Sake Bomb (34 page)

He’d done his searching and found out about
Kizzie’s P.o.I, a woman named Naima—when it wasn’t Padma, or Deja
or Cadence. Each alias had a full jacket. Actually, she had enough
jackets to never be cold again. A good deal of information about
the woman had been redacted—suspicious in and of itself. A handful
of known associates linked to her: John Barken, Xander Duquesne,
Saddiq Bitar, Melina Cordova, and an Iliana Faulk.

He’d checked each out in turn; found
insignificant info at best, but took a page from Agent Hayford’s
book and did a detailed and thorough combing. For all the time and
energy he’d put into it, Fletcher found but one line that was
worthwhile.

A single reference that chilled him straight
to the bone.

How would he get the info to—

His eyes shifted left to right, and the hair
at his nape stood on end. Was someone watching?

Fletcher took a slow sip of the coffee,
hoping the lukewarm mud would take some of the edge off. The
opposite happened. He felt more high strung, more focused on the
new trouble. So deep in his thoughts, Fletcher walked straight past
his office. He let out a nervous chuckle and shoved his free hand
through his hair. Pivoting on his toe, he came back to his door and
put his hand on the knob.

“Sir.”

His head snapped up, heart slamming in his
throat. His eyes had to be big as the moon and his face just as
pale because Agent Hayford approached with a troubled frown.

“Are you okay?”

Okay?
Okay?
Hell no!

Plastering on some semblance of a smile, he
bobbed his head and abandoned his mug on a small table just outside
his door. Then he covered the short distance to meet her. They
stopped a foot apart from each other when he really wanted to take
her in his arms and kiss her. For being an ass… Because he missed
her… Because he might never be able to do it again…

“What’s wrong?”

Fletcher stared at her a long moment,
watching as her gaze flitted over his face. Should he tell her? He
wanted to, but the risk was too great. He was already sucked into
Kizzie’s whirlwind, he wouldn’t take Hayford down with him.

“I’m fine.”

She cleared her throat, took a little step
back; glanced around to be sure they were alone. At this hour, not
many others were in the office, and all the cameras at Langley
focused outside. Anyone who got past security was supposed to be
here and therefore didn’t need watching—until they went outside
again, but that was another story.

Still, propriety dictated he and Rachel keep
their personal relationship separate from their professional. And
the “don’t eat where you shit” rule of the CIA and myriad
businesses around the world dictated they keep it secret.

With everything else going on, he hadn’t had
a chance to work out the details of this much-needed conversation,
and started at the heart of the matter.

“Agent Hayford, I should apo—”

“You’ll do it again,” she said, raising her
palm to stop him. “You’ve always done it. I’ve just let it go and
chalked it up to being how you’re wired. It’s not okay, sir.”

“I under—”

“No.” Rachel shook her head, the bun so
secure it didn’t even shift with the motion. “You need to hear this
as much as I need to say it. I’m not here because of nepotism.
Didn’t get this job laying on my back counting ceiling tiles, and I
don’t have secret tapes with which to blackmail the department
head. I
earned
this.” She tapped her sternum to punctuate
her point. “My degree says it, passing the required testing says
it, and that two weeks ago I was offered a chance to test for the
position of Special Operations Officer says it. I’m fully capable
of doing my job—in fact, somebody ranked way higher than me thinks
I’m capable enough to do yours.”

She smirked, although without the smugness
needed to make the barb sting. “I’ve done a lot for this team. I
pull my weight and then some. My training officer told me no idea
is a bad one, so I won’t stand for him now blowing off my ideas
just because he thinks they’re based on some, quote,
‘juju
feeling’
. I don’t deserve that. And since you need hard
evidence that water’s wet, there are more than enough studies
around that affirm both the existence and importance of intuition.
I’d be happy to compile a file for you and hand deliver it at a
time of your choosing, Agent Fletcher.”

That one stung, and rightly so. He’d treated
her horribly, had done it for years in the guise of protection. Now
Rachel had an opportunity to get away from his oppression and move
up in the Company. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to. “Are you
leaving?”

