On The Rocks (25 page)

“They’re stress balls,” he said cheerfully.
“You’ve been looking a little frazzled lately.”

She didn’t doubt it. Last night she’d slept
in her office, guzzling coffee and downing information on the
various operations she was now in charge of. The many lives now
depending on her to get them in and out of dangerous
situations.

“I remembered when I first transitioned to
senior SOO,” Atwater said, “and the first week or so I was a mess.
Feels like you’ll never get caught up, huh?”

Rachel nodded, which worked wonders for
helping her keep her eyes open. “I know it’ll just take some
time.”

“Well, when you get stressed, give those
balls a squeeze and think of me.” He chuckled, waved his hand. “I
didn’t… mean it like that.”

Suuuuuuure he didn’t.

Coffee and counseling was on thing. The not
so subtle hints? Time to put the kibosh on those.

“No problem, sir.” She took another swig and
pushed away from her desk. Remembering her feet were in nothing but
hose, she toed her pumps closer and slid them on.

“Still with the ‘sir’?” he asked. “Did
Fletcher make you call him that?”

“My choice. Keeps things professional.” She
stood and sorted through the files until she found the one she’d
need for her next meeting.

Atwater grinned, slow and easy. Just the way
Lennox Tate had. Like he’d already undressed her and had her spread
on the table in his mind. No wonder Fletcher didn’t care for the
guy.

He tipped his head. “You can call me Colin
and keep it professional, right?”

“I prefer ‘sir’, or Agent Atwater.”

“Come on, Rachel, we’ve—”

“Agent Hayford,” she said calmly. “And while
we’re speaking candidly, do you know what happened to
Fletcher?”

“He’s been transferred. Didn’t you
hear?”

Would she have asked if she had?

Rachel frowned, rounding the desk so he’d
take the hint that it was time to go. “
Transferred
? To
where?”

Atwater kept his expression vacant and
shrugged. “You know how it works around here. Everything is need to
know.”

He took another sip of coffee and pushed
away from the desk. “Rumor was you two had a thing. Maybe that’s
what got him bumped out of here.”

Rachel stopped at the door and he met her
there, lanky body towering over her, standing way closer than was
appropriate.

“So…” he said, tone inflected like it was a
question.

“What?”

“Are the rumors true?” A gleam twinkled in
his eye. “Were you sleeping with Fletcher?”

An ardent ‘no’ rested on her tongue, but as
much as she hated to admit it, Lennox Tate was right. She wasn’t a
good liar. Sister Mary Joseph would be proud her stern lectures
about hellfire and eternal damnation had stuck in Rachel’s
strawberry blond head. But a little white one would help right
now.

Instead, she pulled a Kizzie and answered
without answering. Shoulder curled to her ear she said, “You know
how it works around here. Everything is need to know. Excuse me, I
have a meeting.”

She threw the door open, stepped out of her
office, and drew up short.

Sniffed. Sniffed again.

That
scent
.

The same one that she’d smelled in the
office the other day lingered just outside her door. It seemed to
be following her
everywhere
.

Was it her, or in her clothes? She snuck a
whiff of the shoulder of her jacket. Nope, that was all lilac and
vanilla.

“You smell that?” she asked, spinning to the
agent behind her.

“Smell what?”

She sniffed again. Cigarette smoke, old but
not stale, with something sweet underneath. Was she losing her
mind?

“Agent Hayford,” someone called.

Rachel lifted her gaze to see a woman coming
at her quickly.

Atwater stepped around her —“See you later,
Rachel.”— and sauntered away.

She didn’t bother rolling her eyes.

The analyst coming at her was with the
crypto team. Rachel recognized the tortoiseshell glasses and black
shirt and pants. The woman handed over a manila folder with RUSH on
a red sticker in the upper right hand corner.

“Were you on this?”

The analyst nodded.

“Come on.” Rachel opened her office door and
went back inside, the woman trailing behind her. She unwound the
rope keeping the flap of the envelope closed and pulled out the
papers inside.

