CLEANUP ON AISLE SIX
CORAL REEF COMMUNITY HOSPITAL– 11:20 a.m.
"What's that for?" Michael Samuelle's eyebrows rose as he regarded the wheelchair.
The Hispanic nurse planted her hands on her ample hips. "It's for you, mister hotshot FBI guy."
"Not necessary," grunted Michael. He rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension. "Didn't I walk in here last night . . ." he peered at her name badge ". . . Rosario?"
"Stumbled, more like. Bleeding like a stuck pig all over the E.R. You know, we had to report that gunshot wound to the authorities."
"Whatever," mumbled Michael. His confidential informant, Manny, had double-crossed him. When the bullets started flying, Manny panicked and dumped Michael at the front door of the small community hospital in the Florida Keys. Then the conniving snitch peeled out of the parking lot like a NASCAR driver and headed north toward Miami.
Rosario gestured to the wheelchair. "Hospital regulations." She snapped her fingers. "Let's move your butt. Your friend is waiting outside for you."
Reluctantly, Michael got into the wheelchair. Hopefully, that friend was his partner, Jimmy Alvarez. He glanced over his shoulder. "You packing?"
Rosario frowned. "Excuse me?"
"My weapon. Where is it?"
"Oh, Mr. Sack took it last night."
Mr. Sack? Michael's head started to pound, but not because of the stitches on his forehead. "Tall guy with a scar on his right cheek?"
"That's the one."
Michael uttered a foul curse as Rosario rolled him toward the exit. "Got any hemorrhoid cream in this joint?"
FBI Special-Agent-In-Charge Sheldon Tyler was about to rip him a new one.
CHAPTER 2
Special-Agent-In-Charge Sheldon Tyler pushed away from the black SUV he was leaning against and gave Michael a slow once-over. "You okay?"
"Nothing some Jack Daniels won't cure."
"Try to stay out of trouble," warned Rosario as Michael got out of the wheelchair.
"You know me, always the life of the party." He grinned and accepted the plastic bag containing his bloodied shirt and wallet.
Rosario grunted. "Don't overdo it with that shoulder."
Tyler answered for him. "Thank you, nurse. We'll be on our way." He glanced at Michael with a scowl on his craggy face. "Get in. I need to bring you up to speed. A lot's happened while you were down here flirting with nurses."
Tyler pointed the SUV toward Miami. "Manny's car was found abandoned at the bus station this morning with the motor running. Two sets of blood stains were recovered from the front seat, but no bodies anywhere."
"That little weasel set me up," Michael said through clenched teeth. "When I find him I'm gonna . . . "
"Forget him. We have bigger problems. Somebody shot up Alvarez's house last night. One bullet hit his kid. She's in surgery right now."
Michael's face contorted in rage and his heart rate jumped up. "Holy shit." A picture of Jimmy teaching seven-year-old Emilie to swim during a pool party last summer leapt to mind.
They had now reached Miami and Tyler turned into the quiet residential street where Michael rented a small house. It was a blistering hot afternoon. Yet there was his ancient next-door neighbor, Hilda Rodriguez, in a flowered caftan and straw hat mowing her grass.
Michael stared in shock. Yellow crime scene tape festooned the house and his car was a blackened hulk in the driveway.
"Both you and Alvarez have been made," said Tyler. "Miami-Dade police received a call around five this morning about a car fire and house alarm blaring."
Michael shook his head. "This has to be about the Jezeera case."
"Maybe, maybe not. But until things settle down, you're going to work out of the Atlanta office. The SAC is Paul Wolfe. Go grab some clothes. You're on a 5:45 flight."
Check with florist about delivery time of roses and orchids.
Order two more cases of groom's favorite champagne from Napa Valley.
Change bride's final gown fitting from Thursday afternoon to Wednesday morning.
Order Gray's birthday cake.
Wedding planner Nikita Wirth sighed as she consulted her PDA. She dug out her cell phone from her overstuffed handbag. Her favorite bakery was programmed into her phone and she hit speed dial. "Hi, Gloria. Can you believe I almost forgot Gray's birthday?" She gave a forced chuckle. There was a niggling worry in the back of her mind about her relationship with her architect boyfriend, but she pushed it aside for now.
