Seduction and Surrender (Reckless #2)

by C. C. Gibbs

  “Yeah, a man with a mission. Now we have two loose cannons. Ganz and whatshisname.”

  “Xu Wei. And I don’t blame either one of them. A family that matters—it’s no small thing,” he said, his voice going soft for a second. Then he gave a little snort, letting it go, and grinned. “So—two loose cannons. You and I have our work cut out for us.”

  “Webster’s on it too. Ganz’s escalating drug use is making him nervous. And he’s known Ganz longer than any of us.”

  “His father’s assassination coked him out even more. Once Zou’s gone, we’ll get him into rehab. He’s fucking brilliant and a good friend, so we gotta see that he stays alive,” Rafe said matter-of-factly.

  She looked up, smiling faintly. “You’re always steady as a rock.”

  He laughed. “Hell no. Hangin’ on by my fingernails, babe.”

  “Liar.”

  His smile faded. “You learn to close it down, that’s all. Or never even open it up. Shut all the doors. Lock ’em up tight. That’s been my life.”

  She touched his arm lightly. “Past tense. You hear that?”

  It took him a moment to understand and another moment to tamp down the panic. “Problem is that makes you vulnerable.” He drew in a quick breath. “Makes you want to live, not take chances, think too much when you shouldn’t. When you should be operating on instinct alone.”

  She couldn’t argue. He was right. “Our plan is good,” she said instead. “We stick to it, everyone comes out alive.”

  If only it had turned out that way.

  First, Zou walked in with a woman on his arm. Not just any woman. The runner-up to Miss Thailand, the daughter of the police commissioner, an Oxford-trained barrister and well-known in all capacities. She couldn’t be shunted off to the atrium like the ladies for rent.

  Second, Xu Wei, who was out in the garden up in a tree, his back against the trunk, adjusted Zou’s head in his scope crosshairs, got the bead, and started squeezing the trigger before Zou even stepped through the doorway into the gaming room. If Zou hadn’t suddenly bent his head to listen to something his female companion was saying, the 180 -grain, full-metal-jacket, 45 round would have painted the floor with his blood and brains.

  Spinning around, Zou ran, dragging his terror-stricken companion with him.

  The Dubai banker hit the floor and joined Dao’s croupier under the roulette table. Xu Wei took out two of Zou’s bodyguards, then dropped to the ground and sprinted for the front of the building.

  Surrounded by a moving phalanx of bodyguards, Zou raced for the entrance and his waiting car, hauling the screaming woman along with a steely grip on her arm.

  Ganz suddenly came out of the shadowed night like some apparition and took up a rigid firing position at the top of the entrance stairs, his weapon aimed straight through the open doors at Zou’s sprinting figure.

  “Bloody hell,” Rafe muttered and bolted from the room behind the two-way mirror, Gina on his heels, both firing at Zou and his bodyguards as they ran toward Ganz.

  Ganz was standing still as a statue in the doorway, bathed in light from the chandeliers, framed by the pitch-blackness of night. The perfect target.

  In two seconds Rafe had almost reached him when Zou put a gun to the lady’s head and shouted in English, then in Mandarin, “Move out of the way or she dies.”

  Everything came to a stop as if someone had hit Pause on a remote.

  “Cool it,” Rafe hissed, hoping like hell Ganz could still hear. Gina eased back slightly and stumbled against Webster, who’d come out of nowhere. Pulling her close, he murmured, “Don’t do anything stupid. Let him go.”

  But as Zou walked past a growing group of silent, hindered adversaries, he glared at Ganz. “Take him,” he ordered one of his bodyguards. “He’s mine.”

  Rafe stepped forward. “Take me instead. He’s so strung out, he’s already dying.” He didn’t say, Ganz won’t even know you’re killing him, but that’s what he meant. Ganz’s pupils were completely dilated, tremors racked his body, and sweat poured down his face. If he didn’t get help soon, paralysis would set in and he’d stop breathing. But there was still time. “I’m worth a hefty ransom,” Rafe said. “Ganz isn’t worth a centime. And I hear you’ve been losing money in Switzerland and off shore,” Rafe drawled. “I can make up that deficit.”

