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Craving Grace: Diamond Dogs Book 2

By Ann Malley

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Craving Grace: Diamond Dogs Book 2
By

Patricia La Duca
w/a Ann Malley



Chapter One

Las Vegas Strip, Las Vegas Nevada

“Red lights and sirens. Where’s the fire?”
Gracie Snow suppressed a glare, but slowed her hot walk.
Selfie-stick in hand, the Chippendale dancer continued teasing as she passed beneath the Flamingo Hotel’s pulsating pink and gold lotus. “If you’re late, I guarantee, he’ll wait.”
His words trailed. The situation, normal for Las Vegas after dark. But Gracie couldn’t help wondering. Did that Chippendale know she was meeting someone? She glanced back at the shirtless stranger, already posing for photos with a grinning tourist. He was right. Her contact would wait. And rushing would only call attention. It already had, but there was no way this guy could be part of the FBI crew keeping eyes and ears on her. A skull and snake tattoo coiled against his flat abs, but without a weapon, what good was he?
“Focus,” the microphone bug in her ear crackled. Special Agent Janice “Fitz” Fitzsimmons, monitoring the streaming sound and video from a nearby paneled van, preferred to run point.
“I got it, Fitz.”
“Good. We don’t need you getting sidelined.”
“Then you should have let me carry.” Gracie’s 9mm HK was useless in her dresser drawer.
She studied a homeless man advancing in the opposite direction. An Uzi took shape beneath the drizzle-soaked mound in his grocery cart. Likely her imagination, and yet a sub-machinegun would end this mission in moments. She choked down hot fear and continued up Las Vegas Boulevard.
“Meet Harrison at Hell’s Kitchen. Let him introduce you to his friends and you’re done.” Fitz’s mothering tone fooled no one. She hated Gracie. “It’s not a big deal.” And yet Gracie, strip mall detective, accepting the FBI’s offer to consult had turned Fitz inside out with envy.
“Where’s my backup?” Gracie hadn’t recognized a soul.
“Don’t worry about it,” Fitz answered. “The last thing we need is you staring agents down, blowing their cover. This isn’t domestic surveillance outside some Sunrise motel. You’re not alone. Trust me.”
Right. Gracie felt like she was back in Iraq, aligned in someone’s crosshairs while a chair-force lieutenant read platitudes off a tip sheet. Her skin crawled. Blood turned to acid in her veins despite assurances. She checked her oversized Omega—a reminder from her dad that she could do this—and stepped toward the alley.
A stretch limo crossed against the light, cutting her off.
Gracie whirled back. Black-tinted glass reflected the Flamingo’s blinking marquee. Neon glided by like a solar burst and she suddenly felt expendable. Out of her depth and absolutely out of her mind.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Fitz insisted. “And hurry. You’re not late, but it’s no crime being early.”
“It’s out of character.” Gracie tugged at her itchy burgundy wig. “I can’t have Clive getting suspicious.” Who knows? He might be already.
“Let me worry about that. You do what you’re told.”
“I’ll do the job.” She always had despite getting grief.
Her older brother had trained her well. She took the stone stairs to a pedestrian catwalk over the street, eager to get this meeting over with. The restaurant nestled close beside the Caesars Palace’s Complex. She smoothed down her hoodie, crossed the bridge, and took the stairs down. A whey-faced woman, draped in a bright yellow slicker and a silver-fox of a man, took the escalator going up. Her lazy gaze caught Gracie’s, then followed her down.
Shivers flicked her spine. It felt like January instead of nearly June. The unexpected rain that day had proved anything but refreshing. Gracie begged God to get her through this. She glanced back up to find the woman still watching. Whipping back around, she jumped off the last step and onto the pavement.
“Did you see that?” Gracie hated the paranoia.
“You’re fine. Everything’s fine,” Fitz said.
Gracie let the patronizing slide. She’d earned it. She thought so anyway until a bleach blonde, fiftyish and wearing an over-stretched pantsuit scowled at her. Touching the crucifix hiding under her plain t-shirt, Gracie forced herself to breathe.
“Harrison just arrived. He looks like he might bolt,” Fitz said.
“He’s a nervous type.” She was, too.
“Get names. Our man flies out at 6 AM.”
“You’re getting a clear video feed?” A shift of subjects would put Gracie back on top, and faces equaled names, real ones from the FBI database.
“Yes. We’re running a check on that skull and snake tattoo. There was no reason for that Chippendale dancer to pick you out of the crowd. Thankfully, cameras don’t lie.” The mention of lies stung like a poison dart, dredging demons Gracie couldn’t afford. “That sideline at Starbucks earlier was too much.”
