Heart Shot (2 page)

Turning in the opposite direction to where her car was parked, Emily slipped on a pair of sunglasses. The dark lenses were a perfect cover for her actions. She checked the windows she walked past for any sign of a tail.

Emily crossed the street, turned right then immediately left. She glided past the busy shops and monitored any people she recognized as being repetitious. After doubling back and walking a complex pattern full of many turns, she was satisfied no one was following her. Unzipping her bag she then felt past her purse and the assorted junk that accumulates in anyone’s gym pack until she found her two phones. Her personal mobile was an android, the other a small, cheap disposable with a tiny, four megapixel camera.

It was this latter phone she pulled out. Relative to what one could buy on the market nowadays it was ancient, but it served her purposes. Prepaid and completely clean it was serviceable and could be discarded as soon as she was finished with it. The camera might’ve been decrepit, but it took pictures clearly and she could send the proof required to James without being traced.

James was the only person who had this number, and the only one who was in the contacts list. Checking around her again, she then called him.

“I thought we agreed I could take a few months off,” she said the moment he answered. “It’s been three weeks, and I haven’t made any decisions yet. What’s going on?”

“Em, you know how special you are,” James’ tone was clearly cajoling. Emily scanned the street and continued to walk, not swayed by his honeyed tone. “This is a special circumstance. There’s no one quite like you. You know I wouldn’t have called if this wasn’t serious.”

“I’m not special,” she insisted bluntly. “I just make your life easier, James. I can do what few others associated with you can. Let’s cut the crap.”

“Of course you’re special, darling,” James’ tone deepened, warmed. Emily thought she could detect a faint hint of a Caribbean accent, but she couldn’t be sure. Like everything else related to James, it was a mystery, and impossible to guess what was real, what was a lie, and whatever lay in between.

Paranoia and suspicion were tools of the trade when one was an assassin, she’d discovered.

“That’s bullshit,” Emily said, then sighed. “You have tons of people working for you—a veritable army, figuratively speaking. You have more power and influence at your fingertips that I know of in any other man. It shouldn’t be a problem for you to give me time.”

“It’s true I have many favors owed me, and a lot of influence, as you say,” James replied. “But time is one of those slippery things I have no control over. I need the full package and you’re the best. I’m calling now because I know you’ll want a few days to conduct surveillance and assure yourself it’s all right. Besides, you’ll need it. He’s government connected and will have bodyguards up the arse. This is a harder case and why I need you.”

Emily frowned as she paused at a flower stall. Slinging her bag high over her shoulder, she kept a hand free as she bent to smell a bunch of cornflowers. She used the movement to covertly check her tail again. Outwardly appearing focused on the stall, she moved to a tub of pink roses. That let her glance the other way up the street without being blatant about it.

“Em?”

“The challenge of working with you never gets old,” she hedged. “But I’d decided to regroup, maybe even try my hand at something else. I don’t want to get sucked back in again. I’m serious when I say I’m thinking about getting out of the business.”

“Em, you’re a natural. I’ve never known anyone better. I know we keep our distance, for both our sakes, but I’ve kept tabs on you. On your work. You won’t be able to do anything else. Trust me.”

Pursing her lips together, she frowned darkly. Emily felt the truth of that statement deep in her soul. She was stubborn however, and determined to do these things on her own terms, under her own conditions. No one could bully her, or force her to pull that trigger. In her heart, in the most secret places of her mind, she worried that James spoke the truth. That this was her purpose, her overwhelming skill—murdering people.

Not something a girl could be proud of, really.

Running from her nature was not smart, it would be better to accept it. Emily insisted to herself that while it might be her calling, she could control the circumstances, the contracts she took and those she slayed. No one, not James, not the government, and certainly not her non-existent partner or lover, could take that from her.

“Give me the details. I’ll look into it and text you in two to three days with whether I accept your terms or not.”

