On The Rocks (14 page)

So was Lennox’s freedom.

But if he couldn’t have what he really
wanted, he’d fight like hell for the runner up on his Christmas
list. “And then I get out?”

Bill looked away. Finding a replacement like
Lennox would be damn near impossible. In all his years working for
Bill, he’d never asked any questions, never missed a target, and
never missed a deadline.

Yep, Lennox Tate was a good little
soldier…

“All right,” Bill sighed heavily, “Pay on
the tail end. Two weeks and you’re free.”

Lennox scrubbed at the thick beard on his
cheeks, unsure how to take that news. He hadn’t expected to get a
yes, and while everything in him wanted to jump up and down, as
always he kept a tight lid on his true emotions.

“No strings. No bullshit.”

“No strings,” Bill echoed tiredly. “No
bullshit.”

Lennox dropped the naked apple and reached
for the envelope in Bill’s clutches.

“Two weeks, Tate.”

He nodded as the pouch transferred hands.
With freedom so close, he eagerly pulled back the flap and dug out
the pictures of a dark-haired woman. “Let’s see who I gotta kill
this time... “

KIZZIE PAUSED NEAR the door at the end of
the hallway, still debating what she'd already decided was a firm
no. That speech Bill gave her was exactly the type of thing to make
her change her mind. Her handler knew which buttons to push to get
her wheels turning, even when she'd thought she'd slammed the
brakes.

She already had things in her life she was
atoning for, like that “little kerfuffle at the Point,” as Bill
called it. There weren't enough jobs in the world to make up for
the guilt she felt over that. But she'd never be able to live with
herself if agents died because she was too pissed with her former
partner to do what needed doing.

One vote for go.

On the flip side of that though, another
mission with Lennox would likely get her killed. Even if the end
didn't come with a bang and a bullet, the time involved doing recon
alone would be its own slow, painful death. Made that polonium-210
threat look like the lesser of two evils.

Any other time she'd throw herself into the
fire. So long as the job got done and lives were saved, she'd live
—or die— with the burn. But Lennox promised to bring another kind
of heat she didn't want to contend with. Didn't know if she
could.

Like he'd said, they weren't finished. Not
by a long shot.

And rage and lust made strange
bedfellows…

One vote for stay.

Lucky her, she got to cast the
tiebreaker.

She would—

“Baldwin.” Kizzie's head snapped up as Agent
Hayford jogged down the hallway, sneakers silent on the linoleum.
“Mind if I walk you out? Or is that against protocol?”

Kizzie pinned her with a glare. “In the
future, come at me straight or don't come at all. Manipulation's
Bill's shtick. On anyone else it's just overkill.”

Rachel took off her sunglasses, pegging
Kizzie with those violet-blues. “I wasn't manipulating you,
Baldwin. Every word of that is the truth. Losing the NOC list is
the type of blow we don't recover from. But you're sort of my only
option on this, so if I thought manipulation would work I'd use
it.”

Kizzie shook her head. “It wouldn't.”

A soft V dug into Rachel's smooth forehead,
like it didn't do that often and wasn't sure of the mechanics.
“Mind telling me what your issue is with Agent Tate? I mean, apart
from his blatantly sexual approach when conversing with anything
moving.”

“I mind. Sam and Gracie weren't friends
until the end of the movie, Hayford.”

“But they
were
friends.” Chuckling,
Rachel pulled a stiff white rectangle from the front pocket of her
messenger bag. Handed it over. “If ever you need one, call.”

Kizzie studied the card a moment.
Dornwell Holdings
was written in elegant gold script across
the top. Picking through the noise, she found the call number and
set of coded digits that would reach Rachel directly.

Then she handed the card back.

“
Ouch
.” Rachel winced. “First you
shoot at me, now this. Dangit, I know I’m not Agent Fletcher,
but—”

Kizzie tapped her temple with her
forefinger. “Safer up here.”

“Oh.” Rachel chewed her lip, and then
inhaled a deep breath that lifted her shoulders high. “Okay.”

“And I didn't shoot at you, I shot at the
door.” Kizzie said, eyeing the other woman's jacket. Fit well. Nice
cut. Good color. “Dope blazer, by the way.”