The first was an eight by eleven image of a
young boy holding a tub of popcorn in his lap, hand submerged in
the depths of the red and white striped bowl. The way the picture
had been staged, he was watching TV, the muted blue glow from the
screen tingeing his face.

She glanced at the analyst. “When did this
come in?”

“Fifteen minutes ago, to the phone you have
us tracking for Sanzio Galletti.”

Rachel knew that already. This was the same
type of image that Metis had sent before. A stock photo of a young
boy just enjoying life. In truth, it was a clever bit of
steganography, with a message hidden somewhere amongst the millions
of pixels.

Her breathing kicked up. Another contact
from Metis meant things were in motion. “Did you already—”

“Page two,” the analyst said calmly.

She flipped to the next page and saw the
results of the cryptanalysis.

Her eyes widened, and she read the text over
again to be sure she wasn’t seeing things.

On the other side of the desk again, she
picked up the phone. Now it was absolutely pertinent she spoke with
Bill.

“Thanks, agent,” she said, smiling at the
woman. “I really appreciate your hard work on this.”

The woman left, closing Rachel in alone.

She dialed Bill’s number, and it just rang
and rang before the voicemail kicked on.

As much as she hated to do this, she had to
get this info to her team.

Rachel grabbed up the phone again, and
dialed Lennox.

OVER IN DOWNTOWN McLean, Bill sat in the
back booth of a cozy diner studying the menu. The options were the
same in greasy spoons coast to coast— burgers and fries, pancakes
and hash, and lots of desserts. This was his kind of place.
All-American food for an all American guy.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he had
half a mind to ignore it. He'd been going full steam for a while
now and, lets face it, he wasn't a young man anymore. Besides,
chances were good it was the same caller he’d ignored the previous
two times.

But curiosity got the better of him. He
pulled the device out and shook his head. Same number, and any
moment now the call would end with yet another voicemail requesting
a call back. He dropped the phone onto the table and went back to
perusing the offerings.

Bill had been ignoring Agent Hayford for a
reason— to make her better. This would be a confidence boost, once
she saw the opportunity for what it was: a chance to step outside
of her skittishness and just do what needed doing. With a little
grooming she'd make a great SOO, and a valuable contact for him
inside the walls of Langley. He’d give her a little more time and
then he'd reach out.

“Ready to order?” A waitress smiled at him
from the end of the table. Older, probably in her sixties. Wrinkles
lined her face, especially around her eyes and mouth. Signs she’d
laughed and smiled a lot in her life. Graying brown hair was pulled
off her neck, and high on the collar of her white shirt there was a
small, errant circle of orange the distinct shade of mashed sweet
potatoes.

Grandbaby, maybe?

Breaking off the assessment, he glanced back
at the menu. “Just coffee.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black. Thank you.”

She picked up the menu and strolled away,
but Bill’s gaze stayed with her.

Sometimes he wondered what his life would
have been like if he’d never joined the CIA. Would he and Martha
—his estranged wife of too many years— have kids? Grandkids,
even?

His life would have been idyllic, he was
sure of it.

But the country would probably be completely
in the shitter.

He served a purpose here. Was integral to
the machine that kept the union working. Kept her great. Every
sacrifice he’d made in the past, and would make in the future, was
for the betterment of the union.

Remember that.

Bill riffled through a copy of The Post
abandoned in the seat of the booth. He considered the front page
—where the above-the-fold image was from some war-torn country or
other— and settled on the comics. The duties of his job kept him up
to date with the news of the world. But that Garfield character?
Never knew what he’d get into…

His phone rang again and he nearly growled.
Agent Hayford was beginning to work his nerves. Without moving his
head, his eyes darted to the screen. Different number. One he
couldn’t ignore.

He opened the line and pressed the device to
his ear. Said a brusque, “Yes.”

“There are more pictures,” Carl Wheaton
hissed. Low sounds filtered from the background, like he was in a
restaurant or at an event of some sort. “That bitch sent more
pictures.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.”

Bill frowned. “And you’re only now calling
me?”

