With trembling hands, I scooped up the matchbook with a tissue, grabbed my purse, and headed for the lobby. I couldn’t stay in that room another second. Not one. For just an instant, I considered leaving, abandoning my vacation. I discarded the idea just as quickly. If Ket was out, nowhere was safe. At least FSC advertised that it had submachine guns on the premises.
Trying to appear reasonably calm, but doing a bad job of it, I slipped up to the front desk and asked the clerk for a new room, leaving out the part about being stalked by Ket. That never went over well with people.
“Reason for the switch?” the male clerk asked, typing away without looking at me.
“Reason?” I had a very good reason. One I couldn’t tell him. I took a deep breath and forced a shaky smile. “Allergies. Something in that room bothers me. Look! It’s given me the trembles. And I feel flushed and nauseous.” I held out my shaking hand for him to see, thinking all true. But definitely not the hotel’s fault.
“I’m sorry for the trouble.” I put on my apologetic look while appealing to the old “the customer is always right” credo.
In victim counseling they teach you to yell “FIRE!” when you need immediate help. More people jump to the rescue at the threat of leaping flames than any other plea. I’ve learned you don’t tell people you
think
you’re being stalked. Not unless you want to be labeled a flighty, paranoid nutcase or a conspiracy theorist.
“Just give me another room and I’ll be fine.” Let him think I was a hypochondriac. Hypochondria was a lot more benign than paranoia.
He hesitated, then began typing again. “Right now I don’t have anything clean and available.” He looked like he hoped I wouldn’t take his head off. “We’ve had some late checkouts and we’re still cleaning. If you could check back in a few hours, I’m sure we’ll have something.”
“Fine.” Okay, I’d have to live with it. I’d be out all evening at the FSC meeting anyway. Surrounded by men with guns. Men who knew how to use them. I handed the clerk the matchbook, wrapped in the tissue for safekeeping. Nicki taught me to save all potential evidence. The tissue was my idea. I’d watched enough
CSI
to know better than to smear the prints and contaminate the forensic evidence. “Drop this in the safe for me?”
He looked skeptical of my sanity. But at that point, he wasn’t prone to argue. He reached for the matchbook.
“Thanks. I’ll be back.” I really didn’t mean to sound so Terminator-like.
“Oh, one more thing,” I added like a casual afterthought, but it was completely, wholly deliberate. I had plenty of practice with this part of the procedure. I pulled a three-by-five picture of Ket from my purse and slid it across the counter to the clerk. Distasteful as it was, I kept a stack with me.
“My ex.” I sighed. “Bad breakup. I’d really appreciate it if you’d notify me if you or any of the staff see him around? I’d like to avoid a scene…and him.”
The clerk nodded knowingly, almost sympathetically. People are so much more forgiving of relationships gone sour than ones gone stalking.
I left the desk and took a seat in the lobby in front of a mega-size gas fireplace and, hands still shaking, called the California jail where Ket was being held for contempt. The authorities were
supposed
to notify me before they released him.
In a timely matter. Like in less time than the ETA between the jail and wherever I was at the moment. Like I had a lot of faith they would.
Ket was refusing to testify before a grand jury about one of his clients knowingly using steroids. Sounds selfless. Except Ket’s a personal trainer, and he probably sold the client the alleged steroids in the first place.
I punched through the jailhouse menu until I finally reached a live person. “I’m calling to verify that Ket Brooks has not been released and is still being held for contempt?”
Some typing. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re sure?” I couldn’t keep the uncertainty from my voice. “He hasn’t escaped? They were supposed to notify me—”
“No, ma’am, he hasn’t escaped.” The operator sounded testy.
I couldn’t blame her. I
was
questioning the accuracy of her information. But only out of insecurity and the need for reassurance.
I took a deep breath, thanked her and hung up. Just because Ket didn’t personally put that matchbook in my room didn’t mean he hadn’t hired someone to do it.
Ket. It
had
to be Ket. He collected matchbooks from every bar he visited. He’d taken me to Lou’s years ago. And later beat me up for flirting with a stranger who sent me a drink. Need I say, I wasn’t flirting? Heck no. I sent the drink back. Didn’t matter to Ket. Once his jealousy reared its ugly head, he wanted blood.
Anyway, who else would put a matchbook in my panties? Why would FSC do that?
