A Kiss to Kill (27 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

REBEL
leapt out of the SUV and hurried toward the crush of people that had gathered on the grand staircase rising up the eastern side of the Capitol Building. Two seconds later, Tara was striding along next to her.

This was it. After the President had bowed out, Congressman Altos had been briefed on the threat, and had insisted on holding the press conference as scheduled. He’d been stricken by the news of his wife’s death and of his chief of staff’s plans to frame him for treason, and wanted to nail both the traitor and his hired henchman. It was incredibly risky, but this could be their one and only chance to identify and catch the al Sayika assassin known as the Trigger. Everything had to look completely normal to lure him out of hiding.

Forcing herself not to run, Rebel kept her FBI badge and face visible at all times so she’d be recognized by the myriad Secret Service and other law enforcement officers spaced every two inches on the newly seeded lawn and watching passersby like hawks. Tara did the same with her DHS creds. The rest of the team had been issued Homeland Security IDs for the op, and all of them had dressed in dark suits over their Kevlar. When in Rome . . .

Rebel tapped her comm. “STORM Hotel and Juliet arriving on scene.” For some obscure reason Tara, who didn’t have a single
J
in any of her names, went by Juliet, the call sign for
J
. Rebel sensed a story there, but hadn’t had time to ask. “STORM Dog Six, do you read?”

“STORM Zulu, here. Hotel and Juliet, please switch to channel 8. We have about a thousand bears onboard, over,” said Darcy.

Rebel would have chuckled if she weren’t so worried about reaching her assigned position in time. The press conference was set to start any minute. She and Tara dialed to the other channel.

“Anyone get hold of Victor, over?” she asked.

Gregg van Halen was a real concern. She’d been trying to get him to answer his phone since he’d gone off-grid at the Watergate nearly two hours ago, bound and determined to track down his vanished Gina.

“He’s still going to voice mail,” Darcy came back. “Report any sightings and read him in if at all possible. That goes for everyone, over.”

They’d left messages outlining the loose plan they’d hammered out with Secret Service and DHS, but who knew if he’d checked them. Unless he had already found Gina—very doubtful—Gregg would show up at the press conference looking for blood. The man was definitely a wild card in all this. She prayed no one got hurt because of it. She’d pleaded with him to call her, and worn her Bluetooth just in case.

Above her, the Capitol steps rose up in three steep tiers, separated by landings and flanked by square, flat buttresses bearing lampposts, statues, and Secret Service agents. Tara slipped into the throng to the right and started up the first flight. Rebel was supposed to find Alex and help cover the left.

There was a stir at the very top landing and the excited crowd, having heard the rumor of a presidential appearance, surged upward, pulling her along past the chain barrier that had been lowered for the occasion.

Rebel’s pulse doubled.
This was it
. But where was Alex?

A group of dignitaries appeared between the two columns at the center of the portico at the very top, and approached the phalanx of microphones that had been set up. The subcommittee had arrived to make their announcement of the new and improved budget on the fight against terrorism. A cacophony of shouts raised up, a score of questions instantly thrown at them. Someone spoke loudly over the mic, trying to quiet down the reporters.

Rebel craned her neck, still looking for Alex. Her cell phone rang.

She tapped the earpiece. “Alex, where are you?”

“Sugar, if you don’t know where the man is,
I
surely don’t,” came the honeyed drawl of the last person on earth Rebel wanted to talk to at the moment. Luckily, she had an excellent excuse not to.

“Right above you by the lamppost.” This from Alex over the comm. She’d forgotten everyone could still hear her.

Rebel muted her comm mic as she looked up, searching for him. “Helena. I can’t talk now. I’m in—”

“Yes, yes. I know. You’re in the middle of something. You always are, sugar.”

“Seriously. I have to—”

“Positions, people,” came Quinn’s command over the comm. “It’s showtime.”

She spotted Darcy several steps below the portico, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the solid line of ultra-alert black-suited Secret Service agents who stood guard, preventing the public from reaching the landing. Other than being the only tall, willowy blonde, she blended in perfectly, earpiece and all. But no Alex. What had he said about a lamppost?

“I’m hanging up now,” Rebel told Helena and reached for the off button.

