Chapter Four
Toby leaned against the BOLO Building’s wall as Cyrus prowled the alley until he found the exact spot he was looking for. One eye on the massive dog and the other on the gate to the alley, Toby let his thoughts run rampant. How in the hell had he allowed himself to get into this predicament? He wasn’t stupid. He immediately corrected the thought. Sometimes the things he did were stupid, and this was about the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was stupid as in stupid stupid.
What he should have done after Carrie dumped him was go back to New York, set up shop on his own, and get his old job back. Why hadn’t he done that? Because he’d hoped against hope that Carrie would change her mind and want him back. Well, that hadn’t happened, and now, a little more than two years after moving to the District, it was obvious that it was never going to happen. Not now, not ever. Yet here he was, in this strange place, with equally strange people. The term mercenary floated around inside his brain.
Cyrus meandered up to the gate, pawed the ground, lifted his leg, then meandered back down the alley.
Toby fired up a cigarette. That was another thing. He’d taken up smoking. So that was another stupid thing he was guilty of. He didn’t smoke much, maybe three or four cigarettes a week. Cyrus growled as the cigarette smoke wafted his way.
“You just do your thing, dog, and let me do mine,” Toby growled in return.
Cyrus offered no response to that declaration.
So here he was, in the clutches of some very strange dudes who were probably mercenaries and were taking his situation under advisement. Among those strange dudes was the director of the FBI and some goddamn spook from the CIA. Dennis . . . Dennis wouldn’t let anything happen to him. His old friend wouldn’t have brought him here to this Fort Knox hideout if he didn’t think he could be helped. Then again, how well did he really know Dennis West? No one ever really knows anyone, he thought. The realization did not make him feel one bit better.
Toby shivered in the brisk October wind rushing down the alley. Leaves were blowing from somewhere. How weird was that with not a tree in sight? Just as weird as everything else going on in his life right now. He crushed out the cigarette under his foot, then picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket. “Hey, dog, anytime now would be good, okay?”
Cyrus ignored him.
It suddenly occurred to Toby to wonder how he was going to get back into the BOLO Building, since his eyeball wasn’t recorded with the retina scanner or however one gained admittance. Maybe he was doomed to spend the night out here, shivering, while all the strange dudes inside decided his fate. He looked at the numbers on his watch. One minute to go, and the fifteen minutes that the dog was good for would be up. He looked down the alley and saw the huge dog sprint to where he was standing. Man and dog eyeballed one another until Toby dropped to his haunches. He could feel the dog’s warm breath.
“We should talk . . . ah . . . Cyrus. I get the feeling you’re really high up on the totem pole here. I respect that. You, that is. I’m new to this. And to be honest, I am scared shitless. You also scare me shitless. See how honest I’m being? I have no clue how we’re supposed to get back inside this fortress. I should know that, but I don’t. They said to walk you, and here I am, but any fool can see you walk yourself. Damn, you are one big dog. I have to give you that.”
Cyrus let loose with a soft woof of thanks for the compliment. He cocked his head and appeared to be waiting for Toby’s next declaration.
“Are you, like, some kind of special dog? A mutant of some kind?”
Cyrus growled.
“Okay, okay. You’re just a really, really big dog. Scratch that mutant part.”
Cyrus woofed his acceptance of Toby’s apology. Suddenly, one big paw slapped at Toby’s wrist.
“My watch, right? Yeah, yeah, your fifteen minutes are up, but I have no clue how to get back in. If you recall, no one gave me instructions. Unless you know how to get in, we’re stuck out here. I have no clue as to how to get back inside. Of course, you know. How silly of me to think otherwise. So, do whatever you have to do and get us back inside.”
Cyrus waited a moment, then stood on his hind legs as he tilted his head to the scanner. The hiss of the hydraulics was music to Toby’s ears. Gentleman that he was, Cyrus waited until Toby walked through the door, then followed him inside. He stood perfectly still until he heard the massive door lock into place. Then he barked loudly to announce their arrival. He nudged Toby to the kitchen counter, where a jar of treats rested. He barked three times.
