The Ultimate Betrayal

by Kat Martin

  “Thank the good Lord,” the mother whispered, smoothing blond curls back from her daughter’s forehead and wiping tears from her cheeks.

  Bran propped the little boy against his shoulder and started back toward the stairs. “Hey, buddy. Everything’s okay.” Teddy burrowed into his neck, his chubby arms tight around him. Watching Bran with the child, Jessie felt a pinch in her heart.

  “Your mama’s right up there.” Bran pointed toward the railing. “See her?”

  “Mama!” Teddy reached up to her, waving his arms in the air.

  “Teddy!”

  “Go on,” Jessie said to the mother. “I’ll watch your daughter till you get back.” The woman raced down the stairs, meeting Bran and her son halfway.

  “He’s okay,” Bran said. “Just a little shook-up, is all. I’ll carry him the rest of the way up for you.”

  They climbed the stairs together, and at the top, Bran handed little Teddy into his mother’s arms. The little girl wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs.

  “I’m Kira,” the woman said tearfully. “This is Teddy and my daughter is Mary Ellen. Thank you for what you did. Thank you both so much.”

  Bran said nothing. If the men hadn’t come after Jessie, none of it would have happened.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” Kira asked.

  “Where’s your husband?” Jessie asked.

  “He’s in a meeting. He’s here for a medical conference. We decided to make it a family vacation.”

  “We’re checking out,” Bran said. “Those men won’t be back once we’re gone. Be better for us if you didn’t call the cops. They’ll want to talk to us, and we need to get out of here.”

  Kira swallowed and held tightly to her children. “You helped us. It’s our turn to help you. Unless something else happens, I won’t call.”

  “Thank you,” Jessie said.

  “Take care of yourself,” said Bran.

  “You, too,” the woman replied.

  EIGHT

  Jessie walked into the suite, Bran right behind her. For a moment, he stood glaring down at her, his hands on his hips. There was a cut next to his lower lip and a bruise forming on his cheek. She wanted to reach out and touch him, make sure he was okay.

  He ran his fingers through his too-long hair. “You were amazing out there.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  His expression hardened. “Don’t do it again. Next time I tell you to do stay put, you do it. You got that?”

  Irritation trickled through her. “No, I don’t got that. I’m an army brat. I don’t stand by and let people I care about get hurt. You got that?”

  Surprise widened his eyes, then they crinkled at the corners and his mouth edged into a smile. She had the most shocking desire to kiss him.

  “Yeah, I guess I do. In that case, thanks.” He sighed. “Couple of lowlife flunkies. I was hoping to take one of them down without hurting him too much, find out who the hell they worked for.”

  He was worried about hurting that massive mountain of a man? And she’d thought he needed her help.

  “It wasn’t your fault he got away,” she said. “Kira and her kids walked out at exactly the wrong time.”

  “The way those guys moved, they’re ex-military. The long hair and beard aren’t regulation so they’re not active duty. Could be mercenaries, ex-military for hire, but they’re definitely not at the top of the food chain.”

  “The guy with the man bun had a tattoo on his neck. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it looked like a gang tat of some kind.”

  “Yeah, I caught a glimpse, not enough to tell what it was. You’re right, it could be a gang tat. Believe it or not, there are gangs in the army, same as anywhere else.”

  “What about the license plate number? Did you get a look at it?”

  “I got the number, but odds are the plate is stolen. I’ll run it down, see what I can find out, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  “How did they know we were here?”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “Good question. Either someone at the base put a tail on us or they’re tracking you, may have been tracking you all along. I was watching for a tail, didn’t see any sign of one, which means...”

  He strode over to his black canvas duffel, tossed it up on the sofa, and unzipped it. He pulled out a handheld, black plastic device with tiny lights on the front.

  “What is it?”

  “Bug detector.”

  She followed him into the bedroom, watched him check her carry-on, then run the device over the clothes in the closet. Finding nothing, he walked back out and checked her purse. LED lights began to flicker, growing brighter and brighter, and a buzzing sound went off.

  “Fuck.” Bran grabbed her purse and dumped the contents on the sofa, then started digging around inside. He found a small round chip about the size of a thumbnail in the bottom of one of the pockets and held it up.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Carrying it over to the stone-floored entry, he dropped the disk on the floor and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot.

  “There’s a good chance your car is bugged, too. That’s probably how they knew you were flying into Dallas. Tracked you to the Denver Airport. If they watched you check in, it wouldn’t be hard to figure which flight you were on.”

  “So they called someone in Dallas and had them waiting at the terminal when I landed.”

  He nodded. “Hired guns. Like you said, they were probably watching for you, followed your taxi to The Max.”

  Her hand shook as she started putting the contents of her purse back inside. “How did they get the bug into my bag?”

  “You were on the base asking questions before you flew to Dallas, right?”

  “That’s right. Once I decided to look into the theft, I drove down from Denver and stayed overnight. I drove down again right before I left for Texas. Both times I got stonewalled by just about everyone. They wanted me to back off, but I told them I was going to keep digging.”

