Chapter 4 #2
“There’s been chatter about big ticket pieces coming up for auction on the European market. It’s out of season, so I might need you to check into it while you’re abroad.” He flipped through pages in his notebook. “No one’ll notice you poking around since you blend.”
That was a compliment in their world.
When they’d distributed code names, Canvas had served a dual purpose.
Art was her domain of expertise, and they could paint her any way they wished.
For this particular operation, they chose neutral.
Colored her red hair brown, tamed the curls into a sleek bob, clothed her fashionably—but not too fashionably—and encouraged a dull personality.
Perfectly forgettable.
Except she couldn’t maintain dullness around John. Try as she might to keep it under wraps, her spiciness surfaced with him. And the sizzling way he looked at her, touched her, loved her from the start showed he didn’t see her as the wallflower she tried to be.
Hence his nickname for her—Gorgeous.
She preferred it to Canvas these days.
“I’ll give you more info when you’re in Europe.” MacColl pushed back from the table. “I’ll grab the file and drop this with the techies for decryption. While I’m at it, I’ll drop off your work phone. Based on the quality of last night’s call, you might’ve damaged it.”
She withdrew it from her bag. Normally she’d sign it over to the techies herself to keep the chain of custody clear, but MacColl might be cutting her slack given her personal circumstances.
He tucked the phone into his inner suit pocket, revealing his holstered firearm. She didn’t carry one. Due to her frequent travel, guns would be a pain in the ass.
“I’ll be back in five.” He paused at the door. “Listen, a lot of boyfriends retract a proposal when they find out about all this. Marriage is tough—even harder when your partner doesn’t get what we do. So if he’s one of those types, don’t torture yourself, kid.”
Only someone twenty years her senior could get away with calling her kid.
After MacColl left the room, she hit the intercom button to listen to the interrogation.
“Do you love Vivian Flint, aka Jane Davis?” Beverly asked.
“You already asked me that.”
“We ask questions several times to compare the responses for truthfulness.” Beverly marked the sheet. “Do you love Vivian Flint? I need a yes or no response.”
“I can’t turn it off like a faucet.” John sighed. “But I don’t know her, so it’s over.”
There it was.
As soon as one person was done with a relationship, the whole thing fell apart. Her only face-saving option was to march in there, call his bluff and offer to return the beautiful ring he’d given her just twenty hours ago.
She tugged at it, but the ring was stuck.
Fuck.
Her theatrics would apparently require Vaseline. She stepped into the hall, then shrugged her tote higher on her shoulder. After two knuckle-shattering raps on the interrogation room door, she barged into the room.
“May I help you?” Beverly asked.
“Stop the interview.” She tugged at the ring again. No dice.
“All due respect, Viv, you don’t have the rank to give that order. But we’re finished.” Beverly tore the curled paper from the machine. “I’ll give you your privacy.”
The door clicked shut. John pulled the sensors from his fingertip and the back of his hand. Silence thundered in her ears. When she wasn’t wanted, she tried to be useful.
She took a step toward him. “Can I help you with those?”
“I’ve got it.” He ripped the blood pressure cuff from his arm, then stood and twisted to try to remove the bands around his chest and waist like a dog chasing its tail.
“John, let me help. That’s a two-person job.”
“I said I’ve got it.”
He definitely didn’t.
“Stand still,” she ordered in her take-no-shit voice.
John obeyed.
She pinched the plastic connectors that were lined up with his spine. The bands fell away from his body. She caught them and placed them on the table next to the polygraph machine.
Adrenaline prickled her fingertips. “I know you’re upset, but can we—”
“Upset?” John stepped back from her. “I’m upset when someone steals the last open spot on our street and I have to park by Duke Ellington, or when I miss trash collection day, or when we lose trivia night. This is more.”
“Angry?” she suggested. “Surprised? Embarrassed?”
He wrinkled his brow. “Not embarrassed. I’m not the one who’s been lying for a year.”
“Yeah, but…” She tangled her fingers together, and this fucking ring still wouldn’t budge. “I mean… I’m good, but there were a couple of slipups where you might’ve caught—”
“I’m hurt.” Pain flashed in his eyes. “Okay? That’s what I’m feeling.”