“Okay, I get it. You get three of these things, right? Here you go, sport,” Toby said as he handed over the treats. He stuck an additional two in his pocket, just in case. In case of what, he had no clue. With no idea of where to go, Toby opted to follow the shepherd, who led him to the conference room.
Toby looked around, but no one even bothered to look in his direction. He finally settled himself in the same chair he’d been sitting on earlier and waited for someone either to notice him or speak to him. When nothing happened, he leaned back and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t sleep; he was too wired up. He shifted into what he called his neutral zone, the way he had trained himself to do before every performance onstage. It was the only way he could rid himself of his inhibitions and do what was expected of him in front of a bunch of howling, yowling women bent on attacking his body. Right now he could tune in to the mutterings, the key tapping, and the sounds of the grease pencils scribbling on the whiteboards hanging on the far wall. A question was thrown out, and three or four answers were forthcoming. He was jolted back to awareness when he heard his name called by the portly British guy.
“Toby, do you dancers take steroids?”
“I don’t. I can’t answer for the others. Our contracts say if you’re caught taking any, it’s cause for immediate dismissal.”
“When you’re in the green room prior to a performance, do you guys have lockers? How do you know no one goes through your things?” Toby sat up a little straighter when he saw it was the director of the FBI posing the questions.
“In the beginning, I never gave it a thought, but a few months ago I started to think about it, so I bought a new laptop, a tablet, and two burner phones. The original ones, which I leave in my lockers, I just use for playing video games. I don’t even use them for e-mails. As for my regular cell phone, I just use it to call home, to call my parents, my brother, the dry cleaner, the video store, that kind of thing.”
“What about your car? What do you keep in your car?” the director asked, continuing to probe.
Toby laughed out loud. “Here’s the thing, Mr. Director. Several months ago I sold my car and bought a new one from the FBI vehicle auction. To me it was new, but it wasn’t brand-new, off-the-lot new. I got a Beemer from your impound lot auction for half the price of a brand-new one with the sticker still on the window. After I filled out all the paperwork and forms and paid cash for the car, which is a requirement, one of your agents told me the car had belonged to a big-time drug dealer. And the drug dealer had had the car outfitted with all kinds of compartments for smuggling drugs. Your guys, of course, found all those compartments, and your agent showed them to me.
“From that day on, I started to stash all my stuff in those compartments. You would actually need to know where they are to find them. No way are they visible to the naked eye. I’m good in that respect.”
Sparrow squinted at Toby. “I remember that auction. I remember that car, too. You got yourself a hell of a deal. If I recall correctly, the Beemer had only eighteen hundred miles on it.”
“Actually, Mr. Director, it had one thousand eight hundred thirteen miles on it,” Toby said sotto voce.
“I stand corrected.” Sparrow laughed just as Cyrus reared up and raced from the room. “Sounds like Snowden is here.”
It wasn’t just Avery Snowden. Cyrus led a parade of five people into the conference room and was rewarded with a handful of treats
from Jack’s pocket. His job done, the big dog resumed his place at Jack’s feet under the table.
Introductions were made. Toby’s jaw dropped as his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Well, okayyyy, he thought as he stared at a bevy of beautiful young women. The women smiled, completely at ease, shaking hands, making eye contact with everyone.
Maggie Spritzer winced. On her best day, after getting the “works” at a day spa, she knew she couldn’t even come close to looking like these women. And they weren’t models or show people; they were all operatives working for Avery Snowden off his roster of employees.
Refreshments were offered and declined.
Charles took to the floor. “It’s getting late, and we want to get Toby back to his digs. Which operative have you assigned to him, Avery?”
“Sylvia. Did you create a legend for her?”
