Reach For the Spy

by Diane Henders

  “No.”

  “Sorry.” I took his hand and squeezed it. “I really appreciate you coming here. Thanks. And I’m really sorry about bashing you in the head.” I stood up and pulled him with me. “Come on.”

  He hung back warily. “Where are we going?”

  “Into the closet.”

  “Because...?”

  “Come on!” I tugged him toward the walk-in closet. “Because I can turn on the light in there without it being visible from outside. I need to look at your head.”

  “I told you, it’s fine.”

  “Good. Then there’s no reason to hide it from me.” I pulled him inside the closet and reached past him to close the door and flip the light switch.

  We blinked and squinted at each other in the sudden light. “Now, let me see.” I reached up to the bloodied washcloth he still held against his head and gently pulled his hand away.

  Even on my tiptoes, my five-foot-ten height wasn’t enough to give me a clear view. “Get down here to my level,” I commanded. “I can’t see the top of your head when you’re six inches taller than me.”

  He blew out an impatient sigh and stooped. I winced at the ugly wound on his scalp. “That’s got to hurt.”

  He shrugged. “I’m still standing. Do I need stitches?”

  “No, I don’t think so. The bleeding’s almost stopped. I’ll go and get some peroxide. Lucky you’ve got thick hair. I don’t think it’ll be visible once it’s cleaned up.”

  “I told you it was fine. It just glanced off.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I turned off the light and stumbled to the bathroom in the dark. I grabbed the peroxide bottle and gauze by feel and fumbled back into the closet.

  The cleanup complete, I wrapped the blood-stained, peroxide-soaked gauze in the washcloth.

  “I’ll take that.” He held out his hand. “Just in case,” he answered my unasked question. “You don’t want anything around here that might be hard to explain.”

  “Guess so.” I handed it to him. “Thanks.” I flipped off the light again, and we shuffled back to sit on the bed, waiting for our eyes to adjust.

  “Where’s the crowbar?” Kane asked.

  “Why, are you afraid I’ll hit you again?”

  “No. We need to clean it.”

  I chuckled. “And this is why you’re good at what you do. Details.” I rummaged in the sheets until my hand connected with the crowbar. “Here you go.”

  My eyes still hadn’t adjusted, and I heard rather than saw him wipe down the crowbar. I spoke into the darkness. “So what should I expect tomorrow? I’ve never been a government asset before. Will Stemp have me monitored every minute I’m at Sirius Dynamics, too?”

  His voice was wry. “I’m not exactly sure what you should expect. Being given an asset and told I’m a handler is new to me, too. I think it’s a safe bet that Stemp will watch and record your every move. And mine. That’s why I wanted to talk to you tonight.”

  I peered at him in the dimness. “Couldn’t we have just gone for coffee or something, instead of the whole cloak and dagger thing?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Or maybe not. I won’t really know until I see how things are set up tomorrow. I don’t know how much control Stemp is going to exert, and I couldn’t take a chance that you might say or do something without realizing that you were being watched.”

  He paused, then continued, “I really wish you hadn’t lost your temper. You forced his hand. If you’d just gone along with it, I might have been able to do some damage control.”

  “He threatened me,” I snapped. “That was stupid. If he’d been smart, he would have talked to you first. He could have averted the whole fiasco. Maybe he’s been doing great things for your department, but he’s a shitty people manager.”

  Kane sighed. “He’s good at what he does, but you’re right, General Briggs is a better leader. Briggs would never have taken such a heavy-handed approach, but it’s not his jurisdiction.”

  “But why do you have to listen to Stemp at all? Briggs is your direct superior, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, and no. Stemp is the director of our INSET team, and my cover is as an RCMP officer with INSET. So I have to walk a fine line.”

  I sighed. “Bloody politics.”

  “Yes,” he agreed with feeling.

  “So do you think maybe we can work out a better way to communicate?” I asked. “Maybe one that doesn’t involve panic on my part and personal injury for you? Because I’d really hate to have to explain to Stemp why I murdered you in my bedroom in the middle of the night.”