“Surprise surprise. Not even listening.”

“Heard every word. Are you leaving?”

“Can you think of a single reason for me not
to?” Violet-blue eyes dazzled with a urgency he’d never seen
before. Fletcher had underestimated her ability, just as he’d
underestimated her resolve.

She
was
leaving.

Panic surged around the huge knot already in
his gut. Rachel Hayford was an essential part of his team. His
life. Invaluable and irreplaceable. Her leaving didn’t have to
interfere with their personal relationship, but it would. Different
hours. More secrets. Power struggles...competition—at least on
Fletcher’s end. Not to mention the general stress of the job. Two
people under that kind of strain trying to make a relationship work
that they weren’t supposed to be having? Recipe for a perfect
disaster.

“Congratulations, Agent Hayford. I have
every confidence you’ll pass the exams and make a damn fine SOO.
The Company’s lucky to have you.”

Rachel bent her head toward his outstretched
hand, lifted her chin again. “I’ll give you one more chance to say
what you really mean. And if I don’t like it, I’m gonna call your
bluff.”

Fletcher stood a long moment, grappling with
his response. He was a hardass, he knew, and Rachel didn’t deserve
to be the constant target of his misguided ire. She had a long,
promising career ahead of her, and keeping her there would be
selfish and cruel. He had no right to hold her back. He should let
her go.

As though agreeing with him, Rachel blew a
laugh through her nose and edged away. “I’ll get out of your
hair.”

Without thought, his hand curled over her
shoulder to stop her. “I need you, Rach.” Realizing the contact
wasn’t appropriate even though no one was around, he dropped his
hand. His gaze never wavered. “I need you.”

A pregnant pause. She shook her head sadly.
“Why didn’t that make me feel better?”

Swallowing hard, Fletcher pushed a hand
through his hair, glanced at the clock nearby. “Ellerson’s going
live in a couple hours. Once it’s mission accomplished, I’ll come
by. We can talk.” He straightened his shoulders and tried again.
“Can I come by to talk?”

“Yeah,” Rachel gave a tired nod and stepped
around him. “Don’t stay too late, Dougie.”

Fletcher went back to his office, forcing
his thoughts from the sweet sway of Rachel’s hips and the steady
click of sensible shoes. He’d have to clean up his act. And why
not? She was worth cleaning it up for. He grabbed the coffee off
the table and took a sip that warmed him as he pushed through the
door.

And stopped cold.

A woman stood behind his desk, her back to
him while she studied a picture on his wall. She wasn’t much
shorter than Rachel. Hair the color of ash stopped in a blunt-cut
bob that just dusted the collar of a smart, dove gray suit coat.
The classic scents of nicotine and Chanel No.5 co-mingled in
Fletcher’s nose.

“He was the best, Worthington,” she said,
adding the name to help him determine who she meant from the five
men in the photo. Wistfulness and admiration colored her whiskeyed
voice. “All of them were—these old guards.”

Fletcher couldn’t comment as he had no
first-hand experience. In the picture, he stood amidst several
prominent members of the Intelligence community—men not immediately
identifiable outside of the linoleum-lined halls of the CIA.
White-haired, the lot of them; eyes rheumy but wise. Each in
various stages of decrepitude that came with old age. Two walkers,
a cane and a wheelchair. Fletcher was the only man upright
unassisted, stretching like a redwood among squatting oaks. One of
the tech guys had photoshopped Fletcher into the frame long before
he was an SOO; long after any of the other men pictured had taken
their final breath.

His attention returned to the woman. He
didn’t know who she was; she didn’t offer a name. Given that she’d
made it into his office deep inside CIA headquarters, she obviously
had some kind of pull. That was enough to keep him from calling
security. That and the feeling in his gut.

Sweat broke out on his lip and he could feel
the pores on his chest begin to seep. The liquid in the mug
trembled from the slight shake in his hand.

Keep it together, man.

