by Juno Rushdan
Maybe he was being paranoid. Mandatory leave was screwing with his head, but it was just the first of ugly things to come. Every unfortunate event that’d happened in his life had occurred in threes, an escalation from bad to worse to epic shitstorm that threatened to put him in the grave.
And always during a godforsaken heat wave.
Cole wasn’t superstitious, but he had an uncanny ability to scent trouble on the horizon. He sensed it in the atlas, the topmost vertebra between the skull and spine, like an arthritic joint sensed rain in the wind.
Right now, he had a hairline tingle in the back of his head, juicing up, sparking. He slammed his helmet visor closed and rode down the paved walking path, too narrow for a car to follow. After a quarter mile, the footpath opened into the mouth of a public library parking lot. He hit MacArthur Boulevard, navigating the grind of traffic aggressively, until crossing onto M Street.
The dry-cleaning run—a counter-surveillance tactic to shake any ticks—to his Georgetown destination took a vexing, overheated hour.
No sign of the tail, but there was no reason for anyone to follow him. Not after years of exercising painstaking care, cutting every warm-blooded link to his past, and living like vapor.
He nabbed a spot in front of his favorite café. It served authentic Russian cuisine and wasn’t frequented by anyone in the Bratva, the Red Mafia. He pulled off his helmet and jacket, surveying the area. Smoothing his long hair behind his right ear, letting the left side screen the scar on his face, he tugged his tee down over the Browning blade sheathed and hooked to his waistband. The weight of the Ka-Bar knife strapped to his ankle was an added comfort.
His gaze snagged on a white SUV parked down the block, on the other side of the street.
It was possible multiple teams were on him and one had leapfrogged. But that would mean he’d been surveilled for several days without noticing.
He never took the same route or came and went at the same times of day. Anything to avoid establishing a pattern. But Rubicon headquarters, his town house that he’d turned into a veritable fortress, and this café that reminded him of his mother’s cooking were predictable places in his routine.
A sixtyish woman carrying shopping bags dashed across the street, a key fob in her hand. The headlights of the white SUV flashed. She hopped in and pulled off.
He let out a breath. Stop overreacting. Take a chill pill.
But the persistent electric niggle at the nape of his neck refused to ebb.
He dug in his pocket, grabbed a cable looped at the ends, and ran it through his jacket’s sleeves and a clip on the helmet, securing his gear to the bike with a U-lock. Then he strode into the cozy café, cosseted by the familiar smells of cooked cabbage and warm spices.
The blond waitress, Anya, greeted him with an eager smile. He glimpsed Olga, the brunette, disappearing into the kitchen without giving him her usual wave. He looked over the handful of patrons. No one stood out.
The hole-in-the-wall joint had ten tables and a second egress point through the kitchen into an alley. He sat with his six to the wall, giving him sight lines of the entrance and hall to the kitchen.
Anya sashayed to his table, throwing too much sway in her hips, nibbling her pink lip. She twirled a loose strand of blond hair around a delicate finger. “Summer borscht today?”
The thick beet soup, served cold in the warmer months, was the closest he’d found to his mother’s recipe. The ultimate comfort food. He could taste the tangy sweetness on his tongue, and with the memory, others surfaced—but he didn’t want to think about his family, of everything he’d lost and the blood he’d shed.
And he certainly didn’t want to think about the woman who’d taken a wrecking ball to his life and left his soul bleeding.
A knot bunched in his chest. “No borscht today. Any specials?”
“Beef Stroganoff.”
His mouth would’ve watered if it hadn’t been dry as sand. “Sounds perfect for my first day of vacation.”
“Mr. Workaholic on vacation?”
He mustered a shallow grin, sweeping his gaze over the door and street. “I find it hard to believe too.”
“Tomorrow, how about you come to my place for a homecooked dinner?” Anya blushed, her moss-green eyes gleaming. “I’ll serve anything you want.” She pressed her voluptuous hip against the table and tapped a pencil on the plump swell of her breast.
