by Jaycee Clark
She blinked and realized what he said was the truth. She’d never thought about it. What they’d done, they’d done quickly for Darya’s sake. It was always for Darya’s sake.
He nodded. “Yeah. And if anything happened to me, I wanted to know she’d be cared for. Not just by my family, but by you as well.”
“Stop reading me. And you didn’t know me.”
His eyes still blazing, he said, “I knew enough.” His hands manacled her upper arms.
“Let me go, Ian.”
Still his eyes shot fire at her, his breath hot, his features hard. Having enough, she brought her foot down on his instep. He winced and let her go. She backed up and braced. For what, she didn’t know. “I said to bloody take your hands off of me.”
He stared for one long moment at her, shook his head, and turned, yanking the door open. Without a word, he picked his pack up in the hall and walked away.
She stood there for a split second, then ran after him.
“Ian, wait. Wait, bloody everlasting hell.” She caught up with him at the top of the stairs, but he kept going. “You asked for it.” She grabbed the banister and kicked out.
He ducked and whirled, reaching up and grabbing her ankle, yanking her to him.
She heard someone below yell. Heard John’s “Christ.”
Even as Ian turned and slammed her against the wall, bracing upward to keep their balance, and still he’d kept his arms around her so he didn’t hurt her back.
His eyes didn’t just blaze now, they engulfed. “If you ever try a stupid-ass stunt like that again, I won’t be responsible for my actions,” he gritted out.
She couldn’t move. She tried to wiggle her arms free, but he had them pinned between him. The muscle ticked in his jaw. Taking him down on the stairs wasn’t the brightest of her plans. “You were rude. I detest when someone is rude to me.”
“Johnno’s rude to you all the fucking time and I don’t see you trying to kick his skull in.” Still he didn’t move.
“I didn’t try to kick your skull in, Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she muttered. “I needed to get your attention.” Jutting her chin out to his, she said, “Be glad I didn’t reach for my gun.”
His eyes narrowed, and if possible the cold voice froze even lower. “You and I wouldn’t be having this conversation if you had.”
“Why, you think you’re that good?” He’d have shot her? Not that she really would have shot him. Gotten his bleeding attention, yes, which was all she wanted.
“I don’t have to be. My boss would have shot you.”
She took a deep breath. “You didn’t listen to me,” she tried.
“I heard all I needed to.”
“I don’t like being left out. Is that so bloody hard to understand?” she asked him, straining against the hold he had on her. She couldn’t bleeding budge.
“And I need you here.”
“Why are you going as Petrolov?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and sighed, whispering, “Rori, why do you think?” Opening his eyes, he looked at her, the anger not by any means gone, but banked. “What would make us safer?”
Us. Not me. Not Darya and me. Us.
She searched his eyes and saw he meant it. “Us?” she ventured.
“I knew exactly what I was doing for more reasons than one,” he said ambiguously.
She sighed. “Why are you taking John?”
He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered, his breath hot against her mouth. She didn’t know who all watched below, and frankly, she didn’t care.
“I know you can handle yourself, but I couldn’t handle anything happening to you. Rori, I need you here. I need to know you’re safe. That our daughter is safe, and if, God forbid, I don’t come back, someone here will know how to hide her.” His lashes swept up as he looked straight into her eyes. “I need you.” He kissed her, just a press of lips. “Please.”
Something in her heart opened at those words. And he’d asked, not demanded, not ordered. Asked. Trusted. Wanted. Needed.
“No one’s ever needed me before,” she said, wiggling her arms.
He didn’t ease his hold. “I do.”
He kissed her hard, his body holding hers to the wall on the stairs, his gun pressing against her ribs, his mouth hot and demanding, yet giving and asking all at the same time.
He jerked away, then kissed her quickly again. Leaning back, he let her slide down until her feet were touching the stairs. He leaned down, picked up the bag and hurried down the rest of the stairs.
Mr. Jones stood below, glaring up at her, but with a smile on his face. He acknowledged her with a tilt of his salt-and-pepper hair. Ian’s parents stood in the entryway gaping, John tapping his thigh, impatient as usual, and Darya stood pale, her eyes as wide as if she’d seen a ghost.
Rori shook off her wondering thoughts and hurried down the stairs. At the bottom, Ian garbed as Petrolov knelt in front of Darya. When he reached for her, she jerked back whimpering.
Ian’s shoulders lifted on a deep breath and he asked the girl something. She shook her head, then shook it again. When he reached for her a second time, she glanced around and ran to Mr. and Mrs. Kinncaid, hiding behind Jock’s legs.
Oh bloody hell.
Her little face peaked out from behind Jock’s legs, tears sparkling in those blue eyes before tracking down her face.
Rori put her hand on Ian’s shoulder as he stood, shaking his head. “She won’t let me touch her.” His eyes, hard before, looked at her, and for a moment the pain in them rocked her, but he quickly masked it.
