by Kim Baldwin
“You mean guns.”
“Indeed.”
“That bitch is a big problem.”
“Problems are like a cancer,” she said. “They become a big problem and spread only when they aren’t dealt with on time.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Good.”
“So you see where I’m going.”
“You have a cancer?” Dratshev asked.
TQ rubbed her eyes tiredly at his inanity. “No, I’m fine, thank you. The cancer that’s spreading and needs to be stopped is the president.”
“Ah, yes. The bitch.”
“I want you to help me stop her so we can continue with our very profitable enterprises.”
“How?”
“I’m going to need your best men to orchestrate an attempt on her life.”
“Attempt?”
“Yes, just an attempt. You are to kidnap her and keep her in your possession until I instruct you to return her to me.”
“How will my people get the president?” he asked. “She is very much guarded all the time in her white house.”
“Leave that up to me. I will tell you where and when. All you have to do is make it look like a genuine attempt on her life.”
“So the country will have no president. How does this change something for us?”
“Again, leave that up to me.”
“You have a plan.”
TQ was tempted to use an expression she never had, one completely out of character. She wanted to say, Duh, you Russian idiot, but refrained. “I do.”
“But you will not share.”
“It’s to both our interests I don’t, if you know what I mean.”
“Your plans stay secret and I know nothing that can implisate me.”
“Implicate. That’s correct.”
The Russian laughed. “Always careful. But you understand, this means big money to make it happen. My people will want big money, too. I have the best people who work for me, but they must be persuaded.”
“I don’t waste money, Yuri, but have you ever heard any rumors involving my lack of generosity for a job well done?”
“Good rumors. You pay good money.”
“Then don’t waste my time with pointless comments. Time, like money, is something I hate to waste.” The conversation was draining. She sighed. “Get your people together and I’ll get back to you with what you need to know.”
“I know just the right person,” Dratshev said, “but I hope I can find her.”
“I want to believe your ability to help me does not hinge on one individual’s talent.”
“No, but she is the best.”
“Make it happen or find a new best if you have to.”
“No problem for me.”
“Oh, and Yuri…if I so much as hear a whisper of a rumor from you or your men concerning our plan, I will eliminate you and your wife. And I’ll make your daughter wish she’d become another trophy on that psychopath’s wall.” She knew the reference would have the desired impact. Yuri’s daughter Nina had been the only person to escape serial killer Walter Owens, better known as the Headhunter because he’d cut off the faces of his victims to make macabre masks. TQ laughed when Dratshev didn’t immediately answer. “Okay, Yuri?”
“Da…yes,” Dratshev promised with a tremble in his voice. “Not one whisper.”
Chapter Two
Porto Carras, Greece
Next day, December 17
“Which one’s yours?” The man who spoke was of average height and build and was fairly attractive, with a neat, short haircut and piercing blue eyes. He wore the conservative dark suit that was standard fare for his profession, and Agent Shield wore the feminine equivalent—a crisp white blouse and navy suit tailored to fit her lean, five-foot seven-inch figure. Standing side by side against the wall by the curtains, they provided, as always, the perfect balance between subtlety and warning.
Others of their ilk occupied similar positions around the perimeter of the banquet hall, watching the dignitaries. The lavish state dinner at the Porto Carras Grand Resort in northern Greece was the final event of a three-day international conference on global warming, so there was at least a pair of bodyguards for every major figure seated at the long table.
Shield adjusted her earpiece. “Francois Legard,” she replied in a low voice, never taking her eyes off the French prime minister as the waiter poured him a glass of wine. Not bad, she thought, noticing the thickness of the gold liquid and the label. Wine was Harper Kennedy’s passion, and regardless of where she was, whom she was with, or whether or not she was on a job as Shield, wine never escaped her attention.
The only other interesting entity at the table was the incoming American president, the first female to hold that office. Elizabeth Thomas wouldn’t even be officially sworn in for another few weeks because of a court-ordered recount, but the outgoing president had invited her to represent the U.S. at the conference. To all appearances, the woman looked calm and in control, but Shield picked up on the minor nuances that transmitted her newness and nerves: she listened too attentively and fidgeted with her napkin, albeit discreetly.
At forty-three, Elizabeth Thomas was poised to soon become the youngest U.S. president since JFK, and that meant all eyes were on her, not only because of her age but because she was such an attractive woman. Her short brown hair was a bit too stern and immaculately coiffed for Shield’s taste, but like anyone in the president-elect’s position, she probably didn’t have a choice in the matter. Beautiful, powerful women appealed to Shield because they had something to say and didn’t feel the need to decorate every sentiment with three adjectives. Plus, she found something sexy about their dominant composure, which usually carried over into bed.
“He seems decent,” the agent beside her replied, his accent placing him somewhere from the American Midwest. Like Shield, his eyes constantly scanned the room.
“I guess. When it comes down to it, they’re all the same.”
“I know what you mean. My name’s Joe, by the way.” He made no move to offer his hand, as that would have drawn attention to them. They were communicating so discreetly, in fact, that others in the room were unaware they were even talking.
