Live and Let Love
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only.
You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book
you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.
For all my Js
Until death do us part.…
CONTENTS
Praise for Gina Robinson’s THE SPY WHO LEFT ME
CHAPTER ONE
LATE SEPTEMBER
COPACABANA BEACH
RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL
If a guy has to play dead,
Rio’s the place to do it.
Jack Pierce sat beneath a bright red sun umbrella at an equally bright red bistro
table outside a kiosk along the promenade at Copa. Listening to the waves of the Atlantic
Ocean and the buzz of Brazilian music, he sipped his third caipirinha. Spring in Rio—string
bikinis, bare-bottomed girls, sunshine, heat, and Cachaca. Another mission accomplished.
Beto Bevilacqua, hated drug lord, dead. Yes, this was heaven on earth.
Jack appeared to be aimlessly dreaming as he stared out over the beach, girls, and
ocean, but he was on alert, as always, as he waited for his contact to give him his
next mission. He listened to the sound of approaching footsteps on the wave-patterned
black-and-sand-colored tiles of the promenade. Even though he wasn’t wearing a watch,
he knew the time. And his contact was right on it. Jack looked up at the newcomer
when the footsteps stopped next to his table and fought to control his surprise. “Chief?”
What the hell?
Jack regained his composure less than a second after it slipped, and smiled, putting
on his spy mask of inscrutability. He wouldn’t let the chief see him sweat, even though
it was damn hot outside. “This
is
a surprise. To what do I owe the honor? Things get boring at Langley? Or have you
come down to check out the girls?”
Jack had been expecting his handler, code-named Talent, to show up. Only a handful
of people on the entire planet knew Jack was still alive. All of them in the Agency,
including the chief. But Jack still didn’t expect the big boss to pay him a personal
visit.
National Clandestine Service chief Emmett Nelson, head of the spying arm of the Central
Intelligence Agency, smiled down at him and pulled up a chair. “Jack. You still have
the accent? It blends in nicely down here.”
Jack nodded. “Can’t seem to lose it. The doctor says my brain rewired it in as it
healed.”
Jack had been in a coma for several weeks after a horribly failed mission two years
ago. They’d drilled into his skull to relieve the swelling and pressure and save his
life. It was a miracle he survived.
Since he had recovered from the explosion, his speech had been affected. He involuntarily
spoke with a vaguely Latin accent.
“You’re looking good, too.” Emmett studied him, in a penetrating way only the chief
and a master spy could. He wasn’t making idle chitchat. He referred to Jack’s new
face and the fine job the Agency’s plastic surgeon did restoring it after Jack had
been blown up in Ciudad del Este two years ago. The explosion crushed Jack’s face
and nearly killed him. He’d had the final bit of reconstructive surgery just eight
weeks ago. He hadn’t seen the chief since.
Jack turned his profile to Emmett and lifted his chin, giving the chief a good look
at what the U.S. government had paid for. “I feel good—healthy and strong. What do
you think of my new nose?”
“It’s a damn improvement over the original.” Emmett winked. “The whole face is. You
were an ugly mutt. Now you’ve gone Hollywood on us.” The chief shook his head. “I
should have told the surgeon not to make you so pretty.”
Jack laughed. His doctors told him his face had been mush—shattered jaw, dislocated
and broken nose, crushed cheekbones and eye sockets. The plastic surgeons reconstructed
his whole face, straightened and thinned his wide, crooked nose, took off his identifying
moles, gave him high cheekbones and slightly less deep-set eyes. He looked like the
old Jack’s handsome cousin—similar, yet different enough to fool his own mother. Like
the man he’d have been if he’d had two better-looking parents and gotten the best
possible combination of their features.
“Too late now,” Jack said with a tease in his voice. “I’m not getting myself blown
up again just so you can have another shot at getting my look right.”
“Let’s hope not,” the chief said. “I had to bury your medical bills deep in my budget.
You know how much I hate subterfuge.” He laughed when Jack shot him a skeptical look.
“When it comes to accounting.”
The chief held a caipirinha of his own. He took a sip of it and grinned at Jack. “Word
in the favelas is the remaining drug lords are running scared. Nice work.”
Jack shrugged again. It had been a professional pleasure to kill Bevilacqua after
he’d escaped from prison. “It’s easy to do a good job when you love your work.”
The chief set his glass on the table. “It’s always rewarding to hear my employees
have a high job satisfaction rate. I’ll be sure to mention it to the director during
my next job performance review.”
It was well known in espionage circles the chief and the director didn’t see eye-to-eye.
Emmett was always baiting him.
“Just keep my name out of it,” Jack said.
Emmett nodded and abruptly changed the course of the conversation to immediate business.
“I have some disturbing news, Jack. The Rooster has been trying to track you down.
Subtly, of course. He can’t alert his bosses at RIOT that he failed to kill you.
