Barefoot With a Bodyguard (10 page)

Shit, Nino had more to do than Gabe these days. But Gabe had to be patient…and continue his “project” behind the closed doors of the small private office Luke McBain had given him.

Which was exactly what he was doing today, taking out a non-traceable cell phone to make the call he’d scheduled a week ago. The bastard on the other end better answer, especially after making Gabe wait so long.

He did, with a gruff hello.

“How are you, Agent Drummand?” Gabe asked, purposely sucking up by using the formal title even though they’d once been acquaintances and colleagues. Never friends.

“Same as I was last time you came sniffin’ around a year ago, Rossi. Nothing’s changed.”

Gabe swallowed a smartass retort, knowing this dicknose didn’t even have enough of a sense of humor to appreciate a joke. “Everything’s changed,” Gabe said. “Cuba’s open.”

“Not as wide as your mama’s legs, but yeah, Cuba’s open
in
g. Slowly. Not the US Embassy, though.” A long pause and soft snort. “And not to you.”

“What would happen if I showed up?” he asked.

“Well, let’s see…” Drummand’s voice sang with false playfulness. “Lots of things, Gabe Rossi. And I bet you can guess what they are.”

He sure could.

But Drummand was on a roll now. “Let me help you out with some frequently asked questions by former intelligence consultants who didn’t play by the rules,” he said. “Will you get arrested the minute you step foot on one square inch of Cuba? Likely. Will they be able to find charges that would stick to you like superglue? No, but they will make up a few doozies that will keep you there longer than it takes Fidel Castro to get a hard-on. Will you be treated like a traitor and scumbag fuckwad and given some of that Gitmo juice that makes your ass hurt for the rest of your life? Quite possibly. Will you come out alive? Yes, but you might wish you hadn’t.”

Gabe closed his eyes, more pissed at himself for thinking it could be easy. The US and Cuba may be loosening their choke holds on each other, but the CIA wasn’t letting up on any of its long list of enemies. And that list included Gabe.

“Take my advice and don’t be booking the next flight to Havana, Mr. Rossi.”

“No worries.” He’d have to go about his business another way…his way.

“Listen, Gabe.” Drummand lowered his voice. “No one has seen or heard from her for years. I’d bet my ass she managed to get out and is languishing on some Brazilian beach dreaming about those lazy nights in Cuba when you nailed her stupid and silly.”

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe.”

“Hey, is that any way to talk to the only person in the CIA with the clearance, authority, or remote desire to actually speak to you?”

“It’s the only way I talk to you.”

“It’s always a pleasure to talk to a man who forgot where his bread was buttered. Where are you now? I see you’re untraceable.” He hacked a laugh. “Are you back in Boston or looking for work with ISIS? Heard they need hotshot former spooks.”

Gabe gritted his teeth and didn’t respond, as much as it killed him.

Fuck it. He needed this guy. “Any word on Mal?”

Drummand was quiet for a beat too long, then, “Mal’s getting out real soon. But then, even you are smart enough to figure that out.”

In other words, Drummand wasn’t going to share anything of value. Still, Gabe inched forward, thinking of all the implications of Malcolm Harris being released from federal prison. “How soon?”

“Who knows? That mother must be giving blow jobs to sentencing commissioners, because they’re letting him serve the rest of his time on house arrest. But don’t worry. We’ll get him again. One way or another, he’ll spend life in prison. We’ll be on him like flies on shit, which is what he is.”

Gabe closed his eyes, hatred soaring.

“And we’ll be on you,” Drummand added, “if you so much as breathe on Cuban soil.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime, Rossi. We haven’t forgotten you. And we won’t.” And the connection died.

Gabe dropped the phone and thunked both elbows on his desk, looking up at a tap on the door.

“Gabriel, it’s me. Unlock the door.”

He stood to let Nino in, hoping the disappointment that grabbed his gut wasn’t evident on his face. He could lie about almost anything to anyone…except Nino. He had a hard time lying to the grandfather who’d left his comfortable life and family in Boston to follow Gabe on this adventure.

