Black Ops 03 - Deadly Games (20 page)

“Look, sweetheart—”

“No, you look!” She stabbed her finger against his chest, then immediately withdrew her hand, horrified by her action. Her mother had done that to her father. “Oh, Rocco, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ve had a lot of stress lately and—”

She couldn’t say the words.
And I’m pregnant.

“
Everybody’s got a lot of stress, Gena. What concerns me is the way you internalize yours. You’re alone way too much. And don’t take this wrong, but a couple of times when I’ve called, well, I know you’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“Oh, gee, and when did you last call? All I’ve seen are e-mails.”

Rocco sighed and looked away. She caught a glimpse of how tired and stressed he was. Compared to his fate-of-the-free-world stuff, her stress factors were nothing.

“Quit,” she blurted. “Stay here. With me.”

“It’s not that simple. There are others counting on me. I can’t just quit.”

“You mean you won’t.” She held up a hand when he would have denied it. “I understand.”

“No. You don’t. And this isn’t one of those things we can iron out in an hour.” Rocco shook his head. “I probably shouldn’t have come here to begin with. This is just making things worse, isn’t it?”

No. Telling you I’m pregnant is going to make things worse.
Gena started to speak just as Rocco’s phone began to vibrate. He tugged it out and checked the display. “Crap.”

“Go ahead and take it.”

“It was a text. I have to go, sweetheart. I promise we’ll talk about this when I get back.”

“Talk sweet to their girlfriends while texting their whores.”

“
Do you even know when that will be?” Gena asked. “Another six or eight weeks, give or take a month? Just leave, Rocco. If I’m here when you get back—”

“If you’re here? Is that a threat? I thought we had an understanding.”

“I’m not sure I can abide by that understanding any longer.”

Rocco stiffened as if he were the injured party. “Fine. Do what you have to do. I’ll be in touch.”

Then he turned and stormed out the door.

Leaving Gena feeling more alone and lost than she’d ever felt in her life.

Monterrey, Mexico
October 5, 7:30 P.M.

Danger was the ultimate high.

And right now, Harry Gambrel was on top of the world. The literal top. Maintaining traction on such a slippery space would be tricky. Balance was crucial.

If he pulled this off he would win, big-time, on a number of levels, including putting Rocco Taylor in the ground. After Rocco had served his purpose, of course.

Failure would mean—

No.

He would not fail. There was too much at stake. Besides, like any good con man, he had more than one backup plan, just in case.

He signaled the pilot, Wally, to start his preflight check. Wally, an ex-patriot drug courier, believed that Harry worked undercover with the DEA. Wally also believed that his pending charges back in Arizona
would be erased in exchange for cooperating with Harry.

“You know how good it will be to go home and walk the streets as a free man? To not have to constantly look over my shoulder?” Wally had asked.

Yep. Harry knew exactly.

The scenario Harry had painted for Wally was simple. Harry was posing as a crooked banker, meeting with a money launderer and his wife. Wally’s job was simply transportation for hire. Get the three of them to Acapulco and forget he ever saw them.

And if things happened to go south before they left the airport, Wally was prepared to look the other way. “I still get my deal, even if you take this guy out, right?” Wally had asked.

Harry agreed. Anything to keep Wally relaxed for now.

As soon as they touched down in Acapulco, Ed-guardo and a couple buddies would surround the plane. Gena would be removed while Harry instructed Rocco on what was needed to secure her freedom: Rufin’s formula for SugarCane and another as yet unproven drug nicknamed JumpJuice. Wally’s death would be made to look like a drug deal gone bad.

Harry grinned. Yeah, Ian Brown had earned his Krugerrands today. First Ian had managed to intercept a communiqué between two of Minh Tran’s top aides. Tran had changed his game plan, demanding the formula for SugarCane in exchange for a
pregnant
Maddy Kohlmeyer.

Then in a stunning one-two follow-up, Ian had also detected Catalina Dion’s incursion into a low-security Agency database. It didn’t take much to figure out that she was doing so on Rocco’s behalf.

Rocco was apparently seeking help from an old INTERPOL connection. It had also been easy to learn what arrangements the connection had made for Rocco. Everything was for sale in Mexico. Loyalty was a commodity here. Bought and sold like pork bellies on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange.

