Every Last Breath

by Juno Rushdan

  “How are you monitoring him?”

  “Roving bug on his phone. Gideon and Reece are on him. Three-mile tether.”

  He gave a slow nod as if mulling over her words, weighing options, listing pros and cons. “Your approach has the potential to be very effective. Intimacy breeds a sense of responsibility and trust. How you accomplish that tonight, I leave to your discretion.”

  Sleeping with an asset wasn’t condoned nor discouraged. The reality was it sometimes happened. It was only when an operative forgot sex was a tool and became emotionally involved that things became complicated and objectivity flew out of the window. Since Cole still had a regrettable hold on her, sex would prove ruinous. While he was an asset, she couldn’t sleep with him, no matter how much she was tempted. Their chemistry had once been incendiary, and they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other, going at it two or three times in one day.

  She crossed her legs at the abrupt, stupid tingle in her thighs. After the op was finished, they could reconnect with no holds barred, explore the possibilities. Maybe find a way to forgive.

  “Why is the Russian embassy after him? He’s an American citizen.”

  “He was born here, but his parents were Russian nationals and filed the forms to have his Russian citizenship recognized. Cole must’ve done something pretty big to upset the mob there.”

  Nikolai had wiped out the Bratva transplanted to DC in a single day, making headlines, spawning Cole. Probably ticked off powerful people in Siberia who wanted his head on a pike.

  Guilt pricked her conscience, but she swatted it away as one would a riled hornet, certain it would snap back far more viciously later.

  “Putin’s power is founded on both his links to organized crime and the way he rose through the ranks of the former KGB. The mafia must have called in a favor to get Putin to pull strings. If Cole helps us, I’ll do what I can to fix his problem with the Russians.”

  If anyone could, it was Sanborn. He’d been known to pull off a miracle or two akin to parting the Red Sea. “How did you find out he was alive?”

  “You’re now cleared to access his file. Dig as deep as you want into his current life. The CliffsNotes version is his mother died last year and he went to the funeral.”

  His mom was kind, loving, would’ve made a perfect MIL if Maddox hadn’t blown it.

  “He kept his distance at the cemetery, never took off his helmet, but the FBI was crawling all over the place. Followed him. Loaded photos in a database of known associates.”

  “How did he drop on our radar?”

  “Willow found him.”

  Overachiever Willow Harper. Tightly wound loner, analyst, techie—pure savant.

  “Willow learned about the auction to sell smallpox by hacking into the dark web on her time off. When she was researching ways to get us in, she went through the database of associates for the invited arms dealers. She drilled deep for connections, found Cole Matthews—a man with no history. She ran his picture through facial recognition and got a hit on Nikolai, Ilya Reznikov’s brother. Once she learned his true identity, his prior association to you popped up from your personnel file.”

  “Great work on Harper’s part.” She controlled the quaver of sarcasm in her voice. “Is this op the reason you rushed my assignment in Iran?” The accelerated timeline had forced Maddox to push her asset before she was ready. “Sent Alistair and Ares to extract me?”

  “Recalling you was the best COA, despite the loss of your asset. Especially considering the Russians’ last-minute involvement we picked up in SIGINT traffic.”

  If she’d had one more week to complete the assignment, her asset would still be alive, and she would’ve gotten the data they’d needed.

  “An hour ago, Willow intercepted chatter on the darknet. Each arms dealer was sent an auction passcode via messenger. Convince Cole to get the code from Ilya.” He looked at his watch. “The auction begins in fifty-two hours. It’s imperative we get our hands on that bioweapon.”

  Or thousands could die—here, possibly abroad. “I understand what’s at stake.”

  “Maddox, I know this op is a challenge for you. Cole was someone you loved, hoped to marry, somehow wronged. Thought him dead. Then on top of all that, you suffered a late-term miscarriage.”

  Her throat cinched. She tried to swallow against the dry knot, but it only tightened.

  She’d fallen so hard and deep for Cole, the kind of love you go all in on. After believing he’d died, she’d failed to hang on to the only piece of him left, the child he didn’t know about. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost herself.

