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Authors: Misty Evans
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was reassembled and loaded.
A man in his position couldn't be too careful. He never traveled commercial flights armed. It called too much attention to him and wasn't worth the effort. But he always had his gun's components in his carryon, within easy reach and at his immediate disposal. The stricter airport security measures now in place didn't faze him in the least. One of the best things about the Agency was its techno geeks. Those guys spent thousands of hours figuring out ways to hide weapons in plain view—the closest thing to James Bond Lawson had witnessed during the past year of contracting with the CIA.
Under normal circumstances, he would have assembled the gun in the car when he and Zara left the airport. He hated riding through Paris unarmed, but the chauffeur deal had thrown him a curve ball. He wasn't about to sit in the backseat and put a gun together with Albert as witness.
Lawson stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans at his back. Then he reassembled the dryer and DS and threw both back in his bag. He passed the super-sized bed and knocked on the suite's connecting door. His side was unlocked, the security chain dangling.
"Za—” He checked himself. She was Sara now. Setting his hand on the doorknob, he called her by her cover name. “Sara?"
When she didn't answer, he knocked again, sharper this time. “Sara?"
Still no answer. The spot between his shoulder blades twitched. Not a lot, but a definite twinge.
Probably she was just in the shower and couldn't hear his knock or his call. Still, he removed the gun from its hiding place at the small of his back and angled his body against the door, listening for any sounds on the other side. Paranoia was entrenched in his system and Lawson swore by it. So far it had never failed to keep him alive.
Turning the doorknob with slow precision, he was both relieved and annoyed to find it unlocked from the other side. Besides setting Zara straight about her role in the op, he needed to give her a lesson in security procedures. He moved with natural stealth and a moment later was standing next to her bed. The whole suite was a mirror image of his room.
The contents of Zara's carryon, with the exception of the red dress, were sitting in a haphazard pile on the end of the bed. Lawson's brain automatically logged everything. Wallet and passport, three lipsticks, travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner, cell phone. Several pairs of lacy underwear and a slip of a nightgown. Other miscellanea including breath mints, antiseptic hand cleaner, two paperbacks, a hairbrush and a nightlight.
The red dress was neatly pressed out on the other side of the bed. The matching shoes stood side by side in the closet, while the black shoes had been discarded nearby on the floor, one lying on its side.
Lawson checked the door to the hallway and found it locked, the security chain in place. Good girl. At least she got that part right. Next he checked the windows. They were locked and intact. He let out the breath he'd unknowingly been holding.
As some of the tension left his body, he crossed the living room area and pulled up short at the bathroom door. It was partially open and he listened for sounds. No shower, flushing toilet or running hair dryer. No noise at all. Zara had to be in there, but why the hell wasn't she answering him?
Leaning closer to the door, he tried to pick up the sound of movement. After listening for a full minute, he still didn't hear a thing. As the faint smell of something citrusy filtered to his nose, he called to her again and tapped his knuckles on the bathroom door. “Sara?"
Silence.
Damn, he had to make sure she was all right. Holding his gun up and ready, he pushed the door open in a slow arc.
Like a magnet, the bathtub drew his eyes. A sheer shower curtain fell from a gold-plated oval rod and partially obscured his view. The tub was a large cast iron claw-foot, deep and flared around the edges, much like the one he and his brothers
A man in his position couldn't be too careful. He never traveled commercial flights armed. It called too much attention to him and wasn't worth the effort. But he always had his gun's components in his carryon, within easy reach and at his immediate disposal. The stricter airport security measures now in place didn't faze him in the least. One of the best things about the Agency was its techno geeks. Those guys spent thousands of hours figuring out ways to hide weapons in plain view—the closest thing to James Bond Lawson had witnessed during the past year of contracting with the CIA.
Under normal circumstances, he would have assembled the gun in the car when he and Zara left the airport. He hated riding through Paris unarmed, but the chauffeur deal had thrown him a curve ball. He wasn't about to sit in the backseat and put a gun together with Albert as witness.
Lawson stuck the gun in the waistband of his jeans at his back. Then he reassembled the dryer and DS and threw both back in his bag. He passed the super-sized bed and knocked on the suite's connecting door. His side was unlocked, the security chain dangling.
"Za—” He checked himself. She was Sara now. Setting his hand on the doorknob, he called her by her cover name. “Sara?"
When she didn't answer, he knocked again, sharper this time. “Sara?"
Still no answer. The spot between his shoulder blades twitched. Not a lot, but a definite twinge.
Probably she was just in the shower and couldn't hear his knock or his call. Still, he removed the gun from its hiding place at the small of his back and angled his body against the door, listening for any sounds on the other side. Paranoia was entrenched in his system and Lawson swore by it. So far it had never failed to keep him alive.
Turning the doorknob with slow precision, he was both relieved and annoyed to find it unlocked from the other side. Besides setting Zara straight about her role in the op, he needed to give her a lesson in security procedures. He moved with natural stealth and a moment later was standing next to her bed. The whole suite was a mirror image of his room.
The contents of Zara's carryon, with the exception of the red dress, were sitting in a haphazard pile on the end of the bed. Lawson's brain automatically logged everything. Wallet and passport, three lipsticks, travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner, cell phone. Several pairs of lacy underwear and a slip of a nightgown. Other miscellanea including breath mints, antiseptic hand cleaner, two paperbacks, a hairbrush and a nightlight.
The red dress was neatly pressed out on the other side of the bed. The matching shoes stood side by side in the closet, while the black shoes had been discarded nearby on the floor, one lying on its side.
Lawson checked the door to the hallway and found it locked, the security chain in place. Good girl. At least she got that part right. Next he checked the windows. They were locked and intact. He let out the breath he'd unknowingly been holding.
As some of the tension left his body, he crossed the living room area and pulled up short at the bathroom door. It was partially open and he listened for sounds. No shower, flushing toilet or running hair dryer. No noise at all. Zara had to be in there, but why the hell wasn't she answering him?
Leaning closer to the door, he tried to pick up the sound of movement. After listening for a full minute, he still didn't hear a thing. As the faint smell of something citrusy filtered to his nose, he called to her again and tapped his knuckles on the bathroom door. “Sara?"
Silence.
Damn, he had to make sure she was all right. Holding his gun up and ready, he pushed the door open in a slow arc.
Like a magnet, the bathtub drew his eyes. A sheer shower curtain fell from a gold-plated oval rod and partially obscured his view. The tub was a large cast iron claw-foot, deep and flared around the edges, much like the one he and his brothers
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