The Dangerous Boxed Set
Page 29
The terrorist. Oh God.
Nick had said that the mike wouldn’t pick up her heartbeat, but it seemed impossible to her that it wasn’t. Her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.
“My dearest Katya,” Vassily said softly. He was standing to one side of the desk, leaning on his cane and staring at her, as if the open suitcase packed with money weren’t there. “Come to me, my dushka. Give me a kiss and then go wait for me outside. We have much to discuss.”
Charity was rooted to the spot, throat too tight for words. There was something terrible in the air, some evil presence just ready to reach out with claws and rake her. The very molecules in the air were screaming danger. Her skin prickled with it.
Vassily wasn’t moving. He simply watched her with glittering eyes. “Come, my dear,” he said again, and held out his arms, elegant black cane dangling from one ruined hand.
She had to do this. Simply had to. And then she was going to plead a headache and never come back here again.
She wasn’t built for undercover work. It felt like her entire body was signaling that she was lying as she slowly walked forward, knowing that Vassily was going to embrace her, knowing that she couldn’t flinch, knowing that she would.
The dark man watched her progress with ice-cold eyes, then turned to Vassily. “Is this necessary?” His voice was harsh, guttural, with a strong Middle Eastern accent. “She is an outsider. She has no business being here.”
Vassily didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at the man. He simply watched as Charity approached, arms wide to receive her. Vassily murmured something in Russian, which she didn’t understand, but she saw two of the men in the room open their eyes wide in surprise.
The dark man made a sound of disgust, swivelling his head to follow her.
“Katya,” Vassily murmured. Her skin broke out in goose bumps. He was all worked up, eyes shiny, red spots on his cheeks, hands trembling. The cane swayed with his excitement.
The dark man slapped his hand down on the desk in frustration, and she jumped. He was watching her with such hatred she was frightened he’d attack her as she walked by him. If she could, she’d have skirted him, but she couldn’t. He was right in her path
Charity actually heard his teeth grind as she drew even with his chair.
A sudden keening whine started, so loud it hurt her ears, a huge whistling noise that seemed to rise up out of the ground. Everyone froze, except the dark man, the terrorist.
“Spy!” he screamed, jumping up, pulling out a gun. “She’s a spy! She dies!”
“Katya!” Vassily shouted, throwing himself at her. There was the sound of a shot, and she slammed against the wall, her back erupting in pain. Another shot and then all sounds were drowned in the huge explosion that knocked her off her feet and blinded and deafened her.
Christ.
Nick watched, sweating, as Charity entered Worontzoff’s study. This wasn’t in the program. She was supposed to stay far away from everyone except Worontzoff and plead a blinding headache as soon as possible.
Walking into a room with Worontzoff, al-Banna, his bodyguard, and a man who’d smuggled in radioactive material wasn’t what they’d bargained for.
His eyes were glued to the screen, jaws clenched so tightly his temples hurt. Charity was completely alone in a room full of criminals and terrorists. Not just Charity. Charity and his child.
Nick could barely breathe as she entered the room.
Worontzoff, the fuckhead, looked at her as if she had become his personal possession. Al-Banna was coldly furious.
He saw her realize what the open suitcase held and watched her swallow heavily. Charity was no fool, thank God. She knew the danger she was in. He trusted her to remain alert.
“Prepare for dynamic entry,” he said quietly into his mike. Clicks sounded in response. Nick knew the men were moving, though he couldn’t see them and he couldn’t hear them.
He slanted a hard glance at Di Stefano, ready to take him down if he objected. But Di Stefano was readying his breaching weapon, ready to blow the French windows open if necessary.
It was going to be a fucking miracle if she got out of there alive. Nick started pulling material out of his rucksack. Flashbangs, extra magazines.
They were taking everyone down, no question. That canister was not leaving the building, unless it was in the hands of Homeland Security biohazard experts. Only the takedown had to happen after Charity left. Just the thought of her caught in a crossfire made him nearly insane with fear.
This was a clusterfuck just waiting to happen.
Sweating heavily, he stared at the screen, willing everyone on the screen to simply tell her to go away. She’d go into another room, wait, plead a headache, and would be driven home. Once he’d ascertained she was home safely, then they’d go in.
Not going to happen.
Nick’s blood ran cold at Worontzoff’s expression. He was getting off on Charity understanding what was going on, totally gone in some alternate universe with his dead love, Katya, dead all those years ago and now come back to life.
“Come, dushka,” he said, and held out his arms.
Nick could practically feel Charity’s hesitation and fear. Don’t do it. He sent the thought to her, though he understood she had to. Right now, her life rested on a knife’s edge. It depended on keeping Worontzoff’s illusion that she was Katya alive.
She moved forward slowly toward him. Nick had to fight tunnel vision, that anomaly of battle where you could only see what was right in front of you. It was dangerous, in battle and now. He had to be aware of everything, all senses fired for signs of imminent danger. He deliberately spread his senses wider and caught al-Banna’s expression.
