Licensed To Thrill

by Gemma Brocato

  “Wrong, Solo. You’re our best agent, and we believe Baxter will make a fine operative with the right tutelage. Even better if he’ll consent to being turned. You’ll be working with Baxter for the foreseeable future.”

  “Not bloody likely. I’d be a frightful mentor. You know my tendency to go off the reservation.”

  Had T already forgotten the reason for my recent suspension? Doubtful, since I’d deliberately ignored my assigned mission, opting instead to take down a sex-slave trafficking ring that was kidnapping young women and spiriting them away from Eastern Europe. I’d been told not to get involved, to stay focused. But when a niggling sense of decency had clutched my heart, I’d followed the stupid organ. What kind of mentor would I be if I intentionally disobeyed directives sent down from headquarters?

  T cleared her throat. “We were hoping, Mr. Tamsyn…uh, Duet, might be a calming influence on your need to be spontaneous.”

  “Duet? Really? Is that code name meant to be a jab or a reminder? This isn’t going to work, T.”

  “We believe the moniker is appropriate. And the situation will work. You’ll be an exceptional mentor.” Leaving me fuming, T rose and glided across the room. She beckoned Baxter into the inner sanctum.

  He tripped on the thick Aubusson rug, saving himself from a fall by bracing a hand on the back of my chair. My teeth would have clacked together if my jaw hadn’t been clenched so tight.

  “Oopsies,” he muttered. God in heaven, they’d given me a child to work with. Baxtard, as I decided to call him, stuck his hand in my face. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Succumbing to my bitchy instincts, I ignored it until he finally curled his fingers and shoved his fist into his pocket. Returning his self-deprecating half-smile with a glare, I said nothing. The first opportunity I had, I’d be ditching him. Partners and I didn’t mix.

  “Have a seat, Duet.” T settled behind her desk and distributed two plain brown file folders, marked Eyes Only in stark black-stenciled letters.

  Like a kid at Christmas, Baxtard seized one and immediately unwound the waxed brown string sealing it shut, sure he was opening the Holy Grail of toys. Amateur. I left mine where it lay and leaned back in the chair, elbows propped on the leather arms, fingertips pressed together under my chin.

  “What do you know about Rapa Nui?” T asked.

  I didn’t answer right away, combing my memory for the details of the name.

  “You might know it as Easter Island,” Duet offered helpfully, not taking his eyes from the papers on his lap.

  “Seriously? I know that, Duet.” Give me strength. “Rapa Nui. The indigenous name for Easter Island and the name of its native people. Sparsely populated, mostly deforested. Three distinct volcanoes. It lies at the southeastern-most point of the Polynesian Triangle in Oceania. Home to the moai, monoliths made of stone. A World Heritage Site.” I hit Duet with a take-that look. I folded my hands in my lap, my fingers woven tightly together. Blast it all, the petty action made me feel mean and ridiculous. But it only took me a second to squash that emotion. “The nearest populated land is Pitcairn Island, some twelve hundred klicks away, and the ancestral home to the Bounty mutineers.” I lifted the dossier from the desk, but still didn’t withdraw the contents.

  T’s lips thinned. “Yes, well, recently Rapa Nui landed on the VIS radar thanks to satellite images of a building project. Most of the land is considered a park and protected by UNESCO. We noted increased activity near Rano Raraku.”

  “Why would someone want to build near a volcano?” I crossed one leg over the other and nonchalantly kicked my leopard print Louboutin-clad foot.

  “Unclear. But subsurface imaging shows a vast network of steam, lava, and some manmade vents in the area. And curiously, they all seem to lead toward a mammoth cavern buried about eight hundred meters below the surface. It appears several of the steam vents have been rerouted in the direction of this central core.”

  “A half-mile underground? That would take some major engineering and a hell of a long time to accomplish. And VIS is involved how?”

  Eagerness to learn more climbed my spine like a monkey on a tree. I toyed with the flap of my dossier, suddenly gagging to get to the contents.

  “There’s a report from the small territorial hospital that several individuals were admitted with severe burns,” Duet read. The papers in his hand shook. “Despite the burns, cause of death appears to be asphyxiation. Jeez-oh-Pete, will you look how red this guy’s face is? Why does he look so ripe?”