So she bought a latte. Big deal. “I know what I’m here for.”
Gracie wanted Fitz’s job, or at least the power to set her down a peg. She needed steady work, too, and the paycheck that came with it. Soft feelings about family, her true motivation, needed to be checked if she wanted to remain in character. As for men checking her out, she had experience. This time, however, she’d put it to good use.
She slipped into the courtyard between Caesars and the exclusive shops that rounded out the complex. Clive sniffed incense at the Brahma shrine. Middle-aged and middle-management said it all even in the criminal world. She almost felt sorry for him.
She waited—one, two minutes—then strode into view with a wide smile. “Hey, there, Boss.”
“Names,” Fitz whispered then went silent.
“I didn’t think you’d come.” Clive walked up the portico in three strides.
“Wrong again.”
Her contact’s thick-lidded gaze fixed on her mess of curls then swung down to her knee-high boots, buckled and flat. She may want to keep these when this was over. If she lived. But either way, she suspected Clive fancied her for more than legwork in his divorce.
“I’m not the best at reading women,” he said. “But I’m glad to see you’re as practical as ever.”
“A face plant isn’t in my future.” She’d had plenty already.
He smiled. “Shall we?”
Gracie surveyed the scene. She turned toward the Brahma then back at Clive. The fire fountain threw off heat. Its pitchfork centerpiece sent another jolt of fear straight to her soul. Her pulse raced. Shadows danced across the courtyard, but she managed a flirtatious glance and took Clive’s Armani-clad arm.
Gordon Ramsay, chef extraordinaire, greeted them in the foyer behind the glassed entry. The life-sized video recording was far more gracious than his character on television. Gracie’s stomach rumbled, communicating more than she wanted Clive to guess. She hadn’t even caught a whiff of food. With a touch to her stomach, she laughed it off, the hollow sound a pure fake.
“You could use a solid meal, young lady. And friends who can afford to be friendly.” Clive took her hand and smoothed his fingers over hers. “I know everyone will love you, almost as much as I do.”
“I don’t know about that.”
After a sharp left turn, they passed the Hell’s Kitchen swag. Patrons, queued up and impatient, stared daggers as they walked straight on to reception. Their crinkled noses and gaping disbelief smarted. Presumption wasn’t her gig, but this was Clive’s realm.
A rail-thin hostess in skinny heels and a sheath dress made of liquid gold dipped her head. Her smile gleamed as brightly as her blunt cut, blue-black hair. “Right this way, Mr. Harrison.”
“Clive, please.” He pulled Gracie in with an unexpected tug around the waist.
The hostess peered over her shoulder. “How long are you in town this time?”
“Not long enough.” Clive fixed Gracie with a pleading look. “This is Gracie Snow, an associate. I’d appreciate you extending her every courtesy.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Harrison… I mean, Clive.” The hostess guided them through the maze of tables. The chefs visible in the five-star kitchen—team blue and red—focused on their creations as the trio moved into private territory. “Your party has already arrived.”
“Excellent. You’ll love the wine pairings,” Clive said to Gracie.
“I don’t drink.” She couldn’t afford to even if she liked it.
“That’s right. Better to stay alert.”
As they filed in behind the hostess, Clive held on tight, his arm snugged around Gracie’s waist, fingers close to wires she couldn’t explain. She pushed away, and laughed again when he scowled. Not like him, but the man had feelings.
“We may not want to give anyone ideas,” she said.
“Anyone?”
“I doubt your friends are interested in putting a girlfriend on the payroll.” She stepped ahead, checking out potential exits should things turn south. “You said you weren’t looking yet. Remember?”
Clive reddened above his crisp white collar. “Yes. I remember.”
Gracie smiled and said nothing despite the urge to scream.
“Your server will be in shortly,” the hostess announced when they reached the door of a private dining room. “I’d go in, but your associates were emphatic that nobody outside the party itself and John should have access. He is our top man.”
“No doubt. Thank you.” Clive reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a folded bill.
“That’s unnecessary, but thank you, Clive. Enjoy your meal.” The woman turned to Gracie. “Ma’am.”
Gracie waited until the hostess was out of earshot. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, Clive. I mean it.” Guilt smoked over her, but she couldn’t shake it. Maybe the FBI would offer him a way out. “I’m sorry if I’m not what you’d hoped for.”
“No worries. The rebound is what got me into my last mess. I should be thanking you.” Clive pushed open the door and gasped.
Gracie’s head snapped up and the world suddenly went sideways.