But it was Nino who looked perturbed. His thin gray hair was mussed, and he plucked at the damp wrinkles of his usually crisp white shirt.

“Does it never cool off down here?” he demanded, walking to the only seat in the office, facing Gabe’s desk. The room was sparse, and Gabe liked it that way. He didn’t keep files. He shredded them. “Is it November or July?” Nino demanded.

“You don’t have to dress up for work, Nino,” Gabe said, returning to his own chair. “Shorts, commando, and T-shirt are all you need in this joint.”

Nino scowled. “I told you I don’t work in dungarees or those flipper-flopper things. When I’m here, I’m working.” He adjusted his collar, which, thank God, didn’t include a tie. “But I will be taking the afternoon off to help Tessa with the sweet potato harvest on the farm.”

“That’ll cool you down.”

Nino shrugged. “I need to work off some frustrations.”

Gabe scowled at him. “What are you frustrated about?”

Nino looked toward the open door and leaned forward to whisper, “I know she’s a good woman and I don’t really want to kill her, but…”

Gabe blinked, having lost track of what Nino said. “Who are you talking about?”

Nino’s eyes widened. “The Jerk Chicken.”

“Poppy?” He’d sensed from the beginning that the Jamaican housekeeper’s overbearing and opinionated style might clash a little with his not-so-easygoing grandfather, but Gabe figured the two of them were smart enough to work it out. Apparently, no such luck.

“Now what?” Gabe asked.

“I’m just wondering what her exact job is, that’s all.”

Damn it, he didn’t want to do this for a living, but here it was: adult day care.

He sucked in a breath, trying to put himself in Nino Rossi’s ancient wing tips. “Look, I know she’s a strong personality, but she’s my eyes and ears at the resort, Nino. She talks to everyone, knows everything, and can keep me informed about the possibility of a blown cover. I need her out there,” he said, thumbing over his shoulder in the general direction of the beach. “People tell her everything, and that’s a spy’s gift. And someone has to go in that villa where our clients are staying, so she’s perfect.” Nino’s face grew progressively unhappier as Gabe talked. “What is the matter with that?”

Nino shifted in his seat and adjusted his collar again. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“No, no…” He waved a big, gnarled hand. “The last thing you need is bickering employees.”

Thank you.

“And I don’t want to be one, but that lady…”

“Thinks she knows everything,” Gabe supplied.

“Exactly!” Nino slapped his legs loudly. “And after a while, I just want to say, ‘Hey, Miss Mama, I got thirty years in the kitchen over you, and I don’t give a flying…’ Well, you can’t say
that
to her, because she’ll stick her greedy hand out and make you pay for using a bad—”

“Wait, this is about food?” Gabe shook his head a little, not sure he was following the story.

Nino stared at him. “Of course.”

“What the hell are you two talking about food for?”

“Because…that’s what I do,” Nino said, a little note of disappointment in his voice. Was he disappointed Gabe didn’t realize that’s
what he did
or because he wasn’t
doing
food as much as he used to? He didn’t know, but he felt the sadness in Nino’s words.

And he’d promised his family Nino would be happy here.

“It isn’t all you do anymore,” Gabe said. “You did that when you ‘worked’ for Vivi in Boston. Made lasagna for the staff and biscotti for the break room. But you were unhappy there, remember? Now you have a real job. And come to think of it, I have an assignment for you.”

Nino nodded, but Gabe knew the old man well enough to recognize something bubbling under the surface like one of his tangy tomato sauces.

“When do you two talk about food?” Gabe asked.

Nino gave his signature shrug, hands out, Italian-style. “You know, over in the housekeeping bungalow, they have a pretty good kitchen. I pop in and chat with the ladies.”

“I know.” Nino talked about it every night.

“They love me.” He smiled, baring aging teeth and deepening his creases. “Couple of them love you, too, but I’m thinking it’s for a whole different reason.”

