Navy SEAL to Die For (12 page)

She nodded and slipped into his arms.

Being a ladies’ man came in handy. Among the women he’d dated had been one who’d taught ballroom dance lessons. The band happened to be playing a waltz. Skillfully guiding his partner out onto the dance floor, Quentin was surprised to find that Becca could hold her own.

Blending in with the other dancers on the floor was easier than he’d anticipated, especially with Becca. “Where did you learn to dance so well?”

She glanced up at him, the chandeliers sparkling in her eyes. Then she looked away, her lips dipping downward. “My father.”

His heart squeezed in his chest at the shadow crossing her face at the mention of her father. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No. Don’t be. I’m still trying to come to grips with his death.” She smiled briefly. “When my mother died, my big, bad CIA father was determined to be everything to me. He saw to it that I went to dance lessons, even going to ballroom dance lessons with me. Living in the DC area, a lot of young women in the private school I attended were trained at a young age.”

“Debutantes?”

“Yeah. I was okay at dancing, but they made it beautiful. I preferred going to the rifle range with my father, or playing basketball in the driveway.”

“You play basketball?” Quentin grinned. She never ceased to amaze him.

“I might be too short to play professionally, but I can shoot some serious hoop.” She blinked back a tear. “My father never ‘let’ me win. I had to earn it.”

“Smart man. Not only are you beautiful, you’re tough.”

“He wasn’t really happy when I told him I wanted to join the FBI.”

“Why not the CIA and follow in the old man’s footsteps?”

“He was working his way up in the ranks. I didn’t want to be a conflict of interest for him. Besides, I wanted to make it on my own. Then I met Royce and found a different calling.” She glanced around. “I’ve been watching the waitstaff. So far I haven’t seen Ivan.”

“What about Melton?”

“No. I haven’t seen him, either.”

Quentin waltzed her to the edge of the dance floor. “Let’s mingle.”

“Perhaps we should split up and meet at the dessert bar in the far corner.” She nodded toward a corner of the room where the hotel staff was busy restocking the desserts, plates and cutlery.

Quentin didn’t want to leave Becca’s side, but knew they could cover more ground going different directions. “See you in a few.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “Thank you for the dance.”

She dipped her head. “My pleasure.” Becca turned away and weaved through the throng, making a wide sweep to the right.

Quentin headed to the left, stopping to say hello or shake hands with people along the way as though he belonged there. If they only knew he didn’t, and that he was more at home in camouflage, knee-deep in swamp water than rubbing elbows with the rich and politically powerful.

“Darling.” A hand descended on his arm, claw-like fingernails digging into his tuxedo. “Be a dear and fetch me a bourbon and coke from the bar. The night is young and I’m parched.” The woman didn’t release him to do her bidding; instead, her eyes narrowed as she raked him from head to toe. “Did the AC quit working, or did I bump into the hottest young man in the room?” She fanned herself. “Pardon my manners. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Victoria. Victoria Francis.”

Quentin took the woman’s extended hand, gave it a brief shake and let go. Her last name rang a bell in his memory, but he couldn’t place it right away. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh, please. Ma’am makes me sound so, so...” She reached out as a waiter passed with a tray of champagne and snagged two flutes, nearly toppling the rest of the glasses full of the sparkling liquid. “Old.” She handed a glass to Quentin. “And who might you be?” She leaned close. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around.”

“Quentin Lovett, ma’am.”

She laughed out loud. “Lovett. That’s perfectly marvelous.” Victoria raised her glass. “Here’s to living the dream.”

Out of politeness, Quentin raised his glass to hers.

She tapped hers against his so hard he thought for certain it would break. By some miracle it remained intact and he touched it to his lips and pretended to take a drink. Although he didn’t. He hated champagne, preferring a good beer with the guys.

His gaze shifted to where Becca stood talking with an older gentleman Quentin recognized from the pictures Geek had shown them earlier. Becca had found Oscar Melton. He’d give anything to be a fly on the wall, listening in on their conversation.

“Who’s the bombshell?” Victoria asked, her gaze following Quentin’s to Becca. “I used to look like that. But then that’s what happens when you get older. Beauty fades and so does love.”

Quentin tore his gaze from Becca, afraid he’d missed something the woman said. “Ma’am.”

“Let’s toast to love,” she said and raised her glass so fast, the remaining liquid sloshed over the edge. “I mean that’s what life is all about, isn’t it?
L
-
O
-
V
-
E
.”

A man arrived next to the woman and seized the glass out of her hand before she could drink to her toast. A waiter passed by with an empty tray and the man dropped the glass on the tray. “Ah, Victoria, are you monopolizing this young man’s attention?”

“No, darling, I was flirting with him.” She straightened, shaking off the man’s hand. “Killjoy,” she muttered. Then she raised a hand toward him. “Let me introduce you to the man who stole my heart and made all my dreams come true.” She emitted a derisive snort. “Mr. John Francis. And this is Quincy Lover.”

Quentin didn’t bother to correct her. The woman had obviously had too much to drink. From the way her husband was corralling her, it wasn’t her first time with public intoxication.