Another sip of coffee, and then Fletcher
cleared his throat. “Is there something I can help you—”

She spun toward him quickly, sharp green
eyes lasering through him. He expected worn and wrinkled skin, but
it was smooth, if thin, and porcelain. She could have done cold
cream commercials…back in the day when all facial remedies were
called cold cream.

“Sit down.” Not a request.

He eyed the comfy leather chair on the other
side of his desk, and then sank into one of the chairs facing her.
Hard wooden affairs meant to ensure no one would unintentionally
overstay their welcome, leaving Fletcher alone to do what he did
best. Run ops.

She took his chair and made herself
comfortable. Then she looked down at the legal pad on his desk,
haphazardly covered with notes scratched in his own hand.

Evidence.

Footprints.

The knot in his gut swelled to bursting.

She propped her elbows on the table and
steepled her fingers, brought the tips to rest against her lips.
Her gaze drilled into him, an angry parent searching out the best
location to start tanning a child’s hide.

“Douglas,” she finally said, sending ice
down Fletcher’s spine. “It’s time you and I had a little chat.”

Tokyo, Japan

K
izzie entered the
room and Xander went out, same as they’d done the past few shifts.
They still hadn’t spoken, and it didn’t bother her. Nope, not one
bit. Any thoughts about missing him—ridiculous to begin with—Kizzie
simply ignored as easily as she ignored the man himself.

His cologne lingered near the entryway and
she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She pressed her ear to the
door, listening to his footsteps fade to nothing as he went down
the hallway. The sound matched the present state of their
relat—
situation
, didn’t it? She was letting him go. Not that
she ever had him in the first place. And—

A door clicked shut in the distance,
snapping her out of stupid.

Kizzie marked the time on her cell phone and
got to work.

The spare tube of liquid tracing material
from the Galletti op was in her pocket. 30 seconds later, Sumi
still snored away on the sofa, unaware of the filament hardening in
the subcutaneous tissue between her left shoulder blade and
spine.

Kizzie capped the sharp and opened the
satellite link from Fletcher on her phone. At least he’d done
that
much. Sure she’d seen his missed calls, but Kizzie was
in no mood to talk. Tapping in a few data points, she confirmed the
link was live and checked the time again.

Still had at least 22 minutes to be
safe.

She crossed the space and dropped onto a
chair, watching the other woman with wary eyes.

20 minutes.

This wasn’t going to go over well with
Xander.

So? Kizzie was tired of playing games with
Sumi, tired of waiting around for Phil and Xander to produce
information from Akari’s computer—wasn’t like they’d share it with
her anyway—and
so
damn tired of the internal roller coaster
being near Xander caused. The agent training manual didn’t have a
chapter for what she felt—well, unless the words
Don’t Feel.
Period.
counted as a whole chapter—and her gut had her walking
a path she was sure she’d never return from.

15 minutes.

The thoughts made her even more restless.
She’d been stationary too long; needed to move already.

Now.

Screw the plan.

Kizzie pushed off the couch and paused;
tilted her head, straining to make out the faint sound in the
silence. A door opening?

The resounding click echoed down the hall
and heavy footsteps approached.

She eased back down into her seat, trying to
affect an innocent look while her belly clenched and unclenched.
Either Xander or Phil would come through the door, and if it had to
be one of them she hoped for the latter.

The footsteps grew louder and louder,
pounding on nerves already stretched to breaking, and then started
to fade as they went by, headed toward the elevator bank.

Kizzie steadied her breathing. She’d wait
out the rest of the time, just to be sure.

Lifting her leg, she reached for her lucky
knife only to remember it wasn’t there. She’d left her weapons for
every shift. Xander would have noticed if her knife was gone. Hand
in her pocket, she fingered the only protection she’d have should
things go to hell.

She sat up straighter in the chair.

This was the right thing to do; the “Kizzie”
thing to do.

3 minutes.

She crossed the room and gripped the woman’s
bony shoulder. Sumi gasped awake, mouth wide, and Kizzie clamped a
hand down over it. “Scream and I’ll hurt you.”

Sumi seemed to focus and then nodded. Kizzie
eased her hand away; thrust the sweater Xander had bought into the
center of the woman’s chest.