AN: Finally getting into the heat of things. As always, drop a review to receive an excerpt in your PM inbox.
CHAPTER FIVE
If Cara had doubted anything before, her suspicions had been cleared yesterday.
She glanced over the screen of her laptop at the man sitting across from her at the small kitchen table. He was sipping his coffee, leisurely scanning the local newspaper for any further reports regarding the mysterious sum of money that vanished from the bank. He had taken the liberty of deleting the footage that showed the small boy to protect the child. To any outsider, Joe Solomon was the epitome of a perfect and sacrificial man, keeping his country and innocent people safe. But she didn't have the benefit of being an outsider, and every assertion Maxwell Edwards made to her was utterly true.
Contractual assassins were seen as a taint to an agency's name. Though she had been with the CIA much longer than she had started taking kill orders, her coworkers disregarded the fact and focused on her constant agency-hopping to fulfill her missions. Contrary to popular belief, she did have morals, and the initial prospect of surveilling one of the CIA's renouned legends was unappealing.
However, a source from the Circle itself had confirmed her suspicions, and Joe Solomon had been there as well. She had camouflaged herself well, hidden by a thicket of bushes. Thankfully, she was familiarized with the area to be fast enough to return to the safe house before he could notice that she had lagged behind.
She'd called Maxwell instantly.
"You were right," were the first words that came out of her mouth when he had picked up the phone. "You have the guarantee that every last bit of me is invested in bringing this mission home as a success."
He had been pleased, inflated his arrogance. "I know. Don't disappoint me, Katherine. This country needs you and Agent Solomon must face consequences for his past."
Cara returned her attention to the window open on her laptop screen and frowned. She stared at the invitation that had been forwarded to her email, the product of a crafty hacking job, and clicked open the portal to confirm two reservations.
"I think I've found something," she said, and spun her computer around to show him. "Private auction, Saturday night. I... borrowed a copy of the guest list and David is on there to purchase undisclosed pieces from the seller."
Joe raised his eyebrow, glancing at her skeptically. "Undisclosed pieces?" he repeated. "Who is selling them?"
She switched tabs to the CIA network and pulled up a profile. A wealthy man in his late-fifties appeared on the screen, and she watched as Joe skimmed his description.
"Benjamin Haber. Art enthusiast, sponsoring events in galleries around France. His part-time job is very different from his primary, yet brings in much more cash."
He gave a low whistle under his breath, impressed. "Poison engineer and black-market supplier. I wouldn't expect that from him at first glance."
"Don't judge a book by its' cover," she said under her breath with a small glance out of the corner of her eye, but he made no indication of catching her hidden connotation. "The event is black-tie, so I hope you packed a suit."
"You already have tickets?" Joe asked, surprised. "I'm sure I'll find a suit somewhere. Alias?"
She pointed to a small box on the kitchen counter. The package had been dropped off at their doorstep early in the morning. "Edwards already took care of those. We'll have cover at the event from the CIA—but MI6 might be on the scene, so be extra careful. I don't have any of their names, but I'm sure we'll be able to spot them."
A pinched expression crossed Joe's face. "Max knows I'm here," he said sourly. "Fantastic."
She smirked at his deflation, and logged off her agency issued laptop. "I'm going to run into town and pick up my clothes from the post-office. Do you need me to get anything?"
"Maybe enough alcohol to keep me inebriated through Saturday," he chuckled. "I'll check the perimeter and fix any traps that were set off by animals."
She nodded in assent and grabbed her coat, tucking keys into her pocket and ducking out the door. She trekked across the small clearing the tiny house sat on, customary for the little Icelandic town. She could smell the sea in the air, and pulled her jacket tighter around herself. She stepped carefully though the landmine of security triggers on the land, until she reached the car.
