Wendy Etherington - A Breath Away

At 7:52 p.m., a white male with dark-brown hair, about five-ten in height and dressed in a waiter’s uniform, walked out of the French doors to Remy’s right. Holding a bread basket to conceal his gun, he headed straight to Remy’s table, but at about five feet from his target, another waiter crossed his path, bumping into him and knocking the basket to the floor. The other waiter knelt to clean up the mess as the shooter directed his attention to Remy. Then, in either a panic or a rage, he fired off two shots.

Remy yanked his date under the table as the shooter leaped over the low brick wall surrounding the patio and disappeared from view.

He remembered well his heart hammering, his arm burning and his thoughts racing. He’d tried to block out the panicked shouts and cries as he palmed the .22 pistol he carried concealed in an ankle holster, quickly returning the weapon to its hiding place when he realized no more shots were coming. The waiter who’d knocked into the shooter had crawled beneath the table to check on them, and Remy had the presence of mind and training to morph into a shocked and outraged art executive as the police were called and he and his date were sent to the hospital.

Jade asked for the remote, and he handed it to her without comment. She ran the tape back three times before asking, “Do you make a habit of eating at this restaurant?”

“I’ve never been there, though I did make a reservation two days before.”

“Do you often sit outside at restaurants?”

“Hardly ever in February. But there was a live band, a number of heaters, and my companion pleaded.”

“You don’t know the shooter I take it.”

“Never seen him before, and the tape is pretty grainy. We can try running his image through the usual channels, though.”

“Let the police chase that. He doesn’t seem like a professional.”

Remy agreed—and all the more reason the shooting didn’t make sense. “Rather lousy aim.”

“And the whole plan was bad. Too risky, too public.” She angled her head. “Unless the intent was simply a warning.”

He nodded. He’d considered that, as well. In fact, given his suspect short list, it was likely.

“Who would hire such an incompetent idiot?”

“Somebody desperate, equally stupid or very, very clever.”

She glanced at him for the first time since the tape started.

“I’d feel better if it had been a good hit.”

He was nearly sure she didn’t mean a successful attempt on his life. Still, he agreed. The clumsiness of the whole business was somehow more chilling. It was out of place and unfamiliar in their world.

The intrigue and danger they lived with day-to-day made them suspicious of everyone, unable to trust, and forced them to distance themselves from most people. As a result, they were paranoid. And very careful.

But he’d made mistakes in his past. He’d already paid for some and there was one whose bill seemed to finally be due.

“I need everything you have on your date and the people you believe are behind the shooting.”

“Got it.” He reached beneath his shirt and pulled out a minidisk, then handed it to her. He was interested in what she’d come up with. More than him? Or at least something different? He was nearly positive who was responsible, but he needed to be sure before he risked revealing details about his past to Jade and her team. “My date’s clean, though.”

She glanced at the disk before setting it on the table in front of them. “Part of your mercy mission?”

“I had to stash her somewhere until I can figure out what’s going on.”

“Where?”

“Puerto Rico—a lovely resort and spa.”

“How’d you get her there?”

“My LearJet.”

“You have a private plane?”

He liked the way her eyes turned hot when she was annoyed. He wondered what they looked like when she was aroused. “Mmm. It’s handy.”

“Bought on your government salary?”

“Certainly not.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

Though his heart pounded, he watched her with the appearance of calm. The Arrow probably never stepped outside the lines. “Perhaps I bought it with my ill-gotten gains. Maybe everything I have is tainted with greed and deception.”

Her gaze slid back to his. “Maybe it is.”

“I’m a legitimate art dealer.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I need your help, not your judgment. I can’t share my past with the police, and I’m not telling the NSA any more than they already know.” He rose to pour more coffee. “Are you taking my case or not?” He thought he’d assured himself of her participation by going through Lucas, but maybe he’d been wrong about their bond.

“I’m going to have to dig deeply into your past.”

“I know.”

“You’ll have to give me names, dates, places.”

“The disk contains plenty.”

“I also want your impressions of people. Not just a scroll of data.”

He nodded.

“I’m taking your case.”

“Thank you.”

He was going to have to share things he’d rather not. He was going to have to relive times better left buried. He might even have to trust Jade Broussard.

She didn’t respect him, and obviously abhorred his illegal past. He especially didn’t want to face her judgment, because then he might have to admit that in the black-and-white of the world, he’d spent most of his life in the dark.

JADE KNEW the idea of sharing didn’t sit well with her client. Well, at least they had that in common.

Very little else, but they had that.

“Let’s start with the present. You’re sure the shooting isn’t job-related?”

“That’s the most logical conclusion.”

Again, she noted the careful choice of words. He didn’t exactly agree, didn’t answer her question, but he didn’t disagree, either. He kept the flow of conversation going without revealing his thoughts. She’d bet it served him well—in both legal and illegal situations.

“Have you talked to Hillman?” she asked, expecting him to say he hadn’t.

When Tremaine nodded, she suppressed her surprise and asked, “What did he say?”

“What you’d expect—come in from the field, we’ll protect you.”

“And you said no?” She was trying to picture anybody—even the man next to her—disobeying a direct order from Jordan Hillman, a high-level director at the NSA, who oversaw every active undercover operation and was one of the most secretly powerful men in the country.

“I said nothing.”

“Naturally. You’re good at that.”

“It comes in handy at times.” He slid his hand along the back of the leather sofa they shared. The move was a sinuous caress, one that made her blood hum even as part of her remained professional, observing how well he fit into the contemporary decor of the room, though she was sure he’d look equally at home among oxblood club chairs and gas lanterns.

He was a dichotomy.

A mystery she longed to unfold. Much to her frustration.

“So, he thinks you’re coming in?” she asked in an effort to force her brain to concentrate fully on her job.

“I imagine he’s figured out by now that I’m not.”

Great. Talk about a war on multiple fronts. “So we have them after you, too?”

“No. I’ll call him and tell him I think I have a handle on who’s responsible.”

“He’ll expect a full report—names, motives, etcetera.”

“Not from me.”

What was he holding back? She had little doubt he was only pretending to cooperate. He had an agenda here that went beyond the botched shooting.

As she was mulling over the possibilities—maybe the shooting was NSA related, and he and Hillman were trying to draw her back into the agency—he reached out and stroked her jaw.