He took in her inviting smile and soft curves.
If only he was interested in curling up with her rather than a bowl of borscht. But he’d learned through trial-by-fucking that casual sex had a way of making the emptiness more acute. He wanted a woman who set him on fire, warmed his heart and burned on his mind, without torching his world to ashes.
“Very generous offer, but I have to pass.” His gaze fell to his hands, so like his father’s had been. Rough, callused, bloodstained. The hands of a killer. “I’m going to be busy.” Doing laundry. Working out. Dodging imaginary tails. Trying not to go bananas. Vacation-palooza.
“A big, strong hottie like you still has to eat.”
Nice of her to think him attractive considering his hideous scar.
With a nervous giggle, she jotted something on her pad and set the sheet on the table. “If you change your mind, call me. No reason to eat alone while on vacation.” She strutted off.
He glimpsed her wiggling ass and swung his focus to the door and street.
Another spike of alarm he couldn’t explain or shake keyed up his synapses to high alert.
He slipped off the Buddha necklace and rubbed the solid beads. One hundred and eight steel ball bearings threaded with galvanized aviation wire and strong as hell. The decorative tassel and dharma wheel pendant added the distinctive touch, making a deadly tool seem a harmless instrument of prayer.
Some might consider it sacrilegious. To him, it was smart. “Anya.”
She spun around, hopeful excitement beaming on her wholesome face.
“I’ll have it to go. And add borscht to the order.”
Her mouth flattened and the light in her eyes died like a blown bulb, but she nodded.
Olga made a beeline to his table and set a glass of ice water down. “Is very hot today,” she said with the thick accent from the Urals. “Anya always forget to give you water.”
“Spasibo.” Thank you in Russian. His throat was parched from the oven-baked ride. He pounded half the glass, drinking past the taste of chlorine and old metal in the tap water. If he had intended to stay, he’d get bottled. “Are you feeling okay, Olga? You seem a bit off.”
She wiped shaky hands on her apron, her gaze jumpy. “I’m sorry.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They threatened to take my visa. Close my uncle’s restaurant.” She met his eyes.
The fear in her face gripped him by the jugular. Lowering her head, she ran to the kitchen. His gaze dropped to the glass of water, and his blood turned to slush.
No telling what the water had been spiked with or how long he had before it took effect. Cole stood, and the room spun. His vision blurred, then cleared.
Shouting erupted in the kitchen. Dishes clattered to the floor. Outside, a white SUV double-parked in front of the café, blocking his bike. Diplomatic plates, YR. Russians.
Damn. Russian intelligence was worse than if the mob had come for him on their own. Also explained how those ticks, who lived and breathed tradecraft, could’ve been crawling all over him for days without him noticing. Clever of the Bratva to use them.
Three men in black suits hopped out of the SUV. Three more entered the main dining room from the kitchen and pushed past a flabbergasted Anya.
Cole’s pulse went ballistic, but his mind locked on one thing—self-preservation. He war-gamed options. None boded well for him.
He clutched the tassel, wrapping the Buddha necklace once around his hand, letting the rest of the b
eads dangle, and unsnapped the sheath of the blade at the small of his back.
The men drew closer, cutting off his exits. He was cornered.
With muscular cords protruding from their thick necks, wide jowls, and buzz cuts, they looked like a pack of Dobermans ready to tear into him.
Fortunately for Cole, he was a different breed. More werewolf than dog.
Two bruisers flanked him. “Time to go home,” one said in Russian.
Cole swung the necklace, whipping it hard across the face of the man on the right. The crunch of his jawbone breaking was audible, and the guy crashed into a table.
Whirling left, Cole lashed backhanded at the other man’s arm, stopping him from reaching into his jacket for a weapon. Not hesitating for a second, Cole thrashed the guy’s head with a powerful one-two wallop of the beads, sending him spilling to the floor.
Rubbery weakness pulsed in Cole’s legs. Dizziness washed over him. He pulled his blade and kicked the table into two others, desperate to stay on his feet.
