On The Rocks (3 page)

Slid his gaze to Wheaton and then back to
the pictures. Flipped the first photo off the top and stuck it at
the back of the thick stack. Twisted his head to line the awkward
angle of the shot up with his vision. Cleared his throat.

“When were these taken?”

Wheaton rubbed at his jaw. “Six months back?
Maybe seven? Hell, I don’t remember exactly.”

“Where?”

“Rome. Took Betty for our anniversary.”

Bill turned to the next photo. Kept his face
a mask. “Do you know who she is?”

A rough grunt punched out the other man’s
mouth. “She’s the bitch who’s going to bring my entire life to a
screeching halt, that’s who she is. Betty got sick, so she was
resting. I’d been in the room all day and needed some air. Ended up
at the bar. Look, I had a few— nothing too bad, just enough to help
me relax. .”

Gaze on the closed door, his voice dropped
to a whisper. “This young woman comes on to me. Seduces me. What
red-blooded man wouldn’t jump at the chance? You know how it is,
Bill.”

No. He didn’t.

“But, damn, I should have known,” Wheaton
said. “I should— and if Betty finds out… We won’t get through this
one. Not again. She’ll be gone and then all this work… Like you
said, this one shot to get the country back on the right track—”
another slow exhale; another shake of his head— “I should have
known…”

If only I had a penny…

Just one penny for all the shoulda woulda
couldas he’d heard from a person in power who’d been caught with
their proverbial —or literal— pants down and Bill could
singlehandedly fund The Crew and half a dozen other black ops teams
for the next twenty-odd years.

Head bowed low, Wheaton palmed the back of
his neck, looking like a child whose ice cream had melted in the
sun.

A sour note curled in Bill’s gut, and not
from the ulcer battling the expensive whiskey he’d had two sips of.
No, this was the sharp pang of disgust at what the modern-day
politician had become.

Weak hypocrites. Stepping about in their
fancy shoes and expensive clothes, preaching righteousness and
morals and the American way, but when it came right down to it,
they were more flawed than the plebs whose lives they so carelessly
played with.

Where were the patriots? The men of honor?
Strong men like him, who understood personal sacrifice? Hell, Bill
had long ago had his own wife walk out on him and he hadn’t even
cheated! The pain over that loss gnawed a new hole in his heart
every day, but he’d never put his personal interests over what was
best for the union.

And he’d been celibate ever since.

With a woman like Betty —a kind woman who’d
given this bastard a son; baked apple pies to feed this man’s
grandchildren; overlooked his philandering and drinking because
that was best for
their
union— was it too much to
sacrifice
for Wheaton to keep his Armani slacks zipped?

Swallowing his distaste, Bill went through
the stack of photos in his hold until he came back to the first.
Full color. Full frontal. No denying Wheaton was the male model in
the shoot. As for the woman, she wore a fancy scarf tied over her
long, bone-straight black hair. Warm olive complexion. Dark eyes in
an angelic face. She was young and vibrant and gorgeous. And, yeah,
Papa Pervert over there
should
have known.

“She the only one? Recently, I mean.”

A long moment of silence. “She’s the only
one who’s sent pictures.”

Bill kept his tone neutral. “Who else have
you told about this?”

“I’m announcing my bid in less than three
weeks, for chrissakes,” Wheaton snapped. He stalked over and
snatched his glass from the table. “Obviously I’m trying to keep
this quiet, not have it splashed on the front page of the goddamned
Post. You’re the only person I’ve told. And it had better stay that
way.”

“Her demands?”

There was a steady
glug glug glug
from the bar. “What do you think she’s demanding?” Crystal clinked
against crystal as the stopper dropped back onto the mouth of the
decanter. “Same thing every filthy Jezebel the world over demands
from a man in power she’s managed to get her hooks into, the little
bitch.”

Bill wedged his phone out of the inner
pocket of his coat. “How much?”

“Does it matter?”

“To be frank, I’d rather not be involved. So
if it doesn’t matter, pay her and be done.”

“I’ve done that already.”

Bill’s head snapped up fast enough to give
him whiplash. “You
paid
this woman?”