  He laughed. “That’s a conversation I’d like to listen in on.”

  “Except you’d be dead.”

  “Well, there is that.” I could still see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Best to keep it simple,” he said, sobering. “If I need to talk to you, I’ll hand you a black pen at some point during the day. If you need me to come here, you can give me a black pen. Then you can expect me that night. If it’s urgent, use a red pen, and I’ll figure out a way that we can meet sooner. You’ll just have to stay alert for my signal.”

  “Okay, that works.”

  He checked the illuminated display on his watch. “I have ten minutes left before I have to leave. Do you have any other questions?”

  “No, I don’t think...”

  A sudden sharp report split the silence of the night, and Kane pitched forward on top of me, the weight of his body pinning me to the bed.

  Chapter 3

  Kane’s gun was already in his hand. He twisted around to search for the source of the sound as he sprawled across me, protecting me with his body.

  “It’s okay!” I freed one arm from under him with difficulty and gently covered his gun hand. “It’s just the stupid roller blind. It fell off its mountings. It did that once before when the breeze got up and I had the window open.”

  I felt the tension leave him, and he drew in a deep breath as he stowed his gun again. “Get that damn thing fixed!”

  “Roger that,” I agreed. “Better still, as of this moment, it’s garbage.”

  My heart was still pounding from the shock, but the feel of his muscular body on top of me wasn’t doing anything to slow it down, either. Bedroom, moonlight, an incredibly hot guy, and we were already horizontal.

  Jeez, somebody up there really hated me.

  He gazed down at me for a long moment from inches away, his grey eyes completely black in the dim light.

  Then we both sighed, and he rolled off me and sat up. We caught each other’s eyes and looked away quickly.

  I forced a casual tone. “Guess I’ll go and get a snack.” I rolled off the bed and headed for the kitchen. “Do you want anything?” I asked over my shoulder as he trailed me out of the bedroom.

  “Yes, but I can’t have it.”

  I glanced back at him, surprised at the uncharacteristic double entendre. He continued without missing a beat, “I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to go.”

  “Right.” I pulled the cereal box out of the cupboard in the dark and reached for the fridge door.

  His hand closed around my wrist. “Don’t. The light will be visible from outside, and I don’t want any hint of activity on the cameras.”

  “Hmmph,” I agreed. I turned back toward the table and felt him stiffen as I brushed against him.

  I gazed up at him and steadfastly resisted the urge to pull him down into a kiss. I’d already done that last week. Then, he’d turned me down to protect me. Now, I had to hold back to protect him, too.

  I realized he was still holding my wrist and we were gazing into each other’s eyes again. Shit.

  I pulled away and stuffed a handful of the dry cereal into my mouth as I sat down at the table. Stay occupied, keep the mouth busy.

  He stood silently at the end of the table, watching me crunch my cereal. In a couple of minutes, he checked his watch again and sighed. “See you tomorrow. Lock the door behind me. And turn on your security syste
m again. I disabled it when I came through.”

  “Okay.” I followed him to the door and locked up behind him.

  I tossed and turned for the rest of the night, and got up feeling tired and edgy at six o’clock. My mood was only marginally improved by a shower and breakfast, and I shuffled irritably to my desk to do some of the entries for one of my bookkeeping clients.

  I kept looking at my watch, unable to concentrate. I wasn’t due to see my clients at the Greenhorn Cafe until ten o’clock, and I was anxious about my first afternoon at Sirius Dynamics, the business that concealed the secret government defence research facility. Why hadn’t I told them I’d be there in the morning instead of at one o’clock? The nervous anticipation was killing me.

  The ring of the phone made me jump. When I answered it, a male voice spoke in my ear.

  “You the bookkeeper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Taking clients?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bill Harks at the Silverside Hotel. When can you come?”

  “I’ll be in town this morning. How about nine-thirty?”