The town was only a short distance away and she had to be careful—everyone was familiar with one another, a severe disadvantage when trying to maintain a cover. She drove past the post office with a cursory glance and stopped outside a local inn that overlooked the ports. Fishermen had already departed earlier that morning, and the shoreline was quiet, save for the occasional townspeople maintaining ships or strolling along the boardwalk.
Key in hand, she ducked into the homey inn, decorated with cultural relics and antique ship equipment. The faded wooden floors creaked loudly under her feet as she climbed the stairs to the second—and highest—floor. On her way, she flashed a maid a small smile.
"Góðan daginn," the stout woman greeted.
Her mind immediately converted to the country's native tongue. "Halló, ungfrú."
She waited until the maid had disappeared from the second floor clearing before she slid into one of the five rooms in the hall. Immediately, someone began helping her out of her coat.
"Það tók þig nógu lengi, umboðsmaður." It took you long enough, Agent. "You're an hour late. I thought we agreed to eight, yes?"
Cara rolled her eyes at his patronizing tone. "I was busy, Maxwell," she said, using his full name mockingly. "I thought periodic phone calls would be enough. What couldn't wait?"
He grasped her hand, turned it over and pressed a small flashdrive into her palm. "That's your second excuse, in case Solomon wonders why you've been gone for so long. The dress is at the post office, as promised."
She raised an eyebrow, and slipped the hardware into the back pocket of her jeans. She glanced at the clock, confused. "I've barely been here for five minutes. Why would I need this?"
In an instant, he had her pinned against the wall. "That's a good question. Why would you?" he asking, feigning innocence.
She huffed, and gripped the lapels of his suit. "He had me on speaker when I called him back in Virginia," she said, her eyes darting to his mouth, hovering only inches away.
"I told you, that flashdrive is your excuse." A button on her blouse popped free. "You were surveilling the area, and I told you that I had footage of Catherine stopping here with her son." Warm lips pressed against her neck in an open-mouthed kiss. "You were checking to find aliases and cross-examining the list of customers with the local population."
"So I wasn't sleeping with my boss?" she inquired, quirking an eyebrow as a grin played at her features.
His stiff demeanor broke and he flashed a smirk. "For all intents and purposes, no."
Cara's hands slid around his neck and she pulled him the rest of the way.
Joe folded the cuffs of his crisp buttondown shirt and inserted cufflinks. The plain piece of adornment doubled as a microphone and a camera, recording every second of missions for review. He glanced at the watch around his wrist, pursed his lips and tapped his foot impatiently. They only had an hour to scope the venue and arrive with the rest of the guests, and his partner was nowhere to be seen.
He had dialed her number when he heard the front door open. There was a clicking sound against the wooden floors, and he raised his eyebrows when she slid into the kitchen, completely dressed for the event.
She wore a burgundy evening gown, floral lace decorating the bodice of the fabric. The dress was full-length, long enough to conceal weapons, and her hair was let down to shroud her communication unit. Her painted lips tilted upwards in a small smile.
"It isn't polite to stare, Solomon," she remarked, striding towards the cardboard box on the kitchen counter to collect fake identification cards.
He wasn't sure if it was appropriate to compliment her, and was slightly irritated by both her comment and tardiness. "You're late," he said flatly, closing all doors to the friendliness that had previously established.
He watched her smile disappear, eyes downcast and fixed on rearranging the items in her clutch. "I took my things straight down to the salon to get my makeup done." She fished out a flashdrive and tossed it towards him. "I was also held up, trying to download data onto there."
Joe drew his eyebrows together. "What's on here?"
"Data from the local inn. Edwards called in and told me there were reports of Catherine near there, so I thought we could cross-examine the identities on their visitor registry."
He nodded, watching her expression pucker slightly as she said those words. Something seemed rehearsed, and he had enough years of training to spot even the most skilled liars. Rather than pressing the issue, he grabbed his coat from the table and gestured towards the door.
"There's already someone here to pick us up. We have just enough time to be fashionably late," he said jokingly, buttoning his jacket.
