The Target (3 page)

But for UC assignments, she kept a box of fake family photos and knickknacks in the hall closet. She would ship them tomorrow when she had an address in San Diego. The personal items would make her temporary apartment look lived in, just in case someone stopped by or she brought a guy home for a hookup. The thought excited her. Seduction was often a bonus in her undercover roles, even though the bureau technically didn’t allow sexual encounters with a target. But she was good at extracting information during prolonged foreplay.

Not knowing how long she would be gone, she packed two suitcases to the hilt, choosing mostly office clothes in shades of beige, gray, and black. Her blond hair looked best against neutral colors, but she was thinking of dying it red for the assignment. She owned a couple of sexy date dresses in teal—‌the only real color she wore—‌and they would look good with crimson tresses. If she had to stay on the job more than a month, she’d have to buy more feminine office clothes. Through college, she’d worked mostly as a waitress, preferring the constant movement and cash tips to an administrative job. Could she do the office job for a month if necessary? Of course she could. Collecting intel would make the work interesting. That reminded her to pack the bugs and tracking devices she might get to plant on her targets.

What was she forgetting? Her special purse with the hidden pocket in the bottom for her Kel-Tec, a little backup gun she carried on assignment. Dallas tucked it into the suitcase she would check at the ticket counter. Reluctantly, she placed her Glock in the gun safe. Normally, she slept with it on the nightstand and set the motion sensor in the hallway before getting into bed. No one would ever surprise her in the middle of the night.

Time to call Stacie, her best friend, and let her know. Her
only
friend, Dallas corrected. The undercover assignments made it impossible to maintain long-term relationships of any kind, which was true for lots of field agents as well. Her shrink’s voice popped into her head, telling her it was bullshit. Dallas groaned. She would have to call Dr. Harper too—‌her most difficult conversation. But it could wait until she was in San Diego.

While Stacie’s phone rang, Dallas stood at the window and stared at Camelback Mountain in the distance. It was more like a hill—‌especially compared to Mt. Shasta where she’d been on her last assignment—‌but at least it was a break in the desert.

“Jamie. Good timing. I was just going to see if you wanted to grab a drink later.”

“Sure, but I can’t stay out long. I’m leaving for San Diego tomorrow.”

“On assignment?” Her friend’s voice fell. “You’ve only been back a month or so.”

Why did she have to keeping justifying her work?
“An agent is dead and more lives are at stake. This one is really important.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re taking the wrong approach.”

Dallas laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s not dangerous for me. I’ll be in an office.”

Now Stacie laughed. “You won’t last a week.

Dallas took no offense. “I can do anything.”

“Except sit still. Have you told Sam?”

“Not yet. But don’t worry, we’re not serious, and I prepared him for it already.”

A big sigh. “Okay, meet me at the Apollo at eight.”

“See you soon.”

In her galley kitchen, she opened a can of vegetable-beef soup and heated a bowl of it in the microwave. While she paced the apartment, listing pre-assignment details, her phone rang. Stacie calling back? She grabbed the device from her black leather shoulder bag and looked at the ID:
Roxy Stuck.
Her mother. Her parents had never married because they collected more benefits as individuals—‌another source of shame.

Irritation and worry jammed her thoughts. Why was her mother calling? It had to be about money. Dallas let it ring. She had too much to do and needed to focus. She had walked, no run, away from the Queen Liar/manipulator and her worthless father at sixteen and never looked back. She sat at her desk and made a list for the next day: new driver’s license, new burner phones, text Sam and break it off.

Her cell rang again, and she knew it was her mother without looking. When Roxy wanted something, she could be overwhelming. It was better to deal with her now than put up with fifteen calls. Dallas picked up. “Hey, Mom. What’s going on?”

“Your dad’s in the hospital.” Her mother’s pack-a-day voice choked up. “He’s dying. You have to come home and see him.”

Grief and anger squeezed her heart, but the grief quickly let go. The idiot had been trying to kill himself with drugs and alcohol for decades, so it was no surprise. “Why should I? He’s never called me once since I left home, and he wasn’t much of a father before that. I don’t exist for him.”

