Harris Read online

  "Stay here." I grabbed the back of her neck, squeezing gently. "Or I swear to god I'll tie you up and leave you somewhere safe."

  "You keep promising to tie me up like it's a deterrent, Nick." She grinned up at me. "You should know me better than that."

  "I do. But I gotta try, you know? I know you won't listen. And I've taken certain...precautions."

  "Which means you've got Anselm out there somewhere, watching me?"

  "I've gotta go. Jet's warmed up and the guys are on board. I'm due in LA. Got a little girl to rescue."

  "You do. You totally have Anselm out there watching me." She got up, went to the front door and shouted out. "ANSELM! YOU MIGHT AS WELL COME IN! I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE!"

  I just chuckled. "I have no idea where he is, babe. Save your breath." That was the truth, too. Anselm did things his own way. You never knew where he was until it was too late.

  I kissed her again, and then head down the steps.

  "Nick?" I heard her voice call out from the doorway.

  "Yeah, babe?" I turned back.

  "I love you. Come back safe."

  "Love you too, sweetheart. Try to stay out of trouble, okay?"

  "Never."

  I laughed as I trotted back to the Gator, which I drove over to the runway on the far edge of the property. As I'd told Layla, the guys were all onboard the jet, strapped in, and shooting the shit. Making bets about something.

  I left the door open between the cockpit and the main cabin and shouted back as I took off. "What are you louts betting on?"

  Duke, all six foot six and two hundred and eighty pounds of him, slumped into the co-pilot chair and tugged the headphones on. He was a certified pilot too, but only on fixed wing propeller aircraft. I'd trust him to pilot one of these in a pinch, but he's not licensed on them. He was a true orange-as-carrots ginger, had his hair undercut and pulled back into a ponytail. Being the youngest of the group at twenty-eight, he could actually get away with a punk hairstyle like that. Clean-shaven, bright cornflower-blue eyes. He was a pretty sonofabitch--could be a model if he wanted to. He was built like a goddamn tank, though, spent as much time in the gym bulking up as Thresh did, if not more. Gave Thresh a run for his money in terms of sheer muscle mass, despite Thresh's four-inch height advantage. Duke is a seriously massive individual, on top of being stupidly good looking. Like, you think of one of Tolkien's elves, they're supposed to be ethereally beautiful, otherworldly. That's Duke. It's honestly horrifying the amount of tail the man pulls down on a nightly basis, just based on a single grin. That's all he has to do, give any girl that smirk of his, and they're all but falling at his feet, begging him to plunder them.

  Duke hesitated to answer. "You know the guys. They'll bet on anything," he hedged.

  I snorted at that. "Out with it, bub."

  Duke straightened in the seat, gripped the second set. "Can I have it for a minute?" he asked nodding at the controls.

  I let go. "All yours. Nice and steady." I watched him feather the yoke a bit, testing the response. He had a soft touch, that was for sure. I eyed him. "Duke. What were you guys betting on?"

  He adjusted the throttle slightly. "Layla." He cut me a glance. "Whether she would show up or not."

  "Who's got what?"

  "Lear thinks Anselm will keep her in line. Thresh and I think she's going to show up and make trouble before this show is over, and I've got a text from Puck putting money on her staying put."

  I chuckled. "Lear and Puck are suckers, if that's the bet. I call a ten percent cut when you and Thresh clean house."

  Duke laughed, glancing at me. "That a fact?"

  I laughed again. "Buddy, it's not a matter of if, it's a matter of when, and how bad it'll be. Anselm is just...insurance that her pretty head stays in one piece. Besides, I like having him out there in the shadows, where he does his best work, you know? It's reassuring."

  "I hear that loud and clear." Duke took a hand off the yoke. "Back to you, boss."

  "I've got it." I took back the controls when Duke released them.

  He left the cabin, and I was alone with my thoughts.

  Which, of course, returned to Layla...and all the ways she could cause trouble.

  3

  A GIRL WITH A PLAN

  Creepy as fuck is what it was, knowing Anselm was out there and not being able to see him. I mean, I felt him watching me. It's not like he's weird or anything...I don't like it. Just...he's a ghost. Here I was in LA, prancing up and down Rodeo Drive, spending my man's money, yet knowing that Anselm was in the shadows. Knowing he was watching my every move put a real damper on things.

