NCS chief Emmett Nelson had warned her not to reveal anything about Jack to anyone, to always be on her guard. He shouldn’t have worried. Her feelings, her memories, her thoughts about Jack were hers and hers alone. She wasn’t about to share them with Shane.
Willow stuck the flowers in the vase and carried them to the console table in her entryway. Shane came up behind her and put a hand on each of her shoulders, giving her a squeeze.
“I don’t want to talk, really,” she said.
“Come, Willow. It’s okay to remember. Did he like to dance? Would he have liked the party we’re going to tonight?”
“He hated dancing and loved social gatherings,” she lied, thinking about Ada’s hint that Lettie’s contest would involve dancing. Jack loved to dance. But she’d only tell Shane that over her dead body. If he was going to persist with this, she was going to feed him as much misinformation as he deserved for not picking up on her less than subtle cues to back off. “But he would have loved Aldo’s vegetarian lasagna.” Another lie. Jack was a carnivore to his core, much to her dismay.
Shane lifted her hair off her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “I bet Jack was protective of you. I bet he’d have done anything for you. Saved you from any threat.”
Though Shane’s words must have been meant to be kind, must have been a compliment to Jack, they sent a shiver down her spine. She sidestepped out of his embrace. “Jack was a hero. He protected everyone. Let’s go.”
* * *
It was an unusually calm, warm October evening with the stars twinkling above to match the outdoor lamps, torches, and candles Aldo had burning outside his little establishment. It was a good thing, too, that the weather was cooperating. The Villa’s two small buildings—the catering kitchen and the tasting room—could each be called cozy and quaint, but even together no one could truthfully call them spacious. Certainly not roomy enough for the number of people coming to the party. But the grange hall in town was decked out for the festivities that began the next day and unavailable to use.
The Villa was part winery, part catering company, and part “oh my gosh, I need something for dinner; a Villa lasagna is just the thing.” Straight from Italy, Aldo had brought his cuisine and cooking skills with him. He cooked, catered, and sold frozen take-out lasagnas, polenta, meatballs, and pesto from his kitchen.
Pulling one of Aldo’s frozen vegetarian pesto lasagnas from the freezer had saved Willow a time or two when she’d been too tired to cook.
He also made wine, reds and whites and, notably, apple wine for the harvest celebration. Tonight he was unveiling his latest apple creation—the Pink Lady blend. A perfect bottle as you cuddled around the fire with a special friend and thought romantic thoughts sipping Pink Lady bliss. Serve it up with some Brie and slices of fresh Pink Lady apples and romance was certain to follow. At least for weeks that’s what he’d been telling anyone who’d listen.
“Remind me to buy a bottle of apple wine. For later.” Shane smiled down at her.
Aldo’s wife, Becky, greeted them as they stepped onto the patio. “Willow! Shane. Welcome.” Becky grabbed Willow’s arm and pulled them toward the bar where she’d been pouring apple wine.
“Come. Let’s get you two each a glass of something. We’re serving Aldo’s new wine and my apple gold punch. And don’t forget to sample the appetizer meatballs.” She pointed to a warming tray filled with tiny bite-size meatballs. “Aldo spent all day on them. If everyone doesn’t praise him to the hills, there’ll be no living with him tomorrow.”
While Becky talked, Willow scanned the party, looking for Con.
Becky handed Shane a glass of alcoholic punch. “Willow? What will you have?”
“Wine’s fine, thanks.”
Becky poured her a glass and held it out to her. “Aldo put out a vegetarian antipasto plate and made a pan of pesto lasagna just for you.”
“That’s sweet of him.” Willow accepted the glass of wine. “Make sure you let him know how much I appreciate it.”
Becky nodded and grabbed a roll of tickets from the counter. “Have you heard about this year’s charity challenge? Five lucky men will be forced to square off in a country line dance competition. Last man standing wins a big-screen TV and a year of cable with any sports channels he wants.
“Tickets are a dollar apiece, or twelve for ten dollars. All proceeds will be split between the food bank and the animal shelter. How many can I sell you two?”