A familiar loud popping noise stopped her response.
“What’s that?” John asked.
Her heart took a back seat to her protective instincts. She flicked the dead bolt on the door.
“Gunfire.”
She surveyed the room. The one-way glass was unbreakable, so no getting through there. But damn, there was nothing in here weapons-wise. She could combine the discarded polygraph bands with her Muay Thai defensive moves, but if there was more than one armed assailant…
They needed to escape this dead end.
Another burst, further away this time.
John shoved himself between her and the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Protecting you.” He braced his shoulder against the steel door.
“I appreciate the gesture, but we’re sitting ducks. We need to leave.”
“We can’t go out there.”
More shots. Were they closer? Hard to tell.
Oh, God—Beverly had just left the room. What if she—
No. Vivian closed her eyes. No spiraling. If she’d come here alone, she would have skulked around to find her colleagues. But she had to get the civilian, John, to safety. Every second they delayed was a second closer to capture.
Or worse.
“John, I’m a trained CIA officer. You need to follow my instructions. Okay?”
They stared at each other for five eternal seconds.
Something shifted behind his eyes. “Okay.”
She tugged him away from the door. With him behind her, she’d be first in the line of fire.
“On the count of three, I’ll open the door and scan the hall. If it’s clear, we’ll cross. Keep low and follow me. Got it?”
“Got it,” he said. “But what if—”
“No time for what-ifs.” She crouched, then quietly turned the dead bolt. “Here we go. One, two, three…”
She depressed the handle, then eased the door open. With her head low, she scanned the hallway. Clear. Heart in her throat, she scuttled across the hallway and into the alias assignment room. John’s heat skimmed her back as he followed her.
Gold star to him for following directions.
She scanned her badge to gain entry to the alias room. The door auto-locked behind them.
“Officer Flint. Anyone here?”
No one returned her greeting. Odd. Saturdays were typically quiet, but not deserted like today. She’d been so grateful John wouldn’t be overwhelmed by coworkers that she hadn’t questioned the unusual lack of staff.
There was no such thing as coincidence.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“The alias assignment room.”
An attack on a covert office was bad. Really bad.
Until she knew who was responsible, who to trust, they might need to disappear.
She opened a file drawer and flipped through folders until she found passports and pocket litter for a married couple who resembled her and John.
She took the materials and shoved them into the inside pocket of her suit jacket.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She rifled through a desk. “Working on a plan B.”
“What was plan A?”
Aha—the nail file kit was exactly what she needed. Well, a screwdriver was exactly what she needed, but those were thin on the ground. Good enough would do.
“Plan A was celebratory preflight cupcakes at Baked & Wired after you successfully completed your polygraph. That’s shot to shit, so we’re activating plan B. Follow me.”
The alias assignment room’s most important feature had nothing to do with identities.
“Where?” he asked.
“Here.” She knelt next to an air duct and worked the screws with the tip of the tweezers.
“Please tell me plan B isn’t escaping through there.”
“Okay, I won’t.” The final screw plinked against the ground. She pried the vent free. Damn, she wished she had her phone and its flashlight. “Let’s go.”
“An air duct won’t hold me.”
“This will, but be careful. There’ll be screws and sharp pieces of metal. And it’ll get hot.”
“Why do you know so much about air ducts?”
“I told you. My dad’s an HVAC installer.”
On Saturdays, Dad would take the kids on side jobs to get them out of Mom’s hair.
Among her siblings, she understood blueprints the best because the shapes and patterns made sense to her.
To this day, she looked up the duct work on any building where she was assigned.
It had benefitted her more times than she could count.
More shots echoed outside.
“John.” She squeezed his biceps. “You go first. It’s a straight shot to the parking garage.”
“But—”
“Go,” she ordered. “I’m right behind you. I promise.”
He furrowed his brow. “Fine. But if we fall through the duct, I get to say I told you so.”
“Deal. Now, go.”
As soon as John’s feet disappeared from view, she slung her bag over her shoulder, then followed in reverse.
Good thing she’d worn a pantsuit instead of a dress.
Duct crawling was hell on the knees. From inside the metal rectangle, she reached for the vent and placed it in front of the duct.
Anyone doing a quick scan might miss it.
A woman could hope, anyway.