#

Jay Sykes tunneled fingers through his gelled hair. He didn’t bother glancing in the spotlighted mirror, but left his suite, eager to get the night’s business over and done. What a difference a day made. He’d been on the river this time yesterday. Fishing. Wasting time more like it. The water was calm, though, and the fish obliging. They refused to bite. There was too much ruckus involved in reeling something in. Too bad tonight wouldn’t yield similar results. The stillness of backwoods morphed into a hermitically sealed manufacture that passed for peaceful in the wilds of Las Vegas.
It was peaceful.
The corridor swelled like a cream taxiway toward a lone elevator. Subdued lighting reigned. The cocooned sound of silence was actual quiet. No white noise. Jay drank it up, prepping for the switch in scenery the evening would bring. His cellphone vibrated. He expected the call, but resented the interruption.
The slim ball-and-chain felt too familiar. “Sykes.”
“He’ll be there.” Katya Kadyrov’s voice wreaked of boarding school polish. “I tried to dissuade him, but you know how he is.”
“You forget I’ve never met the man.” Good thing. Jay avoided bad ideas. “I get the type, though.” Men who forced women turned his stomach. The added insult of slapping the terms holy, or matrimony on the exchange made no difference. Human trafficking took many forms.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Katya said.
“Hold on to that. This isn’t over.”
“Come to the Wynn when it’s done. Father doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Then how do you know he’ll be here?”
Jay didn’t like the secret keeping, but his old friend having other sources made sense. Katya choosing to stay in one of the Strip’s most expensive hotels didn’t. Money was her problem, that and a father who believed bartering his daughter to get some was perfectly reasonable. But Katya had left only minutes ago with a great big hug and the assurance that she had her end—feigning ignorance—well in hand.
“Father and I spoke by phone. He believes I’m in London, being fitted for my gown and—”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll update you when there’s something to tell.”
“Great. I need to know if this firm is legitimate. If the investments are real—”
“You don’t want him scammed again.” A swoosh broke the hush. Jay sidestepped a prima-donna in a Caesars’ guest robe tossing a pile of nasty towels in the hallway.
“I’ll never get out of this sham marriage if he is. But whatever you do, don’t let my father get a hint of you knowing him, or anything about him,” Katya said. “He’ll get suspicious.”
“Why is that? Have you had him tailed before?”
“I’ve done what I needed to survive.” A steel spike couldn’t hit harder. “You of all people should understand what it’s like for a woman in my position.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Although he knew some women—one in particular—handled survival issues quite differently. “That’s why I’m here.”
Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be doing this. His working for a foreign national shot straight to losing his security clearance—not that he needed it anymore. He wasn’t working, really. Vegas was a favor. He rechecked the Glock 9mm secured beneath his jacket. He’d never go back to that kind of crazy. A dude playing a dude playing a dude spun his head long enough. Too many sacrifices made Jay a dull boy.
Forget having a life, normal or otherwise.
But he’d act like a bored billionaire for the night. An afternoon spent in the casino had netted him an invitation to the evening’s meeting. He didn’t doubt for an instant that Rana Capital was a scam. The level of shade is what he questioned. The investment group had rented the Nobu Penthouse. And while the Nobu Hotel extension of the Caesars Palace Complex was posh enough, it wasn’t untouchable price-wise. That’s typically not the way high rolling operations went.
“I’m sorry, Jay.” Katya always apologized after the fact. “That was harsh.”
“It’s understandable. Sit tight. I’ll take care of this.” He disconnected the conversation.
Too bad he couldn’t take care of the blonde juggernaut—his best friend’s little sister, his friend if she’d have him. That debt assaulted his conscience night and day. But his friendship with Danny was over, too. And Gracie had made a point of doing things all by herself even when they were kids. But she hadn’t been responsible for the mess overseas that saw her popped back to the States, her military career over before it began.
Repaying that marker would mean the world. He prayed—what he guessed prayer to be—but knew Gracie Snow would never accept his help. His last attempt at contact resulted in a restraining order threat. The hole in his heart gaped as if she’d just torn a piece out. The void would likely leave him doing favors for the rest of his life—forget retirement.
A hush of voices pulled him to the present, long before the tail end of a cleaning cart winked at the end of the hallway. He jogged ahead and fished two crisp bills from his wallet by the time he rounded the corner.
“Pardon me,” he said to the pair of women beside the cart.
“No, no. Pardon us, sir.” The shorter of the two glanced at his shoes. “I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you.”
“Is there something you need?” A bold girl with wide brown eyes and a stark collarbone met his inspection. She wasn’t in a uniform. “Fresh towels?” She didn’t strike him as a maid.
“Maybe later. The room’s great. I didn’t get the chance to leave a tip.” He set the money in her hand, uncertain if this was the woman who’d cleaned up his mess from earlier. She’d likely have to clean the one in the hall behind him. “Thank the staff for me.”
The brown-eyed girl stabbed a finger toward the side of his collar. “The laundry could get that lipstick out.”
Jay didn’t bother asking what lipstick. Katya had struck again. Big hugs could equal big trouble, at least in some countries. But this wasn’t Uzbekistan. “It’s not a big deal,” he said. The berry stain would likely give him creds considering the company that awaited him.
“No. It’s no trouble,” the uniformed maid assured him. “Whatever you need.”
“Yes, I know. I can count on you.”
The short maid blushed. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I may call on you… Janet,” he said, catching the name on the gold tag piercing her crisp linen smock. It always paid to be good to the staff, even if he wasn’t acting like the high roller. “Now, I enjoy tipping.” He pulled out another couple of bills, but she raised a pudgy hand.
“Too much. I enjoy my work, sir.”
“Maybe so, but if you won’t take this, maybe your friend will share.” Jay gave the tall woman the extra bills, then tucked his chin and waited.
The maid accepted money from her friend who continued her piqued assessment. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sykes. Jay Sykes.” Whatever their business, Jay got the distinct impression he’d put a wrench in it. He couldn’t wait to get back to Virginia. The sooner the better. “And you’re welcome.”

