by Sable Jordan
Adrenaline raced through her as she rifled through wigs; abandoned that and sorted through the clothes she’d donned these months in Brazil: short skirts, shorter skirts, bikinis…. A disgusted grunt and she slammed a hand on her hips. None of it would do for Paris.
Bill sighed. “Know how an agent loses her edge? Going after what she thinks she wants instead of staying focused—”
“Know how an agent keeps her edge?” she volleyed. “Finishing the job she started. To do that I need to recharge. Just…give me a couple days to regroup, okay? You call and I’ll come running like always.”
She flipped open the passport, stared at her face beside the name: Janet Johnson.
Soluble.
Soulless.
Company-issued. She’d have to swap it out.
Back in the duffle, Kizzie pulled back the zipper hidden in the lining and dove her hand in the pocket. A large manila envelope was stashed inside, providing her with cash and a new identity complete with credit cards. She studied the new passport and tilted her head. A few adjustments…
“You’re a good agent, Baldwin. Think long and hard about the consequences of lying right now.”
Kizzie stopped re-packing at the not-so-subtle threat. Screw up or go rogue and there’d be no job to come back to. And rogue agents didn’t stay rogue.
They got dead.
Her palms tingled, that little voice in her head she so often ignored screamed for her to see reason. “It’s martinis and sunshine in an itty-bitty bikini on the beach, Bill.” She chuckled. “Not running off to start a war or anything.”
A meaningful silence from the other end. “All right,” he finally said. “Just remember, you want that soul back, you gotta come through me.”
* * * *
Halfmoon Bay, British Columbia
Five time zones away, Bill Connolly dropped his cell onto the table beside his ever-present bottle of cherry-flavored Mylanta. Since Gale Freeman cleaned up that loose end in McLean months before, he could actually feel the ulcer starting to heal. Staying in the Bay, falling asleep in the now-familiar surroundings from his past, had done him good. Stress had been on a steady decline, but one phone call to Kizzie threatened to inch that big ball uphill again.
During her “soul searching” he had Sol trace her phone which, according to the tech guy, ended up in Canada—on the opposite coast from Bill. Whether Kizzie had friends in Toronto or not, Bill didn’t know. But Sol did a thorough search of the area and she didn’t turn up. She went off grid there. For what?
Or for whom?
Duquesne.
He shook his head dolefully. He’d been in the game long enough to spot a lie when he heard one, and Kizzie’s pants were on fire. It was obvious. Since when did an agent call a target by his first name? That was an intimate gesture, and she’d said it so effortlessly Bill was sure it wasn’t her first time. Something happened in Mauritius. He’d bet money something happened during her last trip off-grid. Probably sleeping with the guy.
“Xander.” His lips twisted into a sneer.
Loyalty was the keystone that held his team together. “To Crew and Country,” and in that order.
This opened Kizzie’s allegiance up to scrutiny.
Screwing a target to complete an op was one thing; screwing him because she wanted to meant she was more likely to be flipped. Might have been already. That happened with agents who’d been in play a long time.
Duquesne was a hard criminal to track, the more pertinent parts of his dossier were brief. So if giving Kizzie a couple days to “hook up”—as the young kids now called it—with the man who had Intel on 3-19, Bill would let her “vacation” again. And once the honeymoon was over, she’d realize how stupid she was to turn to Duquesne and come back to the Crew where she belonged. He just had to be patient.
Bones cracked as he shifted in the leather recliner. The seconds passed on the clock over the mantel—Tick…tick…tick… A low fire burned in the hearth, the crackle soft and soothing.
He leaned forward and snapped up his phone from the table; flicked his thumb through the contacts until he reached the name he was looking for.
Push it.
It’d be so simple.
Push it and reach out to the asset on the other end.
Now.
Bill hesitated.
Getting close to any agent was a bad thing. Agents were just soldiers of a different sort, fighting a war most people preferred not to know existed. Soldiers trained in the art of duplicity, secrecy and, when necessary, to engage with deadly force. Like any soldier, they could be killed in combat.
