by Ronie Kendig
“You’re a pacifist,” Hristoff taunted.
Iskra sniffed. “Hardly.” Straightening the top she’d changed into after the smoky club, she made her way across the suite to the stocked bar and crystal stemware. “But I like the Misyon and Aksoy. It’d be a shame to get banned.” At the small bar, she lifted a snifter and tipped it toward him. “Brandy?”
“No time.” Hristoff’s face was a façade of irritation and intention—all business. “Pack your things. We’re leaving.” He moved to the far window, where he slid a hand over that stupid goatee.
It stung that he assumed she hadn’t gotten the book. That he hadn’t even asked. Why was he here? Unless . . .
She eyed him. Years ago, he had resembled the Irish actor who’d played a German hero during WWII, then a science-fiction icon. But Hristoff had aged a lot in the last few years, lines scratching gray shadows beneath his eyes that matched the streaks at his temples and in his facial hair. Though in his early fifties, he had lost none of his ferocity. In fact, she believed he’d become more short-tempered. More willing to do violence. His stance might seem casual to most observers, but the way he rubbed his thumb and middle finger together indicated he was stressed. Or angry.
Biting her lower lip, she set down her glass, sensing that though he’d told her to pack, he wasn’t done with her yet. Not with the way he strangled her with his silence.
Tell him. Tell him you found the book.
Hristoff’s anger would go away, and his favor would return. He’d be pleased. Maybe relent in whatever he’d dreamed up as punishment for making him come after her. It probably had to do with Bisera.
No. She couldn’t. Because then she couldn’t give it to Veratti. Or the American, who could be in the elevator even now with no idea the trouble he would walk into.
But he had to expect that, right? He seemed smart, a thinker. So that begged the question—why would he come? To talk? What other explanation? She glanced to the bedroom, the bed meticulously made up. Unless he was like Hristoff in that respect, too.
Annoyance flickered through Hristoff’s pale complexion. His Roman nose always made the ridge of his brow appear tangled in a knot of anger. The longer his silence lingered, the further back in time she wandered to find some sin that had brought him here. Because there was no way he could know that Veratti had set a demand on her life.
“I had thought,” he began, his voice gravelly, devoid of emotion, “that showing you Bisera on the phone would be a reminder of where you belong. Where you should be. What you have to protect.”
Desperation laced a heady cocktail in her veins. She swallowed, resting her hands on the cool marble of the liquor bar, but told herself there was a reason she’d become his most prized asset: she was very good at deception.
“And it worked. I planned to check out in the morning and return home. Just as we agreed.” The bar formed a barrier, and he was notoriously sensitive to blocking, so she moved around it and forced herself to cross the room. “My reservation ends tomorrow. If you don’t believe me, ask Mr. Aksoy.”
Brow tight, he peered down at her. “I have.” His expression held something she could not peg. Something she hadn’t seen before. If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was sadness. Grief.
Her heart tripped. Veratti. Hristoff knew she’d betrayed him. But how? And how had he gotten here so fast?
Head down, he returned to the window like he was wrestling with this. He shifted and angled a shoulder at her, a dark smugness taking over his face. Antipathy. “He is dead.”
Numb, breath stolen, Iskra shut down her heart. “Who?” Pale blue eyes barged past her barriers. Somehow, standing here with Hristoff and death hovering so near, she realized how much hope she had allowed to seep into her pores at the club. The American seemed so capable. Smart. Clearly she’d been desperate, thinking he could help her. And that had killed him.
“So you care now, da?” He sneered over his shoulder. “Go. Pack your bags.” His words were barely restrained.
“Who?” she insisted. “Who is dead? What have I done that you would kill someone to punish me?”
Lightning sparked through his expression. “You want to do this now?” His brows rose in challenge, and he looked around the suite. “Here?”
She recoiled.
“Go! Pack!”
“Who—”
“Go!” he roared.
Withdrawing, she stared at him. He might have killed a man, but he hadn’t harmed Bisera. That alone turned her toward the bedroom.
