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

Anticipation pricked Holt. “That case is closed.”

“I realize I failed you—”

“Relax.” Holt tapped a pencil against the arm of his chair. “My evaluation doesn’t read that way. As far as Mission Recovery is concerned, you did a fine job out there.”

“But—”

“A piece of advice?”

Jason nodded.

“Let it go. There’s nothing to clarify, nothing to be concerned about beyond the holidays and your next mission.”

“Which is?”

Holt forced his lips into a smile. “To enjoy the holidays with your new wife.”

But Jason’s eyebrows were drawn together. “Permission to speak freely?”

Holt dipped his chin. “Of course.” One day, if he didn’t get caught in his own trap, they would need to be completely candid with one another as director and deputy director.

“I don’t think I believe you.”

Holt didn’t move a muscle as more of that anticipation leeched into his veins.

“I’ve gone over it every way possible, sir,” he added with more sarcasm than respect. “That whole business in Vegas felt like a setup.”

“You have good instincts,” Holt admitted. “And I agree with your assessment. If you’re implying I had anything to do with it, I’d ask you to give that a great deal more thought before you say something you’ll regret.”

Jason’s gaze narrowed, but he kept his mouth shut. Kudos to the young man. He was going to make a top-notch deputy director.

“I have nothing but respect for you and your talents.” Might as well add a compliment to the ugly truth, Holt thought. He hesitated, could practically hear the figurative ice cracking under his feet as he prepared to share details better kept under wraps. “Ours is a world of secrets, as you know. We have a mole in Mission Recovery. You can only imagine the distress and effort we’ve put into making a solid identification, but the director and I are working to resolve the problem.”

“How can I help?”

“You know Director Casey has a history with Isely. See what your Interpol connections can give us on his operations over there.”

“Anything in particular?”

Holt gave in and sighed. Another lie was hardly going to matter at this point. “I want to pin down the biologist who manufactured this virus Isely has been trying to unload.”

“You think Isely means to manufacture more?”

“It would be one hell of a residual income. Just see what you can turn up.” Holt could only hope the diversion would keep Jason distracted until this God-forsaken mission was over.

When Jason left, Holt addressed the blinking icon that indicated he had another message on his cell. Blocked number.

They know. I have adjusted the timeline accordingly.

No! Holt’s temper nearly boiled over. If Isely used someone else to kidnap Cecelia Manning, Holt would be forced to expose himself to one side or the other before he had the evidence in hand to clear his name and maintain Mission Recovery’s anonymity.

It was impossible. No one here could possibly know. Not yet. Of course Director Casey would have suspicions. He was supposed to have suspicions. Holt had been feeding Isely information very few people could access. But he’d put the breadcrumbs in the system, left enough room for doubt so he could finish the task the right way without jeopardizing too much or laying Mission Recovery bare for the government vultures and rabid media to pick over.

Isely didn’t have the franchise on making adjustments. Holt knew how to scramble, scrap and fight dirty when it was necessary. A few years behind a desk didn’t change the core of a man.

For nearly a year now, he’d let Isely see what he wanted to see, a disgruntled, ambitious second-in-command who resented Casey almost as much as Isely himself. It had been the performance of his life and he wasn’t about to abandon it now when he could almost see the end of these dark days.

Adjustment negates impact, he replied via text on the disposable and untraceable burner phone Isely had provided. Deep down, Holt knew Isely preferred the showy, public embarrassment that kidnapping Cecelia from the gala would provide.

Long minutes passed and Holt mentally composed and deleted at least ten incriminating text messages. If he sent any of them, if he left the director no room for doubt, it would make it damn near impossible to nail Isely before the bastard slipped away to run his operation from a non-extradition country.

Holt had put himself in so many different shoes and looked at this from everyone’s perspective he’d almost lost sight of his own agenda. Protecting Thomas Casey was top priority and preventing the exposure of Mission Recovery was essential. He cringed to think of the careers ruined and lives irreparably disrupted if the worst happened.

Finally, the cell chirped with another text message. Proceed as planned.

He’d been close enough to Isely these past months that he knew his enemy believed this news would bring him relief. He’d portrayed himself to Isely as a man who needed the stability of guidance and a set schedule. But that was the act. Holt knew better than to trust Isely to keep the leash on whoever had been chosen to take over should Holt get caught or falter.

Isely had resources and he used them well. Holt was plan A. There would be a plan B eager to step up and prove their worth in order to gain promotion and prestige within Isely’s operation.

Well, there was one sure way to keep Cecelia safe until Holt could move in on schedule. Holt crossed to his office safe, pulled out an alternate ID and a stack of cash and prepared for his date with the director’s sister.

It was laughable. The stuff of comic tragedies. He was about to prevent a kidnapping by becoming a proper gentleman.

Chapter Four

Old Town Alexandria, 7:12 p.m.

Cecelia turned up the collar on her wool coat for the short walk to meet her friends at their favorite wine bar in Old Town. It was the place they’d brainstormed tomorrow’s gala and it was fitting to celebrate their success with a toast there tonight. The temperature was dropping but the moon was bright overhead, and the crisp winter air cleared her head. She breathed deeply now, knowing in a few days’ time she’d be breathing warm, humid air in the Caymans.

It was no surprise the dark sedan had followed her from the house to the Plaza hotel. When she thought about it, she realized one like it had either been parked at the corner of her block or shadowing her for the past couple of days. She walked on, resisting the urge to tell the driver to go back and report that Director Casey’s sister could take care of herself. She should give Thomas some credit. Clearly he suspected she’d balk at protective custody, and he’d brought the safety measures to her.

She was nearly to the bar when two men approached her. They wore U.S. Navy-issue wool peacoats over jeans and heavy boots, but that was where the resemblance ended. The hair broke regulation, as did the beards. Her first thought was they were longshoremen on leave, but Old Town Alexandria wasn’t exactly a shipping hub.

“Ma’am?” They stopped just in front of her. “Excuse me. Do you know the area?” the taller man asked with a faint trace of a French accent.

Thomas’s warning blasted through her and she told herself it was far too early in her budding ops career for paranoia. Her hands fisted around the car key in her pocket. There was security nearby in the dark sedan, and by now Casey and her new husband were probably watching from a rooftop, and Cecelia was close enough to the bar that she could call for help if necessary.

“Yes,” she replied with a nod, determined to keep an open mind. “What are you trying to find?”

“Do you know the restaurant owned by the retired hockey player?”