  “Smart-ass pretty boy aren’t you?”

  “Think of it as a business deal.” Rafe took another step forward as though the decision had already been made. Knowing it had. Money was always Zou’s bottom line.

  “Fine.” Zou nodded, but he didn’t move the gun barrel from the lady’s head. “Drop your weapon. Get in the car.” He turned and spoke to one of his bodyguards.

  “Call Gora,” Rafe murmured, handing his Glock 19 to Webster. “Tell him not to fuck around. I have a wedding to go to.”

  But a few moments later, just as Rafe stepped into the car, he heard a gunshot, then Ganz’s scream. Two-faced motherfucker. He hoped Alexei was close by.

  Alexei was, standing beside Xu Wei, holding his rifle arm down until the cars drove away. Then he raced up the stairs to where Ganz lay, scanned him for a head shot, and relaxed marginally; the entry wounds were in his chest. Dropping to his knees, he ripped away Ganz’s shirt. The vest had slowed the bullets, but one 50-caliber round had gone through twenty-seven layers of Kevlar and, partially deformed, was lodged low in his right side. He was bleeding fast.

  As Alexei gave orders for Ganz to be carried next door, the others on the stairs watched the two cars disappear and waited for instructions.

  “That sniper has to be sent home before he fucks up something else,” Gina said under her breath.

  “It was too personal for him,” Webster murmured. “It’s not for us.”

  Her head whipped around. “It is now.”

  “Gotcha.” He lifted his chin. “Carlos is on it. He’ll tell us what he needs.”

  Chapter 25

  When Carlos called, Gora and Camelia were at their villa in Trieste having a drink before dinner at a table poolside. Titus was swimming.

  After listening for a few seconds, Gora said, “Wait,” gave Camelia a rueful smile, and came to his feet. “Sorry, darling, business. It won’t take long.”

  He inhaled a few deep breaths as he strode across the terrace to the villa, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. He hadn’t felt such cold-blooded terror since his first hit as an eighteen-year-old. Shoving open the terrace door, he stepped inside the cool, quiet of his study, shut the door, and prayed for the first time in his life. Then he shook off his moment of doubt and said, brusquely, “Okay, I’m alone now. Tell me everything you know about this motherfucking prick who took my son.”

  After his call with Carlos was over, Gora phoned some men he’d known since his youth, made arrangements with them to fly to Bangkok, gave orders to have a bag packed, then glanced at the clock and hesitated. He knew Dominic was in San Francisco with his extended family. Did he want a call at five in the morning? Or, more to the point, was Rafe’s ersatz fiancée significant enough to be given notice of the disastrous events? He sighed. Real engagement or not, Rafe cared about her. Picking up his phone, Gora punched a number.

  “It’s early,” he said in Italian, their common language years ago in Rome. “I apologize.”

  “It’s fine,” Dominic replied in fluent Italian. “No one’s sleeping much. Let me go out in the hall.”

  Gora waited while Dominic spoke quietly to someone.

  “We’re all still at the hospital, although things are much better,” Dominic said, walking out into the hall. “What’s going on?” He knew Gora wasn’t calling to chat.

  “A serious fuckup. It’s not your problem, but I thought I should tell you since your niece and Rafe are…” Gora’s voice trailed off.

  “She showed me the engagement ring,” Dominic said, understanding Gora’s bias; he shared it in reverse. “But if you’re calling me about a serious fuckup it must be about Rafe. Is he alive?”
Dominic wasn’t naïve; Rafe wasn’t in Bangkok on holiday.

  “I think so. Zou has him. Rafe offered himself as ransom in place of Ganz.” Gora went on to tell Dominic what he knew. “I’m flying to Bangkok in a few minutes. It’s probably not wise to say anything to Nicole until we know more, but that’s your call. I’m not mentioning it to Camelia.”

  “Until you have to.”

  “No, until Rafe comes home,” Gora said firmly. “Alive.”

  “Of course. Can I help?” Regardless of his reservations, the way Nicole had beamed with love when she looked at Rafe and said, We’re engaged, was hard to forget.

  “I’ll take care of it myself.” Gora’s voice was cold as ice.

