by Sable Jordan
“The connection, Stix.”
“Oh. Right.” Stix cleared his throat. “Tattoo on the girl’s shoulder matches the one you’re tracking. Couldn’t get a full-body pic. My…uh…contact in the police department thought I had some weird fetish for dead chicks. Spent all night convincing her otherwise.” He sighed theatrically. “Almost made me too tired for my contact at the hospital; had to forego seeing my contact at the paper altogether. Strenuous business.”
“You’re a real hero. Timeframe?”
“Story hit the news a couple days back. Fugu poisoning. I’m just hearing about it or I’d have contacted you sooner. You should have the photo.”
A few taps to the screen downloaded the picture onto Phil’s tablet. Hard to make out—sort of blurry. Adding to the poor quality, the image had been snapped at an odd angle, cutting off most of what he needed for identification. “Amateur hour.”
“My contact took it. She wouldn’t let me in the morgue. You know how the Japanese respect the dead.”
Phil expelled a harsh breath. They needed more. A face, hair, anything apart from a random shoulder. If the symbol was as popular a tattoo in Japan as the equivalent was in America, this might be someone completely unrelated to the search. “When’d you say the last hit came on the necklace?”
“Three days ago around Tokyo. Two days ago the deaths made the news in Shimoda. Think this is your girl?”
Phil didn’t know, and didn’t bother commenting. “If this lead pans out, it might finally get you out of Xander’s crosshairs.”
“Damn shame. Got that sexy new woman and he’s hung up on li’l ol’ me. Want me to follow up on that last hit for you?”
Stix wasn’t a man known for subtlety, and this job required discretion. “Stay on the dead girl. We’ll be on the ground in a few days. Have the network up; get clearance for the plane. No footprints.”
“Into Shimoda? The closest airport is tiny. Tokyo’s farther, but it would be easier.”
“Don’t have time for easier.”
“It’ll cost—”
“It always costs and I always pay. Do who you have to, but get me a full body pic—face bare minimum. Clear this time.”
Phil disconnected the call and lifted his head, surprised to find the woman coming straight at him. The messenger bag slung across her body and the earbuds in her ears made her look like the average young co-ed. Adrenaline surged through him. Always the predator, in a couple seconds he’d be the one to get caught.
If he went now he’d avoid her.
He didn’t move.
He wanted her to see him; hoped Zlata would take note of him standing there.
She passed so close he could smell her shampoo, but her gaze stayed firmly on the ground.
Phil smothered a sad smile, the useless emotion bubbling in his veins, and the urge to turn and watch her again. He started in the opposite direction. Zlata had classes—Statistics, then Cognitive Science if he remembered correctly—and a fresh start at life to look forward to, while he….
Phil had the real world to get back to.
Footfalls on the cobblestones a little heavier, he went over options regarding the necklace. Xander was in the middle of a deal. Phil would update him when they met in a couple days, which meant Paris would be a very short trip so they could get on the road, or in the sky as it were.
Then there was the matter of a certain Dom giving his word to a certain CIA agent. Some days Xander didn’t use the full benefit of living on the dark side. Another harsh breath and Phil scrubbed a nail over the stubble on his chin. Xander made a promise, so Phil needed to find a way to get Kizzie to Japan.
Or…
A slow grin spread on Phil’s face, creased his scar. He shouldn’t do this. Really, shouldn’t…
The grin widened.
Kizzie might not be available, but if this worked out, it could solve a problem Phil had wrestled with since she left Oman. Xander would be pissed, but what’s a good day at work without twisting Xander’s shorts in a knot?
Still grinning, Phil ducked into a quaint shop across from his hotel, assaulted by the rich aroma of the finest handmade chocolates Bruges had to offer.
July 26th
Fortaleza, Brazil
Face smooshed between the luxury of two thick pillows, Kizzie groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. She cursed the residual ache in her sore cheek while trying to ignore the buzz of her secure cell phone. The last time she’d had a decent sleep was while rehabbing from her injuries at the hands of Sacha Sokoviev, and given her situation at the time—off the grid, staying with a known criminal at his home in Oman, and working an op she was neither directly involved in nor approved for—she hadn’t exactly gotten much shuteye then, either.