“Fantastic, I knew I could count on you,” James spoke quickly, as if afraid if he took too long she’d change her mind. “I’m texting through his photo and details right now. The target is Keyton Marshall and he’s a mid-level analyst for one of the government branches. He’s been selling sensitive data from a clandestine division to anyone with deep enough pockets…”

Equal parts resigned and curious, Emily dug her free hand into her bag. In seconds she pulled out the pen and notebook she always carried with her. Originally she’d convinced herself it would be in case she came across something she could write an article about, but years ago she’d realized the majority of the time she used it to jot down notes and thoughts for missions like this.

Despite her weariness, the familiar spark of a new hunt, a fresh case, zinged through her body. She couldn’t lie to herself. She loved this part of her work. All too quickly she knew she would uncover secret dealings, corruption, degradation and often unspeakable acts of pure evil. But as she made encrypted notes to herself, Emily hoped this case would give her back some of her former invigoration.

* * * *

Finlay

Finlay Mann entered his boss’s office with curiosity.

“Shut the door, Fin,” Preston Jones said without lifting his head from the report he was scanning. Fin paused, perplexed. Mentally he ran through the last few days. He couldn’t find anything major that he’d fucked up, so he relaxed and pushed the door closed.

“Troy’s surgeon called a few minutes ago. He’ll be stuck in the hospital for at least a few more days, possibly a week depending on how quickly he recovers,” Preston explained as Fin took a seat.

Fin tensed. He took a second to collect himself before he spoke. Preston Jones was a good boss, but he was still a manager to Fin’s mind. There was a certain protocol when it came to them that both he and his sometime partner, Troy, adhered to.

Only admit to what you have to.

Shaking his long blond hair from his eyes, Fin then sat taller in his chair. He kept his gaze alert as he stared at Preston, looking for any signs or indication of an undercurrent to his words.

Preston was tall, large and dark-skinned. He’d retained the fit physique of a man of action. Despite having been a team leader and desk-bound for the last five years, Preston had a solid reputation and hadn’t seemed to forget the often volatile and spur-of-the-moment nature of field work.

Fin respected the man. Even though he knew where his agents were coming from, Preston wasn’t a soft touch. He could chew a man out with only a steely glance, and had been known to make fresh recruits, not cut out for this work, cry like babies.

Fin hoped he wasn’t about to be on the receiving end of another stern lecture.

“He was only grazed on the shoulder,” Fin said with deceptive calm. His stomach knotted, for Troy could have been hurt far worse. Troy was not a member of the Agency—not officially. Fin hadn’t been able to settle with any partner over the space of two years, no one really understood or fit with him. So when he’d met a Consultant on one mission, and they’d worked well together, Fin had convinced Preston to let them continue to collaborate when Fin needed someone to watch his back.

Fin feared very little in this world—but having to break in a new partner was definitely top on his list.

“I believe there was also the mild matter of a punctured lung and three cracked ribs,” Preston replied with a small smile. He looked up for the first time. Fin’s stomach unclenched.

If this was another ass-reaming there wouldn’t be the smile, or the humor in his boss’s tone.

“Pfft.” Fin waved a hand in casual dismissal. “You wait. Give it a few more days for Troy to find his feet and he’ll be driving everyone in the entire hospital mad. We’ll be lucky if the staff don’t riot. He’s fine.”

“Yes, neither of you gentlemen deal well with boredom. I’ll give you that,” Preston mused. “Whether your friend will be out of commission for a week or six, which means you’ll be on solitary duties for at least the near future. And that brings me to why I called you in. I know it’s not your usual thing, but I’m going to assign you to bodyguard duties for a short time.”

Fin was shocked. Frozen, he merely blinked as his brain tried to assimilate the words.

“Bodyguard duties?” he repeated, feeling stupid. Preston’s comment seemed insane, almost as if it were a joke. Fin remained silent, expecting the man to crack a smile and admit he’d been hooked. But that didn’t occur.

“Yes,” Preston replied.

The man offered nothing more, and Fin swallowed hard. Fin didn’t miss the way Preston eyed him up and down before meeting his gaze again.

“I’m not certain your wardrobe even contains the quiet, sober suits necessary,” Preston finally added. “But you’ve surprised me before with the various ensembles I’ve witnessed. And you’ve never let the Agency down, so I have confidence you can rise to this challenge.”