“Twice.” Wheaton’s head bobbed like he
didn’t understand Bill’s sarcasm. “Fifty grand almost five months
ago, seventy-five about three month back.”

Rookie mistake. And
this
was the guy
determining the budget for the
Intelligence
community?

“The money can be tracked,” Bill
offered.

“Account’s in the Caymans.”

Still, there were ways.

The more questions he asked, the more he’d
be sucked into this. But the next one came out of his mouth anyway.
“How much does she want this time?”

“Half a million. A sum that large would
not
go unnoticed.” He took a healthy chug of whiskey. “Says
if she doesn’t have it soon, she’ll sell the pictures and expose
me.”

Wheaton’s gaze found a spot on the carpet to
settle on. After a long moment he said, “You have to take care of
this for me.”

Bill’s grey brows winged up. “Come
again.”

“Oh, don’t play coy. I know what your people
do, and—”

“You haven’t a clue what ‘my people’ do,
Carl, in spite of what you’ve read in those obnoxious OCA inquiries
your office likes to make.”

Wheaton frowned.

Bill countered with a wan smile. “We’re a
touch more concerned with things like terrorism to be worried over
your indiscretions on vacation.”

Speaking of those other concerns…

Bill double-checked the date on the phone’s
screen: fifth of August. Twelve days since his best agent had
pulled a Houdini and gone on “vacation” herself.

Vacation time was over. A sensitive op was
coming down the pike and she’d have to be on it. Once the new
officer at Langley finished giving him the particulars, he’d reel
in Kizzie Baldwin and her erratic behavior of late.

For now, he’d deal with the behavior of the
guy across from him.

“Listen, I don’t play, Carl. Got no time for
games and no patience riddles. I expect clear and direct
communication from the people I interact with, be they the kid
taking my lunch order, a member of my team—” a pause— “or the
future President of these United States.”

Wheaton’s spine straightened. Chest puffed
up. “I want…” His brown eyes met Bill’s rheumy blues straight on.
“I want her dead. And anyone who’s helping her. Shut it down and
cover it up. Whatever it takes.”

Interesting how everyone cried transparency
until they needed a smokescreen.

The photos disappeared into Bill’s overcoat.
“Which brings us back to the most important question: What’s in it
for me?”

Another long sip of whiskey. “I kill all OCA
inquiries, from my office and others.”

Bill shrugged. “You’ve been making those
inquests for so long, a sudden halt would draw suspicion.” Besides,
Bill didn’t actually deal with the requests himself.

“All right.” Wheaton shifted from one foot
to the other. “We have a vote coming up in the Subcommittee. I can
assure you funding for the CIA will not be cut, including monies to
its ancillary branches.”

Leaning heavily on the cane, Bill pushed
himself upright. “That’s great for the CIA. But what’s in it for
me
?”

Wheaton paused. His head cocked slowly.
“What do you want?”

Ah, now he was beginning to understand.

Cane leading the charge, Bill shuffled
across the room to the patio door he’d come through twenty minutes
earlier. “You’ll owe me. And I don’t want any problems when it
comes time to collect. I’ll be in touch.”

Outside, Bill took measured steps on the
tile. Went by the grill. Skirted the pool.

He glanced up at the dreary gray skies
overhead. The corners of his mouth turned down and he exhaled
audibly.

Sure enough, it looked like rain…

1

August 9
^th

Harlem, New York

KIZZIE BALDWIN HAD a shadow.

Just one as far as she could tell. Standard
operating procedure for all the normal people roaming the
earth.

But Kizzie Baldwin wasn’t normal.

Kizzie Baldwin was a highly trained, covert
agent for the CIA. And when a highly trained, covert agent for the
CIA had a shadow, shit hitting the fan was imminent.

As usual, questions like Who was following
her? Who’d sent them? and Why? didn’t matter. She had one
objective: ditch the tail. Fast. She had a meeting with her handler
to get to, and parties with Bill never okayed a plus one.

In a city like New York, with tons of people
and lots of traffic and constant busy-ness, ditching a single
shadow on foot was child’s play. However, that task was infinitely
harder when trapped inside a subway car.