“He wants to see you. He regrets a lot of his choices and he wants your forgiveness.”

Dying bastards always did.
“Pat his hand for me and tell him I said goodbye. But I’m not coming. I have an important work assignment that can’t be put off.” Dallas hung up before her mother could argue. An FBI agent, a good man who’d dedicated his life to serving his country, was dead, most likely murdered. Investigating his death and the sabotage of medical devices was a far better use of her time than making a dying asshole feel better.

She ate her now-lukewarm soup and got moving again. Guilt followed her around the condo as she watered her cactus, closed the blinds, and set the AC down a notch in preparation to leave for weeks or months.
Damn him.
Her good vibe about flying to San Diego on assignment was slipping away. Dallas changed into workout clothes and jumped on the elliptical machine—‌the best way to clear her head and work off tension.

Forty minutes later, she was drenched in sweat and at peace with her decision. Unwilling to risk another confrontation, she texted Sam:
I have an out-of-town assignment and I’ll be gone for a month or so and too busy to communicate. We might as well see other people.

She hoped he would take it well. Sam was smart enough not to be clingy with her, unlike her last boyfriend, who’d gotten too serious too quickly and ruined a good thing. But once the sex lost its sizzle, she had to move on. When men got too attached and emotional with her, banging them became boring, more of a chore than a sport. She knew it was fucked up, but so far, Dr. Harper had failed to fix her.

Dallas showered, put on the one cocktail dress she hadn’t packed, and went out to meet Stacie.

Tuesday, July 8, 3:05 p.m.

Kiya spotted the stripper getting out of a car, stuck in a piece of Juicy Fruit, and braced for action. After the pretty woman in the phony cop uniform crossed the parking lot, Kiya climbed off her motorcycle, grabbed the prop from her saddle bag, and hurried toward the building. She carried a bouquet of black roses that had cost a small fortune and wore a shirt with a Flower Power logo above the pocket. She’d bought the uniform from a young deliveryman two days ago. Some of her assignments required months of preparation. Others, like this one, came together easily. But it was too soon to count this one as a done deal. The main challenge was still ahead.

Inside the glass doors, the stripper walked through a security checkpoint and showed her ID. “I’m with PartyParty. I have a birthday present for Sanjay Mallick. Your company ordered it.”

Kiya waited just inside the door, hoping someone else would come through first. But DigiPro was a medtech company and didn’t get much foot traffic.

The security guard crossed his arms. “What kind of present? Show me.”

The stripper pulled open her easy-snap shirt and leaned forward. Kiya couldn’t see the display, but she imagined the woman was wearing a sexy black bra that revealed plenty of cleavage. The guard grinned and waved her in. “Sanjay’s in the lab on the left upstairs.”

One hurdle down. Kiya had ordered the strip-o-gram as a distraction. She hoped the woman was good at her job. Touching the gold chain on her neck for luck, Kiya stepped forward.

“I’m Amy Johnson with Flower Power. I have a delivery for Sanjay Mallick too. He’s having quite a birthday.” She handed the security guy a phony driver’s license and gave him a quick smile. She hated smiling. Her teeth were small, and it wasn’t in her nature to be charming. But being a freelance contractor required it sometimes. She hoped the guy didn’t call the floral company.

He looked at her uniform shirt and compared her face to the tiny photo on the license. What was he thinking? That she was sort of pretty, but her green eyes lacked warmth?

“Black roses? Is that a joke?” The guard, thirty-something with a bitter expression, pretended to do his job by asking questions.

“I believe so. The birthday boy is thirty today, so someone probably wants to remind him it’s all downhill after this.” She was about to hit that milestone herself.

“He’s gonna like his other present better.” The guard waved her in.

Hurdle number two. Kiya hustled toward the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator to return. The stripper was already on her way up to the research lab. The company was still small, with only nineteen employees, and most were scientists, computer geeks, or some freaky combination. They were working on a password pill her client wanted. The larger company had the resources to speed up the development—‌or kill the project to keep it off the market. She didn’t care which, as long as she got paid.

