Ready, Aim...I Do!: Missing Read online

  In USA TODAY bestselling author Debra Webb’s thrilling new Colby Agency miniseries spin-off, The Specialists, a special agent finds out the honeymoon isn’t what it seems…

  He awoke with a ring on his finger. Only problem was Specialist Jason Grant couldn’t remember a wedding. But he did recognize the beautiful woman in his Vegas hotel suite as CIA operative Ginger Olin.

  Being newlyweds was the perfect cover to expose whoever was targeting Jason. Then Gin laid down ground rules. Passion and affection were for the public only. In private, it was hands off. But as Jason’s hunger for his make-believe wife battled with his professional dedication, their “just for show” behavior had him yearning to make Gin his wife for real.

  2 books for the price of 1! MISSING also included in this book!

  “That’s becoming a habit.”

  Confusion showed on Jason’s face.

  “You insisted on doing the same thing last night after the wedding,” Gin explained. “You carried me over the threshold.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You should rest.”

  “That’s why you brought me up here. To rest.”

  He nodded, but he refused to look at her.

  “I told you I’m not tired.”

  “No. It’s obvious you’re wired. You should sleep it off.”

  “We both know that’s unlikely.”

  She tugged his shirt from his jeans and ran her fingertips along his warm skin. “We both could use a shower.”

  She shrugged out of her jacket and let it fall to the floor. “Come on, Jason.” Why wouldn’t he make a move? “Come have some fun with your wife.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Debra Webb wrote her first story at age nine and her first romance at thirteen. It wasn’t until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain and within the confining political walls of Berlin, Germany, that she realized her true calling. A five-year stint with NASA on the space-shuttle program reinforced her love of the endless possibilities within her grasp as a storyteller. A collision course between suspense and romance was set. Debra has been writing romance, suspense and action-packed romance thrillers since. Visit her at www.debrawebb.com or write to her at P.O. Box 4889, Huntsville, AL 35815.

  Books by Debra Webb

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  934—THE HIDDEN HEIR*

  951—A COLBY CHRISTMAS*

  983—A SOLDIER’S OATH†

  989—HOSTAGE SITUATION†

  995—COLBY VS. COLBY†

  1023—COLBY REBUILT*

  1042—GUARDIAN ANGEL*

  1071—IDENTITY UNKNOWN*

  1092—MOTIVE: SECRET BABY

  1108—SECRETS IN FOUR CORNERS

  1145—SMALL-TOWN SECRETS††

  1151—THE BRIDE’S SECRETS††

  1157—HIS SECRET LIFE††

  1173—FIRST NIGHT*

  1188—COLBY LOCKDOWN**

  1194—COLBY JUSTICE**

  1216—COLBY CONTROL‡

  1222—COLBY VELOCITY‡

  1241—COLBY BRASS‡‡

  1247—COLBY CORE‡‡

  1270—MISSING+

  1277—DAMAGED+

  1283—BROKEN+

  1307—CLASSIFIED++

  1313—DECODED++

  1347—COLBY LAW†††

  1354—HIGH NOON†††

  1359—COLBY ROUNDUP†††

  1443—BRIDAL ARMOR***

  1449—READY, AIM...I DO!***

  *Colby Agency

  †The Equalizers

  ††Colby Agency: Elite Reconnaissance Division

  **Colby Agency: Under Siege

  ‡Colby Agency: Merger

  ‡‡Colby Agency: Christmas Miracles

  +Colby Agency: The New Equalizers

  ++Colby Agency: Secrets

  †††Colby, TX

  ***Colby Agency:

  The Specialists

  Debra

  Webb

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  Ready, Aim…

  I Do!

  &

  Missing

  Table of Contents

  Ready, Aim…I Do!

  Missing

  Excerpt

  Ready, Aim...

  I Do!

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Jason Grant—A Specialist and former military sniper. Holt has sent Grant out to assist an agent who has been compromised, but he finds himself the primary suspect when a sniper starts attacking civilians in the area.

  Ginger Olin—A spy on the trail of a deadly new virus, she needs to identify the buyer, but she picks up an added assignment as authorities try to determine Grant’s guilt or innocence.

  Emmett Holt—Deputy Director of Mission Recovery. Holt took Lucas Camp’s place when he retired. Some believe he will do anything to move to the top.

  Thomas Casey—Director of Mission Recovery. Thomas is the consummate Specialist. He handpicks his people and is determined to protect his team.

  Lucas Camp—Thomas’s closest friend. He will do whatever is necessary to protect his friend and the interests of Mission Recovery.

  Victoria Colby-Camp—The semiretired head of the Colby Agency. She and Lucas can’t seem to stay out of the business of investigations.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter One

  Caesar’s Palace,

  Thursday, November 20th, 9:48 p.m.

  You’re next.

