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

his bosses would announce a promotion.

      If this current assignment was any indication, the reality appeared to be that he was next up to either get fired or die of boredom. The sport coat he wore suddenly felt too warm; the tie he’d already loosened still felt too confining.

      He looked around the hotel bar. Too early for a big crowd, but there were plenty of people coming and going and gambling. His deep well of training-induced patience was running dry. Not a smart thing in his line of work as a Specialist, but true all the same. Although impatience wasn’t the ideal, he knew the value of being aware of his strengths and weaknesses throughout a fluctuating operation.

      He signaled the bartender for another beer and thought about what he might have done to deserve such a low-level assignment.

      Specialists were sent in to recover the impossible situations—not to sit back and watch for potential signs of trouble. Last month he’d been told to observe, and he had done so. Right up until the point when Director Casey needed hands-on assistance. This time it felt much the same, except he had no idea who might be in trouble. In fact, he had no idea what the hell was going on here.

      All he’d been told was that the operative in place might need backup. He was supposed to hang out in and around Caesar’s Palace, observe and make himself available to get her out if necessary. They didn’t even tell him which her he was looking for.

      It didn’t feel right. A lot of things in Mission Recovery weren’t feeling right these days.

      Still, gut feelings aside, this was the job and here he was in Sin City. He’d found a cover story with a nearby convention on security systems and emerging technologies and booked an upgraded room in the Caesar tower, though he didn’t expect to see it much.

      He tipped back the dark bottle of beer but didn’t risk drinking any more than the half bottle he’d already sipped away. Instead, his eyes scanned the constantly shifting crowd for any female who looked like a covert operative. Evening hours—really any hour in Vegas from what he’d seen so far—meant women were decked out like there was a Bond girl audition nearby. It made for colorful and entertaining scenery, but Jason was ready for action.

      This gig of sitting around watching was getting staler than the beer he pretended to drink.

      He pulled out his phone and, per his habit, checked the police scanner app for any crime news. For the past two days, aside from a seven-car pileup on Interstate 15 the state troopers suspected had been started by a blown-out front tire of a limousine, it had been mostly routine stuff. Muggings, prostitution, disputes over money or lovers. Nothing that pointed to a spy in trouble. Certainly no high-speed shoot-outs involving high-end automobiles.

      He turned his attention to the hockey game televised on the set above the bar. The odds were running like a stock exchange ticker across the bottom of the picture. If something didn’t break soon, he might have to resort to the preferred entertainment and place a bet on something.

      “Pardon me,” the bartender said. “Is your name Grant?”

      He nodded. The bartender slid him a shot of tequila with a salt shaker and lime. “Courtesy of the blonde across the way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the other end of the bar.

      Grant took a long look and smiled when the woman raised her own shot in salute. The hair was different, probably a wig, and from this distance in the subdued light he couldn’t be sure about the eyes. But the dress. He recognized the vibrant emerald dress that skimmed her sensual curves. A certain bold redhead had worn it when she’d crashed a wedding reception in Colorado last month.

      At the time he’d considered her the prime suspect behind the cryptic You’re next note he’d received. But the brief investigation and limited evidence disproved that theory. No one remembered a redhead or even a woman anywhere near the note. In the weeks since, he’d been looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows, though he’d never admit any such thing. As much as he hated the wide-open, let-it-ride atmosphere in the gambling capital, the constant motion of Vegas was at least curing him of the jumpiness.

      What the hell, he thought, and tossed back the shot. If Olin was the agent in need, the alcohol might dull the edginess he felt whenever he thought about the stunning redhead. Of course, tequila was better known for boosting the potential for trouble than preventing it.

      Either way, this being Vegas, he might as well enjoy the ride.

      * * *

      GINGER OLIN SLID a fifty-dollar chip onto number twenty-five and considered herself lucky even before the croupier set the roulette wheel spinning.

      Why couldn’t all her targets have the good taste to conduct business in Las Vegas? The themes were over the top, but that was the beauty of it. Vegas catered to the bold and overwhelmed the inhibitions of the shy. It made for a delightfully level playing field.

      As she strolled through the gaming rooms of Caesar’s Palace amid the glamorous theme and thorough details, she noticed the atmosphere exuded luxury with an undercurrent of excited energy. One couldn’t help joining in the fun. That energy drew like a magnet, made her feel alive in a way that only this kind of decadence could.

      The ball dropped in, and she listened to it zip around the wheel as she scanned the nearby tables for any sign of the man carrying the deadly virus she’d been tracking all over the globe. Hearing the bounce and clatter as the ball landed, she timed her squeal of glee perfectly as the dealer called out the winning number.

      “Twenty-five!”

      Smiling, she accepted the congratulations and admiring glances along with the slightly taller stack of chips and stepped back from the table. Her target, a slick crime boss out of Europe, was on the move, but who was he here to meet? That was the million-dollar question, and she sought the answer.

      She strolled along, just one woman among thousands dressed to the nines and looking for the next place to burn through her money. Waitresses cruised through knots of gamblers and hangers-on in an intricate ballet, trays held high, smiles wide and full of temptation. She supposed some people might find the glitter and glam overdone, but Gin enjoyed it. Here a spy could find the right background to blend with, no matter the circumstances. The perfect playing board for dangerous games.

      She spotted her target, an older man with thick gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, moving toward the craps tables and Gin shadowed him, wondering if he was enjoying the setting as much as she was. The virus wasn’t with him, though. Her tracking tag showed it was stationary, probably in his room. Joining the growing crowd cheering on a lucky run at a craps table, she used the raucous, shifting party as cover while she tried to spot the buyer.

      Her pulse stuttered when she met the hard, icy gaze of Bernard Isely. He was looking too closely, and not at her well-displayed cleavage. He preferred his women cheap, his vodka expensive, and those who betrayed him dead. He didn’t know it yet, but she would soon fall squarely into the last category.

      She felt an unprecedented surge of insecurity. Would her wig and contacts be enough to protect her? Her intent was not to dress the same way twice during her stay here. Her well-calculated costuming would, she hoped, be enough to keep her alive throughout and after this assignment.

      She dragged her thoughts away from the edge of panic and focused instead on her extensive training and reliable intel. A few weeks ago while she was following a different lead, she’d been told this low life had entered the States, but he should never have been here. Not in person. He usually sent someone else to do the face-to-face work.

      But there was nothing usual about this particular business. His appearance shouldn’t have been a shock. She told herself it wasn’t a shock. Everyone who should know believed his father had commissioned the deadly virus up for sale this weekend. It might not fit his profile, but then this particular exchange wasn’t standard fare for the Isely crime family. The son might want to watch his father’s greatest coup go out into the criminal world at last. Maybe that was reason enough to take such a high risk.

      Regardless, she understood it was his abrupt appearance right across from her that could