This soldier was like a daughter to Bill. If she died, he’d feel the loss. He’d never tell Kizzie that, but it was true.
Also true: if she flipped on her country—on him—Bill would kill her himself.
No double-edged sword sharper than the agent/controller relationship.
He shook his head. It wouldn’t come to that. Kizzie would be back, because she owed him a debt: her life.
A heavy sigh and Bill dropped the phone, picked up the bottle of cherry-flavored chalk. He’d give her a little leeway; let her do things Kizzie-style. But if she did find something and lied to him instead, one phone call would have Kizzie’s debt paid in full and the account closed.
Permanently.
July 27th
Paris, France
In the fifteen minutes since she’d climbed into the passenger seat of the Citroën SUV, Phil had looked out the driver’s side window three times. The quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Paris had a few expensive shops nestled amongst row houses and efficiencies. A medium-size café occupied the corner diagonal to their location. To find only one in a city where cozy bistros outflanked golden arches 100:1 was a rarity.
“How’s Zlata?” Kizzie asked, if only to break the silence.
“Safe.”
Good. Zlata saved her hide in Helsinki. She’d repay her one day, but for now, knowing Xander kept his word was enough.
“Where’s Tweedle-dumb, anyway?”
Phil shrugged. “We’ll go soon, just need to take care of something.”
With the sun well on its way to New York, the café was well lit. Still, dark shades covered Phil’s eyes, the wicked scar that crossed one of them peeking out from underneath. He angled his head toward his lap where an iPad streamed an old black and white film: Lolita.
Didn’t guess Phil for the classic movie type—too artsy for hired muscle—but then, Kizzie knew little about him. Less about his no-good boss. She added ‘old movies’ to Phil’s factoids file, just under ‘dirty jokes’, ‘loyal’, and ‘lethal’.
Short list.
She’d worked with less.
Kizzie liked the guy, despite his being a threat to national security. Plus Phil was the closest person to Xander. Without a doubt her pre-op Intel on Duquesne lacked a considerable amount of detail—her ass cheeks could attest to that fact—and going back through Langley for specifics would alert Connolly, bumping Phil to the head of the pack as a source.
She dug in her backpack for her binoculars. Small but high-powered, the photo-capable field glasses would get her a peek at whatever Phil found so damned interesting.
The café’s terrace was empty, an earlier rainfall forcing the handful of diners inside. A party of three laughed over some story or other, wine glasses full of red. Another group of seven—eight, one just dropped into a seat—dined near the back, chatting away. Nothing uncommon. She sifted through the place, stopped on the corner booth farthest from the door.
“A couple months without me and you find new eye candy, Phil? Did your marriage proposal mean nothing?” Her mood turned from mock anger to mock distress. “I mean, sure you didn’t get me a ring, but still…I thought…I thought we really had something…” A theatrical sigh and Kizzie lowered the binocs.
Phil’s mouth twitched. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, darlin’.” He checked his watch and then his attention went back out the window.<
br />
“Hottie Mc’Hot Mama you keep checkin’ out, ten o’clock. Don’t pretend you don’t see her; just makes the end of our short engagement all the more hurtful. I’ll have to cancel the cake and flowers…and just what will I tell our guests?” Gasping, she touched the back of her hand to her forehead, earning a chuckle.
Lenses up again, Kizzie gave the woman the once-over: Middle Eastern or North African descent with a little something else mixed in, though what and from where Kizzie couldn’t be certain. Not so much petite as svelte, with a poise discernible even at a distance. Olive skin, strong nose and thick, shaped brows over wide eyes all properly proportioned in a heart-shaped face. Short onyx hair styled in chic finger waves hugged her scalp. Not everyone could pull off vintage Hollywood starlet, but this woman owned it. A regal air surrounded her—either from old money or married into it. Probably smelled it, too. Some subtle perfume squeezed from a rare flower, dainty and expensive. An aroma so light only the faintest hint lingered after she breezed by.
The woman dipped her chin.
