WOULD-BE CHRISTMAS WEDDING

by Debra Webb

  That’s what they did, the whole reason the team existed. God, he was going to miss having that kind of clear purpose in his life.

  Holt did a slow-burn second set, then paused to think some more.

  He glanced around the gym, and though there were only a few other Specialists around, he felt like they were watching him too closely and with too much wariness lurking behind those neutral expressions. Did they expect him to just lose it with a violent outburst or remorseful confession? Which one of them had been on his tail when he made the drop for Isely?

  Months ago he’d have chalked up the wide berth they gave him to being the deputy director. He wasn’t popular with the team. That hadn’t bothered him much before. His management style was simply different from Casey’s, more aloof.

  It wasn’t his job to make friends.

  But since he’d chosen to take this mission on his own, with no one else read into the situation, he felt the unavoidable onset of mild paranoia. Holt told himself to relax. Even if Casey had started to piece it together, he wouldn’t have shared such a damning theory with the entire team.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Holt took a deep breath, reminding himself he’d been trained to succeed at all costs. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that his current efforts made him a potential target. That’s how he’d planned it.

  He came back to an upright position slowly to avoid the disorienting head rush, then unlocked the ankle bar and moved to an empty weight bench to work on his back.

  Everyone thought he was just a suit, sitting in the successor’s chair. Days like this were a clear reminder to the team that his strengths went well beyond pushing paper and signing off on personnel evaluations.

  “Sir?”

  He recognized his assistant’s voice, as well as her polished black pumps when Nadine stopped in front of him.

  He sat upright and pushed a towel across his face. “What is it?”

  “Two of the messages you’ve been expecting.”

  Holt tossed the towel over his shoulder and accepted the cell phone she handed him. One number was blocked, but the terse text message left no doubt the sender was Isely.

  The clock is ticking.

  Holt scrolled, switched to the voice mail message with a shake of his head. The world was full of ticking clocks.

  The silky feminine voice, definitely a product of a private school, drifted into his ear and eased the tension in his shoulders. “Thank you for the substantial donation, Emmett. We’ve reserved a seat for you at tomorrow’s event. We’re thrilled that you’ll be able to join us so we can personally express our appreciation for your generosity.”

  Cecelia. It was exactly the opening Isely had ordered him to create. He smiled, unable to temper his enthusiasm for their date tonight. He struggled to keep it in the appropriate perspective. She was part of the job, but he’d discovered a few layers under the polish that tweaked his curiosity.

  After all, despite popular opinion, he was human.

  Holt handed the phone back to Nadine. “Thank you.”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have plans tonight?”

  “No, sir.”

  He studied her, but couldn’t be sure if she was lying. It didn’t matter. They both knew she’d cancel her plans if necessary to fulfill his request. “I could use your help in Alexandria.”

  “Black tie?”

  “No.” So she’d seen his reservations for the weekend. The reservation he wanted her to see anyway. “A few hours of recon.” Isely’s impatience made him nervous. He wanted someone out there he knew he could count on. “I’ll get you the details.”

  With a polite nod, Nadine left him to finish his workout.

  He powered through the strength routine, Isely’s ticking clock in the back of his mind as he hit the treadmill.

  Specialist Blue Callahan, well, Drake now that she was married, stepped onto the machine next to him. Like the others, she’d been handpicked for her post within Mission Recovery and she’d met the man who’d become her husband on an assignment. She had, in fact, been backed up on that mission by none other than the one and only Lucas Camp.

  There was no love lost between Holt and Lucas. The older man had a method and when Holt replaced him here at Mission Recovery, he’d developed his own methods. Holt had reason to believe that despite his retirement, Lucas had been poking around in Holt’s professional life. Probably his personal life, too. It was never a good thing to have a man like Camp second-guessing decisions.

  Lucas Camp was a master in the business of spying. But he was out to pasture now and he needed to get right with his place in the world of spooks.

  Keeping his face in neutral, Holt’s mind spun through the potential pitfalls and traps Blue’s appearance might present to his timeline.

  “Deputy Director,” she said, acknowledging him with an easy smile. “Working hard?”

  “Always.” He increased the programmed interval workout to the next level. “Big plans for the holidays?” It seemed the question on everyone’s lips this month.

  “Not particularly. A party or two, then Noah and I are headed back to the island for a quiet celebration. You have plans?”

  “About the same as last year.” That was one detail the team knew for certain about him—he had no family and no inclination to create one.

  The glance she slid him held a bit of concern. “If you’re ever in the mood for a warm, quiet beach, you’re welcome to stay in our guesthouse.”

  He nodded, unable to come up with a verbal response. Not because of the effort to maintain his pace on the treadmill but because she’d shocked him. No one on the team—other than Thomas Casey—had ever aimed a social invitation in his direction.

  Blue looked for all the world like she meant it, but he knew her impeccable field skills and had to consider this approach might be a trap. “I’ll let you know,” he replied.