  Jason Grant couldn’t stop thinking about the note he’d received last month. So far he’d come up empty trying to determine the source. He wanted to write it off as a prank, but it wasn’t the kind of humor any of his friends or associates indulged in. Although he knew he was considered the next in line for the deputy director post at Mission Recovery, it wasn’t how his bosses would announce a promotion.

  If this current assignment was any indication, the reality appeared to be that he was next up to either get fired or die of boredom. The sport coat he wore suddenly felt too warm; the tie he’d already loosened still felt too confining.

  He looked around the hotel bar. Too early for a big crowd, but there were plenty of people coming and going and gambling. His deep well of training-induced patience was running dry. Not a smart thing in his line of work as a Specialist, but true all the same. Although impatience wasn’t the ideal, he knew the value of being aware of his strengths and weaknesses throughout a fluctuating operation.

  He signaled the bartender for another beer and thought about what he might have done to deserve such a low-level assignment.

  Specialists were sent in to recover the impossible situations—not to sit back and watch for potential signs of trouble. Last month he’d been told to observe, and he had done so. Right up until the point when Director Casey needed hands-on assistance. This time it felt much the same, except he had no idea who might be in trouble. In fact, he had no idea what the hell was going on here.

  All he’d been told was that the operative in place might need backup. He was supposed to hang out in and around Caesar’s Palace, observ
e and make himself available to get her out if necessary. They didn’t even tell him which her he was looking for.

  It didn’t feel right. A lot of things in Mission Recovery weren’t feeling right these days.

  Still, gut feelings aside, this was the job and here he was in Sin City. He’d found a cover story with a nearby convention on security systems and emerging technologies and booked an upgraded room in the Caesar tower, though he didn’t expect to see it much.

  He tipped back the dark bottle of beer but didn’t risk drinking any more than the half bottle he’d already sipped away. Instead, his eyes scanned the constantly shifting crowd for any female who looked like a covert operative. Evening hours—really any hour in Vegas from what he’d seen so far—meant women were decked out like there was a Bond girl audition nearby. It made for colorful and entertaining scenery, but Jason was ready for action.

  This gig of sitting around watching was getting staler than the beer he pretended to drink.

  He pulled out his phone and, per his habit, checked the police scanner app for any crime news. For the past two days, aside from a seven-car pileup on Interstate 15 the state troopers suspected had been started by a blown-out front tire of a limousine, it had been mostly routine stuff. Muggings, prostitution, disputes over money or lovers. Nothing that pointed to a spy in trouble. Certainly no high-speed shoot-outs involving high-end automobiles.

  He turned his attention to the hockey game televised on the set above the bar. The odds were running like a stock exchange ticker across the bottom of the picture. If something didn’t break soon, he might have to resort to the preferred entertainment and place a bet on something.

  “Pardon me,” the bartender said. “Is your name Grant?”

  He nodded. The bartender slid him a shot of tequila with a salt shaker and lime. “Courtesy of the blonde across the way.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the other end of the bar.

  Grant took a long look and smiled when the woman raised her own shot in salute. The hair was different, probably a wig, and from this distance in the subdued light he couldn’t be sure about the eyes. But the dress. He recognized the vibrant emerald dress that skimmed her sensual curves. A certain bold redhead had worn it when she’d crashed a wedding reception in Colorado last month.

  At the time he’d considered her the prime suspect behind the cryptic You’re next note he’d received. But the brief investigation and limited evidence disproved that theory. No one remembered a redhead or even a woman anywhere near the note. In the weeks since, he’d been looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows, though he’d never admit any such thing. As much as he hated the wide-open, let-it-ride atmosphere in the gambling capital, the constant motion of Vegas was at least curing him of the jumpiness.

  What the hell, he thought, and tossed back the shot. If Olin was the agent in need, the alcohol might dull the edginess he felt whenever he thought about the stunning redhead. Of course, tequila was better known for boosting the potential for trouble than preventing it.

  Either way, this being Vegas, he might as well enjoy the ride.

  * * *

  GINGER OLIN SLID a fifty-dollar chip onto number twenty-five and considered herself lucky even before the croupier set the roulette wheel spinning.

  Why couldn’t all her targets have the good taste to conduct business in Las Vegas? The themes were over the top, but that was the beauty of it. Vegas catered to the bold and overwhelmed the inhibitions of the shy. It made for a delightfully level playing field.

  As she strolled through the gaming rooms of Caesar’s Palace amid the glamorous theme and thorough details, she noticed the atmosphere exuded luxury with an undercurrent of excited energy. One couldn’t help joining in the fun. That energy drew like a magnet, made her feel alive in a way that only this kind of decadence could.

  The ball dropped in, and she listened to it zip around the wheel as she scanned the nearby tables for any sign of the man carrying the deadly virus she’d been tracking all over the globe. Hearing the bounce and clatter as the ball landed, she timed her squeal of glee perfectly as the dealer called out the winning number.

  “Twenty-five!”

  Smiling, she accepted the congratulations and admiring glances along with the slightly taller stack of chips and stepped back from the table. Her target, a slick crime boss out of Europe, was on the move, but who was he here to meet? That was the million-dollar question, and she sought the answer.