"That's right. Carrot cake with cream cheese icing. I'll pick it up tomorrow afternoon. Yeah, I'm at the airport now. Okay, thanks, Gloria."
Nikita closed the phone and looked around. The gate area for the 5:45 flight to Atlanta was filling up quickly. She noticed a man a couple of rows over staring intently at her. Their gazes held for a moment before she glanced down at her PDA.
CHAPTER 3
Nikita inhaled deeply and willed her jittery stomach to calm down. As she returned the PDA to her bag, her hand felt the reassuring cylinder of pepper spray.
Get a grip. It's a public place and he's just another passenger. Probably some businessman anxious for a drink.
It had been three weeks since the last threatening message on her home answering machine, but only six days since her tire was slashed at the office. She'd not mentioned these incidents to her family while she was in Miami. Her mother's plate was already full. Nikita's father was recovering from heart surgery and Grandpa Wirth was throwing a fit at the nursing home.
The police suggested it might be a disgruntled former client. Nikita nixed that idea. She'd dealt with some "bridezillas" in her time, but usually neither they nor their mothers had any problems voicing their displeasure to her face.
One message specifically mentioned her boyfriend, Gray Wellman. He was an architect with a prominent Atlanta firm. Nikita knew the firm was currently involved in a lawsuit over a project in Boston. But why would that concern her?
The boarding call was announced. Passengers began gathering their belongings and shuffling toward the smiling gate attendant. Nikita tensed when she saw the man from two rows over get up at the same time. She hung back a moment and studied him. He was tall with collar-length dark hair that hadn't seen a comb recently. Wrinkled jacket over a tee shirt and well-worn jeans that hugged his perfect butt.
Whoa. Where did that thought come from?
Nikita mentally slapped herself. It was only because she was tired and anxious that the errant thought crept into her mind.
Right. Who was she kidding? She was trying to make things work with Gray, but he had been distant of late. Whether it was the lawsuit or something else, she had no clue. She blew out a breath and fidgeted with her bag. Several people were between her and the mystery man. When he spoke to the gate attendant and handed over his ticket, Nikita saw him in profile. His strong jaw line had the beginnings of five-o-clock shadow and for the first time Nikita noted the stitches on his forehead.
She frowned. Everything about the man disturbed her. She prayed they would not be seatmates.
Michael fastened his seatbelt and waited to see where the blonde was sitting. He smiled as she slid into an aisle seat on the opposite side and slightly ahead of him. From this vantage point he had a perfect view of killer legs. Michael had not been with a woman since his divorce three months ago. The undercover work, with its frequent absences and pretending to be someone else, had taken a toll on his marriage. When Elena said she wanted out, he hadn't argued with her. He signed the papers and slunk back into the shadows.
He glanced at his briefcase on the empty seat beside him. He ought to be reviewing the file Tyler had given him. Instead, he pulled a bottle of Tylenol from his jacket pocket, shook out two tablets and swallowed them. He rubbed absently at his sore shoulder.
The flight attendant's voice broke into his thoughts. "Anything that doesn't fit under the seat in front of you must be stored in the overhead bin. We have been cleared for takeoff in five minutes."
Blondie lurched out of her seat and began trying to open the bin above her seat. It wouldn't open and she had a frantic look on her face. Her tangerine silk tank top pulled taut across her chest and the linen skirt hiked up. Michael unclasped his seatbelt and stepped up to her side.
"Do you need some help?" His hand briefly touched hers as he reached for the lock.
She gasped and her eyes widened. "I need my purse." Her hand shot in and grabbed it. "Thank you." She stepped back to put some distance between them. If they had been in public, Michael felt sure she would take off running.
The flight attendant motioned for them to sit down. Michael slammed the door shut and returned to his seat. Up close, blondie was a stunner. Creamy, flawless skin with huge sapphire eyes. Her thick tresses were twisted up on her head, exposing her neck. It was the kind of style that begged for a man's hands to run through it and mess it up. Suddenly, Michael wanted to be that man.