#

Gracie willed strength into her legs, her knees buckling. Leather chairs, a long table and strange faces melted together. “What’s going on?” She clapped a hand to her neck. They’d stuck her with something. Drugged her. Poor Clive slumped against her legs in an unmoving lump. She scented blood with cologne underpinnings. The noxious combo made her gag.
“You wanted to meet the team,” a strange voice hissed. “They’re eager to meet you—Agent Snow.”
“What? No.” Blackness pressed all around even before someone slipped a hood over her head. Rough hands shoved and tugged. The temptation to drop cover and scream flooded every inch of her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Clive said you could use my services. I’m… I’m a detective.”
Gracie grimaced. Images of family seared her soul. Smiling faces. Happy times. Regrets. Kicking and screaming might get her free from the vice-grip on her elbows, but the same could get her killed. Her body wasn’t working. Her camera was, although tucked under the hood it wouldn’t do much good. But Fitz must hear every word. Backup would be coming.
“So there’s no bug in your ear? No wires?” the stranger taunted, hauling her close.
“I didn’t say that.” Her words slurred. She needed to stay alive.
Cool air hit her right along with the stranger’s hot response. “Then shut up and take the meeting.”
“That’s what my client wants.”
She’d run with whatever lead they gave her. She’d met Clive on assignment, though, and not with the FBI. An unknown paid her to take him on as a client, paid and communicated via proxy and now—she shook her head, the slow-motion drag filling her mouth with saliva. Her stomach heaved. Tingles bored into her flesh, her arms flopping as someone dragged her where she didn’t want to go. Where was Fitz?
“Who’s your client?” her captor demanded. Distant traffic sounds hit her ears.
“I can’t say.” She laughed. She tried anyway. Staying in character could be her only means to survive. But she really didn’t know.
Someone pressed up against her cheek. “You will.”
“If I get the okay, sure. Otherwise I’ll be just as dead and so will you.”
She prayed her fake-out would fly. A name, and the unwillingness to reveal it, was all that stood between her and a puddle of her own blood. She got that. But it was a name she didn’t know. She stumbled on an uneven surface. Someone slapped a hand on her head and shoved her down. Others pushed and pulled, their fingers squeezing her wrists. She was in a car. Gruff commands dissipated in the space. There was a driver ahead. Someone taking orders, but the words were vague, giving away nothing. A door slammed shut.
She pitched forward as the car moved.
“Sit tight, Agent Snow.” The speaker belted her into place. “We need you in one piece.”
“For now,” someone laughed.
 

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