Hard Target (25 page)

Saying a silent prayer to anyone up there who might be listening—
Hello, Mom and Dad?
—he pressed the safety release bar on the door and pushed. When the alarm didn’t sound he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d never been so glad in his life someone had forgotten to do their job. He wouldn’t have to go to jail after all and they wouldn’t have to pull the fire alarm.

He grinned broadly. “Hiya, Jane Bond.”

Without reply, Alex pushed the length of the frame through the door at him and stalked to the red fire box. On her way past she jerked a towel from a nearby tea cart and covered her hand. Simon frowned, not quite able to process her actions when she yanked down the white bar to sound the alarm. Black ink sprayed outward, hitting the towel and marking it rather than her arm as the alarm strobes began flickering.

What the fuck? As the repeated shriek of the alarm pierced his ears Simon couldn’t think or utter anything else. The words issued from his mouth as he caught up to Alex at the first escalator. Hefting the unwieldy frame he had more than a little trouble mimicking her sprint.

“The door alarm is silent, Simon,” she said.

As Simon processed Alex’s response, he felt the IQ Fairy descend from her gilded cloud and begin to strip him of his intelligence.

“I’m a moron,” he said. “I knew that.”

“That you’re a moron?” she tossed at him.

“No. About the alarm. I’ve never thought I was a moron until now.” He adjusted his grip on the frame. “I think all the sugar in your kisses rotted out my IQ.”

Alex stumbled, forcing Simon to skid to a halt lest he smack the frame against the high arch of her derriere in that skintight gown. Maybe she’d wear it for him again later when he could fully appreciate it.

Though he knew his mind wasn’t nearly where it should be—meaning on their mission—Simon didn’t attempt to reorient his attention. When his cock twitched with interest at the sight of Alex’s legs beneath her hiked-up gown, the sound of her bare feet slapping against the wood floors and the pumping rhythm of her derriere, he felt more like James Bond than he ever had.

Fifth floor reached, fire barriers all down, the only route open was the one leading directly into the gallery with their Picasso. Alex lost no time taking up position on one side of the painting while Simon leaned the frame against the wall before following suit at the other side.

“One, two, three,” she said.

They lifted in unison and dislodged the heavy-duty hooks. If an alarm hadn’t been tripped before, he knew one would be now. Good thing the FBI had managed to reroute the security camera feeds or they and their mission would’ve been an exercise in futility.

Alex propped the painting, holding it steady, while Simon unrolled a small tool set he’d secreted in his jacket’s inner pocket. The fire alarm continued its honking wail, but somehow it’d become part of the background noise—a soundtrack to his actions—with his attention entirely absorbed on dislodging the painting from the frame.

A popping vibration accompanied the last point of contact and the still-mounted canvas fell free. Alex caught it in gloved hands and Simon swapped the real frame for the fake. The thing seemed so gaudy and heavy compared to the other frames surrounding the artist’s works, it was more than obvious this particular piece had hung in a private collection. The owner apparently had a larger appetite for status than art.

“Three minutes,” Alex said.

Simon dropped the mini screwdriver and swore under his breath. He had three minutes to reattach the frame and return the painting to the wall. A blur of motion in his peripheral vision gave him new appreciation for the phrase,
heart in your mouth
. Ryan stepped fully into view and Simon pretended he hadn’t just pissed himself as he continued to seat the painting.

“They’re on three.” Ryan grabbed the original frame to haul it away.

“
Floor
three?” Alex asked, obviously as flustered as Simon.

Well, at least he wasn’t the only uncool person in the spy trade.

Nerves making him a little hysterical, Simon chuckled at his own inner monologue as he fastened the last piece of hardware. He handed the tool kit to Ryan to take with him and stood to rehang the painting he was beginning to think of as the doorway to his own personal and private hell. By the time he and Alex completed the positioning of the work, Ryan was gone and the fire door had crashed closed. They were trapped. Simon’s heart raced harder. The world wobbled and his stomach heaved.

