she’d be encumbered this morning by the leather case holding the painting, but keeping a secure grip on that was the whole point of the exercise.
As security jobs went, this one had to be one of her easiest gigs. Ferrying a painting to a gorgeous Mexican resort town involved nowhere near the pressure of dodging insurgent fire in Iraq or keeping screaming fans off overpaid celebrities. She might actually have been looking forward to the jaunt to Puerto Vallarta had it not been for that late-night visit from the feds.
Nobody was paying her to bug Moises Gladding’s house, so why had she agreed carry in their gadgets? Patriotism? Maybe. A more compelling reason might be too many memories of innocent victims of Gladding’s bloody trade. Of course, her own government was the world’s biggest arms dealer, bar none. And just because Gladding was apparently playing for the opposition these days didn’t mean Washington always teamed with angels. She had agreed to try to plant the listening devices, though, and it was too late to back out now.
She gave herself one last glance in the mirror. Then, reaching for her backpack, she spotted the framed school photo of Gabe that sat on her bedside table. She touched the image of his dark curls (hers) and gorgeous cobalt-blue eyes (his father’s). The tunnel vision she got when working was a blessing. It was the only thing that distracted from the daily ache of his absence.
She killed the bedroom lights, then did a quick walk around the condo to make sure the stove was off and the exterior windows and patio doors barred. She was outside, just locking the front door, when her cell phone bleeped. She fished it out of a pants pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Her stomach dropped. It was her worst nightmare—odd-hours calls about Gabe.
She flipped open the phone. “What’s wrong, Cal?”
“Good morning to you, too.” Her ex-husband’s voice was well modulated, the voice of a schemer sure of his entitlement to live at the top of the food chain.
“Is Gabe all right?”
“Why would you think he wasn’t?”
Hannah grimaced. “Why else would you be calling me at this ungodly hour?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m on my way to the airport. What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you. I just thought you might want to know that the assistant headmaster has called us in for a meeting.”
“A meeting? When?”
“This morning.”
“Are you serious?”
“Utterly.”
Hannah glanced at her watch. It was just past seven. Gabe didn’t start school for another two hours and was probably still asleep. “What does he want to see us about?”
“She. Mrs. Jennings.”
“Whatever. And while we’re on the subject, how long have you known about this?”
“She called yesterday.”
“And you’re just getting around to telling me now? You couldn’t have called sooner? I’ve got an international flight at nine forty-five. You know what that means—a two-hour advance check-in.”
“Right. Well, if you’re too busy to be involved in your son’s life, that’s fine. I’ll go in and deal with this mess myself.”
“What mess?”
“I’ll give her your regrets.”
“Calvin? What mess, dammit?”
But she was talking to dead air. Typical. When he wasn’t being passive-aggressive, he was pulling hotshot legal tactics, looking for ways to further undercut her access to their son. What a schmuck. What had she ever seen in that man? And how the hell could his DNA have gone into making a kid as awesome as Gabe?
And what “mess” was the school calling about?
“Dammit to hell.” She fumbled to get the key back in the door lock. Inside, she threw her pack on a chair, set the portfolio aside, then sat down at the kitchen table, pulling out her paperwork to start dialing. First, the airline. No problem. There was another flight to Puerto Vallarta at one, and exchanging her reservation was no problem. Nor was there any concern about the
As security jobs went, this one had to be one of her easiest gigs. Ferrying a painting to a gorgeous Mexican resort town involved nowhere near the pressure of dodging insurgent fire in Iraq or keeping screaming fans off overpaid celebrities. She might actually have been looking forward to the jaunt to Puerto Vallarta had it not been for that late-night visit from the feds.
Nobody was paying her to bug Moises Gladding’s house, so why had she agreed carry in their gadgets? Patriotism? Maybe. A more compelling reason might be too many memories of innocent victims of Gladding’s bloody trade. Of course, her own government was the world’s biggest arms dealer, bar none. And just because Gladding was apparently playing for the opposition these days didn’t mean Washington always teamed with angels. She had agreed to try to plant the listening devices, though, and it was too late to back out now.
She gave herself one last glance in the mirror. Then, reaching for her backpack, she spotted the framed school photo of Gabe that sat on her bedside table. She touched the image of his dark curls (hers) and gorgeous cobalt-blue eyes (his father’s). The tunnel vision she got when working was a blessing. It was the only thing that distracted from the daily ache of his absence.
She killed the bedroom lights, then did a quick walk around the condo to make sure the stove was off and the exterior windows and patio doors barred. She was outside, just locking the front door, when her cell phone bleeped. She fished it out of a pants pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Her stomach dropped. It was her worst nightmare—odd-hours calls about Gabe.
She flipped open the phone. “What’s wrong, Cal?”
“Good morning to you, too.” Her ex-husband’s voice was well modulated, the voice of a schemer sure of his entitlement to live at the top of the food chain.
“Is Gabe all right?”
“Why would you think he wasn’t?”
Hannah grimaced. “Why else would you be calling me at this ungodly hour?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m on my way to the airport. What’s up?”
“Sorry to bother you. I just thought you might want to know that the assistant headmaster has called us in for a meeting.”
“A meeting? When?”
“This morning.”
“Are you serious?”
“Utterly.”
Hannah glanced at her watch. It was just past seven. Gabe didn’t start school for another two hours and was probably still asleep. “What does he want to see us about?”
“She. Mrs. Jennings.”
“Whatever. And while we’re on the subject, how long have you known about this?”
“She called yesterday.”
“And you’re just getting around to telling me now? You couldn’t have called sooner? I’ve got an international flight at nine forty-five. You know what that means—a two-hour advance check-in.”
“Right. Well, if you’re too busy to be involved in your son’s life, that’s fine. I’ll go in and deal with this mess myself.”
“What mess?”
“I’ll give her your regrets.”
“Calvin? What mess, dammit?”
But she was talking to dead air. Typical. When he wasn’t being passive-aggressive, he was pulling hotshot legal tactics, looking for ways to further undercut her access to their son. What a schmuck. What had she ever seen in that man? And how the hell could his DNA have gone into making a kid as awesome as Gabe?
And what “mess” was the school calling about?
“Dammit to hell.” She fumbled to get the key back in the door lock. Inside, she threw her pack on a chair, set the portfolio aside, then sat down at the kitchen table, pulling out her paperwork to start dialing. First, the airline. No problem. There was another flight to Puerto Vallarta at one, and exchanging her reservation was no problem. Nor was there any concern about the
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