Diamonds Are Truly Forever: An Agent Ex Novel 2 (12 page)

Drew frowned in thought. This must be related to the break-in attempt his boss, Harry, had mentioned earlier when Drew arrived for work. Drew didn’t believe in coincidence.

“That’s the life of running a microbrewery. People are always trying to break in and steal the beer and the gift shop receipts. A couple of guys tried last night.” Harry had frowned, as Drew was doing now.

Something obviously felt off to him.

“At the back entrance near the brewing room. Security scared them off. Looked like a couple of vagrants. We don’t get many of those in the valley. Probably nothing to worry about. Doubt they’ll be back.”

Unless they were really body-snatchers here to recover Martel before someone else found him.

Drew made a mental note to notify security and NCS. He wanted someone watching the building in case they tried again.

It was only by luck that Drew had discovered Martel just now. Taking a shortcut through the room, he’d walked by the stack of hops and noticed a faint bloodstain on the floor. Some of the bags sat askew. Investigating, he’d uncovered Martel, who’d been undercover as an assistant brew master.

Looks like it’s time for Hook House to get firmer about the rules—no guns allowed on premises. Maybe along with carding at the beginning of the tour, they should run guests through a metal detector and search for weapons.

“What are you doing south of your border, buddy?” Drew tilted his head as he whispered to the dead Claude.

At least the dreaded day job wasn’t as boring as he’d feared. On the other hand, finding a dead body was not a nice way to start his fake new career. If word of this murder got out, he’d be working overtime doing heavy PR and brand damage control.

As for his real job, the last thing he needed was to be associated with a murder. He didn’t want the scrutiny and the possibility of his cover being blown. Nor did he have time to be questioned by the police or show up at a trial.

Martel, whose identity Drew had verified via a fingerprint scan, was dressed in a Hook House polo shirt, and had two to the head, execution-style.

Assassins and snipers weren’t terribly creative. Two to the head was the most effective way to take someone down. No time for the victim to scream. But he didn’t like the similarity between Claude’s head and the two holes in the pantry door of Staci’s house.

Who had Martel rattled?

He suppressed a shudder, thinking of Sam and RIOT. Hook House was Sam’s favorite watering hole. In fact, Sam had been in for lunch earlier, around eleven. Drew had run into him in the café and shot the breeze for a minute or two. Unfortunately, Drew hadn’t had much time to chat. Not enough to mention he was back with Staci. But enough to gain some insight into Sam’s mood. Sam seemed both anxious and excited. Again, Drew didn’t believe in coincidence—Sam’s undercurrent of anxiety and the dead agent on the floor. Quite likely Sam knew something about Martel and his fate.

Drew glanced around the room, and quickly searched the body. He came up empty and cursed silently.

Not that Drew wasn’t saddened and angered by a fellow agent’s death. It’s just that this death handed him a whole host of new problems in one serving.

One, a dead body was bad for business.

Two, unlike lager, ale is brewed with heat. Which meant the brewing room was warm. Soon Claude’s body would begin to smell and overwhelm the pleasant aroma of barley and hops.

Three, at two
PM
, which was exactly five minutes away, the next tour of eager beer enthusiasts would come swarming in and peer through the second-story viewing windows above the brewery floor. The last thing either Hook House or Drew needed was for them to see Martel’s glassy-eyed and bloody body peeking out from the pile of hops behind the brewing tanks. It wasn’t Halloween, nor was this an episode of
CSI Seattle.

Drew had just seconds to decide on a course of action. It would be just his luck if the brew master stopped by today for his daily tasting before Drew took care of the body. Or the stand-up comedian tour guide on duty was running ahead of schedule.

There was only one thing to do—rebury Martel beneath the hops until he could get an NCS cleanup crew in to remove the body. He eyed the stacks of fifty-pound bags beside him and grimaced.

He hefted one of the bags he’d removed earlier and paused before he tossed it on Martel.

Sorry, buddy.

Later, his crew would give the body a thorough going-over before returning it to CSIS. It wasn’t the best plan he’d ever come up with, but on the fly on the first day of a new job, with the heady scent of beer in the air, it was the best he could do.

No doubt RIOT is responsible for Martel’s death.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t thought he’d be walking into a murderous mess
right
off the bat.

Two to the head.
It was the most effective way of shutting a man up. But it wasn’t pretty to look at.

The room was clean, the kettles gleaming and sterile. The efficient hum of machinery and the bottling machine in the next room filled the air as Drew hoisted the bag of hops onto Martel.

And wouldn’t you know it? Just at that moment his cell phone jangled over the white-noise buzz of the brewery, playing the distinctive ring he’d set up for Staci’s calls. Pointing a figurative arrow to Drew and his furtive body stashing. At least she was still alive, unless this was RIOT calling on her phone to extract a ransom.

He picked up immediately, putting the call through on his Bluetooth. “Hey. Everything okay?”

“I had the most horrendous lunch with my mother, no thanks to you.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Lunch with your mother?” he whispered, huffing as he covered poor Claude with another bag of hops. “But you’re back safe and sound at the town house, right?”

No reply at all.

“Stace?” He dumped another bag on Claude and reached for another, imagining the worst.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean,
not exactly
? You either are or you aren’t. I told you to go straight home. That was the plan. You agreed.” Damn, he did not need her running around off plan in the open, playing target for SMASH. “Where are you?”

“The grocery store. I need to pick up a few things then I’ll head straight back to the condo. Promise. What can possibly happen at the grocery store?”

