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CHAPTER ONE
The First Lady of the Patriot Union leaned across the table and whispered, “Are you a spy, Heather?”
“What?” Heather squeaked like a rabbit who knew what was coming for her. Her gaze flicked up to the two armed Secret Service agents who were watching Helen with curiosity, as if waiting for her to give the word to attack. The wolves had found her scent. The rabbit had two choices—run or fight. Neither option would be successful. The guards were twitching to reach for their weapons.
“I think you heard me.” Helen’s voice, low and soft, sliced through the air like a razor.
Heather’s mind was spinning with terror. She struggled to form words, any words, to get her out of this mess.
“You are the first person I’ve felt comfortable with in a long, long time,” Helen went on. “I liked you. I thought we could become friends one day. Was it all a ploy?” Helen’s eyes were wet, her cheeks pale. She had the look of a woman who’d just gotten her heart broken.
God, this was bad. Really bad.
“We are friends, Helen.” Heather wrestled to keep her body still, her voice steady. Everything in her screamed, Run!
“The truth, please. I’m not stupid.”
“Of course not. You’re one of the smartest people I know.” Helen was, in fact, the first person to figure out Heather’s cover. “That’s one of the reasons we are so comfortable together, Helen. Why we became friends so fast. I find it hard to trust people too. I respect your opinions, your ideas, but this is…startling. I don’t know what’s upset you so.” The lie flowed from her lips, but her heart pounded hard. The room started spinning so fast that she gripped the table for grounding.
Helen exhaled through her nostrils, apparently nonplussed by Heather’s rambling speech.
“Are you working with the Mexicans?” Helen asked.
“Me? I’m not a Mexican.”
Helen shook her head, not happy with the way Heather had parsed her words. Heather wasn’t happy, either. Why was she fumbling this? Today, of all days, she needed to be able to pull off the play. Her life depended on it.
“You know my story,” Heather tried again. “I was born and raised in the United States before the Second Civil War. My father was the largest donor to your husband’s campaign. How could you think that I would be anything other than who I am?” She had to really force that statement, for she didn’t really know who she was.
“But you are working with the Mexicans.” It was a statement, not a question.
A tiny thought went off in Heather’s frantic mind.
“Ah, I see where the confusion came from.” She forced her lips to rise and hoped it resembled a smile. “I hired a few of them for Tiffany’s party, yes. You are right about that. Tiffany had allowed it, and those at the party seemed happy enough to eat the food the Mexicans cooked. That’s all it was, Helen. Nothing more.”
“I don’t believe you,” Helen said. “A Mexican man rescued you during the emergency at the party. You are much closer than you let on. And you lied to Tiffany. It is not ‘nothing more.’”
How am I going to get out of this? A tornado of emotions swirled inside her. Think! Heather silently screamed at herself. She had to say something. Do something. A trickle of sweat ran down her back. If she didn’t get herself out of this, she would be murdered in broad daylight and then they’d go after Mike. God, Mike. She had to get a message to him. He needed to escape the Patriot Union immediately.
Heather glanced over her shoulder toward the Secret Service agents blocking her exit route. Crap. They were both looking at her now with something harder than curiosity lining their features. One guard had his hand on his weapon, as if he sensed something was about to go down. Could they hear what was being said?
“Run, and they’ll shoot you,” Helen’s whisper was a strange mix of brutal honesty and heart-wrenching sadness. “One word from me and they will take you away.” She didn’t have to say where they would take her. Heather already knew.
Heather stared at Helen. Silence floated in the air while Heather turned her options over and over. Every one came up with the end of Heather Slade. The Patriots would kill her, horribly, and so would HQ. The end, the end, the end. She tried to envision a peaceful place to focus on in the last moments. The only vision that popped into Heather’s head? Mike’s beautiful face. His warm-chocolate eyes, his smile. She imagined what he would tell her if he were sitting beside her, shoulder to shoulder, his strength flowing through her.
Querida. You’ve got this. You are Heather Slade.
“I am Heather Slade,” she said out loud, forcing herself to become something other than a terrified asset swinging on the end of a noose. Straightening her back, she psychologically tugged back into place the persona of a rich, spoiled daughter of a billionaire, the woman she was supposed to be playing. Heather’s exhale exploded through her lips in a sound that could have been an indignant huff.
“Helen, enough is enough. I have tried to be patient with you, but this is too much.” Slowly, she wiped her damp hands on her chiffon pants under the table. “What you are saying is ridiculous. You know that, right? Did you hit your head? Oh, wait. Are you trying to be funny? Is this a joke?” Surprisingly, her voice was steady. Her heartbeat, however, still thundered in her chest. And no one was laughing.