Rachel blinked. Blinked again. And then a
slow chuckle bubbled up from her throat and out of her mouth.
“Thank you. You have
no
idea how much that means to me…”

M'kay. Apparently desk agents didn't get out
much anymore. What were they doing to the fine folks at Langley
nowadays?

“You wanted something?” Kizzie asked,
chucking a thumb over her shoulder. “'Cause I was just about to go
stuff my face at Harlem Shake.”

Rachel nodded, that severe bun on her head
punctuating the movement. “Look, manipulation's not my thing. But
honesty is. And I know that can be a weakness in this world, but
it's me. So, here's the thing, Baldwin: This is my first op as a
senior SOO. Sure, I backed up Fletch for years and have seen how
it's done, but I'm a nervous wreck right now. That probably doesn't
help, since I'm trying to convince you to go on a mission for me,
but it's the truth.

“When I came here today, I went back and
forth in my head about how I couldn't do this. I'm seriously afraid
I'll screw something up, and you guys are depending on me to get
you what you need to have a successful mission and a safe return
home. That's a lot of pressure. Not nearly as dangerous as what you
do, but for someone like me it's overwhelming.

“But something Fletch said about you on the
front end of this, on the Belém op, gives me a little peace.”
Rachel shifted her weight, leaning into just her right leg, digging
in. “He said 'she's reckless, she's ruthless, she's stubborn and
pigheaded, she has a sort of unrelenting ability to badger and can
be a real pain in the ass.”

Daaaayuuuum, Fletch, tell a girl how you
really feel!

“She's—”

“Wait.” Heavy on the frown, Kizzie threw up
a hand. “Is this supposed to endear me to you? 'Cause maybe you
should lie. None of that sounds good.”

Rachel chuckled. “It gets better.”

“Soon, I hope.”

“I'll just skip to the end. He said, 'and
that's what makes her the best. That's what brings Kizzie home
every time with the mission accomplished. Because she simply
refuses to have it any other way.'''

Uh oh… that vote wasn't looking so good.

Another deep breath from the other agent.
“Dougie trusts you, so I trust you. Now, I am asking you as an
agent, as a potential friend, and as the woman you shot at—”

“I did
not
shoot at you.”

“—please reconsider.”

Kizzie puffed out her cheeks and blew out a
breath. Her vote was still in the no category, but somehow Rachel
here thought being called a ruthless pain in the ass might actually
tip the scales on this thing.

“Dougie, huh?”

Rachel's face paled. She glanced away,
searching the walls for the flux capacitor that would take her back
in time and erase that slip up.

“How long's he been 'on leave'?” Kizzie
asked, making air quotes.

“He's not. Just the official story we've all
been fed.”

Her voice was uncertain, but judging by
Rachel's face she actually looked a little relieved to be able to
talk about it.

Kizzie knew what that was like. Fraternizing
inside the CIA was discouraged. Don't want two people with keys to
the kingdom to team up and take over the joint, right? But it was
kind of an open secret that interoffice love connections took
place.

Still, keeping it under wraps was the best
move. Which meant, aside from maybe a really close friend, there
was no one else to share your joys and sorrows with.

Now, fraternizing with the enemy?
Definitely
frowned upon. There was
no one
on the
planet she could tell about Xander. Except Xander.

“In my gut, though, I know he's missing.”
Rachel rolled her shoulders, adjusting the bag so the weight
shifted. “Not knowing where a colleague is is one thing, but when
that colleague is your boyfriend…? I keep praying for him to
call.”

Maybe she and Rachel had more in common than
she'd initially thought.

Xander could be anywhere in the world right
now, and before she started in on a verse of
Somewhere Out
There
, Kizzie went back to the vote.

Going got her moving again, and though it
felt like the move was away from what she really wanted, it would
pass the time until she and Xander reconnected.

Assuming they reconnected.

Going helped out Agent Hayford. Brave thing
admitting she was scared shitless. Fletch would never have done
that, the hardass.

She hoped he turned up soon, for Rachel's
sake.

