Black List: HOT Heroes for Hire: Mercenaries: A Black’s Bandits Novel

by Lynn Raye Harris

  The Gemini Syndicate was the informal name for a cabal that stretched around the world, comprised of very wealthy men and their pursuit of geopolitical outcomes that favored them. Mostly, they seemed to want the world in chaos so they could control more of it. The consensus in the intelligence community was that their name came from the zodiac sign. Mercury, the ruling planet of Gemini, was the god of tricksters.

  It was a nice theory, but Ian had a better one. When the United States was racing to be first on the moon in the sixties, Gemini was the name of the many missions that tested all the variables before the successful Apollo moon landing. The moon was the goal, and Gemini was the test. Ergo, the Gemini Syndicate was testing variables before the landing.

  But what was the landing? He had no idea, but he intended to find out—and prevent it from happening.

  “Any idea why they want him dead?” Jace asked.

  “Not yet. Might have something to do with the oil fields in Siberia. Sokolov refuses to sell, but if he’s dead then presumably his heirs could be negotiated with. He has a twenty year-old daughter and she seems more interested in partying in Europe than running her father’s empire. Could also be the arms deal he’s reportedly negotiating with Pakistan—Boris Medved is a rival for that deal, and it might be him who hired Calypso. In truth, there’s no shortage of people who aren’t happy with Sokolov. But he has his uses, which means I need you to stop Calypso.”

  Leonid Sokolov might be a bastard, but he was also a covert asset for the United States Government. The man’s loyalties were to himself, which is why he had no problem informing on issues affecting the US. Since Sokolov could be useful from time to time, Ian’s directive was specific—keep the man alive.

  “Capture or kill?” Jace asked, his voice devoid of emotion. Like a good operative.

  “Preferably capture. It’d be nice to find out what she knows about Gemini—but if you have to kill her, then kill her.” Ian reached for the folder he’d left lying closed on his desk. Inside was a photo. He handed it to Jace. “It’s grainy, but this is the best visual we’ve ever gotten on her. It was taken at Domodedovo Airport in Moscow yesterday. Our facial recognition software says it’s a match to prior photos, but there’s always an element of uncertainty, especially since we’ve never gotten a direct view. Still, intel believes it’s her.”

  Jace studied the picture. Ian had done the same, so he knew what Jace saw. Long, wavy hair that was either brown or black. Sunglasses perched over a small nose. A white top beneath a navy blazer, artfully ripped jeans, and high-heeled ankle boots. She carried a Louis Vuitton briefcase and pulled a wheeled carryon. Ian had tried to find who she could be, but there was some information he couldn’t access no matter how he tried. Complete flight manifests into and out of Domodedovo, for instance.

  “Doesn’t look like the face of an assassin, does it?” Jace mused. “More like a spoiled socialite or an A-list actress.”

  “That’s what makes her so good.” He pushed the remainder of the file toward Jace. “Study it. Memorize it. I need you on a plane in twenty-four hours.”

  Jace took the folder, jaw set in determination. “I’ll get her, boss.”

  Chapter Two

  Dr. Madeline Cole jerked awake as the car came to a halt. Her eyes were blurry and she wondered for a moment where she was. Then she remembered.

  Today was Friday and this was Russia. Specifically, St. Petersburg. Well, not quite St. Petersburg, as she’d left that city behind once the car picked her up. Now she was somewhere along the coast, where the land met the icy waters of the Gulf of Finland. She’d been in Russia since yesterday, but her sleep was all screwed up and cat naps were a thing.

  “We’re here, miss,” the driver said.

  “Thank you,” Maddy replied, sitting up and reaching for her computer case.

  The driver, who was way too sunny, jumped out of the car and came around to open her door. Then he got her suitcase out of the trunk while she wobbled on the pavement in front of the very large house they’d pulled up to.

  There was a lot of activity, with delivery vans and cars coming and going. She turned to take in her surroundings. There was a long drive, with a high black wrought-iron fence and secure gates they must have passed through while she was dozing. A man with a not-so-subtle assault rifle checked each vehicle that came in.

