Читать книгу Seduced In Seattle - Kristin Gabriel - Страница 10

BROCK GANNON walked into Dooley’s Bar and looked through the smoky haze. He didn’t feel any of the old excitement at embarking on a new mission. Maybe turning thirty had something to do with it. Or the fact that nothing seemed to challenge him anymore. He specialized in recovering stolen goods that the police couldn’t, or wouldn’t, find. Of course, sometimes the clients didn’t want to involve the police, especially if a relative was involved in the theft.

Working as a mercenary had taught Brock to suspect everyone and trust no one. It was a cynical attitude, but it had kept him alive and well for the past eight years. His occupation was a dangerous one, since it often brought him into the company of thieves and other lowlifes. But it had made him a very wealthy man and had taken him all over the world, including exotic places where few civilized people ever ventured. But somehow, he always found his way back here to Boston, to Dooley’s, although he didn’t really have anywhere that he could call home.

Brock’s boss worked out of this bar, owned it in fact, having retired from the mercenary field himself. Now Sam Dooley simply supervised the missions, assigning the best man or woman in his employ to the job, and taking a small percentage of the fee for himself.

A haunting Irish melody emanated from the jukebox and two men sat at the long oak bar, each of them staring into his mug of dark beer. The sound of a woman’s laughter drew Brock’s attention toward the back of the bar. A billiard game was in progress and he spotted the snow-white hair of his boss as he bent over the table to rack up the balls.

Brock ordered a beer, then ambled over to an empty booth to wait until the billiards game ended. He wasn’t in any hurry. He’d spent enough nights in empty hotel rooms to appreciate the change of scenery.

Thirty minutes later, Dooley approached the table. “Well, hell, Gannon. Why didn’t you let me know you were here?”

Brock nodded to the two women at the billiards table. “Looked to me like you were busy.”

“You could have joined us.” Dooley sat down across from him, raking his shaggy white hair off his forehead. “Made it a party.”

Brock shook his head. “I have to catch a plane early tomorrow morning. Although you didn’t mention where you’re sending me this time.”

“Seattle.”

Brock picked up his beer and took a long swallow. He knew Dooley was watching him, waiting for a reaction. Too bad he’d be disappointed. Seattle was now just another pit stop in a long line of cities. London, Chicago, Toronto. They all blended together after awhile.

He’d grown up around Navy bases in different parts of the country, including Whidbey Island. His mother was a Navy groupie, taking dead-end jobs in towns near a base in hopes of enticing an enlisted man into marriage. She’d caught five, but thrown them back when they’d failed to make her happily ever after. His own father hadn’t even bothered to stick around long enough to see Brock born. Dooley was just one of the four stepfathers who had tried to fill the void. His favorite one.

“Speaking of Seattle, I talked to your mother on the telephone yesterday.” Dooley motioned to the waitress for another round of beers. “She told me she received an invitation to the Talaveras fortieth anniversary party. You’re invited, too.”

Brock nodded, though he had no intention of going. He’d cut all ties with Seattle the day he’d left twelve years ago. Dooley knew all about the Talaveras. Knew how close Brock had been to them before he enlisted in the Navy in the middle of his senior year. Tony Talavera had been his best friend the three years Brock had lived in Seattle. Tony’s family had opened up their home to him.

He stared at his empty beer mug, remembering Sid and Rose and Katie the Pest, Tony’s little sister. She used to have her nose buried in those gothic romances, escaping to her room whenever Tony would tease her about them. It all seemed like such a long time ago.

Their waitress approached, breaking his reverie. Brock sat back and waited until she had set the frosty beer mugs down in front of them and walked away again. “So tell me about this mission.”

One corner of Dooley’s mouth twitched. “It’s a little unusual.”

“Then it sounds like my kind of job.” Brock’s special skills as a military tracker had made him one of Dooley’s best operatives.

At first, Brock had thrived on the recovery work. The travel to exotic locations. The one-night stands with beautiful, mysterious women. But somewhere along the way, his job had lost its allure. It all just seemed so pointless.

He’d thought about quitting, since he didn’t really need the money anymore. But then what? Brock knew he was at a turning point in his life. Unfortunately, he had no idea which direction to go.

He leaned back against the booth. “Who’s the client?”

Dooley took a swig of his beer, then wiped the foam off his upper lip. “A native of Calabra.”

Brock knew about the tiny island nestled in the Caribbean. The people liked to keep to themselves, never exploiting their beautiful beaches or tropical forests for the hordes of tourists that flocked to the other, more well-known islands. Few people even knew of Calabra’s existence.

“This woman is one of the candidates in a special election there,” Dooley continued. “Apparently, she believes recovering the item will win her votes. She promised to pay top dollar and kept emphasizing the importance of keeping this transaction confidential.”

Brock arched a brow. “Don’t we always?”

Dooley nodded, then picked up his mug and grinned. “But guess what she wants?”

“What?”

“A skirt.”

Brock waited for the punchline, but Dooley just kept grinning at him. “A skirt?”

“That’s right. And get this…I received another inquiry about obtaining the same skirt. Only this customer was too skittish to give his name and quickly backed off when I quoted him our usual fee.”