“I did. From here on in her new name is Mia Grande. She’s an heiress to a fortune built on a Brazilian hot pepper sauce called Grande Hot Pepper Sauce. She’s worth millions. She’s been in the States for a few years, finishing up some grad work at Georgetown. She’s a party girl. But that’s okay, because she carries a four-point-oh GPA. We’ve arranged for a candy apple–red Ferrari F12tdf edition to be delivered momentarily. She resides at the Watergate. We backstopped everything. When and if Toby’s people check her out, everything will clear. Toby will say they met at a museum a while back, then met up again, and the rest is history. She will drive him home and meet up with him at six a.m. tomorrow morning. They will go for a run, have breakfast. Toby will never be out of her sight. When she is out of his sight, these other ladies, friends of Mia, will step in. Toby’s residence will be under surveillance as of”—he looked at Snowden, who mouthed the words, “One hour ago”—“one hour ago.”
He gazed at Toby. “Avery will give you a special watch that you are to wear at all times. It’s even safe to shower with. You can talk to him on it. When he wants to speak with you, you will feel a soft buzz on your wrist, at which point you will press the stem on the watch and will be able to converse. Mia also has one. It’s been programmed, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.”
Toby thought it was all a bit too cloak-and-daggerish, but he had committed, so he was in for all he was worth. He simply nodded that he understood and agreed. Dennis gave him a thumbs-up.
Toby continued to watch and listen as the new group clustered around what he thought of as “the mercenaries,” being briefed on the mission. That had to be spookspeak for what he was going through. He half closed his eyes and pretended not to look at what he considered his babysitter. He wondered if she packed a gun and, if so, where she kept it, since she was covered in formfitting spandex. He liked the cowboy boots and the pearl-white Stetson that sat on top of a glorious head of shimmering strawberry-blond curls. The killer smile certainly didn’t hurt anything. All in all, one hell of a babysitter, all things considered.
Toby was jolted from his thoughts when he heard Joe Espinosa volunteer to do a makeover so they could attend tonight’s dance session. He heard him say amid groans that someone named Alexis practiced on him all the time, and he had the red bag of tricks at his disposal. Whatever the hell that meant. He was right on the edge of the rabbit hole, and he definitely knew it. Kick back. Go with the flow. Dennis said these people would help. They were into it. That was for sure. Along with the director of the FBI. How cool was that? Pretty damn cool, he decided.
Charles looked down at the phone in his hand. He waved his free hand for silence. “It would appear your ride is here, Toby. The car is parked in front of this very building. You and Mia are now free to go. Be sure to take some selfies—I believe that is the term you young people use—in case anyone wants to see your new . . . ah . . . squeeze. One last thing. Be sure you all take a boatload of pictures tomorrow evening at Toby’s, um . . . recital. Maggie, it would be nice if some of those pictures could find their way to Page Six. I’m sure you all have sources who can make this happen. And, Maggie, play up the heiress part and how smitten Mia is with Toby. So smitten, her parents are on the way from Brazil to check him out. The publicity alone will put Toby front and center, and if the people he works for have devious thoughts, they will have to shelve them with all the notoriety that is coming his way. Any questions?”
There were no questions.
Ten minutes later, Toby settled himself in the passenger seat of the candy apple–red Ferrari. “Now, this is one sweet set of wheels,” he grunted as he strapped himself into the low-slung seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “My surrey with the fringe on top can’t come close to this hunk of perfection. Can you handle this baby, Mia? There’s a lot of horsepower under that gleaming hood.”
Instead of answering what Mia thought was a stupid question, she stomped on the gas. The Ferrari went from zero to seventy in a nanosecond.
“You just gave me whiplash!” Toby bellowed.
“That will teach you to ask stupid questions. This car is not meant to be driven the way your grandma drives. It’s built for speed.”
“Yeah, well, listen, sweetie. The Georgetown police frown on anything over twenty-five miles an hour. You want to go head-to-head with them, go for it,” Toby snapped.
Mia eased her foot off the gas pedal and stopped for a red light. The engine growled like eighteen monsters belching fire. “Well, sweetie, there is that,” Mia said, pushing the Stetson back a smidgen, and smiled at him, her pearly whites lighting up the interior of the car. Toby just knew somehow, someway, some orthodontist had retired to some pricey beachfront property on his fee for that smile. “I think I can talk my way out of a ticket if it comes to that. By the way, this might be a good time for you to tell me where we’re going.”
