Every Last Breath

by Juno Rushdan

  Fear of another failure clawed up her chest, but she wouldn’t yield an atom to self-doubt. She’d harness the stress bubbling in her core instead, use it like a battery charging.

  “Easier to keep our finger on the pulse of this if we monitor his phone,” Gideon added.

  True. Maddox handed him the handheld device that had the roving bug app. “Don’t let him spot you. If he doesn’t come to me or tries to run, I’ll go to him and use a coercive approach.”

  Which would be an absolute last-ditch recourse, after she’d exhausted every other possibility. Cole was not the type of man to bend under intimidation.

  Chapter 04

  Philadelphia International Airport, Pennsylvania

  4:35 p.m. EDT

  After they landed, Aleksander slid into the passenger’s seat of the rental car that welcomed them on the tarmac. Val loaded the packed rifle and their gear in the trunk and started the vehicle. They’d cleared customs on the plane, no waiting in lines, no hassle with luggage being searched. The privileges of flying private were a necessity with their jam-packed schedule.

  “How will I do it?” Aleksander asked, testing Val, ensuring he was switchblade-sharp.

  Determining the how was always the hardest part. The slightest miscalculation meant the difference between success and failure.

  “Bodyguards surround Callahan at all times and he’s rarely exposed in the open for more than five seconds,” Val said. “The front of his house has a porte cochere, providing cover as he leaves and gets into a chauffeured car with bulletproof windows. Security is too tight at the warehouse where he runs day-to-day operations.”

  His son’s thorough assessment of the target was spot-on. “Continue.”

  “Callahan goes to his casino in Fishtown every night, where the car is left unattended. You’ll do it there. Outside.” Val punched the location of the casino into the navigation system without waiting for confirmation. He was so self-assured—and quite correct.

  “You memorized the address?”

  “Of course. All the details on each target.”

  Aleksander schooled his face, smothering a grim smile, his soul aching. His son was a fine man. Resilient, smart, capable of handling the unpleasantness of the necessary things ahead with focus and a cold tenacity.

  His mother and sister would’ve both been proud. Anguish washed over him so hard and fast he fought not to gasp, but he embraced the pain. His grief gave him strength, his sorrow fortified his resolve to never stop until he got payback.

  * * *

  Arlington, Virginia

  4:55 p.m. EDT

  Handling himself in a physical fight, even when outnumbered, was one of Cole’s gifts.

  To get trapped in a disastrous scenario he couldn’t overcome, then to be rescued by a person who suddenly needed his help—that was destiny giving him a chance for closure. Or fate, probing to see if he was a glutton for more pain.

  Sure as shit wasn’t a coincidence.

  He stormed through his town house, throwing clothes, technical gear, and his gun into a backpack. His body was strung tight, wired to spring into action.

  Daring to go home even for five minutes was risky, but if the Russians were still looking for him, they would’ve placed their bets on his workplace. Going home would be stupid, and they knew he was no fool. So he’d taken the chance, armed with the knowledge of a rooftop exit no one would expect, and parked his bike two blocks over.

  He took out his cell and called Linda at Rubicon. No one was better at digging up dirt on someone. “Hey, it’s Cole. Do me a favor, and I’ll bring you a box of the chocolates you love.”

  “What do you need, sugar?” she rasped, sounding as if she’d spent the last thirty years smoking exhaust fumes from the tailpipe of a Harley.

  He slipped a blade in his waistband sheath, replacing the one he had lost in the café. “It seems the Russians are looking for me. Might have to put your ear to the ground for ‘Nikolai Reznikov.’” Nobody at Rubicon knew his birth name. He’d been burned trusting the wrong woman before, but Linda had been like a mom to him the last few years and he was short on options. “Verify the threat is real.”

  Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, I might have to bury Maddox if she orchestrated this. Right after I get answers.

  “Also run a background check on Maddox Kinkade.” He’d longed to look her up during more sleepless nights than he could count, the ghost of her plaguing him. Every time, he’d been too chickenshit to face the agony of knowing. Now that Maddox had opened the door and shoved him across the threshold, there was no turning back. “I need it super fast.”