Shield didn’t feel the need to share her own name. Instead, she checked the time and tapped the watch with her finger.
“Bored?” he asked.
“Numb.”
“How long have you been sitting?”
“Legard?”
“In general.”
“Twelve years, give or take.” In her peripheral vision, Shield caught him lifting one eyebrow.
“Long time,” he said.
“I guess.”
“For the French?”
“For whoever.”
“But you’re with the French SS, right?” he asked.
“I’m not with anyone.”
“Oh. You have a bit of an accent, so—”
“Private security.” It was bad enough that the protection jobs had become tedious and tiring. She despised occasionally having to put up with conversations like this—trivial niceties about absolutely nothing.
To most, she sounded American, but to those who, like her, had been trained to pick up on details, she clearly had a slight accent. He was wrong to peg her as French, though. She’d been stationed in Italy for two months at the age of twenty-three while on her first assignment with the Elite Operatives Organization and had fallen in love with the country. Though it took a while to convince EOO chief Montgomery Pierce to agree to base her there, he finally gave in, and she’d spent her off time the past dozen years at her villa in the mountains of Tuscany.
Joe mumbled all quiet discreetly into the transmitter in his sleeve. “I see. You don’t say much, do you?”
Shield shrugged. “Not if I can help it.”
He smirked and ignored the hint. “I’m with the American president-elect.”
“That’s nice.” They both knew Shield was aware of whom J
oe was sitting, but the never-ending need to point out the obvious seemed ever present and ever irritating at functions like this. Shield glanced at Thomas. Maybe some of her irritation had to do with the fact she envied Joe. If she was going to be taken away from the country she loved and halted from doing what she wanted most, then the least she could do was have someone interesting, or at least novel, to guard.
Joe must have read her mind or her eyes. “Not as interesting as you might think,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Europeans have a certain taste for…intrigue that Americans don’t. And definitely not this one.”
“Because European officials are all extramarital affairs, booze, and wild parties?”
“Well, they do seem to have a rep for—”
“They’re just not as concerned about hiding their missteps,” Shield said. “Or they’re not as proficient as the CIA at covering them.”
“You have a point there.”
“I know.”
“This one’s all work and no play,” Joe said of his charge, his tone one of disappointment.
“She’s new and has too much to prove for too many reasons. Add that to the fact that she lost her husband a couple of months ago and she has every reason.”
“Never talks to anyone who’s not family or an official,” Joe went on. “I’ve been with her for four months, and I’ve never so much as gotten a hello or how are you from her. All she does is nod.”
“Why waste words unless you have something to say?”
“Because it’s polite.”
“It’s also fake, since she clearly could care less about how you are.”
Joe smiled. “Fair enough.” He remained blissfully silent for a few minutes, then, “Hey, what time do you get off?”
“Why?”
“I’m free around ten. What do you say we grab some beers somewhere and talk?”
“I have no interest in any of the three.”
Just then, the dignitaries at the table got up, and all the bodyguards—even those in the kitchen and powder rooms—sprang to high alert. Some remained in their positions, while a few made their way to the table. Still others, she knew, were securing the entrance and exits, while the rest positioned themselves in the parking lot.
Joe and Shield both started toward their subjects, who were engaged in a quiet discussion off to one side.
“Three?” Joe asked, clearly confused by her response.
“Men,” she replied as they neared the two political leaders.
As they waited discreetly a few feet away from the pair, Elizabeth Thomas glanced over at them, and her gaze lingered on Shield for several long seconds. That wasn’t unusual since she was the lone woman agent in the room, and the president was a strong proponent of getting more women into male-dominated professions.
Soon after, the politicians ended their chat and separated. She just had to see Legard to his car now, and then she was free to return to her beloved Tuscany.
*
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
“There you are,” Marty said to himself when he saw the guy get out of his car and head up the steps to his front door. “Get comfortable, pal.” Marty knew his boss wanted results, and if he wanted to get paid, and, more importantly, keep the Broker happy, he’d better be quick about it. He watched his target go inside and then obsessively checked his watch until exactly twenty minutes had elapsed. “It’s time.”
He waited a few more seconds, until the street emptied, to get out of his sedan. Marty walked casually up the steps to the door and looked around one more time to make sure no one was in view before he pulled the automatic from the back of his waistband. The house was ideally situated for his purposes, set back from the street and with tall hedges that helped conceal his presence from curious neighbors.
The guy inside had barely opened the door to his knock when Marty jammed his size-ten loafer into the gap. “I need to talk to you about a friend.” He pointed the gun at the man’s stomach and, with his other hand, pushed him inside.
“What the—”
“Do what I say and you’ll be fine.” Marty followed him in and locked the door.
“What’s going on? Who are you?”
“I want you to help me with a certain friend we have in common.”
“I’m sure we don’t have any friends in common, so get the hell out of my house before I call the police.” Despite the man’s bluster, beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and his pupils were enormous.
Marty punched him, gun in hand, in the gut. “If I say we do, then we do.”
