Page 8 of Long Past Deadly

“Agreed. All I ask is for you to not touch me again.”

“I got that the first time.” Quaid crossed the thick, ivory carpet to the corner of the dining room. He went behind the table and opened the drapes which covered a wall of large glass windows and a sliding glass door. The small, rectangular swimming pool on the other side was calm and serene with pure, clear water that allowed the sea design on the bottom to shine.

Alanna stared at the pool, shaking her head. “Lord. Who lives like this?”

“Zephren Patton.” Quaid filled his drink again, then capped and put the bottle away.

She swiveled to him. “Who in the hell has a grudge against Zephren Patton’s grandson?” She finally moved to stand at the end of the dining room table. Her hands gripped one of the highbacked chairs, the glossy surface of the cherry table shining between them. The hundred of teardrops crystals on the chandelier above the table made the room glow.

“Not Zephren Patton’s grandson. Quaid Daniels, CIA.” He stepped to one of the gold brocade sofas and carefully eased onto the cushions. Nothing like dodging an assassin to make a man understand the aches and pains of his body. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.

Alanna shook her head and moved behind the bar. She pulled out a bottle of water from the mini fridge and toyed with the cap, staying steps away from him. “Why CIA? You could be enjoying the fortune your grandfather has made, even be CEO of his national hotel conglomerate. Why the hell CIA?”

Quaid watched Alanna’s sweet, red lips take a sip of water. Stifling a groan, he swallowed the rest of his drink. The scotch hit the other two rounds in his empty stomach like a cannonball to dry tinder, burning like the fires of hell. They hadn’t stopped to eat.

“None of your business,” Quaid answered her. He reached for the phone and dialed an extension from memory. “Barker, I’m in grandfather’s suite. Can you come up?”

Receiving the answer he expected, Quaid hung up.

“You might as well take a shower. Check for any other cuts. Your bedroom and bath are through there.” Quaid pointed to a set of doors to the left of the entry way.

Alanna glanced at the door in question. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”

“Take your time. I’ll order food. Any preference?”

“No.” She raised a brow, a quirk of her personality or a dare. He wasn’t sure which.

Quaid lifted the phone to make the call, then pointedly watched until she went in the bedroom and shut the door.

Quaid grinned. Hand that woman a gun or a knife and he’d be in a world of trouble. For some reason, the bits of temper leaking around her controlled mask didn’t bother him much.

She could reason.

She could fight.

She stood up for herself, and she’d stood up for him.

They could be partners to solve this mess. He’d never anticipated working with her. He didn’t handle investigations. But now it was a necessity.

“We shall see what we shall see,” he mumbled, then set his drink aside with a firm hand. Retrieving a knife from their bag to carve open a package, he set about activating a burner phone to call the one person he needed immediately.

&&&&&&&&&&

QM International Flash Alert: 02:27:05 PST 12/15 – San Diego HQ. Confirmed facility attack. Personnel unaccounted for. Activate Security Level 3. International operations remain unaffected. Ϙ

Mackey hung up from his fifth call with the police department and undid the buttons on the sleeves of his white shirt, rolling as he went to get the fabric off his forearms. His gun was neatly tucked at his back into tuxedo slacks he’d rather were jeans, and his cell phone stayed in his hand. Quaid would call. The trust there was absolute.

But the police department did not like having no answers for a gun incident in their jurisdiction. But he could and would tell them nothing until he talked with Quaid.

He rose from his desk and glanced to the floor-to-ceiling windows in his office, assessing the threat. Pacing to the side wall, he studied the parking lot. Nothing like a motivated gunman to make a company rethink they’re security. Except they were supposed to be experts, and this hadn’t even been in the scenarios they considered. Fail.

A quick rap on the door announced Harrison. His knock and brisk entry, were familiar and depended on. “So what do we have?”

“I’ve worked my way through all my sources. Quiet. No one has heard anything about this.” Still in wedding attire, the man had shed his jacket, too.

“Same with mine.” But someone should know something. You didn’t put a hit out on a billionaire’s grandson without leaving a trace, and Quaid’s CIA days, while varied like his Delta missions, didn’t make sense. He’d been out for four years, same as Mackey, and it defied explanation. Why would someone wait so long to get even?

“Where do we go next?”