Every hair on his body stood on end. Al-Banna watched Charity with cold hatred. He would look for an excuse to bring her down. She was an extraneous presence, one unplanned for. A danger to him.
Nick gripped the stock of his gun more tightly.
Charity passed al-Banna and suddenly a piercing whistle sounded incredibly loud in his headset, so loud he could also hear it through the walls of the mansion.
Busted! A countersurveillance device! Al-Banna had hidden a countersurveillance device on his person and knew that Charity was wired.
A gunshot sounded. Two.
“Go, go, go!” Nick shouted into the headset, moving fast. The preternatural calm of battle took over now, time stretched, and he was able to calculate every move.
Di Stefano’s breaching weapon blew open the doors and he lobbed in an M84 flashbang. He and Di Stefano flattened themselves against the wall. He signaled with his hands to Di Stefano. Me left, you right.
Di Stefano nodded.
A blinding and deafening blast exploded in the room: 8 million candela, 180 decibels. Guaranteed to stun anyone within a twenty-foot radius. Everyone in the room would be blinded for at least five seconds until the photosensitive cells in the retina could return to normal, and the fluid in the semicircular canals of the ear would be so disturbed, it would be as if everyone in the room had received a roundhouse punch.
He was protected from the worst of the blast by the mansion’s wall, but he’d trained over and over again to withstand the shock. A second after the flashbang had gone off, he was in through the door, tracking left, knowing Di Stefano was tracking right. Between them, they covered almost 180 degrees.
He moved fast, disarming the two stunned men, slapping PlastiCuffs on them. Al-Banna was down, blood pooling under his back, Di Stefano putting a pack over his chest wound.
Nick scanned the room, then scanned again. Where was Charity? Where the fuck was she?
He heard a soft cry, whirled, and his heart stopped. Simply stopped.
Charity was lying on her back against the wall behind the desk as if a giant fist had carelessly punched her there. Half of her was covered by Worontzoff, and all of her was covered with blood.
Someone was crying, a sound of raw animal pain that dug deep into the bone, that hu
rt the heart. Charity was aware of it, but only dimly. Her head swam and every inch of her hurt. Where was she? She looked around without moving her head, though she still had huge spots in front of her eyes from the massive explosion that had gone off in the room.
Other men began shouting, men dressed in black with black helmets, looking like insectoid aliens, holding huge guns. They came into the room in a controlled rush. “Clear!” one shouted and the echoes came from inside the room and out.
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
“Clear!”
It was hard to breathe. Something was wrong with her chest, she couldn’t expand her lungs. She looked down at herself and saw Vassily, still and unmoving, on top of her. One of the men in the room, the one who looked like a scientist, was draped over Vassily, screaming like a wounded animal. Raging in a foreign language. Russian?
She couldn’t breathe with two men weighing down her chest. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear.
It made no sense. None of it made sense. She couldn’t gather her thoughts, they kept scattering. Her ears rang and spots moved in front of her eyes.
She moved her hand slightly and felt something wet and viscous on the floor. With enormous effort, she lifted her hand and brought it close to her face.
It was dark red.
Blood.
“Charity!” Nick, on his knees beside her, sliding a little in the blood on the floor. “Oh my God, you’re wounded! Where were you shot, love? Where does it hurt?” He looked up at all the men in black milling around. “Medic!” he screamed. “Medic, over here!”
Frantic hands felt her all over, starting from her head, down her torso, down her legs.
“Not—” Charity wheezed, trying to pull air into her lungs. Vassily and the man over him, still screaming, were so heavy. “Not wounded,” she managed to get out finally, lungs heaving for air. “Not…me.”
It had to be Vassily, had to. Charity found it almost impossible to think, but she could feel. Her entire back was wet with blood. With the amount of blood on the floor, the wound must be grave. Though she hurt everywhere, she knew she didn’t have a mortal wound.
Another pair of hands. Not Nick’s. One of the men in black.
“Step away, sir, so I can examine her.”
Nick was holding her hand, slippery with blood.
“Sir? I can’t examine her if you don’t move.”
Charity could feel Nick’s reluctance as he let go of her hand and stood up. He looked around and beckoned to one of the men in uniform.
“Get rid of that,” he said coldly, indicating the howling man. The man had pulled Vassily off her—she could finally breathe—and had scooted up against the wall with Vassily’s limp form cradled in his arms, rocking back and forth. He bent over Vassily, his cries painful to hear, a long lament in Russian.
The medic gave her a quick, thorough check and pronounced her essentially unharmed.
Thanks to Vassily.
Some of the shock of the explosion was dissipating, the memories of the moments before the explosion returning. The high whine, the terrorist brandishing a gun, aiming it at her. Vassily’s cry, launching himself at her.
The bullet had caught him, not her.
Vassily had saved her life. Charity looked down at his dead body, held tightly by the Russian who was now covered with Vassily’s blood.
Vassily was a criminal, a renegade.
He’d saved her life.