  “It’s slow here. I’ll put the team on Kinkade. We’ll be quick, discreet. How deep to dig?”

  “Make it thorough. If you hit any walls, go around them, down to who she’s fucking.”

  Linda cleared her throat. “Pretty deep, sugar. I’ll get to it. Never heard you so fired up.”

  That’s what Maddox did to him—crept under his skin and fired him up hot as napalm.

  “Thanks, Linda.” He clicked off, his blood simmering, his thoughts spinning.

  Maddox had killed their chance at happiness. He’d left her behind, so pissed at her betrayal he couldn’t set eyes on her but he had also needed to protect her. He’d been haunted by her every day since. What he wouldn’t give to be free, to purge her from his thoughts, and his heart.

  To extinguish her from his soul.

  He had to see her, ensure she was safe after cutting him loose, and get answers for closure. That was all. If he got caught up in her mess, allowed himself to get sucked back in for any reason, it would be a one-way ticket from limbo straight to hell.

  * * *

  Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

  5:20 p.m. EDT

  A cold vein of anger pulsed in Maddox’s head.

  She’d been set up by her own. Cole Matthews turning out to be Nikolai Reznikov was so far beyond the realm of coincidence, it landed smack-dab in the quagmire of the perverse.

  Granted, he looked different. His rebel with a cause charm had given way to something savage. He had a barely leashed readiness for violence running through him like a live wire. But no matter how different he appeared, if there’d been one clear photo, she would’ve recognized his face. The DGB had wanted her going in blind.

  Was Castle in on it? Would’ve taken elephant-sized balls for him to look her in the eyes and send her off clueless.

  Maddox swiped her badge through one of the electronic turnstiles on either side of the metal detector in the Gray Box lobby. Amanda Woodrow, who’d picked her up from the safe house, was at her side, wearing a trademark pantsuit that telegraphed she didn’t take fashion too seriously. Maddox had recruited Amanda from the Drug Enforcement Agency after a joint operation, where she had worked under the guise of Homeland Security. The DGB didn’t waste any time adding Amanda to his prized collection of flawed elite. He had the vision to tap those once misemployed or disavowed and put them to better use.

  They’d become close, fast friends, being the only two women in the Gray Box with operational field experience. Although Amanda had requested desk duty as an analyst after her son, Jackson, was born, that instant bond of mutual understanding had never gone away. As a woman, smaller than the others in black ops and most of the baddies she encountered, she had to be faster and sharper and work twice as hard physically to hold her own.

  Undoubtedly, Amanda sensed something awry in the uncommon thick silence between them but knew not to ask about a mission outside her purview.

  Maddox lifted a stiff hand hello to the two armed plainclothes security guards behind the curved, richly veined white marble desk. They gave curt nods. Amanda’s heels struck the polished concrete floor in a staccato like gunfire, echoing in the lobby.

  An iris scan gave them access to the elevator, and
Maddox slapped the button for the operations floor. Green laser beams from a state-of-the-art TSCM—technical surveillance countermeasure—scanner swept for unauthorized devices, from personal cell phones to bugs. Their encrypted cells that they used in the field were allowed in the building, but no mobile phone functioned in the subterranean facility.

  Once cleared, the elevator lowered in a smooth motion toward the sixth-floor sublevel, a bunker so protected it could withstand a nuclear explosion. Working here, being a Gray Box officer, had been everything for Maddox. It was the sole thing of consequence in her life. Until today.

  Her temples throbbed, the slightest quiver ticking in her leg at the thought of him. Cole Matthews. The man was an epoch-making juggernaut who had defined her life. BNE—Before Nikolai Era. ANE—After Nikolai Era. Now was the fricking Age of Cole.

  The elevator hummed to a stop, and the doors whispered open.

  “When this mission is done,” Amanda said, “we’ll grab a glass of wine and talk.”

