by Sable Jordan
“I won’t risk an op based on ‘feeling,’ Baldwin, or on some random kid. I need hard evidence—”
“If you could afford to spend another two years tracking the Galletties, you wouldn’t have sent me in. The photo is a viable option, so you find out about that kid,” she said, just enough of a threat lacing her tone. “Next. I need a full work-up on a POI.”
“Persons of Interest I can do. Got a name?”
In spite of knowing he couldn’t see her, she shook her head. “Just pictures. I already sent them to you.”
“K.A.s?”
Her head swiveled toward where the K.A. was busy getting squeaky clean beneath a hot stream of water. Kizzie recalled the snapshots she’d sent Fletcher—pictures she’d deliberately and meticulously cropped Xander out of.
“No…No known associates… That liquid tracer I used on Galletti. Say I needed to use it but do the monitoring myself, off the radar, is it possible?”
“Who you tracking?”
“Hypothetically, Fletch.”
“Sure. I’ll hypothetically send you an encrypted satellite link. You can do it off radar from your cell phone…hypothetically, of course.”
Kizzie hummed thoughtfully. “Next. Sent you photos of a Jane Doe. Need her specs yesterday. The pics need cleaning.”
Fletcher’s voice hardened. “I’m not some glorified tech guy. What’s this about?”
“Harvey.” Another strangled groan came from the other end.
They’d done this cha-cha a couple times over the last five months, and Fletcher always danced off beat. Kizzie didn’t tell him all the details and he didn’t ask. Fletcher understood there were things a field agent did that skirted protocol. Jet setting with a criminal would probably fall under that category. Still, he was convinced there was no such thing as a manufactured salted bomb. Which meant she had to convince him.
“There’s no chatter on this H.R.V, Kiz—”
“We’re conversing right now, ergo, chatter. That’s basic math, Fletch.” She ignored his curses. “What have you found on Ohayashi?”
Three decades ago, a Japanese engineer named Hiro Ohayashi created a special version of the plastic explosive RDX for everyone’s favorite Russian arms dealer, Nikolay Sokoviev. Nikolay’s heathen spawn, Sacha, had tried to kill Kizzie in his Dungeon in Helsinki—a trip Kizzie had only embarked on because she believed Sacha had the nuke.
At the time it was believed that Sacha was Nikolay’s only child, but after doing some digging, Kizzie learned Ohayashi had given birth to a daughter. The baby girl—who was possibly Nikolay’s—now a woman Kizzie believed to be The Mistress. But that was speculation. All traces of Hiro Ohayashi vanished once she’d left Japan.
Kizzie, Xander and Phil were now operating on the notion that The Mistress had Harvey, which meant they needed to locate Sumi, the woman’s submissive. And since Sumi had a hand in her near-death in Helsinki, Kizzie couldn’t wait for the reunion.
Fletcher cut into Kizzie’s mental game of connect the crazy before she could figure out where Kevin Bacon factored in.
“Ohayashi is the Smith of Japanese surnames, Baldwin.”
“So whip out the phone book.”
“Explain why you’re not sending this through Connolly,” Fletcher said sharply.
“If Bill catches wind of this, if anyone catches wind of this, I’ll forget you’re a friend and come pay you a visit,” Kizzie replied with enough sugar in her voice to cause a stomachache. “Then we can have this chit-chat face to face.” She didn’t have the patience for this, not that she ever had patience for much. “Get me what I need to do my job.”
She killed the connection before Fletch could argue. If tomorrow’s trip to the tattoo parlor didn’t pan out, the dead girl would be the only solid link they had, and even that was flimsy. Sleep. Handle it in the morning.
Kizzie reached for the light switch just as Xander exited the bathroom, clothes neatly folded in one hand, towel slung low on his hips. The tidy bundle went on top of his open bag—white Egyptian cotton dropped to the floor. He strode toward the bed.
Stark naked.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Far too late, Kizzie held up both hands to stop him. Her gaze traveled over defined pecs and abs, continued south and then slowed to a stop at her destination. Vacationed longer than she planned. Found a seat at the poolside bar… Ordered a drink with a little umbrella in it… Asked the bartender for another round….