  My gaze tracked to the photo Baxtard waved in front of my face. I gripped his wrist, holding him still to get a better look. His pulse raced under my fingertips. Good, I made him nervous. That’d make ditching him a breeze.

  The picture was of a guy whose face resembled a cherry tomato. “Are they leaning toward cyanide poisoning as a cause of death?” I asked. That would explain the florid cheek color and purple lips.

  T drummed her fingers on the desktop. “These individuals would have needed to be exposed for a very long time and exhibiting symptoms for that level of contamination. Anecdotal evidence implies they were all normal prior to reporting to work for their shifts the day of the incident. We suspect the construction project is recent, so the timing doesn’t gel on that theory.” T rocked back in her throne-like chair. “The other option is that it’s due to some catastrophic event, and they were exposed to a massive amount of the poison. None of the individuals admitted to the hospital survived. Their bodies were claimed by the staff of Dr. Viktor Koszlov.”

  Duet shot straight up in his seat. “The Russian oligarch and notorious chemist?”

  My gut clenched in a painful knot. Koszlov had been in the VIS’s sights for at least a quarter century. I’d been hunting him since the moment I’d escaped from his torturous clutches twenty-five years ago. My chest tightened. Still I tamped down the sixth sense that told me this time we’d catch the rat bastard. He’d had his fingers in many, many illegal pies for the past three decades. But he was more slippery than a slug fresh out of the rain. And twice as disgusting.

  “So what’s the plan?” The trainee’s voice drew me out of my musings. I finally opened the envelope and spilled the confidential information into my lap. Koszlov’s image scowled off the page at me. I recalled the last time I’d seen him as his prisoner. I stole a look at T’s face, but her deadpan expression hid whatever recollections she had about that event.

  I refocused on the mission folder. Included with the normal briefing paperwork and dossiers were two plane tickets. One for me, the other for Baxter Tamsyn. I tossed one of the tickets on the desk. “This isn’t happening. This is fieldwork…not suitable for green agents. Koszlov is two hundred percent evil. He enjoys torture like a heroin addict enjoys the rush of the drug through their veins.”

  Torture at the madman’s hands was something I had firsthand experience with. The long jagged scar on my abdomen twinged uncomfortably at the mere mention of Koszlov’s name. As discreetly as I could, I rubbed the sensation away.

  Twenty years ago, I’d been his guest in a secret Stalingrad prison. I’d almost succumbed to the brutal abuse the megalomaniac had dished out. And I’d been a vampire for eighty years at the time. Even with my superior strength and tolerance, it hadn’t been easy to escape. Two younger vamps on the mission, one who was special to T, hadn’t made it. I still awoke in a cold sweat some nights, reliving the creative and savage treatment we’d all received at his hands. An unfortunate side effect of trying to hold on to my human moral compass.

  “Tamsyn will be accompanying you on this mission, Bond.” T pushed the ticket back across the desk with a steely glare. “And that’s final.”

  Might be final, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t look for the first opportunity to toss him like a rocket salad. With a swish of my hand, I sent the ticket careening over the smooth surface to land squarely in Baxtard’s lap.

  “You’d better keep up, sonny. I don’t have time to babysit you.” I shoved to my feet and scoop
ed all the papers into the envelope. “We’re leaving at oh-dark-thirty tomorrow. I’ll see you at Heathrow.”

  Spinning on my stiletto, I strode for the door.

  “Bond?” T called, command deepening her normal alto tones.

  I stopped, hand on the knob, ready to flounce out like a debutante at her come-out ball.

  “Rein in your natural tendency to go off the books. You’re to survey the lay of the land, determine if Koszlov is plotting to conquer the world, and teach Duet the finer points of fieldwork. Remember he’s an agent, not a lackey. We’re counting on you.”

  With a roll of my eyes and brisk nod, I did indeed flounce out the door.