  She strolled along, just one woman among thousands dressed to the nines and looking for the next place to burn through her money. Waitresses cruised through knots of gamblers and hangers-on in an intricate ballet, trays held high, smiles wide and full of temptation. She supposed some people might find the glitter and glam overdone, but Gin enjoyed it. Here a spy could find the right background to blend with, no matter the circumstances. The perfect playing board for dangerous games.

  She spotted her target, an older man with thick gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, moving toward the craps tables and Gin shadowed him, wondering if he was enjoying the setting as much as she was. The virus wasn’t with him, though. Her tracking tag showed it was stationary, probably in his room. Joining the growing crowd cheering on a lucky run at a craps table, she used the raucous, shifting party as cover while she tried to spot the buyer.

  Her pulse stuttered when she met the hard, icy gaze of Bernard Isely. He was looking too closely, and not at her well-displayed cleavage. He preferred his women cheap, his vodka expensive, and those who betrayed him dead. He didn’t know it yet, but she would soon fall squarely into the last category.

  She felt an unprecedented surge of insecurity. Would her wig and contacts be enough to protect her? Her intent was not to dress the same way twice during her stay here. Her well-calculated costuming would, she hoped, be enough to keep her alive throughout and after this assignment.

  She dragged her thoughts away from the edge of panic and focused instead on her extensive training and reliable intel. A few weeks ago while she was following a different lead, she’d been told this low life had entered the States, but he should never have been here. Not in person. He usually sent someone else to do the face-to-face work.

  But there was nothing usual about this particular business. His appearance shouldn’t have been a shock. She told herself it wasn’t a shock. Everyone who should know believed his father had commissioned the deadly virus up for sale this weekend. It might not fit his profile, but then this particular exchange wasn’t standard fare for the Isely crime family. The son might want to watch his father’s greatest coup go out into the criminal world at last. Maybe that was reason enough to take such a high risk.

  Regardless, she understood it was his abrupt appearance right across from her that could rattle her. Rattled spies didn’t last long. Experience kept her reactions in tune with the excited crowd and her gaze averted from her enemy. Her heart might be in her throat, but there wouldn’t be any outward sign of her distress. She had too much practice to give him that advantage.

  Immediately she considered her options. This was one of the most wanted and most evasive men of the criminal underworld. They’d almost caught him last month by accident, but somehow he’d slithered out of custody before the right authorities arrived.

  The player rolled again and won again, and in the subsequent roar of celebration, Gin slipped back and away, putting the other revelers between her and Isely.

  She tagged along on the fringe of a group of women cruising out toward the slot machines. If he was on to her, it would be obvious right away. Unfortunately, her worst-case scenario was confirmed when she spared a glance over her shoulder. It was too late to make a preemptive bold move, but it was still too soon to panic.

  There was always a way out.

  Well, almost always.

  She needed the right crowd or the right loner, she thought, turning toward the low lights of the nearest bar. And she needed one or the other right now.

  The crowd was light and
most of the patrons were paired up or in small groups. Gin sought the solo acts. There was another blonde woman in a deep emerald dress, only a shade or so darker than Gin’s, who might do in a pinch. Gin had the long-lost school chum routine down to a science.

  But her first choice would be a man. Men were typically less suspicious and far less likely to admit they couldn’t remember a hot chick from a prior rendezvous. She spotted a man in the corner sipping a cup of coffee and squinting into a book that was most likely a tutorial on blackjack. Too serious and sporting a wedding ring, she crossed him off her mental list.

  Then she noticed the ideal candidate at the other end of the bar. She strolled right up to the only familiar face she could potentially define as a friend in this town and pressed a light kiss to Specialist Grant’s cheek. “Oh, the whims of fate,” she said in a flat Midwestern accent.

  “More like the whims of my boss,” he replied, signaling the bartender.

  “Have you been waiting long?”

  “A couple of days. What’ll you have?”

  “White wine,” she told the bartender. Taking the barstool next to Jason, she swiveled so her knees brushed against his thigh.

  He glanced down and then gave her an interested half-grin. “You don’t have to bait me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He leaned closer. “I’m a sure thing, remember?”

  She tipped her head back and laughed, playing along. “That’s good to know.” Studying him, she wondered how much he’d had to drink. Any alcohol beyond a few sips to set his profile meant he was here for pleasure rather than business. Grant, she suspected, wasn’t the sort to bend the rules on a mission. His brown eyes were a little unfocused, his pupils dilated. So maybe he wasn’t here on business. Still, even in the midst of tying one on, he was her best bet to get out of here.

  Using the mirror behind the bar, she checked for Isely. He’d stepped just inside the doorway and was checking out the milling crowd. He didn’t come closer, but she could feel his gaze land on her back. If he didn’t know for sure, he’d suspected she was trouble. Well, Jason Grant could help her prove otherwise.