“Sí, that’s it. Bueno. You are fine. Keep it up,” Imaginary Mike whispered in her head.
Okay, yes, Heather was insulting the First Lady. Yes, it would probably make her lose any further connection with the woman, which would irritate Heather’s handler, but the goal was to walk out of the bar without getting a bullet between her eyes. Frantically thinking on her feet, she was grasping for anything that might keep her alive.
Helen’s eyes widened. “It’s not a joke. I’m serious.”
“That can’t be the case. You know me,” Heather said.
“What I know is that you did not go home with Lt. Col. Gregory Henkle. I could have the Secret Service pull the cameras to figure out who the Mexican man is. If he’s a spy, you are in big trouble, Heather.”
“No. Don’t do that. Why bother that poor man just because he is a Mexican who worked for me? I have another way to sort this out.”
“How?” Helen asked.
Heather swallowed hard. Helen had given her one last play, one chance. It was a long shot. A really long shot that might boomerang back and explode in her face.
Heather reached for her phone and said to it, “Call No Medals.”
As the phone dialed his number, she said a quick, silent prayer. If this didn’t work…
Gregory Henkle answered. “Heather?”
She focused on making her voice sound sexy, or at the very least, calm. “Hey, handsome. Are you busy? I have a huge favor to ask.”
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asked. Apparently, her voice hadn’t made it to calm.
“You know me, never a dull moment.” She tried to chuckle, but the sound came off weird and disjointed.
His voice was low. “Where are you? Can you talk?”
“I’m in a bit of a strange situation at Jimmy’s Bar. I need you.”
“What sort of situation?”
“I’m with the First Lady.” Heather lifted her gaze to Helen. The woman was watching her intently, studying her every move.
“You are with Helen Blockwell? Right now? Is her security detail there?”
“Yes. Secret Service is here with us. Don’t worry. They are protecting the entrances so that no one can come in.” Or leave. She hoped she was still conveying normalcy when everything inside her was on fire. “Helen and I seem to be having a disagreement that involves us.”
“Us?”
“Yes, I’m sorry, love. I know that we wanted to keep our relationship quiet, but it seems that people have found out.” Of course they did, because Gregory had been spreading the lie far and wide that they’d slept together. She still didn’t understand his motives, but currently they were in her favor. “Helen has some questions about the night we, well, you know.” She tried to act coy, but honestly, she didn’t know how. What story had he developed?
“She doesn’t believe it?”
“Nope.” Helen was leaning close, as if trying to hear Gregory on the other end of the phone. “This misunderstanding could be really bad for me.”
“Shit,” he said softly. “I’ll be right there.”
“How long?” Her voice broke.
“I’m already driving. Five minutes.”
She nodded and ended the call. “He’s coming right over. Hopefully, he can explain things better than I’ve been able to.”
Or he’d come and tell the truth, and this would be her last five minutes. She had a bad feeling that Jimmy’s Bar would be the end of the road for the woman pretending to be Heather Slade.
“I’m heading to the restroom. Want to freshen up before he arrives,” Heather said, standing.
“One of the men will go with you.” Helen motioned to the Secret Service, and one of them stepped forward. “Make sure she doesn’t go out the window or run out the back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said.
“This is ridiculous! I don’t need a bathroom escort.” Heather grabbed her purse. She had a few devices inside that she could use to alert HQ. If the next few minutes went to hell for her, the agency would have to take Mike underground quickly before the PDs grabbed him.
A guard stepped forward and snatched the purse out of her hand. “Leave that behind.”
Heather frowned. “Helen? I need it.”
“Let her take her purse,” Helen said.
“She could use her phone to call her people, ma’am.”
That was exactly what she intended to do. Heather needed to contact HQ and tell them to protect Mike. What do I do now? “Can I take my hairbrush and lipstick? My boyfriend is coming any minute now.”
“Not advisable,” the guard said, waiting for a response from Helen.
“Let her,” Helen said.
Heather reached into her purse and grabbed the two items as casually as she could. If the Secret Service inspected the brush, they might find the deadly dagger hidden inside the handle. She’d use the dagger if things went bad. The lipstick had a mini phone in it that she was going to use to notify HQ. If they found either one, it would prove Helen’s point.
“Ready?” she asked the guard. She didn’t wait for an answer. Spinning on her heel, she walked toward the restrooms. One of the men was quick to catch up and became the shadow she could not shake.