The huge room was lit up now, people milling about purposefully. The big suitcase full of cash had been closed up, and a number of men were examining a big metal container.
She swayed.
“Fuck this,” Nick growled, and swung her up in his arms. He marched over to where Di Stefano was conferring with a knot of men. “You guys can clean up, I’m taking her home.”
Di Stefano opened his mouth, looked at Nick, then closed it again. “Yeah, okay, get outta here.”
Nick stopped on the porch and Charity breathed in deeply. It felt like days had gone by since she’d walked up these stairs.
Nick looked down at her, grim, jaw muscles moving as he clenched his teeth. “This is the way it’s going to be,” he announced. “I’m taking you home and to bed and we’re not coming up for air until a week has gone by or my hands stop shaking, whichever comes first. Then we’re going to city hall and we’re getting married all over again, only this time legally. I’ll be damned if my son grows up a bastard.”
He said all this belligerently, as if expecting her to argue.
But as always with Nick, only one answer was possible.
“Yes, Nick.”
Epilogue
Parker’s Ridge
Nine months later
Jacob Franklin Ireland was in a big hurry.
Charity Ireland moaned and Sheriff Nick Ireland stepped on the gas. He had to clutch the steering wheel hard because his palms were wet with anxious sweat.
They were in the middle of a raging summer storm, the rain coming down so hard the windshield wipers were almost useless. It didn’t make any difference. Nick knew the way to the hospital, though this was more like piloting a boat than driving a car.
Charity gave another little moan, biting her lips.
He was driving as fast as he could without risking an accident, to the very edges of his driving ability.
“Hang on, honey,” he said, keeping his voice soft and reassuring when he was sick with anxiety and fear. He glanced quickly over to where Charity was slumped in the passenger seat, panting between contractions.
Suddenly, he saw her belly ripple. God!
She gave another little cry and he pressed on the accelerator. Any faster in this wet weather and the car would be a hovercraft. Charity’s forehead was beaded with sweat, though not as much as his.
“Nick,” she moaned.
“It’s okay, honey,” he said, trying not to let his panic show in his voice. It’s okay? What the fuck did he know? All the prenatal lessons had left him so queasy hardly anything penetrated. Any time he opened one of those birth and baby books Charity consumed by the ton, he never got beyond chapter one before breaking out in a cold sweat.
He turned the corner and knew that now it was just a straight run, directly into the hospital’s emergency area, and risked upping the speed a little, hoping no other cars were crazy enough to come out in a storm that was dumping a year’s worth of rain in one afternoon.
A few minutes later, he was carrying Charity in through the hospital doors, shouting for nurses, doctors, anyone. Charity’s face was drawn in agony and he tried to remember why anyone ever had kids.
Nurses came, brisk and efficient and calm, rolling Charity onto a gurney. A nurse palpated her distended belly, lifted her skirt, cut away Charity’s panties and jolted.
“The baby’s crowning!” she said. Even if Nick didn’t know what that meant, he could see it. Between Charity’s legs he could see a rounded thatch of black hair.
His son.
Nick held Charity’s hand, shouting, “Breathe! Breathe!” like an idiot.
While he stayed by Charity’s head, a gaggle of medical personnel gathered around the foot of the gurney, calmly doing things Nick didn’t want to see. Charity was squeezing his hand so hard it almost hurt. He hated to see her suffering, hated it.
Then, suddenly, it was all over. Charity let out a huge cry, astonishingly loud for so small a woman, a bundle of something red slid into the attending doctor’s hands, and the nurses and doctors started snipping and suturing.
A loud wail started, and Nick looked over, heart pounding.
His son. That funny creature that looked like a skinned rabbit was his son.
Charity laughed and he looked at her in astonishment.
“That was funny?” he asked.
She smiled that slight witchy smile that drove him nuts. “Not funny,” she said softly. “Wonderful.”
Someone touched his elbow. “Sheriff,” one of the nurses sa
id. “Here’s your son.” She placed Jake in his arms.
Nick looked down at his son’s face, features a tiny replica of his own. The fury of coming into this world was already gone. His small face was calm, a little pucker between two tiny eyebrows showing that he was puzzled at this new world.
Nick brushed Jake’s cheek with his forefinger, amazed that anything human could be so soft.
Suddenly, Jake’s eyes opened wide—they were a bright, brilliant blue—and to his dying day, Nick would swear that his son smiled at him. A tiny hand clutched his finger. His son, holding onto his hand.
His son. Jesus. His son.
For the second time in his life, Iceman burst into tears.
Credits
Cover photograph by Marin/PhotoAlto Agency/Jupiterimages
Dangerous Passion
Lisa Marie Rice
This book is dedicated to my best friend,
the sister I never had, Lorena Rossi.
Thanks for all the years of friendship.
This one’s for you, Lorenchen
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Credits
Prologue
Manhattan
November 12
Feelings kill faster than bullets.
Former Russian army colonel Dmitri Rutskoi had drummed that saying into his troops’ heads in Chechnya.