And hey, she
did
say she should've
gotten on the plane. It wouldn't be
the
plane, but it would
be
a
plane…

Dammit, the ayes had it.

“Don't blame me if Tate comes back in a body
bag,” Kizzie muttered. “I'm serious, Hayford. I'm not responsible
for anything I might accidentally do to him.”

Rachel blinked out of whatever lost thought
she was in. “You're kidding, right? About Lennox?”

“Okay,” she said, making no effort to sound
convincing.

“Fine by me. So, let's make it official,
Gracie.” Rachel smiled. “You on board?”

“Sam,” Kizzie heaved a sigh, “looks like I'm
going to Italy.”

6

Date redacted

Undisclosed Location

SOMEWHERE IN THE world, on a table in a room
with the curtains drawn tight, a puzzle sat unfinished in the
lamplight.

Just hours before, the thousand-piecer was
on a shelf in the store, the cardboard cutouts scattered inside the
sturdy box, waiting to be connected. Now, all of the edge pieces
were locked together, creating a framework to fit the remaining
eight hundred-odd misshapen blocks into.

Perhaps, then, it wasn’t so much unfinished
as it was… under way.

No. That didn’t quite capture it.

It was…
in progress
.

Yes.

In progress.

On the matte black dresser —the modern kind
with handleless drawers that opened soundlessly on metal slides—
the TV played a political news show. The pundit —in a blue suit and
white shirt— looked gravely into the camera, his gaze intent, his
mouth moving decisively, shaping the narrative.

The sound was off.

But in the graphic beneath him —in white
letters against a patriotic blue background— something was
developing.

Something was
always
developing.

The pundit cut away to a clip of a tall man
in a tailored suit, his salt and pepper hair perfectly coiffed. He
was in motion, heading past a step-and-repeat featuring the logos
of a bank, a tech company, and a think tank. He pulled a woman
along beside him, her face warm, her eyes smiling.

In the tight shot, disembodied hands
extended mobile phones and microphones toward the man. He paused
abruptly and turned to the cameras.

Metis turned up the sound.

“…
when you’ll announce your bid for
candidacy, Congressman Wheaton?”
an unseen woman called
out.

“
I’m still considering if running for the
presidency is the right decision for me and my family.”
The
Congressman paused a beat, the pregnant silence adding
strategically placed weight to his words.
“Understand, this is
not a decision I enter into lightly. At present, I’m still seeking
counsel on the matter. But I’ll let you all know as soon as I
do.”

Wheaton flashed a charming smile that didn’t
reach his eyes.

Metis knew why.

Congressman Wheaton had in his possession
another manila envelope filled with a second set of pictures. The
subject matter was similar to the ones he’d received days before.
Pictures that would kill any hope for his future pursuit of
power.

The pundit returned, rehashing the
Congressman’s sound bite.

The television went mute once more.

Metis dropped another cardboard piece onto
the table. Manipulated it so the tab and the notch lined up
properly. With gentle pressure, the section sank down and locked
into place.

On the other side of the room, on a table
close to the bed, a cell phone rested near two laptops. The
computers were open, side-by-side. On the display of the left one,
a white cursor blinked, blinked, blinked against the stretch of
Stygian blackness that was The Delegation’s login screen.

On the right, the feed showed a brightly lit
office. From the angle, the vault was visible, its black door with
the gold spinner handle standing slightly ajar. The vault itself
was big enough to hold loot and two people comfortably, but it
currently housed only weapons, black boxes, and cash.

Lots of weapons, lots of black boxes, and
lots of cash.

Deep voices trickled through the speakers,
one urgent:
“You don’t
need
a middle man. You don’t
need…”
The other calm:
“Sabine.”

A new piece in hand, Metis studied the
portion of the picture on the face. It didn’t belong with this
group on the bottom. No, this went somewhere… neeeear… the top.

The agent consulted the finished picture on
the front of the packaging, searching for the distinguishing mark
on this tiny sliver of the whole. Set the piece in the general area
it would go once all the tabs had been put in place.

A watch beeped.

Metis stood, observing the puzzle from a
wider angle.