No, Ket was trying to scare me and doing a great job of it. Just how had he found out where I was?
My mind ticked off the possibilities. In the possible but not probable category—Peewee “Canary” Canarino. He worked out at Ket’s Los Angeles gym from time to time. Everyone at the gym knew the situation between Ket and me, and where Ket was right now. The Canary could have sung to Ket. I doubted it, but he could have. Most probable—Ket had hired someone to tail me. Scary. But why not? He’d done everything else. I glanced at my watch. Time for my FSC meeting.
Except for its unique, Northwest name, the Sasquatch Room was like every other hotel conference room in the world—tables covered in white cloth and set with water pitchers and dishes of hard candy. Your basic uncomfortable conference room chairs in forest green. A podium at the front. Refreshment table with coffee and cookies in the back.
Every society has their mythical beasts. In the Northwest, we love our Sasquatch. And why not? He’s big. He’s hairy. He’s scary. He doesn’t photograph well. He’s rarely seen, but he leaves behind impressions of his visit and a bad odor. Kind of like Ket. Ket wore a size thirteen shoe, too.
Ket. If I could spit his name from my lips and never utter it again, I would. He may have hired someone to scare me. But I was certain he’d save all the really good torture, the part where he would rape me, then beat me senseless, for himself. He wasn’t out of jail. I was “safe” for the day. And furious that from over a thousand miles away, he still had me looking over my shoulder.
The conference room was empty when I arrived, as was the hall and the entire wing of the floor. It appeared that Fantasy Spy Camps had rented out a sizeable portion of the hotel for our vacation pleasure. Even empty, I preferred the conference room to my hotel room. I chose a seat near the door.
Huff showed up first.
“Going for drinks with the gang later?” He sat and scooted his chair far enough back from the table to lounge casually, and openly appreciate his view of me.
I never have minded a man admiring my form. As long as he takes my cues when to back off. I didn’t mind Huff’s attentions at all. “And ruin your boys’ night out?” I replied, with a hint of flirt.
“Ruin? It’ll be no fun without you.” He leaned toward me. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Any drink?”
“Anything you want.”
“Deal.” What would one tiny drink hurt? Flirt with enough different men and maybe it would draw Ket’s fire off Van.
Van entered the room. I did my best not to look at him, but he was a hard man not to ogle. To both my relief and severe disappointment, he took a seat in the front corner of the room.
“You look so damn familiar,” Huff said, bringing my attention back to him. “You ever play beach volleyball?” He put just enough salaciousness in his voice for it to be flattering.
“Only on the pages of a magazine.”
Huff snapped his fingers and grinned as if he’d just had a lightbulb moment. “I knew it! 3D Sportswear Girl. The face, or should I say, the body of 3D.” Charmingly lecherous eyebrow wiggle. “Am I right?”
I nodded, flattered that he remembered. “Used to be. Now I work behind the scenes in corporate marketing.”
“Man! I can’t believe it.” He slapped the table. “I’ve lusted after you for…years.
Sports Illustrated
.” He whistled. “Hot.”
“Stop it. You’re making me blush.”
He kept grinning. “You didn’t play beach volleyball? Another fantasy dashed.”
“Don’t look so disappointed.” I laughed. “I played regular volleyball. And basketball. And softball. I went to the University of Washington on a full ride fastpitch scholarship.”
“Damn! I knew I loved lady jocks.” His eyes danced as he surveyed me. “Let me guess your position. Tall, gorgeous. First base or pitcher.”
“Pitcher, big shot.”
He shifted in his chair. “If I buy you
two
drinks will you show me your change-up?”
“For two drinks I’d have shown you a curve or two.”
“How about I change my mind?”
“Too late. A deal’s a deal.”
“What if I throw in dinner?”
I smiled enigmatically.
He grinned back. Was that a tiny trace of a frown I noticed from Van out of the corner of my eye?
The room filled as Steve, Peewee, and the movie moguls, Cliff Wilkins and Jim Martin, filed in. Our instructors showed up at the last minute, carrying boxes of what I assumed were our uniforms.
They positioned themselves in seats in the front of the room by the podium. One by one, they greeted us and introduced themselves. Ace, former Army Ranger, crack shot, served in Iraq, good-looking, and full of possibilities. Kyle, retired Air Force, married, kids, blond with receding hair. And Warner, War as he preferred to be called. Definitely the head guy. Fortyish. Former Ranger. Sniper. CIA experience. Shaved head and ramrod posture that would have made a boarding school mistress proud. They were the kind of guys you’d want on your side, battle or not.
