by Geri Krotow
“I’ve noticed. I know I’ve only been here less than a week, but you’re right. The towns all blend together, punctuated by shopping areas or different parks.”
“Are you a runner?”
“Not in a formal way but I do use it to keep in shape.”
“If you’re looking for a park, Adams-Ricci is a nice place to run or walk. It’s about a one-and-a-quarter-mile loop, all paved, and it’s not completely flat.”
“Nothing’s flat around here. A nice change from New York.”
“Do you live in the city, then?”
“No. I keep a condo in Newark. It’s a little more affordable and gives me some space from the city.”
“I wouldn’t call Newark any kind of suburb.” She smiled and sipped her water. He ignored how pretty her ruby lips were, puckered around her straw.
“Anything’s less hectic than Manhattan.” He didn’t want the focus to be on him, or even Kit. His plan had been to keep it light, figure out how they were going to work together.
“You said we needed to keep up appearances, but I feel like you have other motives for this meeting.”
Kit’s acuity was like a gut-punch to his ego. He’d thought he was so smart. The shock of her awareness turned into a rush of heat, right between his legs. Nothing more attractive than an intelligent woman.
“I do. I’ve figured out over years in this kind of work that if I can have an enjoyable meal with a colleague, it’s a good indicator of how we’ll work together in the field.” He met her sapphire gaze with intention. What he didn’t expect was the smoldering heat she seemed to emit.
“I don’t know. I’ve had calm enough meals with people who turned out to be impossible to live with.” Her ex had to be the subject of her observation. Again, he let it lie. Kit’s past was none of his business, unless it was going to affect their mission, and Claudia and Colt had already determined it wouldn’t.
“Ah, but living and working together are very different, aren’t they? I work with so many incredibly talented folks who I’d never want to share a house with. Bunking down during an op is one thing, when there’s an objective goal. But having to live with someone for the sake of it, day in and day out...no thank you.” He knew he sounded bitter, but so be it.
“What, ah, is your definition of bunking?”
At her cautious expression he wanted to put a sock in his mouth. He’d let his tongue run away and made Kit uncomfortable. For reasons he refused to get worked up over, keeping Kit at ease around him was paramount. He wanted her to always feel safe, secure.
“It’s not what I’m guessing you think I mean.” He leaned in, needing to get this right. In his urgency he reached out and rested his hand on hers. She didn’t move hers away, which gave him a thrill he’d have to look at later. “I don’t make it a habit to get involved, emotionally or physically, with women I work with. I’m usually in the field alone, or with other men, and by bunking I mean just that—camping out, roughing it, as long as needed to accomplish a mission. You’re safe with me, Kit.”
She tilted her head and stared at him. “What do you mean when you say it’s not a habit? You have slept with female colleagues?”
He leaned back, breaking their contact but noted that she never blanched from his touch. In fact, her hand remained atop the table. “Yes, but rarely. And it’s never happened unless it’s a mutual agreement. Something that happens in the field and stays in the field.”
How on earth they’d ended up talking about whether or not sex was okay for either of them on this mission was beyond him. To her credit, Kit didn’t balk.
She nodded. “Okay, we’re clear on that. I think we’ll work well together. I’m not looking for physical intimacy with someone I work with, so that takes it off the table. We’re colleagues, period.”
“Yes.” He knew he lied with every fiber of his being. Because his erection wasn’t the only evidence of his desire for Kit. The keen disappointment when she set her boundary—a fair, smart one—was something he’d rarely felt. And he hadn’t even been asking her to go to bed with him.
It was there, between them. The attraction.
He deliberately remained quiet, hoping she didn’t see his thoughts in his expression. When he looked back up at her, she looked shaken, her gaze on something over his shoulder. He turned to look in that direction but only saw the diner’s door close, the bell jingling as it shut. Turning back to Kit, he measured his words.
“Who did you just see, Kit?”
She blinked, shook her head and refocused on him. “No one important.”
Okay, so she didn’t trust him yet. He’d change that by the time they finished their fieldwork. It wasn’t lost on him that he had a primal need to have Kit completely trust him.
Another first for him, with a woman he barely knew.
* * *
A few days later Luther surveyed the sporting goods store as if it were another mission on his long list. He checked with the notes he’d taken at SVPD, ensuring that the hunting camouflage pants and jacket he’d picked for Kit were the right size. Maybe he’d been hasty to insist on splitting their shopping. It’d be easier to have Kit pick out her outfit.
Annoyance tugged at his conscience. He was giving far too much thought to a work colleague, no matter how attractive. Kit had made her position clear at the diner, and it was best for both of them.
The last clothing he’d bought for a woman had been the waterproof jacket he’d snagged on the run, to keep Evalina from getting hypothermia while they endured hours in the sleet in the Mohawk Valley in Upstate New York. The plan had been to extricate her from the ROC web she’d been part of for ten years, since she’d married one of the ROC top dogs. Well, that had been his plan, anyway. He’d never planned on being sold out, led to what was supposed to be the site of his execution. When Evalina took a bullet during the final standoff with the man he was charged with taking down, it’d been too late for regrets. Both she and her husband had died that day. Was he headed into similar emotional quicksand with Kit?