  Checking every red flag of body language, Maddox disconnected, like pulling a plug, and wiped her mind blank. She willed herself to mirror Sanborn’s unflinching composure. He was gauging her ability to handle this emotional powder keg without blowing up the mission.

  “The strongest steel is tempered in the hottest fire,” she said, quoting him.

  He softened, flashing an apologetic smile. “If you feel the least bit conflicted, I’d say it’s understandable, considering. It’ll be tough to get close to Cole without getting entangled.”

  Try impossible. “I assure you, I’m capable of doing my job.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He took on that protective, fatherly expression she knew well. Despite being in his late forties, he looked far too young and vital to be her dad. She often wondered why he didn’t spend less time in the office and a little having a social life. He’d make some lucky lady a great partner. “But if you encounter any hiccups, you can come to me. I won’t view a setback as a failure in this.”

  Nodding, a little choked up at his support, she had no intention of ever taking him up on such an offer. Running to him with a problem meant she couldn’t handle the situation, and that wasn’t going to happen.

  “There is one more thing. Don’t blow your cover. Based on the asset’s psychological profile, he’s unlikely to cooperate with this agency or any federal organization.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Cole would rather swallow rusty razor blades than help the CIA, FBI, you name it. As the son of a Russian crime boss, his family had been endlessly harassed. He’d had a disdain for law enforcement ingrained in him at an early age.

  “Maintaining your cover as a buyer for Helios is key,” Sanborn said.

  The front of Helios Importing and Exporting provided a solid cover for their constant travel, the fleet of vehicles, and the tricked-out helicopter Sanborn had squeezed from the DNI.

  Except that Cole had a gift for smelling lies, a survival skill cultivated out of necessity, growing up around gangsters. Even as well trained as Maddox was, he would sniff one out from her. “Leveling with him, being honest—”

  “Honest?” Sanborn’s shrewd eyes narrowed, tone going quiet. “With a man who let you believe he was dead, moved on, without a word to you in nine years? He isn’t worth the gamble of honesty.”

  A dull knife twisted in her heart, but she didn’t so much as flinch.

  Sanborn strode around his desk and sat on the edge. “Your cover is the best safeguard you have.” With a gentle smile, he leaned in and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “If you’re honest, he’s less likely to help you and more likely to endanger you. Trust me. I can’t stress enough the tightrope you have to walk here.” His compassionate manner was a comfort. “Mend the bridge. Only get as close as necessary to persuade him and don’t blow your cover.”

  This wasn’t just about her duty, safeguarding national security and saving lives, although each mission drove her with the crack of a bullwhip. Sanborn had plucked her from a floundering desk job at the Agency, given her a purpose, groomed her, believed in her, forged her into one of his best. She owed him nothing less than her all.

  She owed them both a win.

  “I’ll get it done, sir.”

  Chapter 05<
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  Fishtown, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  6:04 p.m. EDT

  Val drove past Callahan’s Navigator, parked in a VIP spot directly in front of the casino. The area buzzed with constant traffic, millennials dressed to party and gamble through the night. Light casino security milled about, derelict in their vigilance. Val parked the sedan on the edge of the loading zone at the far end of the circular drive as Aleksander had instructed.

  They got out in tandem. Val grabbed the hard-shell golf travel case that had the rifle, tossed Aleksander the key fob, and went off to execute his part in the main parking lot. Aleksander hiked the lightweight backpack containing a brick of Semtex explosives on his shoulder.

  A warm breeze off the river carried the stench of urine. A ghost moon was rising in the north. Striding past a row of taxis the color of crushed daffodils, Aleksander glided as if cloaked in shadows. He strolled into the VIP parking section, surveilling the area. No eyes on him.

  He hit the alarm button on the key fob.