  “Fine. Don’t be late.” The phone crashed down in my ear.

  Well, that was short and sweet. I’d tacked up my business card in the post office, and I’d managed to get several clients since I’d arrived in March. So far, all my new clients had ranged from pleasant to downright delightful. Apparently the law of averages was about to kick in. I frowned thoughtfully at the phone.

  Well, I didn’t need to take his business if he was an asshole. But maybe he was just pressed for time. Heaven knew there were days when I’d have appreciated a concise conversation. I shrugged and went back to work.

  By nine o’clock, the jitters drove me out of my chair and into my closet to change. I usually tried to overcome my natural slobbish tendencies when meeting a potential client for the first time, but I surveyed my neatly organized business clothes with distaste.

  Already, the heat of the day was building in the light breeze that wafted through the window. I would have loved to just go in the baggy jeans and ratty T-shirt that I was wearing.

  I sighed and selected a pair of beige dress pants and a cream-coloured sleeveless top that set off my red hair. I’d leave it loose for first impressions. Most guys liked long red hair, and the curt conversation I’d had with Bill Harks suggested that any advantage would be helpful.

  I tossed the waist pouch that served as my purse into a larger, cream-coloured handbag, and headed out the door.

  I had a brief moment of self-consciousness when I stepped outside and realized that I was on camera, but I pushed it aside. The bugs had been in place for a few days already, so undoubtedly the cameras had also been recording my comings and goings. I’d just have to remember not to scratch my ass or anything when I was outside the house. For most women, that wouldn’t be a problem. Not so for me.

  In my garage, I wistfully eyed my half-restored 1953 Chevy. Before Stemp had decided that I was the world’s most dangerous weapon, I’d been looking forward to taking some time off this summer to tinker with my cars and suck back some cold suds.

  Now I had a bad feeling that my summer was going to be filled with tedious computer work at best, and, at worst, danger and terror like I’d experienced the previous week. I shrugged as I made my way to my faithful ’98 Saturn. At least I hadn’t actually gotten tortured last week. And I hadn’t had to kill anybody, either.

  My perception of silver linings had changed a bit in the past four months.

  I hopped in the car and drove out my long lane, carefully locking the gate behind me. Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling into the tiny town of Silverside.

  I strode into the dingy lobby of the Silverside Hotel just a few minutes before nine-thirty. The deafening blare of a soccer game assaulted my ears from the sports bar that doubled as the hotel’s restaurant. A couple of elderly patrons stared blankly at the giant TV screen in the dim room, but the place was mostly deserted.

  I walked over to the reception desk and rang the bell on the counter. After a short wait, I rang it again. Nobody responded.

  I shrugged. Small town. They probably didn’t get too many hotel guests on a Monday morning.

  Wandering into the restaurant, I headed for the girl behind the counter. She looked barely old enough to work in a licensed establishment. Her face was plastered with petulance and too much makeup. Her hair was dyed inky black, and piercings winked from her cheek, nose, eyebrow, and lip. Tattooed spiders crawled over her generous cleavage.

  “Hi,” I yelled over the noise. “I’m looking for Bill Harks.”

  She sneered. “If you find him, you can have him. He’s a shithead.”

  Great. Just what I needed to hear.

  “Where is he?”

  “Door behind the reception desk. Knock before you go in. He’s probably jerking off.”

  “Nice.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I retreated from the din into the comparative quietness of the lobby and eyed the door behind the reception desk uneasily. It was closed. I’d rung the bell twice. This probably wasn’t worth the trouble. I really prefer to avoid interrupting a man who’s on a hot date with Rosy Palm and her five daughters.

  My dilemma resolved itself when the door swung open. An enormous man shambled out and I took an involuntary step back. He was at least six foot six, and he must have weighed well over three hundred pounds. His arms looked like hams. With no neck to speak of, his close-cropped hair gave him a troll-like appearance. His bullet head swivelled slowly toward me and he peered at me out of deep-set eyes.