  Now, here's the thing. Nicholas Harris has done well for himself--Roth paid really well, apparently, and since starting A1S, things had only gotten more flush for us. Which meant I could blow a G or ten and he wouldn't even care--in fact, he wouldn't even notice. He wasn't in the same stratosphere as Valentine Roth, of course, but few men on the planet were. I mean, you had guys like the Koch brothers, Bill Gates, that Sultan of wherever, and Roth. Top tier of the whole word. But Nick? He was down a few pegs, down with the lowly Hollywood set in terms of overall wealth. Not quite a buy-his-own-island kind of guy, but he was doing well enough that he could hit an auction on a weekend and buy a vintage fighter jet--on a whim.

  So a pair of Manolos and a Gucci handbag? Pssshhh. That was nothing to Nick.

  Plus, Nick had me on the payroll, took off taxes and deductions and made me log my hours and everything, so really, technically, I'm spending my own money, which makes this feel even better.

  The only thing that's harshing my mellow right now is fucking creepy invisible Anslem goddamn See.

  Finally, I got sick of it. I couldn't handle it anymore. So I found a little cafe with a nice shaded outdoor eating area, ordered a mug of coffee and sat my ass down. Seeing as I'm not the type to sit around idle, I took matters into my own hands.

  In my purse--the old one, since I hadn't switched my things over yet--I had two cell phones. One was a big white iPhone in a sparkly case--Swarovski-sparkly, not diamond-sparkly, sadly--the other was more like the prepaid one I'd used in Brazil, an ancient plain black Razr, no case, no bling, no features, not even a smart phone. One of those phones was my every day cell, and the other was for use in case of emergencies. Can you guess which is which? Yeah, duh. I'd never used the Razr, seeing as Nick had gone all Scary Harris on me when he gave it to me, told me it was not for fun, not for needing a ride home from the bar because I'd had too much too drink. It was only for real, serious, life or death emergencies.

  Yes sir, I'd said, all doe-eyed and innocent.

  Ha. Has he met me? Since when do I do what I'm told? Never, that's since when.

  Thusly, I pulled out that old Razr, flipped it open--and god, what a marvelously nostalgic sensation that was!--and hunted laboriously through the contact list. Laboriously, I say, because I had to use actual buttons, not just swipe. I mean, there was only what, seven contacts in there? Harris, Duke, Lear, Puck, Anselm, Alexei, and Sasha. The heavy hitters of Alpha One Security. The kind of men you were really glad were your friends, whom you knew you really didn't want to know too terribly much about, because the details of their lives tended be a little...gnarly, shall we say. Even sweet, geeky Lear had his secrets, and he was as vanilla as you could get and still work for Nick.

  I found the entry I was looking for: Anselm See.

  Before I could remind myself that this was a bad idea and certain to get me in trouble with Scary Harris, I dialed him.

  It rang three times.

  "You should not be calling me. You know this."

  "I know, but it's creepy, knowing you're out there. Can't you just...hang out with me?"

  "I do not...hang out." Anselm's voice contained a sarcasm so potent it almost hurt. "And certainly not somewhere like Rodeo Drive."

  "They have really good espresso here," I said.

  I'd seen the break room at A1S headquarters. There was a fridge stocked with craft beer, a ba
r stocked with bottles of expensive scotch and bourbon, a humidor full of cigars, a cabinet full of junk food and Mountain Dew--I'm sure you can guess who that's for--and...an espresso machine. And not just a rinky-dink Mr. Coffee plastic piece of shit, but a full size, chromed-out, two-brewer-handle monster installed by the contractors who built the HQ because it wasn't the kind of espresso machine you just plunked down and turned on.

  Anselm took his espresso very seriously.

  "Bah. American piss water." He hung up without warning, because that's what spooks and soldiers do, apparently.

  Knowing he was watching from somewhere, I flagged down a waitress and ordered a double shot of espresso. A few minutes later the waitress set down a cute little white ceramic mini-mug full of espresso. It was thick and rich, with a frothy golden crema, just the way it's supposed to be. I slid the doppio espresso across the table to the empty chair and waited.

