Spy Games (6 page)

I blushed, not happy that Van overheard.

“Yeah,” I said distractedly. I had a bad feeling about Huff’s no-show status. A guy didn’t spend thousands of dollars on an extreme vacation, fly up from California to take it and then just blow off the first exciting morning of it. Not even for a quick screw with a babe clad only in fabulous costume jewelry. I turned to Van. “Maybe we should leave word at the front desk to call one of us if Huff shows up.”

Yeah, I’m a bit of a mother hen with a side of worrier thrown in. A habit born from too many years of worrying about adventurous, irrepressible brothers.

Van raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.

As the elevator doors opened at the lobby, I turned toward the front desk, intent on following through.

Van caught my arm. “I’ll take care of it. You two go hold the bus for me.”

Obedient to a fault, I headed toward the bus. At the top of the bus stairs, I paused to look back into the lobby and caught a glimpse of Van flipping open his cell phone before he turned his back to the bus. Now whom would he be calling?

“No luck?” Jim asked as Peewee and I boarded, and Van ran for the bus.

Peewee scowled his answer and headed for the backseat of the small, airporter-type van.

I fell into a seat across from Jim, my eyes glued out the window on Van. Whoever he’d called hadn’t been the chatty type. I’d bet his callee wasn’t a woman. My relief shouldn’t have been so palpable, but I was a woman only
potentially
on the make. Until I could at least fully commit to the chase, I didn’t need any competition from unseen women on the other end of phone calls. Things were complicated enough.

I watched Van appreciatively. The man had such fine running form, my toes curled. Ask anyone. I’m a sucker for gracefully moving muscles and sinew. I watched a lot of track and field. I loved instant replays in slow motion. Anyway, Van was barely breathing hard as he swung into the stairwell and boarded the bus.

Jim cleared his throat. “Get the
Chariots of Fire
theme out of your head, girl.”

“
Chariots of Fire
, are you kidding? I’m not that sentimental,” I said, grinning as I turned my attention from Van to him. “Where do
you
think Huff is?”

Jim shrugged, noncommittally.

“Huff has a flare for the dramatic,” Cliff chipped in with amusement, and only a slight hint of annoyance, in his voice. He flashed a knowing, and undeniably pleased, look at Jim that could have doubled for a wink. “He’ll probably be waiting for us at the warehouse.”

“Or show up late in a limo to make a grand entrance,” Jim added, also in good humor.

I wondered at their apparent pleasure in Huff’s absence. Just what did they know?

Van walked past. “All taken care of,” he said as he took the seat behind me.

“Where do
you
think Huff is?” I asked him, sounding like a one-question-wonder, as he settled in and pulled out a pocket-size Sudoku book.

“Swimming with the sharks.” He was grinning.

“Stop it,” I said. “I’m worried.”

He arched a brow. “You think he’s in trouble?”

Despite Cliff and Jim’s buoyant mood, I
was
concerned that something horrible had happened to Huff. Something in the form of retribution from a celebrity trainer gone mad. Accepting a public hug and dance with Huff yesterday had been flirting with danger.

“Why wouldn’t he show up for the exciting first day of spy camp? Tell me that. This is the premier, action-packed vacation in the country. The brochure says so.” I gave Van a pointed look.

“He hasn’t missed the day yet.” Van opened the book and pulled out a nub of a pencil. “Maybe he doesn’t like buses.”

“He never mentioned it.”

Van gave me a look that could have been construed as either slightly jealous, or just plain sarcastic. “Lying in a ditch syndrome.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You sound like my brothers.”

“Yeah? Probably because I have a mother and two older sisters who are always imagining the worst. Can’t say it’s an attractive trait.” He grinned and pretended to be engrossed in his puzzle so that he could ignore my glare.

Which left me to admire the top of his head, covered as it was with his thick, wavy, finger-stroking good hair. “It’s better than indifference.”

Van grinned and gestured toward his book, making me an offer. “Puzzle?”

I ignored his meaning. “Yes. This business is, isn’t it? Now if only we could work together to solve it.” I put a finger to my lips, posing in the thoughtful look. “But wait! That would require your participation.”

He refused to rise to the bait. “Sure? Numbers will keep your mind off your troubles.”

I gave him a seriously skeptical look. “The only numbers I want right now are the four-one-one.” I leaned over and whispered again, nodding toward Peewee behind Van. “What do you make of Peewee? He’s been huddled back there looking like the Black Spy and making secretive phone calls since we boarded.”