Darkness edged his vision. His throat tightened, heartbeat slowing when it should’ve been skyrocketing, thanks to the drug flooding his system.
He had one minute to do as much damage as possible.
Then his knees would buckle, it’d be lights out, and he would be as good as dead.
Chapter 03
Georgetown, Washington, DC
1:50 p.m. EDT
Two blocks from the target’s location,” Maddox said as Reece zigzagged through traffic on M Street.
The unease prickling her gut since the briefing hadn’t subsided.
Something about this op was wrong. From the grainy, out-of-focus pictures of Matthews that looked as if they’d been taken by an incompetent drunk to the shoddy intel. Proper recruitment of an asset meant a one-inch-thick dossier to analyze and time to find the best angle to exploit. It was a delicate process convincing a target to cooperate, to possibly turn against friends or even their country.
A cold approach with little preparation was the riskiest. Finding the right opening and building rapport quickly with a stranger all had to be done on the fly. Working someone after establishing a genuine emotional attachment of friendship—or something stronger—was the best way. The CIA had trained her to read and manipulate people and to handle tricky situations. With a bioweapon capable of starting an epidemic in the mix, her only option was to get this done by any means necessary. Extra special care was needed for a dangerous asset who was hostile to government agencies, not to mention wanted by the Russians.
She’d give Cole Matthews the soft, kid-glove treatment. Persuasion was preferred over coercion. But if he wasn’t willing to play nice and things got violent, she could handle it.
Being able to hold her own physically against an opponent who’d most likely outweigh and outmuscle her was a requirement that came with black ops territory.
For two years, Nikolai had taught her Systema, a brutal martial art used by Russian Special Forces. The Agency had broadened her skills with Krav Maga, but the DGB had sharpened her talents to a lethal edge on the Gray Box whetstone.
She glanced at the flashing red dot on the handheld GPS tracking unit pinging Matthews’s cell. “The asset should be in the building second from the corner, this side of the street. A café, according to Google.”
“Black Kawasaki Ninja parked out front,” Reece said from the driver’s seat. “Maddox, white vehicle. Russian diplomatic plates.”
In the back seat, Gideon cocked his gun, chambering a round.
Hers was already prepped to fire, but she had no intention of using her sidearm.
She looked over her shoulder at Gideon. Pale-blond hair, electric-blue eyes, heartbreaker looks—a beautiful, unfaltering killing machine. How the DGB loved deadly things in pretty packages.
“No shoot-outs with these guys,” she said. “They’re probably Russian intelligence. Protected by diplomatic status. A high visibility incident and cops swarming would be bad all around. Nonlethal force only. Follow my lead.”
They both acknowledged the order with a nod.
“Reece, the map shows a back alley. Cover the rear of the café. Reaper, with me.”
As they approached the corner, Reece slowed the SUV. She and Gideon hopped out and darted across the street, dodging traffic. Reece veered right, heading toward the alley.
Although they wore fingernail-sized comms devices in their ears, Maddox directed Gideon with a quick hand signal to sweep around the far side of the white SUV. Training dictated he’d check the vehicle for potential hostiles and close in on the other side of the café door.
A loud commotion came from inside the restaurant. Wood crashing, glass breaking, fists hitting flesh. Sounded like a nasty brawl. Suddenly the noises flatlined, as if the scuffle had ended.
“A second vehicle with diplomatic plates parked by the kitchen door,” Reece said in her ear. “Vacant. I’m going in through the back.”
“Use extreme caution,” she said, but with his Delta Force background, that was a given.
The café door swung open. Two men in suits dragged out an unconscious guy wearing a tee and jeans. His chiseled, ink-wrapped arms were slung over their shoulders. The man had a bloodied silver Buddha necklace wrapped around his hand, and his head hung with long black hair obscuring his face.
Cole Matthews.
“Four men down inside,” Reece said.
“Asset is outside,” she said low. “Gideon, take out the tires.”