I felt safer just being around them. No way they’d let Ket get to me.
Sure enough, the boxes contained our uniforms. War and company issued us our gear—one set of digital camo BDUs, battle dress uniforms; three black, moisture-wicking T-shirts; one digital camo boonie hat.
The T-shirts were standard men’s style—boxy, high neck, square shoulder—completely devoid of female flattering flare. I was an executive of 3D Sportswear; those tees were utterly offensive to me. Clothes, be they evening or sportswear, should flatter the body.
When War handed me my three tees, I handed them back. “Keep them. I brought my own. With curve hugging spandex.” I winked and smiled at him.
“They better be black.”
“But pink looks so much better on me,” I said, pulling his chain.
“Career trainee!”
“Black. Yessir.” I gave him a little salute and smiled. “I work for 3D Sportswear. Talk to me later. We can cut you a deal on women’s moisture wick gear. Unfortunately, we don’t make camo.” I returned to my seat.
Each uniform came complete with personal name tapes and patches. Only the name tapes were actually more like first-initial-tapes.
“Career trainees, listen up.” Kyle called us to attention after everyone had their gear. “From now on we’ll refer to you as CTs. Your code names are on your name tapes. Get used to them. From here out those
are
your names.” Hard, serious, broach-no-questions stare. “As a spy, it’s important to get used to answering to anything but asshole. Regularly. Consistently. Naturally.” His gaze danced around the group. “Any ideas why we picked these code names?”
Steve bounced in his chair with his hand up until Kyle called on him. “Because they’re short and sweet.”
Kyle remained impassive and unimpressed. “Anyone else have a theory?”
I raised my hand, playing cool like a Bond Girl, all slink and seduction.
Kyle called on me. “R?”
“MI6,” I said. “Ian Fleming based Bond on World War One British spy Sidney Reilly.” Yes, I was aware of the coincidence of my name. Only I was named after my grandmother’s maiden name. “Reilly was a special informer for Scotland Yard, whose chief inspector was William Melville, code named ‘M’.” Personally, I held Steve’s theory about this code naming being a cop-out. But it originated with Scotland Yard, not FSC.
Kyle gave me a barely perceptible nod of approval. “Correct, R.”
Kyle went on to describe the purpose of Urban Ops. “FSC is a division of Fantasy Camps. FSC runs a variety of extreme, fantasy spy vacations nationwide and internationally. Each camp focuses on a different aspect of the spy industry.
“Urban Ops’s focus is on the exciting and important aspect of self-defense and escape for the spy or urban warrior. CQB, close quarter battle techniques, reflexive shooting, and even hostage rescue, which includes learning techniques to survive a hostage situation.
“This is the Bond action stuff—the shootouts, the hand-to-hand combat, the escaping from the clutches of MI6’s archenemy Blofeld and rescuing the gorgeous girl action.”
Exactly the kind of thing I needed to know so I wouldn’t end up
being
the girl who needed rescuing.
Kyle stood at the front of the room, calm and unmoving. He wasn’t the pacing kind. “We’ll be training in our indoor urban training facility, a mock city built with input from the Army’s Special Forces Group and designed by a Hollywood set designer who worked on one of the Bond films.
“Breakfast is at oh seven hundred. The bus will pick you all up and transport you to the facility at oh seven thirty.” He turned the mic over to War. Then he and Ace left the room.
War was the pacing kind, the intense pacing kind. “You’re a bunch of quiet birds tonight. Not a squealer in the group. But I happen to know that someone broke in and trashed each and every CT’s room this afternoon.” He scanned the room. “No talkers?”
No one moved.
War continued his speech. “After each session we’ll have a mission debrief. Consider this your first.
“The savvy spy, the one who makes it to old age, assumes he’s under surveillance twenty-four-seven. He takes precautions to protect himself and the mission. He knows how to react if his position is compromised or threatened.” His piercing gaze slid over each of us. “He must have his out planned.”
Yeah, I knew that. I spent every day looking over my shoulder and planning my out. Take right now. I was pretty sure my position had been compromised. But what was I going to do about it?