“Morrissey? I have a dossier on him. He’s anexperienced field operative. He has a clean record, is reliable,has been working undercover as a driver for a Manhattan car servicefor about four years. Has provided Uncle Sam with all sorts ofintel.”
Four years of driving a car. I thought of hisrough hands, his calm and deadly demeanor. I wasn’t sure I reallysuspected Morrissey of anything—actually I liked him, more than alittle—but it never hurt to be thorough. I wouldn’t be surprised ifhe did a similar background search on me.
Not that he’d find anything. According togovernment records, Morrissey was undercover. I, on the other hand,didn’t exist.
“Military record?” I asked.
“Nope. Former FBI Recruited by NSA”
That didn’t seem right. Morrissey had combattraining. He was a fist, not an ear. Sticking him in a limo serviceseemed like a waste of his talents.
“What else?” I asked.
“Not much. Parents deceased. Lives in anapartment on Staten Island.”
“Previous operations?”
“Classified.”
“I thought classified doesn’t apply to you,Jacob.”
“Are you asking me to dig?”
“Indulge me, will you?”
“You have your assignment, Chandler. Deliverthe girl to Morrissey unhurt. The rest isn’t your concern.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll feel better.”
For a moment I wondered if we’d been cut off.Then Jacob cleared his throat.
“I’ll see what I can find.”
We ended the call. Jacob was right. Worryingabout this was not my job. I was trained to follow orders, a weaponto be deployed. I’d saved Julie from the fake modeling agency andnow I was to turn her over and walk away.
The rest didn’t matter.
I had suspected from the beginning that I wasgiven this assignment precisely because my teen years were similarto Julie’s. Because of those similarities, this didn’t feel likeany other mission to me. I cared about what happened to her, butthat didn’t mean I could allow my personal feelings to skew myjudgment.
If there was reason to worry, Jacob wouldfind it and let me know.
The drone of the hairdryer ended. Time beingshort, a shower for me would have to wait. I focused onaccessorizing, strapping the folding knife to the back of my leftthigh, under the dress. On my right thigh, I donned a Velcroholster for the Ruger. A brush through my tangle of hair, and I wasout the door.
Even without my taking time for a shower, wewere pressed to upload the camera images to the dropbox and make itto Columbus Circle. I would have preferred to walk, since it wasmuch easier to spot tails by foot, especially in rush hour, butsince we were short on time, I opted for a subway ride to LincolnCenter. Backtracking one avenue and four blocks, we reached ourrendezvous spot.
I checked my phone. Twenty minutes beforesix, just as I’d planned.
Jacob hadn’t called back.
I focused on my surroundings. I hadn’t pickedup any evidence that we were being followed during our walk, and Ididn’t spot any shadows now. I smelled exhaust, hotdogs from anearby food cart, and the tang of horse manure wafting from thepark. A woman passed by, the scent of some sweet vanilla coffeeconcoction trailing in her wake. Behind us, a small group of menoffering pedicab rides through the park spoke in broken English,trying to talk tourists into paying a small fortune for an eveningjaunt in the half-bicycle, half-cart contraptions. Horns honked andcabbies yelled, typical New York City on a summer evening.
When I spied the Town Car, my nervessurged.
He was early.
The car swung to the curb and Morrisseystepped out. He was tall and lean and calmly dangerous, and I feltthat same little burst of edginess mixed with lust as when I’dfirst met him this morning. This time he wasn’t wearing hissunglasses, and I caught a flash of ice blue eyes that just addedto his allure. Like the perfect chauffeur, he climbed out andcircled the vehicle.
“Nice car,” I said. “This one rigged to blow,too?”
One side of his mouth lifted in a crookedsmile. “You did a good job.”
“You, too. Want your Glock back?”
“Sure. At least until the next time you’dlike to borrow it.”
He stepped close to me to shield the exchangefrom onlookers. He smelled of Giorgio Armani For Men’s Acqua DiGio.
At least someone had gotten a chance toproperly clean up.
I took the gun from my purse. When he pulledme into a hug, I placed it in his hand.
“Take good care of her, okay?”
He brushed my fingers as he took it from me,lingering a moment too long, then he slipped the weapon into aholster on his left side.
“She’ll be safe. And if you need to get intouch with me, you have my card.”
“I do?”
Morrissey’s hand slowly made its way down myside, then up under my dress. He slid a business card into my thighholster. His breath on my neck was hot, and for a brief moment Icould practically feel his lips on my bare skin.
He pulled away, then glanced at Julie andopened the back door. “Ready?”
We exchanged a quick hug, her grip a lottighter than mine.
“Thanks,” Julie said. “For everything.”
“You bet,” I told her. “It’s all going to beokay from here on out.”
When she climbed into the limo, Morrisseyshut the door behind her and circled to the driver’s door.
“I hope we get to work together again,” hesaid.
“Me, too.” But I actually had play on mymind.
On impulse, I took out my cell phone, mimingmaking a call. Instead, I took a quick picture of him.
It was natural to be horny as hell after amission, especially after almost being killed. It was anaffirmation-of-life kind of reaction. If I wasn’t going to get laidtonight, I could at least have a photo to get myself off. Andfantasy sex was safer than real sex, especially in myprofession.
He smiled, then slipped behind the wheel andpulled into traffic.
I watched them follow the flow around thecircle and head uptown on Broadway. My role in this was finished,another assignment completed successfully. Soon I would be on myway back to Chicago or on a plane bound for who-the-hell-knew. Mythoughts would be on other things, my focus riveted to threats fromother quarters. I would file this experience into its compartmentin the back of my mind and go on with my life.
The cell
