The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Read online

  But it was a terrific city in which to be a gay man, particularly a gay man in a fulfilling but extremely open relationship with someone who lived in Venezuela. Sure, Charley made his share of trips up north from Venezuela, but not nearly as frequently as Kittredge. Par-tay.

  The previous night had begun just as many other hookups had begun. Kittredge had bellied up to his favorite spot near Crystal City. “Festive” was an out-and-proud place, festooned with rainbow curtains and featuring a wait staff comprised exclusively of women with flat-top haircuts and extremely effeminate boys.

  Beautiful, promiscuous boys, at least in Kittredge’s experience. They hired well at Festive, and Kittredge was grateful that the old maxim about never trying to pick up a cocktail server while they were working didn’t apply in the gay world. He had enjoyed more than his share of evenings with more than his share of the waiters.

  The previous evening was to have been another memorable adventure with a very pretty blonde named Daniel. Daniel was slight, athletic, and very flirtatious. He had let Kittredge make the first move, as Kittredge was a bit more butch, but Daniel had responded enthusiastically in kind. Everything had been terrific, and Kittredge was looking forward to enjoying Daniel back in his apartment.

  They had made their way to Daniel’s car and were about to leave when Daniel realized he had left his sweater under the bar.

  At least, that’s what Daniel had said. Kittredge didn’t know for sure if that was true or not, because as soon as Daniel had disappeared back in the bar’s alley entrance, two men had opened the passenger door of Daniel’s car, and dragged Kittredge, kicking and howling, into a waiting minivan.

  He had subsequently become a torture victim at the hands of a giant, wolf-looking knee-capper. And, a little later, Kittredge had become an asset of the Central Intelligence Agency, after which his new “boss,” Bill Fredericks, had conducted a decidedly unpleasant and confrontational interview.

  It wasn’t his libido that had created the situation in which he now found himself, Kittredge realized, but his sex drive was certainly the catalyst. His little brain had also led him into Charley Arlinghaus’ bed, which had led to his very brief and not-very-lucrative career as a low-level spy for Exel, one of the world’s largest oil conglomerates.

  Kittredge drunkenly celebrated the way his sexual appetite had ruined his life by pleasuring himself while watching his favorite boy flick. He had scarcely finished when the phone rang. He let it go to voicemail, but the same number popped up again. And again. Finally, he answered.

  “I especially like the way the blonde guy keeps his sunglasses on while he’s performing oral services,” a now-familiar voice said as soon as Kittredge put the phone to his ear.

  “What the f—“

  “Settle down,” Quinn said. “Does it really surprise you that we’re looking in on you?”

  Kittredge felt violated and deeply vulnerable. “You’re watching me?”

  “Watching you jerk off. Nice Prince Albert, by the way. That had to have hurt.”

  Kittredge looked around frantically to find the source of the video feed that was obviously coming from his flat. He heard Quinn chuckle on the other end of the line, and he felt his throat constrict and his chest tighten. “My God,” he said.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Quinn quipped. “Don’t bother trying to find the cameras. They’ll just put new ones in if you rip them out. Welcome to the team.”

  “I can’t believe this. What a nightmare.” Kittredge felt cold and dirty, unable to shake the sense that his world had turned inside out over the past twelve hours. It was as if a parasite had burrowed into the center of him and announced its intention to stay, forever.

  “I know. You have a new reality now,” Quinn said. “Five stages of grief and all. Or is it six? I should have paid closer attention in sensitivity school,” Quinn laughed. “Anyway, you’ll get used to your own private Truman Show soon enough. For now, I need you to put away the vodka, towel off your puppet, and meet me downstairs in ten minutes. We’re taking a ride.”

  Kittredge shivered, feeling naked and victimized. He showered and dressed hastily, eager to get out of his bugged apartment, but acutely aware that they had probably been watching him elsewhere, too.

