On The Rocks (19 page)

Nai dropped forward again, resting her chin
on his chest. “I spotted three. Two in the boat off the port side,
one sniper in a boat off the bow.”

“Which is overkill,” Phil said. “Considering
he has two snipers on the roof of his house and a camera guy.
Another cameraman on a boat…”

Phil had a drone overhead somewhere, getting
a bird’s-eye view of the many eyes watching them. Even without it,
Galletti’s men weren't hard to spot, their clean dress and dark
shades out of place on those boats. Since they weren't trying hard
to hide, their presence was just a show of strength.

“Guess your reputation precedes you,” Phil
said.

Thanks to Naima.

“What did Sabine say?” Xander asked.

“She’s got a new line and you’re gonna buy
me something sparkly from it for your wanderin’ eye,” she said.

“Anything more pertinent?”

“Lunch. I told her day after next was open
for us. Their house.”

Good. A private meet and greet with Abrahan
was exactly what he'd been hoping for. Assuming everything went
right, Xander and the elder Galletti would form a friendship of
sorts, and in a month or two he'd have what he wanted: A line on
Metis.

The proof he'd been searching for for
years.

And then, maybe he and Kizzie could steal a
little time.

9

McLean, Virginia

THREE DAYS AFTER her trip to the Big Apple,
Agent Rachel Hayford arrived at the Original Headquarters Building
of the CIA. She passed the meticulous vehicle security check as she
had for the last four years; said good morning to her fellow agents
as she headed into the building like she did every day.

But today was different.

Today, instead of rushing through the second
security check and
click-click-click
ing her way to her tiny
cubicle to dive into a pile of work, she entered the lobby and
stalled.

Hand-carved into the slab of white marble
that made up the building’s north wall, one hundred and eleven
black stars stand as silent reminders of the brave men and women
who made the ultimate sacrifice while employed by The Agency. In
the thin steel case beneath the pentagrams, The Book of Honors
holds its own set of gold constellations, each one accompanied by
the name of the fallen, provided the agent’s identity could be
known after death.

The last time she’d stood before this wall
had also been her first. The day she started at Langley, SOO
Douglas Fletcher brought her to the memorial so she’d understand
the risks of working for the CIA were great, even as a desk agent.
Then he’d warned her against focusing on it; said if she kept death
as the focal point, she’d be too scared to take the risks necessary
to get the job done.

Young and eager, she'd listened. Allowed the
importance of the memorial to reside in the back of her mind while
letting the wall itself become atmosphere. Day in and night out she
went by it at a steady clip, aware of its presence but paying it no
mind.

Since Fletcher went missing, the memorial
came rushing to the forefront.

A week prior, Rachel had finally mustered
the nerve to call out her then boss on his error with the Galletti
operation. Fletch thought the pictures of the boys found on
Sanzio’s phone were nothing, but her intuition said there was more
to those images than met the eye.

And she was right.

When Fletcher tried to apologize she’d cut
him off, told him about the promotion she’d been offered, and
threatened to take it. To leave his team and go run her own if he
didn’t change his ways. The stubborn idiot almost let her walk
away. Then he’d finally dropped his pain in the butt SOO facade and
whispered the three words that would make any agent melt:
I need
you
.

God, she’d wanted to hear that so badly for
so long her teeth ached.

Sure,
Dougie
had told her he cared
about her. Dougie remembered her mother’s birthday, cooked an
amazing lasagna, and didn’t cringe when she had cramps. Dougie made
love to her like he meant it, held her long into the night, and sat
through more cheesy chick flicks than any man should be subjected
to.

But SOO Fletcher?
That
SOB treated
her like she was the lowest woman on the totem pole. Never quick to
give praise —
”For what? Doing your job?”
— he kept such a
rigid stance at work Rachel often wondered if they were actually
dating. And he sure as heck didn’t apologize.

Fletcher admitting he needed her skills as
an agent was like scoring tickets to the Super Bowl, a free trip
around the world,
and
winning the lottery all in the same
minute. She’d finally hit the jackpot, and it wasn’t enough.

