by Elle Kennedy
If he didn’t know any better, he would have suspected she was high as a kite on something, but Juliet hadn’t struck him as a user. Besides, the pain in her voice was unmistakable. She was wounded. Fuck, she was wounded and alone on a whole other continent.
“Stay where you are,” he finally ordered. “Someone will be there soon.”
No response. And no more breathing sounds.
As the phone beeped in his ear, he realized Juliet had hung up.
Shit.
Shooting to his feet, Ethan raked a hand through his hair and quickly went over his options.
Option one: Stay put and pass Juliet’s message along to Trevor and Isabel when they checked in hours from now.
But that would mean ruining the couple’s honeymoon, because Isabel would hop right back on the plane to help her injured colleague. And who knew what kind of shape Juliet would be in by the time Isabel got there? Not only would Juliet have to wait for Isabel to land in Hawaii, but also for the twelve or so hours it would take Isabel to get to Europe.
His second option was to contact Noelle, but clearly Juliet had already tried that without any success.
Option three: Get someone else to answer the SOS. He’d call up a few contacts, arrange for a trusted medical professional to tend to Juliet, and while the doc took care of her, one of Ethan’s teammates would make his way to the wounded operative. Abby might be able to . . . No, Abby and Kane were heading up an extraction in Bolivia, he remembered.
D was off rotation, though. Maybe . . . No, there was no point in involving the surly mercenary, especially when Ethan could easily do the job himself.
You don’t even know the woman.
No, he didn’t know her. In fact, he wasn’t sure he even liked her, which was damn ironic, seeing as he was about to come to her rescue.
“For Isabel’s sake,” he muttered to himself.
Right, he would do this for Isabel. And for Trevor. The couple had gone through so much to be together. They’d earned this quality time, and he’d be damned if he interrupted their newlywed bliss.
With a heavy breath, he glanced around the cozy living room, his gaze resting on the gorgeous stone fireplace he’d yet to make use of.
So much for his quiet mini vacation.
Looked like he was going to Belarus. In the dead of winter.
Jeez.
It didn’t sound at all appealing, but what other choice did he have? Juliet had stepped up and helped the team when they’d needed her last year.
The least he could do was repay the favor.
Chapter 2
Forty-eight hours earlier
The phone rang at three in the morning, but Juliet wasn’t sleeping. Her companion, on the other hand, was snoring softly beside her, so she was careful not to jostle him as she slid out from between the black silk sheets and tiptoed across the dark hotel suite to the armchair on which she’d left her purse. Her cell phone’s generic ringtone sped up, indicating it would bump over to voice mail soon, but she fished it out of her bag in the nick of time.
She almost didn’t pick up when she glimpsed the unfamiliar number, until she noticed the country code. Her spine went rigid. 375. That was Belarus. And she knew only one person in Belarus.
It had to be Henry, but why wasn’t he calling from any of his usual numbers? The late hour didn’t raise her guard; for a man with a genius IQ, Henry clearly hadn’t grasped the concept of time zones, because he always seemed to call her in the wee hours of the morning. But the number . . . that’s what made her uneasy.
“Hello?” she murmured as she lifted the phone to her ear.
A quick glance at the bed told her that Joe was still sleeping soundly. Or wait—maybe his name was John. Definitely started with a J, but she hadn’t paid much attention to the introduction portion of their flirtatious encounter at the hotel bar. She’d invited the man up to her room for his rock-solid physique and handsome face, not his name. It was sex, pure and simple. That’s all she’d wanted from Joe/John, though, in all honesty, the hour they’d spent in the sack had been the furthest thing from mind-blowing. If she had to pick an adjective to describe it, she’d probably go with adequate.
“Is this Juliet Mason?” a female voice inquired in heavily accented English.
Juliet’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Sasha Petrova. I’m a surgical nurse at St. Anne’s Hospital in Minsk and I’m calling on behalf of Henry Jonathan Albright—this number was listed under his emergency contact information. Are you Juliet Mason, Mr. Albright’s sister?”
Juliet felt all the blood drain from her face as cold fear seeped into her bones. Frowning, she hurried out of the bedroom, closed the door behind her, and stepped into the living area of the suite. Across the room, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the bright neon lights of Las Vegas, shining bright despite the late hour. She approached the windows in nothing but a pair of skimpy panties, uneasiness trickling through her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sharply. “What happened to Henry?”
“Are you Ms. Mason?”
“Yes, goddamn it! Now tell me what happened to my brother.”
“Mr. Albright was brought in several hours ago with four gunshot wounds to the abdomen,” the nurse said gravely.
Juliet gasped. “What?”
“There was extensive damage to multiple organs, as well as internal bleeding, and he was just taken to surgery. The surgeons are hoping to repair the damage and control the bleeding . . .”
Juliet saw a but coming, and, sure enough, the nurse continued after a long pause. “But I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good, Ms. Mason. Dr. Vlacic asked me to contact Mr. Albright’s next of kin.”
“How long will he be in surgery?” Juliet asked briskly, already moving away from the window.