Wheels-up from The Land of Frankincense just days after being in Helsinki, land of frickin’ cold, she was in no shape to be back in the field. But the longer she stayed dark, the more explaining she would have to do to Bill Connolly. Explaining would only lead to more complications. So she sucked up the pain and called in, excuse ready to fall from her lips about needing to get away when her boss ordered her to get to Belém and await further instructions. No “where’ve you been?” No “why the hell did you go dark?”
Zilch.
Wasn’t that how it always happened? Perfectly good lie and she didn’t get to use it.
She blinked in the room’s inky blackness, and then squinted against the eye-searing radiance coming from the device she had in a death grip.
“Yes, god?” she croaked.
“I hear Belém is beautiful in late July.” Judging by his voice Bill hadn’t been snoozing, the usually serious tone almost whimsical.
“Gorgeous,” Kizzie said, not bothering to correct him about her location. Yawning, she pushed herself upright. “But it’s even more beautiful at noon than it is at,”—more squinting at the digital clock on the opposite nightstand—“three in the morning? Jesus, Bill, these are ‘booty call only’ hours. So either come over here and shake what Mama Connolly gave ya’, or let this girl get some more sleep.”
Bill chuckled, something he was never quick to do at her snarky remarks. Kizzie came fully out of her sluggish state with a sigh. “Where am I off to now, Creator of the Universe?”
“Nowhere. Just wanted to commend you on your success in Brazil.”
“And…?”
A pause. “Fletcher told me you jumped the gun and went in solo.”
“Never been a problem before.”
“Whatever gets the job done,” he agreed. And that was all that mattered. “But it was reckless. Dangerous…”
“Does anyone know what I actually do for—”
“Going back can’t have been easy,” Bill cut in.
It wasn’t easy and he knew it. Not specifics, however the info Bill did have was enough. Left behind by one of their own. When it came down to it, her life wasn’t more important than the mission.
That wasn’t the part that rankled.
“You thought it might bother me, but you wanted me to do it anyway?”
“I needed you. There’s no one on the ground in Belém anymore. Wasn’t a need after…” Letting the sentence hang almost sounded like he gave a damn. But Bill was a master manipulator, and his dubious sincerity just another trait that made him one of the best. He continued in a manner bordering empathy. “Female agent, intimate knowledge of the city, fluent in the language. You’re the only one who fit the bill.”
“Do fries come with the bullshit combo? What about Gale?”
“Out of play.”
“There are other agents,” she insisted.
“After botching Mauritius you needed a win, Baldwin.”
“Oh, this was for my own good? Well, thank you, William. You have exx-or-ciiiized my demons!” He didn’t catch the pop culture reference, and she groaned at the waste of snark. “If you’re satisfied I’m appropriately congratulated, slap the gold star on the bulletin board and I’ll fawn over it at the next PTA meeting, m’
kay? Goin’ back to sl—”
“You’re not getting off that easy. Where’d you disappear to?”
Her exhale sounded like a popped balloon.
Dressed to the nines in her birthday suit, Kizzie slipped from bed and went over to the bay window that led to the small balcony of her room; peered through the slit between the curtains. Outside was dark and fairly still, everything with a pulse having the sense God gave it to be asleep at this hour. The few lights stationed on the beach cast yellow circles on the abandoned sand, and tiny waves lapped at the shore just beneath her window. Maybe a swim later…
“I didn’t disappear, exactly.”
“Then where were you, exactly?”
She padded back toward the bed, gazing at the sheets. If she crawled in now, her spot would still be warm. Another sigh. Per usual, sleep would have to wait. She shrugged into a hotel robe and went to the living room. “I was soul searching.”
