by Juno Rushdan
“This is my backup?” Cole hiked a thumb at the three tough guys across the table.
“We’re backup for Maddox,” Castle said. “Not you.”
The air needed to be cleared. A street fight wasn’t a bad way to do it either.
“You three are to cover Maddox and Cole.” Sanborn’s voice was quiet yet implacable, arresting everyone’s attention. His eyes darkened. “If you’re not up for this, I can call Alistair and Ares in early from R&R to replace you.”
No one responded as butts shifted in seats.
“Cole will infiltrate the auction as his former self, Nikolai Reznikov, standing in for Ilya,” Sanborn said. “The attempt on Ilya’s life earlier is the perfect excuse. Maddox will go as your wife and business partner. A spouse won’t raise any vetting alarms and the business angle would explain her presence. Apprehend the buyer, seller, and secure the weapon. Any questions?”
He’d pretended she was his wife in his head more times than pride would let him admit. Doing so to save lives wouldn’t be an issue, even if he was working with some supersecret government agency that left a bad taste in his mouth.
“We’ve got it.” Maddox stood to leave. “I’m going to supply to gear up.”
Cole wanted to stop her. Say something that didn’t come out sounding like Assholese or Shitheadish, but the words were beyond him right now.
“Do I get gear?” Cole asked Sanborn while his gaze stayed fixed on Maddox as she strutted out of the room alongside Amanda.
The three musketeers trailed behind her, eyeing Cole on their way out.
This is going to be fun.
“Nope,” Sanborn said. “No gear for civilians, but we can provide a tux that should fit. I believe the card said black tie.”
To hell with that. He didn’t go anywhere unarmed. Not even into the spy central bunker. His helmet had proved useful when he’d needed it. “I left my prayer beads with my stuff outside. I’ll need those—they relax me. Help me to focus.”
“No problem,” Sanborn said.
“One more thing.” He snagged Harper’s pen. “Mind?”
“U-uh, yes.” Her eyes went wide, and she stiffened, like he’d shifted the delicate balance of the universe instead of taking a nondescript ballpoint pen.
“Thanks,” he said, ignoring her response. He clicked the pen a couple of times and shoved it into his pocket.
Experience had taught him almost anything could be used as a weapon.
Chapter 12
Central Valley, Costa Rica
2:30 p.m. EDT, 12:30 p.m. CST
Camouflaged by the white curtain in the master bedroom window, Aleksander watched Kassar do laps down in the garden-side pool. A lush oasis of manicured bushes, blooming flowers in an array of striking colors, and a carpet of trimmed grass surrounded the azure water.
“Natalia, bring me a towel?” Kassar climbed out of the water, bronzed and fit, skin and hair glistening in the bright sun.
Known as the faceless arms broker, he was the only weapons trafficker to build a network and clientele base strictly through the darknet. Also the only one to forego any security.
Perhaps he thought anonymity would keep him safe.
“Natalia! Maria!” Kassar plodded into the villa, wet feet slapping on the Spanish tile.
A balmy breeze carried the sweet scent of jasmine and incoming rain. The sound of Spanish cartoons filled the open villa. Aleksander peeked into the bathroom where Kassar’s wife and daughter lay bound and gagged in a bathtub large enough to fit four.
He put a finger over his mouth. “Shh.”
When possible, he avoided killing women. Not because they were the fairer sex or weaker or somehow undeserving of death. None of those lofty ideals. It was the prospect of accidentally taking a mother’s life, prematurely separating her from a small innocent. Mothers were gods for their children. Such sacrilege made his stomach roil as though he’d swallowed live eels.
He’d taken a contract on a woman once. A fellow assassin, and if she’d had any wee babes, she’d hidden evidence of them well. But he never killed children under any circumstances.
Fatigue snaked through his shoulders as he shut the bathroom door. He’d slept on the flight, but hopping time zones and the constant need to stay on the razor’s edge of his game were catching up to him. A power nap and an espresso from the gleaming machine in the kitchen once Kassar was done should give him the pick-me-up he needed.