“Pardon my wife. She’s high-strung.” John Francis nodded absently toward Quentin and then escorted his wife to the exit.

Quentin figured
high-strung
was code for
a deeply unhappy alcoholic
. He continued around the room, studying guests and waitstaff, searching for Ivan and anyone else who appeared nefarious. Although what that looked like, he hadn’t a clue. Once he spotted Kat circulating through with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. At the far side of the room Sam Russell’s head stuck out over many of the others. He worked the floor, carrying a tray of champagne glasses with a little less confidence than the other waiters.

Quentin searched again for Becca. His pulse kicked up a notch when he couldn’t find her. He waded through the crowd toward the last spot he’d seen her. When he reached it he spun in a circle. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find her.

Although he and Becca had been on the hunt for the past twenty-four hours, he hadn’t forgotten that she’d been the target of multiple attempts on her life.

Kat stepped up to him. “Care for an hors d’oeuvres, sir?” Then in a low whisper, she added, “What’s wrong?”

“Becca. I can’t find her.”

Chapter Twelve

Becca had been making her way through the crowd, glancing across at Quentin every chance she got, when a man touched her elbow, bringing her to a halt.

“Becca Smith? Is that you?”

She turned to face a man with a shock of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “Mr. Melton. It’s so good to see you.”

He took her hands in his and pulled her into a hug. “I didn’t get the chance to talk with you at the memorial service for your father. I’m so sorry for your loss.” He shook his head. “For our loss. Your father was a good man, always doing the right thing.”

“Sometimes the right thing makes people mad.”

Oscar stared into her eyes. “Your father didn’t let that stop him, or slow him down.”

“Mr. Melton—”

“Oh, please, Becca. We’re old friends. Call me Oscar.”

“Oscar.” She leaned close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What was my father working on that was so dangerous someone felt the need to kill him? And what did it have to do with Rand Houston?”

Oscar’s gaze darted to either side. “Becca...” He looked around again. “Come with me.” He grabbed her hand and led her to the side of the room, ducking behind a large decorative palm in a huge urn. “There are things you don’t know. Things I can’t tell you.”

“Why? Are you the one trying to keep it secret? Are you the one hiring hit men to kill anyone who knows about it?”

“No, Becca. I would never have hurt your father.”

“What about Senator Houston?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I understand he was on vacation in Cancun and died of a heart attack.”

Becca shook her head. “You know he didn’t die of a heart attack. A mercenary was hired to kill him. You, of all people, should know the truth.”

Oscar Melton stared into her eyes for a long moment and then bowed his head. “What do you know so far?”

“A paid assassin killed my father. I followed him to Cancun to find out who paid him. He tried to kill Senator Houston’s son and managed to kill Senator Houston. I fly back to the States and the plane I’m in is shot down out of the sky. You tell me who’s doing this.” She shook with fury, her eyes filling with tears. “You and my father were friends. What happened?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can you tell me about the large sums of money moving in and out of your bank account?” Her lips pulled back into a tight line. “Can you tell me someone isn’t paying you to keep others quiet?”

“What money?” Oscar pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit the screen several times. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Becca leaned over his arm and stared down at the bank application he’d brought up on his phone. The man stared at the screen, his face blanching. “I don’t know where that money came from.”

“No? Well, it went to a man named Ivan, a Russian immigrant who brokered the deal with the mercenary who killed my father.”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, standing it on end. “I have to go.”

Becca grabbed his coat sleeve. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t. I have to go.” He pushed past Becca and waded into the crowd.

Becca followed, determined to get the answers she’d come for.

Oscar was halfway across the floor before she spotted him again. He was talking with a man Becca knew as John Francis, the second in command at the CIA. She’d seen his face in the news several times and his portrait hung in the halls of the CIA building. The two men had their heads together, talking fast, their bodies tense, their brows pulled into deep frowns.

John stepped away, grabbed a woman Becca had seen earlier talking to Quentin and ushered her toward the door.

Oscar stood in the middle of the floor for a moment as though he wasn’t sure what to do next. Then he turned and headed for the exit. A waiter blocked his path, carrying a tray filled with glasses of champagne.

It took a full second for recognition to dawn on Becca. “Ivan.” She started forward, her mouth opened to warn Oscar. Before she could shout or scream, the Russian seemed to stumble, falling against Oscar, and the tray he’d been carrying slipped from his hand, the champagne flutes filled with liquid crashing to the floor and scattering shards of glass in all directions.

Women screamed and leaped out of the way of the mess.

Ivan pretended to duck down to collect the tray, but pushed through the crowd empty-handed. No one noticed but Becca.

“Stop that man!” She screamed over the shouts and cacophony of noise from the guests and the band still blasting ’40s music through the room.

All attention was on the mess on the floor. No one noticed the man running for the exit. Becca started after him. But as she passed close to Oscar, she noticed he stood still in the middle of the melee, his eyes wide, his hand pressed to his belly, where blood trickled through his fingers.

“Becca,” a familiar voice called out.

“Quentin?” She glanced across several people at the man who made her blood sing. “It was Ivan. He ran that way!” She pointed toward the man in the waiter’s uniform, shoving people out of his way as he ran for a doorway leading to the exit.

