Hot As Sin

20

He always replies that I worry too much, and I always shoot back that that’s why he’s still alive.

I get a tight chest thinking that it’s gonna be someone else’s job to worry about him now.

Then I put it out of my mind because I’m in my email and clicking on the secure link Connor sent. It brings up a passcode window. Into it I enter “Swift, Silent, Deadly” which is the motto of the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Marine Recon Battalions stationed at Camps Lejeune, Pendleton, and Schwab, and the slogan on the picture on the wall behind Connor’s desk.

Their motto pretty much sums up who they are and what they do.

A series of folders populates the window. Scanning their titles, I click on the one marked “The Take.” Upon opening, it appears to contain all the information about Evalina Ivanov, my debut assignment with Metrix Security.

The first thing my eyes focus on is a photograph of her.

My heart stops dead in my chest.

“So this is the Russian billionaire’s wife,” I murmur, zooming in on the snap. My heart reboots and decides it would be fun to take off at a thundering gallop.

She’s breathtaking, but I’ve seen a million beautiful women. In Los Angeles, models and starlets are practically falling off trees like ripe fruit. I don’t know what it is about this one that should have such a physical affect on me, but it’s not the temperature of the room that suddenly has me sweating.

A willowy brunette with pale skin, she was in motion when the picture was taken, turning to look over her shoulder at whoever was behind the camera. She’s got cheekbones to die for and the kind of bee stung lips poets go into rhapsodies over. A red dress flares out around long slender legs. Glossy hair tumbles over creamy shoulders. A triple strand of pearls nestles at the base of a swan-like neck.

Most compelling of all, though, are her eyes. Dark and heavily lashed, they’re piercing, seeming to jump right off the screen.

Her gaze is shadowed, somehow both serious and secretive, as if perhaps she was just caught in a lie.

It’s mesmerizing, that gaze. I linger in it, speculating.

Then I shake it off and move on.

It doesn’t take long to review the remainder of the file. There are more photographs of Evalina from various angles, a short bio, and background notes on the case. The other folders contain information about my flight to Cozumel, instructions about the reporting the client has requested, and the exceedingly large amount the client is paying Metrix to handle the job.

He also specifically stipulated a sum for expenses to be paid weekly to whichever one of Metrix’s personnel was selected for the actual work.

Looking at the number, I slowly sit back in the chair.

Nobody needs that much money a week for expenses. It’s double my actual salary, which is already substantial.

I go over everything twice, then close out of the files, log off of the network, and shut down the computer. Realizing I left my cell on one of the lounge chairs by the pool before I fished Kenji out, I decide to send Connor a text with some questions while my mind is still fresh.

I take the elevator down. Sure enough, my phone is right where I left it. I dash off a text, then start to head back inside, but haven’t taken three steps before my phone rings.

It’s Connor.

Hitting the Answer button, I forego the preliminaries and say, “Don’t you sleep?”

“It’s past four in the morning here. I’m always up at this hour.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“You have questions,” he replies, getting right to the point.

“Well, for starters, it appears I’m gonna be less of a bodyguard and more of a spy.”

“The client was adamant that we not have any contact with his wife. He doesn’t want her to know she’s being followed, he just wants to make sure she’s safe. This is an observe and report mission only.”

“So basically I’ll be doing surveillance.”

“Correct.”

“Curious as to why he wouldn’t send one of his own guys for that kind of a thing. He’s a billionaire. Doesn’t he have security staff?”

“Sure. But not ones who’re expert at recon and tailing marks without getting made. Plus, you gotta find her first. That’s right up your alley.”

“Find her? He already knows where she is.”

“He knows approximately where she is. Which island off the coast of Mexico. He has no idea where on that island she might be. How long you figure it’ll take you to get eyes on her once you’ve got boots on the ground?”

I do a swift mental calculation of what I know of the island’s population, its airports and main tourist areas. “Unless she’s already gone by the time I get there, most likely less than a week.”

“If she moves, we’ll know it. She’s using a fake passport. That’s how her husband traced her when she flew out of Russia. Passenger manifest on the airline.”

I look up at the night sky. This high up in the hills, we’re far enough away from the city lights that I can see actual stars. “Which prompts my next question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why would a rich dude’s wife use a fake passport to go on vacation?”

“Because the wives of billionaires have a tendency to get kidnapped in places like Mexico. It’s safer to be a nobody.”