“Maria, dondé está?” Kassar trotted up the stairs. “Are you and Mommy playing hide-and-seek? I don’t have time today. Daddy has to leave soon.”
Aleksander leaned against the doorjamb as Val slipped behind the open bedroom door, pulling the garrote from his pocket. His son extended the handles, drawing the fiber wire taut.
Kassar strode into the bedroom and froze, alarm wrinkling his face.
Val glided up behind him, quickly, silently, overlapping the handles of the garrote around the neck and tightening the wire. He rammed a knee into Kassar’s lower back.
Tug and hold.
Horror exploded in Kassar’s bulging eyes. The natural phases of impending death streaked across his face—fear, denial, concern for his family.
“Your wife and daughter are fine,” Aleksander reassured. “The housekeeper will find them.”
The wire dug into Kassar’s neck, crushing the trachea and cutting off blood flow to the brain. Not as quick as a bullet, but a silent, clean death in thirty seconds.
Kassar gagged, scratching at his own throat, kicking at air. They always struggled. No use, but they tried nonetheless. Air rasped from Kassar’s lips—those last sounds of life squeezing out always stung Aleksander’s ears. A few seconds longer, then the body went limp.
Val dropped him on the bed next to the laid-out tuxedo and slipped the garrote back in his pocket. “You look tired. Would you like me to make you an espresso, Baba?”
Such a good boy, taking care of his father. “After we finish preparing, yes.”
Aleksander picked up the five-by-seven-inch heavyweight linen textured card lettered in gold. Out of all the invitations, this was the easiest one to get his hands on, so he’d saved it for last. Impersonating Kassar required no effort, since no one knew what he looked like. With the others, he needed to pick off the competition, keep the price of the bioweapon down. The arms dealers had much deeper pockets, while his resources were finite…
Eliminating them was a means to a justified end. There hadn’t been time to get them all. He’d had to be selective. Losing Reznikov still vexed him. He’d been positioned with a clear shot, waiting for his opening. Then the scarred man on the motorcycle had appeared.
There’d been a moment Aleksander swore the man had looked right at him. And when Ilya Reznikov proffered the invitation to Scarface, Aleksander had to take the shot. Kill them both. Lined up in his sights, no breeze, no obstructions, Aleksander went for Ilya Reznikov first. But Scarface had moved fast as a gust of wind, robbing him of the kill. Ruining his perfect record.
Taking out the other invitees with the deepest pockets helped, but three of five was not what he’d endeavored to achieve. He swallowed the loss, the taste bitter as cyanide.
Val hauled out the suitcase stowed under the bed. He removed the false heels of the men’s dress shoes, put on gloves, and packed the cavities with the rest of their Semtex. This explosive was better than C-4, both malleable and waterproof. Aleksander set the detonator—already hidden in an empty lighter case—beside a pack of Delta cigarettes. With no way to know what they were walking into at the auction, they needed to be ready for a multitude of scenarios.
The two 160mm e-cigarettes Aleksander withdrew from the suitcase were the longest and widest he could find. He’d removed the wicks, inner tanks, and batteries, keeping the tiny springs and rigging them with No. 10 scalpel blades. A slight press on the battery button a
nd the ultraslim soldered blade would eject. Two inches in length, so he and Val would have to be close to the targets, but the surgical precision of the instrument would do the heavy lifting.
No one ever questioned a smoker. They could have cigarettes, nicotine gum, and an e-cigarette without raising a single eyebrow.
The Tourbillon Skeleton watch Aleksander wore everywhere was a chunky, classic timepiece that was broken but still served a vital function. He tested the crown. The push-button knob, typically used to wind the mainspring, ejected the black stainless-steel side of the case, revealing double-strand fiber wire that the artistic skeletonized dial concealed. The two-inch section of steel and the rest of the watch acted as handles. A homemade garrote, carried for luck.