“Soul searching?” Bill laughed, the sound like doors moving on rusted hinges. “Let me explain something about your soul, agent. Your soul is the property of the U.S. government. When you sign up as a fresh-faced innocent we take your soul, have it scrubbed and bleached to get all those pesky stains out—back-talking your parents…fighting in the fifth grade…that little kerfuffle at The Point….”
Kizzie poked her tongue into the side of her cheek and drew in a long breath. “That little kerfuffle” he spoke of so candidly was heavy as an armored Humvee. And that’s why they worked so well together. She knew where Bill stood. He didn’t care about her—emotions were a hindrance, after all—he cared about the missions, about results. Reminders of The Point were a way to constantly sharpen her mettle.
Too sharp and he’d get cut.
“Then,” Bill went on philosophically, “we take your soul and have it pressed; hang it up on one of the racks on the Pentagon’s secret floor for safe keeping.
“Meanwhile, off you go into the big bad world to do Uncle Sam’s bidding. Upon approval of your request for dismissal from this life, we stamp your death certificate and return your soul, all shiny and clean so you’re up to snuff for your interview on the top floor with St. Peter—or the bonfire going down in the basement.” He huffed a short laugh through his nose. “That’s the state of your soul, Baldwin. May God have mercy on it.”
“You bring the chocolate, I’ll bring the marshmallows and grahams.”
He chuckled again. “What were you doing?”
Kizzie flopped onto the couch and fired up her tablet computer. Thanks to two men—one a former friend, the other a…Dom—she still had a new place to find. Now was as good a time as any to go house hunting. Not like she was sleeping. Nicaragua…Costa Rica…She could always go stateside. No… Dammit, she just wanted to stay in Panama!
“Baldwin.”
“Hm? Oh. Had a lead on 3-19.”
The voice coming through the receiver was all business now. Soulless. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I thought about it.” Her belly rumbled. Was yesterday’s breakfast her last meal? Tablet in hand, she stormed the kitchenette to raid the minibar.
“Do I need to remind you you’re part of a team? My team. You defied a direct order and—”
“And had I waited for the green light, my lead would be gone and 3-19 would be dead in the water. Or do you have an alternate source you’re working?” Her anger rose swiftly. “I know my job, Bill. Been dedicated to Crew and country since I signed my soul away, and to you and your command since The P—” She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.
She took a slow breath to steady her tone. “I know the debt I owe you, not that you’d ever let me forget. Now don’t you forget I’m doing my job, exactly the way you trained me to.”
Kizzie yanked on the door of the tiny fridge and almost ripped it off the hinges, staring at and through the meager offerings inside. She hated being in his pocket, but given the alternative, this was the lesser of two evils. A way to atone for the guilt…
She slammed the door, jangling the small bottles of liquor inside.
Former agent or not, Bill had no idea what she went through op after op; the things she did that stayed with her while his only risk involved lobbying the higher-ups for more money for more missions. The times she set her own beliefs aside for the greater good of a country that, if she were caught, would turn its back on her without a second thought.
That’s why they really took an agent’s soul—don’t need it when living life as a ghost. And in a world where traveling light was a must, a soul would only weigh her down.
On autopilot, her finger danced over the screen of her tablet unlocking the biometric scanner/sequencer.
“Where’s your lead now?”
Kizzie’s face squished into a scowl and her shoulders snapped up. Xander Duquesne was her only connection to 3-19. Apart from the ill-timed flashes of his face in her mind, she hadn’t seen or heard from him since hobbling out of his house months before.
Her money was on never hearing from him again. To trust the man would contact her like he promised wasn’t wishful thinking, it was crazy thinking. Xander would find Harvey—if he hadn’t already—sell the salted nuke to some maniac who would detonate it, and she might be sent in to help clean up the mess. That would be as close as their two circles ever came again. Pissed her off, too. With the last minute travel, Kizzie had to leave her toys behind. Apart from her lucky knife Xander and Phillip had in their possession one Glock—gently used—a primo set of SOG throwing knives, and her Desert Eagle with the custom grip she affectionately called her Big Girl Panties.
“Baldwin?”
