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 believe the worst. Not even the young assistant he had hired who willingly worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days in an attempt to keep him happy. He vaguely wondered if that was why she kept her hair in a sleek ponytail all the time. He didn’t give her time to patronize salons.
He also wondered if she hated him as much as most who had the displeasure of working for him did.
He blinked away the concept. “No. I’ll handle it privately.” The less anyone knew about this situation the better. If he put it on the agenda for team discussion, Grant might hear about it. And if he knew they were on to him, he’d bolt before they could get a net around him. And if this was Grant, Holt needed to get a net around him as soon as possible.
“Any word from the agent Grant was sent to Las Vegas to support?”
“No, sir.”
No surprise there. Everyone knew Vegas remained one of the easiest cities to disappear in. “Maybe the agent managed to get out without Grant’s help.” Holt said what his assistant expected to hear while his mind worked through the latest developments and numerous other scenarios.
“I’ll keep monitoring the news out there,” Nadine suggested.
Holt nodded. They both understood the harsh reality and the constricting time frame. He wasn’t going to be able to keep the sniper issue quiet much longer. If and when the local police force connected the incidents to a single shooter, they would be obligated to call in federal assistance and warn the public about the threat.
Which meant Holt would be obligated to tell someone in another government agency there was an operative in the area with sharp-shooter expertise, and that would break Grant’s cover.
If Jason Grant remained in Las Vegas, with his stellar career as a sniper, he would become a person of interest within the next twenty-four hours. By hour forty-eight, if he couldn’t offer a valid alibi for the shootings, he’d be in custody or a wanted suspect. A pawn effectively removed from the dangerous game Holt was playing. No one, particularly his superiors, would be happy with his methods. But that had never stopped him before. It wouldn’t now. And that was precisely why they had hired him. He would get the job done, one way or another.
The stakes were high and the risk-to-reward ratio bordered on irrational. But it had to be done, and he was the only one in Mission Recovery who could manage it. On days like this, the baggage of responsibility weighed heavy on his shoulders.
His assistant stood. “Shall I attempt to contact Grant?”
Holt leaned back from his desk and turned a pencil end over end on the arm of his chair. “No need. Until we know more, Specialist Grant’s orders don’t change. Get me the director as soon as it’s morning wherever he is.”
“But, sir, he’s on his honeymoon.”
That was right. The director of Mission Recovery had gotten married last month, but work had prevented an immediate honeymoon. “The world doesn’t stop spinning because he fell in love, Nadine,” he grumbled. “As much as Thomas Casey would like to think so.”
“Of course, sir.”
His assistant left the office to carry his reports