  “Mr. Sokolov’s birthday party is tonight, yes?” her driver said as he came to her side. “You have come at a very exciting time, miss.”

  Maddy smiled. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

  They went inside the big house. A small man with a cool stare greeted them. His gaze raked her from head to toe, as if he were looking for fault. “You are from the insurance company? The art appraiser?”

  “Yes, I am,” Maddy said. She gave him a smile. She was used to this song and dance with clients and their staff from time to time. She was thirty-one, but men in particular seemed to take her for someone much younger. Or maybe it was just the fact she was female. How could she possibly be an expert on art, particularly Russian religious art?

  “I will show you to your quarters. Mr. Sokolov would like you to begin as soon as possible.”

  Maddy lifted her computer case. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  The man, whose name was Sergey, led her to a somewhat luxurious room in one of the wings of the house. The view left her speechless. Outside the windows, the Gulf of Finland sparkled in the distance. In the garden, there were fountains and a large tent being set up for the party. It was late May, and warm enough for an outdoor event.

  Besides, it would never get fully dark. The sky would stay light, like dusk, even at darkest midnight. The horizon would remain white and St. Petersburg in particular would stay alive around the clock. It was a beautiful time to be in Russia. She’d hoped to spend some time on the Nevsky Prospekt, enjoying the sites and revelry that went with the White Nights—but first she had to finish this job.

  Sergey left her with a map and told her where to start and how to reach him if there were any problems. Not the most orthodox way to begin, but whatever. Working for Barrington’s of New York, she’d encountered plenty of eccentric art collectors over the past six years.

  The man with the collection of Oriental sex art, for instance. He’d kept it in a locked interior room and stood far too close while she catalogued his treasures for insurance purposes. Well, he had stood too close, until the moment she’d accidentally-on-purpose turned and elbowed him in the kidney. Personal safety training was paramount in this business if she wanted to keep doing her job and not worry what might happen with a grabby collector.

  It pissed her off sometimes though. Did the male appraisers she worked with have to undergo the same treatment when they walked into a billionaire’s estate to catalogue and appraise artworks? Probably not.

  Maddy went into the attached bathroom to splash cold water on her face and comb her hair. When she was satisfied she looked presentable—and felt awake enough—she took her computer and camera and followed the map to the room on the first floor where Sergey had told her to start. The house was large, a mix of modern styling and eighteenth century gilded artwork and furniture. Almost like someone wasn’t quite sure which style they preferred.

  Not that it was up to her, but she thought it came from too much money and not enough taste to choose a style. Personally, her style these days was flea market—whatever she could get cheap and make work. Her job might seem glamorous, but with Mimi in the memory care facility, it took everything Maddy could spare to make up the difference between Mimi’s social security and the exorbitant monthly fees the facility charged.

  Hence the reason she accepted these assignments and endured long hours on airplanes.

  Maddy took out her laptop and set it on a table, opening the lid and powering it up. The room had four large oil paintings that appeared to be sixteenth century Italian. Maddy scrolled through her files until she found the ones she was looking for. Paintings of this nature always had a p
aper trail, thankfully. She would verify the details and double check the documents. Provided her assessment agreed with the paperwork and prior appraisals, Barrington’s would insure the collection.

  She decided the order in which she would work, then went over to the first painting to study it. She’d just taken out her laser measuring device when a tall man walked into the room.

  She knew immediately that he was Leonid Sokolov. She’d seen him on the news more than once, and in various journals. He was an oligarch, one of a handful of very rich men in Russia who controlled much of the resources. Sokolov’s wealth had come from oil, but now he was involved in many other industries as well. There were rumors about him, including some unsavory ones about illegal weapons sales and deals with the Russian mafia.

  “You are from Barrington’s?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Dr. Madeline Cole.”

  He eyed her. “Your Russian is good. Where did you learn it?”