Like a perfected aria, it was a magnificent piece of artistry. Aleksander handed the well-used watch to his son. Val would be his good luck and the watch his son’s.
Val cradled the watch in his palm and smiled. He was the one bright spot in Aleksander’s life.
“Thank you, Baba,” Val said with a hint of reverence.
Aleksander nodded. His burner phone hummed in his pocket. It could only be the information broker, who’d helped him orchestrate this. The untraceable phone was for emergencies. Aleksander had a standing agreement to pay for any intelligence that could compromise him or help further.
The broker had global resources, spies planted everywhere. The dossiers on the bidders and the auction host had been thorough, making possible everything he’d accomplished in the last thirty-six hours. The text shouldn’t have surprised him, but the message was shocking.
Informant on inside has relayed: undercover Gray Box agent to attend auction.
Details to follow after additional payment received. Intel solid.
Chapter 13
Sparrows Point Shipyard, Maryland
5:00 p.m. EDT
Maddox sat in the SUV, knuckles pale from clenching the steering wheel of the parked car for the past half hour.
Once dressed in her gear, she’d fortified her focus. Didn’t matter how irresistible Cole looked seated beside her. Or how the tux molded to his body despite the lack of tailoring. Didn’t matter his aura of danger and sex appeal were ramped to the max. With his lush black hair swept in a tight, low man bun, and bruiser beads draped around his neck, everything about him screamed pure warrior.
But it didn’t matter. She was dialed into the mission.
She ran her hand over the large turquoise stone centerpiece of her necklace.
Inside was a hidden camera, giving the team real-time eyes and ears. Faux diamond earrings housed a one-way communication device, so she could hear them in return.
She and Cole hadn’t exchanged a word since she told him the team could hear a pin drop.
Silence was good.
She didn’t have to look at Cole to know he was staring. His gaze was heavy as a physical touch, stripping her bare, tangling her belly into knots. Pressing a hand to her midsection, she prayed the sensation subsided. If only he’d take his eyes off her for five minutes.
He wanted her—the dark desire in the air between them was thick as honey—but he didn’t want to be with her.
And that stung. It cut her to the quick. She wished he was interested in starting over, that this was a date to explore possibilities instead of a mission. Which was as juvenile as the stutter of her heartbeat every time his gaze slid over her.
She fiddled with the belt hanging loose around her waist to give her hands something to do. She must’ve lost a few pounds over the last couple of days.
The belt was designed to go with a variety of outfits, including the fancy full-length dress she wore. Castle and Noah, another battle brother of hers out on assignment, worked with a talented weapons expert to get them their gear. The chunky buckle on this one contained a mini flashbang grenade and had gotten her out of more than one jam.
“Helicopter inbound from the east,” Reece said in her ear. He and Gideon had crashed on the sofas in the break room that afternoon, snatching a few winks, but she’d been too wired to contemplate a catnap.
The sound of rotor blades thwopping through air grew louder until a helo came into sight.
Nausea nipped her stomach. Preop jitters she’d learned to compartmentalize. “Ready?”
Cole clicked a pen and shoved it in his suit jacket. “Always.”
The sleek white helicopter touched down near the SUV and they climbed out of the car.
Time to earn her paycheck. If only it came remotely close to compensating for the danger.
The spinning rotor blades whipped dust into the air. She wobbled as they walked to the chopper, the dirt ground throwing off her balance. The dress shoes had literal titanium spikes in the high, narrow heels, covered with material to match the uppers, and the flat, finished tips popped off to reveal lethal points. Their weapons expert was an innovative woman.
The chopper pilot approached them. “Good evening. May I see your invitation?”
Cole withdrew the invite from his inner jacket pocket and held it up. “I’m Reznikov. This is my wife.” He wrapped an arm around Maddox, cupping her waist.
The pilot’s face was hard, his eyes shielded behind shades, but he waved for them to get in.
Cole patted her ass as if she belonged to him. “Let’s go.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, offsetting the sharp pleasure of his touch. “Careful,” she warned.