Fin’s outfits were the stuff of many office jokes and inter-agency legend. Brightly colored, sometimes even outlandishly patterned, Fin loved wearing all manner of blazers, scarves and slacks. With his long hair, snazzy outfits and casual manner he often was mistaken initially for what he honestly could have become—a fabulously wealthy playboy, one of the many rich fancies who had nothing to do all day but be idle and get into mischief.

Word of his enormous trust fund had taken mere minutes to circulate around the Agency when he’d started. Spies could be the worst kind of gossips when it came to personal information.

Initially, most had assumed he’d only been dabbling in espionage to while away the time until the interest rates on his capitol grew. Fin had proved them all wrong, and spectacularly so. With his connections and air of languid ease, Fin could usually talk his way into anywhere from the snottiest gallery affair to the haughtiest debutante’s ball.

His connections, prestige and knowledge of how people from all walks of life ticked had proven invaluable. Fin privately thought his work was the best high he’d ever experienced, clean or not.

“But Preston…really?
Bodyguard
duties? Is this because the powers that be are pissed about a civilian getting shot? Because as I explained to them—”

“It’s nothing of the sort,” Preston assured him. “I just don’t want you chatting up half the office staff or hanging around here, lolling about and giving us a bad name.”

Fin grinned. He could read between the lines. Preston didn’t want him flirting with the ladies in the office or getting caught with his hand up someone’s skirt.

He loved everything there was about women, from the way they’d flush, the sparkle they all got in their eyes to the millions of variations the form of a luscious woman could contain.

Each one was different, and he adored them all.

“You’re just worried that with a whole week of my being here I’ll snare a bunch of hearts and they’ll be distraught when I head back out into the field,” Fin teased.

Preston shook his head. “I prefer you being under heavy fire in a burning warehouse. That charming grin and those innocent blue eyes don’t work against bullets. They force you to use that very smart brain you’re blessed with. It’s no effort at all for you to smile sweetly at the girls and coax them into the stairwell for a few kisses. You’ve been doing that all your life. I’d prefer to keep you sharp.”

On one of his first cases Fin had been pinned down in a burning factory, under heavy gunfire. Troy had been following his own leads and they’d found themselves trapped. Backed into working together they quickly hatched a plan. Taking turns to lay suppressing fire around them, they’d worked in tandem and saved what they could from the mission. They’d both escaped with hardly a scratch.

It had been the first time many in the Agency had seen anything other than an idle playboy dabbling at cloak and dagger games from Fin. Preston and many of the other managers had seen some of the depth he held, and his reputation had grown because of it.

“I can’t imagine you want me to guard someone where the situation is going to end in a right royal cock-up. My forte doesn’t run to over-analyzing the moves of everyone in the room. I don’t have the patience for that.”

“Oh no,” Preston assured him. “This is strictly information gathering. I just want you to shadow Keyton Marshall for the week. He’s got the ear of the Prime Minister, and you should know he’s the main go-between for this Agency and the PM. The last thing we need is to make a fuss. Marshall always has three or four lackeys around him, like his personal assistant and fresh-faced, aspiring politicians and whatnot. You’re not there to look menacing or like a bodyguard at all. I want you to gather information, inform Marshall his safety is guaranteed and blend in… Well, as much as
you
can at least.”

Fin frowned further. He’d never aspired toward politics—his father would have been all for that. Neither did Fin usually get along well with that set. He found them largely to be a smarmy lot. All sweetness to your face, just waiting for your back to be turned or a decent opportunity to present itself. Then it was every man for himself and those not malicious enough to stab the other in the back usually fell far and fast.

“You know that’s not my scene…” Fin sighed as Preston merely raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you could fit in anywhere? Talk to anyone?” Preston said with deceptive mildness.

“Well, I didn’t say I couldn’t do the job. Just that it wasn’t my scene,” he protested. “Do you have any idea how deadly dull this will be? That lot consider backstabbing a delightful pastime. Not to mention all the kissing arse and backroom games they indulge in.”