The Risqué Target

• The Risqué Target
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• About The Author
  
• Red Sage Publishing
  

Tantum Maddox did a few spot checks in the coffee shop, chosen for its lack of surveillance cameras, but nothing appeared out of order. The phone vibrated in his clenched hand. Recognizing the number on the screen, he flipped it open.

“Did you get the target yet?”

The familiar voice on the other end responded, “No. Your Target's smart.”

Tantum could hear heavy pecking of computer keys in the background. “What the fuck, Bucky? All you needed to do was run a facial recognition on the passengers at the departure site.”

“No shit, Tantum. That's what I was trying to do. The plane landed, but the minute the hatch opened and the people started to exit, the damn image went out.”

Tap-tap, click-click
muttered the annoying keyboard.

“The frequency's been scrambled. All I'm looking at is black-and-white fuzz.”

This was the closest Tantum Maddox had come to putting a face to his Target, also known as PIC number 2L82C. The number was a personal ID code distributed to all agents at NESA, the National Elite Security Agency. The same agency Tantum was employed by, and the same agency his Target was working for—something he’d discovered after his last assignment.

When he was released from Mexico and started looking into his earlier assignment in 2009, the target's number had popped up everywhere. But NESA didn’t keep photo IDs of their agents. They identified agents only by their PIC numbers. Tantum needed a name or a face, something to help him move forward, and the PIC offered nothing. He knew only that the target was an agent for NESA and was supposed to be on the flight from Washington, D.C. to Boston.

Tantum took a swig of the steaming hot coffee and jerked the cup from his burnt lips. After the numbness left his bottom lip, he casually turned his head, glancing over his shoulder. He noted a college boy slouched over a table in the far right corner with his backpack hastily tossed on the floor.
No threat there
. There was also a woman talking on her phone, readjusting her stockings, preoccupied with her appearance.
No threat there either.

His ears were programmed to adeptly listen, audit and decipher every pitch, near or far, even the slightest clamor. From the corner of the room, paper ruffled. He instinctively followed the sound. An elderly man glanced up at him, nodded, and went back to reading the magazine he held in his hands.

The aroma of the rich Colombian coffee infiltrated Tantum’s senses. His muscles loosened slightly as he reassured himself the café was secure.

“Shit,” Bucky groaned into the phone, “your Target must be on the move. I’ve checked the feed coming from the other surveillance cameras in the airport. Every few minutes, one of them goes out. What the hell?” He groaned again, this time holding it a bit longer. “Your Target’s messing with me now.”

“What are you talking about? Are you getting a picture or not?” Tantum barked as he inspected the café, seeing no newcomers. The college boy had fallen asleep, and the woman was gone.

“The screen went to all static, but now there’s a message. Wait a minute. I believe your Target is on to you.”

“Why? What does it say?” Tantum snapped. He didn’t mean to be short with Bucky, but he was sick of the long delays that marked his search for the Target. The Target, at that very moment, was in the same airport. This time, he was so close.

“It says, 'What's here, but 2L82C'—That’s your Target’s PIC number, right?”

Tantum cringed. “What’s here, but
too late to see
?” he muttered, working out the numeric word sentence.

Bucky snorted this time. “Wait, there’s more. ‘…Me. Better luck next time’.”

“Son-of-a-bitch! How did the target know we are tracking him?” Tantum ran a hand through his hair. “Bucky, you're not my target's agent coordinator, are you?”

“Yeah, right, Tantum. I'm on this wild goose chase with you because I have nothing better to do. I'm messing with you, and I really know who your target is. Come on! The Agency knows when we tap into another agent's PIC number. I probably stirred the pot, and your target's AC caught wind of my inquiry into their agent's flight, scrambled the frequency, and sent the messages to let us know. I’m sure that's why they exposed the agent's PIC number. They assumed we already knew it.”

Tantum sighed, accepting Bucky’s answer. “Keep at it. Call me if you get anything, and I don’t want to hear about any more riddles. I just want a face with a name.” Without further pleasantries, he flipped his phone shut, crammed it into the pocket of his jeans, and turned, crashing into the arms of a woman.

****

Nala Dekker had a knack for detail. A doctor might have diagnosed her with a mild case of OCD, but she called it being aware of her surroundings. The man on the plane who was hitting on her had sausage-like fingers, sweat-ringed armpits and horrid garlic breath, not to mention a mustard stain on the collar of his shirt.

That horrid garlic smell was what had her peeking over her shoulder after she read the text on her phone.

What's up with him? He didn't get the hint earlier on the plane when I told him to bug off and then put my headphones on?

He stood, to her measurement, three feet and two inches behind her, gawking. Had that look in his eyes like a lion stalking a gazelle, like he was going to pursue her whether she wanted him to or not. Glad she'd worn her sneakers, Nala picked up the pace, assuming her persistent stalker wouldn’t be able to keep up, but, damn it, the grubby louse was hot on her tail anyway.

She dodged people as she flew by them, twisting and turning. She ducked her head, as if it would somehow hide her from the stalker’s view, and finally, she pushed open the door to the café at the end of the airport.

Shit!
She'd backed herself into a corner.

After surveying the place, she realized there was no way out besides the door she'd come through, and she'd just made eye contact with the sleazy predator who was on the prowl for her. He was heading her way, and she had to lose him.

Get on your toes, Nala! Think!

A man stood alone at the counter of the café. He was dressed in black boots and jeans that perfectly hugged his long legs, finally sloping over a fit and fine ass. His t-shirt hung just below his narrow waist, and the cotton sleeves were wrapped tightly around his well-formed biceps. He had thick hair, dark brown, bordering on black, with a slight wave at the tips. She couldn’t see his face, but she could always hope the front view looked as good as the back. He became her intended mark.

She walked over with her arms open, and he turned around just in time for her to engulf him in an embrace. “Darling!” she shrieked.

He didn’t flinch or try to vacate her encasing arms, as any normal person might have done. Instead, the man gathered her against his hard body, surprising her by responding in a low but hesitant drawl. “Hey… uh, snookums?”

Startled by the strange pet name, she tried to push back from him, but he squeezed her closer. She didn’t put up much of a fight. His body was warm and welcoming, so she settled back into him.

“Snookums? Really?” she dubiously inquired.

His rough titter tickled her neck as he spoke. “If you're going to come at me with ‘darling’, then yes, ‘snookums’ is what you'll get in return.”

His raspy voice slithered from her ears to her toes—the very toes she was supposed to be thinking on. Her legs became stiff and her senses came to life.
Ooh, he smells good, like sandalwood. Tall, about six-two, and muscles. Hmm. Lots of them.

She felt him lift his arms. His fingers found her hands clasped around his neck. He touched them, and a jolt sprang through her body. He slid slowly down the length of her arms, along her sides, her hips, finally resting at her waist.

Did he just frisk me?

This time, she did pull back to see exactly what she had in her arms. She noted the tattoo on his neck. His complexion was dark, and she thought he might be Latino. He had a sturdy chin and perfect lips. She zoomed back in on his strong mouth, but withdrew from the kissable treasure between his chin and nose. She continued her survey to his chiseled cheekbones and farther, to his eyes, which she first assumed would be black or brown. But they were actually quite different upon closer inspection. His eyes weren't dark at all. In fact, they were blue, maybe even a rare aqua. His lashes were black, like little wings that brought the color of his eyes even more to life. And as if the enviable lashes and glorious flecks of color in his eyes weren't enough, they were smiling at her.