"Wait," she said abruptly, grabbing his sleeve. "Why are you wearing that tie?"
He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, glancing down at the dark blue fabric. "What's wrong with my tie?"
Cara was twisting the ring on her finger in agitation, and frowned. "Don't—did you bring a bowtie?"
He stared at her apprehensively. "Is this supposed to be a James Bond joke?"
Her lips tilted upwards slightly and her eyes darted to her phone. "Don't wear the tie. It doesn't—it doesn't match."
Joe narrowed his eyes and gave her an intimidating frown. "What the hell is going on, Pierce?"
"Trust me," she pressed, "and put on the goddamn bowtie."
He scoffed. "Trust you? How am I supposed to trust you when you don't explain yourself? How do I know I'm not being marked as some target?"
He saw anger ignite in her grey eyes. "I should be the one asking if I should trust you," she retorted, and he saw her bite her tongue immediately. "It's the opposite. There's a separate mission on the field and the target is being painted with a blue tie. Are you satisfied?"
His eyes hardened and he angrily unknotted the fabric. "We're at forty-seven minutes now. Just get in the car and I'll change my goddamn tie."
The ride to their venue passed in terse silence. Joe was on edge; her stiff behavior told him that there was much more happening during the operation than a simple medium risk intervention between the auctioneer and his buyers. Instead, he switched to examining the building as the car looped around—though he watched her more than he watched the guests stream inside.
As the car entered the line of limousines rolling past the main gates, he began muttering observations under his breath.
"Five ways in, seven ways out, Entrances on all four polar sides. Upper level balcony jumps—completely survivable. The metal door a few steps down looks like it must be the basement kitchens." He bit his tongue and purposely left out a door tucked behind shrubs, in case he needed a more covert way to exit without his partner.
She paused, glancing at him for a moment. "Windows are protected by grids and have a line of electric shock to keep people out—"
"—or in," Joe corrected, frowning. "He might have picked this venue to prevent his buyers from bailing on him. At least we have the assurance that Schmidt won't be able to escape easily. That puts us on level ground, once you remove the bodyguards and security detail. What's the goal here?"
The limousine slowed to a stop and she glanced out the window to see a butler approaching to help them out of the car. "Simple surveillance. Get as close to him as possible, acquaint yourself with the patterns around him, and figure out what he's here to purchase."
Joe pursed his lips, dissatisfied, though he knew it was important to be patient. However, her insistence over something as minute as a tie had him on edge, and he said nothing as the door opened and followed after her.
Her hand gripped the crook of his elbow, tapping out directions as she directed his attention to specific things around the hall. The grand doors were tall and heavy, not a viable exit in case they were closed after the event. He handed a burly man their invitations, and by the looks of the way he was examining them, he was definitely intelligence. After a bated breath and a smile, they slid past the floor to ceiling marble foyer and walked into the exhibition.
"This is more chatter than that night at the Queen's palace," Cara muttered, wincing at the sudden burst of voices on their channel. Maxwell was most likely manning the technological aspects of their mission, and he was aware that his every word would be analyzed.
Joe hummed under his breath in agreement, his eyes darting to every corner of the hall. "They have an immediate triangular formation with a center point at the painting on display number four. We'll wait a few hours to see how they rotate out."
"There's our man, right in the center." Her nod diverted his gaze to Schmidt, stationed near the painting just as he'd predicted.
He paused for a brief moment. If he were to walk there right then, he'd risk Schmidt playing his cards in an offensive hand, acting as if they were old friends. If he was lucky—which wasn't very often—David would understand the intent of his mission and back the hell off. Regardless, exposure at close proximity was something he could not risk, especially when the agent next to him was on a mission to reveal his early ties to the Circle, whether it be conscious or not. His gaze swept to the man David was speaking with, and Joe furrowed his eyebrows.
Abraham Baxter was on this mission as well. MI6 was on the scene, and knowing them, his wife was not far. Just as they locked eyes for a split second, a hand tapped him on the shoulder.