  “Who, specifically, wanted you to back off?”

  “Thomas Anson, Dad’s counsel, for one. You heard what he said. He thought I would be better served to get on with my life.”

  “Who else?”

  “Charles Frazier. I spoke to him about the theft, asked him how many munitions had been stolen. He was evasive, just said the weapons would be worth a lot of money.”

  “Anson and Frazier both visited your father the day he died.”

  She nodded. “According to the list, Frazier came in with his assistant, Andrew Horton. He’s a young guy, a computer specialist. I met him, but he was on his way out, so I didn’t really get to talk to him.”

  “With any luck, we’ll be talking to Frazier tomorrow. Maybe we can speak to Horton while we’re there.”

  “There was also a woman on the list. Mara Ramos. Dad never mentioned her.”

  “We’ll track her down.” Bran glanced regretfully around the beautiful suite. “We need to pack up and get out of here before those guys or someone else decides to take another crack at us. I’m sorry to say, the next place won’t be nearly so nice. We need to find a spot with a lower profile.”

  “I can do that while you’re driving,” Jessie said.

  “You could, but you need to take the battery out of your phone so they can’t track us. Mine’s encrypted. It’s also got antitracking software.”

  Jessie had to admit she was impressed.

  “There’s a disposable you can use in my gear bag.”

  She took the battery out of her cell, went over and got the disposable and stuck it in her purse. Quickly repacking her carry-on, she towed it into the living room.

  “You ready?” Bran asked.

  “Whenever you are.”

  He grabbed his duffel and slung it over his shoulder. “Time to get t
he hell out of Dodge.”

  * * *

  Bran’s pistol rested on the center console as the SUV rolled along in the darkness. While he made evasive moves to be sure no one followed, Jessie brought up Expedia on the disposable phone and found a Holiday Inn and Suites that met their needs but was a little off the beaten path.

  The suite Jessie had found was basic, just a bedroom, bathroom, living room, and small galley kitchen. The rooms were decorated with the usual hotel furniture, brown veneered tables, a dark brown tweed sofa in the living room that unfolded into a queen-size bed, a cheap pair of lamps.

  Bran figured the sofa bed would be lumpy and uncomfortable, but at least the suite was roomy. They set up their laptops at opposite ends of the dining table, and both of them went to work.

  Jessie had told him she made notes every day on the information they gathered. “I document everything, then speculate on what it might mean and decide what actions I should take next.”

  “Sounds useful,” he’d said. And meant it. It was good to keep tabs on the investigation. Since Jessie was handling that part of the job, he didn’t have to worry about it.

  So far she’d only grumbled a little about having to give up internet access on her laptop for fear of being tracked, while Bran’s was even more protected than his phone.

  While she worked, he phoned Tabitha Love, The Max’s computer guru, a brainy female who knew the ins and outs of the internet like nobody he had ever met.

  “Hey, Tab, I need a favor,” he said when she picked up.

  “Hey, Bran, no problem. What can I do for you?”

  “I need you to run a plate number. Got a hunch it’s stolen, but I need to be sure.” He rattled off the vehicle description and Colorado plate number EQZ-555.

  “I’ll call you back,” Tabby said. Since she also did occasional work for law enforcement, she had access to all sorts of useful information.

  “Who’s Tab?” Jessie asked from the far end of the table.

  Bran noticed the faint slump in her shoulders. After the day she’d had, she had to be exhausted, but Jessie rarely complained.

  “Tabitha Love. She’s a computer whiz who works for The Max.” Tabby wasn’t just smart, she was a genius, and distinctly her own person, with short black hair, shaved on the sides and moussed on top. She had enough silver in her nose, ears, and tongue to drive up the price on the stock market.

  “She can get a name off the plates?”

  “Maybe.” He could read the fatigue in Jessie’s face. Just thinking about the men who had come after her and what might have happened if he hadn’t been with her made his stomach burn.

  Nothing he could do about it now. Shoving his concern for her aside, he went back to work on the keyboard, searching for information on paramilitary groups in the area, men who might be willing to hire themselves out for whatever dirty work paid the most. There were five militia units listed, each with dozens of members.

  But something about the two men didn’t feel right. He wished he’d gotten a better glimpse of that tattoo. Dammit, they needed more intel. The trick was to stay alive until they got it.

  He worked for a while, then looked up to see Jessie emerge from the bedroom in her short white terry cloth robe. Her legs were smooth and tanned, her softly curling, reddish blond hair clipped at the nape of her neck, her small feet bare. Bran felt a rush of heat that went straight to his groin.

  “I’m totally dragging. Maybe a swim will perk me up.”

  He shifted to get comfortable inside his jeans, and clamped down on his lustful thoughts. “A swim, huh? In case you’ve forgotten, tomorrow’s the first of November.”

  She grinned. “This place might not be as luxurious as the last one, but it’s got something the other place didn’t have.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “An indoor heated swimming pool. I need some exercise. I won’t be gone long.”

  Bran shoved up from his chair. “You won’t be gone at all unless I go with you.”

  She just shrugged. “Fine. Grab your suit and let’s go.”