  It was like baiting a bear with honeycomb; I didn't have to wait long.

  I was looking in my compact, checking my makeup--the seat across from me was empty. I touched up my eyeliner, reapplied my lipstick, closed the compact--and there he was, Anselm See in the flesh.

  I jumped a foot, and clapped a hand to my chest in a vain attempt to slow the thudding of my heart. "Jesus, Anselm. Make some noise, would you?"

  He lifted the espresso to his lips, inhaled. Lowered it, peered with extreme scrutiny at the contents, swirled the liquid the way a sommelier would a glass of fine wine. Finally, he took a sip.

  "Not bad. Not so good, but not piss." He eyed me. "What do you want?"

  I shrugged. "I don't want anything. I just don't liked being watched. If you're going to babysit me, do it in person, not from far away with a telescope or whatever. That's just creepy."

  Anselm smirked. "Telescope? You are not a star in the space for me to use a telescope."

  "Then what do you use?"

  He laughed, a quiet chuckle. "My eyes, Frau Campari."

  "I always pictured you watching people from the top of a building with a rifle or something, muttering to yourself in German the whole time."

  He snorted. "I am not from one of your Hollywood movies. If I have a rifle, I am going to shoot you. If I am watching you, then I just...watch. And I do not mutter."

  Anselm was, at first glance, utterly unremarkable. Medium stature, perhaps five-ten, five eleven. Not short enough to be called short, but not tall enough to attract notice either. His hair was somewhere between dark blond and light brown, side-parted in the kind of classic haircut that never really went out of style. Shaved jaw, with a day or two worth of stubble. Brown eyes. Dressed in dark-wash blue jeans, a collared black polo shirt, only the front hem tucked in under his belt, the rest left untucked, and sensible hiking boots. If he put on a blazer, he could sit down at a nice restaurant. You'd never notice him in a crowd.

  But look again. He was actually rather handsome, if you took a moment to really notice. Sharp, hard jawline. Piercing, intelligent eyes. And his arms stretched out the sleeves of that polo, not to mention the pull of the fabric across his shoulders. In fact, the more I looked at him, the more I realized he was actually pretty damn hot. It was almost as if he had some kind of ability to will himself into the background, will you to not quite notice him. But now that he was in front of me...yummy.

  "Why are you staring at me?" He took a sip of his espresso, a slight smirk on his lips, his eyes betraying a faint humor.

  "Nothing. I just...nothing."

  "You cannot offend me. What is it?"

  "I just always thought of you as...unremarkable looking. Like, you blend in, no matter where you go. Just kind of fade into the background. Even with the other guys in a room, we all sort of forget you're there until you speak. But now I'm sort of realizing that you're not unremarkable at all."

  "No? Then what am I, would you say?"

  "Kinda hot, actually. I just had to actually look to see it."

  "A kind sentiment, Frau. In my life, in my training, it was always better to be unremarkable, to go unnoticed. It is a habit I will always have."

  "What is your training?"

  Almost imperceptibly, he moved his head side to side. "Many and much."

  "Well, no shit, Sherlock. Like where? For who?"

  "It would only bore you if I told you. Lots of boring days doing boring things for boring people."

  I rolled my eyes. "You're not very good at evading direct questions, Anselm."

  "I haven't told you anything of a specific nature."

  "No, but you're being very obvious about it." I grinned. "Would you tell me if I were to torture you?"

  Anselm did not return my smile. "That isn't funny." He leaned forward on his forearms, then rolled one arm over so the inside of his forearm was face up. The skin was...I don't even have a word for what it looked like. As if it had been ripped away, and then healed over. "They peeled my skin off in strips. Hot needles under my fingernails. Other things even less pleasant. And no, I did not tell them what they wished to know."

  "Fuck me running, Anslem. I'm sorry, I had no idea." Talk about awkward. But then, when you're surrounded by super-soldiers and ex-spies, I guess jokes about torture might not be funny.

  But then he grinned at me and snickered. "I am teasing with you. That was from a motorcycle accident."

  I laughed it off, but there was a hardness to his gaze, a faraway look to the way he stared into the dregs of his espresso. Motorcycle accident? I don't think so. Methinks the spy doth protest too much.

