Page 9 of Stealth Mission

My phone is dinging as I drop it into the console.The boys are going to have a field day. I’ll be catching hell for days from Scout, Truck, Levi, Beast, and Justice. SEALs love ribbing the fuck out of each other.

Too bad they aren’t here to go with me tonight. I’d be fucking with them too for wearing a penguin suit.

With a grin on my face, I start the truck and cruise through town. It doesn’t take long. Four blocks. One stop sign.

Where I’m from, we’d call this place podunk.

The police station is still closed.

Weird.

But hey, this isn’t America. Maybe I’ll tape a note to the door for someone to call me about the bank heist.

I hang a quick left and head up a steep road. It climbs high above town, weaving through a dense canopy of trees. Soon the forest gives way to houses. Each growing in size and grandeur. Until I reach the top of the mountain and arrive at the most elaborate of all.

The mayor’s house.

A sign by the gate proclaims the property name: La Vista Prima.

The driveways—as in plural—are filled with shining cars. Most of them are expensive, some average, none are junk like the ones I grew up around.

Looking around, I pick a spot to park the incognito company truck that has a clear exit.

A flicker of light on the house catches my attention. Party guests are on a third floor balcony, overlooking the ocean. Light from the sunset catches on champagne flutes and cocktail dresses. Music drifts on the salty breeze.

Nice spot to take it all in.

Even better spot to dig for clues.

A thrill of excitement quickens my pulse as I drop my feet to the ground. I love the hunt. Getting an invite to this party while I was walking around Karma was my first stroke of good luck.

Not that having my arms around the raven-haired beauty wasn’t good luck. But that was a tease and has me thinking aboutways I can make our paths cross again. And if I’m really lucky, that’s about to happen tonight.

I’m fashionably late, so there’s no one around the front of the mansion as I approach. No guards. No guests.

The wide gold and white door is ajar. Beyond the threshold is a white marble floor with deep veins of golden color slicing across it. Just inside is a gold table, decked with white flowers in a sky-scraping gold glass vase.

I’m detecting a theme here.

As I step inside, I flick my gaze left and right.

Ah.There is the guard.

Machine gun in hand, the man looks me over with a reticent expression.

I step further inside. “Evenin’, I’m Walt Goodlove.”

Music from above floats down from the party upstairs. He’s still silent.

Sliding my hands in my pockets, I look up at the painted ceiling. “Nice place. The mayor requested my presence.”

When I look back at him, he nods once. Slowly.

“Ah, there you are.” A woman in a skin-tight green cocktail dress and six-inch heels clicks across the marble floor toward me.

For a second, I’m suspended in a weird headspace. This woman looks remarkably like Allison Weatherly, our target. But as my mind scans the image I have committed to memory, it checks off all the ways this woman is different.

Her tone has no accent. Completely neutral. “The mayor’s been asking for you.”

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