“We don’t know why he thinks you’re still alive, only that he’s trying to verify it
and find you before RIOT realizes his mistake. If he finds you, he’ll kill you. If
he doesn’t, but somehow makes a mistake and RIOT discovers he’s looking for you, well
shit, we can’t have your cover of death blown. You’ve been too effective since Sariel
‘died.’”
Sariel had been Jack’s code name, after the angel of death. RIOT—the Revolutionary
International Organization of Terrorists—was the Agency’s nemesis.
“No,” Jack said, silently cursing. “Thanks for the warning.”
“This is more than a warning,” Emmett said. “We know where he is.” He paused. “I want
you to kill him.”
Jack couldn’t believe his ears.
Finally.
He grinned and resisted punching the air in victory. He’d been begging for the chance
to strike the Rooster since the RIOT bastard murdered Jack’s buddy Kyle. Emmett had
been promising him his chance—when the right opportunity presented itself. In Agency
speak that meant when Emmett thought the mission had decent odds of success. This
day kept getting better and better.
Jack lifted his glass. “To a successful mission and retribution.”
Revenge.
Emmett lifted his glass toward Jack’s and knocked one back. “Ah, the Brazilians know
how to make a drink.”
At that moment, Jack didn’t give a damn about Brazilian cocktails. He was ready to
take the next flight out for destination Rooster. “I’ll start greasing my sniper rifle
immediately. How soon can I leave?”
“Hold on there, cowboy.” Emmett studied him. “I haven’t given you the details. This
mission is more complicated than taking the Rooster out at one hundred yards with
a rifle.”
“A challenging kill—that’s even better.” Jack’s beef with the Rooster was personal.
He wouldn’t mind killing him with his bare hands if he had to, not at all.
Jack could barely contain his excitement. He fought to stay calm, worried Emmett would
pull the mission from him if he appeared too eager, too much like a loose cannon.
He waited for Emmett to continue.
“Our sources say RIOT and the Rooster are planning to blow up an auxiliary meeting
of the G Eight summit scheduled in Los Angeles for late October,” Emmett said as calmly
as if he were discussing the weather. “Without the Rooster and his expertise and strategic-planning
skills, RIOT will be hard-pressed to proceed on short notice. Before you kill him,
we want as much intel as we can get about RIOT’s plans and the terrorist sleeper cells
they’re hiding.”
Emmett looked out over the sparkling water and grimaced. “These damn G Eight summits
are enough of a pain in the ass without the added threat of RIOT attacking. Too many
ordinary protestors, anarchists, and rioters around during a regular meeting. Lots
of security, but still a terrorist’s dream.”
Jack nodded, but his mind was elsewhere plotting and scheming. Besides being a personal
dream come true for him, killing the Rooster was a career-making assignment. Not that
a dead guy had much of a career. But Jack could make a killing, so to speak, if he
got this one right.
The Rooster was RIOT’s top assassin. He’d been dubbed the Rooster because he crowed
about his kills. He was Jack’s equal on the bad-guy side—his archenemy and nemesis.
And the assassin who’d killed Kyle Harris, one of Jack’s two best friends, in Afghanistan
and blown Jack up in Ciudad del Este, ending Jack’s life as Jack and making his wife,
Willow, a widow.
Jack clenched his jaw, trying to hide his tic of excitement. “There’s something you’re
not telling me. What’s the catch?”
“He’s in the States. We’ve tried, but we can’t draw him out of the country,” Emmett
said, keeping his voice level and friendly so he wouldn’t draw attention.
Jack was seasoned enough to hear the anger and frustration in it.
“The son of a bitch is wily,” Emmett said. “He feels safe, thinks we won’t hit him
at home. Too bad the bastard has to be an American citizen, a homegrown traitor. We’d
love to pull him in and interrogate him, but the Feds would insist on due process
and the Rooster is smart enough to leak intel that would scare the American public
and derail our intelligence efforts.
“No, we can’t arrest him. We have to take him out with a targeted kill. Which means
if you accept, you’re off the grid. We want you to learn what you can about the operation,
kill him, and get out.
“You can contact me, or Magic, or Talent, or the members of the Agency you’ve worked
with since the explosion, but that’s it.
“And if you fail or get caught, I’ll deny any involvement and claim you went rogue
looking for revenge.”
Jack nodded. It sounded logical to him. “I expected no less.”
Emmett took a deep breath and sighed. “Kill him in a way that looks like an accident
to the authorities and general public, but sends a clear message to RIOT and the Rooster’s
handlers that we took him out. That we can, and will, take out their agents at our
pleasure.”
Jack nodded. “What’s my cover?”
“How’s your Italian?” Emmett asked in Italian.
“Decent,” Jack answered, also in Italian.
“Very good.” Emmett nodded. “Malene’s worked out your cover. Your Italian accent will
come in handy.
“You’ll be undercover as Con Russo. Russo has an Italian first cousin once removed,
Aldo Salemo, who lives in the small town where the Rooster is hiding.
