On The Rocks (8 page)

Awesome little pep talk.
So
didn’t
help.

Still feeling like a fraud, still totally
unprepared for what might be waiting for her on the far side of the
big rectangular cyclops, she patted the top of her head. The
sunglasses she’d tucked up there when she’d come in were still in
place. She pulled them down. At least the near-opaque aviators
would mask the anxiety in her violet-blue eyes. They also made her
look the part of ultra-confident, newly appointed senior Staff
Operations Officer. Well, at least they had when she’d tried them
out in the mirror this morning— while doing
Charlie’s Angels
poses. ‘Cause if you’re gonna be a fraud, be the best damn fraud
that ever did fake it.

Smith and Wesson in her unsteady grip, she
inched forward in a crouch. From her low position, she peeked
around the jamb and counted heads. Three people total: one white
male, gray hair, legs planted wide and hands on his hips, standing
about ten feet from where Rachel played voyeur. Farther away was
another male, ethnicity uncertain as his back was to her, though
white or Hispanic if she had to guess by the thick dark hair. By
his build, he was much younger than the first guy. He hunched over,
hands braced on the arm of the couch, caging the jean-clad thighs
of the young black woman perched there.

Rachel’s brows knit. Two males one female.
All three fitting the descripts Dougie— rather, SOO Fletch… er…
former
SOO Fletcher had left for her. This was the team
she’d come to meet.

So who fired the shot?

And who was the target?

Only one way to find out.

Legs jiggly as lime Jell-o, she struggled to
regain her height. Once vertical, Rachel swallowed her nerves,
rounded the jamb, and held the gun high in a classic Weaver stance—
arms out straight, one shoulder angled toward the targets.

“H-hands!” She cleared her throat to hide
that wobble in her voice.

The male closest to her twisted his head in
her direction and groaned. “Great. A witness to this dysfunction.”
A little louder, “Children, behave. We have company.” He motioned
to her with a flick of his wrist. “You can holster your weapon,
agent.”

Rachel stood her ground. “Want to tell me
who fired that shot?”

The man in the back angled his head over his
shoulder slowly. He eyed her half a beat, then turned back to the
woman. Something was said that didn’t carry, and then he stepped
away, facing Rachel fully. It was then she saw the gun in the
woman’s expert grip, the barrel end tracking the man as he
moved.

Okay, one question answered.

The man shrugged out of his jacket and
tossed it onto the couch.

Rachel kept her weapon trained downrange.
“Anyone injured?”

“You don’t redirect that muzzle, there’s
gonna be a fatality,” the woman said, her voice all saccharine over
glass shards.

“Came close to death a minute ago.”

“Good thing you ducked, then. All that red
would’ve really messed up the bleach-white motif we’ve got goin’ on
in here.” The woman cocked her head. “Now check that muzzle before
mine finds a new target. Crystal?”

“Holster your weapon, agent,” the older man
snapped.

Was he talking to her? Yeah, that wasn’t an
option.

Rachel shook her head. “I’ll need to see
some IDs first.”

That directive was met with a round of
chuckles from the younger man and the woman.

Right. According to Fletcher, the people in
Bill Connolly’s Covert Response Unit —aka The Crew— might carry
government issued identification. Whether or not the name matched
the face, or if the name and face matched the country, was a
different story.

Tension coiled in the back of her neck. The
bag draped over her shoulder felt like a lead brick and her arms
started to shake from the strain of holding the gun. It was so much
easier to maintain a shooter’s stance on the range. Paper targets
had no faces. Didn’t shoot back, either, did they? And the
protective headphones really did a bang-up job of muffling the
retort.

In real time, with her ears ringing and
adrenaline and emotions and a near-death experience tucked in her
front pocket like a polka-dot hanky, aiming felt like
bench-pressing an elephant with just her pinky toes.

Pushing through the burn, she lifted her
arms a little higher, tried to relax her shoulders.

“Okay, I’ll settle for a roll call then,”
Rachel said, recovering. She bucked her chin. “And after Miss
Congeniality over there puts her piece away, mine will follow.”