She closed her eyes—forever burning that image in her head. “And where the hell are your pants?”
Xander covered his mouth when he yawned. “S’this a job interview? I’m going to sleep. Don’t need pants to sleep.” He pulled back the covers and fell into bed; leaned over and doused the lights.
They came on again via the switch on Kizzie’s side. She hopped up, full-on Jason Bourne. “You’re not sleeping in my bed, Xander.”
“I know,” he mumbled through another yawn, “I’m sleeping in my bed. You’re in my room.” He adjusted his head on the pillow.
Kizzie’s mouth flew open to protest and then snapped shut. She crossed her arms over the hardened stubs of her nipples and rocked her weight onto her back leg, forcing herself to stay focused on his face and not think about everything under the covers. ‘Like a freakin’ moose!’ popped into her head and she rolled her eyes. “Nooo…”
“Yeeesss,” Xander returned, deep voice rising at the end the way hers had. “This one’s mine, the other’s Phil’s and there’s not a third. Accommodations are Phil’s department. Got a problem, talk to him.” He rolled onto his side to face her, tucked a hand under his pillow. “Could you turn the light off? I have a headache.”
Her head cocked to the side. “That’s my line.” He breathed a laugh through his nose, eyes sliding closed. They pinched at the corners, and a slight crease wrinkled his forehead. His breathing came out unevenly. She shouldn’t care. She wouldn’t care. “What’s with the headache?”
Xander forced his lids up again. “Need sleep and haven’t been getting it. So…” A tired arm lifted, motioned toward the offending fixture.
There was something so damn sexy about this man’s sleepy voice. Rich and rough and raspy. It slithered over her and returned her thoughts to everything under the covers. Heavy-lidded chocolate eyes bored into hers. Her throat went dry. Kizzie searched hard for a smart remark but they’d all fled. “Why didn’t you sleep on the plane?”
“The most beautiful, most stubborn woman I’ve ever met was sprawled on my couch and I didn’t have the heart to wake her. Lights.”
“Do...” Kizzie trailed off, passing a hand over her damp hair. “Can I get you anything? Aspirin? Tylenol?”
The Xander smile—that slow, seductive little grin—made an appearance. “Only one cure for headaches. Works like a dream but I need a partner. You in?”
“Are you ever not thinking about sex?” The silence went too long and she threw her hands up in exasperation. “Pick a pill, Xander.”
“Just need to sleep.”
She slammed her hands on her hips. “Well, go sleep on the couch or with Phil.”
“You can go sleep on the couch—do not go sleep with Phil. I’m already comfy.” He snuggled down a bit to punctuate the point and yawned again. “How’d you know neither girl was Sumi?”
“Ah-ankles,” she stuttered, never quite prepared for his abrupt shifts in conversation. “Sumi has ropes tattooed around her ankles. They didn’t.”
“You’re good with details.” Xander’s eyes closed, voice fading as though losing the battle with sleep.
Minutes passed in awkward silence. Well, awkward for Kizzie, who still stood in a tank and panties fighting back a chill. “Duquesne?”
“Hm?”
“Speaking of details,” Kizzie shifted from one foot to the other, “there seems to be one teeeeeeny tiny detail you’ve forgotten, slick. You’re married.”
“As you keep reminding me,” he grumbled. “And how would that make me less tired?
In fact, were I, wouldn’t that make me more tired?” He chuckled at his joke. “Come to bed. I trust you to keep your hands off my irresistible body.”
Tempting as that was, she stayed put. If she were married—not that she’d ever make that mistake—and found out her husband was off sleeping naked with some chick at a hotel in Tokyo, Kizzie would feel absolutely horrible about it.
Right after hiding his body…
And the woman’s…
And the shovel.
He opened his eyes, fixed her with a no-nonsense look that sent an icy shiver down her spine. “Turn. Off. The light.” She promptly flipped the switch and then resumed her post at the side of the bed, standing sentinel in the dark. “Thank you.”
The lump on the mattress shifted.
