Debra & Regan Webb & Black - Ready, Aim...I Do!

There was never a good time for an agent to go off the deep end, but in light of the recent scandal of false allegations and rumors against the director himself, this was the last thing Mission Recovery needed.

Specialists recruited to their covert agency were above reproach, but it looked for all the world like Grant was about to become the exception. That possibility didn’t sit well with Holt. There was only one conclusion in light of this damning data: Grant, or someone who wanted them to believe it was Grant, was waging some sort of vendetta in Las Vegas.

If it was Grant, Holt wondered how he had secured the rifle. To date, their normal contacts in the area denied seeing Grant. Holt knew someone was lying, but that in and of itself didn’t put Grant in the clear. All Specialists were well-trained in where and how to connect with a helpful associate when they were in the field. He may have purposely gone outside their usual suppliers.

But why? Had he lost it? Or had someone on the other side made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?

In the past forty-eight hours the sniper—whoever the hell he was—had picked off a couple of irrelevant targets, caused one serious traffic accident and winged a major player in the drug trade. All of which had been kept out of the media. Considering the damper that kind of publicity could put on tourism, the local authorities had been only too happy to cooperate. The shootings looked perfectly random, but anyone with access to his personnel jacket would put Grant at the top of the suspect list.

The grim accomplishment was more impressive considering the Specialist hadn’t missed a single status check-in call since his arrival. Holt suppressed his instincts on the matter. What he believed on a personal level was irrelevant. He had a job to do and no one could ever accuse him of failing to get the job done. He liked Grant as well as he did any of the others but that, too, was irrelevant at the moment.

“Shall I add this to the agenda for the next briefing, sir?” His assistant, Nadine, sat on the opposite side of the desk. Beneath the conservative suit she wore, her posture was particularly rigid as she asked the question. No one wanted to believe the worst. Not even the young assistant he had hired who willingly worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days in an attempt to keep him happy. He vaguely wondered if that was why she kept her hair in a sleek ponytail all the time. He didn’t give her time to patronize salons.

He also wondered if she hated him as much as most who had the displeasure of working for him did.

He blinked away the concept. “No. I’ll handle it privately.” The less anyone knew about this situation the better. If he put it on the agenda for team discussion, Grant might hear about it. And if he knew they were on to him, he’d bolt before they could get a net around him. And if this was Grant, Holt needed to get a net around him as soon as possible.

“Any word from the agent Grant was sent to Las Vegas to support?”

“No, sir.”

No surprise there. Everyone knew Vegas remained one of the easiest cities to disappear in. “Maybe the agent managed to get out without Grant’s help.” Holt said what his assistant expected to hear while his mind worked through the latest developments and numerous other scenarios.

“I’ll keep monitoring the news out there,” Nadine suggested.

Holt nodded. They both understood the harsh reality and the constricting time frame. He wasn’t going to be able to keep the sniper issue quiet much longer. If and when the local police force connected the incidents to a single shooter, they would be obligated to call in federal assistance and warn the public about the threat.

Which meant Holt would be obligated to tell someone in another government agency there was an operative in the area with sharp-shooter expertise, and that would break Grant’s cover.

If Jason Grant remained in Las Vegas, with his stellar career as a sniper, he would become a person of interest within the next twenty-four hours. By hour forty-eight, if he couldn’t offer a valid alibi for the shootings, he’d be in custody or a wanted suspect. A pawn effectively removed from the dangerous game Holt was playing. No one, particularly his superiors, would be happy with his methods. But that had never stopped him before. It wouldn’t now. And that was precisely why they had hired him. He would get the job done, one way or another.

The stakes were high and the risk-to-reward ratio bordered on irrational. But it had to be done, and he was the only one in Mission Recovery who could manage it. On days like this, the baggage of responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders.

His assistant stood. “Shall I attempt to contact Grant?”

Holt leaned back from his desk and turned a pencil end over end on the arm of his chair. “No need. Until we know more, Specialist Grant’s orders don’t change. Get me the director as soon as it’s morning wherever he is.”

“But, sir, he’s on his honeymoon.”

That was right. The director of Mission Recovery had gotten married last month, but work had prevented an immediate honeymoon. “The world doesn’t stop spinning because he fell in love, Nadine,” he grumbled. “As much as Thomas Casey would like to think so.”

“Of course, sir.”

His assistant left the office to carry his reports and orders to the Specialists currently on assignment and those preparing for assignments. Alone, he stared at the pencil in his hand.

He silently assured himself things were going according to the plan and it would all be over soon. Eager as he was to be done with it, he knew rushing the process now would bring the whole damn mess crashing down. On him.

He was the only one who could do this. Likewise, he was the one who would pay in spades if anything went wrong.

“Won’t let that happen,” he muttered. He’d come too far to bail out now.

Setting the pencil aside, he turned toward his computer and drafted the email his counterpart was expecting. He read it through twice more and then, taking a deep breath, he finally hit Send.

Chapter Three

Caesar’s Palace,

Friday, November 21, 8:17 a.m.

Jason rolled to his back and squinted against the bright sunlight flooding into the room. His head felt stuffed with cotton, which, in any logical universe, should have dulled the incessant ringing in his ears.

“That’s your phone, sweetheart. You should answer.”

He knew that voice. What the hell was Ginger Olin doing in his hotel room? And why would she be aiming any endearments his way? He flung a hand out in the general direction of the ringing only to have the move stopped short by a warm, soft touch. He dared to open his eyes a crack.

“Careful. I’ve left you a glass of water.” Ginger smiled down at him with a bit too much sympathy as he curled his fingers around the cell phone. “Take the call. I’ll be in the shower.”

Through slitted eyelids, he watched her saunter away, her body swathed in a hotel robe. He propped himself up on an elbow, struggling to clear the fog from his brain. What was going on here? What the hell was wrong with him?

The phone started ringing again, and he saw the number and stern face of Deputy Director Holt on his screen. Damn. This was one call he couldn’t ignore. “Yeah.” He cleared the rough edge from his throat, wondering how Ginger had managed to get him so drunk he couldn’t remember squat. He never drank on duty. “Grant here.”

“Where were you last night? You missed the scheduled check-in.”

He opened his mouth to answer and snapped it closed again. He didn’t know. Based on his nudity, the state of the bed and the woman in the shower, it wasn’t a big leap to figure out what had happened. That still didn’t explain this nasty hangover.