Wallbanger by Sable Jordan

the chair, he drummed his
fingers on the wooden table. Technically, it was mission
accomplished. He’d located the phone and could leave it at that.
But something urged him to dig a little deeper. Should he?
    Shoving his conscience aside, he traced the
incoming flights for Pearson, finding that three planes had landed
around the same time the phone had arrived in Canada—one from New
York, another from Vancouver, and a third from Columbia. Another
six had departed—headed toward New York, Chicago, Ohio, Florida,
Barcelona, and Brazil. Without more data, that didn’t tell him
much.
    He made a call. “The info you wanted. Last
location is Pearson International Airport, Toronto, Canada.”
    The voice on the other end hesitated. “Where
are you?”
    “New York,” Jack said. The lie came
easily.
    A heavy sigh preceded the caller’s next
words. “This stays between us, and I’m only asking because I trust
you. There’s a member who’s DNC.”
    DNC —do not contact. Not uncommon,
especially when an agent was in play. “Why is that a concern?”
    “She’s ‘I. I.’ as of two weeks ago. Never
been dark while in-op. I need her.”
    I. I .—inoperable indefinitely. Two
weeks ago?
    Jack’s scalp tingled. This wasn’t just any
agent. In spite of his gut reaction, he asked the question anyway,
forcing some levity into his tone. “And she’s not on vacation?”
    Silence.
    Not a good sign. He went for it,
unsure if the other man would answer. “Who am I tracking,
Bill?”
    “Kizzie Baldwin.”
    * * * *
    Helsinki, Finland
    Tourist was a role Phillip Marchande hadn’t
played in a while, but when it came to his job, he was flexible. He
exited the subway train and paid a nearby vendor for an overpriced
paper map and an I Heart Helsinki shot glass; shoved the
souvenir in a pocket. He stood there a moment, amidst the throng of
people coming and going, studying the map with great care. It was
unnecessary—Marchande always knew where he was going. Even when
Xander doesn’t , he mused.
    They’d been friends for more years than he
could recall, friendship being a rare thing in their line of work,
and Xander had always managed to pull Phil out of the fires. Sure
most of those fires were ones Xander had set, but that was a minor
detail. Truth was, Phil wouldn’t have it any other way. An
introverted adrenaline junkie by nature, Xander’s many escapades
kept Phil’s heart pumping at a steady rate of “holy shit!”
    Done with the ruse of consulting the map, he
hugged his thick coat around him and boarded the escalator to go
topside, wondering how this particular blaze would play out. Phil
knew this mission was personal. It had always been personal, but
Xander had convinced himself it was all part and parcel of the
game; likening it to moving a pawn on a chessboard, a way to ferret
out your opponent’s strategy. But Xander would never admit it was
much more like placing the black queen in firing range of the white
and hoping your opponent didn’t notice.
    The queen , he thought, noting how
Xander called Kizzie “Princess”. Perhaps the title was fitting
after all. Xander was staking more than a little bit in this gamble
with Sacha, and Kizzie was an unknown quantity. A beautiful
quantity, but an unknown one, nonetheless. Being Xander’s hired
muscle made Phil wary of people, yet Kizzie had slipped beneath his
defenses with ease. In the span of 24 hours she’d already promised
to kick his ass—something Marchande was sure she’d make good
on— and cost him twenty grand. She’d definitely make things
interesting.
    But women also had a way of complicating
things. Especially for Xander.
    The ride to the top brought him just a mile
east of his destination, a distance he covered in a leisurely half
hour stroll; a beanie on his head and sunglasses pulled over his
eyes both to protect them from the harsh white glare of the snow on
the ground and to allow him to discreetly scan his surroundings. He
paused to look at