  He got through the rest of his cardio without incident and headed toward the locker room to clean up. Half an hour later, as he walked upstairs in the direction of the solitude of his office, he had to forcibly turn his thoughts away from the likelihood that this might be his last hour in this building.

  As Holt entered the suite of offices that included his, Specialist Jason Grant was waiting for him, kicked back with a magazine in one of Nadine’s reception chairs. So much for solitude.

  “Grant.”

  “Sir,” he said, setting aside the magazine and getting to his feet. “Do you have a minute?”

  Holt looked him up and down, recognized the relaxed demeanor of a man fresh from vacation—this time on a honeymoon. Grant was slated to replace him as deputy director when Holt advanced to the director’s post. Assuming of course Holt didn’t die or wind up in prison in the next week or so. “Marriage suits you.”

  “Thanks.” Jason rocked back on his heels, pushed his hands into his pockets.

  “Come on in.” Holt left the door open as he entered his office, counting on Jason’s choice to close it or leave it open to give him a clue about what might be on the younger man’s mind.

  The door closed with a soft click.

  Holt took his seat, relieved there wasn’t a weapon in his back or a bullet in his brain just yet. He needed just enough lead time to get through the next forty-eight hours.

  Then he’d happily take whatever discipline Mission Recovery wanted to mete out.

  He unbuttoned his suit coat and settled into his chair. Jason mirrored his movements, taking the chair across the wide desk.

  “What can I do for you, Grant?”

  “Just a quick follow up on the Las Vegas operation.”

  Anticipation pricked Holt. “That case is closed.”

  “I realize I failed you—”

  “Relax.” Holt tapp
ed a pencil against the arm of his chair. “My evaluation doesn’t read that way. As far as Mission Recovery is concerned, you did a fine job out there.”

  “But—”

  “A piece of advice?”

  Jason nodded.

  “Let it go. There’s nothing to clarify, nothing to be concerned about beyond the holidays and your next mission.”

  “Which is?”

  Holt forced his lips into a smile. “To enjoy the holidays with your new wife.”

  But Jason’s eyebrows were drawn together. “Permission to speak freely?”

  Holt dipped his chin. “Of course.” One day, if he didn’t get caught in his own trap, they would need to be completely candid with one another as director and deputy director.

  “I don’t think I believe you.”

  Holt didn’t move a muscle as more of that anticipation leeched into his veins.

  “I’ve gone over it every way possible, sir,” he added with more sarcasm than respect. “That whole business in Vegas felt like a setup.”

  “You have good instincts,” Holt admitted. “And I agree with your assessment. If you’re implying I had anything to do with it, I’d ask you to give that a great deal more thought before you say something you’ll regret.”

  Jason’s gaze narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut. Kudos to the young man. He was going to make a top-notch deputy director.

  “I have nothing but respect for you and your talents.” Might as well add a compliment to the ugly truth, Holt thought. He hesitated, could practically hear the figurative ice cracking under his feet as he prepared to share details better kept under wraps. “Ours is a world of secrets, as you know. We have a mole in Mission Recovery. You can only imagine the distress and effort we’ve put into making a solid identification, but the director and I are working to resolve the problem.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You know Director Casey has a history with Isely. See what your Interpol connections can give us on his operations over there.”

  “Anything in particular?”

  Holt gave in and sighed. Another lie was hardly going to matter at this point. “I want to pin down the biologist who manufactured this virus Isely has been trying to unload.”

  “You think Isely means to manufacture more?”

  “It would be one hell of a residual income. Just see what you can turn up.” Holt could only hope the diversion would keep Jason distracted until this God-forsaken mission was over.

  When Jason left, Holt addressed the blinking icon that indicated he had another message on his cell. Blocked number.

  They know. I have adjusted the timeline accordingly.

  No! Holt’s temper nearly boiled over. If Isely used someone else to kidnap Cecelia Manning, Holt would be forced to expose himself to one side or the other before he had the evidence in hand to clear his name and maintain Mission Recovery’s anonymity.

  It was impossible. No one here could possibly know. Not yet. Of course Director Casey would have suspicions. He was supposed to have suspicions. Holt had been feeding Isely information very few people could access. But he’d put the breadcrumbs in the system, left enough room for doubt so he could finish the task the right way without jeopardizing too much or laying Mission Recovery bare for the government vultures and rabid media to pick over.

  Isely didn’t have the franchise on making adjustments. Holt knew how to scramble, scrap and fight dirty when it was necessary. A few years behind a desk didn’t change the core of a man.

  For nearly a year now, he’d let Isely see what he wanted to see, a disgruntled, ambitious second-in-command who resented Casey almost as much as Isely himself. It had been the performance of his life and he wasn’t about to abandon it now when he could almost see the end of these dark days.

  Adjustment negates impact, he replied via text on the disposable and untraceable burner phone Isely had provided. Deep down, Holt knew Isely preferred the showy, public embarrassment that kidnapping Cecelia from the gala would provide.