  Maddox had been the shoulder Amanda leaned on after her boyfriend had dumped her at eight months pregnant and again three years ago when her son was diagnosed with leukemia. Maddox had stepped up as her birth partner and become auntie to little Jax, but she was nowhere near ready to divulge the secrets buried inside her.

  Amanda elbowed her. “Or we could just drink and skip the heavy talk.”

  As usual, her friend read her too well. Amanda flashed a supportive smile, making her look ten years younger than forty. The woman never seemed to age, could eat anything without packing on the pounds, and had girl-next-door freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose—attributes Amanda credited to the genetics on her mother’s side. But it was her untiring rainbow optimism, regardless of how harsh the storm, that left Maddox in awe.

  She nodded her thanks to Amanda and marched down the carpeted walkway separating the Intelligence side of Operations from Black Ops. Silvery-blue partition walls lined the path. Chatter from the nine TVs in Intel tuned to news networks from CNN to Al Jazeera faded into the background.

  She couldn’t wrap her head around why the DGB had set her up. The humiliation of being treated like a mark, denied professional courtesy, pissed her off enough to spit railroad spikes, but she rallied an iron demeanor. Shrouded the wrinkles of angry disappointment behind a calm veil.

  Janet Price, the DGB’s executive assistant and right hand, came around the corner. “Maddox, glad I found you. Reece is on the phone for you.” The middle-aged brunette had the disposition of warm syrup and a voice to match. She went out of her way to take care of everyone, from pet sitting when they deployed to bringing in scrumptious home-cooked snacks.

  “Mind if I take it at your desk? I need to see the big guy right after.”

  “Sure. Castle is in with him, but you can go in once they’re done.”

  Great. Kill two birdies with one stone. Maddox steamrolled past her, gunning for the combat zone. The administrative offices divided the expansive floor into two separate sections: operations on one side, and the common areas, such as the conference room, break room, gym, soundproofed range, and supply where they stored their gear and gadgets, on the other.

  Sybil Parker sashayed by, working her Louboutins and chic body-hugging dress with serious prowess. She gave Maddox the once-over with those shark eyes. The woman stayed in motion, circling, sniffing for blood in the water. Put the great white in Jaws to shame.

  Parker was the one person in the Gray Box the DGB hadn’t handpicked and couldn’t fire. Only the DNI, the director of national intelligence, could touch the insider threat monitor. Her sole responsibility was to keep an eye on personnel, communications, and networks, ensuring everything stayed aboveboard and no one misused access.

  Every government agency had ITMs. Considering the Gray Box was plugged into the networks of the CIA, FBI, and every other alphabet-soup agency, Parker’s position carried hefty weight. She knew it, too, and needled the DGB whenever possible, igniting epic battles.

  Maddox hurried to Janet’s desk and picked up the line with Reece on hold. “What’s up?”

  “He’s verifying the Russian threat is credible and running a background check on you.”

  Cole had resources to tap. Not good. Meant he wouldn’t need her for a safe place to stay.

  “I think you’re right that he’ll come to you. He wants his investigator to find out who you’re fucking.”

  So Cole still cared about her on a primal level. Even if it was only a testosterone-fueled, territorial one. “Anything comes up, any issues, bring it straight to me.”

  “We’ve got your back. Always. But cover our asses and get Dad’s blessing.”

  Castle opened the door, leaving the big guy’s office.

  She lined up her thoughts like ammo in a magazine. “Will do. Got to go.”

  Meeting Castle’s gaze, she searched his face but found the usual stony blockade. Then the oddest thing happened. He smiled, throwing any read on him into left field.

  “How did it go?” His voice was off, too light, too airy. “Did you get lucky?”

  “In a Twilight Zone way, yes.” She kept her tone calm. “You took those shitty photos of him, didn’t you?”

  He dragged a hand over his bald head, the one telltale he was uneasy. “Yeah. I did.”

  Castle didn’t know how empty she’d been for near a decade, but he’d witnessed the Reznikov train wreck, knew what she’d lost. She nursed her simmering anger but reined in the urge to punch him. Losing her temper, regardless how righteous, was a luxury she didn’t have.

