Sake Bomb (32 page)

Fletcher took the picture in as a whole.
Several white dots in the trees. A handful of colored dots peppered
the boy’s jean jacket—an orange one here, a red there. A yellow dot
in the center of the scoops of chocolate ice cream.

He lifted his head, meeting the satisfied
smirk on Rachel’s face. She eased into the hard chair beside
her.

“Two minutes.”

She nodded. Her voice softened and she
folded her hands in her lap. “Brazil is a poor country. If I’m
Galletti and I’m kidnapping someone for ransom, it has to be
someone with money. A political figure, entertainer…maybe a local
business owner made good. The missing persons list is long, and
even with those criteria, it would take a while to narrow down.

“Looking at the photos again, I figured that
can’t be right. See,
if
I’m a kidnapper, doing this for
money, wouldn’t I want these boys’ parents to think their child was
in immediate danger? The goal is to get them to pay, not think I’d
taken their kid for a trip to Disney.

“Every picture appears staged.” Rachel
pulled the top page over again and turned it to face her, pride in
her voice. “The kid with the ice cream, this one with his bike, and
then this one here with a lollipop and two front teeth
missing—that’s my favorite, by the way.” She smiled briefly. “Where
would you find an abundance of pictures with this ‘lazy days of
childhood’ feel?”

Fletcher leaned back in his chair again,
feeling like an idiot. “Stock photo site.”

“Each and every one of them, sir. I know you
hate to hear it, but I’m relieved to know these boys are safe.” She
flicked her gaze up to his a moment and then down again. “Anyway,
if the boys aren’t the focus, why the pictures?”

His brows drew together. “Can send a lot of
data in a picture.”

“And you can change the data too.” Searching
through the file pages, she located a set of stapled spreadsheets
and handed them to him.

Fletcher flipped through the packet once and
went back to the top page of tables detailing the results of her
analysis. He skimmed the info, impressed.

His girl was thorough.

“Steganography, sir. They’re using the
photos to transfer coded messages,” Rachel said, breaking into his
thoughts. “Change a single pixel here and there, or alter a group
of them, like the kid with the soccer ball. Who would notice? You
didn’t catch it until you could see the picture blown up.”

Staring down at the data sets, Fletcher
dropped his pencil on the table and wiped his hand over his mouth.
This was the break they needed.

And she’d found it.

“Do we know what they say?”

The light in her eyes dimmed and her bun
slipped when she shook her head. “No. I don’t know the password.
Does every altered pixel correspond to a letter, or every
third
? If I had the password…”

“But we don’t,” Fletcher said, more gruffly
than he intended. He grabbed up his pencil again; trapped it in the
web between his index and middle fingers, wiggled the digits. The
stick tapped out a beat against his thumb.

Kizzie was the one person who might have
found something of use during her risky time at Galletti’s home.
Considering Fletcher had been dodging her like she was the tennis
ball in a game of pickle, she might not make getting that info
easy.

He pulled open a drawer in his desk and
removed his secure phone. Dialed without bothering to work out what
he would say and then perched the device between his shoulder and
ear. “Is that all, Hayford?”

Moving a stack of files, he located a legal
pad beneath the heap. A glance up and he saw the touch of pain in
her eyes. Rachel cleared her throat, stood and collected her files.
With her back straight, she turned to leave.

Fletcher offered a weak, “Good work, ag—”
but the door shut softly before he had a chance to get it all
out.

Four rings later, he cut the attempted
connection and dropped the phone onto his desk, a newly determined
man. The women who always came through for him—Rachel, Kizzie—he’d
disregarded their “feelings” about the Galletti op and he’d been
wrong. Had he helped, they might have found this info days ago.
He’d make it right with Rachel later, but he’d start with
Kizzie.

Agent Baldwin had three requests. Nothing on
Harvey, as usual. The dead Japanese girl wasn’t in any of his
databases—not surprising. But the third item Fletcher hadn’t even
bothered to look at once he’d stupidly washed his hands of Kizzie’s
madness: the Person of Interest.

Accessing his computer, he pulled up the
files she’d sent. There were several pictures of a woman. Not bad
looking. Actually, she was hot. Olive skin, nice face. Short, dark
hair gelled against her head in waves. In one shot, she actually
stared straight at the camera. Big, dark eyes, but something about
them didn’t quite match her feminine looks. Those eyes were hard
and stoic. Eyes with secrets.