She was freezing. And sleepy. There were easily a dozen different arrangements she’d endured that were far worse than sharing a bed with one sexy Xander Duquesne….
A sexy, naked Xander Duquesne…
A sexy, naked, married Xander Duquesne.
Couch.
Kizzie slipped her hand under the pillow and removed her gun. With just the sliver of light coming through the split in the curtains, she navigated to the closet and pulled out the spare blanket and pillow. Then she made her way to the couch in the common area, tossed the throw pillows to the floor. Her hand dove between the cushions for the strap. Nothing. Not a sleeper sofa. Didn’t even convert into a futon. Awesome.
A few adjustments later, Kizzie stretched out on the comforter and stared up at the ceiling, hands folded over her middle. Her legs propped up on the arm of the short furniture—either that or her head would have to be—her ass became the Titanic, slowly sinking between the two thin cushions. She rolled her head on the pillow and shifted her shoulders.
Twenty minutes passed. Her left leg and ass cheek were numb. She bent her knees and they popped, applauding her stupidity. Ten minutes later the feeling in her back started to go. Perfectly good bed with a naked man in it and she’d opted for the couch?
The mental deliberation went for another quarter hour before Kizzie tossed off the cover and spun her feet to the floor. Once her legs were functional, she reclaimed her pistol and silently padded to her side of the bed. Xander faced her, eyes closed, breathing evenly. Good, he was aslee—
“Didn’t work out, huh?” He pulled back the covers for her, humor in his groggy voice.
“It’d fit perfectly in a Barbie dream house.” She cut her eyes at him as she climbed into bed and eased her weapon back into place. “And I’m too sleepy to argue with you.”
“You’d dry-swallow No-Doze to stay awake and argue with me, baby girl.”
Kizzie slid into the cold spot she’d vacated, twisted onto her side and extended her legs to the max, pointing and flexing her feet. “Tomorrow you sleep in Phil’s room. With or without pants—your call, I won’t judge. Stay on your side.”
Xander snuggled right behind her, draping the comforter over her shoulder and then his arm over her belly, solid chest cozy against her back. “We’re all gonna call you Stumpy come morning. Move that arm.”
He kissed the back of her head.
“My Beretta’s under my pillow.”
“And there’s a SIG under mine. Anybody comes in here uninvited is gonna catch hell…. Now that we’re clear neither of us is going to kill the other,” he gave her a squeeze, “sleep.”
Kizzie grunted low in her throat. She hadn’t shared a bed with a man in a long, long time. Not for just sleeping anyway. This whole experience was unnerving.
Hyper-aware of his heavy arm over her, she lay so rigid her jaw ached and her neck cramped.
“Hair smells nice,” Xander murmured. “Glad you didn’t cut it.”
Hopefully he thought she was snoozing and not grinning like an idiot the way she was now. His breathing leveled off, and eventually Kizzie’s slowed to match it. Inch by inch her body relaxed, sagging into his warmth.
“And your ass looks amazing in the red ones.”
She jammed her elbow into his abs and he flinched. “Get off me.”
Chuckling, Xander whispered, “Sweet dreams, Princess.” Another tight squeeze and he rolled away.
His absence left her cold, and curling into the heavy blankets didn’t chase the chill. A block of ice, Kizzie grit her teeth and forced herself into a fitful sleep.
July 29th
Langley, VA
The kid wasn’t his problem.
Staff Operations Officer Douglas “Fletch” Fletcher swallowed a mouthful of the swamp water his office called coffee and chucked the Galletti folder onto a growing pile. Why was Kizzie so adamant about following up on the kid? It was just a picture in a cell phone and most likely unrelated. Her involvement in the case yielded the desired results, tagging Sanzio in order to reach his brother and his brother’s contacts, but she’d jumped the gun on the timing. No matter. It went down as a successful operation, and Fletcher’s concern was results. However, using Connolly’s best came with a steep price as Kizzie seemed to believe she now had a personal errand-boy in SOO Fletch.
