Wilderness of Mirrors (35 page)

“Poor thing indeed.”

The windows of the simple camp winked into sight. Tam’s bark sounded, muffling the sporadic yip of their puppy. Somewhere a big cat roared.

Sam cracked the door and whistled for her boys.

And Nigel followed, trading the darkness behind him for the light ahead.

An Excerpt

Smoke and Mirrors – A Spy Games Novel

(Romantic Espionage)

__________________________

An Excerpt

Something Wicked

(Paranormal/Time Travel/Suspense Romance)

AN EXCERPT FROM

Smoke and Mirrors

AVAILABLE SPRING/SUMMER 2012

“W
hat’s wrong?” I asked, my eyes panning every tiny, seemingly insignificant detail of the world around my dessert dish. The businessman cheating on his wife. The disgruntled waiter placing a used fork into the blond bitch’s Lobster Thermador. My partner adjusting his hostler so it wouldn’t be in view of the child to his left.

But it was none of these that cocked the intuitive part of my soul.

It was the salt. The harmless white substance before us, old as the earth. Reused as the fork with which the bitch was eating. Natural as my chemistry with Brad.

Brad, mobile still in hand, looked at me, his eyebrow raised ever-so-slightly, the way it did when I removed my shirt at unexpected moments.

What is it?
His eyes asked, but before I could answer, he turned away, finger in his outer ear to better hear our MI6 handler, Alasdair.

The Asset ordered a Margarita with extra-salt, but I couldn’t remember if he’d had any.

What would ‘they’ gain from poisoning Jones?

Brad turned, his mobile pressed to his ear, his fists together at the thumbs, pinkies extended downward. The Italian sign used to prevent bad luck. I smiled knowing Alasdair had been notified of our trade and would be sending the specially equipped van to pick up the dirty bomb. Everything was working.

Then I noticed something odd.

A sheen of sweat coated Brad’s tanned skin. Seductive in its ability to make his white shirt cling more tightly to the flesh beneath it, it nearly went unnoticed in its rarity. After all, it
was
bloody hot in the Sardinian courtyard. But Brad didn’t sweat. Hell, he’d stayed dry in the Colombian rainforests.

And then it began.

I spy with my little eye…

Mind whirling, bullets flying, blood everywhere. Asset down, but not hit. Eyes scanning, straining to find my partner.

Partner?
Soul recoiling at the inferior word choice.

Manolo Blahniks kicked off, I crossed the space between us, ducking the spray of non-committal ammunition, heading for a heart that needed to keep beating. For my sake, for
his
sake, I amended prayerfully.

My bared heel hit the linen draped table with vehemence, shielding the Asset for now and giving me unsanctioned moments to reach the prone figure of …

“Agent Milton, Bradley Milton.”

I had laughed when we were first introduced. Laughed unabashedly for the first time since the Year of the Pig, the year I was raped by a two-legged version of the same animal.

And yet…not
such
a bad year after all, for with one evil, came an unquestionable good.

He was on his back, blood from a bullet wound to his shoulder pooling in the hollow of his throat. “Brad?” My voice was thick with apprehension and adrenaline.

No response.

The Glock in my left hand scanned the shadowy undergrowth behind the whitewashed restaurant walls, punching off shots triangulated toward the sniper. Right hand inside the crimson stained size 17 ½ collar, I searched for a pulse. Fast and weak, but there.

Thank you, God.

A second table, this one pulled over our heads, shielded us first with the tablecloth, then with hard wood of some tropical variety. Shots screamed again, reminding me that sometimes we all miss. Reminding me that red sectors are red for a reason.

Look at him. Talk to him.

I apologized silently, not for forgetting, but for refusing. If I looked, I wouldn’t get back up and aid the Asset. If I looked, I’d never get out of the red sector, not alive anyway. I kissed my hand and covered Brad’s heart once, then released my grip and tensed to dive between the upturned tables.

Feeling like a rabbit, I decided Jones resembled one. Shaking with fear, nose wriggling at the acrid scent of the gunfight, he sat undignified in a Helmut Lang suit. I flashed him a grin, the one that passed me off as arm-candy, and joked as I fired back at the unseen enemy.