  The high-pitched dee-doo dee-doo siren sounded, drawing outside attention away from him. Whipping the bag off his shoulder, he dropped to the blistering pavement and slid underneath the Navigator. He clicked the remote once more, killing the noise. The fit beneath the undercarriage was cramped, giving him inches to work within, but he was slender and had maneuvered in spaces more confined than this.

  He removed the wired explosives from the backpack. His sweat-dampened hair stuck to his forehead. Perspiration gathered in his armpits, running in ribbons down his long-sleeved shirt, his clothing clinging in the boiling air, but he ignored the distractions. Singular focus.

  Attaching the explosive device to the chassis near the gas tank took less than a minute. He’d done it so many times, he could’ve been blindfolded. He hit the alarm button on the remote key again, and the shrill sound pierced the air once more. As the gazes of everyone followed the noise, he scooted out from under the vehicle. A quick brush of his sweaty clothes, and he strode toward the sedan.

  Val intersected his path. “Black Dodge pickup. Third row. Sixth in.”

  Aleksander handed his son the key fob and detonator. “If I’m not at the rendezvous by 0900, go ahead without me. You can handle the next target. I’ll catch up.”

  Val nodded.

  A casino security guard standing beside their sedan said, “Whose car is this? It can’t be parked here.”

  “Sorry,” Val said with no trace of a Slavic accent. “I’m an Uber driver. I was looking for my customer.”

  Aleksander hung back until the guard had moved on and then exchanged one last look with his son before heading into the main parking lot. He located the Dodge pickup that Val had hotwired for him, the engine running. He jumped in the cabin of the truck, resting a hand on the rifle case, and spotted his son moving into a position with lines of sight to the Navigator and the front doors of the busy casino.

  Val would wait for Callahan to get into the car and clear the casino before detonating the bomb. Amateurs rushed, making careless mistakes. Val would be patient, focused. The way Aleksander had trained him.

  Aleksander drove out of the casino parking lot and hit the highway, I-95 south, for his two-hour drive. His fingers tingled. There was so much left to do, but with each step, they drew closer. This was everything.

  He would have retribution, come hell or high water.

  And make no mistake: he would be the hell, and his son the high water.

  Chapter 06

  Vienna, Virginia

  6:45 p.m. EDT

  Cole picked the electronic smartcode dead bolt of Maddox’s apartment in twenty seconds. Technically, he cheated. He hooked a hi-tech RF signal disruptor to the lock’s touch screen, scrambling the Z-wave—if he correctly recalled the geek speak on how the gadget worked. The pricey off-market tech was a challenge to acquire, courtesy of his boss as part of his job.

  Once inside, Cole shut the door and locked it. Beyond the long entry hall, he glimpsed a living room.

  He stalked into her place, past a console table with a small crystal bowl, absorbing the upscale, tidy environment. Neutral beige and calming blues, blank walls. Plush furniture that enticed him to kick off his shoes and settle in. Experience taught him to peel back the seductive superficial layers to see the butt-ugly truth.

  After Maddox had hijacked him from the Russians and strapped him to a chair, the tension that’d been abrading his nerves was scratching deep.

  He rounded the corner, prowling into the kitchen. Empty red wine bottles filled a recycling bin. Half-eaten takeout containers and protein shakes lined the fridge. The freezer wasn’t better, with waistline-friendly dinners, gelato, an unopened bottle of vodka. The good stuff. A barren pantry had a few boxes of pasta, soup, scotch—more of the good stuff—wine, and freaking MREs. Meals ready to eat, only consumed in the pinch of a combat zone.

  Drifting into the living room, he soaked in the details. No Blu-rays in the entertainment center. No keepsakes. No mail, no bills, no magazine subscriptions.

  No photos of her with friends, her parents, a man.

  The cozy place had the warmth of a corporate apartment and personality of a hotel suite. It was clean, empty, like his or anyone who needed to bolt at a moment’s notice.

  He wandered into the bedroom and stilled. Above her bed hung a framed photo print of the Kogod Courtyard ceiling at the National Portrait Gallery in DC, where they’d met. A phantom fist dragged him to a time that’d broken more than his heart.