He didn’t think so, since Kit’s situation was completely different. She was out from under the ROC’s hold and had passed myriad security clearances to be able to work for SVPD and TH.
Still, his heart had been crushed by Evalina.
Luther shoved the emotional fallout of his poor choices with women aside. He trusted the Trail Hikers; if Claudia and Colt said Kit was the best for the job, then she was, and he had to ignore the voice trying to remind him that getting involved with another ROC spouse was by definition bad news. All he needed to keep in mind was that Kit was his colleague, here to complete a mission. A brief partnership in the midst of the chaos and sometimes hell that working against ROC could be.
“Can I help you find something, sir?” A bright-eyed young clerk with the badge of the store proudly displayed on his chest stood before him. Damn, he must have drifted off while placing items in the cart.
“No thanks, Riley. I’m good.”
“We’re here to help.” The teen seemed buoyed by the use of his first name as he looked at the contents of Luther’s cart. “Maybe you need a new hunting rifle to go with all that gear?”
At this Luther stifled a laugh. If the kid knew what kind of arsenal he had on hand, his enthusiasm might turn to shock.
“Ah, no thanks. I have my grandfather’s old rifle, in fact. Serves me well.” This part was true; he’d brought along Granddad’s beloved weapon for the op, to keep up the appearance of being nothing more than a hunter.
“So you’re one of the old-fashioned kind. That’s cool.” The way the kid said cool let Luther know that he thought he was anything but.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know if I need anything, Riley.” He’d learned to use names not just out of politeness and courtesy but also as a memory aid. Luther never forgot a face but sometimes did misplace names.
“S
ure thing.”
Luther finished up the shopping as quickly as possible, and once in his Jeep he checked the dash clock. He was due to meet Kit back at her apartment at dinnertime. Odd that she lived so close to the tiny flat he’d rented. Yet he got the appeal of an apartment in the tiny historical downtown of Silver Valley. With the cute diner, restaurants and coffee shop only steps away from the upper story apartments, it was ideal. The only thing missing was a decent grocery store, but there were several within a five-to-ten-minute drive.
He had two hours before the meeting with Kit. Just enough time to check in to Trail Hikers headquarters and read the latest intel on ROC and most important to him, Ivanov and Markova.
The quaint buildings of Silver Valley became interspersed with large distribution centers and the usual big-box stores as he made his way through the town. This was the epicenter of logistics for most of North America and certainly the Eastern Seaboard, which is what made it an ideal spot for ROC to center its heroin ring.
He tried to let the natural beauty in before he had to read about ROC at TH headquarters. Silver Valley was situated in the base of a valley that was surrounded by the Appalachian and Cumberland Mountains. He’d seen and completed missions in “real” mountains, out west in the Rockies and as far east as the Urals of the Russian and Asian Steppes. But none struck him as picturesque or soothing as the blue-toned hills that embraced the Susquehanna and Cumberland Valleys.
His turn signal clicked a flat monotone as he waited for a green light to turn left onto the technology parkway that led to the nondescript office building where TH operated. It was no use; he couldn’t stop the swell of anger at how ROC had invaded this perfect slice of the planet, wreaking havoc on innocent lives and families. Did anyone else in this town feel the omnipresent sense of evil that meant ROC was still here, waiting to spring into full operations again?
As he made the left turn, another thought flitted across his mind—a wish that Ivanov was already in prison, or dead. Anticipation of completing the mission always gave him a sense of peace—Luther knew that what he did for a living kept very bad people from hurting the average very good citizen. But this mission was different, and not just because he was getting ready to help bring in the kingpin, the crux of the ROC’s lethal operations.
He realized he was looking forward to working one-on-one with Kit Danilenko.
* * *
“I told you to stop it with the cell phone.” Ivanov snarled at her, his formerly handsome face twisted with the rage of being cornered, the knowledge that the end of his criminal empire might be near.
“It’s a burner. Just like all the others.” She held up her tote bag that was full of at least a dozen more disposable phones she’d purchased at several different discount stores in Central Pennsylvania, using credit cards with a myriad of false identities that she was able to adopt at will. “No one is going to find us from one cell phone intercept.” She’d called into her offshore account he knew nothing about, right under his nose. She’d surreptitiously corralled money from his account into hers, slowly siphoning off Ivanov’s funds. He thought she had access to the one remaining secret account of his that the FBI hadn’t seized. She withdrew cash only when he asked her to do so, to keep them in groceries and under a roof each night. Ivanov trusted her and she let him think he could. It gave her leverage, kept him from hurting her. And her from killing him and escaping. In reality, Markova had realized that in order to truly disappear without anyone chasing her, she had to become the head of ROC. She knew how to evade American law enforcement—hadn’t she escaped her own FSB? But as long as she was seen as Ivanov’s second-in-command, she would be resented and hated by the remaining East Coast ROC. They’d kill her as quickly as Ivanov.
Her plan was to let Ivanov think she was with him to support him, give him the money to resume his place as the head boss. But she’d kill him the minute they had the meeting with the remaining supervisors who’d managed to keep at least the drug sales going. Human trafficking had been halted, but she’d get that going for them again, before she disappeared for good.
