“Yeah. A little. Koz—” He winced and sucked in a whistling breath at his cousin’s name. “Koz did a quick search, patted them down. Nothing. No weapon.”
A cursory look wouldn’t be enough to see if the woman had some kind of tracking device on her. Maybe a wire tucked into her bra? That was a definite possibility.
Vlasenko’s bratva depended on being able to operate relatively openly in areas heavily trafficked by tourists. Violence on the streets of Nassau would draw unwanted attention to the operation.
If the Tkaczuks had bugged one of the girls...
Vincent let the scenario build in his mind a moment, but then discarded it. The blonde had been too cool and professional to be a plant by a rival bratva. No, if she was wearing a bug or had deliberately gotten herself picked up by Vlasenko’s men, she had to be playing a bigger game. She might be working for Interpol, but his gut insisted that wasn’t right. She’d sounded American. CIA?
She had the performance down, but she’d been too impassioned about the women’s plight. She’d even given the guards a lecture about rape—the same men who could have decided she wasn’t worth the trouble and put a bullet in her skull. He’d had all his emotions and passions scrubbed out of him very early on in his career. The only thing he even felt at all anymore was the extreme rush when he started to bleed, which was partly why it’d become so addictive. She could be a fresh agent, but she wouldn’t do this kind of field job alone, not if she was new to the show.
The way she’d looked at him, taking a mental snapshot like she intended to pick them all out of a lineup—that felt like a cop. She didn’t look at each of them to decide the quickest way to kill them all and make her escape, but like she intended to drag them all to a cell. All she needed was a white robe with a big red cross on it and she could pass as a crusader for justice.
For her to be working with some kind of authority on non-US soil limited his options. His best guess was FBI or a similar agency, working with an international task force.
He’d sensed eyes on him for the past week and had taken extra precaution to stay out of sight. Every instinct that had kept him alive all these years insisted secrecy was the only way to survive. That, and killing the enemy before they could kill him, of course.
Vincent ran his hands over his weapons, automatically checking for the extra clips and knives he had stashed all over his body. A shipment possibly compromised by the Tkaczuks. A traitor inside Vlasenko’s own closely knit family. And an entirely unknown woman playing a crying tourist beauty very well while looking at him with cop eyes.
Things were about to get very interesting.
Chapter Nine
Petit St. Vincent, Caribbean
Charlie
As Special Agent Charles Gyres, I was too good at my job. Give me a file on any serial killer, and I would find him.
Naturally, I would kill him.
Some people had a problem with that.
I’m more in control of my inner predator than the killers I hunt, and that lets me succeed where they fail. I hunt them, and I hunt them well, because I know the darkness they live with. I know how it feels to keep that need locked away, agonizing night after night, weeks, months, years... Until you have to feed that need or die.
They die. I see to it.
They fail because they’re lured by their own dark need into carelessness that gets them caught. Maybe it’s one slip, but the beast is a wily creature. Once it tastes freedom, it wants it again. And again. Until nothing can ever put it back in that cage.
I’m a dominant. Sadist. Master.
Nothing and no one will take control of me but myself.
So far, I’ve been able to channel my darkness to something positive. I kill the bad guys so more innocents don’t die. What I suspect is that the FBI would really like to use my special talents more officially through top secret channels to hide my involvement. It wouldn’t do for average Americans to learn their federal law enforcement agency employs serial killers, even if I only kill other serial killers and murderers. Bringing down Rusk was only the beginning of what they want me to do.
When the shit hits the fan, they know I won’t back down. That’s when my monster wants to come out and play.
But they wonder...do I really have that killing urge fully under control? Can they trust me to do as they say and come back still sane, functioning and fully aware of my purpose? Someone in Washington is probably waiting to hear whether I took their bait and went after my own brother at their direction. They’re wondering...
Can they control me?
Wouldn’t it be worth the risk, to have a ruthless, cold-blooded killer on your side?