“With you?” A sly grin curled his mouth, a wildness burning in his eyes. “Never.”
The man was insufferable. Eager to sleep with her but entirely prepared to walk away once this was done. Made her want to slap him and kiss him and crawl all over him like a cat against a scratching post.
With a deep inhale, she packed away her emotional baggage and climbed into the helicopter. Cole hopped in, closing the door. The uber-luxury helicopter screamed money with the quietest cabin and no need to wear noise-reduction headsets.
Cole wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders and moved in, pressing his leg against hers. “Stay close, darling.”
First time he had ever called her darling. Under different circumstances, she would’ve laughed, but it was better than baby.
“You two okay?” asked the pilot. “Long ride ahead.”
“We’re great.” Cole tightened his grip on her. “Happy newlyweds. Inseparable.”
Her insides clenched. She shut her mind to the memories rippling the surface. “How long of a ride?”
“Orders not to say. Settle in, get comfortable.”
They lifted into the air. Heading east, they flew over the narrow strip of the Patapsco River.
The team would track the helo with the drone flying high enough to remain undetected. With an unknown flight time, they’d need to follow in person as well, at a distance. They were excellent operatives, and there was no one more skilled at directing field missions than Sanborn. Her backup would be there when she needed them.
The landscape shifted, and they coasted in the air over the great blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Nestled against Cole, keeping up their cover, she hardened herself. Meditation had helped her get through the Farm, the covert CIA training facility at Camp Peary, Virginia. She’d learned the tools of espionage and how to recruit assets, sharpened the self-defense skills Cole had taught her.
Now she cleared her mind, concentrating on breathing, letting the edginess rev inside. No distraction. Her focus crystallized.
Cole settled against her, body tense, his gaze on the water.
Hours later, fading sunlight winked across the amber water in a backwash of diamonds. The helo approached a leviathan luxury yacht shimmering on the horizon. Two hundred feet of glass and steel gleamed like something out of a Bond movie.
The helicopter descended as her nerves rose.
Maddox scanned three decks. Six gu
ards in black suits patrolled the main level, automatic weapons for accessories. There’d be more bodyguards on the other levels.
The chopper touched down on a helipad. Training hammered her instincts, every muscle tight. Two guards carrying HK MP7s—serious firepower—hustled to open her door.
Outnumbered and outgunned, the odds were seriously stacked against them.
Every mission was a gamble. The outcome came down to training and determination. She had both. And this time, she had Cole, a man who redefined the very nature of beating the odds.
* * *
International Waters, Atlantic Ocean
7:10 p.m. EDT
Briny air prickled Cole’s senses, ratcheting him up on high alert.
He extended a hand, helping Maddox out of the helicopter. A warm gust of wind caught her dress and sent the side slits billowing, flashing her long, lissome legs. She’d covered the bruise on her thigh with makeup. Brown ringlets were piled on her head in a fancy updo, tendrils brushing her strong, slim shoulders.
The dress was provocative yet classy. In it, she was the most elegant, jaw-dropping creature alive. Having her on his arm, even as they walked into the lion’s den, filled him with inexplicable pride.
Two armed guards in black suits greeted them with instructions for them to lift their arms for a pat down. The guys had the rough and tough look and stench of mercenaries.
Cole went first, extending his arms. He’d been frisked before, but these guys were thorough, venturing closer to his crotch than any in prior experiences, even checking inside his shoes. The pen in his jacket pocket garnered a casual glance before it was returned, and his prayer beads were dismissed entirely.
There wasn’t much clothing on Maddox to check. The guard kept a neutral gaze, running his hands down the sides of her rib cage and over her flat stomach.
Cole’s whole body tightened as he resisted the urge to clock the guy just for putting his hands on her. The bottom of her dress danced and twirled in the wind, displaying too much skin for his comfort. The guy did a double take. Cole moved in, roping a possessive arm around her waist.