  Long minutes passed and Holt mentally composed and deleted at least ten incriminating text messages. If he sent any of them, if he left the director no room for doubt, it would make it damn near impossible to nail Isely before the bastard slipped away to run his operation from a non-extradition country.

  Holt had put himself in so many different shoes and looked at this from everyone’s perspective he’d almost lost sight of his own agenda. Protecting Thomas Casey was top priority and preventing the exposure of Mission Recovery was essential. He cringed to think of the careers ruined and lives irreparably disrupted if the worst happened.

  Finally, the cell chirped with another text message. Proceed as planned.

  He’d been close enough to Isely these past months that he knew his enemy believed this news would bring him relief. He’d portrayed himself to Isely as a man who needed the stability of guidance and a set schedule. But that was the act. Holt knew better than to trust Isely to keep the leash on whoever had been chosen to take over should Holt get caught or falter.

  Isely had resources and he used them well. Holt was plan A. There would be a plan B eager to step up and prove their worth in order to gain promotion and prestige within Isely’s operation.

  Well, there was one sure way to keep Cecelia safe until Holt could move in on schedule. Holt crossed to his office safe, pulled out an alternate ID and a stack of cash and prepared for his date with the director’s sister.

  It was laughable. The stuff of comic tragedies. He was about to prevent a kidnapping by becoming a proper gentleman.

  Chapter Four

  Old Town Alexandria, 7:12 p.m.

  Cecelia turned up the collar on her wool coat for the short walk to meet her friends at their favorite wine bar in Old Town. It was the place they’d brainstormed tomorrow’s gala and it was fitting to celebrate their success with a toast there tonight. The temperature was dropping but the moon was bright overhead, and the crisp winter air cleared her head. She breathed deeply now, knowing in a few days’ time she’d be breathing warm, humid air in the Caymans.

  It was no surprise the dark sedan had followed her from the house to the Plaza hotel. When she thought about it, she realized one like it had either been parked at the corner of her block or shadowing her for the past couple of days. She walked on, resisting the urge to tell the driver to go back and report that Director Casey’s sister could take care of herself. She should give Thomas some credit. Clearly he suspected she’d balk at protective custody, and he’d brought the safety measures to her.

  She was nearly to the bar when two men approached her. They wore U.S. Navy-issue wool peacoats over jeans and heavy boots, but that was where the resemblance ended. The hair broke regulation, as did the beards. Her first thought was they were longshoremen on leave, but Old Town Alexandria wasn’t exactly a shipping hub.

  “Ma’am?” They stopped just in front of her. “Excuse me. Do you know the area?” the taller man asked with a faint trace of a French accent.

  Thomas’s warning blasted through her and she told herself it was far too early in her budding ops career for paranoia. Her hands fisted around the car key in her pocket. There was security nearby in the dark sedan, and by now Casey and her new husband were probably watching from a rooftop, and Cecelia was close enough to the bar that she could call for help if necessary.

  “Yes,” she replied with a nod, determined to keep an open mind. “What are you trying to find?”

  “Do you know the restaurant owned by the retired hockey player?”

  She relaxed, releasing her grip on her key. They were French Canadian hockey fans. “Of course.” She gave them directions and wished them a good evening as she entered the wine bar.

  Looking around, she realized she was the first to arrive, so she claimed a high-top table near the front wind
ow of the swanky little bar and waited for her friends. While she was thrilled with their progress and the news that they’d hit the pre-event fundraising goal, with every passing hour she was losing enthusiasm for the event itself.

  Her daughter and brother would attend with their new spouses, and she’d be the lonely, courageous widow.

  She rubbed at the fading indentation on her ring finger where her wedding band used to sit. Even after William’s death, she’d worn it, not quite ready to part with it.

  After Casey’s wedding in October, she’d had it cleaned and stored it in the safe at the house. Her friends had been supportive and so far her family hadn’t noticed. Or maybe they just hadn’t known what to say. They’d probably been too distracted with news of her career change to notice a change in her jewelry.

  Now here she was, intent on meeting a man who could be an enemy of her brother...of her. She was prepared. Cecelia might not carry a handgun in her bag, but she always carried her trusty Taser. She was far from an expert with handguns, but she’d taken the necessary classes for using the Taser.

  “Cecelia?”

  She swiveled toward the deep voice she recognized from a few phone calls. The polite smile she always wore in public slipped a little when she met the intense, gray-blue gaze of the man who’d approached her table.

  Danger was her first thought, with delicious chasing right behind it. His picture on the dating profile hadn’t been doctored. And it hadn’t done him justice. Those eyes, so cool and clear, were framed by the stark contrast of slashing dark eyebrows, thick dark hair and chiseled features.

  His mouth tilted up at one corner. “Emmett Holt.” He extended a hand. “I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Holt.” She struggled to remember to breathe. To remember her brother suspected him of a terrible betrayal. Instead, all his wit and charm in their previous online conversations danced through her mind. “A pleasure,” she managed. Please let him be one of the good guys. It would be so unfair to wind up with a shark on her first dive back into the dating pool.