Casteel drained his flute and ran a manicured hand through his George Clooney hair. “This has been contemplated before. More than once. It’s fallen apart every time.”
Pierce felt his stomach sink, but Lisa kept shining at full power. “Why is that?”
Again Casteel did the back and forth thing with his head. “Politicians look out for number one. Historically, the only times mixed alliances ever survived the flames of political combat were when the two parties were family. I don’t suppose you’re planning to get married?”
Pierce exhaled in relief as Lisa put her manicured hand on his shoulder. “Suffice it to say we have a deep platonic connection.”
21
Stakeout
I LOOKED UP from my book and smiled as Wynter with a y replaced my old empty mug with a fresh frosty one. “Thank you.”
“What’s that mean, Pushing Brilliance?”
I turned the paperback around to look at the cover, as if it were going to tell me something I didn’t already know. I could flirt if I needed to, and seeing as this was my third evening camped out on a patch of Wynter’s prime real estate, I figured flirting was the wise move. “I don’t know yet. Part of the fun of a thriller is figuring out what the title means. Often they’re intentionally ambiguous.”
“Ambiguous?”
“Mysterious.” I used my playful voice, mimicking hers.
“You’re the mystery. You got the biker jacket and the biker boots, but you’re reading books and drinking light beer, night after night, hour after hour. Always leaving alone.” Wynter spoke with a bit of a southern twang and had the big blonde hair to match.
I knew I was guilty of bad tradecraft for actually reading a book and allowing myself to be distracted by a waitress, but I wasn’t trying to infiltrate the mob. And I would redirect my attention the moment my target arrived. If he arrived.
On the good tradecraft side of things, I was in disguise. I’d grown the start of a handlebar mustache and was wearing a bandanna do-rag. Although typically the straitlaced GQ type, I knew from prior undercover experience that I could pull off the bad-boy look.
I was back at Berret’s Taphouse Grill because I couldn’t think of a better way to find the mysterious man with chiseled cheekbones. Or Lars.
Since I didn’t have the license plate of the Range Rover that had run me off the road, I had investigated the i8. Turned out it had been reported stolen, then found wiped clean and abandoned. The registration was in the name and rent-controlled address of Lars de Kock.
The lack of automotive leads left me very little data for locating Lars’s would-be killer and learning his fate. Nonetheless, I had vowed to do both.
Cheekbones had crossed the big red line. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he was a dead man walking.
I was semi-certain that my nemesis would walk back into Berret’s bar sometime soon. My reasoning was based on both logic and experience. If Lars’s assailant was willing to write off a $150,000 car, then his disappearance had to be the tip of something much bigger. Lars was no millionaire. Add to that the fact that the CIA con was much too slick and sophisticated to be a one-off, and the odds of a repeat performance were high.
Of course, I had no way to gauge when the next episode would air. I could only hope it would be sometime soon.
Knowing that men are creatures of habit, I installed a bug in the wall lamp beside the corner table where Lars and Cheekbones had dined. I then set myself up in a spot that gave me both a convenient casual view of the entrance, and a reflected view of the suspect table.
I was now three evenings into my costumed stakeout. I wasn’t yet discouraged by the lack of action. Stakeouts took time. But I found myself asking how many more days I’d give it.
I ignored Wynter’s hint about leaving alone, but gave her a friendly smile. “There’s nothing mysterious here. I’m just a man enjoying life between jobs.”
She smiled back and moved on.
I mused that I actually was, in fact, just a man enjoying life between jobs. Sitting on a Virginia barstool was a far cry from riding a Harley through Yosemite National Park, but nonetheless I had freedom and purpose and was happy to be catching up on must-read fiction. I’d done so much work-related reading during my days at the CIA that I rarely felt like burying my nose in a book at night. That was a drawback of the job. I wondered if other professions suffered similar side effects. Bartenders, pilots, and gynecologists for example.
I had not set a sunset on my surveillance operation. A date on which I’d fold tent and move on if Cheekbones didn’t show. That would clash with the whole freedom aspect of my vacation adventure. I would move on the minute I thought of a better move. That was an additional benefit of my reading selection. Smart espionage thrillers kept me in the right frame of mind and generated new ideas. Was that why they called them novels? I wondered.
I pulled a painkiller from the front pocket of my jeans and washed it down with a swallow of beer. Between those pills and the soft braces on my ankle and knee, I was nearly back to normal. At least neither joint gave me grief while walking to and from my car or sitting on a barstool. It would still be a few days before I’d want to start kicking down doors. Perhaps it was a good thing that Cheekbones hadn’t rushed back to Berret’s.
They walked in as I turned the last page of the chapter that explained the title of my book. A thirtyish woman with amber eyes, a short blonde hairstyle, and an athletic stride—accompanied by a man whose features created a memorable clash of hard and soft.
The hostess led them straight to the corner table.
22
Iron Woman
THE TOP FEMALE FINISHER in an Ironman race—don’t get her started—swims the 2.4 miles, bikes the 112 miles, and then runs the 26.2 miles in about nine hours. Skylar Fawkes had come close to earning that honor a total of seven times. But she didn’t remember ever feeling as wrung out as she did that evening, walking into Berret’s Taphouse Grill.
Tom’s out-of-the-blue recruitment pitch had hit her like the first ray of sunshine falling on Noah’s Ark. The truth was, she’d been battling depression, mentally circling the drain.
The purses for peak performers at the pinnacle of the triathlon circuit were usually under $100,000, so very few professional triathletes were able to earn even middle-class wages. Sponsorships were the only way to get rich, but those were limited to the super elite, the known-name winners of multiple championship races.
Skylar hadn’t become a triathlete for the money. For her, it was all about passion and personal bests. But still, one had to live. So she had taken a firefighting job that eventually gave her the injury that had cost her the ability to compete. Adding insult to injury, the resultant hypersensitivity to smoke had also disqualified her from her second profession.
It was the injustice and stupidity of that avoidable accident that drove her into and fed her depression. She’d been kicking herself for six straight months, unable to extricate herself from her self-imposed funk but unwilling to ask for help.
Then, in one golden hour, a new opportunity opened before her like the gateway to Heaven. A job that would challenge her mentally and physically while allowing her to serve her country in a starring role. It wasn’t a perfect replacement for her chosen profession; it was better. Triathletes had short careers.
She wanted the new job and all it represented so much that she feared it would be yanked away. Easy come, easy go. So she’d sweat the interview and the polygraph even though she had nothing to hide. When Tom finally closed his briefcase with an approving nod, Skylar thought she’d collapse right there on the hotel room floor. Then he proposed dinner so she could ask questions. Her preferred response was, “No, thanks. I just want to hop into a hot bath and put spa music on Pandora.” But ironically, that honest answer wasn’t an option.