Plenty.

“Where are you?” Staci whispered back, mercifully picking up on his need for secrecy. “Why are you whispering? I can barely hear you. Please, please don’t tell me you’re someplace you shouldn’t be.”

“No, I’m not someplace I shouldn’t be. You are.” He dumped yet another bag of hops on Claude. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Why did it have to be so hot in the brewing room?

He went for another bag, feeling like a contestant on a game show.

How many fifty-pound bags can you stack on a dead body while placating your wife on the phone? Get ten on the dead guy in a minute and win a million dollars!

“Why don’t I believe you? Do you have your gun on you? I hope you have your gun on you,” she said, sounding way too much like a mother hen. He could hear the frown in her voice.

“Yeah, I have it. Look—”

“You’re huffing and puffing. Why are you huffing and puffing?” She paused. The silence was ominous.

“I’m at the gym.”

“You are not at the gym,” she said.

“How do
you
know?”

“It doesn’t sound like the gym. And if you
were
at the gym, you’d speak up, not whisper.”

She was smarter than he gave her credit for.

“Okay, you caught me. I’m having a nooner with a hooker.”

“Drew! That’s not funny and it isn’t noon. Do you want to try a third lie?”

“I’ll stick with two. Here’s the truth—I’m having a sack race.”

The woman drove him crazy! If she’d just followed orders …

He grabbed another sack and glanced at his watch. He had to work faster if he was going to get Claude’s hop burial mound finished and get out before being caught.

She didn’t reply. “I don’t even know how to respond to that,” she said, finally. “But if it’s a joke, you’re losing your edge.”

He was not. It was pretty damn funny if you knew the truth.

“Stace, in and out at the grocery store—no lingering, no loitering, no shopping until you drop. Get your groceries. Get out and make sure no one is tailing you on the way home. If they are, use what I taught you about losing a tail.”

“Fine, sure, whatever,” she said. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

“Back at you. This isn’t a game, Stace.”

“I know.”

The line went dead.

He dumped a sack of hops on the faint bloodstain Claude had left behind and wiped his dripping forehead with his arm.

He just hoped those particular bags of hops never made it into the wort to be made into beer. As brand manager of Hook House Ale, he’d have to make sure they didn’t. Bloody Ale didn’t seem like the best direction to take the brand.

A few more bags and Claude was completely buried. Drew was drenched in sweat.
Never let them see you sweat
took on a whole new meaning.

“Rest in peace, buddy,” Drew whispered just as he caught a flash of motion in the overhead viewing windows. He dropped to a crouch and went over his options.

There was only one way out. He decided to take it boldly, hoping no one who’d recognize him would see him. Hoping no one would see him at all. He turned his back to the viewing window and strode out as fast as he could without breaking into a run. Then he texted Emmett.

*   *   *

That’s what I get for accidentally marrying a spy,
Staci thought. A normal husband would have asked about her lunch and sympathized with her over the travails of dealing with her mother. Would have at least let her spill a
few
of the dreary details.

Instead of scaring her and making her afraid to go into the grocery store. The grocery store, of all places! The worst danger she faced there was boredom while she waited in the checkout line and scanned the tabloids. She had no use for them. They never told the truth.

A regular husband wouldn’t have left her creeped out and fearful, looking over her own shoulder, and wondering what exactly he was up to and how dangerous it was. Would Drew be home for dinner tonight? Or end up on a slab at the coroner’s office for her to identify? Or would she be the one on the slab?

Oh, hang it all! She was going into that store and buying something for dinner. The question was—what?

Friday night was traditionally their going-out-to-eat evening. Of course she’d
love
to go out to dinner. With Mandy, not Drew. She craved a good chat with her best friend and wanted her advice and perspective. As a spy’s widow, Mandy was full of valuable insight and knew how to sympathize. But under the current circumstances, the odds of Drew allowing that were exactly none.

And she was not going out as a couple, to be seen in public. In their hometown. And not just because of the sniper who’d shot at her yesterday. The very thought of bullets whizzing by her head, missing by inches, gave her a major shudder. And yet the idea of her mother finding out about her “reconciliation” with Drew from someone else scared her nearly as much. She already had Sam to worry about.

Sam!
She grabbed her phone and texted him, begging him to keep his silence a little longer, saying she hadn’t found the right opportunity at lunch to tell her mom.

Staci blew out a breath. At least what she told Sam wasn’t a lie. Now for dinner. What to make?

She surfed the Food Network site on her phone, looking for a good, quick recipe. Moments later, recipe selected, she opened her car door and slid out.

Oh, good, there’s a Redbox out front.
She’d just load up on a few dozen movies on her way out and not have to talk to Drew at all after dinner. They could watch everything on that gigantic TV eyesore he’d bought with their money. She might as well get
some
pleasure out of it.

Wouldn’t it be nice if Redbox carried
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
?

She locked her car with a click of her key. She was just about to toss her keys into her purse when she caught a glimpse of the six-inch-long Kubotan on her key ring.

Danger lurks everywhere,
she thought again, remembering Drew’s constant warnings. She shrugged. Until she was certain Drew had gotten his man, she may as well have some protection handy. Not that it would stop a speeding bullet or that she thought she’d need it in the produce aisle.

Inside the store, she grabbed a cart and wheeled down the baking aisle, shopping with her keys and Kubotan in her hand.

At midafternoon, the store was sparsely populated with shoppers, mostly over the age of eighty. And half of those rode motorized scooter carts.