  I put on a noncommittal smile. “I’m looking for Bill Harks.”

  “You found him.”

  I stepped forward, trying to look confident. “I’m Aydan Kelly, the bookkeeper. We had an appointment for nine-thirty.”

  I reached out to shake his hand. Serious mistake. I’ve got big hands for a woman. My hand disappeared and he gave a thin smile as he crushed it in his. “You’re late.” My knuckles popped and agony shot through my hand as my arthritic thumb bent back.

  I clenched my teeth and kept my face impassive.

  He stared down at me for a long moment before releasing my hand. “Come into the office.” He turned his back and trundled through the door behind the reception desk. I followed him with the distinct impression that this was a bad, bad idea.

  Harks gestured to the chair behind the piled-up desk. “Sit. It’s all there.”

  I tried not to visibly detour around him as I walked past. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes overwhelmed me when I perched gingerly behind the desk. He came around behind my chair, and apprehension crawled up my spine. I hate having my back exposed.

  The chair sank as he leaned his elbows on its back. He loomed over me, much too close for comfort, and gestured to the computer screen with his free hand. “There you go.”

  Forcing myself to ignore his unpleasant proximity, I focused on the program, squeamishly moving the filthy mouse to view the entries. God only knew what was caked on that mouse. I sure as hell didn’t want to know.

  I squinted at the smeared screen. The last entry was from December of the previous year. “Is this the latest data entry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you have all your receipts and bank statements for the last seven months?”

  “Yeah, I told you. It’s all here.” He stirred through the mess. A fossilized sandwich fell on the floor with a clunk, and he kicked it under the desk. “So how much do you charge?”

  “That depends on what exactly you want me to do.”

  His cold smile came back, his eyes like pebbles. “What services do you offer?”

  I ignored the innuendo. “What I meant was, once all the entries are caught up, will you want me to work once a week, or once a month, or quarterly? And can I take the work home with me, or do you need me to do it here?”

  “Once a week. Here. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Marvellous.
>
  I thought about it for a moment before quoting him a price twenty-five percent higher than my normal rates.

  “You’re expensive.”

  I stood and turned so I could look him in the eye. “Yes. And it’ll cost you quite a bit up front until I get all the entries caught up. Once everything’s up to date, it’ll probably be a couple of hours a week.”

  He straightened and looked me up and down while I suppressed the urge to tell him I’d changed my mind and I didn’t have time for any new clients after all.

  He nodded once. “Okay. You can start right away to get caught up. Then once a week after that.”

  “I can come by tomorrow at nine.” I beat a hasty retreat without offering to shake his hand again.

  Back in my car, I did a whole-body shudder and squeezed liberal amounts of hand sanitizer on my hands. When I arrived at the Greenhorn Cafe, I slipped into their tiny bathroom and washed my hands. Twice.

  I greeted the owner, Jeff Latchford, as I stepped out of the washroom. His young, fine-featured face lit up in welcome.

  “Hi, Aydan! How’s it going?”

  “Fine, how’s the restaurant business this week?”

  “Great!” He beamed at me. “I’m so pumped you’re doing our books. Can I get you anything while you work?”

  I returned his smile. “No, thanks. But I’ll come sniffing around the counter at lunch time, you can be sure of that.”

  “See you then.” He waved me through the building, and I carefully mounted the rickety stairs at the back to knock on the door of their apartment above the cafe.

  His wife, Donna, opened the door smiling and ushered me through their spartan living room and into the converted bedroom that held the dilapidated computer desk. “We’re so glad you’re doing this,” she said, and left me to my work.

  I sat down at the computer with a smile of my own. Their enthusiasm and gratitude was the perfect antidote to Bill Harks.

  About an hour later, a tap at the open door roused me from my concentration, and I glanced up to see Jeff hovering in the doorway.

  “What’s up, Jeff?” I inquired absently, still half-following my interrupted train of thought.