“Several more hours, I believe, but I’m afraid his chances of survival are—”
“I’ll be on the next plane out. Tell those surgeons they’d better do everything in their power to keep my brother alive until I get there.”
She found it hard to breathe as she hung up the phone and crept back into the bedroom, where a sleeping Joe/John was completely ignorant to the turbulent emotions swirling inside her.
Four gunshot wounds to the abdomen.
Shit, what the hell had happened? How had Henry gotten himself shot?
She swallowed her panic as she searched for her clothes, dressing soundlessly while her companion continued to snore on the queen-size bed.
Henry couldn’t die.
He couldn’t.
He’d been Juliet’s rock when they were growing up, her only friend, her one confidante. He was two years younger than her, yet he’d always felt decades older, even when they were two kids sleeping on a ratty old couch because their foster mother had been too much of a bitch to give up the spare room she’d used as an office.
They’d protected each other back then—though, if she were being honest, she’d done most of the protecting. Henry was too damn sweet and kindhearted, and if it weren’t for Juliet, he probably wouldn’t have survived a day in that foster home. Those protective instincts had stuck with her even when their lives had gone in drastically different directions. They might not be related by blood, but Juliet considered Henry her brother, and if her brother needed her, then she would damn well go to him.
For a second it occurred to her this might be a trap, but she refused to dwell on the unsettling notion. A woman in her line of work made a lot of enemies, but the good thing about being an invisible assassin was that the people connected to those she killed had no idea she even existed.
But . . . what if someone had tracked her down? And what if that same someone had shot Henry and was now using him as a pawn to lure Juliet into the open?
Then you’ll deal with it when you get there.
She slipped a thin black sweater over her head, then buttoned up her jeans and bent down in search of her leather boots. She zipped them up without making a peep, having perfected the art of silence. She possessed the ability to move like a ghost, and the man on the bed remained oblivious to the fact that he was about to be ditched in a Vegas hotel room.
She didn’t feel any remorse. Joe/John had known the score when he’d approached her in the bar.
What he hadn’t known was that he’d just picked up a wanted thief–turned–contract killer who could murder him in his sleep if she chose to.
As she gathered up the meager items of clothing she’d packed for her weekend getaway and shoved them into her carry-on, she couldn’t help wondering what she might encounter in Minsk. She hadn’t spoken to Henry in six months, but the last time they’d touched base his life had sounded great. He was still working for the Red Cross, still volunteering as a medic in rural hospitals, still madly in love with his longtime girlfriend.
Had the shooting been a random occurrence? A robbery gone awry? Or were there more sinister undertones to the whole thing?
She chewed on the inside of her cheek, wishing like hell she wasn’t walking into the situation blind. Her colleagues teased her about being reckless and impulsive, but the truth was, she was more cautious than they gave her credit for. Every move she made was a calculated one, even those that seemed spontaneous. Hopping a plane to Belarus and strolling into a public hospital without vetting it ahead of time wasn’t just impulsive, but potentially dangerous.
But she had no choice. There were only a handful of people she cared about in this world, and Henry happened to be one of them.
She conducted a quick sweep of the room, making sure to wipe down all the surfaces she’d touched. She wasn’t particularly worried about anyone lifting her prints, but, hey, better safe than sorry. She had no intention of winding up in the authorities’ clutches again.
Been there, done that.
After she’d erased all traces of her presence from the suite, she zipped her leather jacket, picked up her suitcase, and slid out the door. All without sparing another glance at the sleeping man in her bed.
• • •
Fourteen hours later, an exhausted Juliet was being led to Henry’s private hospital room.
“You got here just in time,” the nurse said quietly. The petite brunette had introduced herself as Sasha Petrova, the same woman who’d called more than half a day ago. She was younger than Juliet had expected, with a gentle demeanor and big blue eyes that swam with compassion.
“He’s alive?” Speaking in fluent Russian, Juliet managed to voice the question despite the enormous lump constricting her throat.
Sasha nodded. “But barely,” she warned. “The surgeon wasn’t able to stop the bleeding. Ms. Mason . . . Your brother isn’t going to—”
When the woman halted abruptly, Juliet glowered at her. “Isn’t going to what?”
Sasha quickly backpedaled. “I’m not qualified to discuss his condition, I’m afraid. Dr. Vlacic will be in shortly to explain the situation to you.”
“He’s going to die,” Juliet said flatly. “Just say it.”
The nurse didn’t budge. “The doctor will speak to you shortly. Why don’t you sit with your brother until then?”
Juliet nodded tersely. If Sasha didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, fine. It was probably in the woman’s best interest anyway. The phrase don’t shoot the messenger hadn’t sprung out of nowhere, after all, and Juliet couldn’t promise she wouldn’t be doing some shooting if she lost Henry.
As she reached for the door handle, Sasha’s voice stopped her. “You really don’t resemble your brother at all.”
“We were both adopted.”
“I see.” The nurse stepped away. “I’ll let Dr. Vlacic know you’ve arrived.”
Juliet offered a nod of gratitude, then opened the door.
