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I offer my most seductive look, and go for the gold. “The question really is who are you going to be?”
His eyes narrow on me. “I’ll bite. Who am I going to be?”
I force my lips into an upward curl in what I hope is a seductive smile that suggests everything but commits nothing.
The parking garage is so quiet I could hear a whisker hit the carpet flooring. He interrupts the silence with a throaty laugh. It comes from deep within his diaphragm. Like I’m some late night comedian instead of the journalist who gets the story. Period.
“I will, yeah?”
I blink, wondering if he’s laying the Irish on a bit too thick, though nothing—and I meannothing—else about the man is for show. “Yeah, you will.”
His eyes narrow on me. It takes great discipline not to wiggle in my seat as I struggle to hold my suggestive smile in place. For several uncomfortable seconds, he studies me. As if I’m the one with the dreadful beard, bad fashion sense, and an accent that does funny things to one’s insides.He’s a trained CIA agent,I remind myself, an important bit of information my source in Acapulco confirmed.This is what they do when you hit them with a vague proposition.
“You, lass, are away with the fairies.” But he nods and unwinds his big body out of the tiny car. “Come inside for a drink then.” The door slams, and he stalks off.
And as if the goose fairies are nipping at my heels, I hurry after him. Dead set on convincing him, one way or another, to confide in me.
* * *
He has a candle fetish.
I stare in wonder at the clutter dispersed about the living room of his apartment. An enormous, battered sofa takes up a large part of the space. It’s lost its legs and sits low to the ground. Pillows in various shapes and sizes cover the worn cushions and spill off onto the floor. But it’s the candle-cluttered coffee table in front of it that captures my complete attention. Round, fat candles, tall, thin candles, tapers with long wicks and even two flameless, battery operated candles fill the glass surface.
“Aren’t you prepared for the next major power outage. I bet your bathtub is filled with water.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “Or are you going for a primitive vibe?”
He smiles at me, his eyes twinkling.
Those eyes... they catch me off guard. I feel my breath hitch unexpectedly in my throat. That naughty twinkle of his speaks volumes: Take a gander, storeen, I’m a man who’ll make you come fifty different ways. But it’s the baby blue color of his irises that has me looking more closely at him. A soothingly beautiful color, his eyes remind me of a Maine winter sky over a morning bay. A sky I often dreamed about during the two long years I worked in Aleppo, where bomb dust and bloodshed shaded everything gray. No one looks at the Syrian sky anymore; survival means you fix your gaze straight ahead and nowhere else.
I mentally sigh. It’s been ages since I’ve seen a Maine sky. Ages since I’ve stopped long enough to come up for air. Ages since I’ve been intimate with a man.
Wait ... what?
My gaze drops.Better.Someone should alert Gandalf fromLord of the Ringsthat this man stole his beard. He looks like Leonardo DiCaprio’s character inThe Revenant. And he has the same rugged, I’m-gonna-kick-some-ass-when-you-least-expect-it attitude, too. Unlike his eyes, that beard makes it difficult to consider him in a romantic way.
A contradiction, as is the man himself.
His grin broadens, like he’s well aware of the confusion he’s causing. “Guilty as charged,” he murmurs. “What can I say? Primitive man, primitive needs.”
He runs his hand across his scruff, drawing my attention to it.
Intentionally?
“With a beard that fits the part,” I comment, testing the waters, and now very curious about what he looks like beneath all the hair.
“About that drink,” he says, ignoring my comment and gesturing to the glasses beside the bottle he placed on the coffee table. “Might want to give them a quick rinse.”
He ambles off, no worries, no rush. I stare after him, thinking how his easygoing attitude contradicts the demanding kind of work he’s involved in.
Work that is the reason you’re here.
I’m following a lead on a drugs for weapons deal, the largest of its kind since the Columbian cartels fell apart. A friend of mine from Aleppo, who now works for French law enforcement, tipped me off. Guns. Drugs. Criminal racketeering on a global scale. It’s the sort of corruption that sets governments on edge and the kind of story that could reach all the major airwaves.
I’ve tracked the weapons shipment from Marseille to Acapulco. I’ve confirmed with my informant, El Chulo, the name of the Mexican recipient, one Señor Fahder. I’ve visited the heavily guarded warehouse in Acapulco where the weapons are being stored.
Only, I’m not the only person watching things unfold. I came to discover the CIA is working alongside me in the shadows. It makes sense France alerted them. I still can’t believe my good fortune.
Hard work, grit, and the ability to turn on a dime when an investigation goes ass-up has served me well. But sometimes, when the journalistic gods deem it so, all it takes for an average story to becoming John F. Hogan Award worthy is luck. “Forget the movers and the shakers,” Anchorman Peter Jennings once told my hero, reporter John Quiñones, “Talk to the moved and the shaken.” My spotting this man at the warehouse then bribing my contact into confirming his identity? The world shifted beneath my feet with that stroke of luck.
