by Misty Evans
Rising, Mick chanced a glance out the rear window. No motorcycles, no vehicles of any kind. The sirens grew more distant, city blocks giving way to rolling hills and countryside.
“You lost ’em,” Mick said to Hunter. “Nice work.”
Hunter let out a deep breath and chuckled, as if he’d enjoyed himself. “They’ll be looking for this car. Time to ditch it and get another.”
Mick helped Themis sit up and noticed her hands were shaking.
“Yes, nice work, Coldplay.” She adjusted her skirt back to normal—damn shame, that—and swiped hair that had come loose from her bun away from her face. Her bulletproof vest lay on the floorboard and she picked it up and slid it over her head. “I'll radio Jett and see about obtaining a different vehicle.”
Her voice was calm, her jaw set. Surprisingly, she let Mick help her secure the straps on the sides of the vest. The only thing that gave away her nerves where those shaking fingers, slender and well-cared for.
She didn’t belong in the field and Mick planned to let this Parker know it. What was she thinking, sending a desk jockey on a dangerous mission?
He grabbed one of Themis’s hands and held it for a moment, forcing her to look at him. “You did good,” he said. “Most people would've pissed their pants, or at least thrown up their lunch after that little escapade.”
Another tight nod, a ghost of a smile, before she broke eye contact and withdrew her hand from his. He let it go this time. Then, without assistance, she awkwardly climbed into the front.
She found the comm unit she’d lost and secured it in her ear then dug out a pair of glasses from her briefcase.
“Command, this is Themis reporting in. Over,” she said, shooting a glance over her shoulder at Mick, her eyes seeming grateful. She listened for a moment, then responded, “We’re all fine. Package is good…awesome even.” That ghost of a smile flitted across her lips and Mick grinned back at her. “But we’re in need of a new vehicle, ASAP.”
Opposition creates more opposition
Vienna safe house
Don't let them see your fear.
Cassandra stared out the kitchen window of the safe house, located at the end of a private drive east of the city. The immaculate lawns sat behind a low stone fence, an iron gate at the end of the hill shutting out visitors.
The night was beautiful, calm. The two-story home had been built in the late eighteen hundreds, its traditional lines and woodwork classic in this part of the world.
Her reflection in the window was stark against the rest of the kitchen, thanks to the overhead light. Untamed curls of hair stuck out in all directions, the heat and humidity reducing her morning's routine to frizzy, wild abandon. The car chase hadn’t done her any good either. Her skin looked ashen, her eyes sunken and… she shut them before the word could creep into her mind.
I am not…
Scared.
God, she hated that word. Hated fear. But the thing crawling around in her stomach felt an awfully lot like something close to it.
Anxiety. A touch of panic, if she were being honest. And what person in their right mind wouldn’t feel a touch of anxiety and panic after being chased through the city with strangers shooting at them?
She'd known there might be danger in rescuing Mick Ranger, but once they’d cleared the prison, she hadn't worried anymore. Thank goodness, Trace Hunter was a super soldier—the only one left after Project 24. He didn't know that she knew about his enhanced abilities, and she would respect his privacy and never mention them, but she was damn glad for them at the moment. His reflexes and instincts were off the charts. She might be lying dead in some back alley right now if it weren't for him.
And Lt. Ranger.
Mick.
The memory of his body securing hers in the backseat made her flush with desire. A drop-dead gorgeous man, whose first words to her were a compliment on her beauty, and then he’d played bodyguard during the chase. Just thinking about him and his heroism made her all tingly and…
Once again, her extensive lexicon deserted her. Whatever it was coursing through her system, she’d never felt like this before. He’d been the one thing that kept her fear contained.
Car lights turned off the narrow country road and stopped. The stylized lamp illuminated a black BMW, Mick jumping out of the passenger side to unlock the gate.
He and Trace had dropped her off at the safe house before leaving to exchange the Land Rover for a new vehicle Parker had found for them. The other two men—their pilot, codename Henley, and the sniper, codename Slash—had also survived the car chase, although Henley had received a minor concussion and shoulder injury when another car had hit them. Slash had taken him to see a doctor in the area who wouldn't ask questions. They would meet up here later.
Alone in the big house, Cassie had hurriedly unpacked some of her things upstairs in one of the bedrooms before taking up sentry duty at the kitchen window.
As the BMW crept up the driveway, she released the breath she'd been holding. Although the safe house was armed to the teeth and boasted a high-tech security system, she hadn't realized how nervous she was about being alone until she'd seen Mick pop out of the car.
Don't let him see you hovering here like you're worried, or…
There it was again, that word.
Scared.
I was scared, but I’m fine now.
Positive affirmations. She was a believer in them and continued to tell herself she was fine as she hustled upstairs to the bathroom and fixed her hair as best she could. A swipe of lipstick and a few brushes with her hands to get the wrinkles out of her skirt and she felt almost normal again.
From downstairs, she heard the soft murmurs of the two men’s voices. Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin up and gave herself an appraisal in the mirror. Poise, Cassandra. Hold onto your poise.
She didn't look half bad, and she would hold herself together until she was alone in her bedroom tonight. Then she would examine her fears and deal with them.