“Elevator’s empty,” Ludak murmured from the door.
Iskra entered the room to find her clothing-strewn suitcase perched precariously on the bed. They’d already started packing for her. Most likely to conceal that they’d rummaged through her things, searching for . . . what? Evidence that she’d been unfaithful?
She breathed a snort as she finished what they’d started. To be unfaithful required faithfulness, which relied on a promise or agreement between two consenting parties. There had been neither. Except that she agreed she did not want to be bloodied and broken or dead.
Broken couldn’t be helped. But bruised and bloodied . . .
“What happened with the book?” Hristoff demanded from the doorway.
Folding the black T-shirt she’d worn beneath her suit jacket the night she’d escaped the facility, she remembered the way Pale Eyes hadn’t taken the shot. The way he’d punched the doors when she’d fled. And the way his eyes twinkled in that club. “Nothing,” she said, unwilling to divulge that she had the book. Veratti was a better option.
“It’s imperative, Iskra. Veratti will kill every one of us if you fail.”
She did not care about her own life. It was as good as forfeit, no matter which path she took. She dropped the shirt in the case, grabbed a pair of jeans from the bed.
“Did you sleep with him?”
A bolt of heat shot down Iskra’s neck and spine. “No.”
“I thought you didn’t know who I killed,” he growled. “I’ll ask again. Did you sleep with him?”
“No.” She snapped the suitcase closed. “No no no no!” She twisted to face him. “I haven’t slept with anyone. I don’t want to sleep with anyone. I don’t need to know who you killed to know I haven’t slept with anyone. There’s no one I have interest in. How much plainer can I—”
Hristoff grabbed her shoulders. Glowered. “That’s a lot of anger for someone with no interest.”
She wrested away and straightened her shirt. “I am not playing to your jealousies!”
His hand flew. Struck her cheek, spinning her across the bed. The suitcase caught her side, and she yelped. He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her face close as he leaned over her. “My jealousies? This isn’t jealousy.” He sneered. “I own you. Paid for you. Trained you. I feed you. Fund you. You give nothing to any man. Not money. Not sex. Not anything! Everything you are—I own.”
Iskra gasped through the pain in her ribs.
“You have a job to do. Everything depends on it. Your life and B—”
“Yes, I know!” She winced at the pinch on her hair. At the pinch of him on her life.
Hristoff shoved her against the soft mattress. “I see you need more lessons when we get back.” He straightened his scarf. Ran a hand through his hair. “You bring out the worst in me. But that’s what it will take to be sure you do your job.”
He stalked out, muttering to Ruslan to get her suitcase and for Ludak to call the elevator and notify the car they were coming down.
Trembling with fury, Iskra dug her fingernails into the comforter and coiled it into her fist. She would not kill him. She would endure it. She would be smart. Compliant. Bisera needed her to think past the anger. Freedom for Bisera demanded obeisance just a little longer.
“Iskra,” Ruslan said in a mixture of rough and gentle. “Now.”
She pushed off the bed. Gathered her pride and courage, then lifted the makeup case and her long cream jacket. “A moment. I nee
d to fix my face.” She could feel the heat where his hand had stung her cheek. Drawing attention would also draw his anger. She touched up the spot with base, blush, and a highlighter, but she worried about the welt that was rising. Though she tried a cold cloth, it was useless. He’d worn that accursed ring again.
A large shape loomed behind her, and she glanced at Ruslan as she repacked the travel case. “Who did he kill?”
“Vasily.”
“Va—” Iskra sucked in a breath.
“It wasn’t pretty.”
She fumbled the case, her hands shaking. Merciful Mother . . . How had he found out about Vasily? About the yacht? And so quickly? Impossible. It was impossible to learn so much . . .
Vasily was dead. Because of her. Aches bloomed through her breast. Tears threatened.
“After Valery, to find you’d been with Vasily—”
“I wasn’t with him,” she spat.
But it didn’t matter now. She wasn’t sure even the ancient book would be enough to stave off Hristoff’s rage, especially since he thought she’d been sleeping with the brother of the one man she’d given herself to.