Rocco had wanted an enforcer and a safe house, someone who worked freelance. A dependable, private mercenary who operated outside of INTERPOL to avoid the exact traceability problems Ian had exploited inside the CIA.

It had taken some serious cash, but Harry had learned who the enforcer was and intercepted him. Then Harry had assumed Clay Watkins’s identity and assignment. Clay had Rocco’s cell phone numbers, so they could speak directly. Using a nasal-pitched drawl to disguise his voice had become second nature for Harry, and Rocco showed no hesitation.

Taking Gena from Rocco here in Monterrey had been deemed too risky since Rocco’s INTERPOL connection was nearby. Better to get them in an environment Harry controlled.

The door to the hangar opened as Rocco and Gena entered, each carrying one bag. This was it. Harry peeled off his sunglasses and extended his hand confidently.

Harry had had a new face for long enough to know he looked unrecognizable. Chin implants, nose job, new cheeks. A little peroxide and colored contacts had him blond and blue-eyed.

Just like Rocco.
Better than Rocco.

“You must be Mr. and Mrs. Swanson. I’m Clay Watkins,” Harry said.

Rocco nodded, moving slightly closer to Gena,
who edged away. The hostility between these two was tangible even after all these years.

“This is my wife, Jill. I’m Mike.” Rocco shook hands after introducing Gena.

Don’t call her by her real name,
Harry reminded himself.

“The pilot says we should take off before that storm front moves in,” Harry said. “Let me stow your luggage.”

While Harry loaded their suitcases, Rocco helped Gena into the twin-engine Cessna. It seemed she couldn’t get away fast enough.

Then Rocco walked back to Harry. “You’re supposed to have something for me.”

Harry nodded and grabbed the holstered Beretta nine millimeter from the cargo hold. Rocco hadn’t risked crossing the border with a firearm and had asked that a piece be supplied.

Rocco had always hated Berettas, but Harry couldn’t let on that he knew. Rocco frowned at the nylon clip-on holster, but didn’t complain. Harry watched as Rocco slipped the gun’s magazine free and verified that it was fully loaded.

Harry held out two additional clips. “If you need more when we land, no problem.”

Rocco clipped the holster at his waist beneath his shirt and pocketed the extra magazines. “This will do for now.”

It would do fine until he tried to shoot someone, Harry thought. The bullets were blanks.

“Thanks,” Rocco said. “We’re ready to go.”

“I’ll tell the pilot.”

A few minutes later, the plane left the hangar and meandered through the maze of runways.

The Cessna’s four passenger seats faced each other. Harry sat directly across from Gena. Wouldn’t they both shit to know who he was?

Outside the small window lightning flashed on the horizon, which elicited a sharp intake of breath from Gena. Rocco took her hand. “We’ll be fine, Jill. Try closing your eyes and relaxing.”

“Jill” gritted her teeth and looked out the window instead.

Oh, yeah, this was going to be fun to watch. Harry sat back and flipped through a newspaper.

Clearly distracted, Gena continued gazing out the window. Harry wondered what Rocco thought of this Gena. Harry preferred the beauty queen Gena. The dependent Gena. Or his favorite, the guilt-ridden Gena who believed she needed to be punished.

Rocco, however, seemed more smitten than ever. The idiot had never gotten over her.

Rocco touched her knee, drawing her attention. “Headache still bothering you?” he asked.

“It’s tension.” Gena glanced apologetically at Harry as if just now realizing her behavior was less than cordial. No recognition flashed on her face. She truly believed she was speaking to Clay Watkins. “Small planes make me nervous,” she explained.

Harry shrugged. “You get used to it, ma’am.”

“We’ll be fine, sweetheart.” Rocco leaned close and pressed a kiss to her temple, the act of a caring husband.

Except Gena flinched again. Harry found tremendous satisfaction in knowing the two of them hadn’t gotten beyond their past obstacles. Obstacles Harry had gone to great length to craft.

“Here’s some water.” Rocco cracked open a bottle and handed it to her.

Gena looked at it, then at Rocco, and for a brief moment Harry saw a change in her expression. Harry recognized that look. She still wanted Rocco so bad she didn’t know what to do.

