Sake Bomb (6 page)

Former agent or not, Bill had no idea what
she went through op after op; the things she did that stayed with
her while his only risk involved lobbying the higher-ups for more
money for more missions. The times she set her own beliefs aside
for the greater good of a country that, if she were caught, would
turn its back on her without a second thought.

That’s why they really took an agent’s
soul—don’t need it when living life as a ghost. And in a world
where traveling light was a must, a soul would only weigh her
down.

On autopilot, her finger danced over the
screen of her tablet unlocking the biometric scanner/sequencer.

“Where’s your lead now?”

Kizzie’s face squished into a scowl and her
shoulders snapped up. Xander Duquesne was her only connection to
3-19. Apart from the ill-timed flashes of his face in her mind, she
hadn’t seen or heard from him since hobbling out of his house
months before.

Her money was on never hearing from him
again. To trust the man would contact her like he promised wasn’t
wishful thinking, it was crazy thinking. Xander would find
Harvey—if he hadn’t already—sell the salted nuke to some maniac who
would detonate it, and she
might
be sent in to help clean up
the mess. That would be as close as their two circles ever came
again. Pissed her off, too. With the last minute travel, Kizzie had
to leave her toys behind. Apart from her lucky knife Xander and
Phillip had in their possession one Glock—gently used—a primo set
of SOG throwing knives, and her Desert Eagle with the custom grip
she affectionately called her Big Girl Panties.

“Baldwin?”

She pulled herself from her musings to
answer her boss. “My lead’s still a possibility.”

And just like that she’d started another
lie. To Bill. To herself. She didn’t even know why; damn sure
wasn’t to protect Duquesne, but she’d done that anyway, hadn’t
she?

“I’ll have Gale and Sol on standby,” Bill
said eagerly.

At the mention of her teammate’s name,
Kizzie went cold. Not Gale—Gale was her girl—but Sol, one of the
Crew’s tech wizards. A man she’d considered a friend, and the agent
who broke into her house. Sort of a big deal in her book. Kizzie
still hadn’t figured out why, but she had deduced Solomon Nevins
was not to be trusted even the slightest bit. Of course, she
wouldn’t share that with Bill.

“Hold off on the cavalry. I don’t have
anything solid, but when I do—”

“So now what?”

“When I hear from my contact—”

“Who’s your contact?”

Since when did Bill care about how she got
the job done?

Face awash in the grayish light from the
tablet’s display, she devoted all her focus to the arduous task of
closing away the e-book she’d been reading—hey, a girl had to get
her smut somehow—and thumbed to her e-mail to check the account she
stalked every free moment since leaving Oman.

Empty.

Xander wouldn’t contact her. Ever.

“Is this about Duquesne, Baldwin? That who
you’re banking on?”

“No.”

“Try and remember I taught you how to
lie.”

“And you did it well. But expecting lies so
long makes it hard to hear the truth. Xander’s not on my radar
anymore.” Much as she hated it, that
was
the truth. “I have
an actual contact I’m working, not just some random location on a
yacht in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” Kizzie said, deflecting
some of the responsibility for that failure back at Bill. “And not
some gunrunner who was paid to perform a service he didn’t show up
for. What happened to Ri Nguyen anyway? Ever put him through the
ringer?”

“Nguyen was Gale’s contact. According to
her, he went to ground. That’s the chance we take in this
game.”

Kizzie grunted, taping her finger on the
screen to select a link. Nothing loaded. Signal was out. A quick
bit of troubleshooting and she latched onto the encrypted
connection again.

“For the record, I think Nguyen was feeding
us bad Intel. I don’t think Xander knew more than we did about
3-19.”

“Ahh…” The sound managed to be deliberate
and subtle at the same time; like he’d unearthed something he
didn’t know he’d been looking for. “And…what makes you so
sure?”

Kizzie rolled her shoulders to her ears
again. “Call it a hunch. Might help if you gave me specifics on
it.”

“You got what Langley gave me; enough Intel
to get the job done.”

Obviously said Intel was woefully
inadequate. For such an intrusive agency, the CIA knew everything
and nothing at the same time.