  An hour later, Penn joined me at a scheduled briefing with Drax Quinn, the VIS’s tech mastermind and a vamp as old as T. He was a whiz at creating innovative ways to blow shit up. My fangs elongated, and I all but drooled as he laid out his latest gizmos for inspection. I stroked reverent fingers along the VIS insignia laser-engraved on the barrel of the modified Walther PPK. The weapon featured a rosewood grip, shiny silver hardware, and a laser sight fitted with GPS. It was also perfectly balanced for my hand. I went a little damp between my legs.

  Drax snapped his fingers. “Pay attention, Jayne.” He explained how to set the coordinates on the sight, enabling deadly accuracy at maximum distance.

  “And this little beauty is an oxygen re-breather cleverly designed as a rather elegant necklace.”

  “I don’t wear jewelry.”

  Drax snorted as he draped it around my neck. “You’ll want to wear this. If we’re dealing with potassium cyanide, even your undead condition might not save your cute vampire ass.”

  Penn tsked his tongue against his teeth. “Drax, according to the employee handbook, that comment could be construed as sexual harassment.”

  “I like that he thinks my ass is cute,” I protested.

  Sometimes, I longed for the days when no one was politically correct, and if they liked you, they made very sure you were aware of it. But like the rest of the world, I’d evolved. Unless it was consensual and among peers and not superior-subordinate, I believed sex in the workplace was a no-go.

  Penn handed over a wooden box. “These are for Baxter. His re-breather and a compass built into a key fob.”

  “To keep him from getting lost?”

  “You understand T knows you’ll do your best to aid him in getting lost, right? She’ll be most displeased with that eventuality. Steps have been taken.” The light dancing in Penn’s warm blue eyes lessened his scowl.

  Drax fiddled with a vaccine gun, flicking his finger against the barrel and reading the blinking diode indicator. “Roll up your sleeve and give me your arm, Solo.”

  I arched a brow. “Drax, isn’t it overkill to vaccinate the undead?” Regardless, I rolled up the silky fabric of my left sleeve and returned my attention to Penn. “What kind of steps?”

  “It’s important that Baxter remain with you and receive the proper training, Jayne. What T didn’t tell you is he is the director’s nephew.”

  “What? He isn’t a vampire.” The fellow was as human as they come. I would never have guessed he came from vampire stock.

  Drax wrapped his fist around my wrist, pulling my arm forward. He pressed the vaccinator to my forearm and pulled the trigger.

  The needle in my flesh hurt like a bitch. “Ouch!”

  “Really? That little bee sting deserves an ‘ouch’? For fuck’s sake, Jayne. You’ve suffered worse pain.”

  I pouted. “But I didn’t expect it. I wasn’t prepared.”

  Penn chuckled at my petulant tone then sobered. “Baxter’s mother is an American vamp, and her sister is married to the director. But his father is a member of the Queen’s guard and completely mortal. He wanted Bax to have the choice to be made or live as a human. So far, he’s picked human.”

  A choice? I’d been offered no such luxury.

  Right after World War I, I’d been strolling through Hyde Park late one evening with a Naval Intelligence co-worker whose name I no longer remembered. A pair of hungry vampires from the Imperial German Army ambushed us, killing my companion, but they kept me alive, their goal to turn me into a double agent. So began my transformation to a creature of the night. Not that sunlight was actually a deterrent to my mobility. The myth that we couldn’t walk in the daylight was made up to comfort little children. My sires taught me everything I needed to know about being a vampire. And I’d gobbled their instructions and their abuse, absorbing each trick and tactic like a dry sponge with the tide rolling in. The ones who’d turned me were still surprised when I took that hard-earned knowledge and used it to end their existence.

  A hot minute after dispatching them, I gave into my patriotic side and joined the Office of Strategic Services, which had since evolved to the VIS.

  Drax hummed as he tapped his keyboard. “There we go. Standby.”

  “Standby? Why?”

  Holding my gaze, he struck the return key. The machine chirped, and an instant later, heat flared under my skin, right where he’d vaccinated me.

  “What the flipping hell have you done?” I’d always hated the word incredulity because I loathed surprises, but that was exactly what had happened here.

  “Tracking device.” He gripped my wrist again and examined the injection site. A soft glow showed eerily under my flesh like a flashlight under a fingertip.