“Agent,” the older man coaxed softly, “we’re
all on the same side here.” He flashed an easy smile that made him
look like everybody’s favorite grandpa. In his crisp buttoned-down
shirt and steel gray slacks, he was all set for a family portrait
followed by sweet tea and a rousing round of bingo. His cane, and
hair, and soft, watery eyes were out of place in this underground
facility.

“I’m not so sure we
are
on the same
side. I was just shot at by a member of your team.”

“No you weren’t.”

Three brisk words and grandpa was gone. A
hardened agent filled his loafers, and he took two deliberate steps
toward her, mouth in a sneer. Then his voice went positively
arctic.

“You look like the by-the-book type, so let
me dissuade you of that notion quickly before it ends up in an
‘unofficial’ official report. See, had you been shot
at
by a
member of my team, you’d be dead. You’re what, five-six? Buck
thirty, buck thirty-five?—” a dismissive snort— “We’d have you
bagged and buried between South and East Nonations by now.”

Every hair on Rachel’s body stood at
attention. She shifted her gaze a millimeter, locating the younger
man in the back. Though he wasn’t close, she could see his face was
a blank, giving away nothing and all the more evil for it. He
tipped his head to one side, slowly rocked his head to the other;
casually shook the small bag he held in his hand. Zero vacancies in
that double holster strapped beneath his armpits added to his
menace. A not so subtle reminder that some of the folks on the
CIA’s payroll did things that weren’t above-board.

And she’d just walked in on three of
them.

“‘That’s how a conspiracy works,” a softer
voice chimed in, affecting a raspy, Tennessee accent. Brow knit,
Rachel flicked her gaze to the woman on the couch. “‘Dem boys on
the grassy knoll…”

Rachel picked up on the quote. Who knew
watching
Shooter
over and over with Fletcher would finally
come in handy?

Were they playing with her?

“Alas, you’re still topside and breathing,”
the old man stated. “Not a strawberry blond hair is out of sorts,
is it? So you weren’t shot at by a member of my team, were you? No,
what happened, agent, is you almost walked in front of the door a
member of my team shot at. Understand the distinction.”

It sounded like a question, but the threat
wasn’t buried deep enough to have been so innocuous. His gaze bored
a hole through her Ray Bans, giving her the notion he saw right
through the capable and confident SOO act.

Definitely not a haze the rookie moment. No,
this was his team putting her on notice. She might run the mission
as far as Langley was concerned, but she wasn’t in control by any
stretch of the imagination. Either she got on board with that
or—

‘Or’ wasn’t an option.

Without her consent, her head bobbed. Then
the man’s eyes softened, and his voice lowered so that only she
could hear.

“I understand you’re new at this, Hayford,
and you’ve got big shoes to fill. So I’ll give you a tip: don’t
ever draw down on any member of my team. Of all the agents I
handle, one of the two in this room happens to be the sanest in the
bunch.” He bucked his head. “And she just put a slug in that
door.”

Rachel swallowed hard. She wasn’t quite sure
if his words scared her more, or if her fear stemmed from the slow
smile that spread his wrinkled lips. Given his earlier threat, this
almost gentle warning was… unsettling. No idea if he was friend or
foe, and the uncertainty made her stomach knot. How did Fletch work
with these people? And why were they employed by the CIA in the
first place?

He nodded once, and then stepped back. When
he spoke again, his voice carried. “Your shooter in back is—”

“Gracie Lou Freebush,” the woman called out.
With her gun-free hand she pointed back to the man Rachel had
deduced was Bill Connolly. “That’s Victor Melling. Now who are
you?”

Rachel blinked. “Sam Fuller.”

Well, what do you know? That got half a grin
back and a look that said she appreciated Rachel’s understanding
the reference. Maybe a touch of respect? Hmm… Better not push
it.

Eyes still on ‘Gracie’ —who she pegged to be
Kizzie Baldwin— Rachel tipped her head toward the man leaning
against the wall near the couch. He had to be Lennox Tate. He was
the only one in the bunch that Fletcher didn’t have much info on,
not that he had much info on any of them. But he’d made it clear in
his notes Tate was the wild card.

“Makes him Eric Matthews, right?” she asked,
keeping the gag going.

Kizzie chuffed a laugh through her nose. “Oh
yeah. Ego’s like
this big
—” she spread her arms wide—
“Equipment…?” Without finishing the joke, her gun found Lennox
again, automatic as the needle of a compass finding true north.