Smiling, Gabe reached for a notepad. “It’s impossible to keep you out of a kitchen, isn’t it?”

“Why would you want to?” Nino fired back. “Anyway, I can do the work you ask of me and cook and help a little on that farm. I’m very happy here.”

“Are you?” God, he wanted him to be happy. Needed him to be happy.

“Except for having to work with her.” He stole another look at the door. “Who would even want to eat a piece of fish smothered in that mushy orange fruit?”

What the hell? “Mango?”

“Yeah. Who puts fruit with fish, Gabe? That’s not how an Italian does it. And she says Jamaicans know more about fish than Italians.”

Gabe tried to care, he really did. But he couldn’t muster up a single fuck to give. Nino needed something to get his mind off this crap, and Gabe needed information. He wrote Cuba across the top page. “You know what’s going on in Cuba, don’t you?”

Nino crossed his arms across his once barrel-like chest. “Oh, I sure do. Now those bastards can cook. They do things with a pig that would bring you to your knees.” Nino leaned back, a dreamy smile on his face. “I like a good piece of pork.”

“Nino.
Cuba
.”

He straightened up. “Right. Communism and Castro.” He frowned. “Isn’t he dead yet?”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “No one really knows, but his brother runs the place now, and the restrictions are changing. Americans are going to be allowed to travel there again. I need you to dig around through any means you have and find out exactly what paperwork an American needs to get into that country, all the papers.”

Nino nodded, finally focused on the task. “Are you thinking about that as a new home for your Russian boy?”

“Maybe.” It could work as a way into the country. “Though I doubt he’d want to go there.”

“Does he have a choice about where he goes?” Nino asked.

“I don’t want to send him somewhere he’ll hate, but—”

“Mr. Gabriel!” Poppy’s wide face—and even wider body—filled the doorway.

Instantly, Nino stiffened and stifled a groan.

“Can I come in?” she asked. “I’m afraid we have a problem.”

Nino pushed out of his seat, a little too fast. “I’m off to my cubicle to start this high-priority assignment.” He waved the paper at Gabe and pointed to the in-box Nino had bought for him when they first moved in because he thought every office should have one. “That pile of crap right there needs—”

“That’s a dollar for the Jamaican Children’s Fund.” Poppy pointed to a glass jar she’d placed on the empty bookshelf against the wall.

“Crap is not a swear word!” Nino and Gabe exclaimed in unison.

“Two more, one for each of you. It counts. It’s a C-word, though not as bad as those other two.”

Gabe dug into his pocket. “Jeez…”

She scowled at him, rocking her large frame in his direction. “Careful, Mr. Gabriel. My Lord and Savior—”

“Costs ten bucks. I know. I got you covered, Nino.” He stuffed a few ones into the jar as his grandfather escaped. “How many nephews you have over there, Poppy?” Gabe asked.

“Three of them, Mr. Gabriel. Isaiah, Ezra, and baby Samuel.”

“A veritable Old Testament of orphans,” Gabe mused.

“And I mean to get them all over here and educated properly, Mr. Gabriel, since my po’ sister went to be with the Almighty last year. Someday, they’ll come here and live with me, and take care of me in my old age.”

Gabe gave her a look. “If I just paid for all that right now, could I swear at will again?”

“Absolutely not. Then I’d start a fund for some other orphans. There are enough of them in Jamaica.” She took the chair that Nino had vacated, spreading her pink housekeeper’s skirt around her legs. “Do you want to make that payment now, Mr. Gabriel?”

“Not yet. But did you come in here because you need to tell me something?”

“Oh, yes,” she said ominously.

Damn it, if this was another food fight, he might swear enough to cover those kids’ tuition for a year. “What’s the issue, Poppy?” he asked, congratulating himself on not asking about the
fucking
issue. That would have set him back another five bucks.

“That young couple in your villa.”

That got his attention. He might not like the bickering of his only employees, but he did need to make a go of this business, and successfully hiding those two clients was a big part of that. “What about them?”