Chapter 22
Goddammit. Once again, her call went to a generic voicemail. Tucking her hand under her bent arm, Gemma paced the short distance between the window and her bed.
This time, she’d take a risk.
“Dallas,” she said, after the tone. “It’s me. Listen. I’m still here in Ibarra. Things went awry and we need to talk. I’m heading out for the job—”
Knock, knock
Shit. That was her driver.
“Uh. Now. Please call me.” She disconnected, grabbed her purse, and dropped her phone inside, next to the gun Charlene had given her.
Another knock sounded.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called.
Dragging a hand through her hair, she stopped to glance at the full-length mirror. She had her hair down in loose waves, and the dress Charlene had sent up fit her in all the right places. The red sequined material flashed in the mirror as she passed by. The hemline reached midthigh, and thin straps just held her breasts in place. Black pumps added a few inches to her height. It was an outfit she’d have worn in her early twenties to a club.
Where the hell was she going?
She opened the door and forced a smile for the driver. He stood in a suit and tie, his expression as bland and solemn as Charlene’s. “Follow me, Ms. Turner.”
He strode down the hallway toward the elevator. Gemma tucked her purse close to her side, the weight of the gun making the bag swing less than it normally would. The knife Dallas had given her added even more weight. Her nerves jumped beneath her skin and nausea sat in her stomach with the heaviness of a lead ball.
The elevator took them down to the parking garage, where she got in the back of the black town car. The driver climbed in the front and steered them out of the garage.
Biting her lip, she slid her phone out of her bag. Still no word from Dallas. Not like she could answer if he called now anyway.
She returned her phone to the little pocket in her purse so it sat next to the card Dallas had given her with his brothers’ phone numbers. Their contact information would do her absolutely no good right now, but having the handwritten note from Dallas made him seem a little less far away.
They drove through the dark city. Illumination from streetlights flicked over her lap along the way. “Where are we going?” she asked.
The man cleared his throat. “Not too far. A nightclub.”
She drew back her head. Well, the dress had certainly been an indicator of nightlife, but being in another populated hotspot when an agent intended to shoot a guy was risky.
She sat forward. “Is Charlene out of her mind? With what you guys have planned—”
“Ma’am,” he cut her off, his tone sharp. “I’m a driver, okay? I know nothing of your boss’s plans, nor do I want to know.”
The leather crinkled as she sat back. Her skin flamed with anger. Damn the CIA to hell. She wasn’t going to let anyone get hurt this time. Not on her watch. If it meant lying about confirming Silas’s location, so be it.
“You have instructions from Charlene, correct? Or do you need to make a phone call first?”
Gemma bit the inside of her cheek. Charlene had given her a course of action. Enter the building, stay hidden, and slowly move toward the east corner. Call when she got close.
“I’ve got it,” she mumbled.
The car slowed and Gemma glanced out the window. Women in dresses as skimpy as hers were lined up outside. Men peppered among them.
“Oh.” The driver passed something to her. “Charlene said to give this to the bouncer. You’ll get right in.”
She accepted the slim black card—Blank? What the hell?—and got out. Warm air touched her skin as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she sashayed past the line and stopped at the front near the red velvet rope.
“Atrás de la línea,” the bouncer said, pointing to the long line.
She stuck out the card. He simultaneously dropped his hand and lowered his gaze to the matte black paper. Taking it from her fingers, he turned it over. Without another word, he unhooked the velvet rope.
A couple of women in the crowd whined.
“Thank you.” She smiled at the bouncer then slipped through the opening and stepped into the club. Music pumped from the dark room. Strobe lights beat assorted colors around the space, flicking off faces and drinks.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Gemma went to the bar. She had to fit in with the crowd, and walking around empty-handed would make her stick out like a sore thumb. She ordered a cola—no one would know it wasn’t spiked—and turned to the dance floor.
Make your way to the east corner.
Charlene’s words rang inside her head, the tone just as annoying as if she’d been in her ear. Well, shit. It wasn’t as though she were carrying a freaking compass. She found a vacant table and set down her drink, keeping her hand loose around the plastic. Which way was north? Oh, the hotel had been on the northwest end of the street—and they weren’t far. She did a rough calculation of where north should be then turned her head toward the entrance.
Never—Eat—Shredded—Wheat...
Her focus landed on the east corner, and she rotated on her heel. Yes. Beyond the dance floor was what appeared to be a hallway. Couldn’t be where the bathrooms were because the signs for those were on the other side of the bustling space.
All right. She was almost done.
Yeah, right.
Now she had to get closer without drawing attention. She brought her drink to her lips and moved away from the table.
“Hey there,” said a deep voice behind her. She turned and nearly bumped into the dude standing less than a foot away from her back.
She retreated a few inches and gave him a weak smile. “Hello.”
“Are you here with someone, or...”
His long, light-brown hair was pulled back into a neat low ponytail. He had a tattoo of an eagle on his neck and wore a plain white T-shirt and jeans. Attractive enough that he’d offer a good cover without making her cringe.
“I’m alone. Want to dance?”
His mouth stretched into a smile. “Damn right.” He held out his arm, and she threaded hers through it.
He wasn’t Dallas. Not for a hot second. But a woman alone in a bar would draw all kinds of attention. At least now she blended with her surroundings.
She let the guy lead her to the dance floor. He stopped in the middle and gyrated to the music, his hands on her back. He dipped his head closer to her ear. “What’s your name?”
Shit.
Since she was currently wanted, she couldn’t exactly be honest. “Felicia,” she called over the music. “Yours?”
“Cory.”
The music blasted, shaking the floor beneath her feet. The lights turned wild and a fog machine blew out a cloud of mist. She coughed and turned her head away from the mixture. Her gaze fell on the hallway.
“The fog is tickling my throat,” she said, grabbing Cory’s arm. “Let’s back up.” She towed him with her until they were at the edge of the dance floor. From here, she had a better view of the hallway. In it was one lone room with a closed door.
Where the hell was Silas? And how was she going to see if he was in the room? With her damn x-ray vision?
The song changed, and Cory pumped his hand in the air. “I love this jam!”
He looped his arm around her waist, turning her so her back was to his front. A ripple of unease rolled down her spine. Dude seemed pretty harmless, but the last thing she wanted was him humping her ass.
Thankfully, he kept his hand on her hip. Still, the position made her want to scurry away.
Focus, Gemma. The sooner you spot Silas, the sooner you can get out of here.
She flitted her gaze around the room and scanned the faces of the guys hanging out around the tables. Then she glanced up and the second floor caught her eye. Booths lined the railing.
Outside the booth close to the east corner, practically above her head, were three guards.
He was there. He had to be.
But the whole point of this mission was to get a visual of his face. No room for error. She continued to dance with Cory—later she’d burn this damn dress—all the while keeping watch on the booth.
One of the guards moved and two men strolled toward him, walking along the length of the railing above the dance floor.
Silas’s dark hair caught her gaze. Yes, yes, yes! It was him. He turned to survey the dance floor. A white bandage covered the right side of his face.
It was definitely him. He’d probably been wounded in the bombing.
She had to get to the bathroom and call Charlene. She took a sip of her drink, ready to turn and tell Cory she needed a minute, but then her attention slipped to the man next to Silas.
His dark hair, olive skin, and muscular build made her freeze.
No.
His gaze fell to the crowd around her, but he didn’t spot her. Pressure climbed up her esophagus, and the fizzy drink expanded in her mouth. The urge to spit it out, to throw up all the liquid in her stomach, pulsed through her, along with the bass.
Dallas was here.
This job had just become downright impossible.