He shook his head. No need to go there. He was on business and he'd best remember that. He spun the combination lock on his briefcase and pulled out the file. With any luck the flight attendant would come along soon with the beverage cart.
CHAPTER 4
Nikita flipped through the new issue of Southern Bride magazine. The latest wedding gown styles and floral trends failed to keep her attention today. The main reason was, unfortunately, sitting behind her. She remembered his piercing green eyes and how rough his hand had felt when it slid over hers. Did he do manual labor for a living?
Unable to stop herself, Nikita turned her head slightly. The man appeared to be reading a report. Even though most of the businessmen around her had shed their coats, the stranger was still wearing his wrinkled jacket. Nikita found her imagination working overtime. I really need to stop reading those suspense novels, she thought.
Suddenly, the man looked up and pinned her with a stare. Then his mouth lifted into a sexy grin. Nikita blushed and turned back around. Her stomach did a little flip. He reminded her of an old high school boyfriend who rode a motorcycle, a fact that did not amuse her parents.
"Would you like something to drink?" The flight attendant stood poised by the beverage cart.
"Orange juice, please."
Nikita accepted the juice and a small bag of pretzels. At least this gave her something to do instead of thinking about the cocky stranger. There was a dangerous edge to him that she didn't want to think about.
Or did she?
Michael read the file and tried to concentrate on the facts: an Atlanta business executive, stolen coins and paintings, possible international terrorist connections. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to fit into the investigation. His specialty was nabbing drug runners.
He closed the file and returned it to his briefcase. He was considering a little catnap when he saw blondie raise her tray table and unsnap her seatbelt. She headed up the aisle toward the bathrooms. Michael inclined his head and watched the gentle sway of her hips. X-rated images filled his head and his jeans felt too tight.
"Hot stuff there," said a greasy-looking red-faced man in the opposite seat. "What I wouldn't give to have those legs wrapped around me!" A coughing fit overtook him and he reached for his drink.
Michael glared at him. While his own thoughts ran along the same lines, hearing them voiced by that moron angered him. He got out of his seat and followed in the wake of Nikita's perfume.
As Michael reached the bathrooms, a door opened, the plane hit some turbulence, and Nikita was propelled into his arms. Both were shocked, but Michael recovered quicker.
"Relax, lady. It's only an air pocket," he grinned.
Nikita swallowed around the lump in her throat. "I'm sorry. Excuse me." She tried to untangle herself from his arms, but he held her steady.
"I'm not." His eyes roamed over her face again just as they had when he opened the overhead bin. With an effort, he managed to avoid glancing down her cleavage.
"Coming through," announced the flight attendant as she maneuvered the drinks cart up the narrow aisle toward the galley. The plane took another sudden dip and Nikita gasped. Michael pushed her back against the bathroom door. They were chest to chest and his warm breath tickled her cheek. Nikita jerked a bit when she encountered the bulge under his left arm.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he said in a low, reassuring voice. "My name's Michael."
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Ackerman speaking. We may run into some more turbulence before we reach Atlanta, so please stay buckled up. The tower is reporting 86 degrees at Hartsfield-Jackson International and we are on final approach."
Nikita fought against her panic. "Please let go of me!"
Michael stepped back and released her. She scooted down the aisle and dropped into her seat. He entered the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. Something had blondie spooked and he didn't think it was just the bumpy flight or his unkempt appearance.
Too bad he wouldn't be around to figure it out.
Nikita picked up her magazine and took several deep breaths. She turned the pages aimlessly as she tried to process what had just happened. He has a gun! Is he some kind of bodyguard? Wait . . . maybe he's an air marshal. Yeah, that's it. Air marshal. Didn't I read about one in a novel?
Nikita averted her eyes when she saw the man returning. Fortunately, he didn't try to speak to her. The flight attendant trailed after him, collecting trash in preparation for landing. Nikita shoved her stuff in her bag and fastened the seatbelt.
Michael lost sight of blondie when a geeky young guy stepped in front of him at the end of the jetway in Atlanta. He flashed an FBI identification.
"Michael Samuelle?"
