “Yes sir.” With her emotions and thoughts backed up like five o’clock traffic on the Hutchinson River Parkway, she didn’t dare make any other reply.

  Roberts nodded. “I’ve given Agent Dare your orders. I’ll let him fill you in.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The Assistant Director pivoted on one well-shod heel and walked toward the bank of elevators. Though she knew her boss wanted her to succeed—had championed her throughout the ordeal with Jakes six years ago—she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet through her career if she failed him again. Alone in an ocean of white walls and stark linoleum, she resolved to take the operation one step at a time. For now she focused on the task at hand—making coffee and Simon’s tea. Compartmentalization had always been one of her strong suits.

  Except with Simon.

  “Shut up,” she muttered as she poured steaming water into his cup.

  Placing the insulated paper cups on an orange plastic tray, she grabbed four sugar packets and a handful of creamers. An examination of the fridge said they had one-percent milk. She poured some in another paper cup and added it to the tray. Balancing the beverages in one hand and carrying the thick file with the other, she traversed the long corridor without spilling anything.

  “Three coffees, one tea.” Alex plunked the respective cups in front of their owners.

  Simon had been in the men’s room when she’d left. He frowned at his cup with its steeping teabag and she heard him thinking he hadn’t asked her for the refreshment. Yet…she’d remembered what he liked.

  “Don’t go all sentimental.” She cursed herself for anticipating his needs. “You bitched about the taste of coffee in my mouth the entire time we dated.”

  His eyes widened in surprise, and so did Ryan’s. She cringed, kicking herself for a professional lapse that could only be attributed to a combination of sleep deprivation and high emotion.

  No doubt noticing and reveling in her discomfiture, Simon smirked. The quirk in the peaked line of his upper lip blindsided her with memories of their first kiss. With time-lapse clarity, she relived the spring rainstorm and the red awning they’d ducked under. Then the sounds of raindrops fat and round as quarters bouncing against the pavement. Secreted in her own world in the middle of Manhattan, she’d looked up at him, soaking wet and laughing, water dripping in her eyes. His gaze had searched hers, questioning, and she’d sobered. The moment seemed suspended in time as he awaited her verdict, too much the gentleman to just take what he wanted without invitation. Standing on her tiptoes, she’d met him halfway as he’d lowered his mouth to hers.

  His throat cleared, interrupting her reverie. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d remembered the sugar.”

  She couldn’t have suppressed her blush at being caught staring at his mouth if she’d known how to try. Digging in her pocket, she withdrew four packets and dropped them to the table. Fingering the white squares, he counted them out individually. He appeared surprised when he came up with the right number. Yes. She’d remembered. So what? With a sniff and a toss of her head, she placed her back against the door and fixated on a map of Manhattan on the opposite wall.

  Ryan snapped on the projector and she flicked the light switch. The room darkened. A photo of an early commissioned painting by Pablo Picasso appeared. The scene depicted a couple making love, the large man on top, enveloped in his mistress’s Rubenesque limbs.

  “So, we have a deal for you.” Ryan faced Simon squarely. “You’re a known felon. We could very easily use what evidence we have to send you to prison for a very long time.”

  Simon didn’t move a muscle. Ryan leaned in, palms flat on the table. “If you refuse the offer we’re about to make, we’ll find another way to accomplish our goals.”

  “And what goals are those?” Simon took a casual sip of his tea, the motion of his arm bunching his shoulder muscles.

  “We want you to work for John Downing. We think he wants you to steal this painting.”

  Simon choked on his tea. Placing the cup on the table, he formed a fist and coughed repeatedly behind it. Likely as not, both the billionaire’s name and the job had been tough information to swallow at the same time.

  “What?” Voice hoarse from coughing, he cleared his throat.

  Alex rounded the table and stood alongside Ryan to stare down at Simon.

  “Max Gibbons is going to offer you a deal you won’t refuse.” Arm outstretched, Alex pointed to the screen. “This painting is on loan to the Museum of Modern Art for another few weeks. We think Downing has asked him to have you steal it.”

  Simon ran a palm down his face and breathed hard through his nostrils.

  “Well shit,” Günter muttered from his position in the corner. Until now he’d been so quiet Alex had almost forgotten his presence.

  “And you actually want me to do it?” Simon asked, then laughed, bitter. “Of course you do. What’s the matter? Your Director need another showpiece for his corner office? Or is this really about getting me close enough to Downing to take the man out? I heard he’s donating a lot of money to causes you don’t care for.”

  Alex refused to dignify his questions with a direct response. Instead, she said, “You’re authorized to use any means necessary to accomplish this mission.”

  Forget pins dropping, you could’ve heard a flea jump in the wake of Simon’s surprise.

  “Shit.” He shook his head and placed the tea carefully on the table. “You really do want me to do your dirty work for you.”

  Let him guess what he wanted, she wasn’t answering.

  “Fidelity. Bravery. Integrity.” Simon mused on the FBI motto and tipped his chair back onto two legs. “Are you delusional, Alexandra, or do you just not care about that oath any longer?”

  “That’s rich coming from you.” She rose to his bait despite her best intentions. “They teach you about those concepts in rehabilitation classes at Fort Dix?”

  Simon’s front chair legs hit the floor with force at her mention of his prison stay, but she went on talking as if he didn’t have murder in his eyes.

  “We’re asking you to do what comes naturally to you—steal—but for a cause rather than your own selfish interests, and you dare question my commitment to my country and my job?”

  “I wouldn’t call finding a way to take care of his
sister selfish,” Günter interjected.

  He had a sister? Alex shook her head, denial rending comprehension into two distinct pieces. One that said Simon would’ve told her this information. The other insisting she would’ve discovered it during their investigation. Ryan furrowed his brow.

  “Jesus Christ, Gun,” Simon whispered. “You knew? About Lily?”

  Günter placed a hand on Simon’s shoulder. “I know a lot of things,” he said. “But I think it’s about time you told me some of them yourself.”

  Chapter Two

  Simon closed his eyes for the first time in thirty-six hours and experienced a wave of vertigo-inducing exhaustion. He and Günter, together, had been working their asses off to save their security business. Now it appeared as if he might’ve blown everything. Why the man still spoke to him, much less insisted being by his side, Simon had no clue.

  “Let’s start with Max Gibbons,” Günter said.

  “Max Gibbons…” Simon waded into the heavy silence. “Max Gibbons brokers deals. Finds the right person for the right job for a fee or a cut of the business.”

  “So, he’s a criminal go-between?” Alex’s acerbic tone said she knew the answer to her own question.

  Though an anger he couldn’t entirely hide curled his hands into fists, Simon managed to pin his ex with a stolid stare. “Yes, Alexandra. He’s a criminal go-between.”

  Once the statement left his mouth, he realized it was the first time he’d allowed himself to think of Gibbons in those terms—as a criminal—and, by association, himself. The truth stung, but he faced it.

  “And what do you do for him?” Agent Dare asked.

  “I hack financial accounts. Make funds transfers.” Simon directed the rest of his answer at a brown stain on the ceiling tile over his head. “Basically, I get money out of the country in ways untraceable by the feds.”

  “Is that where you got the cash to dig us out of our financial black hole?” Günter’s question held a quiet weight.