  He had no idea where he might go to hide from the watchful eye of the Agency. Privacy wasn’t a thing most people valued until it was stolen. After that, the world took on a much different hue, and Kittredge knew that his life had changed irrevocably. And certainly not for the better, judging by how little he cared for Quinn and Fredericks.

  He rode the elevator to the lobby, and found Quinn waiting for him.

  Gawd, that guy is huge, Kittredge thought. Quinn was six-three or more, Kittredge guessed, and at least two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle. And he was handsome, in a rugged, scares-the-shit-out-of-you kind of way, with his crazy wolf eyes, square jaw, and that uber-masculine scar beneath one eye. Too bad he’s an asshole, Kittredge thought.

  “Partner!” Quinn beamed, crushing Kittredge’s hand in a vice-like grip. Kittredge couldn’t think of anything to say. “Aw, don’t be scared, Pete. We’re friends now.”

  “Peter,” Kittredge corrected. “My name is Peter.”

  “That’s right,” Quinn said. He motioned toward the parking garage, and they made their way out of the lobby. “Anyway, Peter, I thought you and I should get to know each other, given that we’re teammates now.”

  “Teammates who spy on each other?” Kittredge asked testily.

  “Are you spying on us?” Quinn asked.

  “Of course not!”

  “Well, then, it just looks like we are spying on you.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No it isn’t. You said we’re spying on each other. That’s false.”

  “Thanks for clarifying,” Kittredge said. Quinn struck Kittredge as the kind of guy who didn’t have many friends. “Do you have any friends?” he asked, realizing immediately that the shock of the morning’s events hadn’t completely sobered him up.

  “I do now, Peter. You signed on the dotted line, which makes us pals, remember? Ergo, our little outing this morning.” After a small pause, Quinn said, “You’re still a little drunk, aren’t you?”

  “That’s not illegal, I don’t think. Even though it seems like we are much closer to living in a police state than I had ever imagined,” Kittredge said.

  “Ha ha! Police state! Good one.” Quinn guffawed a bit, then stopped. “But the term ‘police’ implies some sort of rule of law. I’m here to tell you that we really don’t care much about stuff like that in our little corner of the organization.”

  Kittredge saw something mean and feral in the large man’s eyes, and his uneasiness, which had started to fade a bit, returned with a vengeance.

  “Aw, don’t sweat it, partner. Nothing you can’t handle. You’re a ninja-spy, remember?” More guffaws.

  Kittredge struggled to wrap his mind around the situation. Was he really going for a ride with the guy who had tortured him the night before? Was he out of his mind?

  And where the hell were they going?

  That seemed like something he should figure out before getting into a car with the giant freak who, just a few hours earlier, had peeled the skin off of his back with a belt sander. “Where are we headed?” he asked.

  “I was thinking earlier, it’s such a nice day for a drive,” Quinn said. “So I said to myself, ‘I should invite my new friend Pete along.’”

  “It’s Peter.”

  “I know, but when I was talking to myself earlier, saying I should invite you along for a drive, I forgot you didn’t like to be called Pete.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Your new partner,” Quinn said, motioning toward a silver Land Rover. “Hop in.”

  “I’m not getting in that car until you tell me where we’re going.”

  Quinn let out a long breath. “Okay, Peter. I was going to break this to you later, but here goes.
We’re going to visit Charley Arlinghaus. In the hospital.”

  “What?” Kittredge felt himself reeling. “Charley is here?”

  “No. He’s in the hospital,” Quinn said. “That’s where we’re going.”

  “What the–”

  “Get in the car, please.”

  Charley Arlinghaus lay in a coma, intubated. The right side of his head had been shaved, and a long row of stitches traced a line from above his ear to a point just beneath his temple. His face was swollen, and his eye was black and puffy.

  Tears streamed down Kittredge’s face as he sat beside Arlinghaus’ inert form. Quinn kept a respectful distance, but didn’t leave the room.