“I thought you said it was safe!” Fear laced his voice. Anger too.

“I was wrong.” I mimicked the rolling of our table toward the kitchen, and then, when he understood, we began progress toward better protection. Thirty seconds later, table shed, I covered Jones through the debris littered kitchen.

Two chefs hunched behind a stainless steel preparation station.
Nothing there
. We moved further through the red sector, each reflective surface leering potentially lethal faces. Quick checks said; ‘
Only you, only the Asset’.
Glock panning the room, I paused to nudge my retrieved earpiece in further. Cursing the improper fit, I heard the static coated voice of our Handler.

“…Gunfire heard. Agents Board and Game, do you copy?”

It had been a joke. Who would have believed that two such-named people would actually meet and work alongside one another? Meet and fall in love?

I, Parker Brothers, take thee, Bradley Milton, to be my partner, my best friend, my lover…

“Asset acquired, progressing through red sector without Agent Game. Medic needed ASAP, it’s a wet job.” Silence and a look of terror from Jones. Earpiece released, I grabbed his sweaty hand, ducked between the two commercial-sized Sub-Zeroes and threaded my way out through an employee locker room, a bathroom, and finally the coat closet.

“Are we safe?” he panted.

I considered the question.
You and I? Probably. As far as I can tell, the sniper is alone.

But was Brad safe? That question wasn’t being asked though, was it?

“For now.” My earpiece was broadcasting again.
Ambulance on way instead of recovery vehicle, Asset and cargo to be removed from red sector whatever the price.

Acknowledging the command, I ran through my options. Our driver could well be dead or the car tampered with. My fingers reached for the valet rack and I searched for something useful. Big and heavy, the Mercedes SL?

A Nazi Staff Car?
Brad’s sardonic words drifted around in my head.

Range Rover?

Awkward motherfucker.

All right, Brad. What about the Ferrari 512 TR?

Red?

Black
,
I recalled.

Take her.

Keys clenched, I donned a hat and we made our way through the chaotic dining room. With no reason left to play the frightened consort, I dragged Jones out into the open and hit the pavement at a sprint. Bullets sprayed again, making me reconsider my first count, but the doors to the car were already open courtesy of modern invention, and we made it safely inside.

I pushed Jones away from the window. “Stay down.” Key in, engine turned over, the wheels moved toward the exit, going from zero to sixty in…

“
4.7 seconds, but only if she’s a stick. If not, the owner’s a bloody fool. An automatic Ferrari is like a Barbie. False advertising, nothing under the hood.”

Three seconds later, the car zigzagged down the hairpin turns, picking up speed without losing cornering ability. A flash high on the ridge above us suggested a tail, so I dropped it a gear and took the insides of the corners praying no one else was heading up the mountain. Jones was swearing, pent up fear playing out in a stream of curses from which even Brad would learn.

Brad. Low cut flack jacket, customized for the open-necked Armani dress shirt, just too short for the slug that hit his clavicle and disappeared into the mass of muscle making up his right shoulder. Not a mortal wound that. Painful, long recovery, but not mortal. So why was he unconscious?

Head wound? No evidence, though I hadn’t seen the back of his head. Had it hit the concrete? I didn’t think so. Head wounds bleed a lot, enough to halo his dark hair.

Ricochet? Could the bullet have bounced off his collarbone into a vital organ?

“Fuck!” The ambulance I’d called for, was nearly on top of us before I managed to swerve around it. I glanced in the rearview mirror, satisfied that the driver wasn’t going to go off the road into the Mediterranean.

“What is it? Are they catching up?” This from the guy on the floor, the guy who bragged about being able to stand up against terrorists. Typical BFN.

British Foreign National. Bullshit. Big Fucking Nerd.

Too American, luv. More like Boasting Freelance Narcissist.

Tears burned behind my rimless Gucci’s, reminding me that the sun is bright, but a soul is far brighter.
His soul.
Not mine, mine is like an eclipsed moon, beginning to shine again after a period of darkness.