Call it too little too late. Call it a
reality check. Call it whatever you wanted to call it, but Rachel
finally realized she deserved more than he was giving at work. And
when he came by her place to talk after the Ellerson op was mission
accomplished, she’d intended to tell him that.

Fletch never showed up.

No big deal. When ops were active, time was
elastic. Missions didn’t always hit their target timeframes, and as
the lead, Fletcher had to stay engaged. Getting the team in and out
without casualties trumped calling Rachel to say he’d be late for a
lover's spat.

Almost twenty-four hours later she received
a text message from Fletcher apologizing for breaking their date.
Did she want to meet in an hour for pizza? Pineapple and ham, if
that was good with her.

That’s when she began to worry.

Because pizza wasn't always just pizza.

'Ham' referred to the CIA's data center they
affectionately called The Pig. Fletcher had set up a hidden
database right inside the CIA’s own mainframe— not hard to do,
considering it was nestled among millions of others just like it.
As far as she knew, they were the only two with access, and given
that Douglas had told her about it one night in the middle of the
morning, she was pretty certain its existence was known to the two
of them alone.

'Pineapple' meant a grenade had gone off. In
other words: we've got an out and out emergency, check the
database.

She'd bolted into action. Covered in a cold
sweat and fingers shaking, Rachel had followed his directive and
accessed the database only to find The Galletti op was more complex
than Fletcher had realized, and pointed to a mole. Metis.

Background Intel had been included as well
as some notes on the team he’d chosen who were already en route.
But other than that scant information, there were no crumbs about
where Fletch had disappeared to or when he’d be back.

The abrupt absence wasn’t like him. Nor was
the fact that he’d left her to go it alone on the Galletti op given
what was at stake. And armed with nothing but a handful of notes
and a crazy team to guide, no less!

All of these things combined led Rachel to
one, startling but obvious conclusion: her boyfriend, former senior
SOO Douglas Fletcher, was dead.

And since he was dead, he’d eventually end
up on this wall or in this book, just another fallen star.

Rachel’s stomach flipped and she swallowed
hard. She had no proof, and she should really lean on her
optimistic personality at a time like this, but she had a bad
feeling in the pit of her stomach and her intuition rarely let her
down.

“Where are you, Dougie?” she whispered.

“Agent Hayford.”

Her name echoed in the lobby and she twisted
her head. A thin man in a wrinkled suit came through the main door,
his lanky stride and soft-soled loafers eating up the distance
between them. A lidded white cup in each hand and a warm smile on
his face, Agent Colin Atwater motioned for her to join him with a
tip of his head.

Peeling away from her wall of fears, Rachel
tightened her grip on the handle of her leather briefcase and fell
into step with her new adviser.

Since this was her first time heading an op,
the Agency paired her with Atwater to have someone to turn to if
she needed assistance. She’d interacted with him only briefly over
the years, but their infrequent proximity always put Dougie on
edge.

Rachel never understood why. Atwater was
harmless, and honestly wouldn’t have been her first choice in
mentors.

Oddly enough, after meeting Bill Connolly
she’d rather have
him
help her navigate the murky SOO
waters. Connolly had been with the agency a long time. Had worked
as a field agent himself and now was a handler. By his own
admission he had extensive, long-cultivated relationships with
contacts that she didn’t even know; knew firsthand what field
agents needed to get the job done. Looks aside, he wasn't the
cuddliest man on the planet, but he’d be an invaluable resource to
a newbie team leader like her.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. Quite
frankly, she was too afraid to ask him. Plus that whole “bagged and
buried between South and East Nonations” bit was kind of a turn
off. She'd thought the locations were a joke, even if his threat
wasn't. But then she'd turned to the Google.

Yeah…

She'd stick with Atwater. Chances were good
he wouldn't kill her.

“Venti white chocolate mocha, extra whip.
Just like you like it,” he said, offering her a cup of jump juice
from the “Stealthy Starbucks” on campus. “A little celebration for
your promotion.”