She assessed her surroundings. The corridor was narrow, with two restrooms on the left side. There was one door at the end of the corridor that seemed to lead to the kitchen. That might be the way to escape, if she could get past the guard.
Heather opened the door to the women’s restroom. “Wait outside.”
The guard didn’t say anything. He pushed past her into the women’s bathroom. He kicked open each stall door to verify that the toilets were empty. He looked under the sink and opened the lone cabinet in the room. The only items inside the cabinet were toilet paper, gallons of hand-sanitizing mist, and soap.
“Satisfied?” she asked.
He grunted and checked the window. It was far too small to squeeze through. It seemed that she would not be able to escape this room unless… Her gaze quickly jumped to the ceiling vents. Damn. They were too small as well.
“Hurry up,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.” She saluted him and closed the door.
She didn’t have much time to make an escape plan. Quickly, she dialed up the “Kiss Me Red” lipstick and opened the mini screen inside.
She pressed the tiny button on the side of the stick that was nearly impossible to see with the naked eye. It was the direct dial to Agent Dispatch at HQ. In this case, she didn’t want any agents to come to her rescue. She needed an agent to be picked up. Heather didn’t use her fingertips to text on the tiny display. This system was set up to track her eye movements so that she only needed to look at the letters and symbols to transmit the message.
“Urgent agent retrieval. Get Miguel Robles underground.”
Her lipstick pulsed in her hand with HQ’s response. “Has Miguel Robles been compromised?”
Heather gasped. She didn’t expect them to ask that question. What could she say? If HQ believed that the Patriots were on to Mike, they might trigger his kill device. She’d been there, barely survived that, and wouldn’t curse anyone with such excruciating pain. Especially not Mike. Her hands were shaking so badly, she had trouble holding the lipstick.
“Has he been taken?” The dispatcher on the other end of the lipstick pressed for an answer.
She wished she knew who the person was who manned the Agent Dispatch desk. Could she trust them? No. At this moment, she only trusted herself and the burning anxiety to get Mike to safety.
Heather’s gaze moved across the mini keyboard to light up the letters. “I’ll explain later. Bring him in.”
“Reason required. It’s protocol. See your agent code manual, page 72.”
Protocol? When her partner’s life was on the line? She wanted to chuck the lipstick into the toilet.
Rapidly, she texted, “Have a team pick him up. Now!”
“Reason required. Protocol. Page 72.”
She bit her lip to keep from screaming her outrage.
“It’s an emergency!”
The agent dispatcher texted one final word. “Denied.”
She was livid. “Take your protocol and shove it up your—!”
“What did you say, Ms. Slade?” the Secret Service agent said, knocking on the other side of the bathroom door. She was so distraught that she’d forgotten he was out there. What was the matter with her?
“Nothing,” she said to the trained killer guarding her door. “Having a problem with the…” she glanced around the bathroom, “hand-sanitizing dryer.” She pressed the button and the machine hummed and expelled the warm, quick-drying mist. “It’s working now.”
“Hurry up in there,” he ordered.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Her blue eyes narrowed and her Kiss Me Red lips lifted into an angry snarl. To the beautiful face that didn’t belong to her, she whispered, “Get it together.”
There was only one thing to do now.
She took the dagger out of her hairbrush. It was viciously sharp.
Her last official plan as an agent for HQ was to fight her way out and run like hell through the back of Jimmy’s Bar. She had no hope that her plan would work. None. Better to die in the line of fire than to be tortured by either Patriots or HQ’s kill device.
She didn’t want to kill anyone. Heather Slade had worked her butt off her entire short career to not be like the Patriots. But she was a trained killer, too, and would do what was necessary to protect other agents by not getting captured. Dying with her secrets intact was her only goal now.
Heather closed her fist around the handle of the dagger and prepared to aim high since the guard had a good seven inches of height on her. The blow would have to be fast and lethal. She’d take him out and then run through the kitchen to the alley. The other Secret Service agent would be obliged to come after her, shooting as he went. If she could get him into hand-to-hand combat, she’d have a better chance of neutralizing him too. And then she’d keep running.
It was the flimsiest plan she’d ever made, but time was running out, and she had to go with it.
Quietly, she crept to the door. Just as she lifted her foot to kick it open…
“Lt. Col. Gregory Henkle is here,” the guard called out.
Her pounding heart stuttered. She’d kill both guards out there if she had to, but Gregory? Could she kill No Medals?
She lowered her foot to the ground and hid the dagger back inside the hairbrush.
“Be right out,” she said.
And just like that, she flushed her flimsy plan down the virtual toilet.
Time was up.
End of Excerpt