Jock leaned down and picked up Darya, holding her against him. Ian raked a hand through the hair, then shoved it behind his ears, took off the coat and handed it, along with the bag, to Rori. He walked to his parents and took a photograph from his pocket. She heard him speaking Russian to Darya, who was frowning at him. A moment passed, then another, then her small arms reached out to Ian.
He took her, his shoulders relaxing. The little girl wrapped herself around him and wouldn’t let go.
Rori could hear her talking softly; even as she couldn’t understand the language itself, she could hear the questions in the tone. Ian’s voice was soft and deep as he answered her. All Rori could do was watch. He showed her the photograph, waiting for her to take it. When she did, he kissed her on her forehead and tried to hand her off to Jock. But Darya clung to him, starting to whimper. His voice kept its low cadence, and finally he pulled her off him, handing her to his father. When he turned, the pain on his face was there for all to see.
Rori cupped his face. “She’ll be all right.”
He stared at her hard. “If . . .” Darya’s crying got louder and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“We’ve got to go,” Mr. Jones said. “I’m sorry.”
Ian’s eyes opened. “If I don’t make it back—”
“You will,” she interrupted him.
“If I don’t, our old passports are upstairs in the dresser. Get to our house. Keep her safe for me.” He opened his mouth to say something else. Grabbing the back of her neck, he kissed her again. “Be careful. I can’t lose you.”
With that, he turned, joined Johnno at the front door and walked out into the winter night.
His parents looked after them, and Darya’s screaming grew frantic.
Rori grabbed Pete Jones’s arm. “He’s really that good, isn’t he?”
Pete’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
She stared at him. “You make certain he comes home to us alive and well or you’ll be answering to me and cleaning up a mess of those responsible.”
He looked from her eyes to her hand on his arm, then met her gaze. “Is that a threat, Ms. Maitland?”
“It’s Mrs. Kinncaid and that’s a bloody promise.” She let go of his arm. “You don’t pull through and you’ll find out just why the Raven was the one chosen to take out the Reaper.”
She took Darya from the Kinncaids and walked to the front door, with the girl in her
arms mumbling nonsensical words to her.
At the front door, they waved at the departing car.
Darya held the photograph he’d given her to her chest, her hiccups and shuddering breaths breaking the heart inside Rori that her husband had opened.
Chapter 26
Amsterdam
November 18, 11:54 p.m.
Dimitri Petrolov climbed out of the cab, the Rosse Buurt, or red-light, district in full swing. The canal was crowded with some night revelers. He scanned the street. Oudezijds Achterburgwal was living up to its reputation. Women posed in the glass-front windows. Lingerie—almost there, almost nonexistent—adorned, or not, those that sat, lounged, or leaned in the windows offering wares.
To him red-light districts had always been just that, a blur of red lights, so even memories of the places kept that crimson glow.
He hated these places. He knew, without a doubt, that many of those women staring out would fuck more men in one night than many did their entire lives. While many didn’t mind their profession, there were clubs where the women simply didn’t have a choice.
At the not-so-gentle shove on his arm, he turned to John—currently known as Jean Tabeier, his bodyguard.
“We’re just here to walk down that alley and into that abandoned shop.”
The walk would undoubtedly take them right in front of one of the most notorious clubs in the district. Also run by one of the families who controlled holdings in Cheb, Prague, Berlin, and Moscow.
Near the entrance they did what they had rehearsed—arguing, drawing the attention of several people, including the two bouncers who were standing guard outside the door.
Petrolov saw the gun holsters beneath their jackets and the bulge of their guns.
He even recognized one bouncer, who had accompanied his boss on several occasions. The man’s eyes widened and he immediately pulled out his cell phone and made a call.
Knowing his job was done, he took off across the street. Hopefully no one would get hurt in the explosion. The fact he was willingly walking into a rigged and wired building was not one he wanted to contemplate.
“You’re such a likeable chap,” John muttered. “We’ll be lucky if his boss doesn’t—bloody hell.”
Dimitri looked over his shoulder and saw the guard start after them. They reached the building and pulled open the door. Darkness beckoned beyond.
Both of them had memorized the layout on the ten-hour-plus flight over here. They walked to the right ten steps, then opened the door, down the fourteen steps. Sixteen across the basement.
“I don’t fucking like this, by the way,” John muttered.
He ignored him and felt the wall. The door handle was just there.
“Shh,” John said.
They heard the squeak of the door above and the groan of floorboard. The guard.
He cursed above them and asked a question. Dimitri currently didn’t care. He felt the door on the wall, found the handle and wondered if they’d go up in flames if he pulled it.
“Wait.”
John turned his small flashlight on. Wires ran around the perimeter of the room and plastic explosives sat in the center of the table.
“I’m ready to bloody leave now,” John said.
They checked the door didn’t see any rigs.
Both took a deep breath and he opened the door. Nothing happened.
They both exhaled, shut the door and hurried up the back-alley steps.
The shadows didn’t move, but instead of heading back in the way they’d come, they walked across the alley to the other door and pulled it open.
“We need to hurry,” he told John. Again they moved through a dark abandoned building and out a door leading into a different alleyway. No lights shone down on them.