Newsflash, Special Agent Matheson and whoever else might be concocting a plan to woo me to your team. No one controls me.
No one owns me. Certainly no one can stop me.
Except Ranay.
Ranay
As our boat slowed to approach the dock, I tried to be calm and cool without clinging to Charlie, though I kept my left hand on Sheba’s ruff. We were supposed to be tourists, so I shouldn’t be looking around, terrified a dozen agents were ready to close in and arrest us. I’d stressed out about every little detail down to my clothing. I wore the dress I’d left the United States in, just in case they could figure out where we’d been hiding out by the type of material my clothes contained.
Sheba looked up at me, her head cocked sideways as if she sensed my anxiety but saw no cause for alarm. “Are you sure this is safe?”
Dressed in a white linen suit and a deep blue dress shirt, Charlie looked like a wealthy businessman. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but from the quirk of his mouth, he was amused. “Matheson refused to tell me what I needed over the phone. A private island in the Caribbean is ideal for a meet like this. There’s only one way in, by boat, and she won’t have any authority here unless she’s teamed up with Interpol or the like. Besides, they wouldn’t have asked for my help only to arrest me now.”
“I hope so.”
“You said you trusted Matheson.”
“I do.” I blew out a heavy sigh. “But that was before you agreed to meet with her. If I’m wrong, and she’s only using this to trap you...”
He lifted our clasped hands and kissed my knuckles. “I’ll give her a chance because of what she did to help keep you safe. But I’ve also got our bases covered with an emergency exit plan if necessary. Don’t worry, kitten. If Matheson tries anything, we’ll simply walk away. I’ve always had contacts keeping an ear out for news of Vince. Now I know to ask them to listen harder to more formal channels.”
“You’re spying on the FBI?”
He smiled and curled his arm to tuck my hand against his chest. “That’s how I get my best information.”
We were the only guests on the boat. I’d been super excited to start our journey on a private yacht to Barbados, and the first few hours of cruising along through gorgeous turquoise waters with Charlie’s arm around me had been a dream come true. We took a leisure route he’d shown me on the map, sliding down the coast of Belize before cutting across the Caribbean Sea toward Aruba. The first night we dined under the stars and made love in the middle of the ocean, and by morning, I was sicker than a dog. A surge of terror hit me that I could be pregnant. Maybe I’d missed a pill or had a bad reaction. Charlie hadn’t used a condom since I’d come to him in Belize.
But my period wasn’t late and I was on a bobbing boat in the middle of the freaking ocean. I hadn’t gotten seasick on the trip down to Belize, but I’d only been on the boat a couple of hours. Not a full day, and unfortunately, we had more travel time to come.
I’d been sick long enough that my stomach still felt fragile and the thought of food made me want to hurl. Charlie glanced at me, his brow furrowed with concern. “You’re feeling better? You
still look a little pale.”
“Better.” I smiled brightly and tried to make myself look more energetic than a washed-out zombie. I didn’t want to be a handicap for him, especially after fighting so hard to come in the first place. “Wow, this is gorgeous.”
The small island rose above us, full of lush, green trees. Whoever owned this island had taken great care to make it feel secluded and private, even though there were more than twenty cabins scattered in the trees. A smiling woman in an elegant yellow dress welcomed us to the island. She didn’t bat an eye at our large dog, so Charlie must have prepped her that I’d have a service animal. Sheba was certified and yes, I did feel much less anxious when she was with me, but my beautiful King Shepherd was more for protection and companionship than anything else. I sure wasn’t going to walk into a meeting with the FBI without her by our side.
Our bag—yes, just one, in case we had to leave anything behind—was whisked away and Charlie asked that we be directed to the main restaurant. The woman walked us up a long curving stairway carved into the side of the island. Palm trees swayed in the breeze and hanging lanterns lit the way, though the sun had just started to set.