She pulled herself from her musings to answer her boss. “My lead’s still a possibility.”
And just like that she’d started another lie. To Bill. To herself. She didn’t even know why; damn sure wasn’t to protect Duquesne, but she’d done that anyway, hadn’t she?
“I’ll have Gale and Sol on standby,” Bill said eagerly.
At the mention of her teammate’s name, Kizzie went cold. Not Gale—Gale was her girl—but Sol, one of the Crew’s tech wizards. A man she’d considered a friend, and the agent who broke into her house. Sort of a big deal in her book. Kizzie still hadn’t figured out why, but she had deduced Solomon Nevins was not to be trusted even the slightest bit. Of course, she wouldn’t share that with Bill.
“Hold off on the cavalry. I don’t have anything solid, but when I do—”
“So now what?”
“When I hear from my contact—”
“Who’s your contact?”
Since when did Bill care about how she got the job done?
Face awash in the grayish light from the tablet’s display, she devoted all her focus to the arduous task of closing away the e-book she’d been reading—hey, a girl had to get her smut somehow—and thumbed to her e-mail to check the account she stalked every free moment since leaving Oman.
Empty.
Xander wouldn’t contact her. Ever.
“Is this about Duquesne, Baldwin? That who you’re banking on?”
“No.”
“Try and remember I taught you how to lie.”
“And you did it well. But expecting lies so long makes it hard to hear the truth. Xander’s not on my radar anymore.” Much as she hated it, that was the truth. “I have an actual contact I’m working, not just some random location on a yacht in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” Kizzie said, deflecting some of the responsibility for that failure back at Bill. “And not some gunrunner who was paid to perform a service he didn’t show up for. What happened to Ri Nguyen anyway? Ever put him through the ringer?”
“Nguyen was Gale’s contact. According to her, he went to ground. That’s the chance we take in this game.”
Kizzie grunted, taping her finger on the screen to select a link. Nothing loaded. Signal was out. A quick bit of troubleshooting and she latched onto the encrypted connection again.
“For the record, I think Nguyen was feeding us b
ad Intel. I don’t think Xander knew more than we did about 3-19.”
“Ahh…” The sound managed to be deliberate and subtle at the same time; like he’d unearthed something he didn’t know he’d been looking for. “And…what makes you so sure?”
Kizzie rolled her shoulders to her ears again. “Call it a hunch. Might help if you gave me specifics on it.”
“You got what Langley gave me; enough Intel to get the job done.”
Obviously said Intel was woefully inadequate. For such an intrusive agency, the CIA knew everything and nothing at the same time.
The page finally reloaded, presenting Kizzie with the inbox status of an encrypted HushMail account. What had read 0 for months now read 1.
She blinked, reloaded the page.
Definitely a 1.
Only one person had this address, and contact meant there was news. Finally.
A double tap opened the message, and she smiled at the subject line: Another Proposal, Say Yes? She scanned the text and smirked at the signature: Handsome.
The attachment went through several programs to check for viruses and tracers before she opened the jpeg. A blurred image of a gold-toned shoulder with a tattoo: the outline of a circle with a small red circle inside it, the two orbs sharing a tangent point. The picture was cut off at the bottom, just the very tips of the characters on the right hand side were visible, but this was proof.
They’d found Sumi.
Or had they?
Either way, Kizzie had less than 24 hours to get there.
Did she go? Hadn’t exactly come out unscathed the last time. But it got her moving again, got her far away from memories of Belém, closer to—
“Baldwin.”
Kizzie forgot Bill was on the phone. She dashed back to the bedroom, flipped on the lights and dragged her duffel from the closet. Tossed it on the bed and unzipped the flap. “I’m taking a vacation.”
“Pardon me?”
“Vay-kay-shuuun,” she said slowly. “You know, tourists traps and expensive meals and wishing you’d never left home? I tracked Galletti for close to five months, Bill. Living out of crappy motels and eating…well, the food wasn’t bad. Still, I need a break, need to get off the grid for a while.”
