Stolen Vengeance: Slye Temp book 6 (12 page)

Chapter 13

Dingo made a full turn, taking in what he’d consider a nightmare to keep secure if he didn’t know this party could double as a security convention.

The Slye Temp team had arrived early this morning and were now spread through five hundred guests who had paid over ten grand apiece to be
invited
to this charity event.

Dingo passed groups of bone-thin women in clingy dresses and men wearing tailored tuxes that might be more comfortable than this straightjacket outfit he had on.

A front was moving in and had dropped the temperature to the mid-sixties by lunch, saving him from sweating like a whore in church.

He maneuvered around people mingling throughout the tiered garden area of Savoir Faire West, the luxury hotel hosting this event. The four-story Mediterranean structure had a sweeping circular drive that had been busy since noon when the first limos and flashy rides arrived to deposit their riders. Someone had remodeled this place. To Dingo, it was now done up like a silver-screen star from the 50s. Based on the team’s intel, the current owners had bought adjoining property to expand the garden patio from postage-stamp size to one that stretched forty yards deep and half as wide.

Keeping all the plants and flowers alive had to be full time job.

None of the guests seemed to notice all the work that’d been done to turn this into a fairytale party, or the army of wait staff running around in black tuxedos determined that no champagne glass remained empty and everyone got a bite of the funky little snacks on their silver trays.

“What’s the ETA on Perdido?” Dingo asked, speaking in a loud whisper–just loud enough for the other five members of Slye Temp’s undercover team to hear through their comm sets.

Nick replied, “Approximately eight minutes out.”

“Roger that.” 

Blade appeared nearby carrying a tray filled with bubbling champagne just as Nick’s voice came through Dingo’s earpiece again.

“Wait staff all set?”

Blade beamed a bright smile at the couple he’d paused to serve before strolling past Dingo and replying, “Affirmative. Identity confirmed on each staff member. Doors are locked and the house security is to notify me if anyone new shows up or if someone asks to leave.”

Dingo continued weaving his way through a cluster of designer dresses that ranged from ankle length to nothing more than butt trim, all while listening to the team’s communication.

Music floated through the balmy ocean air along with the hum of conversation, but Nick’s voice calling for reports came through clear. “Exterior positions set?” 

White Hawk’s smooth voice replied, “Ready at north exit.”  As soon as she finished, Ryder’s deep voice acknowledged, “Good to go at the south exit.”

That put White Hawk outside the front entrance of the hotel and Ryder at the far end of the outdoor setting. With the exception of trips to the lounges for men or women, all of the guests should be in sight around the terraced patio.

Tinker had his own security force and the hotel had another eight set up as guards around the perimeter, plus two inside the hotel. In addition to White Hawk and Ryder, Slye Temp had four more highly skilled agents overseeing the gardens enclosed by a security wall. Trees and foliage lined the inside of the wall, hiding it from view.

Dingo shook his head at this overkill.

Six deadly Slye operatives on site under the guise of nabbing a stalker. That’s what Perdido’s people thought.

Wonder if her campaign manager had a cosmetic surgeon on hand in case she broke a nail?

Sabrina would have found that amusing at one time, but she had no sense of humor when it came to Dingo these days.

At least she’d relented and agreed that leaving Dingo at their temporary headquarters would have been a waste of personnel, especially with Josh on hand. Dingo normally accepted the desk jockey position because Josh would rather be in the field, but Josh saw the wisdom in keeping Dingo and Sabrina apart as much as possible right now.

Dingo had to mend the rift with her. They’d been friends too long to allow this to continue.

He’d tested that friendship when he brought Valene in on his last op a month ago.

But Valene had stepped up when he’d asked.

All thoughts of personal issues were shoved from Dingo’s mind when Nick said, “Target’s transport just arrived. Perdido and Caddy exiting vehicle with four guards.”

Lt. Governor candidate Emilio Fontana had joined Perdido as her running mate, surprising his celebrity family. The Slye team had tagged him
Caddy
because Fontana was the youngest son from a family of pro golfers, but had shied away from earning his living on a golf course, swinging his clubs only at corporate outings. Still, he was well liked among the press even if he tended to play second string to everyone around him.

Nick updated the team. “Perdido and Caddy on the move. Handing off.”

Tanner’s voice rumbled. “I have eyes on Perdido and Caddy. Crossing through center of crowd.”

When Dingo caught sight of the political duo, they were surrounded by four of their own security and passing through a gap in guests as Tanner updated his report. “Perdido and Caddy intercepted by Daddy and Lady Warbucks.”

Lady Warbucks was the code name for Jon Tinker’s bombshell wife, June, who still turned heads at sixty. She had a smile that charmed the press. The reclusive billionaire she’d married had underwritten this charity event to
Save the Hollywood Pacific Theater
, a spectacular relic from years gone by that several investors had tried–and failed–to bring back to life more than once.

Protecting California treasures was just one of Tinker’s pet projects.

Perdido had jumped on that bandwagon by issuing a bold statement that, if elected, she would guarantee that California reclaimed its history by maintaining some of the monstrous old buildings.

There had been an outcry about wasting tax dollars, but Perdido had smiled in victory when she gained Tinker as a major supporter. Perdido used her physical attraction to her advantage when playing up to fat wallets, but her abrasive attitude and ability to stir up opponents had cultivated many enemies.

And now a stalker.

One that would be easier to spot from a high point, if the billionaire hadn’t screwed that option.