  “I don’t need a suit. I’m on the job.” He plucked his pistol off the table and clipped the holster back onto his belt, crossed the room and pulled open the door. The corridor was clear. “After you.”

  Jessie sighed. “This bodyguard thing gets old pretty fast.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Best way to make it end is to find those missing munitions and clear your father’s name.”

  “I’ll go for that.”

  A few minutes later Bran stood at the end of the long, rectangular pool. Being off-season, the pool was mostly deserted, just an older couple sitting on the steps at the shallow end, talking quietly between themselves. Determined to keep his thoughts on the straight and narrow and avoid another cold shower, Bran forced himself to look away as Jessie shed her robe.

  He turned to catch a glimpse of her diving gracefully into the pool, skimming along like a fish underwater, her head popping to the surface halfway down the pool. He watched as she began swimming laps with smooth, efficient strokes and tried not to imagine what kind of swimsuit she was wearing, couldn’t really tell from the brief glimpses of her body as she carved her way through the water.

  At the opposite end of the pool, she made a racer’s turn, flipping over and shoving off the wall, then headed back his way. At his end of the pool, she made another turn, her pretty little behind surfacing right in front of him, making him groan. The orange-striped bikini he now knew she wore suddenly seemed way too small, and perspiration popped out on his forehead.

  She stroked her way to the end of the pool and back again, made another turn, and kept swimming. He was hard inside his jeans, unable to look away as she continued to swim, didn’t stop until she had completed twenty laps. By then he had imagined ten different ways to have her in the warm, enticing water.

  Dammit to hell and back.

  To make matters worse, at the final lap, she surged out of the pool right in front of him and came to her feet dripping wet just a few feet away.

  He swallowed. Her nipples were hard little pebbles, her legs shapely and trim, her waist so tiny he could span it with his hands. His mouth went dry. He handed her the towel she had brought and prayed she’d be quick about putting on her robe.

  Instead, she unclipped her hair and shook it out, spraying him with drops of water and grinning. It was all he could do not to drag her down on the pool deck and bury himself as deep as he possibly could.

  “If you’re finished,” he groused, “I could use something to eat. Let’s go back to the room and call for pizza, and you can get dressed.”

  The words brought up the image of her sweet little ass flipping over in the water, and inwardly he groaned. He couldn’t remember such a strong craving for a woman, but maybe it was just that he knew he couldn’t have her.

  Finally she put on her robe, and he released a sigh of relief.

  “Let’s go,” he said sharply.

  She flicked him a sideways glance. “You’re awfully grumpy. You should have joined me. The water was really relaxing.”

  The only thing that would relax him right now was about three rounds in bed with her. Not trusting himself to touch her, he tipped his head to indicate which way to go, and she started walking back along the pool deck the way they had come. Bran fell in beside her.

  He had thought this job was going to be hard. Now he knew exactly how hard it was. Pun intended. Time to get the job done and get back home before he did something he would regret.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t regret it at all.

  Exactly what he was afraid of.

  * * *

  Halloween night. A full moon, the wind howling. People roaming the streets dressed like fucking dead people. It suited Vlad’s foul mood perfectly.

  Vladimir Petrov wasn’t actually R
ussian. He just liked pretending he was. Vlad’s real first name was Janos, and according to his grandmother on his mother’s side, he was Czechoslovakian. Ancestry.com agreed—at least 30 percent.

  Of course, he’d been born in the States, as American as his friend, Harley Graves, aka Gravedigger, Digger to the guys in the White Dragons.

  Vlad clenched his fist. He and Digger had fucked up royally tonight. They were being paid a shit ton of money to take care of the girl. Should have been simple, would have been if it weren’t for the cocky bastard she was with.

  Two against one, he and Digger both ex-army, still in prime condition, training a couple days a week. It should have been easy. But the guy they’d come up against was no average soldier. The way he handled himself, he was spec ops for sure, and as good as Vlad had ever seen.

  Thank Christ, Digger had been smart enough to get the truck so they could get the hell out of there.

  Vlad clenched his jaw, dreading the report they would have to make to the man who had hired them—not a guy you wanted to disappoint. Guy like that—Weaver, he called himself. Just Weaver. Good chance you could wind up buzzard meat out in the desert.

  Vlad scratched his chin beneath his thin blond beard and glanced over at Digger, whose mood was as foul as his own. They were supposed to check in when the job was done, get a location from Weaver to pick up the money they’d earned. But they had failed tonight, and with Weaver, failure wasn’t an option.

  A shudder of dread rolled down his spine.

  He looked over at Digger, who was pacing the floor of the apartment, wearing a hole in the cheap brown-shag carpeting. “I been thinking. There’s no reason we have to call in tonight.”

  Digger paused. He rubbed the side of his neck just above his tat. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean our time hasn’t completely run out. If we could find the girl, we could make another run at her and still meet our deadline.”

  Digger grunted, his features grim. “Odds are she’ll still be with her Captain America boyfriend.”

  “Maybe. Maybe it won’t matter. Not if we can come up with a better plan.”