Willow pulled a twenty from her purse and handed it over.
Becky glanced at Shane as she counted out Willow’s tickets. “Looks like you might be in trouble, Shane. She’s buying a lot of votes. You’d better buy enough to counteract hers.”
Shane reached for his wallet and handed over two twenties.
“Wise man!” Becky handed Willow her tickets and began counting out Shane’s.
“I met Aldo’s cousin earlier. Is he here?” Willow asked.
“He’s here and he’s already racked up a lot of votes.” Becky handed Shane his tickets. “Many a woman here would love to see his moves.”
* * *
Jack was a consummate loner and generally avoided social gatherings, except with his closest friends. Years of being beaten and bullied as a kid had trained a certain distrust of his fellow humans into him, and he was an introvert by nature. Tonight, however, he’d been enjoying himself—he liked a good cat-and-mouse game and pulling a fast prank—until he looked out across the parking lot and saw the Rooster arrive with his arm around Willow.
Sometimes surveillance really was the worst part of this job.
Willow looked beautiful with her hair cascading around her shoulders. She was wearing tight jeans and a blue top that showed off her delicate collarbone and creamy skin. Jack resisted the urge to ball his fists. He was supposed to look relaxed and like he was enjoying himself. If he’d had his way, he would have taken care of the Rooster right then and there. Then maybe he could enjoy the evening.
Jack’s boss, Emmett Nelson, hated ex-spouses and lovers on the grounds they were security risks and WikiLeaks ready to happen. NCS had a policy about dating, marriage, and ex-lovers—they frowned on them all. RIOT had a stricter policy—no exes lived past the expiration date of the relationship. Period. Sometimes not even that long.
Jack worried the Rooster would eliminate Willow once he was done using her to draw him out. Worry, actually, was too mild a term. Knew. Jack knew the Rooster would kill her.
Worse, the RIOT boys liked to play with their food. Seriously, Jack would rather hand Willow over to a member of the old KGB, back in their glory days, than a RIOT assassin like the Rooster.
Fortunately, Jack had a plan to separate the asshole from his wife and get inside Kennett’s lair for a look—a little vial of XTC in Jack’s pocket should take care of the Rooster and make the party interesting.
Yeah, he knew. XTC was a date rape drug. Usually you used it to get some action, not prevent it. But, hey, what could he say? He was a creative guy.
Next to Jack, Aldo told a joke. Jack laughed to keep from erupting and running out to take a swing at Kennett.
This costume Malene had sent for Jack to wear to the party wasn’t making his job any easier. He wasn’t used to dressing like an Italian fop. High fashion—who needed it?
Malene had to instruct him how to wear the damn clothes. “Roll up the pant legs to just above your ankles, Jack, darling, and absolutely do not wear socks. It will ruin the look. Remember, you’re supposed to be urbane.”
“Urbane, hell. Who wears leather dress shoes without socks?” he’d said, mumbling something about blisters and a bad case of athlete’s foot beneath his breath.
“You’re not going jogging in them.” Malene laughed.
But he had worn them to the orchard and had to pay for it later by having to polish them.
“I’ll send along a pair of Odor-Eaters if you’re worried about foot odor cramping your style.” She had a wink in her voice.
Malene could
be insufferable. But here he was, dressed as ordered. Why couldn’t she dress him as an Italian jock? The woman had an evil, power-hungry side to her. She loved being in control.
But mainly, Jack worried about continuing the ruse and making sure Willow didn’t suspect he was him, her husband. He was not Jack. He kept telling himself that. Jack had died two years ago. Maybe longer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jack had installed hidden cameras around the Villa so he could keep tabs on Kennett without having to constantly tail him. He’d been surreptitiously watching Kennett on the feed on his video watch since the bastard arrived at the party. He didn’t like the way the guy had his hands all over Willow. Jack was sure that was to provoke him, a test to see if Con was really Jack and would out himself over Willow. Other than that, Kennett was a bore.