  “That’s low,” she said, level, controlled. “Even for you.”

  “We all have our trials. I chose to follow orders. No matter how difficult.” Castle folded his arms, flexing big bear muscles. Not the cuddly teddy-bear type either. “Buck up. The only easy day was yesterday.”

  “Are you ever going to stop being a dick?”

  “Yep, got it marked on my calendar. It’s the day you stop being a candy-ass.”

  Painting on a careful smile, she said, “Thanks for the heart-to-heart, Castle.”

  “Anytime, buttercup.”

  Sad truth, that was probably the most intimate chat they’d had in years. He kept everyone at a distance. Something ugly had happened to him on his last mission as a Navy SEAL, something so painful it led him to the Gray Box. Something ugly and painful had led most of them here.

  She pivoted and strode into the DGB’s office.

  “Close the door. Take a seat,” Bruce Sanborn said from behind his black glass-top desk.

  Her boss had the look of a natural-born covert operative—hunky build, above-average height, a face resembling someone you knew or wanted to, but no one you quite remembered. The perfect camouflage of ordinariness.

  She shut the office door and sat.

  “Castle opposed my decision not to tell you Cole Matthews’s true identity.” Sanborn leaned back in his leather chair. The gray sprinkled along the sides of his dark hair, the patience in his warm brown eyes, the timeless bow ties he wore, gave him a sense of elegant wisdom.

  But she questioned his judgment this one time. “Why was the truth kept from me, sir?”

  “There wasn’t much information in your personnel file on your association to the Reznikov family, besides a brief liaison with Nikolai.” His low, gritty tone and relaxed demeanor echoed his managerial philosophy: authority speaks, but real power whispers and carries a bazooka. “I squeezed Castle to see what he knew. Discovered your file has gaping holes. It appears your relationship had been more than brief and casual. That you feel responsible for what happened to the asset.”

  She held her boss’s calculating gaze, making sure her eyes gave away nothing. “I am responsible.” She would’ve done anything for Cole, anything to be with him, to silence her father and prove him wrong. And she ended up destroying any chance they migh
t’ve had.

  Sanborn hit a button, frosting the glass of his office to an opaque silver. “Castle gave me the impression your prior connection to the asset was…rather intense.”

  Intense? A delicate, cautious word that didn’t skim the surface of the bond they’d shared—like calling a hurricane a breeze.

  She gave a subtle nod.

  “It’s my job to know my operatives and understand in which conditions you each work best. I was concerned you’d overthink things, allow emotion to cloud your judgment. But if I tossed you in the deep end, blindfolded, instinct and experience would take over. You would swim. I was looking out for your best interest. Telling you would’ve hurt you out there.”

  Sanborn’s keen attention to detail and no-nonsense approach kept his operatives breathing. His shining attribute was loyalty. The welfare of his people came first, everything else second. He protected, guided, and sometimes reprimanded—as any good dad would.

  “I understand.” And she did, although she didn’t like it.

  “Where do we stand with him?”

  “The Russians had grabbed and drugged him, but we squirreled him away to the safe house. There were concerns about the danger he posed. We restrained him, but that, combined with the two other swinging dicks in the room,” she said respectfully, assured he appreciated her candor, “caused him to clam up when I broached the subject of needing his help. So I cut him loose.”

  Sanborn steepled his fingers, studying her.

  She clasped her hands in her lap, wearing confidence like armor. “Strong-arming him won’t work. Appealing to his conscience with a plea about the greater good won’t persuade him. I need to soften him, in private. Take a personal approach and mend a broken bridge first.”

  It was true, but she neglected to mention how she’d have to give Cole what she suspected he wanted most. An explanation and an apology—to open a vein and let him see her bleed. If he didn’t believe she’d also suffered and been hurt in this, he would never help her.

  “I asked him to come to my apartment later so we can talk. I offered him a safe place to stay. If he’s going to help us, he must feel it’s his choice.”