A breath punched out of Wheaton’s nose so
loud it carried across the line. “I’ve been fielding meetings with
my team, exploring different PACs, and still holding down my duties
on the Hill. I’ve been a little busy.”

Yes, and once he was president the load
would lighten
tremendously
...

Bill let the bastard’s derisive tone slide.
“Were they mailed?”

“No. Private courier, just like the first.
Except instead of coming to my office they came
to my house
.
Goddammit, Betty brought them to me. My
wife
had those…
disgusting photos in her hands!”

Bill’s brow shot up and his heart hitched.
“She opened the envelope?” Poor Betty. To find out like that had to
be—

“‘Course not. It was addressed to me. Betty
would never pry. But that this woman knows where I
live?
This is more than just pressure to get me to pay. This is a direct
violation, Bill. She’s thumbing her nose at me. Letting me know she
can get to me one way or another.”

Wheaton muttered a low curse. “What if
things escalate and it’s not just pictures in the mailbox? What if
she decides to come into my house? Threaten my wife? People like
this are unpredictable.”

“Your coffee.” A mug of steaming java came
across the table, snagging Bill’s focus. “Need anything you just
holler.”

“Actually,” Bill covered the mic with his
hand, “How’s your apple pie?”

The waitress beamed, and the skin around her
mouth and eyes gathered and bunched precisely at those wrinkles.
She was lovely.

“Best in the union.” She tipped forward,
eyes darting around the room, voice a conspiratorial whisper. “One
time, the streets got shut down around here ‘cause the president
was over there at Langley?” she said, voice inflecting like it was
a question. “Well, he sent a couple’a them boys from the Secret
Service in here to pick up ten of those apple pies for him. Darn
near cleaned us out.”

“Bill? Bill, do you hear me? She will
not
ruin this campaign,” Carl urged through the phone. “I
want her dead. Now!”

“That settles it then,” Bill said. “If it’s
good enough for the president, it’s good enough for me.”

“Bill!”

“Warmed?” she asked.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all.” Smiling, she patted the table
with the flat of her hand. “Be right back with that.”

His smile faded as she disappeared behind
the counter. Attention on his caller again, Bill said, “I’m working
on it.”

“Work faster. Time’s running out, and if—
Goddammit, just… get it done.”

The line cut off.

Bill gave the phone a little squeeze.
Wheaton should be thankful he was even involved in this mess. He
set the phone down as the waitress returned, a dish in each
hand.

“Here’s your pie.” She set the saucer down
and then put a bowl beside it. “And I thought you might like some
ice cream to go with it. On the house.”

That was so thoughtful.

Fork in hand Bill cut into the warm, flaky
crust and scooped the bite into his mouth.

“So…?” The waitress asked.

“You’re right.” Bill nodded. “Best in the
union.”

14

Amalfi, Italy

EIGHT PRECIOUS DAYS remained before Lennox
had to finish the job he was sent for. Which left him eight days to
win Kizzie over. And just when he thought he was making progress,
he did something stupid to mess things up.

“
Chuchu
, wait.” Lennox practically
jogged back to the SUV, trying to keep pace with her without
drawing any attention to their quick departure. He also didn’t want
her to leave him in the center of Amalfi. The woman had a mean
race-walk on her when she was thoroughly pissed, and if she got
back to their ride first, chances were good she’d take off.

On the other hand, when Kizzie was
thoroughly pissed, she was also overwhelmingly sexy. And that
race-walk made her hips rock hard with each step.

Felt like the first time they’d met, when
she came storming through the door and knocked him down a peg.
Except he didn’t have close to a year to spend with her to smooth
things over.

He only had eight days.

“Kizzie,” he said as they reached the SUV.
Her brown eyes stormy, she shot him a glare and unlocked the
driver’s door.

He grabbed for the handle and got nothing.
Grabbed again and, nope, still locked. He cupped his hands against
the window and stared at her.

Inside, Kizzie jammed the key into the
ignition. It turned over easily and she mashed the gas. See, this
was the part he was worried about. Hoofing it ten klicks to the
cottage in the baking sun wasn’t the kind of party he wanted to
show for.