  Dominic was reminded of the Gora he’d first met years ago, how he’d thought he could buy him off, how he’d been wrong. How he’d met a man as ruthless as himself. “If you change your mind, don’t hesitate to call. Isabelle’s on the mend. I can get away if necessary.”

  “No, Rafe’s my son. Zou is mine to kill. It’s the way in my world.”

  “I understand.” Dominic knew he’d fight to his last breath if Kate or his children were in danger. “Look, Max is in Hong Kong. I’ll have him fly in. He’s knows Thailand better than either one of us.”

  “I’m going after Rafe as soon as I land. Ransom or not, Zou can’t be trusted.”

  “Max will be waiting at the airport,” Dominic said. “Tell him what you need, he’ll get it for you.”

  After his talk with Dominic, Gora sat at his desk for a moment, wondering what to say to Camelia, how to conceal his blinding fear. In his line of work, the jobs had always been impersonal. A matter of logistics: get in, do the hit, get out. This time it was so deeply personal he ran the risk of not functioning at his best.

  He couldn’t afford that weakness.

  He couldn’t afford one mistake.

  In the end, the story he chose for Camelia was close to the truth at least in terms of destination. “That was a supplier of teak from Bangkok,” he said when he walked back out to the pool. “He’d promised me first pick of his newest shipment for the sailboat. But it’s on a first come, first serve basis and he has other buyers, so I’m going to have to leave immediately. If it wasn’t for the political turmoil over there, I’d ask you to come along.”

  “Luca can’t handle it?”

  “I’m too fussy.” Gora smiled. “He might pick the wrong timbers.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll bring back some silks for the stateroom furniture. Tell me what colors. Better yet, I’ll bring back a collection of colors. You can decide later.”

  Camelia tipped her head, looked at him intently for a moment, then said, “At least say good-bye to Titus before you go.”

  His pulse rate subsided and he smiled. “I’ll see what he wants for a gift.”

  “You spoil him,” she said softly.

  “I know. I’m trying to make up for all the years I missed Rafe growing up.”

  She laughed. “You still watch over Rafail even though he’s grown.”

  Not well enough, clearly. “He’s our son. I’m allowed.”

  She nodded. “You won’t be gone long?”

  “No.” Bending, he kissed her softly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Thirteen hours later, Gora came down the steps of his private jet onto the tarmac at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok. Four of his old colleagues, leaders of their own organizations now, were with him. They, in turn, were accompanied by several large heavy-set men in paramilitary gear. Max was there with Carlos. They had SUVs waiting.

  “Where is Rafe now?” Gora asked without preliminaries. He spoke in Italian, a language his colleagues understood.

  “At the compound up north,” Carlos replied. “Zou choppered in with Rafe and a dozen others. We have someone from the area in the kitchen, but Dao’s other two spies are with Zou’s troops driving up from Bangkok.”

  “The prick knows Rafe is worth a lot of money alive.”

  It was a question, no matter the declarative delivery. “I’m sure Rafe has made that clear,” Carlos said.

  “If I pay the motherfucker, will he keep his word? Will Rafe be safe?”

  “Good question.”

  Gora shot Carlos a hard look. “That’s a no.”

  “He had Ganz shot after Rafe got into his car.”

  “Okay, we’re not going to screw around on this. The longer he has Rafe, the more likely he’ll hurt him.”

  “Agreed.” Lying to Gora was impractical.

  “We go in now. Before the rest of his troops reach the compound. You chartered the helicopters?”

  “Yes, ten as requested. Max got us military issue. New models.”

  Gora nodded at Max. “Thanks for the help. It’s been a while.” They’d met once in Rome after Titus had been born. Max had picked up the last divorce papers dissolving Dominic’s marriage to Bianca.

  “Glad I could help,” Max said, his Italian colored with the soft intonations of upper-class Brit. “Dominic knew I was posted here years ago. The military doesn’t change much.” Max had worked for MI-6 before he became ADC to Dominic; he still looked the part. Tall and buff, he had a blond brush cut, shuttered gaze, and was wearing his trademark desert boots. “Speaking of military, Zou’s rival, Colonel Chen, just arrived in town. He wants Zou dead more than you. I guarantee he’d be interested in a joint operation.”