Fletcher ran the photo through the paces,
tried Kizzie again to no avail. He thought about his alternatives
in the event he didn’t get anything from his search on the
woman.

As silly as it was, the agencies meant to
protect the country—NRO, CIA, FBI, and all other tri-lettered
variations—didn’t work together. Well, more precisely, they didn’t
work together
well
. Too many kids in the sandbox and all of
them bullies. Bureaucracy at its finest. There was no one he
trusted in the FBI—feebs had shifty eyes—everyone at the NRO was a
space cadet, and the CIA…well, apart from a handful of people,
Fletcher knew they really
were
the center for inefficient
assholes. And he’d been the flag-bearer.

He’d do it himself. Even if it meant
marching into the Pentagon and demanding— No, not demanding. One
didn’t
demand
from the Pentagon. He’d ask. Nicely. See what
that got him.

Bottom line, he was determined to get Kizzie
the info she needed.

Two coffees, a ham sandwich, six mini
donuts, eight unanswered phone calls and three hours later, he had
a hit. He straightened in his chair, bleary eyes glued to the
computer screen. PASSWORD REQUIRED flashed white against the black
background, the cursor blinking patiently.

Kizzie’s P.o.I. was in the system all right.
And whatever it was for, it was on the top-shelf of Intel. Being an
upper-tier SOO at the CIA, Fletcher had access to the old
databases. Relics compared to the servers they had now, akin to
watching
Star Wars
on a beta tape and an old black and white
TV, versus experiencing it on BluRay with a 60-inch, HiDef set and
immersive surround sound.

He doubted anyone used the system
anymore—most of the Intel was hold-over stuff from the end of the
Cold War, maybe a couple hits from covert ops carried out during
Desert Storm. Still, traipsing through the old databases would mean
footprints. His footprints.

He’d have to take extra care to cover them
up. In and out too fast for anyone to notice. Quick, like a real
field agent.

Nine characters into the ten-digit
alpha-numeric passcode, he stopped. If Kizzie was in deep, she’d
pull him in too. Could cost Fletcher his position, his office, his
livelihood.

He tapped the last character, hovered over
the ENTER key. A twist of his head to the left, and he stared at
the dark grey skies building outside his hard-earned piece of
glass. If this blew up, he’d lose that too…

Without looking, he stabbed down on the
button. The background dissolved—so simple—and Fletcher let out a
humorless chuckle.

Like every government operation ever run,
getting in was the easy part.

Getting out clean would be the problem.

August 4
^th

Tokyo, Japan

“T
hat’s a
children’s tale, isn’t it?”

Kizzie adjusted in the chair she’d stationed
in the doorway that separated the bedroom from the common area of
the suite. Across the room, Sumi sprawled on the mattress, swaddled
in a hotel robe and reading a magazine as though on vacation and
not running from—according to her—certain death.

39 hours since Sumi had been in their care
and this was Kizzie’s first 6-hour stretch babysitting. She had no
weapons—her gun and lucky knife were in Phil’s room, as were all of
her other belongings—because, apparently
,
there was a
concern she might kill the deranged former puppet. Kizzie wasn’t
sure where Xander and Phil got
that
idea.

“Gigi?” Sumi asked, peering over the top
edge of a newly purchased copy of PINKY.

Kizzie lifted her gaze from where it’d been
locked on the white comforter, said a gruff, “What?”

“The spider and the fly…it’s from a
children’s tale, yes?”

Kizzie grunted. Technically, it was a poem,
but if Sumi had suggested it was from the Qur’an, the Gita, or the
very laws inscribed on the tablets Moses got on Mount Sinai, Kizzie
would have grunted in the affirmative all the same. Rocking her
head from side to side cracked her neck, and then she focused on
the bed once more.

39 hours ago it’d been
their
bed,
their
room. Arms tied, legs belted shut, Kizzie had crawled
across this very floor, inching her way to Xander so he could
deliver what turned out to be the most spectacular punishment she’d
ever received in life. She’d been on that bed—sort of in the spot
where Sumi was now—lying beneath his solid body, ready to accept
every thick inch of him; had given him control, been willing to do
whatever he wanted. God, she’d actually
begged
Xander to let
her come.