  I curled a protective hand around my forearm and glared at Monay. “Penn? Was this your blasted idea?”

  “Direct orders from T. Now, with the key fob, Baxter will be able to locate you. The tracker will also transmit a non-discernable signal back here. You’re on the radar, Jayne. So do behave.”

  2

  Mission Day 1

  Pitcairn Island

  Darling, where are you? The text from Lucien diAvola, my demon with benefits, was unexpected and a rare good surprise.

  His message sent a sizzle of need down my spine, landing squarely in my lady parts. Not that I’d be able to hook up with him with a trainee practically attached to my hip.

  Frustrated, I tapped a reply. On assignment.

  Humidity wreaked havoc on my hair, curling the straightened length into a brunette nimbus. I darted a gaze around the baggage claim area, checking for hostiles and looking for one human ball and chain as I quickly plaited the heavy brown locks into a tidy braid.

  Baxtard hadn’t arrived in baggage claim yet. My last glimpse of him was when he’d boarded the flight in London. Too bad he hadn’t breezed through the security checkpoint with the same ease as I did. The fledgling’s level of clearance wasn’t the same as mine, and the checkpoint agents detained him thanks to the weapon he’d strapped in his shoulder holster. What a wanker. I could’ve rescued him with just one word. But this was the mentor program. He’d never learn if I saved his ass, right?

  After I’d cleared the checkpoint, I’d shouldered my Gucci handbag and wiggled my fingers at him, resisting the urge to shoot him a two-fingered salute. Baxtard’s mouth opened and shut like a fish on dry land. I’d made my way to the gate where I upgraded my coach ticket. In this age of economizing, even the VIS was attempting to cut expenses like a bad slasher film. Each time they sent me on a mission, I bought up to first class at my own expense. The guppy could decide for himself if he wanted to bear the cost for improved comfort and service.

  Waiting now at baggage claim, my phone vibrated once more.

  Lucien again. Pity.

  I didn’t reply. When I worked a covert operation, I’d trained myself to ignore all personal aspects of my life.

  “There you are.” Baxtard’s voice raked my senses. “Thought I’d lost you.”

  Ah, dare to dream. “You’ll need to get better at planning ahead. Drax could’ve arranged a higher security clearance for you if you’d asked.”

  “Hmm, Solo. Imagine how much easier my life would be if you shared information ahead of time, instead of waiting until after the fact.”

  The youngster showed
some gumption. Surprisingly, he promptly ignored me in favor of reading his own text messages.

  I tried to read sideways, to see who’d claimed his attention, but he angled the device, obscuring the words.

  An unexpected knock of guilt rattled through me. I squashed it like a penny in one of those coin-smashing machines at Blackpool. “You really should work on thinking on the fly, Duet. You’ll never be a superspy if you don’t.”

  The conveyor belt lurched to life, and luggage tumbled onto the shiny metal carrier.

  “I assume you’ve arranged transportation to the hotel. Is it too much to ask if I can ride along?”

  I cut him a derisive smile. “Of course, you can. I might be a vampire, but I’m not a total monster.”

  He had the nerve to look skeptical. “I’ve heard that about you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve just heard you have a soft spot for humans.”

  I struggled to keep my tone professional. “Well, I was one once. Why wouldn’t I still feel affection for them?”

  “I understand upper management frowns on vam”—he lowered his voice—“uh, people like you clinging to your humanity.”

  A low growl built in my throat. According to T and the Director, the best agents were those who’d outgrown the last shreds of their soul, the things that connected them to mortals. I’d had to have been a hermit living under a rock to have missed rumors of new agents who’d gone insane because of their desire to cling to their essence. The agency didn’t lock those vamps up and hope they got better. They put them down. I faced the same fate if anyone ever learned I was hanging onto my humanity by my fingernails.

  I’d thought I’d hidden my efforts well enough, but perhaps not. “Why do you think I resisted working with you, Tamsyn? You’re human. I wouldn’t save you if you were on fire.”

  His mouth flopped open and he balked.

  I pressed a fingertip to his lips, then tucked it under his chin and shut his mouth for him. “Not another word, human.” My tone could have frozen ice.