The page finally reloaded, presenting Kizzie
with the inbox status of an encrypted HushMail account. What had
read 0 for months now read 1.

She blinked, reloaded the page.

Definitely a 1.

Only one person had this address, and
contact meant there was news. Finally.

A double tap opened the message, and she
smiled at the subject line:
Another Proposal, Say Yes?
She
scanned the text and smirked at the signature:
Handsome.

The attachment went through several programs
to check for viruses and tracers before she opened the jpeg. A
blurred image of a gold-toned shoulder with a tattoo: the outline
of a circle with a small red circle inside it, the two orbs sharing
a tangent point. The picture was cut off at the bottom, just the
very tips of the characters on the right hand side were visible,
but this was proof.

They’d found Sumi.

Or had they?

Either way, Kizzie had less than 24 hours to
get there.

Did she go? Hadn’t exactly come out
unscathed the last time. But it got her moving again, got her far
away from memories of Belém
,
closer to—

“Baldwin.”

Kizzie forgot Bill was on the phone. She
dashed back to the bedroom, flipped on the lights and dragged her
duffel from the closet. Tossed it on the bed and unzipped the flap.
“I’m taking a vacation.”

“Pardon me?”

“Vay-kay-shuuun,” she said slowly. “You
know, tourists traps and expensive meals and wishing you’d never
left home? I tracked Galletti for close to five months, Bill.
Living out of crappy motels and eating…well, the food wasn’t bad.
Still, I need a break, need to get off the grid for a while.”

Adrenaline raced through her as she rifled
through wigs; abandoned that and sorted through the clothes she’d
donned these months in Brazil: short skirts, shorter skirts,
bikinis…. A disgusted grunt and she slammed a hand on her hips.
None of it would do for Paris.

Bill sighed. “Know how an agent loses her
edge? Going after what she thinks she wants instead of staying
focused—”

“Know how an agent
keeps
her edge?”
she volleyed. “Finishing the job she started. To do that I need to
recharge. Just…give me a couple days to regroup, okay? You call and
I’ll come running like always.”

She flipped open the passport, stared at her
face beside the name: Janet Johnson.

Soluble.

Soulless.

Company-issued. She’d have to swap it
out.

Back in the duffle, Kizzie pulled back the
zipper hidden in the lining and dove her hand in the pocket. A
large manila envelope was stashed inside, providing her with cash
and a new identity complete with credit cards. She studied the new
passport and tilted her head. A few adjustments…

“You’re a good agent, Baldwin. Think long
and hard about the consequences of lying right now.”

Kizzie stopped re-packing at the
not-so-subtle threat. Screw up or go rogue and there’d be no job to
come back to. And rogue agents didn’t stay rogue.

They got dead.

Her palms tingled, that little voice in her
head she so often ignored screamed for her to see reason. “It’s
martinis and sunshine in an itty-bitty bikini on the beach, Bill.”
She chuckled. “Not running off to start a war or anything.”

A meaningful silence from the other end.
“All right,” he finally said. “Just remember, you want that soul
back, you gotta come through me.”

* * * *

Halfmoon Bay, British
Columbia

F
ive time zones
away, Bill Connolly dropped his cell onto the table beside his
ever-present bottle of cherry-flavored Mylanta. Since Gale Freeman
cleaned up that loose end in McLean months before, he could
actually feel the ulcer starting to heal. Staying in the Bay,
falling asleep in the now-familiar surroundings from his past, had
done him good. Stress had been on a steady decline, but one phone
call to Kizzie threatened to inch that big ball uphill again.

During her “soul searching” he had Sol trace
her phone which, according to the tech guy, ended up in Canada—on
the opposite coast from Bill. Whether Kizzie had friends in Toronto
or not, Bill didn’t know. But Sol did a thorough search of the area
and she didn’t turn up. She went off grid there. For what?

Or for whom?

Duquesne.

He shook his head dolefully. He’d been in
the game long enough to spot a lie when he heard one, and Kizzie’s
pants were on fire. It was obvious. Since when did an agent call a
target by his first name? That was an intimate gesture, and she’d
said it so effortlessly Bill was sure it wasn’t her first time.
Something happened in Mauritius. He’d bet money something happened
during her last trip off-grid. Probably sleeping with the guy.