What had the guy done to get on Kizzie’s bad
side?

Then again, on the first Galletti op
Fletcher mentioned Kizzie could be both charming and ruthless in
the same heartbeat.

“Now that we’re all acquainted,” Bill said,
“holster your weapon, Agent Hayford.”

“There’s still the matter of the Beretta,
Gracie.”

“What, this little thing?” Kizzie eyed
Lennox pointedly, then looked at Rachel once more. “It’s the only
known treatment for Eric’s terminal stupidity.”

This time, Rachel did laugh, and Kizzie
smirked.

“After you, Sam.”

Rachel lowered the gun slowly and tucked it
beneath the flap of her messenger bag. And, whaddaya know, her
shoulders instantly felt better.

When her hands came out empty, Kizzie
followed suit. Except her weapon didn’t go in a bag or a holster.
Nope, she rested it on her thighs, muzzle still pointed in Tate’s
direction, left palm gripping the stock and trigger finger at the
ready.

All righty then. Looked like somebody could
strangle a grudge…

And Rachel certainly wasn’t about to press
the issue. No sense getting on the crazy lady’s bad side.

“We’re already behind, Hayford.” Bill
motioned behind her and then headed for the table in the center of
the room.

Turning to shut the door, Rachel couldn’t
help but search out the bullet hole that would have marked the end
of her life. Or the actual bullet, as it were. The thick metal had
stopped the projectile before it punched all the way through. The
spent round was now a disfigured blob that marred the continuous
length of shiny grey. It was also a good two feet higher than her
head, and to the upper right. Damn near in the corner.

Unless Rachel suddenly had a growth spurt
that made her Kareem Abdul Jabaar, there wasn’t a chance in hell
that bullet would have hit her. From the ground, with her brain
haywire and her heart thumping hard enough to crack ribs, she would
have sworn the hole was center mass. She glanced over her
shoulder.

Kizzie was staring right at her. She lifted
a hand and waved, a grin playing at the edges of her mouth.

And
she
was the sane one?

On a deep breath, Rachel pushed the door
closed. As she locked herself in with the three craziest agents
she’d met in all her time with the Agency, she muttered not a
prayer but an oath: “Damn you, Dougie.”

3

Bruges, Belgium

AT A TABLE in a bar on the Grote Markt,
Phillip Marchande glanced at his watch with all the calm of a
father waiting for his daughter half an hour past curfew on prom
night.

The plate of
frites
had gone cold,
the near-empty bottle of Zot was warm, and inside he could give the
sun a run for its money in the flaming hot department.

The cobblestoned plaza beyond the window was
awash in tourists. A couple strolled hand in hand, chatting and
laughing as they made their way to the queue for a horse-drawn
carriage ride. In the distance, hordes of people lined up to hike
the steps of Belfort Tower. Three hundred and sixty-six narrow
footholds to the top, nearly as steep as the eight-euro price tag
the grueling climb cost.

But the view of the city from that height
made the extra effort worth it.

Two kids —a boy and a girl— paused just on
the other side of the glass, pulling piping hot
frites
from
the paper cone in the boy’s grip. The girl blew on her fry, and
carefully nipped off the top corner. But her friend shoved that
deep-fried potato into his mouth whole and got to chewing. Then his
fry-hole popped open and he frantically fanned at his tongue.

The first lesson should have been enough,
but no, another steaming potato slice disappeared past his lips.
Jazz-hands quickly followed.

The little guy could learn a thing or two
about patience. And Phil could teach him. Because while the world
rushed by on the other side of this window, he’d been sitting in
the same spot for two hours.

Two. Hours.

Perfect target had anyone been looking to
take him out, and Lord knew he and Xander had enough enemies for
that to be a genuine concern.

He swallowed down some tepid beer and ground
his teeth.

Zlata was late. Which made him late. Phil
should have been in Paris by now, not that he should have come to
Bruges in the first place, but he didn’t really have a choice in
the matter, did he? Like Xander, the girl… young woman they’d
rescued from Sacha Sokoviev’s dysfunction dungeon was his charge.
He was duty-bound to check in on her when he got a chance.