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he was too fucking smart not to immediately jump to the assumption that these people would make a last-ditched effort to grab the laptop—and possibly Nikki—before Damen’s Town Car made it through the armed and secured Qtango Ops gates and onto fully protected and shielded grounds.
“Garcia’s not the only one I have in place,” he informed her. “We have two other vehicles in play. And air surveillance.”
“Air surveillance?” Her brows jumped.
“Mm-hmm.”
She continued to gaze at him, running the gamut of possibilities, scenarios, emotions… He wasn’t sure what.
Though, if he wasn’t mistaken, a flicker in her emerald eyes told him she was duly impressed.
No less freaked out or paranoid. But at least she grasped they weren’t on their own. And to be fair to Garcia, Nikki had already been exposed to the level of determinedness that particular agent possessed and demonstrated. Granted, Garcia was still on the shit list because she had not informed Damen she was infiltrating the enemy to gather intel—and had then planted said intel in Nikki’s laptop. That would be dealt with accordingly.
At the moment, however… Damen truly believed Garcia would not let anything stand in the way of him and Nikki making it to their intended rendezvous location. Or allowing any further interference with the mission.
He checked the overlaid map on his phone that pinpointed where all of his people were currently stationed. Garcia was closest in proximity. He shared the app screen with his driver’s mounted monitor in the front.
“Very good, sir,” was the curt reply he received from Colin Dunbar. He was retired FBI and had taken this job so he wouldn’t get bored. Some days were worse than others—meaning, for the most part, Dunbar wasn’t required to pull off any strategic maneuvering—oh, ho-hum. So he was likely doing an internal happy dance that they were potentially in danger today.
Adrenaline junkies required a periodic shot in the arm.
Damen, on the other hand, was less enthused, given the woman sitting next to him, whom he’d sworn to protect.
He buckled up and slid a glance her way. “Tighten your seatbelt, sweetheart.”
She did as requested, without question.
“Have you finished your Christmas shopping?” he casually inquired.
Her head whipped in his direction again. “We’re seriously going to make small-talk right now?”
“Not much else we can do. Steering wheel’s up front.”
She glowered.
In an even more cavalier tone—with hopes of easing her sudden disconcertion—he said, “We could make out, if you prefer.”
“Damen!” she admonished with a sharp tone. But he didn’t miss the flare of heat in her eyes.
She swatted at him.
He chuckled.
“Behave,” she scolded. “This is serious shit.”
“Indeed, it is,” he concurred. “And when it’s all over, I’ll introduce you to Colin, my driver. Amazingly talented escape artist. Master of disguises. And he secretly wishes he was a European Formula One race car driver.”
Colin snickered.
“At present, however,” Damen continued, “he’s laser-focused on our tail and all the converging agents that are going to get us out of this sticky situation. Were I to introduce you now, he’d be distracted by how striking you are.”
“Your charm knows no bounds,” she quipped. Apparently trying to buy into his more casual demeanor, his attempt to bring the anxiety and tension down a few notches.
“Back to Christmas…”
“Fine,” she said, though her gaze slipped to the side window and the rearview mirror every few seconds. “I had to call my personal shopper at Bergdorf’s to have gifts selected, wrapped and delivered to my father and stepmonster, since we left Manhattan so abruptly.”
“Ooh, angst. There’s a story here.”
