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Merc said nothing, but ‘fuck you’ radiated off him in quiet waves.
“Fine. This will be close quarters work. You will have to give Copper space.” Space meant backup wouldn’t be immediate. She’d be on her own, and a few minutes could be the difference between living and dying. Not a problem. If she really needed them to drag her ass out of the fire, it would have gone too far to shit. “Bring this fucker back.”
This fucker who’d screwed them. Cost them the team. Cost them Brad.“Yes, sir.”
Their first stopwas Los Angeles. It was barely lunchtime when she and Cobalt were wheels down. Plat and Merc traveled separately. They would blend into the shadows, so she’d only see their faces if shit went south. During the flight, Cobalt entertained himself with some vicious rounds of solitaire while she read up on her targets. All three were in the same area—relatively speaking—former government employees. One for the Department of Defense, one for the Joint Chiefs of Special Intelligence and one an analyst for the CIA.
Spooks. She fucking hated spooks. They breezed in and out of military units and usually created a shit storm with their James Bond tactics. Then they breezed back out again for their martini shaken, not stirred. A businessman, a budding politician, and a college professor—the dossiers read like cosmic jokes. She could use the same routine on the first two, but the third taught international diplomacy and used to work for the CIA.
A shell game.
Who held the information they needed?
Brendan Coyle
Former Assistant D.O.D. Office of Special Operations
Current: Logistics Director, Cooper-Townsend International
Coyle was a busy man,too busy to take any appointments and far too busy to accept any calls. Patient, Copper waited to see where he would go for dinner. At a little after seven in the evening, he left his office in a Bugatti—way above his pay grade—and drove straight to a club in North Hollywood. A roped off door and a well-dressed thug, sporting two side arms, discouraged the average person from seeking entry.
A Google search told her the place was a local hotspot and the hours didn’t begin until after sundown. Why was Mr. Coyle hanging out in a hip nightspot? Leaving Cobalt to keep watch, she went shopping. It took her thirty minutes to find the items she needed.
“What’s the plan?” Cobalt asked once she slid back into the van.
Toeing off her shoes, she stripped down to her bra and panties, then turned to give him her back. “Wire me. We’ll get clones of his devices.”
It took only ten minutes to get the equipment in place. One upside of their new operation—bottomless funds and all the latest toys, like the patch he overlaid against her spine. The electronics inside of it would work as a wireless amplifier. All she had to do was get close, then they could download and clone what they needed.
Once Cobalt finished, she slid on a dress and tucked her feet into four-inch heels. Application of cosmetics gave her smokier eyes and fuller lips. A judiciously applied comb tucked her hair into an exotic twist but left her neck bare and vulnerable. The plunging neckline on the dress gave the barest peek of her bra, and because men loved the idea, she slid the panties off and stuffed them into the stack with her clothes. Since they didn’t go with the outfit, she slid off her dog tags and eased them into the pocket of her jeans.
“I’d do you,” Cobalt said, by way of approval.
“You couldn’t handle me.” She relaxed her smirk. Playing the dilettante, she was only at the club to get laid. Not a hard role to occupy.
“They’re lining up to get inside. Got a plan to get past the doorman?” No doubt echoed in his question, only genuine curiosity.
“The way every other hot woman gets in—the perks of having boobs and vagina.” The corner of her mouth curved. She pressed a hand to Cobalt’s chest, then sighed. “Do you think you can play bodyguard? Act big, mean, and stupid, so they can look and not touch?”
His snort reverberated with humor.
Trailing her nails down his sternum, she settled into her flirtatious role. “I’m going to tease and tease, but I don’t want to have to break my nails.”
“Got it.” He shook his head and slid his earbud into place. “We’re a go. Walking sex violation about to take flight.”
She didn’t roll her eyes or open the door to the van. Cobalt took care of all the heavy lifting. From the van, they transferred to a black Lincoln. The expensive car would support her right to be there. Cobalt drove around the block, then arrived at the front of the club. He stepped out, handed the keys to the valet, and opened her door. Strutting after him toward the main entrance, she utterly ignored the line. Every step sank her deeper into the role. The club was about to be blessed by her presence. At the door, the bouncer gave her a long look. Undeterred, she did a slow pirouette so he could assess everything she had to offer.
Cobalt loomed behind her like a wall of iron. His cool, summer blond looks blended right in with the California crowd. A guy at the front of the line took a step toward her, hand out stretched as though he planned to take her arm. Probably, he wanted to pretend he was either with her or bitch her out for cutting, however she paid him no mind, and he never touched her.
With judicious application of pressure, Cobalt had the guy down, arm wrenched behind his back. “Behave, pussy boy. She’s not for you.” Whatever else he said was lost in the roar of the crowd, but the would-be assailant paled.
Backing into the bouncer, she let out a breathless titter of laughter. Obediently, the man wrapped an arm around her, his hand sliding right over her hip and then up to her breasts. The subtle pat down proved invasive, but she let him get his feel.
“I’m Kiki,” she told him. “You have great hands.”
His gaze was on her boobs, and he smiled. “You go on inside, Kiki, and come back to see me. I’d be happy to let you in anytime.”
With that, she and Cobalt were in the club. Music pulsed and pounded in time with the lights. From the dance floor in the center where bodies writhed together to the various darkened tables where more than one woman seemed to be without her top—or anything else, for that matter—she got an eyeful of why the club was so hot and popular.