Jack had also been skillfully avoiding Willow, who was definitely seeking Con out. That woman could be persistent when she wanted to be. At this point, Jack didn’t know who he should be more jealous of—Shane or himself as Con? He’d obviously made an impression on her earlier. Must be his new plastic surgery–provided good looks.
While it was flattering that Willow found Con so attractive, how could she just forget the real him, Jack, so easily?
This was a disaster of a mission and it was messing with his mind. He felt like he was developing split personality disorder. He didn’t even know how to refer to himself.
He’d thought he was going to be the cat in this game, so why did he suddenly feel like the mouse? Kennett was openly suspicious of Con and rightly so. Any newcomer posed a threat, but one who bore a slight similarity to Jack? Any operative would use caution, and the Rooster was no dumb ass.
And then to make matters even worse, someone kept stuffing the ballot box with votes for Con. Jack did not want to compete in a country line dance-off, even if it would impress Willow.
Every time Jack passed by the voting, he had to buy more tickets so he could un-vote for himself. At this rate, he was going to go broke. He’d already run through most of his petty cash. Emmett would have his head for wasting Agency funds when he turned in his expense report for reimbursement.
Terrorists and torturers should take notes from charity fund-raiser organizers. Under the social pressure of supporting a worthy cause, there was absolutely no way even the cruelest of bad guys could resist buying tickets. It was either that or make a fool out of himself.
Lettie, the man-starved Town Grump Jack had met earlier, grabbed Kennett, peeling him off from Willow to bend his ear. Kennett was running neck and neck with Jack in the voting. Jack had the feeling Lettie was Kennett’s biggest fan. There was some small justice in the world.
Willow seized her opportunity for freedom, wrenching herself free of Kennett’s grip. Jack had to hold down a smile.
He excused himself from the group he was mingling with and circled out the back door, avoiding Willow, just in time to lurk in the shadows and spy on Kennett. Lurking in the shadows wasn’t so bad. Jack was used to lurking and striking.
He made a bet with himself about how long it would take Kennett to extricate himself from Lettie, who droned on about some local drivel and made eyes at the Rooster, telling how much she was looking forward to seeing him dance.
Men in this town didn’t like to dance. Which was why the women found this year’s charity event so amusing. And the men were all trying to vote for someone else to face the humiliation.
It took Kennett a full five minutes to escape from Lettie. Jack timed it.
Not bad. He had to give his enemy a little credit.
Jack had a feeling Kennett would have loved to kill the official grump if ever given half a chance. Having escaped, he made his way to a six-foot-tall metal sculpture of a rooster Aldo had installed at the edge of the parking lot. Jack couldn’t see the appeal, for the obvious reason that he hated roosters, but Aldo loved them and had half a dozen of the sculptures throughout the property.
Kennett stooped to pick up a rock. The lighting was romantic and dim, mostly candlelight, with some residual light streaming from the windows of the surrounding building. But Jack’s eyes were sharp and adjusted quickly to the dark. He had a sniper’s eyes. He saw Kennett drop a rock from his pocket onto the metal base of the rooster as he scooped up a new one and tossed it into the surrounding field, acting as if he were releasing pent-up frustration from having to talk with the grump.
The old fake-rock drop trick.
Jack grinned. That might be the oldest trick in the spy book, but it was still damn effective. There was no way to do electronic surveillance on a hard drop. An old-fashioned paper drop was the safest way to avoid detection.
He wondered whether Kennett had a contact at the party. More likely, one would be by after the party to pick up the drop. But not before Jack intercepted the data.
It appeared he had rattled someone’s coop.
As soon as Kennett moved out of sight, Jack swooped in and retrieved the plastic stone. He pocketed the drop rock, walked casually to the men’s room in the kitchen building, where he locked himself in a stall and used his lock-picking skills to open the rock. Inside it, he found a coded message. He snapped a picture of it with his cell phone camera and sent it to the tech gurus and decrypting staff at Langley. Within minutes he received a text instructing him how to alter the message to feed RIOT bad intel.
Rooster, you are going to be in deep shit now, Jack thought, trying not to grin as he made the alterations.