  “Spesiba. I learned it in school. High school and college.” Mostly. She’d also learned some of it from her dad, who’d been a linguist in the military. He hadn’t been home often, but when he was, he’d taught her words and phrases. “My specialty is Russian art,” she added.

  Sokolov would have been told that, but she found that rich people often didn’t remember those kinds of details about lowly art appraisers.

  “Russian art? Then you should see my icons. They are truly spectacular. Come, I will show you.”

  Maddy hesitated. But if she didn’t go with him, then he might take it as an insult. On the other hand, what if I wanna show you my icons meant what it usually meant when a man said something about showing off a collection?

  “Just let me get my equipment, sir.” That should at least tell him she was expecting to work, not indulge any whims he might have about her.

  “Certainly.”

  Maddy gathered her things and followed Sokolov to what appeared to be his office. It was a large room with a huge picture window that looked out over the same view as her room. Sokolov went over to a wall paneled in wood and a small door opened beneath his hand. Then he tapped in a code and there was the pneumatic sound of pressure releasing before a full door appeared in the paneling. Sokolov pulled it open and disappeared inside. Maddy stood with her heart in her throat, wondering if he expected her to follow him.

  He reappeared with a small item wrapped in black velvet. He came over and laid it down on the table in front of her before reverently peeling the velvet away. A wooden icon painted with bright golds, deepest cobalt, and red carmine gleamed up at her.

  She must have gasped because he smiled. “It is truly spectacular, yes?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. It was a representation of the transfiguration of Christ, and probably dated to the sixteenth century. She’d know more when she studied it and did some research.

  “There are more.”

  “I can’t wait to see them.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Look around you.”

  Maddy blinked and looked up. There were glass cases inset into the walls, displaying a selection of icons that ranged in size. She’d been so wowed by the icon, and by the appearance of the secret door, that she’d missed the rest at first.

  A phone rang and Sokolov grumbled. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. “Da?” he barked. “Give me a few moments.”

  He pocketed the phone again. “You will need to excuse me, Dr. Cole. Business calls.” He took out a key and gave it to her. “This will open the cases.”

  “I… You wish me to start in here, then?”

  “Yes. But if you are tempted to make off with any of my icons, it would be a very bad idea. I would not take such a thing kindly.”

  Maddy was indignant. “I’m a professional, Mr. Sokolov. I would never do such a thing.”

  His expression didn’t soften. “Yes, well I find that people do not always know themselves as well as they think they do. Dosvedanya, Dr. Cole.”

  Maddy shook her head as he disappeared through the door. She might be broke, but she wasn’t stupid. She took out her camera, set up her computer, and got to work.

  Jace always had mixed emotions about working in Russia. When he’d left a few years ago, he’d never expected to ever return. But working for Ian Black meant that you never knew where you were going, and that you often went places you were convinced were off limits for you. He often wondered, when he operated in Russia, if he’d ever come face to face with an old acquaintance. He didn’t expect they’d know him even if he did. He was no longer the man he’d once been.

  Jace took a sip of the sparkling water he’d picked up at one of the open bars set up around Leonid Sokolov’s vast gardens and let his gaze roam the crowd. He recognized many of the glitterati as they mingled in the evening sunlight. No sign of Putin—or of Calypso. Not that she would look precisely as she had in the airport photo, but Jace had a good eye for faces and he knew what he was looking for.

  Tonight he was Andrei Shevchenko, a Ukrainian arms dealer looking to increase his business and take it to the next level. Jace didn’t know how Ian had worked his magic so quickly, but that’s what he always did. Passport, IDs, photos of Jace with prominent businessmen, a wife and kid back home. The dossier was so complete that all Jace had to do was slip into Shevchenko’s skin like a coat and observe.

  Sokolov was well-guarded, but that didn’t mean Calypso wouldn’t try to get to him. Everyone coming through the gates had been searched before passing through metal detectors. Supposedly, the only people with weapons were those who were authorized to have them. But since Jace had a Sig tucked into his waistband beneath his tuxedo jacket, he knew it was possible to smuggle a gun inside in spite of security checks.