We cleared the trees and for a moment, we stopped to take in the view. High on the hill, we looked out across the ocean, lit up with oranges and pinks as the sun set for the night. A larger island jutted up out of the water like a series of mountains dotted with lights. A few boats cruised between the islands, but far enough away that their noise wasn’t an issue.
“Mr. MacNiall?” The maître d’ shook Charlie’s hand and then gave me an old-fashioned bow, complete with a quick kiss to the knuckles on my left hand. “Your party is waiting for you.”
It was strange to hear him called MacNiall, even though that’s how I’d known him for a year. The FBI knew that name too.
We walked through the main room with only two other couples and then out the door to the covered pavilion. Candles lit the tables and more lanterns hung from the roof, giving off a soft, romantic light. Two men sat near the door enjoying steaks, and the only other patron was Jill Matheson, seated alone at a table set for three. Though she sure didn’t look like a special agent in a long, flowing silk gown dyed a purple ombré. When she saw us headed toward her, she smiled and rose from her chair.
“Ranay, how are you?”
I met her gaze directly and returned her smile, surprised that she seemed genuinely pleased to see me. She wasn’t giving me the guarded cop eyes, at least not yet. “Great. Thanks for agreeing to meet us.”
She’d know that if I had any secrets to hide, I wouldn’t be able to meet her gaze. She held her hand out to Sheba and let her sniff her fingers before giving her a quick rub behind the ears. Then she straightened and looked at Charlie. She didn’t reach for a gun or anything like that, but her shoulders tensed despite the smile on her face. “And this must be Charlie.”
He took his sunglasses off and tucked them into an inside pocket of his jacket, then he offered his hand. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Jill. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
He pulled out a chair for me and then took his closest to the railing that overlooked the beach below. “Of course, or we wouldn’t be here.”
“My father always said you were a fine agent.”
I expected Sheba to sit at my feet between me and Jill, but instead, she disappeared behind us. I turned my head enough to see that she was stretched out behind both our chairs, relaxed, with her muzzle on her forelegs. But her ears were perked and she watched the two men at the door.
Cold chills trickled down my spine and I shivered. They had to be special agents too. We were trapped.
That was why Charlie had taken the seat closest to the balcony. He’d be able to hop it and flee in an instant.
My stomach quivered and I swallowed down the bile threatening to burn up my throat. I’d seen enough as we took our seats to know I didn’t want to jump that far. If he needed to escape, I’d only slow him down. Had I really been stupid enough to think that I could come with him anytime he went on one of his missions? That I wouldn’t handicap him, or worse, risk his freedom and his life just with my presence? He’d be too worried about helping me to save himself.
“I hope your father’s well.” Charlie’s manner was easy and casual, like we were meeting an old friend for dinner. He certainly didn’t sound concerned that he had his back to two agents who’d probably give their right arm to be the ones to haul him in for questioning. “I respect him a great deal, so that’s high praise indeed.”
“Dad’s neck-deep in politics as usual. He grumbles about the good old days, when he was just a law enforcement agent, not pandering to the politicians for funding. Mom always smacks him, then.” Matheson looked at me and saw my complete confusion. “Mom’s a US senator and Dad’s the director of the FBI. Between the two of them, I think they know everyone in Washington.”
I probed a bit, to see if I could catch her in a lie. “Who do you work for?”
“I temporarily reported to the Kansas City office while we were investigating your file. I do most of my work with the International Operations Division as a liaison for international task forces.” She nodded her head at the two men near the door. “Specifically, right now I’m working with those two gentlemen on a major joint task operation. The redhead is my partner, Thomas Donnelly, and the other guy is Alexander Lyons.”
Charlie and I both turned enough to see that each man gave a nod in our direction but then turned back to his food. I couldn’t tell if they were armed or not. They wore casual yet upscale clothes, not stuffy government suits. The redheaded man wore old-fashioned glasses that made me double-check for a plastic pocket protector. He certainly didn’t look dangerous. There was nothing about them that told me they were agents, but then again, how would I know? It’s not like they walked around with badges around their necks for everyone to see.