And Hristoff had killed both brothers.
Oh, Vasily. Pozhaluysta, prosti menya.
Asking forgiveness of the dead marked a new low for Iskra, because he could neither grant nor deny it. However, she knew Vasily would grant it if he could. She hadn’t been blind to his attraction, but she hadn’t needed or wanted that from him. Just his assistance. He was the only person she had trusted. And now, because of her, he was gone.
“It’s a mistake,” Ruslan warned. “Grieve later. He’s too angry.”
He is not alone in that. Taking the cue, she eyed her cheek in the mirror, refusing to meet her own gaze. Threading her arm through her satchel, she followed Ruslan out of the bedroom.
Hristoff again stood by the windows, a formidable brooding presence.
The ding of the elevator rang outside the suite. “No. Back in,” Ludak barked from the corridor. “Go down.”
“No.” Hristoff swiveled from the windows, tossing back the tails of his long black trench coat. “Hold it.”
“We can call another,” Ludak said.
“No time.” Without acknowledging her or Ruslan, Hristoff stormed into the hall and entered the elevator.
She turned to it and saw Pale Eyes. Her breath hitched, but she did not slow or stop as she joined Hristoff. Enough men had died for her today. Ruslan barged in, pushing Iskra closer to Hristoff and taking up position behind her. Ludak crowded in.
It was hard not to glance back at the American. Her eyes skidded to the side but stopped when they hit Ruslan’s plainly visible sidearm. She couldn’t risk the American saying anything or stepping into this situation, or he’d die. So how did she let him know that? How would they reconnect later?
“The artifact you sent me after,” she said to Hristoff in Russian, adding a hefty dose of irritation, “that is why I was with Vasily.”
“Later,” Hristoff growled.
“He was helping me find it. He wasn’t a love interest.”
Nostrils flaring, Hristoff gripped the soft flesh of her arm. “I said later.” He looked over her shoulder at the American.
Wincing, she drew up. Silenced herself. Hoped the display she’d created between herself and Hristoff was enough to warn off the American. He might be a soldier, but he wasn’t prepared for Hristoff.
“She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she?” Hristoff’s expression billowed with possession and challenge.
“Sorry?”
The voice was so strange and nasally, it sounded like a different person than the American she’d met in Emir’s club. Iskra turned to verify who had spoken but felt another pinch under her arm. With a whimper, she jerked back, furious that Hristoff was treating her like this in front of Pale Eyes.
“Yes, sir,” came the nasally voice again, “this here hotel is something else. Never seen nothin’ like it.”
Hristoff’s glower deepened, and she caught his nearly imperceptible signal to Ruslan. Ludak’s chest bumped her spine as he wedged past, then his presence faded. He’d probably stepped back, forcing the American farther into the corner. Away from Iskra.
The shift of balance as the elevator came to rest warned Iskra that the doors would soon open. And she had no way to find the American again. Which meant Bisera would die.
FIFTEEN
HOTEL MISYON, ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Shoving aside his irritation over the way Peychinovich manhandled Viorica, Leif stepped out of the elevator. He was smart enough to recognize when the odds were against him. When a fight meant inevitable failure. He detested men like Peychinovich, who treated women like property, and competition like body counts. They were cowards. And those thugs who’d pinned him to the back of the elevator . . .
Leif watched Peych drag Viorica across the hotel foyer, which smelled of trouble. Buzzed a dozen different alarms in his tactical brain. He had no time to slow, but he took in his surroundings. Particularly the guy in jeans and a hoodie who tucked his chin and lifted his wrist to his mouth, moving away fast. Two shifting shadows beneath the lamplight across the street took off in opposite directions.
Clerks out of sight. Empty lobby.
Then came the growl of an engine. Screams outside.
Guards lurched, bringing Peych to a dead stop. The steel magnate angled toward—but didn’t look at—Viorica, his attention still on the commotion.
The hollow thwack of metal impacting metal deafened the world to anything else.
