Debra & Regan Webb & Black - Would-Be Christmas Wedding

It was one of those rare, landscape-changing deals, and Mission Recovery had successfully stopped it.

That’s what they did, the whole reason the team existed. God, he was going to miss having that kind of clear purpose in his life.

Holt did a slow-burn second set, then paused to think some more.

He glanced around the gym, and though there were only a few other Specialists around, he felt like they were watching him too closely and with too much wariness lurking behind those neutral expressions. Did they expect him to just lose it with a violent outburst or remorseful confession? Which one of them had been on his tail when he made the drop for Isely?

Months ago he’d have chalked up the wide berth they gave him to being the deputy director. He wasn’t popular with the team. That hadn’t bothered him much before. His management style was simply different from Casey’s, more aloof.

It wasn’t his job to make friends.

But since he’d chosen to take this mission on his own, with no one else read into the situation, he felt the unavoidable onset of mild paranoia. Holt told himself to relax. Even if Casey had started to piece it together, he wouldn’t have shared such a damning theory with the entire team.

Not yet, anyway.

Holt took a deep breath, reminding himself he’d been trained to succeed at all costs. It shouldn’t be such a surprise that his current efforts made him a potential target. That’s how he’d planned it.

He came back to an upright position slowly to avoid the disorienting head rush, then unlocked the ankle bar and moved to an empty weight bench to work on his back.

Everyone thought he was just a suit, sitting in the successor’s chair. Days like this were a clear reminder to the team that his strengths went well beyond pushing paper and signing off on personnel evaluations.

“Sir?”

He recognized his assistant’s voice, as well as her polished black pumps when Nadine stopped in front of him.

He sat upright and pushed a towel across his face. “What is it?”

“Two of the messages you’ve been expecting.”

Holt tossed the towel over his shoulder and accepted the cell phone she handed him. One number was blocked, but the terse text message left no doubt the sender was Isely.

The clock is ticking.

Holt scrolled, switched to the voice mail message with a shake of his head. The world was full of ticking clocks.

The silky feminine voice, definitely a product of a private school, drifted into his ear and eased the tension in his shoulders. “Thank you for the substantial donation, Emmett. We’ve reserved a seat for you at tomorrow’s event. We’re thrilled that you’ll be able to join us so we can personally express our appreciation for your generosity.”

Cecelia. It was exactly the opening Isely had ordered him to create. He smiled, unable to temper his enthusiasm for their date tonight. He struggled to keep it in the appropriate perspective. She was part of the job, but he’d discovered a few layers under the polish that tweaked his curiosity.

After all, despite popular opinion, he was human.

Holt handed the phone back to Nadine. “Thank you.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have plans tonight?”

“No, sir.”

He studied her, but couldn’t be sure if she was lying. It didn’t matter. They both knew she’d cancel her plans if necessary to fulfill his request. “I could use your help in Alexandria.”

“Black tie?”

“No.” So she’d seen his reservations for the weekend. The reservation he wanted her to see anyway. “A few hours of recon.” Isely’s impatience made him nervous. He wanted someone out there he knew he could count on. “I’ll get you the details.”

With a polite nod, Nadine left him to finish his workout.

He powered through the strength routine, Isely’s ticking clock in the back of his mind as he hit the treadmill.

Specialist Blue Callahan, well, Drake now that she was married, stepped onto the machine next to him. Like the others, she’d been handpicked for her post within Mission Recovery and she’d met the man who’d become her husband on an assignment. She had, in fact, been backed up on that mission by none other than the one and only Lucas Camp.

There was no love lost between Holt and Lucas. The older man had a method and when Holt replaced him here at Mission Recovery, he’d developed his own methods. Holt had reason to believe that despite his retirement, Lucas had been poking around in Holt’s professional life. Probably his personal life, too. It was never a good thing to have a man like Camp second-guessing decisions.

Lucas Camp was a master in the business of spying. But he was out to pasture now and he needed to get right with his place in the world of spooks.

Keeping his face in neutral, Holt’s mind spun through the potential pitfalls and traps Blue’s appearance might present to his timeline.

“Deputy Director,” she said, acknowledging him with an easy smile. “Working hard?”

“Always.” He increased the programmed interval workout to the next level. “Big plans for the holidays?” It seemed the question on everyone’s lips this month.

“Not particularly. A party or two, then Noah and I are headed back to the island for a quiet celebration. You have plans?”

“About the same as last year.” That was one detail the team knew for certain about him—he had no family and no inclination to create one.

The glance she slid him held a bit of concern. “If you’re ever in the mood for a warm, quiet beach, you’re welcome to stay in our guesthouse.”

He nodded, unable to come up with a verbal response. Not because of the effort to maintain his pace on the treadmill but because she’d shocked him. No one on the team—other than Thomas Casey—had ever aimed a social invitation in his direction.

Blue looked for all the world like she meant it, but he knew her impeccable field skills and had to consider this approach might be a trap. “I’ll let you know,” he replied.

He got through the rest of his cardio without incident and headed toward the locker room to clean up. Half an hour later, as he walked upstairs in the direction of the solitude of his office, he had to forcibly turn his thoughts away from the likelihood that this might be his last hour in this building.

As Holt entered the suite of offices that included his, Specialist Jason Grant was waiting for him, kicked back with a magazine in one of Nadine’s reception chairs. So much for solitude.

“Grant.”

“Sir,” he said, setting aside the magazine and getting to his feet. “Do you have a minute?”

Holt looked him up and down, recognized the relaxed demeanor of a man fresh from vacation—this time on a honeymoon. Grant was slated to replace him as deputy director when Holt advanced to the director’s post. Assuming of course Holt didn’t die or wind up in prison in the next week or so. “Marriage suits you.”

“Thanks.” Jason rocked back on his heels, pushed his hands into his pockets.

“Come on in.” Holt left the door open as he entered his office, counting on Jason’s choice to close it or leave it open to give him a clue about what might be on the younger man’s mind.

The door closed with a soft click.

Holt took his seat, relieved there wasn’t a weapon in his back or a bullet in his brain just yet. He needed just enough lead time to get through the next forty-eight hours.

Then he’d happily take whatever discipline Mission Recovery wanted to mete out.

He unbuttoned his suit coat and settled into his chair. Jason mirrored his movements, taking the chair across the wide desk.

“What can I do for you, Grant?”

“Just a quick follow up on the Las Vegas operation.”