“Will you be all right?” Quentin called out.

Becca nodded. “Hurry! Don’t let him get away.”

Quentin ran after Ivan. Sam joined Quentin as they neared the exit. Between the two of them, Becca hoped they’d catch the Russian terrorist. In the meantime, she had to get help for Oscar.

“Someone call 911,” she said loud enough to be heard over the shouts and screams.

Becca caught Oscar’s arm as he swayed. “Oscar. What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He lifted his hand and stared at the blood. “I think I’ve been stabbed.” Then he crumpled against Becca.

A woman screamed and fainted. Others cried out, turned and ran for the exit. Chaos reigned.

The man was too heavy for Becca to hold upright. She went down with him, falling into the broken glass and spilled champagne.

* * *

Q
UENTIN
BURST
THROUGH
the doors of the hotel. The security guards standing outside lunged for him, tackling him to the ground.

“I’m not the bad guy. A waiter ran out this way.” Quentin struggled, jabbing an elbow into one guard’s gut. He swung his fist, hitting the other in the nose. Two more guards grabbed him, pulling his arms up behind him.

Sam shot through the door behind Quentin, dodged the guards and ran out into the street, chasing after Ivan, who’d already made it to the corner.

Not wanting to hurt the guards, Quentin didn’t fight as hard as he could have. But, damn it, Ivan was getting away. In one final surge, he rammed into a guard, taking him to the ground. The men let go of him, he rolled to his feet and came up running.

“Stop, or we’ll shoot!” the man called out.

“I’m a navy SEAL. If you shoot, you’ll be damaging government property,” he called out over his shoulder, refusing to stop. They had to catch Ivan. The man was too dangerous to be let go.

As Quentin reached the corner, he heard the sound of gunfire. He ducked, thinking one of the security guards had followed through on his threat to shoot. But he felt no pain and kept going, rounding the corner at a full sprint.

Sam Russell knelt, pressed against the side of the building. “Get back!” he yelled. “Someone is firing from one of the rooms above.”

Quentin flattened himself against the side of the building and took in the situation. A body lay in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Is that Ivan?” Quentin asked.

“Yeah.”

Footsteps pounded on the sidewalk behind him and the four guards who had been at the front of the hotel came sliding to a halt, guns drawn.

One shouted, “Drop, or I’ll shoot!”

“We’re unarmed!” Quentin called out. “But someone inside the hotel is shooting.”

The guards didn’t budge from their position. All four had their weapons drawn. Sirens sounded nearby, getting louder.

“Get down on the ground!” the lead guard yelled.

Quentin didn’t have time to fool with the man, but he didn’t want to get shot. “Let us come back your way before we get down.” He started to slide along the wall. Sam followed suit.

They’d only gone four feet each when the guard got nervous. “I said get down on the ground.”

Quentin dropped to his belly, lying as close to the hotel wall as he could get. Shots were fired from above, the sound echoing off the brick walls of the buildings around them.

The guards fired at Quentin and Sam, bullets ricocheting off the sidewalks.

“We’re unarmed!” Quentin shouted, his arms over his head, praying the guards would stop firing. “The shots were fired from up in the hotel!”

“Cease fire!” the lead guard cried.

The sirens blared, but no more shots were fired in the street where Quentin lay. “Sam?”

“I’m okay,” he said.

“Okay, you two, ease this way slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.” A flashlight beam pierced the shadows at the base of the building.

Great. Now the shooter will be able to get a bead on us.
Quentin got up on his hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the building where he stood, raising his hands above his head. “You’re stopping the wrong people. Someone up in the hotel fired on us. Whoever it was hit the guy lying in the middle of the sidewalk. He might still be alive.”

The guard pulled a hand-held radio from a clip on his shoulder and spoke into it, “Check for a gunman on the upper floors. Secure the guests, but don’t let anyone leave the building.”

“Look, my date is inside the ballroom. I need to see if she’s okay.”

“What were you doing out here to begin with?”

“That man lying in the street stabbed CIA employee Oscar Melton. We were trying to stop him.”

The guard nodded. “Right.” He waved a hand at two men who worked their way down the sidewalk, hugging the wall until they were abreast of the body on the ground. One of them crossed to the man and pressed his fingers to the base of his throat. He glanced up. “This guy is dead.”

The guard beside Quentin tightened his grip on the pistol in his hand. “Sir, please turn around and lean against the wall.”

Quentin did as he was told. The guard held his weapon on Quentin and Sam while another man patted them down, checking for weapons. When they were satisfied Quentin and Sam weren’t carrying, they pulled Sam and Quentin’s arms behind their backs and slapped zip ties on their wrists. Once they were secure, they herded them back toward the entrance of the hotel.

Ivan was dead. He hadn’t been coming to the party to meet with the man who hired him. He’d come to kill Oscar Melton. One more person with a connection to Becca’s father.

Quentin wanted back inside the hotel. The sooner the better. With a gunman on the loose and the entrances and exits blocked by guards and policemen, it might only be a matter of time before more people were killed. Quentin worried the gunman might be waiting for his chance to finish the job others had yet to complete. The job of killing Becca.