Toby punched in the address on the GPS.
Mia shifted gears and moved ahead at a sedate twenty-five miles an hour, the horsepower under the hood protesting mightily. “So tell me how a brainiac like you ended up stripping for a bunch of howling, yowling women.”
Toby’s back stiffened. “I don’t strip. I dance. What? You want me to apologize for having a brain? That’s not going to happen.”
“We need to be on the same page here if I’m going to protect you. You have to admit, that hour back there at Fort Knox was just a teaser. Talk to me. Tell me what I need to know.”
Toby clamped his lips shut and closed his eyes. As far as he was concerned, this discussion was over and done with. Like this 110-pound piece of fluff in her cowboy hat and boots was really going to protect him. More like the other way around.
“Okay. Be like that, then. But just for the record, one does not get a job with Avery Snowden unless one qualifies and measures up. In case you are interested, I am a third-degree brown belt. I trained under Harry Wong. I came in first at sniper training. I always hit what I shoot at, double tap to the head, center mass, you name it. I came in first at the endurance trials. I can scale the mountain at the training base in the time it would take you to buckle up your gear. I chewed off the ear of a man who somehow caught me off guard. That’s my résumé. Any questions?”
Jesus. Toby didn’t like what he was feeling. This cowgirl sitting next to him had actually chewed off someone’s ear. He fought the urge not to cover his ears. He knew in his gut she wasn’t making it up to entertain him. Man, this was right up there with that damn dog knowing how to fold towels.
Toby sucked in his breath. What the hell. His life wasn’t exactly a secret these days. “You’re right. I am . . . was . . . a brainiac. I have two PhDs, two MBAs.” He went on to tell Mia about the past few years of his life, up to when he got hired at the Supper Club. “So that’s my background. Now we’re even, and that’s the house two doors up.”
The Ferrari slid to the curb, making enough noise to wake the dead. Toby reached for the latch to open the door.
“No, no, no. We need to sit here for a little while. Remember, we are smitten with each other. Someone might be looking out the window. This car just alerted everyone with
in a ten-mile radius that you are home. And remember, when you go inside, you need to look dazed, like you just scored with the best cheerleader for the football team. In other words, you need to look sappy. Dreamy, if you like that word better.”
Toby felt like he had one foot over the rabbit hole. “Am I supposed to kiss you good night or what?”
“That would be nice.”
“I don’t kiss on a first date,” Toby mumbled.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, right? This is a game. Even a brainiac like you should realize that, right? You want to win, you play by the rules. You’re a real stiff, you know that? Loosen up. Nothing is going to happen to you on my watch. I guarantee it.”
Toby almost believed what she was saying. In spite of himself, he asked the question he swore to himself he wasn’t going to ask. “How’d you get into this . . . line of work?”
“Lean a little closer. I see someone at one of the windows. Well, it’s like this. I was one of those darling debutante girls. Mummy and Daddy had some rich guy all picked out for me. A banker. You know how deadly dull those guys are. That’s what my life would have been like. I didn’t want any part of that.”
Suddenly, Toby found himself in a lip-lock that threatened to expel his tonsils. He felt hands yanking at his hair as 110 pounds of girl mashed her face against his. Holy Jesus.
When he came up for air, all he could do was stare at the young woman sitting across from him.
“Someone came out on the front porch. I wanted to give them an eyeful.” Without missing a beat, Mia continued. “As I was saying, I had a friend who was taking martial-arts lessons because she had been mugged. I joined to keep her company. One thing led to another, and then Mr. Snowden came into the picture via Harry Wong. He pays exceedingly well. Lots of perks. Okay, you can go now. I’ll be here at six on the dot. Do. Not. Be. Late. Go now!”
Toby barreled out of the car like his pants were on fire. Holy shit. He swallowed hard to make sure his tonsils weren’t swirling around in the back of his throat. He was supposed to do something. Shit. What was it? Look dazed. Sappy. Dreamy. He knew he already looked like all of the above. Well damn, and damn again.
High Stakes Page 5