  "The truth is I am not at liberty to disclose many of the things I did, or for whom. What I can say is that I specialize in the gathering of information and the...acquisition, shall we say, of personnel who may possess such useful information."

  "I see. So you watch people, and sometimes make them disappear."

  "Essentially, yes."

  "And do you kill them?"

  "Not if I can help it. A dead person cannot tell you their secrets, after all, and there is always a way to pry a secret from someone."

  "And what way is that for you?"

  He shook his head from side to side again. "Good espresso."

  I snorted at that. "A likely story."

  Anselm rose. "Danke for the espresso, Frau Campari. Now, shall we go?"

  "Go where?"

  He gestured at the street. "Shopping? Unless you are finished?"

  "I'm never finished shopping." I left some money in the tray and followed him out onto the street. When he walked beside me, and even offered to carry my bags, I gave him a quizzical expression. "Wait, you're really coming with me?"

  He shrugged. "Why not? I am here, and I was told specifically to keep watch over you. I can do that so easily from here as back there." He waved behind us.

  "So let me get this straight. You really just...follow me?"

  "Yes. It is not so hard."

  "But I looked behind me all the time. I knew you were back there, and I still never spotted you."

  He gave me that smirk of his, a tipping up of one corner of his mouth, a sly, small grin. "That is because I am exceptionally good at it, Frau."

  I turned to look behind us, scanning the crowd, not sure what I was looking for. "So, if I was to try and spot someone who was following me, what would I look for?"

  He thought for a moment. "Well, it depends on their skill. I can follow a professional like myself and he probably won't spot me. It is what I do, what I'm best at. But a civilian? They would have no chance of spotting me. But to have any kind of hope of spotting someone, you always have to be watching your surroundings. Watch for patterns. Look for someone who seems to be near you all the time. Doing different things. Paying for gas, maybe, or tying a shoe, or checking a cell phone. The little things. The details." He turned around, ever so briefly, and glanced behind us, then looked at me. "There is a woman behind us. The blonde. Take one quick look, like I just did, and tell me everything you can see about her."

  I looked back: a dozen feet behind us there w
as a blonde woman. On the shorter side of medium height, hair cut in a cute bob, streaked with reddish highlights. Business clothes, tailored slacks, blouse, and blazer. She was talking on a cell phone, carrying a paper cup of coffee with which she gestured while talking. She was upset about something, which was obvious, berating the person on the other end.

  I only looked for maybe two or three seconds, and then turned back to Anselm and relayed my observations.

  He nodded. "Very good. More than some would see. Where does she work, can you tell me?" When I shook my head, he shot me that smirk again. "She works for Gaines Technology Systems. Her name is Theresa Crane. She is married, and on a lunch break. She is talking to who I suspect is a man she's having an affair with. She is planning to meet him later. He's pushing her to leave her husband and she is not ready to do so yet."

  I stared at Anselm. "Okay, what the actual fuck?"

  He shrugged. "I have excellent hearing, and she is being loud, which is how I can relay to you the content of her conversation. She is wearing a security badge with her name on it, and she is wearing an engagement ring as well as a wedding band. She does not have her purse with her, and she is still wearing her badge, so I know she is on a break from work."

  "How do you know she's planning on meeting him later?"

  "She has a hotel key card with her security badge."

  I frowned at him. "How do you know?"

  "Her ID badge is the kind you show to a guard. It is in a clear plastic envelope with a clip, you know this kind, ja? Fastened to her coat lapel. Some badges you must scan. They have a stripe on the back, for magnetic readers, and those are usually on a string which retracts, ja? To easily pull and scan and return. But hers, being in an envelope and fastened to her coat, it would not be practical to take it out and scan it all the time. But the back of the security badge has a magnetic strip. It is an assumption, one that I could be wrong about, but I don't think I am. Why would she need some kind of extra card? It is a great hiding place for a hotel key. No one would think twice about it."

  "So the affair, what makes you think that's going on?"

  "She said 'no, Tom, I'm not going to tell him yet. I'm not ready. I'm just not.' And then he said something, and she replied with 'you're not the one leaving your husband. I am, and I'll do it when I'm ready.' And the whole time, she was using her ring finger to tap against the side of her coffee. A nervous habit, which makes me think she feels guilty."