Awesome situational awareness skills,
Baldwin…

One by one, Kizzie thumbed over the knuckles
of her right hand. Tilted her head to crack her neck. Checking for
tails was day one stuff, done automatically like breathing and
cursing, and with the same frequency and enthusiasm. Missteps like
this could end with a long nap inside a body bag. But she’d been
distracted by a much bigger mistake. One proving far more
detrimental to her body.

“
You may
not
touch Sir’s—”

“
One sixteenth,
” the robotic voice
crackled over the speaker.
“One sixteenth
.”

The announcement killed the memory and
brought her focus back on task. Tugging the cap on her head down
lower, she adjusted her grip on the overhead rail. That
bug-under-a-microscope feeling ghosting over her skin, putting her
spidey sense on full alert.

She had to lose whoever was watching her.
But in order to slip the shadow she had to
find
the shadow.
Her gaze zipped to the far left corner: Black male, late teens,
earbuds in, gaze out the window, head bobbing. In the seat beside
him: White male, late teens, earbuds in, gaze down, head
bobbing.

Far right corner: Two females—one Dominican,
one Indian—knees turned toward each other, early twenties, sharing
a pair of earbuds, heads bent over a tablet.

Closer: Asian couple, mid thirties—male on
the phone, female swiping over her tablet’s screen.

Behold the majestic electronic device.
Universal symbol of unity and division…

She continued her search, picking through
faces one at a time, until she came to a man hugging a center pole
nearby. White or Hispanic, she couldn’t be certain. Thick dark hair
pulled back into a queue. Full beard worn low. Late thirties— No,
early forties, maybe? Mirrored shades.

Those shades looked in her direction. Stayed
a second too long.

Her shadow?

He bent his head toward the phone in his
hand, thumb danced over the screen. Face turned toward the window,
his head started bobbing.

Kizzie swallowed a groan.

This real-life version of
Where’s
Waldo?
never would have happened if she’d only gotten on the
plane.

Just three days earlier she’d been kissing
Xander Duquesne like her soul needed his to survive. Did it matter
that he was a criminal mastermind?

No.

Did it matter that he knew she was a CIA
agent? Knew some of the darker parts of her past and could use them
to cause her irreparable damage?

Nope.

Did it matter that Xander was already
married to a lithe woman who looked like Dorothy Dandridge 2.0 and
had impeccable taste in shoes?

Not even a little bit.

With his tongue stroking hers, those strong
hands in her hair, and her body fused to his from hip to chest to
mouth, all that mattered was Xander wanted her to come with him. To
be his submissive.

And she was ready to submit.

Ready to forget being an agent, run off with
a corrupt, married Dom she didn’t know much else about, and fulfill
what were apparently some deep-seated sexual desires.

So why didn’t she get on the plane?

The second Xander was airborne, Kizzie began
turning that question over in her head. Between battling regret and
considering the consequences of breaking his “Don’t touch Sir’s
pussy” rule, she scoured her brain for an answer.

About an hour ago, it finally hit her: She
was full of shit.

Kizzie wasn’t running from Xander —like
she’d told him, she didn’t run from
anything
— but she was
doing something worse.

Hiding.

Maybe not from him, but from… something. She
hadn’t put her finger on what exactly. As much as she hated getting
yanked back to her life, Bill Connolly’s summons was a bit of a
relief. Hard to figure out “something” in Xander’s presence when
all she wanted to do was sleep with the guy. Plus, she owed Bill a
debt, and in her world, duty trumped desire.

So, instead of being who-cares-where on a
luxury jet while her Dom spanked her ass and doled out orgasms
—which she could
really
use right now— Kizzie was trapped
with a shadow in a tuna can slithering through New York’s
underground, and inhaling the subway’s unique odor of BO and
feet.

See? Not. Normal.

“
One twenty-fifth,”
came through the
tinny speakers. “
One twenty-fifth.”

125
^th
Street. The heart of
Harlem.

This was her stop.

Kizzie glanced at her watch: Five to eleven.
The meeting was at noon, but showing up on time meant you were late
by secret agent standards. Gave her forty-five minutes or so to
lose whoever was tracking her.