“Rebel, you and I need to have a talk,” Helena said in that precisely polite way a true Southern aristocrat could command an icicle to stop melting.

Rebel’s finger hovered above the Bluetooth. Her heart stuttered. She did
not
need this now.

“We have Alpha at the podium,” Darcy said, pulling her attention.
A
for Altos.

Rebel darted her gaze up to the island of microphones where the congressman stood. Arranged behind him in a half circle were five men and a woman, presumably the rest of the subcommittee. Was it her imagination, or did they all look crazy nervous?

“I’ve got him covered, over,” Kick said immediately.

“Lord. The man’s either a saint or a coward,” she muttered.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Helena said in her other ear with just a shade of amusement. “I suppose it depends on your point of view.”

What?

Oh, right. “Helena, I really—”

On cue, Rebel’s eyes collided with Alex. He raised a hand, beckoning her to him.

For now, or forever . . . ?

She wanted to stop what was happening and fling herself into his arms and tell him how badly she wanted a chance at forever.

And she was certain he did, too. That kiss . . . it had been utterly earth-shattering. He hadn’t actually said “I love you,” but it had been there in his eyes. And when she’d told him there were other options for a family, he hadn’t argued or disagreed. He’d kissed her. Wonderfully. Thoroughly. Expressively. Until Quinn’s untimely interruption, calling them back to the fold.

Speaking of which—

She jerked herself out of the joyful memory, lifted her own hand in acknowledgment, and started to blaze a path up through the sea of bodies toward Alex. At the microphone, Congressman Altos stuttered over his statement.

Suddenly she saw a very familiar head bobbing above the spectators, making its way upward as well.

Bruce Hearn
. And he had Gina! His arm was tight around her shoulders preventing her from escaping. Rebel mashed the comm excitedly. “This is STORM Hotel. I have eyes on Tango One.”
T
for terrorist—the code they’d assigned Hearn. “He’s got Charlie with him. First tier, dead center, over.”

“I’m there, over,” Marc said.

“What are you—” Helena asked in her other ear. “Oh. You really
are
working.”

“Yeah, and I have to go.”

“Where are you? Norfolk?” Helena asked. “I’ll fly down. We do need to talk. About Alex.”

Rebel had nearly made it up the steps to him. He was standing like a figurehead on the front edge of the upper buttress, his alert gaze sweeping the crowd. Tall, muscular, confident, his scarred face radiated the kind of beauty that came from a good soul as much as great bone structure.

Their eyes caught.

He sent her a brilliant smile and a bad-boy wink. He was so perfectly gorgeous and desirable it made her throat ache. She loved him
so
much.

Her lips curved. And she said, “No Helena. We don’t need to talk. Not about Alex, anyway.”

She saw him turn and make his way back along the edge, then jump over the side onto the landing below. He was coming to her.
Her
.

“Yes, well—” Helena began.

“He told me about your arrangement,” Rebel interrupted, watching him jostle down through the crowd to reach her. She felt more alive and certain than she ever had in her life. “And everything else, too.”

“Ah.”

“There’s only one thing left that needs saying.” She gathered up all the love in her heart, and said, “Alex is mine.
Mine
, Helena. I honestly don’t care if you are gay, and even less that you may need him as a beard for your stodgy parents. Just grow up and tell them, already. Because you can’t have him back. So don’t even ask.”

And then she hung up.

With a smile of personal triumph, she started up the few remaining steps that lay between her and the man who was her destiny.

Above them, Altos continued his speech. Reporters shouted questions. She saw Kick disappear behind one of the pillars. Marc was closing in on Hearn and Gina.

Alex had halted on the steps.

But . . . something was wrong.

Her smile quickly faded. He was wrestling against the press of the crowd, which tried to squeeze around him. She gasped as he flung himself into a ball at the base of the buttress wall and shielded himself from the concerned few who stopped to reach out and help him.

Oh, dear lord.

This was not good.

SCORCHING
desert heat was closing in on him fast. Already, Alex could feel sweat drenching his face. His armpits. Far away, the screams started.

Ah, fucking hell
. Please, please,
please
. Not now! Not when the whole damn team was depending on him. And Rebel—

“Get a grip, Zane,” a commanding male voice growled in his ear. “Pull yourself together, man.”