Van didn’t even look up. “Everyone has their own way of killing time.”

I thumped back in my seat. “You’re no help, you know that?”

He kept grinning and working on his puzzles.

To divert myself from my own worst imaginings, I feigned interest in the passing scenery, and listened in to my fellow CTs’ conversations.

Jim and Cliff chatted, falling quickly into a discussion of business matters. Cliff complained to Jim about one of his bevy of ex-wives bleeding him dry. Jim promised that he had things under control and soon they’d be able to legally outwrangle her.

From time to time, both Jim and Cliff cast glances at unsociable, cell phone engrossed Peewee. They were obviously acquainted with him and viewed him as an intruding tagalong on the vacation. A barnacle that attaches himself to the action and can’t be shaken loose without a whole lot of prying.

Steve sat in the seat in front of Cliff, waiting for his chance to insert himself into Cliff and Jim’s conversation. Obviously, he was a big fan of Cliff’s. When Cliff hazarded to mention his current film, Steve belly flopped right in, drenching any remnants of their old conversation with his own fawning opinions about movies, Cliff’s in particular.

Listening to them for just a short while, I was able to determine that Cliff had directed a slew of successful action/adventure flicks. Nothing I’d seen or was likely even to rent.

Eventually, I couldn’t contain my curiosity about Cliff’s choice of vacation. I interrupted, with feigned admiration. “Cliff, your life sounds far from mundane. What brings you on a vacation like this?”

“Sacrifice for the craft.” Cliff winked at Steve, as if the girl is hot for my bod.

Feigned admiration was not the same thing as flirtation. With Van handy, although admittedly busy putting numbers one through nine into little squares, which would have been horribly dweebish if he so obviously wasn’t, would I really resort to flirting with the roly-poly dough spy?

“Experimenting,” Cliff added. “Putting myself in a scenario where
I
feel what the characters will feel. So that I can then convey those emotions to my actors.”

“You’re filming a hostage movie?” I guessed.

“Begin shooting on Monday. Right after I get back from Seattle.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “When will your new flick be released?”

“Next year about this time.”

“Oh.” I sighed. “It’ll be a long year waiting for it to come out.”

“I’ll send you tickets to the premier,” Cliff said.

“Can’t wait.”

I turned to Steve wondering aloud at his reasons for attending FSC Urban spy training.

“My ex-wife is back at court asking for more child support and alimony. If I don’t blow my cash on fun, that bitch gets it.” Then he shrugged.

The trip from the hotel to the FSC facility took roughly half an hour. Conversation came to a standstill as the bus pulled to a stop in front of a warehouse. The camp brochure said the training facility was thirty thousand square feet, complete with a firing range and mock city scenes. From the outside, it looked like a big, ugly box.

We all piled out and filed into the building. Inside, the warehouse was like a miniature Universal Studios, a great big playhouse for adults.

“It
is
just like a movie set,” I said with a bit of a gush. “Main Street meets
Rambo
.” I turned to Cliff for verification.

“It’s good,” he said as War walked over to greet us.

“Welcome to FSC City,” War said, encompassing the facility with a sweep of his arms. “You like?”

“I think I speak for all of us,” I said, “when I say, gee, it’s big and huge and…look it has cars and streets and everything. What’s not to like? Really.”

Next to me, Van rolled his eyes. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t we?” he whispered as War extolled the site’s features.

“When was the last time you saw cars and streets inside a building?” I asked him. “Not to mention an indoor firing range capable of withstanding submachine gunfire?”

“Point taken.”

“You could have fought a little harder,” I said, goading him for fun. “The Boeing facility in Everett has whole planes, great big ones, inside. It’s probably even better. You should take a tour.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Van said, grinning.

I think he liked me.

If Cliff and Jim were expecting an exuberant greeting from Huff, they were sorely disappointed. He was nowhere in sight. And believe me, it was obvious everyone was looking for him.

“Someone’s missing,” War said, suddenly realizing the group was small.

“Huff didn’t show up for the bus,” I said.

War didn’t look happy. “No one’s seen him?”

We all shook our heads.

War wrinkled his brow in consternation and excused himself to call Huff’s cell and then the hotel.

“We already tried that. No answer,” Steve called after him.

War simply waved him off. He returned a few minutes later. “If anybody hears from H, let me know immediately.” Then he launched right into the program, giving a brief overview of the day ahead.