Stashing Ryder in a sniper position on the roof, where he’d have been right at home with a scope, would have offered the best set of eyes for this afternoon. But Nick couldn’t even put Ryder on a balcony of the twelve-story hotel towering between the garden event and the street, because Daddy Warbucks’s people had trumped Nick’s request. Two of Warbucks’s security were homesteading on the roof right now.

Lots of manpower.

But with no new intel on the assassinations, tonight would likely turn out to be nothing more than a surveillance gig for some obsessed stalker.

Simple, right?

Nothing more dangerous than an over zealous fan who wanted his ten minutes of fame. Still, though, not as deadly as an Uzi-wielding terrorist.

So what was causing the hairs on Dingo’s neck to stand up as if he faced down a jihadi guerrilla?

Something was wonky. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt it.

He moved through the sprawling gardens laid out on two tiers, with white-linen covered tables and massive ice sculptures that didn’t even seem to be sweating. With quick visual sweeps, he took in every person speaking, staring, yawning, glaring ... all were suspect and none were suspect.

Nick ordered, “Update on Perdido.”

“I’ve got eyes on Perdido near the stage,” Blade confirmed, which meant he was on the upper tier of the garden where a raised stage had been positioned alongside the fountain. A small orchestra was perched nearby, sending out soft melodies fit for Hollywood royalty, or for those who believed they were.

Nick said, “Maintain that position.”

“Roger that,” Blade replied.

Dingo blew out a weary rush of air. Other than a couple of quick combat naps, he’d had no sleep last night. He’d checked in before midnight, making sure Josh and Nick had seen Dingo come in, then he’d slipped out to spend the rest of the evening and early morning watching over Valene’s apartment. He’d shown up with donuts at headquarters before daylight this morning, and ignored Sabrina’s suspicious gaze. They hadn’t spoken since their argument and probably wouldn’t sort their issues out until they returned to Atlanta.

Dingo stifled a yawn and shifted around just as a man blinked in and out of his line of sight, just long enough to send a chill racing up his spine. Dingo squinted, but the face was gone. Even so, his mind had snapped a shot and slammed it up front and center.

Had that been Len Rikker?

Wouldn’t Nick, who was panning everyone coming through the entrance, have recognized Rikker? Or Josh, who was back at their LA safe house headquarters feeding visuals from video feeds into facial recognition software, have caught Rikker’s?

Dingo had only seen a partial view from the side. Rikker played through many of Dingo’s bloody dreams.

Had he just imagined the wanker was here?

Adrenaline shoved all weariness from his system.

He swept a sharp eye over everyone in the area where he thought he’d seen Rikker.

Nothing out of place. No one moving with purpose.

Dingo rubbed his neck, willing himself to settle down. Boredom and fatigue had him imagining things.

Overactive mind without enough to do.

Sabrina would go ballistic if Dingo reported a
possible
sighting of Rikker. Josh would be just irritated. Everyone would doubt anything he said at that point. No announcing phantom visions without evidence. Got it.

Dingo gave himself a quick pep talk made up of mostly four-letter words and focused on his job.

Catch the damn stalker. Stop an assassination.

Check.

The good news about Nick being in charge of tonight was that a completely objective person was on top of everything, leaving Dingo free to infiltrate the crowd at will.

If only he had an idea who would kill for money in this sparkling group of LA’s movers and shakers.

In California’s bling capital, a high-dollar hit could be anything from a grudge attack to a spouse wanting out of a marriage the easy way.

Between the in-house security and that of Daddy Warbucks, which rivaled protection for a king, this place was safer than the White House right now.

A number of guests held tickets that cost twelve thousand dollars, which allowed them one minute of Daddy Warbucks’s time. The philanthropist sometimes acted on requests made through the private meetings.

Dingo wouldn’t pay the ten grand required just to walk through the door much less twelve thousand to talk to someone, but then he wasn’t trying to squeeze cash out of the guy.

He scratched his chin, sweeping the crowd with a visual check again.

This was a perfect example of why Dingo would never settle down. He wasn’t cut out to work something dignified like corporate security and damn if Sabrina didn’t have more of those contracts coming in faster and faster.

That’s what happened when you had someone with Sabrina’s savvy running a company.

She was too freakin’ good at business. If she ever wanted to give up all this smoke-and-mirrors fun, the corporate security side of her Slye Temp agency would keep her financially secure forever.

She should do it.

Then maybe Josh would stay in Miami or wherever he planned to build a home for him and Trish.

Dingo saw only one problem with all that.

Josh and Sabrina would both expect Dingo to quit the black ops contracts if they did, but Dingo wasn’t cut out for a normal life.

Too many rules.

Too much standing around.

Too much time to think.

A young bloke standing by himself in a shadowy corner snapped Dingo out of that depressing line of thought. This guy had a suspicious air about him.

But as Dingo watched without turning his head in that direction, the guy brightened when a young woman stepped over to speak with him.

She hugged the pimply kid. Not really a kid at mid-twenties, but after all Dingo had seen and done, he felt twice as old.

He dismissed the pair and turned to do a three-sixty sweep of the area just as a head of wild blonde locks bounced past him. The golden hair flitted around a slender neck on a curvy female in a slinky blue dress strolling away from Dingo and causing his heartbeat to stutter.

What the bloody hell? Was his mind going?

He rammed his attention back on track with ruthless discipline and mentally slapped himself for allowing any distraction to interfere with an operation.

Even
her.

That was
not
her.

Valene Eklund couldn’t be at an event that cost a minimum of ten thousand dollars just to walk through the front door, when she lived in a place that was one step above poverty housing.