Gideon nodded through a tinted window from the far side of the white SUV.
She approached the closest guy. Six two. A solid two-forty. Built like a bull with a wide neck and powerful torso, no doubt he knew how to handle himself.
If he was right-handed, she’d have the advantage. Encumbered with Matthews’s limp weight on his right side, he’d be slower to draw a gun and maneuver to fend off an attack.
His gaze swept over her. A cursory side glance, and he dismissed her. As expected. All he saw was a woman—attractive face, wide eyes, a spot of cleavage. A nonthreat.
She closed the gap to four feet as the men hit the curb. Any second, it’d happen. Another glance, this time cautious and scrutinizing, followed by a defensive posture.
Then she’d have to be quick. Precise. He’d anticipate a blow targeting his soft tissue areas. Nose, throat, groin. She couldn’t go for those first.
Their eyes met. Her focus tunneled to action.
His expression hardened. “Get him into the car,” he said to the other man in Russian.
Less than two steps between them, he disentangled himself from under the weight of Matthews and reached into his jacket.
It was now or never. Maddox moved fast. She drove her heel down into the side of his kneecap and slammed a hammer fist on his arm, stopping him from pulling a gun. He staggered, trying to recover his balance. She raised her right arm across her chest and spun, sending the hard, flat part of her forearm into his windpipe with all her strength.
He clutched his throat, strained for air. Stunned.
Gritting her teeth against the bite of pain in her bruised side, she hooked the back of her ankle behind his calf and shoved him over backward. He went down hard to the ground, wheezing. She flicked off the cap of the lipstick in her pocket, whipped out the spray, and hit him in the eyes and open mouth with one burst. He was toast.
The second man had dumped Matthews onto the vehicle’s back seat but hadn’t noticed the slashed tires.
Reaper was still lurking somewhere out of sight.
Maddox leapt between the parked motorcycle and another car, closing in on the white double-parked SUV. The Russian pulled his gun from a shoulder holster and spun, leveling it at her center of mass.
A bolt of cold arrowed down her rigid spine. No matter how many times a gun had been aimed at her, that visceral reaction was alwa
ys the same.
She raised her palms, still holding the spray in her fingers, maintaining eye contact.
The good news was that this guy wasn’t an untrained civilian with a twitchy trigger finger.
“He is a Russian citizen,” he said in English, gesturing to Matthews. “Now on premises belonging to Russia.” He implied the car, referencing the articles of the Vienna Convention. “Premises and transport of diplomatic mission have immunity from search and requisition.”
The muggy air seemed to thicken with tension. She needed to get closer. Six more inches.
“Yes, you’re correct,” she said in unaccented Russian, daring to step those six inches. She set fear aside, focused only on the next move to retrieve Matthews. Without getting shot.
“Decoy. Three seconds,” Gideon said in her ear as if reading her mind. “On your left.”
“Immunity should be respected,” she said. Two feet between them, arm’s reach. An electric buzz hummed in her blood, firing her muscles. “But it doesn’t mean it can’t be violated.”
Gideon whistled on her left, drawing the Russian’s aim.
The guy pivoted, redirecting the SIG Sauer. Maddox snatched the muzzle. She torqued it counterclockwise with her left hand while driving the heel of her right palm into the inside of his wrist, popping the gun free of his grip. His phalanx bones snapped, with his finger caught on the trigger. At almost the same time, she kicked his groin, smashing her shin up into his crotch.
He crumpled to the blacktop beside the rear wheel, holding his privates. Poor guy wouldn’t even need tear gas to stay put.
Reece belted around the corner in the GMC Yukon, tires squealing on the hot asphalt, and slammed into park behind the white SUV. Gideon threw open the rear door on the driver’s side of the Russian car, grabbed Matthews’s upper body, and hauled him out.
The asset’s head hung forward, chin to chest, a sheet of black hair curtaining his face.
Maddox tossed the SIG into the front seat of the white SUV, stepped over the Russian writhing on the ground, and hustled to their vehicle.