Above all else, Markova wanted her freedom from any authority, for the rest of her life.
“You don’t know that you won’t be intercepted. The FBI is all over us. I’m wanted in every state.” Ivanov kept his handgun in his belt and she saw him rest his hand on it, as if the silent visual threat would keep her from doing what she wanted. What he couldn’t hide was the way his hand trembled. Shook, actually. He was trying to quit the vodka again and it wasn’t working, judging by his distillery bad breath and the yellow tinge of his skin. It was pathetic how easy it would be to exterminate him on the spot.
Not yet.
“Actually, I do. It’s my job to know all about communications.” Markova was a former FSB agent, trained by the best the KGB had to offer. Her leaders and instructors had been at the top of their game during the Cold War and passed all their knowledge onto her. Escaping Russia and the clutches of the Kremlin had taken her years of planning, yet she’d managed to do it. She’d promised Ivanov she’d help him bolster ROC on the East Coast, and she knew his goal had been to become the head of all ROC in North America.
That was almost a decade ago, and in that time she’d orchestrated her escape from ROC and all of this life she’d learned to hate. Markova had been so close to executing her plan, until Ivanov caught her at her own game.
But he didn’t know everything. She only had to survive this time with him, convince him that she had something he could use—money—and she’d disappear, never to be seen again. Not as Ludmilla Markova, anyway.
“We’re too close to evasion to let a stupid cell call betray us. Why did you have to phone now, anyway?”
“I checked on the balance of the account in the Cayman Islands. You’ll be glad to know that your one billion has turned into almost one-point-three since last month. I’ve got only the best investors working it.”
“I need to double that by next month. I can’t do anything from here. We have to have the meeting before the rats figure out how to take total control.” Ivanov’s breath stank as it reached her nostrils. They sat in a small beat-up SUV that they’d bought with cash from an auto dealer in Harrisburg. Her head was cold since she’d shaved her hair and dyed her eyebrows. It made wearing various wigs easier. Ivanov had refused to go to such lengths with his disguise but he kept a brimmed cap pulled low over his face and his white beard made him look almost like a grumpy Santa Claus. It also showed his years, and the strain of running his nefarious network of humans, weapons and drugs.
“You will. Here.” She handed him the large foam cup of hot coffee she’d just purchased in the doughnut shop. Ivanov was a rough, nasty man but a baby when it came to some creature comforts. His coffee was one of those.
“You got cream?” He suspiciously sniffed at the brew as they stayed put in the parking lot.
“Yes, and sugar.” She gritted her teeth, shoving down the urge to slap him or worse. Only a little more time and she’d be able to escape. With the millions she’d stashed for herself, in a Swiss account and not the Caribbean, she’d be able to place herself in her own witness protection program. Her life on the run, the constant need to check her back, would be over.
But not while Ivanov and his key henchmen were still alive. Markova had to play along if she didn’t want to find herself dead before her great escape.
“We need to disappear again, boss.” She hated calling him “boss” but he loved it, still thought of himself as her superior. She had to stay in the game a little longer.
Games were her forte.
“I’m not ready to go back into those woods and play American pioneer. I’m no Johnny Appleseed.”
“I didn’t know you knew American history, Dima.”
Bright sparks across her vision hit right before the pain from his fist to her temple radiated over her skull. Her head bounced agains
t the passenger window and she quickly looked around the parking lot to see if anyone saw his assault. That was all they needed—to be taken in for questioning over something so stupid.
“Bitch, don’t question me. Ever. Do you want to go back to the cuffs?” He referenced the hand and ankle cuffs he’d kept her in for the first week they’d been on the run. That was months ago. Right after the shoot-out in the cemetery headstone factory. After seven days she’d convinced him that she still had a good portion of his money hidden in the Caribbean account, far from the computers of the Treasury Department. Ivanov had lost billions when the US government had frozen his funds and all known ROC accounts. He blamed her for revealing the passwords and account numbers to the authorities, because they’d dug up the valuable information where she’d buried it, at that barn that was now rebuilt.
Her fingers itched to light more matches, to burn the new barn to the ground like the original. Maybe after she was able to escape Ivanov and ROC, she’d give Silver Valley one last kiss goodbye. No evidence this time, though. The burned-out barn would be enough of a signature.
“Answer me, Markova. Where will we go that’s not those boring woods?” Ivanov’s voice was cajoling, as he often was after he hit her or slammed her against a wall. Relatively light abuse after the kind of training she’d endured. The hardest part for her was not striking back. If she seriously harmed or killed Ivanov, his remaining goons would be after her, as would law enforcement. She was good, excellent even, at evading one or the other. But things didn’t go as smoothly when both sides were after her. She’d learned that the hard way last year.
“You’ve lost the ability to hide in plain sight. Too many of the top dog wannabes are looking for you, and you’re dead if you go back to New York.”
“Brighton Beach is my home.” He sounded like a petulant child. Which, after all these months of being his captive, she’d learned he was, emotionally. He might have the intelligence of an adult male but not the psychological fortitude.