Everything nuclear-related came in from the usual offenders—Iran, North Korea. Chatter in Pakistan and India, but the Agency took the necessary measures to flush those out. Otherwise, “Ten o’clock and all’s well.” But, in addition to this kid, she kept going on about HRV, a theoretical nuclear device America had never built.
Would never build.
Nuclear disarmament: the current administration’s rally cry. So to think some other country built a bomb America hadn’t was absurd.
Of course, he still checked into it. Fletch didn’t believe her, but he wasn’t crazy enough to ignore it completely. He’d found nothing, had told Kizzie as much several times now. So why was she still hung up on it?
And why wasn’t she telling Connolly?
Fletch logged onto his computer and pulled up one set of the images she’d sent. Definitely a dead girl. Definitely needed cleaning. He could get an intern on it, but he didn’t want to risk word getting out that an agent was flying solo unlicensed; or that he knew about it. And he didn’t want Kizzie paying him a visit unless it involved irreverent jokes and inhaling shooters at Gasser’s bar. Damn, that was years ago… Where had the time gone?
The photos went through one program to enhance resolution, and a second for facial identification. He let it run in the background and opened a program to do another data mining for any word on Harvey, using a couple tags to hone in on his target.
Two sharp raps on his door preceded its opening. A strawberry blonde head popped in, snapping Fletcher’s gaze up. “Got a minute?”
Fletch motioned toward the seat on the other side of his desk. Agent Rachel Hayford’s non-descript office attire—black skirt/jacket combo and white blouse—barely creased as she settled onto the wooden seat.
She dropped a sheaf of papers onto the tabletop. “The Ellerson report you requested,” laid a second set on top of it, “and the follow up on Sanzio Galletti. No new Intel on Ellerson; Galletti still has the cell phone. Tracers are working just fine and he’s remained in Belém. No contact with his brother yet, however...” She flipped to a section of the report where two photographs had been paper-clipped to the page and tapped a French-tipped nail on the sheet. “These are numbers two and three, Dougie.”
His brow lifted.
“Sir,” she amended quickly, spinning the page for him to have a look. Two more kids, boys, around the same age as the first one they had a picture of.
“What am I supposed to get from this, Agent Hayford?”
The creamy skin of her forehead wrinkled and she leaned forward in the chair. “Something’s not right here. These aren’t his kids… They’re not nephews or the children of family friends, as far as we can tell, and they’re not—”
“Our problem,” he said. “Our purpose is to track Sanzio to Abrahan, and Abrahan to the big fish. So unless he’s using the kids as mules to shuttle info to his brother, we don’t even th
ink about risking the op on some juju feeling you have.” She drew back, violet-blue eyes widened a hair. “Drop the kids and stay on task, Hayford.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, she nodded once and then left without closing his door. The measured click of her pumps echoed as she moved down the hall.
Fletch picked up a nearby pencil, flipped it around his thumb twice; dragged the palm of his other hand over his mouth. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. He’d make it up to Rachel later, but someone had to rein in these tangents everyone suddenly seemed so ready to jump on. The mission was the important part. Collateral damage couldn’t be helped.
The pencil rolled from his thumb to his index finger, passed between index and middle, making the circuit over and over again. A beep drew Fletch’s attention to the computer screen—the dead girl wasn’t in the primary database. He could run it through another, see if it brought up a hit. Then there was the POI Kizzie requested…
Fletch huffed. This was why agents had controllers. Kizzie was all over the place and dragging him along for the ride.
Before he could finish the mental scolding, a second beep brought up preliminary results for the data sweep on Harvey. This was new. One Harvey Fischbach recently updated his social networking status. The 15-year-old thought Atomic Dog was, quote, “bomb.” 127 of his 450-odd friends “Liked” it. George Clinton would be proud.
The pencil stopped its dance.
Fletch snapped it in half, slamming the split wood onto the table with a grunt. The dead girl wasn’t the priority, Harvey was a ghost, and Agent Baldwin was wasting his goddamned time.
He shoved the useless Galletti papers aside and opened the Ellerson report. There was real work to do. Friend or not, whatever unofficial business Kizzie was involved in, she’d have to deal with it, officially, on her own.