They walked two more streets over, and Petrolov pulled off the wig and wigcap, running his fingers through his hair. John jerked off his own blond wig. When they reached the canal, they split.
Ian Kinncaid, traveling on business and enjoying an evening in Amsterdam, heard and saw an explosion as he stood waiting on a boat.
Dimitri Petrolov was dead.
• • •
Seneca, Maryland
November 18, 1:04 a.m.
Rori yawned and closed the door. She was tired. For the second night in a row Darya had awakened screaming bloody murder, bringing every adult within the house running. She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. She wanted a drink of something.
She hadn’t heard from Ian, didn’t know if things had gone as planned or not. And it was driving her bonkers. She’d never been a worrier before and now she fretted. She hated to fret and brood.
His parents asked her if she’d heard from him. His brothers.
She cracked the door back open to check that Darya was still sleeping. The little girl lay on her side, the photo clutched in her hand, the teddy bear under her arm. They were starting to worry about her. Since dinner yesterday evening, she hadn’t eaten a single bite. Darya gave a new meaning to the word “stubborn.” She didn’t want to go to bed, just sat on the bottom step and stared at the front door. Or she sat in the living room near the windows. She was always watching . . . waiting . . .
Rori didn’t want to be gone long. She strode down the hallway and down the stairs. The house was quiet and dark, lit by the low-lit lamps sporadically placed. The hallway to the kitchen was lit with a nightlight near the floor.
The smell of cookies still hung in the air. Even Becky couldn’t tempt Darya with a pumpkin cookie.
Roth sat at the kitchen table dunking cookies into a glass of milk. “These are really good.”
She shook her head and walked to the industrial-sized refrigerator. The shelves were neatly organized and stocked full. She chose a bottle of protein juice and water.
Taking them both, she walked to the table, and sighing, plopped down in the chair next to Roth.
“You get her back asleep?” Roth asked.
She nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze ran over her. “You look beat. You should get some sleep while you can.”
She twisted the cap and drank the juice.
“Heard from Tanner?” she asked, setting the bottle back on the table.
He nodded. “Yeah, called and checked in from some Southern plantation. Said he felt like he was on the set of Gone With the Wind or some such.”
Rori had seen the movie and had never understood the rave behind the bloody flick. But then that was her.
Roth stretched, his back popping. “At least Brayden and his family are safe.”
“True.” She studied him for a moment. “You have any luck yet on finding out where Darya came from?”
Roth grinned and rested his temple on his fisted hand. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Why not?” She snatched one of his cookies.
“Ian would have my ass.”
“You don’t tell me, and I’ll have your ass.”
Roth’s eyes narrowed on her. “No, I haven’t.”
Not a big surprise. If someone wanted to get rid of a kid, they’d hardly advertise they were looking for them. Some did, but then those cases tended to be an altogether different issue.
“I see we weren’t the only ones with midnight cravings,” Jock said from the doorway.
Rori turned and smiled at them—Jock in a worn navy robe, the elbows faded and frayed, Kaitlyn in a silky ivory dressing gown. “Sit down, I’ll put on some tea.”
She stood and helped Kaitlyn set the kettle to boil.
Roth looked at her, then at them, and said, “I’m going to check in with the guys outside, then head to bed.”
She nodded, and waited. She knew what was coming.
“Did you ever get Darya to eat anything?” Kaitlyn asked, sitting at the table.
Rori shook her head as she sat down in her chair. “No. She won’t touch a bit of food.”
“Maybe she’s coming down with something,” Jock said, frowning. He reached for the plate of
cookies and grabbed three.
Kaitlyn slapped his hand. “One will suffice, dear.”
He kept two.
Rori grinned.
Jock speared her with a look. “She had nightmares last night all damn night. She’s already woken up screaming. What the hell’s going on?”
And there it was.
Rori took another drink of her juice and wished she’d gone upstairs.
Some appliance started to hum and they both looked at her expectantly.
What the hell did she tell them? Nothing.
Kaitlyn looked down at her hands, then back up. “After the kids were kidnapped last year, they both had nightmares for weeks. Tori woke up crying for months.”
Rori nodded.
“You said she was adopted, but the other night Ian acted as though something had happened to her.”
And last night she’d been in the cupboard again.
Rori sighed and rested her head on her hand. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Maybe not, but it would help if we understood,” the woman said.
Rori looked from one to the other. “Sometimes people want to know things, then wished they didn’t know them at all. Darya’s story isn’t a pretty one.” She rolled the bottle between her palms.
“Just spit it out, damn it. Who the hell hurt our little girl?” Jock barked.
Rori looked at him. “I don’t know, Mr. Kinncaid. We have no idea who she is. We found her on a child porn set hiding in a space we could barely get her out of.” She shook her head.
“What?” Kaitlyn asked, leaning forward. “You mean to tell me . . . that poor girl . . . they . . . Did she . . .” She snapped her mouth shut and stood, hurrying to the stove.
Rori swallowed.