"Who's asking?"
"Special Agent Seymour Birkoff."
Michael noted the young man's dark suit, close-cropped hair, and wire-rim glasses. "When did the Bureau start recruiting from high school?"
Birkoff bristled slightly and straightened his shoulders. "I may be young, but I finished top of my class at the Academy. I'm as much a Special Agent as you are."
Michael bit back a laugh. "Don't get your shorts in a wad, kid. I'm sure you're one of the Bureau's brightest and best."
Birkoff ignored the jab. "Come on. Wolfe is waiting for you."
CHAPTER 5
"In here, Birkoff."
"Wait a minute. We're on duty. You can't drink now!"
Michael darted into a crowded sports bar and slid into a booth near the front. He focused on a group of men cheering at a baseball game that was playing on a large-screen television in the back.
A buxom waitress sauntered over to their booth. "What can I get you gentlemen today?"
Michael flashed her a grin. "Jack Daniels for me and a beer for my friend."
"Coming right up," she said, her eyes lingering on Michael.
"What do you think you're doing?" demanded Birkoff, his voice rising. We need to get to the office. Wolfe doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Michael was still observing the baseball fans. "See that guy in the green tee shirt? That's Manny Santiago, the little worm who set me up. He's the reason I got shipped up here."
The waitress returned with their drinks. "If you need anything else, I'm Lindsay." Again, her gaze rested on Michael.
"Thanks, Lindsay. We're good," said Michael. She moved off and Michael swallowed the whiskey in one gulp.
Birkoff's face pulled into a grimace. "How do you drink that stuff?"
"I'm guessing you didn't have a slug dug out of your shoulder last night, did you, kid?"
"No, I was helping my girlfriend babysit her nieces."
Michael glanced at him in amazement. "You really are a Boy Scout." He nodded toward the beer. "You gonna drink that?"
Birkoff shook his head. Michael grabbed the bottle and took a long pull, then tossed some bills on the table. "They're leaving. Be ready to move."
Nikita stood at the baggage claim carousel, waiting for the conveyor to get cranked up. An announcement moments earlier said there was a slight delay in unloading the planes. As she waited, she phoned Gray's office, but was told he had already left. Calls placed to his cell and home phones went straight to voicemail. Nikita closed the phone and frowned. Where could he be?
"Oh my God!" shrieked a woman beside her. "Look at that! Is it a terrorist?"
Conversations ceased and a collective gasp was heard in the baggage claim area. Nikita's mouth dropped open when she saw her mystery man – Michael, didn't he say? – tackle and subdue a skinny Hispanic man in a green tee shirt. Close on his heels was a young man in a dark suit and airport security. Guns were trained on the suspect as Michael cuffed him and hauled him to his feet.
"I didn't do nothing wrong," the man wailed, then launched into a string of Spanish curses.
Michael's response was lost in the din as airport security fanned out to calm and reassure the passengers.
"I don't think I can take much more of this. My nerves are shot," sighed the woman beside Nikita.
"Same here." At last, Nikita saw her garment bag on the carousel and hoisted it off. The whole flight had been disturbing. All she wanted to do now was get home and take a long, hot bubble bath and forget she'd ever seen this wrinkled Michael person.
"Sir, we've been delayed. There was an incident at Hartsfield." Birkoff hung back to call Special-Agent-in-Charge Paul Wolfe while Michael talked to the officers.
"That's right. An informant from Miami. Yes, sir. No, sir. Maybe it would be better if he explained the situation. Yes, sir. We'll be there ASAP."
Birkoff closed the phone and returned it to his hip as Michael walked up. "Let's go, kid. APD will keep him for the night and I'll get a crack at him tomorrow."
"We gotta hurry. Wolfe will blow a gasket if he misses his lesson tonight."
"What lesson?"
Birkoff sighed. "Ballroom dancing."
Michael's eyebrows arched up in surprise. "Is that a fact?"
"It was his wife's idea. At first he hated it, but now he's all into it. He's become a regular Fred Astaire."
Michael blew out a breath and chuckled. Life was strange. He knew that better than anybody.