The guy bent over in pain, trying to catch his breath. Marty grabbed him by the hair and lifted his face. “You okay?” he asked in a bored tone.
“I have some money hidden in the bedroom,” his target managed between coughs.
“Good for you, although if you refuse to cooperate, you won’t need it.”
“What do you want?” the man asked.
“Like I was saying before you fucking interrupted, we have a common friend.” Marty grabbed him by the collar and dragged him roughly toward the couch. “Have a seat.” He shoved him so the man fell back against the cushions. “I won’t hurt you unless you make me, Tim.”
“Okay.” Tim looked both confused and terrified at the realization his intruder knew who he was.
“Her name is Ryden,” Marty said. “She’s the florist you’ve been jerking off to.”
The man’s pupils grew even larger. “What about her?”
“I need you to call her and ask her over.”
“Why?”
Marty bent over so his face was only a few inches from Tim’s. “Because I say so.” His tone was calm, but the smile that followed was feral.
“I hardly know her. What’s this about?”
“I want to talk to her.”
“I can tell you where she works.”
“I know where she works, stupid. I want her here.” Marty snatched Tim’s phone from its charging station on the coffee table and threw it at him. “Make it happen.”
“Look, I don’t know what she’s done or why you want her,” Tim said, “but I guarantee you I had nothing to do with it.”
Marty punched him in the stomach again, hard enough to get quick compliance. He deliberately avoided Tim’s face or anywhere that would leave a bruise. “Just get her the fuck over here.”
Doubled over in pain, Tim rasped, “How?”
“This is what you’re going to do. Call and ask her to deliver some flowers. Tell her you’re sick and can’t do it yourself.”
“What if she can’t?” Tim asked. “Or won’t?”
“It’s her fucking job.”
“I’ll…” Tim coughed. “I’ll try.”
Marty dialed the florist’s number and put the call on speakerphone before handing it to Tim. “One wrong word,” he said, pointing the gun at Tim’s head as they waited for someone to answer, “and you’re screwed.”
A female voice came on the line. “Bloom Room. This is Ryden. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Ryden. It’s Tim. Listen, I can’t make it in today, so I was wondering if you could deliver?”
A brief hesitation on the other end of the line, then, “What’s wrong?”
“Stomach problems, I think.” Tim was clutching his abdomen, and Marty had to smile at the guy’s unintentionally witty reply.
“Um…Tim, listen. You’re a nice enough guy and all, but you gotta understand, I’m not interested. So, if this is your way of getting me to your place, then—”
“It’s nothing like that, Ryden. I—”
Marty shoved the end of his gun hard into Tim’s stomach.
“I’m really…not well.” Tim’s tone was convincing, with good reason. He looked like he was on the verge of throwing up or pissing his pants.
“Have you seen a doctor?” Ryden asked. “You don’t sound too good.”
“Doc said I need some bed rest. I think some flowers will help make me feel better, too.”
; “Um, yeah…okay. I can be there in an hour.”
“Hurry…” Tim shrank back against the couch when he caught Marty’s scowl. “I mean, that’s great.”
“Do you have any preference?”
“No, it’s up to you. You know what I like.”
“I’ll see you later. Get some rest.”
Tim disconnected and gave the receiver back to Marty with shaking hands.
“You did good.” Marty stuck the phone in his jacket and sank into the armchair opposite the couch. “Looks like we’ve got an hour to kill.” He leaned back and made himself comfortable. “So, how’s life?”
Before Tim could answer, the doorbell rang. Marty scrambled back to his feet. “Who you expecting?” he asked in a low voice.
“My ex-wife.”
“Fuck.” Marty pulled Tim up roughly and pushed him toward the door. “Go answer and no bullshit. Same drill. Tell the bitch to go away.”
As Tim stumbled forward, Marty stayed on his heels, his gun pointed at the back of Tim’s head. He hid himself behind the door and motioned for Tim to open it.
“Hi, Rhonda. I know we’ve got things to discuss, but today’s not good.” Tim’s words poured out in a rush. “Looks like I came down with some stomach thing, and—”
Before he could finish, a forty-something redhead trailing cheap perfume pushed past him and into the room. “I don’t care what bug you’ve got crawling where,” she replied, half shouting the words. “You’re late again with this month’s—”
When Marty slammed the door shut, Rhonda wheeled around and found herself looking down the barrel of his gun. She went ashen and froze.
“Plant your ass on the couch.” He waved the gun in that direction. “One more word out of you and it’ll be your last. Got it?”
When she hesitated, her eyes glancing about for escape, Tim grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her across the room. They sat side by side, Rhonda clutching Tim’s hand so hard he winced.
“Loud-mouth bitch, aren’t you?” Marty said as he settled back into the armchair, enjoying the sudden change in her demeanor. Her eyes were about to pop out of her head, giving her a vaguely owlish look. “Used to have one of ’em myself,” he added, looking empathetically toward Tim. “Always bitchin’ about something.” Glancing at his watch, he saw they had forty minutes more to wait. Plenty of time. “Now, where were we?” he asked Tim. “Oh, yeah. You were going to tell me about your life.”