She was making her way down the steps when she paused to listen to the conversation going on in the kitchen.
“I’ve never worked for anyone like Beatrice,” Trace said.
Even though Cassandra had been with Shadow Force a short time, she knew that he was the first SEAL Beatrice had rescued, and the one she relied on the most.
“I actually tried to die hundred times over when I was in captivity before she rescued me,” he told Lt. Ranger. “Didn't trust her an inch, but she gave me my life back, and eventually I understood how she looks at things. She has a different perspective than the rest of us.”
“I don't do business with someone I haven't met in person,” Mick replied.
A good rule. One she had employed many times in her life. There were some things you couldn't tell about a person until you looked them in the eyes, into their soul.
Like Mick’s. During the car chase, he’d protected her, thrown himself over her in case a bullet got through or a car slammed into them.
They might have even rolled, but Mick’s body would’ve kept her pinned to the seat. When she’d looked into his eyes, it wasn't an action star staring back at her. It was a protector, a hero.
“Beatrice knew that.” The sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. The clink of glasses being removed from one of the cabinets. “That's why she sent me in her place. She would have come herself, except she has a young child to take care of, and Shadow Force to run for Emit Petit.”
Shifting and the clink of two glasses coming together in salute. “I trust you with my life, Hunter, you know that, and I appreciate the rescue. I do.”
There was a but coming, she could hear it in Mick’s voice.
Before he could say it, Trace interrupted. “Do me a favor and sleep on it. Either way, you're a free man now. At least to the extent you're not in prison any longer. Going back to the SEALs, though? You might want to think long and hard about that. About what our government asked you to do, twice.”
“The Frenc
h won't be happy that I broke out.”
“Wasn't them holding you. That was a private prison, traced back to the King’s family.” The king—the last man Mick had killed.
“I don't know what the president, or the Navy will do if anyone comes after the US for your prison break,” Hunter continued, “but if you work for Beatrice, she'll make sure it goes away.”
“Your boss has more power than the president of the United States?”
Cassandra could hear the smile in Trace’s voice. “Miracles are her specialty.”
There was a long pause and Cassandra started to enter the kitchen, but then Mick spoke again. “I don't suppose you'll tell me the details of the mission?”
A chuckle. “Miss Donovan would have my ass. When I first came on board, we didn't worry about legalities, but now, the organization is bigger and more involved than ever in the political arena, especially the Nemesis Group. Beatrice knows, just like the president, that we have to cover our backsides now.”
“Miss Donovan, huh? Does she have a first name?”
Dammit. Trace was about to give away her last ace in the deck.
Cassandra practically ran down the last stair and into the kitchen. A bottle of amber colored liquor sat on the counter between the two men. “Having a party without me?” she asked.
Trace was already standing, but Mick jumped to his feet, exhibiting decent manners, which surprised her slightly. “You’re looking better.”
“I look fantastic and don't you forget it.” She grinned, throwing a version of his earlier words back at him.
A big smile crossed his face, the joke not lost. Trace handed her a glass of the amber liquor and she saluted both of them. “Thank you for the wild adventure tonight. Let's not do it again.”
Laughing, they raised their glasses to her and drank.
Mick motioned her to the barstool next to him. “Can you at least give me the basics of this mission you're so desperate to send me on? Just a hint or two?”
“I already gave you one.” The liquor burned her throat, and she struggled not to cough. “Sign the contract and I'll tell you everything.”
Beatrice hadn’t sent her here for nothing, and she knew it was time to stop playing games. Master negotiators used their power of persuasion wisely, especially once a relationship was established. If she and Mick hadn’t bonded after the past few hours on the run, she wasn’t sure what else to do.
“If you refuse, I'm authorized to send Trace in your place. The choice is yours, Mick, but just so you understand, you will not have the support of Shadow Force—or Beatrice—if you refuse and return to your former life. You will be on your own. It’s not what she, or any of us, want, but it’s the way things work. I hope you understand.”
Something in his demeanor softened, and those dark eyes did not look away from hers. “Tell me your given name, Miss Donovan.”
Stubborn SOB. He might not be willing to do business with Beatrice, someone he’d never met in person, but he was looking into her eyes, letting her know he was ready to work with her. Trust, based on at least a tiny bit of respect, she suspected.
Definitely a bond.
That respect went both ways at this point. “Cassandra.”
He held out a hand to her. “Nice to meet you, Cassandra Donovan. Go get your contract.”
The bag and burn
Mick was a decent negotiator, insisting she remove paragraph 3B from the contract before he would sign. Cassandra pretended to be annoyed, but Beatrice had already informed her the SEAL would initially refuse to be tied to their organization for an entire twelve months.
Cassandra had already been prepared to remove that paragraph, but every contract had at least two parties involved, and both needed some control over the outcome in order to feel it was a win-win situation. Negotiation was just that—creating an environment where all parties believed they were on the same side of the fence.
Cassandra crossed out paragraph 3B and initialed it, handing the pen to Mick for him to do the same. He ran through the rest one more time before scribbling his name and the date at the bottom of page two. Cassandra added her own signature and tucked the contract into her briefcase.