  Calypso might try something besides shooting Sokolov. Poison. She could deliver it with a needle jab, or sprinkle it into a drink. She could also slip into the kitchen and grab a knife, but that would be a little too obvious for an assassin like her. She wasn’t on a suicide mission, which is what it would be to strike Sokolov so obviously. If she took him down from close quarters, with his guards around him, she likely wouldn’t survive.

  And that’s not the kind of woman she was. Calypso had left a trail of bodies in her wake, from Beijing to Moscow to London and DC and LA—and everywhere in between. She wasn’t going to risk her skin to get near Sokolov. Which meant she had a plan of some kind if she were really here.

  Sokolov stood nearby with several fawning guests, a gaudy diamond ring glittering as the lights of the garden refracted off the facets. Though it was nearing ten p.m., it was still daylight. The sun would not sink fully below the horizon at this time of year. The party would very likely continue until dawn. That was one thing Jace had loved about St. Petersburg when he’d lived there. The White Nights, lasting from May until July, were truly spectacular, as were the parties and activities. Watching the bridges go up on the Neva while the boats passed through at two in the morning. Walking the Nevsky Prospekt with friends.

  But that life was gone, and right this minute he was Andrei Shevchenko. Tomorrow he would be someone else. Jace studied the people around Sokolov. The women especially. None of them were Calypso. It was entirely possible the information had been false, even though it came from more than one trusted source. It was also possible she was biding her time.

  Jace began to walk, circling the gardens and talking to various guests when they waylaid him. Women stopped him more often than men. Soft hands, soft smiles, greedy eyes. Suggestions of finding somewhere to be alone for a while.

  As much as he might like to do so with some of them, he was working. He declined with regretful words and kept moving.

  “Damn, kid, you’ve had more offers of ass than a chair.”

  Jace almost snorted at Ian’s voice in his ear. “I’m a married man,” Jace replied in Russian, knowing that Ian would understand. Ian understood everything. The man had a talent for languages beyond anyone Jace knew.

  “This time,” Ian said with a laugh. “I�
��m assuming there’s no sign of our target?”

  “Nope. Could have been a ruse, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought that. But it was credible enough to send you.”

  “Well, it’s not over yet. This party will go on for a while. Our host is tossing back vodka shots like a frat boy at a kegger. I predict somebody’s getting naked in the fountain in an hour or so.”

  Ian was still laughing. “It’s hilarious to hear you talk about keg parties in Russian.”

  “Just because I was never a college boy in America doesn’t mean I’m not acquainted with the custom.” He’d never been a college boy in America because that life had been ripped away from him. He wasn’t bitter anymore, but he had been for a while. Not at the college part, but at life in general. At not being who he’d thought he was and having to learn a whole new language and customs. It hadn’t been easy to be the only American kid in a Russian school. An American kid who didn’t even speak basic Russian. They’d taunted him, bullied him. Made him tougher, or so his father always said.

  Well, yeah, he was tough all right. So tough he sometimes thought he’d forgotten how to feel anything but the harder emotions. If not for Ian, God knows what would have happened to him.

  “Hey,” Ian said, softer this time, “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”

  “You didn’t,” he lied. Because Ian would never do that. Unless it served a purpose, which it didn’t right now. He’d hit on that nerve hard and often when he’d first brought Jace into the fold. He’d had to because he’d needed to know if Jace would break.

  Jace never broke. Never would. He’d die for Ian Black. Not for America, not for Russia, not for patriotism or apple pie or rightness. For the man who’d saved him. That was his line in the sand.

  “You’re my best operative,” Ian said. “That’s why it had to be you.”

  Pride bubbled inside him. “I do my best, boss.”

  Somebody let out a howl and Jace jerked toward the sound. It was Sokolov, standing on a pillar and performing an air guitar riff while Sweet Home Alabama played in the background.