Familiar faces appeared in the uproar, and a gallon of stress whooshed out as Leif spotted his team engaging Peych’s. Shattering glass and the report of weapon fire joined the chaos. He silently thanked the guys for being on top of things. For giving him an out. A chance to do what he must. He was moving toward her before his brain caught up.
As Peych sought cover, Viorica spun, her hair splintering across her face as she snapped around. Her gaze was shot through with painful desperation. Apology. Fear.
So much fear.
He knew that look, because he’d lived it.
Instinct took over. He extended his hand. Didn’t breathe a word. Didn’t betray their collusion. She latched on, her grip like a vise.
Somehow they both knew what to do. Where to go. They sprinted to the right, down the narrow hall to the garage. At shouts from the lobby, he drew his weapon as he propelled her ahead, then whipped around to face the direction they’d come. Waiting. Expecting to be discovered.
A guard broke into the corridor.
Viorica slipped in front of him. “Hold me,” she breathed.
Realizing her intent, he hauled her back against himself like a shield and aimed at the guard. She screamed. Bare feet—she’d kicked off her shoes?—toed the wall as she shoved. Thrust both of them backward. What was she doing?
He stumbled over a threshold. Swung out an arm to steady himself and found the steel door to the garage. He shifted back, falling through it. Spun her around.
She landed on both feet and vaulted off the steps into the garage well.
Disbelief—she’d done that on purpose, guided them into the garage while playing the victim—choked Leif as he slammed the door shut and heard the slap of her feet against the concrete. She was leaving. He sprinted after her.
She looked back. Not out of fear. But for direction.
“Go! Up and right.”
Viorica surged ahead, moving fast for someone with bare feet. Like the pro she was, she darted up to the garage exit and pressed herself against the concrete wall. With stealth, she did a quick recon. Checked the street.
Leif itched to do the same. Didn’t trust her to lead him into the open safely. What if this was an ambush? He leaned forward.
Her arm slapped his chest, pushing him back with a huffed, “Wait.” She rolled out of point and slid to his other side.
A second later, two men rushed past the opening.
Crap. He’d nearly gotten t
hem caught. He checked the street. “Go go go,” he breathed, motioning her forward.
She hugged the wall, scurrying up the street. Following, Leif monitored their six, three, and nine as he walked backward. He wanted to cut through the anorexic alleys, but in the seconds he’d taken to ensure their safety, she’d covered thirty feet.
Shouts from the garage were almost swallowed by howls of outrage loud and distinct enough to force Leif into a lope. He glanced back. One of the guards swiveled toward him.
Leif abandoned stealth for speed.
A woman emerged from a shop. He whirled around her, stealing a glimpse of the two—no, three—guards barreling after him. One lifted a weapon.
Stupid. The shot would go wild. No telling where it would hit.
He pushed himself, gaining on Viorica as she burned up the distance. Crossed the street. Rounded a corner.
When he did the same, he found nothing but an empty sidewalk. A beat-up white sedan lumbered down the steep incline. Leif cursed. He’d lost her. Or had she done this on—
An olive face peered from the shadows of a small alcove.
His heart thudded as he leapt after her. His shoulder collided with a wall. Head smacked it. “Au—”
“Quiet,” she whispered as a wood-slat door in front of him eased closed. “Here, back.” She tugged his shirt, and he allowed her lead. Trusting. Which was strange because he barely trusted his team. But he had his weapon. He mentally touched the tactical knife strapped to his ankle.
The musty smell of the dark space made the walls close in on him. A sliver in the door slats allowed a line of sight on the alley. Behind him, Viorica placed her palms on his shoulder blades to give herself room. Warmth radiated through his shirt. Her breaths were quick and shallow. It awakened something in him, the need to protect. The desire to give her the safety she sought.
He swallowed, listening, monitoring the corner where the door met plaster and light brazenly pushed into the space. But as feet pounded the pavement, he realized if they were discovered, he didn’t have enough room to take a shot. He shifted his right boot back.