The surprise was just enough to snatch Alex back from the dusty brink of the Afghan village. He blinked. “Van Halen?”

“Get up, brother. Come on. Snap out of it. You can do it.”

He fought the panic that had taken over his gut. Peered shakily over his shoulder. The man staring back at him wore a Nationals baseball cap and dark sunglasses. Was it really van Halen? Or was his mind playing even more bizarre tricks than usual, and this just another hallucination?

The screams in his head grew louder. He teetered.

“Gotta save them,” he mumbled, teetering, teetering. “Gotta save . . .”

“Gotta save the
President
, Zane.” Van Halen looked up toward the portico and swore. “Jesus, didn’t you people warn him?”

“The plan . . . POTUS not coming. An ambush . . .”

The screams grew louder. It didn’t sound like they were in his head anymore.
It was an ambush!

“Altos is announcing the President now.
Christ!
” Gregg glanced briefly at Alex. “Wait. POTUS isn’t coming?”

“Gotta save . . . Gotta save . . .” He suddenly remembered. “Gina!”

At the name, van Halen’s hand shot out and grabbed him. “What about Gina? Have you seen her?”

Just then, the crowd went wild, screaming and jumping up and down at the news that the President would be speaking in a few minutes. Every eye was on the podium. Except Alex’s. He squeezed his shut and tried to shake off van Halen.

“Zane!” Gregg demanded. “Have you
seen
Gina?”

Alex fought against the blackness. Saw her face in his mind. And . . . And . . . He pried his eyes open. “Hearn. He’s got her . . . They were . . .” He shifted his gaze up the endless upward-marching ranks of marble steps, filled with a riot of cheering people. “Up there.”

Somewhere, Rebel’s voice called frantically. “Alex! Where are you?”

Good fucking question.

Here? Or off in never-never land?

He blinked up at van Halen. Hanging onto reality with everything in him.

“Here!” the other man shouted, jumping up. And then he was gone, vanishing into the crowd like a mirage.

“Alex!” Rebel’s face appeared above him. “Oh, Alex, are you all right?” She knelt and put her arms around him and kissed his sweaty temple.

And the most unexpected thing happened. At her touch, the panic started to ebb away.

“Yeah,” he managed. Bit by bit he shook out the blackness and his tense muscles. “I think so.”

Rebel hit her comm. “Hotel here. X-ray’s good. Just a glitch with his comm, over.” She muted hers again and glanced around on the ground. “Alex, your headset. Help me find it.”

He was sitting on it, thankfully in one piece. He slid it on. “STORM Dog Six, X-ray back on comm. Sir, Victor’s here. In hot pursuit of Tango One, over.”

There was a chorus of curses. “Nothing to do about it,” Quinn said. “Back on task, people. The Trigger is here somewhere. Let’s find the fucker before van Halen takes down Tango One, over.”

Alex scrambled to his feet and took Rebel’s hand. “Come on.”

The Trigger would be as close to the portico as possible. Waiting for the perfect moment to take his shot at the President.

Together they climbed the steps, threading their way through the throng of people that had finally quieted down to hear what Congressman Altos was announcing.

“This is it,” came Quinn’s quiet admonition.

Everyone was in place. Kick with his sniper rifle among the Secret Service agents behind a pillar on one side of the podium, Quinn mirroring him on the other. Darcy still stood in the human barricade below the portico; Marc covered the center, sneaking up behind Hearn and Gina. Tara was positioned along the right edge of the steps, he and Rebel along the left.

Where the hell had van Halen gone to?

Scanning the crowd for anyone acting suspicious, Alex tuned out the announcement and kept moving upward. Altos had been instructed to draw out the suspense over the President’s imminent arrival as long as possible. The moment it was clear he wouldn’t be coming was when the Trigger would be most visible. He’d be turning away from the podium. Reassessing. Changing plans. Moving position, either to go to plan B or to get the hell out of there.

“In distant training camps and even in our own cities,” Altos boomed, “there are people plotting to take American lives. Neither the President nor anyone else standing here today can say there will not be another terrorist attack on our soil. But we can say with certainty that the President and this committee will do everything in our power to keep the American people safe. And to that end . . .”