  Gora shook his head. “I don’t work with people I don’t know.” Then he stepped back and made a quick round of introductions, his friends acknowledging Max and Carlos with nods and the requisite Italian courtesies. In contrast to Gora’s tall, thin frame, his shorter colleagues had the beginnings of amid-life paunches. Although no one would mistake that bit of flab as testament to any kind of softness. Even in their well-tailored suits, the subtle bulk of shoulder holsters was unmistakable. “Everyone knows everyone now?” Gora waited a fraction of a second. “Back to business then. I brought eight pilots with me; you said you fly, Carlos, and…?”

  “Sasha, Basil’s cousin.”

  “Each chopper carries twenty?”

  “Some more,” Max answered. “Those require co-pilots, so I could round up some more fliers if you like or we could improvise. You don’t necessarily need a co-pilot. I can take one of the seats.”

  “Fine. I don’t like outsiders. We leave from here?”

  Carlos nodded. “The choppers came in a few hours ago from the air force base north of the city. We’ll drive to where they’re parked.”

  Max rode shot gun in one SUV, Gora and Carlos in the back, the driver Dao’s man.

  “There’s something else,” Carlos said as they drove away from Gora’s jet. “I wanted to tell you in private.”

  Gora’s head swiveled to Carlos, his gaze suddenly chill. “They’ve hurt him. How badly?”

  “We don’t know. Rafe was in a metal box when they unloaded him from the chopper. The man Dao has in the kitchen saw the box unloaded but hasn’t been able to get closer. He saw it carried into one of the outbuildings he doesn’t have access to. He’ll try, of course.”

  “What kind of box?” Gora said stiffly.

  “One too small for comfort.”

  Chapter 26

  Rafe’s initial spiking panic as the box lid came down instantly disappeared when he saw air holes above his head. He dragged in a quick breath as though testing his perception. Musty and damp but air. Good. That meant Zou wanted the money.

  As for claustrophobia and stress, he had Maso to thank for his relative equanimity in the cramped confines of the box. The nannies his father had hired had disciplined him by locking him in closets and wardrobes, and once a box much like this. Maso referred to it as building character.

  Whether his character had improved was debatable, but he knew how to deal with trauma and dark, closed spaces. In his early years, after he’d decided that crying didn’t help, he’d turned to images of storybook bunnies and talking dogs to keep him com
pany. Later, action heroes entered his escapist visions, and by the time his mother rescued him from his nanny hell, he could shut out the world with ease. Scientists called it resilience training, he’d discovered later in life. In solitary you have two resources: free time and your mind. It was a skill set he’d honed to a fine edge.

  Having been unloaded and carried to his new prison, images of Nicole sustained him now, her lush beauty, her teasing smile, powerful antidotes to the small niggling doubts. Would Gora arrive in time? Would he survive after the ransom money was delivered? If Zou’s penchant for torture persisted, how much more could he take?

  He’d been dropped on his side, his legs shoved in roughly, crammed against his chest; his shoulders had been too wide for the lid to close, so someone had stepped on them and they’d been throbbing like a son of a bitch ever since. His head and neck were bent so awkwardly the pressure sent racking spasms up his spine.

  After hours in the stress position, his pain was excruciating, every muscle in agony, and he’d rubbed the skin off his right arm trying to reach the knife blade on the inside of his boot. If he didn’t snap his wrist with the degree of torque required to slide his hand between his ankles, he might succeed.

  But success continued to elude him.

  When the pain became unbearable, he’d take a break and run through his mental film clip of Nicole in all her sweet glory, and damned if she wasn’t the imaginary Oxy he needed to temper the agony. Breathe in, breathe out, begin again.

  He couldn’t afford to break his wrist, he cautioned himself. He was going to need two hands, two feet, a working body—everything in reasonably good order—to get the hell out of this compound.

  Think positive, right.

  Shoulder to the wheel, no pain no gain.

  Maybe it was that slight bit of humor that did it, or maybe he was sweating so much from his efforts that his arm finally slid down far enough to reach inside his ankle to the lining of his boot. He momentarily froze, fearful that the small metal knob between his thumb and fingers might slip away.