“
Xander
.” His lips twisted into a
sneer.

Loyalty was the keystone that held his team
together. “To Crew and Country,” and in that order.

This opened Kizzie’s allegiance up to
scrutiny.

Screwing a target to complete an op was one
thing; screwing him because she
wanted to
meant she was more
likely to be flipped. Might have been already. That happened with
agents who’d been in play a long time.

Duquesne was a hard criminal to track, the
more pertinent parts of his dossier were brief. So if giving Kizzie
a couple days to “hook up”—as the young kids now called it—with the
man who had Intel on 3-19, Bill would let her “vacation” again. And
once the honeymoon was over, she’d realize how stupid she was to
turn to Duquesne and come back to the Crew where she belonged. He
just had to be patient.

Bones cracked as he shifted in the leather
recliner. The seconds passed on the clock over the
mantel—
Tick…tick…tick…
A low fire burned in the hearth, the
crackle soft and soothing.

He leaned forward and snapped up his phone
from the table; flicked his thumb through the contacts until he
reached the name he was looking for.

Push it.

It’d be so simple.

Push it and reach out to the asset on the
other end.

Now.

Bill hesitated.

Getting close to any agent was a bad thing.
Agents were just soldiers of a different sort, fighting a war most
people preferred not to know existed. Soldiers trained in the art
of duplicity, secrecy and, when necessary, to engage with deadly
force. Like any soldier, they could be killed in combat.

This soldier was like a daughter to Bill. If
she died, he’d feel the loss. He’d never tell Kizzie that, but it
was true.

Also true: if she flipped on her country—on
him
—Bill would kill her himself.

No double-edged sword sharper than the
agent/controller relationship.

He shook his head. It wouldn’t come to that.
Kizzie would be back, because she owed him a debt: her life.

A heavy sigh and Bill dropped the phone,
picked up the bottle of cherry-flavored chalk. He’d give her a
little leeway; let her do things Kizzie-style. But if she did find
something and lied to him instead, one phone call would have
Kizzie’s debt paid in full and the account closed.

Permanently.

July 27
^th

Paris, France

I
n the fifteen
minutes since she’d climbed into the passenger seat of the Citroën
SUV, Phil had looked out the driver’s side window three times. The
quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Paris had a few expensive
shops nestled amongst row houses and efficiencies. A medium-size
café occupied the corner diagonal to their location. To find only
one in a city where cozy bistros outflanked golden arches 100:1 was
a rarity.

“How’s Zlata?” Kizzie asked, if only to
break the silence.

“Safe.”

Good. Zlata saved her hide in Helsinki.
She’d repay her one day, but for now, knowing Xander kept his word
was enough.

“Where’s Tweedle-dumb, anyway?”

Phil shrugged. “We’ll go soon, just need to
take care of something.”

With the sun well on its way to New York,
the café was well lit. Still, dark shades covered Phil’s eyes, the
wicked scar that crossed one of them peeking out from underneath.
He angled his head toward his lap where an iPad streamed an old
black and white film:
Lolita.

Didn’t guess Phil for the classic movie
type—too artsy for hired muscle—but then, Kizzie knew little about
him. Less about his no-good boss. She added ‘old movies’ to Phil’s
factoids file, just under ‘dirty jokes’, ‘loyal’, and ‘lethal’.

Short list.

She’d worked with less.

Kizzie liked the guy, despite his being a
threat to national security. Plus Phil was the closest person to
Xander. Without a doubt her pre-op Intel on Duquesne lacked a
considerable amount of detail—her ass cheeks could attest to that
fact—and going back through Langley for specifics would alert
Connolly, bumping Phil to the head of the pack as a source.

She dug in her backpack for her binoculars.
Small but high-powered, the photo-capable field glasses would get
her a peek at whatever Phil found so damned interesting.

The café’s terrace was empty, an earlier
rainfall forcing the handful of diners inside. A party of three
laughed over some story or other, wine glasses full of red. Another
group of seven—eight, one just dropped into a seat—dined near the
back, chatting away. Nothing uncommon. She sifted through the
place, stopped on the corner booth farthest from the door.