"Excuse me. Are you Mr. Johansson?"
Grace Baxter was dress in a neat pinstriped suit, a clipboard in her hands and a stunning smile stretched across her face. All traces of her accent were replaced with an Icelandic twang, her cover crafted as an art vender at the venue; her nametag read 'Anna Benedict'. Joe internally groaned—the British agency was running an interference, and they had the perfect people stationed together to ensure that the CIA did not fulfill their mission until England was glorified first.
"Yes. Please call me Alexander." Please get the hell out of my mission.
Though she was a friend, there was nothing that would deter her from her operation details and loyalty to her agency. She beat a steady rhythm on her clipboard with her pen. "I was notified that you were looking to purchase a particular piece from Mr. Haber. Would you follow me so I could show you the work for private viewing before the auction?"
Joe gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to glare at her, keeping his expression neutral as he regarded her with cool eyes. "Absolutely," he said, and slid Cara's arm off of his. He watched a frown appear on Grace's face when she realized that the woman would not be accompanying them. With a curt nod, Cara disappeared; in his peripheral, he could see her tactfully inching toward the centerfield of the security detail surrounding David Schmidt.
"You know why I'm doing this," Grace said quietly, flipping through her clipboard as if she was shuffling through papers to show him.
He pretended to look interested in her paperwork, while in reality, he was fuming. "I suppose this is payback for Montreal?"
She flashed a smile at guests, though her grin was meant for him. "Something like that. Like you, I'm just fulfilling my duty to my country."
"Of course," Joe grumbled, and didn't try to suppress his eye-roll when they stopped in front of the ugliest piece of artwork he'd ever seen. The splashes of green and yellow across the canvas resembled vomit, and it was the opposite of aesthetically appealing. "You've got to be kidding me."
Grace smirked. "This is one of our most highly demanded works, Mr. Johansson." Quieter, she said, "Abe is having a barbecue for Bex's birthday. We'll make it up to you then, and you can bring your pretty friend with you."
"She's just a partner," he gritted—Rachel had been talking to her friends. "I might not be able to take you up on that offer." He shuffled to the side, and his senses were on high alert when he spotted a man with a blue tie—very similar in shade to the one he had been wearing before—speaking with Cara.
He could feel Grace's heated gaze watching the interaction with intensity and measuring its level of threat. Cara had turned away for a split second when a bodyguard brushed past her roughly, cycling through his rotation schedule, when he saw the man remove a small vial that resembled a cologne sample. In one smooth motion, its contents were emptied into a glass of champagne, offered to Cara when she turned her attention back towards him with a smile.
She wouldn't be stupid, Joe thought. There was no way that she would accept food items from unknown personnel. If she was accepting it so readily, it meant that she knew him, and subsequently placed her trust in the wrong man with a blue tie. Joe watched their operation unravel when she sipped at the crystal ware.
Grace was hissing into her comms unit urgently. "We have an American agent under attack by an anonymous variable. I repeat, an American agent under atta—"
She locked eyes with him the minute he muttered her name into his own communication unit, the smile dying from her eyes at his expression. Joe watched as the glass wobbled in her hands, the liquid fulfilling its purpose instantly, as the attacker swept out of the ballroom and disappeared amongst the crowd of guests.
"I'll go after him—" Abe's voice cut through the chatter as he radioed in.
Joe surged forward as briskly as he could without drawing too much attention. The second Cara hit the floor, the entire room burst into a panic. Her skin was pale and ashy, losing color at a rapid rate, while her eyes were glazed. Blood dripped from her nose and the shattered glass under her pierced the skin of her hands. He rapidly felt for a pulse, letting MI6 and other agents of the CIA commandeer the comms units as a crowd gathered around them.
"Someone call an ambulance—"
"Oh, God, she's bleeding!"
"Tell Mr. Haber that one of his guests—"
The room plunged into darkness.