did you have to drink, sweetheart?” she asked. The crowded streets and traffic noise meant no one could eavesdrop and she wanted as much information as she could get.
“A beer. Not even. Oh!” He jerked a bit. “And you sent me a shot of tequila.”
“Ah.” As they walked, she checked his pockets. He had his wallet and his room key. She must have interrupted before whoever started this had finished the job. Well, luck was certainly a lady for Jason tonight. She would ask him later why he thought the person who sent him a shot was her.
“You aren’t really blonde.” He reached over and brushed at the blonde bangs of her wig.
“That’s just for fun tonight, remember?”
“Mmm-hmm. Where’re we going?”
Back to his room if she could manage it. She risked another glance over her shoulder. Damned if Isely wasn’t still on her. What would it take to get rid of him?
She’d worn a disguise, stopped shadowing his seller and left the casino where the transaction was slated to occur. “Give a girl a break,” she muttered, pausing to catch her breath. Her chosen method of distraction was turning into a serious problem.
Next time, she was going with the old school chum routine. No hormonal interference with that diversion. Running into Jason had looked like a fun, sexy ticket out of trouble, but now he felt like a block of cement dragging her down. She leaned him against a palm tree and kept him there with a hand on his hard chest.
She could leave him and call a cop to help him back to his room. Practical, but wrong. “Kiss me,” she said.
“What?” His eyelids were droopy and his grin was that of a sweet drunk, and still it made butterflies circle in her belly.
“Kiss me,” she ordered.
“In a minute.” His hands were warm on her waist. “You hafta say ‘I do’ first.”
She followed his gaze. They were standing under the bright neon lights of an Elvis-themed wedding chapel. To her left, Isely was only a few yards away. To her right, one of the brutal men she recognized from his personal security team was even closer and reaching into his jacket.
Damn.
Why couldn’t these guys just believe the only thing she was into was her man?
Catching a glimpse of the shoulder holster, she made up her mind. Isely and his crew were known to act first and rationalize later. Drugged, Jason wasn’t in any shape to help her. Maybe it was time to play the game their way.
“Well,” she said to Jason, marching the fingers of one hand up his shirt while she reached for his gun with the other. She wasn’t a great shot left-handed, but she only had to create a diversion if they tried to take her. Flipping off the safety, she kept Jason distracted with her body pressed against his.
Isely’s thug had his weapon out now and his attention was locked on her. She didn’t know who or what had tipped off Isely, but his intended method of problem solving was clear. As the thug raised his weapon, she fired through Jason’s sport coat, aiming for the thug’s knee and praying she wouldn’t hit anyone else.
People on the street reacted predictably—a sudden flurry of motion set to the soundtrack of panicked screaming. Isely’s thug was hopping around in pain—she must have clipped his foot—and people caught sight of his gun. He was swarmed by determined citizens yelling for police assistance.
Jason jumped, a delayed reaction to the sound of the shot. He almost fell, dragging her with him. “Steady, sweetheart. That’s just a car back firing,” she lied smoothly.
“It’s loud out here.” He traced the shell of her ear with his fingertip. “Let’s get married so I can kiss you,” he said.
She tucked the gun back into the holster at his back. “If you insist, honey.”
“I do.” He sputtered with laughter when he realized what he said. “C’mon.” He pushed away from the tree and wobbled toward the chapel entrance with the careful determination of a drunk.
She wasn’t sure he’d appreciate her current opinion of Specialist Jason Grant as sweet edging toward adorable, but there wasn’t a better way to define him in his diminished state.
Less than an hour later, to the tune of Viva Las Vegas, they were newlyweds with the gold bands, a champagne toast and a “Just Married” limo ride up and down the Strip to prove it.
She wondered how happy her groom would be when he woke up tomorrow morning?
Chapter Two
Mission Recovery headquarters,
11:45 p.m.
Emmett Holt steepled his fingers as he reviewed the detailed reports his assistant had sent to his computer. Apparently a sniper was on a killing spree in Las Vegas. Times, targets—hell, even the type of bullets—pointed to Jason Grant, the Specialist who would one day take over this very office. Director Casey had handpicked Grant for the deputy director’s chair when Holt eventually moved up to Casey’s post, but this development could change everything.
There was never a good time for an agent to go off the deep end, but in light of the recent scandal of false allegations and rumors against the director himself, this was the last thing Mission Recovery needed.
Specialists recruited to their covert agency were above reproach, but it looked for all the world like Grant was about to become the exception. That possibility didn’t sit well with Holt. There was only one conclusion in light of this damning data: Grant, or someone who wanted them to believe it was Grant, was waging some sort of vendetta in Las Vegas.
If it was Grant, Holt wondered how he had secured the rifle. To date, their normal contacts in the area denied seeing Grant. Holt knew someone was lying, but that in and of itself didn’t put Grant in the clear. All Specialists were well-trained in where and how to connect with a helpful associate when they were in the field. He may have purposely gone outside their usual suppliers.
But why? Had he lost it? Or had someone on the other side made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?
In the past forty-eight hours the sniper—whoever the hell he was—had picked off a couple of irrelevant targets, caused one serious traffic accident and winged a major player in the drug trade. All of which had been kept out of the media. Considering the damper that kind of publicity could put on tourism, the local authorities had been only too happy to cooperate. The shootings looked perfectly random, but anyone with access to his personnel jacket would put Grant at the top of the suspect list.
The grim accomplishment was more impressive considering the Specialist hadn’t missed a single status check-in call since his arrival. Holt suppressed his instincts on the matter. What he believed on a personal level was irrelevant. He had a job to do and no one could ever accuse him of failing to get the job done. He liked Grant as well as he did any of the others but that, too, was irrelevant at the moment.
“Shall I add this to the agenda for the next briefing, sir?” His assistant, Nadine, sat on the opposite side of the desk. Beneath the conservative suit she wore, her posture was particularly rigid as she asked the question. No one wanted to