Brock held up one hand. “Wait just a minute. What the hell are you talking about? What skirt?”

“A woman’s black skirt. Made out of some weird kind of black fabric with a zipper in the back and a slit up the left side. I’ve tracked the skirt from New York City to Houston and now my sources tell me it’s reached Seattle. Your mission is to secure this skirt and turn it over to our client in Calabra as soon as possible.”

Brock stared at him for a long moment, then laughed “Sully put you up to this, didn’t he? He’s still peeved because I found that old Egyptian papyrus after he’d been searching for it for eight months.”

“This is legit, Brock.”

“Come on, Dooley. Give me a break. A skirt? Now, if I was supposed to find a woman in a skirt, that might be a different story. I do have certain skills in that area.”

“And you might need them for this job. I told you it was bizarre.”

Brock stared at him over the rim of his mug. “You’re serious.”

“Damn serious. Apparently, there is a rare thread that the natives of Calabra believe has special powers. This thread is woven throughout the fabric of the skirt. It was never supposed to leave the island.”

Brock still wasn’t buying it. “Special powers? Are we talking about voodoo?”

Dooley shook his head. “More like a love charm or some such nonsense. According to this client, whenever a man sees a woman wearing this skirt, he’s entranced forever. The client’s afraid of the havoc the skirt could wreak on an unsuspecting public. Or at least, that’s the story she’s telling.”

Brock grimaced. “A skirt that binds a man to a woman forever. Sounds like my worst nightmare.”

Dooley chuckled. “It’s all a bunch of superstition. I’m still amazed at what people will spend their money on. But apparently this client has tried other avenues to secure the skirt and failed. I promised her that you could get the job done.”

“I’ll admit I’ve been called a skirt chaser a time or two, but never quite this literally.”

“It gets better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. I have to find matching shoes for the skirt?”

“No, but you do know the woman who has it. Kate Talavera.”

Brock stilled. “Now you have to be joking.”

“Afraid not, Brock.”

He leaned forward. “Are you telling me Kate stole the skirt?”

Dooley shook his head. “No, nothing like that. It’s been passed through several people since it was smuggled into the country.”

Brock breathed a silent sigh of relief. He didn’t want to think of Kate, or any of the Talaveras, involved in something ugly. Their warmth and friendship was one of the few memories he had that was untarnished.

Brock pushed his beer away. “Why didn’t you tell me the Talaveras were involved right from the start?”

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t hear me out.”

“You were right.” He stood up. “You’ll have to find somebody else to do this job.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Dooley asked as Brock headed toward the door.

He slowly turned around and moved back to the table, his jaw clenched. “I’m not going to steal from the Talaveras. I’m not going to lie to them, either. And you know I’d have to do both to do this job.”

“I know it,” Dooley said bluntly. “And I know they’re important to you. Hell, that’s why I came to you first. You know better than anybody that I don’t tell my people how to do their job. If someone else goes out on this assignment, then it’s completely out of my control. They’ll use whatever methods are necessary to get the skirt. And you know what that means.”

Dooley didn’t have to spell it out. Brock knew all too well that Kate or any of the Talaveras could possibly be hurt in the process. Kate’s home could be ransacked. Or worse.

“Hell, Dooley.” Brock raked one hand through his hair. “I don’t want to do this.”

“That invitation to the anniversary party is the perfect opening. Make a vacation of it. Catch up with some old friends.”

Brock shook his head. “No way. I’m going to find the skirt and get out of Seattle. If I’m lucky, none of the Talaveras will even know I was there.”

“Does this mean you’re taking the mission?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Dooley squinted up at him, his head cocked to one side. “You always have a choice. You can just walk away. Pretend I never even brought it up.”

But Brock knew that would be impossible now. “Do I have any competition to worry about? Did the second caller go looking for a better deal?”

“It’s possible,” Dooley said slowly. “Did you know the Weasel is going solo now?”

Brock nodded. “I heard something about it.” The Weasel was a mercenary who had worked for a top agency in London. But he was too volatile, so they’d let him go. Now he was working out of the U.S., making cut-rate deals to drum up business. The Weasel didn’t care who he hurt to accomplish a mission. Brock didn’t even want to think about what would happen if Kate Talavera got in the Weasel’s way.

All his old memories about the Talaveras came flooding back. Part of him wanted to see them again, although he knew Tony was in Brazil now, working for an export company and recently married. How would Tony feel if he knew Kate was in possible danger? And that Brock had turned his back on her?

Brock picked up his mug off the table and drained it. “I’ll take the mission.”

“Good.” Dooley held up his beer. “To success.”

Brock had never failed at a mission yet. The key was proper planning and keeping a cool head. Tomorrow, he’d catch a plane to Seattle. Then he’d scope out the territory. The first item on his agenda was locating Kate’s residence. Hopefully, she’d be in the telephone directory, making his job a little easier. If not, well he still had a few contacts in Seattle. He’d find her place one way or the other.

After that, his job would be simple. He’d wait until the house was empty, then search the place until he found the skirt. If he was lucky, and he’d depended on luck more than once in this job, he’d be on an airplane to Calabra by tomorrow night.

So why did Brock have a sinking sensation that his luck had just run out?