“So you go for the model types, huh?”
“You could have been a model.”
“Flattering as that deflection is, I couldn’t.” Kizzie patted her belly with both hands. “Me likes me food. And you can’t save the world strutting the catwalk.”
Phil’s head swiveled toward her for the second time since she’d been in the car, and he set the tablet on the dash. “That why you joined the CIA? Save the world?”
“Hell no.” She scrunched up her face. “My credentials get me a discount at the Java Hut and let me be a complete badass. Win-win.”
Phil shifted his burly frame in a seat that would have been spacious for anyone else, training his dark shades on her. “Apart from a nickel off your caffeine fix, why’d you become an active field agent, Kizzie? Why not do a stint at an embassy somewhere or stick to the halls of Langley, be a little safer?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Protect my country from the likes of Xan—”
“Don’t regurgitate the bullshit they fed you from the training manual at The Farm. We’re closer than that. A few minutes ago there was cake and guests and a honeymoon in the Maldives. You can be straight with me.”
“The Maldives?” He nodded sincerely and Kizzie smirked. “Swanky…. Nice to know I can rely on your upstanding moral certitude, handsome, but I’m being straight with you. The pay is lousy, zero fame—unless I fail or flip, of course—but somebody’s gotta do it. People like Xander hell-bent on—”
“Do you realize you’ve mentioned him three times,” Phil cut in, “when we’re going to the Maldives?” His deep voice dropped an octave. “Easy to forget, isn’t it? That you’re on two different sides? Xander’s a face for everything a good agent like you is fighting, but deep down, I bet you think about him a lot. Wonder how he takes his coffee, his favorite color.”
She snorted inelegantly and didn’t care. “Couldn’t be more wrong, slick. And I’m offended you think I’m so transparent.” Kizzie sighed. “I already want a divorce….”
“Not with your job. With your job you’re stormy weather. I understand; I’m something of a hurricane myself. Gotta be to do what people like you and I have to do…. But with X,” his head twisted back and forth slowly, and his voice softened, “you’re blue skies on a sunny day, Kizzie.”
“I’m a typhoon no matter the occasion, and far more interested in your favorite color.”
“Fuchsia.”
“Bullshit.”
“Periwinkle?” Lips tilting a grin, Phil pulled out of her space, shifting his view back to the café.
Kizzie reached for the box of chocolates Phil gave her for their “weekend getaway.” The good stuff, too, from a shop in Bruges, according to the details on the package. He even scrawled “Handsome” on the card, the goob. Phil would be a hard nut to crack, but if she wanted to get useful info on Xander, she’d have to try. Breaching the top on the package, she surveyed the options while working out a plan of attack in her head.
“What’s your exit strategy?” Phil asked, beating her to the punch and throwing her off guard at the same time. She frowned; he faced her.
“I’m lost.”
“You’re not going to help find Harvey and the let Xander keep it. You’ve said as much in the last ten minutes.”
“A distant bridge—”
“But still a bridge, and you’re both approaching it. Xander won’t budge and you won’t back down. A bull in a showdown with a jackass.”
“Ugh…Dibs on being the bull…”
“There’s bound to be a fight, and I’d rather not see this get messy.”
“Queasy stomach?” Kizzie smirked, then bit into a truffle.
Phil cracked a smile of his own. “No. Just think…” He stared at her a long moment, as though struggling to work out what he would say. “Way I see it, you’ve got two options, sweetheart. Stay or go.”
Huh? Was Phil trying to flip her? Did he miss the ‘somebody’s gotta do it’ portion of the show?
“Staying’s tricky,” he said somberly, darting a glance over his shoulder, then back at her. “Staying means leaving’s not an option, probably ever. You sever all ties to your team, and you’re one of his.”
What kind of ridiculous…? She had one option. This was one job, a fair trade. Not to mention she had a career to get back to. A career involving sanctioned missions and not working with criminals. A career she’d already been foolish enough to put in jeopardy twice now.