  “Are you Peter?” a nurse asked. “He was awake for a moment earlier, and he asked about you, just before he went into surgery.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was attacked in the parking garage at the airport this morning,” Quinn said from the corner of the room. “Tire iron. Fractured his skull. He’s lucky to be alive. Bill Fredericks called me this morning and told me to come get you.”

  “Oh my God, Charley” Kittredge cried. “What in the world happened to you?” He stroked the comatose man’s face tenderly.

  “His brain is swelling due to the trauma, and we may have to reopen the wound to relieve the pressure,” the nurse said.

  “Oh my God,” Kittredge said again. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “We’ll see to it that he gets the best possible medical care,” the nurse said. “He’s stable for the moment, but the next two days are important.”

  “My God. . . Charley, who would do this to you?” Kittredge gave in to anguished sobs.

  “I’m really sorry, Peter,” Quinn said, after the wave of emotion passed. Kittredge could tell he meant it. Maybe the beast was human, after all.

  Then again, maybe Quinn did this to Charley, Kittredge thought suddenly. He realized that he had absolutely no idea what to believe or who to trust. Charley was his emotional anchor, and now he was in a coma with his head bashed in.

  And what the hell was Charley doing in DC this weekend? He was supposed to be staying in Venezuela! Did something pop up at work? He would’ve called, certainly.

  Another boyfriend? They were open enough not to have to sneak around. If Charley wanted someone else, he could have him. He knew that.

  And why would the CIA goons be the ones to come get me? Wouldn’t the police do that?

  Kittredge felt panic rise up within him. The alcohol, sleep deprivation, emotional trauma, and torture all caught up with him at once, and Kittredge felt the room start to swim. He vaguely registered Quinn’s voice saying “Easy, big guy,” as he slipped from consciousness.

  9

  “Listen, Frank, I’m sorry for being so hard on you earlier,” Sam said to Ekman when they met in the parking garage at DHS headquarters in DC. It took concentration for her not to call him “Francis.” It had become a habit.

  Ekman was silent, so Sam went on. “It was a bit of a rough night, and I was a little cranky, and a little out of line,” she added. “Sorry.”

  “I’m used to your abuse,” Ekman said. Sam couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. He didn’t sound angry, though it was tough to tell with him. He was a good enough guy, but he usually had all the personality of an ashtray, although he sometimes surprised her with a wry remark.

  She didn’t think she had pushed him too far during their somewhat heated conversation at her house earlier in the morning, but she wasn’t certain either way.

  Sam had decided that she needed to keep Ekman close while she sleuthed out his agenda. Doing so required an apology for her sharp tongue, which was the easy part.

  It also required her to remain on her best behavior in front of the deputy director, which was going to be hard. She wasn’t the president of the Deputy Director Tom Jarvis fan club. As far as she could tell, the feeling was mutual.

  But she needed to change the game up. Ekman had clearly had an idea in his head when he questioned her earlier in the morning, and Sam needed to figure out his angle. She had the distinct impression that he was withholding information from her. She hated that on principle, but more than that, being kept in the dark was a potential health issue given all that had transpired in the preceding twelve hours.

  She had realized that she suddenly didn’t know who was on her side. And obviously, judging by her banged-up Porsche and the bomb crater in her front yard, at least a few people were playing for the opposition. It would be nice to know who was who.

  Ekman held the door for her – chivalry before rank – and they walked through the dingy hallway and into Jarvis’ spacious office. The décor screamed, “Fed.” The furniture looked like it came straight out of the Dick Van Dyke Show. The air smelled vaguely of mothballs, which turned Sam’s stomach.

  “You’ve had quite a morning, haven’t you, Sam?” Tom Jarvis was a career bureaucrat in his early fifties. He had bovine eyes and a bulldog’s jowls, but none of the latter’s tenacity. If there was a decision to be made, Jarvis generally felt that it ought to be made at a later date, and by someone else. He treated his charges with kindness, but rarely stuck his neck out for anyone. He liked memos, meetings, calendars, and keeping the stakeholders informed, whatever that meant.

  He didn’t motion for Sam and Ekman to take a seat, which wasn’t a good sign.