Alex stepped up to him, grabbed him on either side of the head, and jerked his mouth down to hers. The alarm receded a little and the sick feeling in his stomach turned to something more pleasant the moment their lips met. Soft, pliable and smelling of the outdoors, she anchored him in the moment.

He palmed her ass and lifted her, as they’d talked about, and found a clear space of wall away from the Picasso. Dress hiked, she reached between them and unzipped his pants. The vibration of the metal teeth opening stirred something within him and he moaned into her mouth.

The sound of rending material forced his attention to her cleavage. She’d torn her own dress and he realized he wasn’t being nearly rough enough for the amount of unfettered passion they were supposed to display.

“Fuck me, Simon,” she groaned in his ear.

His hands slid along thighs she’d wrapped around him and found her naked pussy. No panties and that gown, this woman and this body, made his cock unfurl until he ached to do just as she’d demanded. Palming her ass, he lifted her upward at the same time she pulled him from his trousers. Her legs tightened as he brought her down and sheathed himself in her blazing heat.

“Oh God, Alex.” He let his head fall back and pumped his hips.

She fit him perfectly. Everything about her belonged in his arms. The tug of her pussy around his cock sparked a thrill of neurons from his solar plexus to the base of his spine. He entered her harder now and felt her shoulders jostle against the wall with each thrust. The sound of grating metal blended with the screech of alarms and she screamed out his name.

Then, they were on him. Pulling her away from him. Throwing them both to the ground. He lashed out like an animal. Protecting her with his body, covering her in a different way. A baton hit him at the base of his spine and he grunted, but he refused to let go. Refused to stop protecting what was his.

“Simon!” Alex’s voice swiped at the red-hued haze. “Stop resisting.”

Simon came to himself long enough to realize Alex struggled beneath him. The dress had twisted around her thighs, hobbling her, or she likely would’ve found a way to unseat him by now. Her meaning was clear. If he caused too much of a fuss she wouldn’t be able to get him out of jail as easily.

“Are you sure?” he asked, though now that he’d set aside reflexive response he knew realistically he couldn’t do anything for her or for himself.

Bringing up one hand to cup his face she stared into his eyes, her gaze steady and clear. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Pushing himself up and away from her, Simon forced himself to endure the rest of the scene as it played out. Being arrested by the police, it turned out, was a whole lot different than being taken down by the FBI. For one, the car stank of sauerkraut and old shoes. Springs poked into his ass and he shifted against the too-tight cuffs. In comparison, Alex’s recent manhandling of him had been a cakewalk and he realized she’d deliberately gone easy on him, knowing his arrest had been a setup and a farce to get him to go along with the Bureau’s plans.

Alex sat next to him in the squad car, also cuffed. The radio squawked, traffic on the police band busier than Simon had ever heard on the channels he had used with Gun or in the CIA. Muggings, robberies and suicides painted New York a very bleak place that evening while he and Alex waited.

“You okay?” she asked.

Simon nodded and looked out the window at Gun and Jenny standing on the sidewalk. Reading Gun’s lips he saw him say something about it being nothing. Just Simon having too much to drink. A rendezvous gone wrong with his girlfriend. It seemed all was going to plan including Günter’s smoothing over of the situation.

Three hours later in the holding cell, Simon massaged the area where the cuffs had bruised his skin and stared at the scuffs on his once-pristine formal shoes. Though this entire scenario had played out as part of a planned operation sanctioned by a government agency, he still felt the filth and stigma of arrest staining his skin.

The flash of the too-bright bulb as they’d taken his mug shot, a moment of weary remembrance as they’d rolled the pads of his fingers over the print card, brought flashes of the first time he’d been interrogated. Tonight’s questioning played out rather differently with a bored and jaded NYPD detective at the helm. The man had seen it all and seemed not to doubt two drunken lovebirds might find their way into the upper floors of the MoMA to fuck their brains out, accidentally tripping the fire alarm in the process.