At the top of the stairs, the stripper waited in front of a solid door with a large window next to it. Kiya crossed the open space as a young man walked to the glass and sized up both visitors.

The door opened, and he grinned at the busty woman in the tight blue uniform. “Who are you here to arrest?”

“Sanjay Mallick. He’s been a naughty boy.”

The stripper was working it already. Kiya eased up behind her. “I’ve got something for him too.”

The man barely glanced at her, then stepped back to let them both in. “Sanjay is back in the corner.”

Kiya glanced in the direction he was pointing. A dark-haired man, skinny as a pencil, stood at a long metal counter, staring into a monitor. Sanjay had posted his birthday information in several social network sites, and the proximity of it had inspired her plan.

He was surrounded by gadgets, but the microscope was the only piece of lab equipment she recognized. All she needed was for him to step away from his workspace. She touched the stripper’s arm. “Why don’t you set up in the front? I’m sure all the guys will enjoy your birthday song.” Four other men, all wearing white lab coats, had workspaces in the wide room.

“Thanks, but I know what I’m doing.” The stripper set her boom box on the floor near the solid front wall, then sashayed back to Sanjay’s corner. The researcher looked more scared than pleased. Kiya stood back. The less anyone looked at her the better. She wore fake glasses and pale makeup and had her hair pulled tight into a bun, but she was already taking a chance by doing this so openly.

“Sanjay Mallick, you’re under arrest.” The stripper winked and led the timid scientist to the open space in front. She grabbed a chair from another workspace and pushed him down into it. As the stripper “read him his rights,” including some weird birthday stuff, the other workers moved into a semi-circle around the chair.

Roses in hand, Kiya walked boldly toward Sanjay’s workspace, sizing up the area. First, the computer. As she set down the flowers, she slipped a tiny flash drive out of her pocket and into his laptop. The device was designed to automatically copy everything on the hard drive. While it sucked up files, Kiya looked around for the actual product. A small clear case near the back of the counter caught her eye. In it were three little pills, the cylindrical kind with thin, plastic-like coating. A glance over her shoulder reassured her that the men were still occupied with the stripper, who’d just yanked off her peel-away pants.

Kiya grabbed the case, shoved it into her shoulder bag, and spun back to the computer. Did she have all the files yet? She didn’t care. What they really wanted was the little pill that, once activated by stomach acid, would emit an 18-bit EKG-like signal, which could be detected by a phone or computer, essentially turning the body into a password. Or at least that was how it was supposed to work. The idea seemed brilliant and pointless at the same time.

Too nervous to wait, she yanked the flash drive out and slipped it into her pants pocket. She strode toward the door.

A man with an authoritative presence came in, looking directly at her. “Who are you, and what were you doing back there?”

He’d seen her through the glass. “Floral delivery for the birthday boy.” She pointed at the roses on the back counter. “I dropped them off because the stripper was too hard to compete with.”

But the man had already turned toward the raunchy music and gyrating semi-naked woman. Kiya slipped past him and out the door.

Later, she met her client in the back booth of a hole-in-the wall taco stand. The client wore huge dark glasses and a Panama hat that hid much of her face, but Kiya knew who she was and where she worked, even though she’d given her a phony name. They’d done business before. The woman set a small canvas briefcase on the floor under their table and pushed it toward her with her feet. Kiya smiled, sipped iced coffee, and asked if she’d seen the new production at the Civic Theater. A minute later, Kiya lifted the case into her lap and unzipped it halfway. Stacks of cash that should total twenty-five thousand. She would count the money later. Her client knew if she cheated her, Kiya would sabotage her company, because that’s what the client paid her to do to her competitors.

Kiya pulled an envelope from her shoulder bag and set it on the table. Her client mentioned a coming storm, which in San Diego, didn’t mean much, and Kiya offered an appropriately meaningless response. A moment later, the client slid her hand across the table, fingered the envelope to feel for its content, and eased it to her side. They chatted about the weather again, then the woman opened the envelope and peeked at the thumb drive and password pills.

A tight smile of relief. “Thanks. Walk with me for minute?”