  On breaks from MIT, he’d avoided family business and spent time gazing at the ceiling of the Kogod Courtyard—an architectural marvel of glass and steel that floated, catching the sun, setting the imagination afire. But seeing Maddox for the first time had set his entire body alight.

  It felt as if someone had combed the recesses of his dirty mind and created this young, alluring woman just for him. Curly brown hair, light-brown skin, mesmerizing eyes. A mouth made for sex and hips meant to cradle a man. She’d been perfection, squeezing the air from his lungs.

  But her looks were only the half of it. He’d learned fast: she was bright, had a wicked sense of humor, a feisty spirit, and no clue the power she wielded with her guileless sensuality. He’d been a moth drawn to a blowtorch.

  Damn it. He still was.

  He shoved the torturous memories into the bunker and moved to Maddox’s bureau. Neat rows of lacy underwear. Yoga pants, running shorts, tees, tanks. He rifled the right nightstand, recalling she preferred the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. Top drawer had a phone charger, vibrator, and condoms. Closing the drawer quickly, he realized he might not be ready to face all of this.

  A large velvet case sat in the bottom drawer. Thumbing the latch, he flicked it open. A sweet set of kunai throwing knives sent a flutter of surprise through him. The black stainless-steel blades jibed with the new Maddox. The woman who wore tactical field boots, handled a knife like a professional, had kidnapping as a hobby, and was savvy enough to discern his Buddha beads weren’t for prayer.

  The deeper he dug, the louder his shitstorm meter screamed mayhem a-coming.

  If she had these blades, high probability there was other stuff. He kept sweeping her condo, snooping under the mattress, shoeboxes in the closet, coffee cans in the kitchen.

  Thirsting for pay dirt, he unearthed nothing. No secret compartments, no false bottom drawers. Not even a laptop. Besides the throwing knives, the only other out-of-place thing was a spool of fishing line in a kitchen cupboard.

  In the living room, his gaze fell to the gas fireplace. He dug out a flashlight from his backpack. Shining the light inside, he scanned for signs of tampering, any indication something might be hidden within. Nothing odd stood out.

  He unscrewed the vent plate anyway. Inside were the usual knobs, metal tubing, and wires. A patch of darkness in the far corner snagged his gaze.


  Most people would’ve dismissed the slight oddity. Not him. He reached in and felt around.

  Bingo. A black courier bag made from a scaly, high-heat-resistant fabric. He dumped the contents. Passports in fake names, bundles of cash in a variety of currencies. His gut tightened.

  With Maddox’s mixed heritage—African American on her dad’s side, Swedish and French on her mom’s—her ethnicity was impossible to discern. Her dad had worked for the State Department, bouncing their family from one embassy posting to another. Maddox had a knack for linguistics and spoke four different languages. Five, counting the Russian Cole had taught her.

  The powerful combo of her looks and being multilingual enabled her to blend in and disappear in almost any country of her choosing. The question was, why would she need to?

  What was she caught up in? Was she in some kind of trouble? Or was she the trouble?

  Again.

  After the FBI raid that had taken out the big gathering of the Bratva families discussing expansion, he’d called her to see if she’d told anyone about the meeting. He’d hung up once she’d said yes, too furious to hear the why. The only thing that’d mattered was cleaning up the fallout.

  The soft shuffle of footsteps in the outer hallway stopped right outside. His gaze snapped to the front door and dipped to the slight crack at the bottom. There was a shadow of someone standing on the other side. His pulse zipped up a notch.

  It wasn’t Maddox. She would’ve unlocked her door and come inside. Whoever it was stood still, as if listening. Or trying to figure out how to circumvent her smartcode dead bolt.

  A whisper of a rustling sound, then a second shadow appeared, sending a wild kick of adrenaline surging through him. He chucked the passports and cash into the courier bag, stuffed it beneath the fireplace, and tipped the vent plate back without wasting time screwing it in place. He scrambled from the floor, yanking his Beretta Storm out of his backpack, and took a defensive position in the kitchen.