the
bunch.” He bucked his head. “And she just put a slug in that
door.”
Rachel swallowed hard. She wasn’t quite sure
if his words scared her more, or if her fear stemmed from the slow
smile that spread his wrinkled lips. Given his earlier threat, this
almost gentle warning was… unsettling. No idea if he was friend or
foe, and the uncertainty made her stomach knot. How did Fletch work
with these people? And why were they employed by the CIA in the
first place?
He nodded once, and then stepped back. When
he spoke again, his voice carried. “Your shooter in back is—”
“Gracie Lou Freebush,” the woman called out.
With her gun-free hand she pointed back to the man Rachel had
deduced was Bill Connolly. “That’s Victor Melling. Now who are
you?”
Rachel blinked. “Sam Fuller.”
Well, what do you know? That got half a grin
back and a look that said she appreciated Rachel’s understanding
the reference. Maybe a touch of respect? Hmm… Better not push
it.
Eyes still on ‘Gracie’ —who she pegged to be
Kizzie Baldwin— Rachel tipped her head toward the man leaning
against the wall near the couch. He had to be Lennox Tate. He was
the only one in the bunch that Fletcher didn’t have much info on,
not that he had much info on any of them. But he’d made it clear in
his notes Tate was the wild card.
“Makes him Eric Matthews, right?” she asked,
keeping the gag going.
Kizzie chuffed a laugh through her nose. “Oh
yeah. Ego’s like this big —” she spread her arms wide—
“Equipment…?” Without finishing the joke, her gun found Lennox
again, automatic as the needle of a compass finding true north.
What had the guy done to get on Kizzie’s bad
side?
Then again, on the first Galletti op
Fletcher mentioned Kizzie could be both charming and ruthless in
the same heartbeat.
“Now that we’re all acquainted,” Bill said,
“holster your weapon, Agent Hayford.”
“There’s still the matter of the Beretta,
Gracie.”
“What, this little thing?” Kizzie eyed
Lennox pointedly, then looked at Rachel once more. “It’s the only
known treatment for Eric’s terminal stupidity.”
This time, Rachel did laugh, and Kizzie
smirked.
“After you, Sam.”
Rachel lowered the gun slowly and tucked it
beneath the flap of her messenger bag. And, whaddaya know, her
shoulders instantly felt better.
When her hands came out empty, Kizzie
followed suit. Except her weapon didn’t go in a bag or a holster.
Nope, she rested it on her thighs, muzzle still pointed in Tate’s
direction, left palm gripping the stock and trigger finger at the
ready.
All righty then. Looked like somebody could
strangle a grudge…
And Rachel certainly wasn’t about to press
the issue. No sense getting on the crazy lady’s bad side.
“We’re already behind, Hayford.” Bill
motioned behind her and then headed for the table in the center of
the room.
Turning to shut the door, Rachel couldn’t
help but search out the bullet hole that would have marked the end
of her life. Or the actual bullet, as it were. The thick metal had
stopped the projectile before it punched all the way through. The
spent round was now a disfigured blob that marred the continuous
length of shiny grey. It was also a good two feet higher than her
head, and to the upper right. Damn near in the corner.
Unless Rachel suddenly had a growth spurt
that made her Kareem Abdul Jabaar, there wasn’t a chance in hell
that bullet would have hit her. From the ground, with her brain
haywire and her heart thumping hard enough to crack ribs, she would
have sworn the hole was center mass. She glanced over her
shoulder.
Kizzie was staring right at her. She lifted
a hand and waved, a grin playing at the edges of her mouth.
And she was the sane one?
On a deep breath, Rachel pushed the door
closed. As she locked herself in with the three craziest agents
she’d met in all her time with the Agency, she muttered not a
prayer but an oath: “Damn you,
bunch.” He bucked his head. “And she just put a slug in that
door.”
Rachel swallowed hard. She wasn’t quite sure
if his words scared her more, or if her fear stemmed from the slow
smile that spread his wrinkled lips. Given his earlier threat, this
almost gentle warning was… unsettling. No idea if he was friend or
foe, and the uncertainty made her stomach knot. How did Fletch work
with these people? And why were they employed by the CIA in the
first place?
He nodded once, and then stepped back. When
he spoke again, his voice carried. “Your shooter in back is—”
“Gracie Lou Freebush,” the woman called out.
With her gun-free hand she pointed back to the man Rachel had
deduced was Bill Connolly. “That’s Victor Melling. Now who are
you?”
Rachel blinked. “Sam Fuller.”
Well, what do you know? That got half a grin
back and a look that said she appreciated Rachel’s understanding
the reference. Maybe a touch of respect? Hmm… Better not push
it.
Eyes still on ‘Gracie’ —who she pegged to be
Kizzie Baldwin— Rachel tipped her head toward the man leaning
against the wall near the couch. He had to be Lennox Tate. He was
the only one in the bunch that Fletcher didn’t have much info on,
not that he had much info on any of them. But he’d made it clear in
his notes Tate was the wild card.
“Makes him Eric Matthews, right?” she asked,
keeping the gag going.
Kizzie chuffed a laugh through her nose. “Oh
yeah. Ego’s like this big —” she spread her arms wide—
“Equipment…?” Without finishing the joke, her gun found Lennox
again, automatic as the needle of a compass finding true north.
What had the guy done to get on Kizzie’s bad
side?
Then again, on the first Galletti op
Fletcher mentioned Kizzie could be both charming and ruthless in
the same heartbeat.
“Now that we’re all acquainted,” Bill said,
“holster your weapon, Agent Hayford.”
“There’s still the matter of the Beretta,
Gracie.”
“What, this little thing?” Kizzie eyed
Lennox pointedly, then looked at Rachel once more. “It’s the only
known treatment for Eric’s terminal stupidity.”
This time, Rachel did laugh, and Kizzie
smirked.
“After you, Sam.”
Rachel lowered the gun slowly and tucked it
beneath the flap of her messenger bag. And, whaddaya know, her
shoulders instantly felt better.
When her hands came out empty, Kizzie
followed suit. Except her weapon didn’t go in a bag or a holster.
Nope, she rested it on her thighs, muzzle still pointed in Tate’s
direction, left palm gripping the stock and trigger finger at the
ready.
All righty then. Looked like somebody could
strangle a grudge…
And Rachel certainly wasn’t about to press
the issue. No sense getting on the crazy lady’s bad side.
“We’re already behind, Hayford.” Bill
motioned behind her and then headed for the table in the center of
the room.
Turning to shut the door, Rachel couldn’t
help but search out the bullet hole that would have marked the end
of her life. Or the actual bullet, as it were. The thick metal had
stopped the projectile before it punched all the way through. The
spent round was now a disfigured blob that marred the continuous
length of shiny grey. It was also a good two feet higher than her
head, and to the upper right. Damn near in the corner.
Unless Rachel suddenly had a growth spurt
that made her Kareem Abdul Jabaar, there wasn’t a chance in hell
that bullet would have hit her. From the ground, with her brain
haywire and her heart thumping hard enough to crack ribs, she would
have sworn the hole was center mass. She glanced over her
shoulder.
Kizzie was staring right at her. She lifted
a hand and waved, a grin playing at the edges of her mouth.
And she was the sane one?
On a deep breath, Rachel pushed the door
closed. As she locked herself in with the three craziest agents
she’d met in all her time with the Agency, she muttered not a
prayer but an oath: “Damn you,
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