The satisfaction Harry had felt moments before morphed into a smoldering resentment.

It had never bothered Harry that Gena didn’t love him
until
he saw her weeping for Rocco. Falling-down drunk and begging Harry to call Rocco.

Oh how Harry wished Rocco could have seen
that
Gena.

Five Years Earlier
Washington, D.C.

Harry Gambrel tipped the cab driver an extra twenty for him to wait. “Just let me knock on the door, see if my friend answers. I’m really worried about her, you know? Besides, if she’s not here, I’ll need a ride back.”

And if she’d done something stupid he wanted a witness.

He knew things had been rocky between Gena Armstrong and Rocco Taylor. Hell, Harry had worked his ass off these last twelve months promoting that rift from behind the scenes. But her quitting her job had not been part of the plan. Neither was running back to Daddy.

Gena had already told Harry how her father had cut off her funds. She honestly had no clue about how to survive on less. Likewise, she was clueless that her father’s action was more than a bid to force her to return to Texas for what amounted to an arranged
marriage. Harry had done a little checking and found that Jefferson Armstrong had plundered Gena’s trust fund to cover gambling debts. Daddy’s issues were a lot bigger than he’d let on. She’d need to marry triplets to fix all of Jefferson’s problems.

Damn it, Harry had wanted Gena to run to
him.
He’d been grooming her bad habits for this very moment. So what had gone wrong? Had he underestimated her limits? Had those e-mails and photographs of Rocco pushed her over the edge?

Yes, Gena was young and naïve. Spoiled and gullible. But Harry hadn’t pegged her for the type who would commit suicide over a broken heart. However, the fact she wasn’t answering her phone while her car was parked in its assigned spot hinted at trouble.

Harry leaned on the doorbell as he knocked, pausing just a second before repeating. No answer. Should he go to the leasing office and flash his credentials to get a key? Or continue playing the worried-sick friend and let them check on her?

He heard a faint noise on the other side of the door and knocked again. “Hey, Gena. It’s me. Harry.”

“Go … away.” Her voice sounded slurred.

Ah-ha
. Gena had been lubricating her built-in self-destruct mechanism. How fortunate. Harry was Drunk Gena’s best friend forever.

He backed away just long enough to signal the cabbie to go on.

“You don’t sound good, honey. Are you sick? Do you need me to call an ambulance or the police?”

“No! Don’t call anyone!” she yelled. “I’m … I’m fine.”

“Come on, Gena. I’m not leaving. Friends look
out for friends, remember? God knows you’ve been there for me.”

When Harry had returned from the Mexican job and learned that Rocco Taylor was already screwing Gena, he’d been furious. Rocco had been so blasted sanctimonious, declaring Gena “off limits” during her brief appearance at that assignment. Rocco should have just called dibs like anyone else.

But instead of calling Rocco out over it, Harry had channeled that anger into something useful. Harry struck up a platonic friendship with Gena by pretending to have a girlfriend who lived overseas. Then he’d sought Gena’s advice whenever he and his girlfriend “fought.”

Once Gena felt safe with him, she began confiding some of her own dating woes. Like how Rocco was gone on assignments more and more frequently. She didn’t realize that as the senior agent, Harry had been able to manipulate schedules, especially where manpower was sorely needed, like in the Middle East.

The sound of the security chain being released had Harry shuffling closer. A moment later Gena opened the door. He was careful to hide his reaction to her appearance.
Going to the Monsters’ Ball, are we?

She looked frightening, like she hadn’t slept in days. She wore no make-up and her hair was wrecked, à la Rat’s Nest Barbie. The oversized men’s T-shirt— a castoff of Rocco’s, no doubt—looked sloppy with the plaid pajama bottoms she wore. Quite frankly, Harry wouldn’t have guessed the little beauty queen was capable of this.

“I went by your office to take you to lunch and was shocked to learn you’d resigned.” Harry reached out to steady her as he reassessed her condition. She
wasn’t drunk after all, but something else was damn sure wrong. “You sure you’re not sick?”

She nodded, then immediately started crying projectile tears.

Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steered her toward the sofa. Judging by the crumpled tissues overflowing the wastebasket, he guessed she’d been on the sofa all night. Her normally spotless apartment was trashed, a testament to her loss of maid service.