  “Yes, I have,” Sam said with a small smile. “In fact, I can’t recall a more eventful Saturday night. At least since my sorority days.” Jarvis laughed politely.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw Ekman squirm a little. She wondered if there was some agenda at play other than just giving the big boss a rundown of the evening’s kerfuffle.

  “Can you tell me how you came to be mixed up in all of this?” Jarvis asked.

  That’s one hell of a strange question. “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Sam said. “Frank called me last night at about eleven to work the John Abrams scene. What else am I mixed up in?”

  She saw Ekman squirm again.

  “Sam, it’s not a good idea to act dumb,” Jarvis said.

  “It’s no act, Tom,” Sam said. “In fact, I’m starting to get the distinct impression that it’s you who probably owes me an explanation.”

  Jarvis looked at Ekman, who took the cue to reign in his employee. “Sam, let’s keep our cool, shall we?”

  “I’m cool as a cucumber,” Sam said. “Especially considering you guys dispatched me to a fake suicide, where I discovered my name and address on the victim’s nightstand, and after which I was chased by crooked cops. And I probably don’t need to mention the explosion that remodeled my house this morning.”

  “Another way to look at those events,” Jarvis said, “would be to say that you left a scene prematurely, then led police on a high-speed chase through the city.”

  “Police?” Sam asked, incredulous. “Oh, you mean the dead cop in my entryway who was moonlighting as a gangster or something? And maybe the policeman who tried to run my car off the road? Those police? You need to open a window and let some fresh air in here. All the fumes from that pile of bullshit on your desk have affected your brain.”

  “That’s enough, Sam,” Jarvis said. “We’re looking into the facts. I have not yet ruled out administrative leave while we sort this out.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I can’t have agents running rogue out there. Consider yourself on notice.”

  Consider yourself a jackass. “Unbelievable,” Sam said.

  Ekman chimed in. “Sam, I think you should go home, take some time to get your house put back together, and let us sort through this.”

  “Sure thing, Frank. Just as soon as you tell me what you should have told me hours ago. You know something about why I’m suddenly so popular. I’m not leaving until I hear it.”

  “I’m afraid that’s above your pay grade at the moment,” Jarvis said.

  “Then earn your paycheck and make the decision to lower the c
lassification. These people attacked me at my home, Tom.”

  Unbidden, Sam sat down in a chair across from Jarvis’ desk. “And if either of you knew something beforehand and didn’t warn me,” she said in a low tone, “that’s a hell of a lot more than just a bad decision. It’s a crime.”

  Sam watched Jarvis stew. Jarvis had the power to cause problems for her, but she was mindful that the party who cared the least held the power in any relationship. She cared a great deal about figuring out who was wreaking havoc in her world, but she cared far less than Ekman or Jarvis about office politics, niceties, and the formal rank and protocol structure of the Department of Homeland Security. She wasn’t afraid to make a mess.

  She also knew that she could easily create the kind of problem that kept both of her supervisors awake at night. It would take no more than ten minutes of her time to file an Inspector General complaint. Both Jarvis and Ekman were in line for promotion, which would be frozen for the duration of the IG investigation – easily half a year, sometimes longer.

  If the IG found against them, their careers would be redlined. In the federal government, an IG complaint was the nuclear option. Both men knew that she wasn’t afraid to go there. She had done it before.

  Jarvis exhaled heavily. “Okay, Sam. Let me make a phone call. We do owe you some information.”

  “Damn right you do. And an apology.”

  Jarvis frowned. “Don’t push it, Sam.”

  “What would you like to know?” Jarvis asked after returning to his office from the top-secret vault down the hall.

  In his five-minute absence, Ekman and Sam had exchanged scarcely a word, except for Ekman’s tongue-in-cheek thanks to Sam for having kept to her best behavior in front of the boss.

  Sam thought for a second before replying to Jarvis. “I think you should tell me what you know you should tell me. Whatever that is.”