Undercover Protector. Molly O'Keefe
I’m sweating my ass off and I’m starving—”
“Shut up, Gordon,” Maggie said out of habit more than anything.
Curtis leaned close, his broad sweaty face illuminated by the red and green monitors. “This guy is smart, Maggie.”
“I know.” According to the file, Gomez had spent more time undercover than she had. His investigative journalism had taken him to some pretty scary places and the man always got out alive and with the story.
“And tough,” Curtis added.
“No kidding.” Gordon whistled through his teeth. “He wouldn’t even tell the Iraqis his name until they broke his arm in four places.”
Maggie swallowed and looked down at her clenched hands. He wouldn’t even tell the Iraqis his name. She could hardly fathom that kind of pain. Or that kind of strength.
“Don’t for a minute underestimate Caleb Gomez or let your guard down.”
“I got it, Curtis.” She tried to keep her frustration to a minimum. “Let me do my job.”
She was good undercover. She had the ability to turn her real self off. Maggie Fitzgerald disappeared and instead she became an instrument, a camera. Something sharp and smart that collected all information and stayed solidly in character. It made her a highly sought after undercover agent.
She was good. Now it was time for her to be the best.
Caleb Gomez was not going to be a problem.
“Hey.” Her boss grabbed her hand where it rested on the back door of the Municipal Utilities van she had spent way too much time in already. “I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake here—”
“Curtis, I was at the briefing. Benny Delgado is after Gomez—”
“No,” Gordon interrupted. “He means what’s at stake for us.”
The two men stared at her and she tried not to roll her eyes. These two could be so damn dramatic sometimes.
“We blow this and we’re back at robberies or celebrity stalkings,” Curtis said.
“And I can’t afford the pay cut,” Gordon added. “Daddy just bought a new car.”
These guys didn’t know the half of it. Failing to bring Delgado down would result in things far more devastating than losing this plum assignment.
“So, go in there and—” Curtis started to say.
“Be nice?” She tried to joke around, to lighten the heavy air in the van.
“Well, that’s a bit of a stretch.” Curtis grinned and Maggie didn’t take offense. She often wasn’t nice—it wasn’t part of the job.
“He was going to say shake your ass. Gomez has got to be lonely—”
“Shut up, Gordon.” Curtis yelled over his shoulder. “I was going to say just try and get the job.”
Maggie nodded, opened the door and blinked in the bright California sunshine.
She stepped down from the van and the door slammed shut behind her, somehow putting a special emphasis on how alone she was at the moment. Those guys in the van weren’t going to have to look Gomez in the eye and lie to him. This case hinged on her performance.
Fine by me, she thought. She did her best work alone. Always had. Always would.
She crossed the narrow residential street to the small hatchback that was her car or rather, Margaret Warren’s car.
Margaret Warren, a single mom who wanted nothing more than to raise her son away from the crime and congestion of Los Angeles.
Margaret Warren who had recently moved to Summerland and signed up with a local housekeeping service.
Margaret Warren who knew nothing about the seedy underbelly of the largest Los Angeles crime syndicate other than what she saw on the ten o’clock news.
And she had no idea that Caleb Gomez was the key to bringing it down. That was the bait in a complicated mousetrap.
That’s all. Margaret Warren, housekeeper.
Maggie checked the camera/microphone hidden in a tiny gold and rhinestone angel pin on her collar.
A housekeeper with a superstitious belief in guardian angels.
“You boys there?” she asked.
“Loud and clear.” Curtis’s voice was in her right ear thanks to an imperceptible receiver. The guys in the van would be able to hear everything she said and still give her instruction. She could do without the voices in her head, but Curtis was good and tweaked about this case, so she made the compromise. For today. If she got the job, there would be no camera and definitely no receiver. She couldn’t work this way.
“All right, just try and keep it down,” she told them.
Maggie drove up the hill toward Gomez’s house. He was nestled in the foothills, away from the more popular properties closer to the beach.
I bet he’s got a great view, she thought. She was able to catch glimpses of the wide blue ocean on her left between the flowering mountain laurel. On her right, wild sage and yellow wildflowers crawled up the mountain. She thought for a brief moment of her apartment and her view of Mr. Sayer’s garbage can.
The views of the middle of nowhere sure beat the views of city living.
The road ended in a cul-de-sac and Maggie pulled into the only driveway, between two large jasmine bushes that provided nearly impenetrable privacy.
His house was a one-story ranch with a typical stucco exterior. She faced a garage and a nondescript back door. There were no windows on this side of the house. Just cracked white stucco and red bougainvillea growing wild.
The lawn, what there was of it, was neglected and turning brown in the heat.
Reports indicated Gomez had a dog. A big one. The last agent who supplied surveillance information said the dog was a “freaking monster.”
Maggie looked around for the freaking monster but there was no sign. Hopefully, Gomez had the good sense to lock him up for their interview.
“What’s the holdup, Fitzgerald?” Curtis asked.
“Looking for that dog.”
“Forget the dog and let’s get the show on the road. Your appointment was for one, it’s now five after.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and got out of the car.
She took a deep breath, adjusted the pin on her lapel and rang the doorbell. From inside the house she heard the deep bellowing of a dog.
She could also hear a distinct slide and thump sound that got louder as it got closer to the door.
She closed her eyes and sent a quick promise heavenward.
I swear, Patrick, I’ll make good on everything that was done to you.
Maggie wasn’t sure how to react when Gomez opened the door. Margaret Warren would have no idea that the man whose house she had been sent to by the agency had been disfigured in a fire.
Maggie Fitzgerald, of course, had seen the Army medical reports.
The door swung open before she had a chance to decide her course of action.
“Margaret Warren?” A man, a big man wearing blue jeans and boots, stood in the shadows. She couldn’t even see the top half of his body thanks to the dark hallway and the very bright glare from the bay of windows twenty yards behind him.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Gordon said in her ear. “We need a better picture than that.”
She blinked and shielded her eyes. “Yes, I’m—”