A drunk in the holding cell next door to Simon’s currently sang a rendition of
Lucille
worthy of a cat in heat while another hollered about his rights and wanting a lawyer. The unforgiving wire bench under Simon’s ass became more so as the hours progressed. At one point he saw them lead Alex out of the women’s holding area, and he assumed they were releasing her.

She looked over her shoulder and mouthed, “Soon.”

Soon
it turned out was in a different time zone.

Taking comfort in the solid weight of the cinderblock wall behind him, he shut his eyes. Much, much later, clanging metal and squeaking hinges awakened him from dreams where he shoved pieces of wedding cake at Alex through tiny holes in a metal partition.

“Simon Jakes, you’re free to go,” the uniformed police officer said.

Simon pushed to his feet and swayed as blood rushed to his head. They let him collect his things and a half hour later he stood on the precinct steps in a cool drizzle. The rain hit his face, and all the memories he’d been holding at bay with the barest scrap of pride rushed over him with his next breath.

Leaving the prison yard, $1.60 in his pocket, dressed in the long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans they’d arrested him in a little over a year previous. Cold rain splattering his face in round, fat drops. Not knowing which way to go or who to call. A number for a halfway house in his pocket and nobody in the world to take him there.

Kneecapped by the memory, he sank to the steps in the gray dawn light. Taxis passed by in a Doppler smear of yellow, and pigeons flirted with suicide in the gutter as they fought over a discarded hotdog roll. The sound of running footsteps and a voice calling his name made him look up. Alex, hair plastered to her head from the now-pouring rain rushed toward him, holding two insulated takeout cups.

“I’m sorry. They told me you weren’t due for another twenty minutes.”

She made him sound like a flight coming into JFK. Staring up at her, listless, he began to shake. Probably he should answer her, say something, but he didn’t know how to make his lips move or his constricted throat work to form the words.

“Oh Simon,” she said, an echo of his distress in her voice.

Setting the drinks on the steps, she took off the too-big windbreaker someone had lent her and shielded him with it. Somehow she managed to get some coffee in him. The hot, bitter brew shocked his senses and he swallowed reflexively.

“Disgusting,” he managed on the third sip.

She laughed, clearly relieved.

“Come on. Let’s get you home. I’ll make tea.”

The taxi ride passed in a blur. Vaguely aware of the rhythm of the wipers and the spraying wet sound of the tires against the pavement, Simon closed his eyes and let Alex pull his head into her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her fingers trailed around the top of his ear, lightly ruffling through his hair and down the slope of his jaw. Though he couldn’t answer, he recognized the apology, and welcomed it in. She hadn’t known, couldn’t have known, how this would affect him. Hell, he hadn’t even known. After all, she’d arrested him less than a week ago and he hadn’t reacted so badly then.

It was as if everything he’d lost—his parents, his sister, his job, his freedom—in those short, few years formed a gaping abyss in his psyche that threatened to consume him and every ray of hope he’d forced himself to harbor during the darkest hours. All he’d had left at one point was optimism and humor. He had to believe if he hung on to those two things he’d be able to slay every ugly demon—inner and outer—that threatened to push him into the unmitigated darkness.

Somehow he found himself on his bed, in his apartment, staring up at the morning light. Alex fussed at his feet, untying his shoes and removing them with painstaking care. Next, his sopping-wet socks. Cool air hit his feet and he wiggled his toes, relishing their freedom. Sitting up on his elbows, he looked to the top of Alex’s head as she bent to place his shoes and socks on the floor. When he saw his own bare torso, he realized she must’ve removed his shirt and tuxedo jacket before he’d lain on the bed.

Straightening, she met his gaze. Tangles framed her face. Mascara rings and streaks showed where tears had trailed down the slopes of her cheeks. She still wore the ripped gown. When she leaned over him the torn threads sent a harvest of little beads raining down on his naked chest.