Yes! She’d won.
Trace refilled their glasses, and they saluted each other again before drinking. The liquid went down warm and much easier this round, and Cassandra launched into the mission specifics.
“Dr. Labella Epstein is being held against her will by Countess Kossiwa Falana Von Strauss, an African royal who married a wealthy Viennese count, the late Wendel Von Strauss.”
Mick tensed and she knew he was about to balk—the king he’d killed on his last mission was Falana’s father. “You can’t be serious,” he ground out.
Cassandra withdrew a folder from her briefcase containing bios and photos. She slid the photo of Falana in front of Mick. “The countess prefers to go by Falana here in Austria, and neglects to tack on her father’s last name, but to her people in that small province on the Red Coast, she insists on being called Kossiwa, which translates to child of God.”
Mick’s jaw was steel as he glanced at the photo but he said nothing.
Cassandra continued. “She believes she is a direct descendant of a lesser known African king from the medieval period and is destined to rule over the tiny country of Erisia. Her father ruled the province for many years, and converted to Muslim, urging his followers to, as well. There was a civil war, led by Falana's brother who did not agree with him and his new jihadist itinerary. The war led to a coup, and her father was killed—as you’re aware.”
A tick in his jaw worked overtime. The SEALs on that mission had done everything behind the scenes, removing Falana’s psychotic father who was hell-bent on wiping out hundreds of innocent people in Erisia before he encroached on neighboring countries. It had been publicly staged as a coup by her brother, Mosi Nassir, the US involvement a secret.
“Because of her support of her father, Mosi stripped her of her titles and banished her from the province. She ended up here, marrying nobility. With her husband’s death, she has been making plans to take back from her brother what she believes is rightfully hers.”
Mick sat for a long, tense minute, staring now at the countertop. Cassandra glanced at Trace who gave her a look that suggested she allow the silence, let Mick process the story.
Mick slid his glass toward the bottle of liquor and Trace refilled it. Two swallows and it was gone. He pointed at the other photo on the breakfast bar. “How does the doctor play into it?”
“Falana has money and prestige, but no army, so in order to take back her throne,”—Cassandra made air quotes around the word—“she has to be covert. Last year, she established a company called Kossiwa Enterprises that focuses on medical R&D. Her late husband had an interest in epidemiology, which rubbed off on her, giving her the idea for revenge. Dr. Labella Epstein is an accomplished microbiologist who specializes in disease treatment with synthetic biology, and was friends with Falana’s husband.”
“Synthetic biology?”
Cassandra handed him an information sheet. “The application of engineering principles to the fundamental components of biology.”
Mick gave her a flat stare. “Which means…?”
Right. She was dealing with a layman, never mind that his IQ was higher than hers. “Scientists like Dr. Epstein work with the building blocks of life—DNA—to cut and paste various sequences into different forms. They can take genetic codes associated with the desired features of one organism and add it to another. Basic genetic engineering, but now they’re creating DNA codes from scratch and playing with viruses and bacteria long since considered ‘dead’ by the World Health Organization. The materials they need are available at little cost, and some can be delivered through the mail. It’s no longer necessary to have a big, expensive lab to create a new life form.”
“They’re playing God.”
Some people felt that way. “Many claim synthetic biology can improve agricul
tural techniques, reduce pollution, and advance disease treatment, this field is a double-edged sword. Some will use the power to create bio-weapons.”
He got up and refilled his glass himself this time. “The countess wants to give her brother a disease?”
“A deadly one, yes. Have you heard of Disease X?”
He shook his head, returning to his seat next to her, looking weary.
“Disease X, as labeled by the World Health Organization, is the codename for an unknown pathogen which may cause an epidemic in the future. We believe Falana is using Dr. Epstein to create her own version to use on her brother and his followers as an act of revenge.”
“Wow.” That's all he said, shaking his head.
After an extended silence, Cassandra glanced at Trace again, who gave her the same be patient look.
She was rewarded a moment later. “The deaths won't stop with them, will it?” Mick toyed with his glass, sloshing the contents around in a circle. “It’ll start a pandemic.”
“A pandemic that could spread worldwide. Through certain contacts we have learned that the countess murdered Dr. Epstein's husband when she initially refused, and kidnapped her child in order to gain the doctor’s help. Her twelve-year-old son’s life is at stake, and the mother will do anything to save her child.”
He downed the liquor in one gulp. “You want me to kill the countess. Do a bang and burn.”
“Only if necessary, and there shouldn’t be any banging or burning”—whatever the hell that meant. “I don’t think.”
At her blank expression, Trace jumped in. “A bang and burn means demolition and sabotage. “It creates a distraction so the team can get out.”
“Oh, no, this is a covert mission,” she told Mick. “Dr. Epstein and Nathaniel must be rescued, and they will be offered sanctuary in America if they so choose, but the countess must be stopped. While we have circumstantial evidence, we do not have hard proof for the appropriate authorities to take action. That is part of our mission. In the world of microbiology and DNA manipulation, Dr. Epstein is replaceable, so simply removing her from the equation is not enough.”