Boiled down to its essence, the day was equipment issue—helmets, body armor, radio, pistol, ammo, and MP-5 submachine gun. Instruction on handling the equipment. Lunch. Weapons firing and classes. Bus ride back to the hotel. Free time. And a whole lot of eager anticipation and speculation about Huff. Not that War mentioned that.

I’d been fitted for my body armor and helmet and was feeling a bit like Bat Girl, cool, black, and invincible, when my cell phone played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” from my pocket.

War shot me a dirty look.

I shrugged. “Guess I should have remembered to put it on vibrate.”

His glare didn’t stop me from stepping away from the group and answering it. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” meant a call from one of the group of girlfriends I used to hang with at Ket’s gym back in the day. We’d been a tight group. We kept in touch.

I looked at my screen. Julie White. Hadn’t heard from her in a while. It figured she’d catch me at a bad time.

“Jules, hey! It’s been a long time—”

“He’s out,” Julie said, no preamble necessary. The fear in her voice told me who.

“What?” My suddenly hammering heart must have interfered with my normally wicked hearing. I clutched the phone until my knuckles went white, trying to maintain control over something.

“Ket’s out.” Julie sounded worried and incredibly apologetic, like, hey don’t shoot the messenger. “I just hung up with him.”

I cursed under my breath.

“Rei, I’m worried,” Julie said. “He sounded, you know…charmingly pissed. Like he was just calling to chat and catch up, find out who you’d been seeing—”

“Out? How in the world did he get out? Did he finally talk?”

“Some kind of legal snafu,” Julie said, trying to sound calming. “I’d just heard it on the local news and was going to call you when he called me. The court didn’t confirm the contempt order within the required number of days after jailing him.”

I cursed inept court officials under my breath, hoping it would make me feel brave and tough.

“If the court affirms the contempt order, they can still throw Ket back in.” Julie’s voice wavered, giving away her optimism as false.

“If they can find him.” I balled my fists, feeling like hitting something and crying at the same time. I’d hoped he’d rot in jail until his anabolic steroid use sent him to an early grave. Shot his liver or ruined his heart like prolonged use was
supposed
to do.

“He asked me to deliver a message to you,” Julie said softly, timidly.

My mouth went dry. The clever jerk. If he
could
somehow find out my new cell number, he knew I’d never pick up his call. “Oh, he did, did he?”

Julie hesitated. “He said he loves you. That he knows you love him, too—”

“I don’t love Ket! I hate him. Hate him with every fiber of my being.” I took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembles that had come over me. “I wish I didn’t. Really. I’d love to be apathetic.”

“I know, Reilly. I have to tell you the rest.” Poor Julie, I could tell it was the last thing she wanted to do. “He said he’s coming for you.”

“Coming for me? To make amends, I suppose?” I said with all the sarcasm I possessed. “Like slapping me with another restraining order?” I snorted, letting my anger chase my fear away. “That bastard—”

War drowned me out by barking out a command that started with “CTs, listen up!”

“Where are you?” Julie asked. “Basic training?”

“Someplace safe. Let’s leave it at that.”

“You’ll be careful?”

“Always. I have to go now,” I said. “Thanks for the warning.” I disconnected and blew out another sigh before dialing Mom and Nicki with the news.

Neither was in. I left messages and put my phone away.

Van left the knot of CTs gathered around the ammo table and approached me. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

More like my future at the hands of a demon.

“I’m fine,” I lied, wishing things were different, wondering if Ket would
ever
leave me alone.

I studied Van, liking the fine, sleek line he cut, the defined, natural shape of his musculature unmarred by steroid use. His intense expression of concern. How could I have ever backed away from his kiss last night? And yet I knew how. Or at least why. Ket.

“War’s about to issue our submachine guns,” Van said by way of tempting me back to the present. “You don’t want to miss that.”

“Submachine guns can blast bad guys to hell, right?” I said, fantasizing about a spray of bullets and a dead Ket.

“At the very least, purgatory.”

“Good enough.” I smiled, feeling less shaky and maybe a touch stronger and safer with Van there. “You’re right. I don’t.”

As we walked back to rejoin the group, I looked around for Huff. An irrational chill of worry for him ran down my spine. I shouldn’t have flirted with him. Not in public. “Huff still hasn’t shown up?”

“Not yet,” Cliff answered for Van. He sounded surprisingly angry.