She hesitated a brief moment —How did he
know about her preferred addiction?— then accepted it with
gratitude. Took a small sip.

Heaven.

“Have you had a chance to get settled
yet?”

“I—” She nearly told him where she’d been,
but since the only thing she knew for certain was that
she
wasn’t Metis, Rachel settled on, “Not yet.”

They went through the security barriers and
she frowned when they didn't part ways there since their offices
were on opposite sides of the building. Instead, Atwater kept pace
with her as she went down the corridor to her new domain.

“Got enough hands on this case you’re
working?”

“Yes, sir. Got it covered.”

“I can spare a few—”

“Won’t be necessary, sir.”

“Good. Should be an easy one. Fletcher
mentioned the operation in Belém was like butter.”

She didn’t answer, but her already tight gut
screwed down another quarter turn. That wasn't like Fletch. He
didn't talk about an op with anyone not on it. Certainly wouldn’t
do it with Atwater.

Maybe since he would be advising her, the
higher ups made him privy to all the elements of her current
operation?

Maybe not.

Rachel just nodded and sipped her
coffee.

Atwater started talking again about nothing
in particular. The weather
was
nice, wasn’t it? And, no, she
hadn’t seen the latest episode of
Strike Back…

An older woman in a smart pantsuit came down
the hallway toward them. Her straight, ash-colored hair hung in a
blunt-cut style that brushed at her jaw with each step. She glided
by without giving them a look, leaving a faintly sweet, charred
scent in her wake.

Rachel’s gaze locked on the woman as she
passed, staying so long her head craned over her shoulder, then
came back to whatever the man beside her had said: “…you’re gonna
do just fine.”

“I hope so.”

The sight of her new office was bittersweet.
New workload, so she could ditch Atwater. But she couldn’t enjoy
the space because she’d only gotten it as a result of Dougie’s
absence.

She pushed open the familiar door and
stepped inside.

“Got any questions?” Atwater asked behind
her.

Rachel hummed thoughtfully, then spun on her
heel. “Any advice for a newbie senior SOO?”

“Yeah.” His gaze flashed to her blouse and
came back to her face. “Don’t let the job go tits up and you’re
golden.”

Brilliant.

Smiling, Atwater leaned against the doorway.
“Need anything at all, let me know.” He rapped the frame twice with
the side of his fist, and then hit her with a wink before rolling
away.

She imagined that, right? He didn’t
really
just wink at her. Right?

Could be nothing. Could be a habit or
something he did with his girlfriend. Did he have a girlfriend?
God, she hoped so. She didn’t need Atwater trying to push up on her
right now. Or ever, actually.

Closing the door, she looked around the
office she’d come into countless times over the years, seeing it
with fresh eyes.

A tiny window was in the corner. It didn’t
open, but at least she’d get a peek at life outside a couple of
times a day. On the walls, cream-colored, rectangular outlines
against the beige paint were reminders of where Dougie’s personal
effects had hung for years. The desk was his. Chair, too. Metal
file cabinet. Computer. Pen cup filled with pencils he’d habitually
twirl between his fingers.

All his.

The files on the desk? Once his and now
hers.

Rachel plucked a pencil from the cup. Tried
to wend it through her fingers the way he always did, but if fell
to the floor and rolled away.

She was glad they'd given her this office.
In some small way, being here was like having him with her. She
smiled at the thought, but really hoped he turned up soon
anyway.

There was one thing in the space that
belonged to neither of them. The smell. It was—

She sniffed. Sniffed again.

Couldn’t put her finger on it.

Ignoring the scent, Rachel dropped down into
the leather chair and got to work.

10

August 13
^th

Amalfi, Italy

LENNOX STROKED HIS hand over the ball of
silky black fur beside him. For a stray, the Bombay was in decent
shape. A couple scars from fighting and scrounging, maybe a touch
on the thin side, but all-in-all not too bad off.