Then this broad showed up and it all got
shot to shit.

She should kill Sumi on principle.

39 hours…

39 hours out of the loop.

39 hours without Xander.

Kizzie puffed out her cheeks and blew out a
breath.

The months she’d gone without seeing the man
were nothing like this. Of course, they didn’t have an unfinished
orgasm hanging between them before, but since when did Kizzie
become so conscious of his presence? Or absence, as it were.

Xander hadn’t spoken to her since the events
following Sumi’s all-too-convenient arrival. After his shifts
watching their guest, he would come into Phil’s room, shower,
change, and then drop onto the bed fully clothed. The entire
process took about 15 minutes max. Kizzie counted. A couple hours
of restless sleep and Xander would be gone again.

Attempts to get an update from him about any
info Sumi provided were useless as a training bra on Norma Stitz.
Phil wasn’t much help either, telling her to “Give it a minute,”
and reminding Kizzie just how stupid she’d been to consider the man
would flip on his boss.

“Do you like spiders, Gigi? I like spiders.
Flies too… Although I don’t think a fly would step into a parlor,
and why would a spider have a parlor anyway?” Sumi giggled, shaking
her head. “Just silly.”

Yanked from her musings, Kizzie heaved an
annoyed breath.

“Sorry. I’ve interrupted your thoughts. I
seem to keep doing that—interrupting you. I saw the tie around your
wrists. You and Master were…” Sumi waggled her brows. She shifted
on the bed until she was sitting cross-legged like some teenager at
a slumber party. “Does Master ever bind you with rope? Like
Kinbaku?”

Expression bland, Kizzie gave a subtle twist
of her head.

Sumi inhaled, clutching the magazine to her
chest. Her eyes went wide and a euphoric smile seeped across her
round face. “It’s the
best
feeling. Completely immobile, the
rope so tight on your skin… It’s like an intense bear hug. You
can’t move but you feel so safe and warm…protected.”

Kizzie blinked. Blinked again.

And again.

Sumi’s luminous smile melted into a troubled
frown. She dropped the magazine beside her, wrung her hands in her
lap.

“Did you have a job before you were Master’s
submissive?”

Kizzie crossed her arms over her chest. This
was worse than just waiting. This was waiting on ‘Roids and Red
Bull. Like any other inmate Kizzie just wanted to do her time nice
and quiet like. Maybe it was a good thing her weapons weren’t
readily accessible.

Where the hell was Phil?

“Before I became her submissive I was in
school, for horticulture,” Sumi said quietly. “That’s why I like
spiders—all bugs, really. They’re good for gardens.”

“Captivating.”

Sumi’s face crumpled with sadness. “You’re
still angry with me.”

“You
did
try to kill me, so there’s
that….”

“I was hoping to be friends. I don’t have
any friends.”

“Bet that makes Christmas a breeze.”

“I’m
sorry
, Gigi.” Sumi glanced away,
lips pursed, chin quivering. “You don’t…you don’t understand. My
Mistress made me do those terrible things; hurt people I did not
want to hurt. To prove myself worthy of her, to prove my trust, my
love.

“I loved her so much. She was my heart, my
soul, my…religion. I made a vow to follow her anywhere she led. I
was,” she motioned with her hands, “a drop of water tossed into an
ocean. Totally consumed. Didn’t know where I ended and she began,
and now? Now I can’t remember myself before her.

“When I saw you at Sacha’s, even seeing you
here, so beautiful and free… I envy what you and Master have. It’s
clear how much you mean to him, how much he means to you. You serve
him, bow to him. Like the In-Yo,” she rubbed her hand on the
material covering her shoulder, right where her tattoo had been
inked, “together but separate. You are still your own person. Still
so strong even in love.

“You do love him, don’t you, Gigi?”

First off, where the hell had all that come
from? And second, of course not.

Rule one of clandestine ops: There was no
clandestine ops. The next, though the order of these things was
debatable: don’t get emotionally involved. The minute anyone got
close you were at risk of being compromised, and then you put the
mission, your team, and your country at risk of being compromised.
Emotions were sticky; love stickiest of all.