“Going is even trickier,” Phil continued. “Xander’s a charming sonuvabitch. He’s not above using every trick in the book to…uh…distract you from your goal.”
Kizzie’s mouth went wide with surprise. “Did you just violate a man law? That was a legit cockblock, Phil.”
He chuckled. “And now an angel won’t get his wings. See the sacrifices I make for you?” He relaxed into the seat and sighed. “You’re good people, Kizzie. Just don’t want to see you get hurt. He’s single-minded, calculating, and there’s no competing with a force like Xander. Once he gets in your head…” Phil tapped his finger to his temple.
Kizzie mimicked his action. “Steel vault.”
“Fort Knox has a front door. You’ve got cracks, scars in the surface…or deeper…. Things you want to keep hidden.” The pause went long enough to make Kizzie uncomfortable. Then he shrugged, and the intense moment passed. “Hell, we all do. You’ll open up, tell him things without meaning to, without saying anything at all, ‘cause Xander’s carbon monoxide; seeps in undetected. One day you look up and he’s there, really rooted in, and you can’t get him out.”
Her brows squished together, gaze shifting from one dark lens to the other. Whatever Phil’s angle, Kizzie didn’t like being back on her heels.
“That what happened to you, Phil? X got rooted in?” Now his brows drew together over the top of his shades. “Convince you to waste your life playing robbers?”
A broad smile spread on Phil’s face. “You’re trying to flip me.”
“I’m trying to help you, same way you’re trying to help me. Do you want to do this the rest of your life, play beta to his alpha? Or maybe you want to find a nice girl,” she bucked her chin toward the café, “settle down…?
“I can help you get out. X is a mystery to us, but I’m sure you know that. Give me specs on his operations, I’ll make it so you don’t have to live always looking over your shoulder.”
He scratched the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. “Why wouldn’t I tell X about this offer?”
“For the same reason I won’t tell him about yours. You need a friend on the outside, I need one in.”
Phil’s face remained impassive, but the wheels were up there whirring. Kizzie smiled. “I guess you looking out for me means I have to forgive you for ogling the hot chick. So,” a dismissive wave, “slate’s wiped clean and we’re back on for the Maldives. Chocolate?” Phil opened his mouth and she popped a truffle in. “For the record, Duquesne won’t get any
where near me. I’m kinda good at what I do.”
“No doubt about it. But trust me, he’s better,” Phil assured around the mouthful of gooeyness. He swallowed and checked his watch. Looked out the window again and then leaned forward, hand on the key in the ignition. “I need to know, Kizzie. You staying or going?”
“Why’d you bring this up?”
“I told you. I believe in a level playing field and I don’t want you to get hurt. Your answer?”
“Going…obviously.” The bottom dropped out of her stomach and landed somewhere near her toes.
“You’re sure?” When she said nothing more, Phil pulled his hand from the key. He paused a moment, reached forward again and then, as though coming to some sort of final, internal decision, opened his door and stepped out of the car.
“Well, now, where are you going?”
“To talk to the model.” The door slammed behind him, closing in Kizzie’s incredulous “Cheater!” Phil stood stone still a moment, and then, with a curt about-face, strode toward the back of the car.
“The girl’s the other way…” Kizzie spun in her seat to track him through the rear window. Her heart rate kicked up a notch as he cleared the trunk, cleared the car parked behind them, moving purposefully up the street. Her gaze darted to her surroundings, searching the crevices of the darkening street.
A set up?
Liking Phil didn’t mean she trusted him. And all that stay or go business put her spidey-senses on high alert. Although, there were easier ways to kill an agent than flying her to Paris for a last hurrah.
She settled again on the café where a figure trailed behind the hostess. The pair zigzagged through the maze of tables and chairs and then stopped at the back booth. Kizzie snatched up the binoculars.
Tall, dark, ridiculously sexy.
Xander Duquesne.
The hostess gone, Xander dipped to kiss the “model” on one cheek and then the other, slid onto the padded bench she occupied. He extended his arm behind her and she snuggled under his wing.