He replaced the message and pocketed the rock.
On his way out of the men’s room, he got lucky. Kennett had his back to Jack and had set his drink down on the counter next to him as he made a point while talking to another grower near the punch bowl. Even better, Kennett was drinking apple gold punch, a warm, spiced cider laced with dark rum. Perfect.
Magic had always said sleight of hand was a highly convenient skill to have. And she was right. As the hour of the competition grew close, Lettie and her minions had been keeping an eye on all the possible contestants in case someone decided to bolt. Inconvenient, but it didn’t slow Jack down. He always had something up his sleeve. In this case, it was his extra-strength homebrew XTC. He used the skills he’d learned at Magic’s side during his rehab and slipped a dose big enough to sedate a horse into Kennett’s drink. Why skimp?
Sometimes, you can’t take the prankster out of the spy. Jack had to cover his tracks so when big, strong, highly resistant to alcohol Kennett went down after consuming only a glass or two of spiked punch no one would be suspicious. Aldo’s cousin refilling the punch wouldn’t give anyone reason for suspicion.
He grabbed a jug of cider that he’d filled with Everclear earlier and spiked the punch. Before the party he’d left empty Everclear bottles where they would eventually be found. He was hoping no one would ever catch the prankster and suspicion would be cast elsewhere. Like to a local. Hey, it was almost trick-or-treat time. Everclear in the punch was more fun than toilet-papering apple orchards.
Jack made his way back to the tasting building for the contest, dropping the rock where Kennett had originally placed it.
“Con!” Inside the building, Aldo flagged Jack down and waved him over. “Just minutes to go until they announce the unfortunate fellows who have to dance. You’re trailing by just a few votes. But I have your back, cugino. I’ve been telling everyone who tries to vote for me to vote for you instead.” Aldo let out a boom of a laugh and slapped Jack on the back. “Brilliant, eh?”
“My many un-heartfelt thanks. With family like you, who needs enemies?” Jack was only half-teasing. He had plenty of those already. If he completed his mission successfully, very soon he’d have one less. That made him smile.
“Eh! It’s the least I can do. If you can’t embarrass la famiglia for a good cause, life isn’t worth living! Besides, you should show off. The ladies want to see it. We men don’t care for dancing. But the ladies love a man who can dance.” Aldo gave him another friendly, familial pat. “The family hono
r is in your hands now.”
Damn. Now he’d have to buy more tickets so he could get himself out of having to dance.
* * *
Willow’s pulse raced as Aldo pulled Con into the tasting room for the big reveal of which unlucky five men had won, or lost, depending upon perspective, the vote and would have to dance off against one another. Shane came into the building behind him, carrying a cup of warm apple gold punch. He slid in beside her.
“You’re just in time,” she said to him. “I was beginning to worry. You’re in second place right now, just below Bob. I’m glad you didn’t run out on us.”
“I thought about it. But Lettie has people keeping tabs on me and guards posted at all the doors and escape routes. There’s no way she’s letting any of the victims bolt.” He lifted his glass of punch and downed half. “For fortification and to cast away inhibitions.”
Willow clutched twenty dollars’ worth of tickets. One second before the stroke of eight, she was going to cast them for Con so he didn’t have time to un-vote them.
She’d been unable to connect with him all evening. She had the feeling he’d been doing some evasive action and avoiding her. But that wasn’t the main reason for her failure. No, the blame for that was 190 pounds of muscle named Shane who’d spent the majority of the evening either right at her side, eavesdropping on any conversation she had (he thought he was being sneaky, but she knew what he was up to), or, and this may have just been her imagination, watching her to see if she was watching Con. Yes, that was crazy. She really couldn’t figure it out. Shane had only left her for a few minutes all evening. Once to go to the bathroom. And just now to get a cup of cider.
Of course, she was watching Con. With a very appreciative eye. But if she’d learned anything from living with Jack, it was how to conduct a covert operation. She’d been careful to be clandestine. She didn’t think she’d given Shane any reason to be jealous. But she was probably about to blow all that when she spent her tickets on Con.