The waiter brought us the menu and took our drink orders. Matheson ordered a bottle of some fancy-sounding wine for us to share, but I stuck with plain iced tea. I scanned over the menu and tried not to think how much all this was costing. Everything from lobster and scallops to New Zealand lamb and filet mignon, with no price listed because it was all included in the rate for our cottage—which couldn’t be cheap on a private island. Not that it mattered to Charlie. True to his word, he’d taken me through all his accounts and made sure I had a set of bank drafts and cards in my fake name, Kitt Charles. As long as I had my passport, I’d be okay and could get money anywhere in the world. Money was nothing to him. He didn’t accumulate it for money’s sake—it was merely a by-product of his life as a contract killer.
A very, very well-paid assassin. He could afford to buy out this entire island if he wanted to without emptying even one of his dozens of accounts.
“I can’t offer official thanks from the department,” Matheson said to Charlie as soon as the waiter left. “But unofficially, you helped us take care of someone who’d been under suspicion for a long time. Could I ask who hired you to find the man in our ranks who thought he could prey on submissive women without ever getting caught?”
Charlie gave her a smile that brought out his dimples. “You can certainly ask who hired me to bring down Special Agent Rusk, but officially, I can’t say.”
“Unofficially?”
“Someone very near and dear to you.”
The waiter returned with the chilled wine and poured three glasses for us. Matheson took hers and settled back in her chair. “I thought so, though he’d never admit it. If the shit ever hit the fan, he’d want me to be able to claim plausible deniability. I’d like to know how people contact you, but especially, how you found someone so buried in the agency that we couldn’t get him ourselves.”
Wait, so Jill’s father, the director of the FBI, had hired Charlie? If I connected the do
ts, that’s what it sure sounded like.
“I have my ways,” Charlie answered, sipping his drink. God, he was so gorgeous, with that amused, smug smile and his hair falling down over his forehead. In the soft lighting, he looked harmless and romantic. Boy next door.
Boy next door who killed people for a living.
“Ranay told me that you want my help in bringing down my brother.”
Wow, he hadn’t even waited for us to place our order before going for the throat. That quickly, the casual atmosphere at our table vibrated with tension, as if Charlie had pulled out a knife and laid it on the table beside our wineglasses.
Jill pulled out a file from a satchel she’d placed in the chair beside her. “Again, unofficially, I can’t share this file with you. But the joint task force I’m working on believes we may have found Vincent Gyres, though he doesn’t use that name any longer.”
She pulled out a stack of photos and passed them to Charlie. He held them so I could see too. A white-and-gold Escalade in front of a hotel. Men in suits were in the process of stepping out of the SUV.
Charlie pointed to the men on the outside. “Bodyguards.” A man walked toward the hotel. Royal something—I couldn’t read all of the sign—but there was a small black dolphin in the logo. “This guy’s the boss, though I can’t see his face. Looks Russian.”
He flipped to the next picture and the photographer had zoomed in on the boss’s face. Charlie glanced up at Matheson. “Vlasenko?”
“Very good. Andriy Mykailovych Vlasenko. When you were still with the Bureau, he was on the rise inside the Foreign Intelligence Service. Now he’s head of his own crime syndicate running out of the Caribbean and Miami.”
“I don’t see how Vince might fit into this.”
“Keep going,” Matheson replied.
The next two pictures showed the boss man walking into the front door of the hotel. Another picture—this one nighttime—showed a group of men standing outside a building. It could be the same hotel, but if so, it was a rear entrance. A delivery truck had pulled up and a Latino man wheeled boxes toward the large bay door. The next picture showed the man framed inside the large door, and someone talking to him. Charlie lifted the picture, studying it closely. “There’s a man in the shadows, but I can’t see his face.”
Two Cuts Darker Page 6