Suddenly another image replaced Brad’s face. A photograph of two men. Dealers, roughnecks, whatever. Them. The men posing as paramedics. I hit the brakes, yanked the wheel and left half an inch of the Pirelli P Zeroes on the ancient cobblestone street. The vehicle lived up to its reputation, and we were roaring back up the mountain after swiveling on the proverbial ‘Euro’.

“What the hell?” Jones yelled, lunging toward me with hitherto suppressed speed and rage. I pistol whipped him into la-la land.

Where else had I seen those men?

“Agent Board to base…”

Alasdair’s voice boomed through. “Go ahead.”

“There’s been a change of plan. I’m heading back for Agent Game, have medics standing by. The Asset’s a wooden nickel. Over.”

“Message received; only keep an eye on the suitcase, Agent Board.”

I climbed the mountain at increasingly dangerous speeds, pulling into the parking lot just as a gurney was being rolled out by the ‘paramedics’. I headed full throttle at the ambulance, scattering the growing crowd of diners. At the very last second, I spun the wheel, broadsiding the stolen vehicle and leaping from the smoking Ferrari.

The driver and bogus EMT drew guns from hidden holsters. I drilled them with 9 mm slugs. Quick and efficient, bloody and scream-inducing, they weren’t my first choice. But Brad was…

I was beside him in a moment, terrified at the pink hue his normally tanned face had taken on. A bell tolled in my mind and it woke the sleepy part of my memory. Page thirty-five of the Medical Reference Book I studied so many years ago.

“…often accompanied by the scent of bitter almonds, a pinkish-red colouring of the skin, shallow rapid heart beat, and labored breath. Cyanide poisoning can be treated with a variety of antidotes, however a mixture of sodium bicarbonate administered intravenously, coupled with an oxygen mask, has proven to be the most effective.”

My fingers felt his pulse as I listened to his labored breathing. Breath tainted with the scent of bitter almonds. Fast and light. Light and fast. His heart rhythm scared the hell out of me. Nearly panicking, I realized he’d ingested the cyanide salts meant for the BFN. He’d most likely licked his knuckles after bumping the salt.

I raced from Brad to the ambulance, where I located a syringe and a bottle labeled sodium bicarbonate.

Returning quickly, I yanked the wrapper off with my teeth and pulled up Brad’s sleeve. Sucking the liquid into the hypodermic needle, I pushed it into his hammering vein. Then I took his hand in mine and brought it to my lips. It was freezing. Corpse-like against my warm mouth. A moment later, he began convulsing, and my heart moved into overdrive.

“You!” I yelled to the man who was inspecting his ‘not so new’ Ferrari. “Get me the keys to the Rover. They’re on the hook in the coatroom.”

Glad he wasn’t going to lose his baby again, he made double time, returning with the keys and a newcomer who obviously didn’t want me to borrow his SUV. Unwilling to argue with either of them, I rapid fired orders along with my handcuffs. “Take that man out of the Ferrari and use these cuffs to secure him to the bar inside the front passenger seat, and make certain the briefcase stays with him. Then help me put my partner in the back.”

They did as I said, partly out of shock and partly because the semi-automatic in my hand was still waving in their direction. Ninety seconds later, they were at my side, straining under Brad’s dead weight. Two-hundred-ten pounds of dead weight, over the gravel, over the blood-spattered surface that reminded me of the ground at the Colosseum.

I eyed the spare room behind the back seats. “Do they fold down?”

The owner perked up, bizarrely animated as he explained the various configurations his vehicle could make. Silencing him with a murderous look, I followed his initial directions and rearranged the back to leave room for my partner.

Brad, shaking uncontrollably, was like a salmon in their arms. The rear gate closed on his crumpled 6’ 2 ” frame, and I was back in the driver’s seat, the dust behind us obscuring the men’s faces.

Descending once again, I scanned the mirrors, knowing Mr. Sniper hadn’t just gone home for the day. Puzzled by his disappearance, I calculated the distance he could have traveled on foot. Just as the figure popped into my harried mind, he was there, in front of the vehicle with an automatic rifle.

If the Rover had the package I thought it did, the tires wouldn’t pop, but I didn’t see any indication on the windscreen that it was bulletproof. Raising the Glock from its 10:00 position on the steering wheel, I pointed it at my wily friend.