Uncharacteristic tears filled her eyes the moment she walked into her brother’s hospital room. The figure lying prone on the bed looked nothing like the man she’d seen only a year ago. His normally thick brown hair was oily and stringy, plastered to a forehead that was as pale as the rest of his face. His wire-rimmed glasses were gone—it was so strange to see her nerdy little brother without those glasses.
The ominous beeping of a heart monitor punctuated each step she took. She stood over her brother, sweeping her gaze over the white sheet covering his slender body. On the lower part of his torso, she noticed the unmistakable outlines of heavy bandages beneath the sheet.
“Jesus Christ,” she mumbled.
At the sound of her voice, Henry’s eyelids fluttered. He blinked rapidly, panic entering his brown eyes and causing him to thrash on the bed. The oxygen tube fell out of his nose, the IV line in his arm stretching taut as he struck out.
“Hey, lie still. Try not to move.” Her sharp tone contrasted with the gentleness of her hand as she touched Henry’s arm.
“J-J-Juliet?” The croaky voice cut through the sound of the beeping machine.
She smiled. “It’s me.”
“You . . .” He relaxed, blinked again. “You look different.”
Each word came out wheezy and hoarse. It was obvious the simple act of speaking was a huge strain for him.
“I just came from a costume party,” she said lightly.
Henry didn’t question the flippant response. She knew he suspected what she did for a living, but she’d always appreciated that he never demanded details. He was definitely aware of her former life as a professional thief, but she’d made sure to keep the rest from him. She knew he wouldn’t approve, nor would he ever understand how she could take a human life without remorse.
That was the problem with Henry. He was too good, too naive. So damn ignorant to the evil that pervaded the world, the sick men and women who committed acts so atrocious that even death wasn’t a suitable enough punishment for them. Juliet had encountered these people, she’d studied them, followed them, and ultimately rid the earth of them, but no matter how many evil fucks she eliminated, five more cropped up to take their place.
But Henry wasn’t like her. In spite of their childhood, he believed everyone possessed some shred of good, making it his mission in life to help others. And even though she found his bleeding heart incredibly annoying and oftentimes inconvenient, Henry’s compassionate nature was her favorite quality of his. How ironic was that?
“I don’t like it,” he mumbled. “You’re not a blonde.”
She couldn’t argue. Thanks to her olive skin tone, she didn’t pull off blond hair as well as some of her colleagues, but since she was still wanted in Europe and couldn’t very well advertise her presence, she’d had to disguise herself in a hurry, which meant making do with what she’d found in the gift shop of her Vegas hotel. The wig, tortoiseshell glasses, and preppy outfit did a sufficient enough job, and the makeup she’d used had succeeded in giving her a fair, washed-out look.
She shrugged out of her brown suede jacket and headed for the metal chair next to Henry’s bed, lowering her weary body onto it and arching her sore back in a long stretch. With her boss on assignment, the “company” jet had been available, but Juliet hadn’t been able to enjoy Noelle’s luxurious aircraft. Rather than curl up in one of the plush cabin chairs and sleep, she’d spent the long flight fretting about her brother and making use of her colleague Paige’s tech skills to figure out what happened to Henry.
Paige had hacked into the Minsk police department and e-mailed Juliet the preliminary report she’d found on the lead detective’s computer. Unfortunately, all they knew so far was that Henry and his fiancée, Zoya, had been shot by an unknown intruder. According to the report, Henry had arrived home to find Zoya’s lifeless body crumpled on the floor. The gunman then opened fire on Henry, who’d miraculously survived the four shots and was able to call the police an
d even give a brief statement before losing consciousness.
There had been no other details in the detective’s notes, which meant Juliet would need to rely on Henry’s recollection to piece everything together.
Now she raked a tired hand through her shoulder-length blond wig and met his slightly glazed eyes.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
Henry’s English and Scottish heritage had given him a lily-white complexion that burned crimson in the summer, but tonight his skin was so ashen, he looked like a character from a vampire movie. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he drew a labored breath, and then he gazed at her with such anguish that her heart constricted with pain.
“He killed her,” Henry whispered. “He killed Zoya.”
Juliet forced herself to suppress all emotion. If she wanted to find the person who’d done this to Henry, she needed to keep a clear head and treat him not like a brother, but a man she needed answers from.
“The police report said you came home and found her body. Did you recognize the man who shot her?”
Confusion filled his eyes. “Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know.” He started to wheeze again, his heart monitor speeding up. “I don’t . . . know . . . She was just lying there . . . and he . . . he looked annoyed with me. I left the hospital . . . I left early. And he . . .”
Juliet held up her hand to silence him. “Stop. Take a breath, little brother. You need to relax.”
He did as ordered, sucking in deep gulps of air.
“Okay, let’s start again.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. “You were working at the hospital. This hospital?”
He shook his head. “A little town . . . two hours north. Only three doctors on staff, a couple of nurses . . . Small, it’s really small.”
“All right. So you were doing your Red Cross thing, changing bedpans or whatnot, but you left early. Why?”
“Zoya . . .” A moan of distress slipped out of his throat. “She didn’t go to work. She was sick. Went home to take care of her.”
