by Liliana Hart
* * *
The only way Grace knew how to deal with being hurt was with anger, but she knew she had to control her emotions until she was out of the country and back on neutral soil. So for that reason alone, she had the concierge at the hotel get a car service to take her to the private airstrip where Gabe’s plane was located. She still had a part to play. At least for a little while.
She had her passport and papers ready when the driver pulled into the private area for VIPs. The guard saw her French citizenship and that she was using Piccoult’s aircraft, and he let her through with only a cursory glance.
The plane was ready for takeoff, the stairs extended, waiting for her arrival. Gabe would have called ahead, and she was expecting Simon to try something unorthodox to detain her. She knew Gabe would have given the order. It’s what she would have done in his position. Simon would try to drug her food or tranq her before they landed.
Her spine began to tingle as she reached the top of the stairs to the entrance of the plane. Simon should have been waiting for her. Unless he was hiding behind the door, getting ready to detain her. She didn’t pull the gun at the small of her back. Not yet. She didn’t want to incite panic from the airfield guards. But she did palm the small knife she kept in a sheath on the inside of her wrist.
She didn’t want to hurt Simon, but she’d be damned if she was going to be held prisoner until Gabe decided she was able.
“Simon,” she called out. “I’m giving you a fair warning. It’s best to ignore whatever orders Gabe just gave you. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”
She crossed the threshold and immediately checked the hidden area behind the door. There wasn’t anyone in sight, but the tingles down her spine had turned into full-fledged alarms telling her to get the hell out before it was too late.
Grace reached for her gun just as the cockpit door slammed open and she was shoved forward. She rolled as best she could in the confined space and came back up to face her attacker as fast as she could—her weapon pointed and ready to fire.
She recognized Shawn Kimball from the file Ethan had put together. He’d already closed the cabin door by the time she’d made it to her feet, and now it was just the two of them. She kicked off her shoes and held the pistol steady, just as he held his steady on her. His smile bordered on madness, and anticipation gleamed in his eyes. She could also see the intelligence. Kimball wasn’t someone to underestimate.
He was a big bastard—close to the same height as Gabe and as broad through the chest and shoulders as Jack. His hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and he held his weapon with ease. She could tell a lot about a man by how he held his weapon. And Grace knew before they even began that she was in deep shit.
“Was Simon the name of your pilot?” Kimball asked, his smile cruel. “I’ll have to apologize about the mess in your bathroom. Simon was a big man. Lots of blood.”
He came closer, and Grace worked probabilities in her mind, trying to find a way she could fire and get out of the way before Kimball did the same. Her conclusions weren’t reassuring.
The plane began to taxi, and Grace knew her chances of winning this fight grew slimmer the minute they were airborne. It would be too dangerous to fire then. She dove to her right and fired off a shot, her back hitting the base of the leather couch against the wall and pain shooting up her spine.
“Bitch,” Kimball said.
Shit. She’d only winged his arm. The plane tilted as they rose into the air, and she tried to find her balance as she got to her feet and faced Kimball again. They tossed their weapons to the floor at the same time, it being too dangerous to fire shots while in the air—and she grasped the knife in her hand as Kimball charged her.
She swiped out with the knife, slicing at his shirt just as his fist landed in her ribs. The blow knocked her against the cabin wall and stole her breath, and she dodged his foot in a kick that would have broken her neck. Pain radiated through her body, but she had enough sense to keep moving. A moving target was harder to hit. The knife was knocked from her hand, and she kicked out at his knee, feeling satisfaction when it buckled beneath him. It was only enough respite for her to fill her lungs with oxygen and roll to the side as his fist caught the side of her jaw.
“I can’t kill you yet,” he said, getting to his feet, favoring his injured knee. “But I’m going to make you hurt.”
Grace wiped the blood off her face, unsure exactly where it was coming from. “Why don’t we just sit down and you can tell me what you want? You look like a reasonable kind of guy.”
“Well, sweetheart, that wouldn’t be near as much fun.”
They circled each other, Grace trying to make her way to her knife that had skittered close to the cockpit doors.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he closed in on her.
“Back to London, of course. Weren’t those your orders? It seems you and that husband of yours are having communication problems.”
Grace stiffened as Kimball so casually tossed out that bit of information. No one but Frank Bennett and Jack had ever known she was married to Gabe. It had been too dangerous—something that could have been used against him if the knowledge had leaked. She had no illusions as to her position in the agency. She knew without a doubt that if it came to protecting Gabe and what he did for the country, then they’d throw her to the wolves in a heartbeat. But somehow this man knew who she was. Knew who Gabe was.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hedged.
He flexed his knuckles and smiled cruelly. “I didn’t recognize the great and mighty Gabe Brennan when I looked at the surveillance photos my men sent me. I’ve always heard of your husband, of course, and I believe there was a time I worked with him when he was—”
Kimball shrugged his shoulders as if what he was saying didn’t bother him, but she could tell by the hatred in his eyes that his experience with Gabe hadn’t been a good one.
“We’ll just say he was someone else at the time,” he continued. “But you—I recognized you in the photo right away. That red hair of yours is a hell of a beacon.”
Before she could dodge out of the way, he’d snatched the black wig from her head and tossed it to the ground.
“We have a mutual friend,” he said. “I’m sure Mr. Tussad would love to be here right now, but I’m not working for him at the moment. You of all people should understand how important the financial options and benefits are when considering taking a job.”
Grace went cold inside. Tussad’s name had the ability to paralyze her like no other. “What do you know of Tussad?” Grace asked. She knew she was giving herself away. The anger in her voice couldn’t be concealed.
“Don’t you want to know how I recognized you?” he asked.
Her fists clinched at her sides, and she put her weight on the balls of her feet, the anger inside of her building like the fiery heat inside a volcano, ready to burst from the side of a mountain.
“I never saw the resemblance between you and your daughter, but Tussad assured me she was yours. You should have known I was there that day. Anyone trained in combat would have felt my gaze. And I looked at you for a long time, Grace.”
The predatory look in her eyes and the way his gaze dropped to her breast made the bile rise in the back of her throat, and the heat of her anger was replaced by the cold lash of his words, striking against her body as if they were physical blows. She finally understood what he was saying.
“It was you?” She could barely get the words past her dry throat, and his terrible smile was all the assurance she needed that he was the one who’d pulled the trigger that terrible day.
She charged him with the force of her anger leading the way. Satisfaction coursed through her when she felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone beneath her fist as she struck him in the nose. The pain his own blows inflicted on her didn’t register—the sting to her ribs or the blood that dripped freely from her mouth onto her shirt. Her arm hung useless by her side as she
battled him, but her anger eventually gave way to unbearable pain, and she dropped to her knees before him.
Kimball grabbed her by the throat and lifted her until her feet dangled just off the ground. “It’s going to be a pleasure putting a bullet through your heart,” he whispered, close enough that she was able to feel his hot breath against her face. “It’s only fitting you should die helpless just as your daughter did.”
The game of life and death had ceased to matter to her, but she vowed she’d live long enough to see the man buried in the ground.
“My days may very well be numbered,” she said hoarsely, his grasp tightening around her throat. “But yours are numbered as well. I will kill you, Shawn Kimball. That’s a promise. And you’ll never even know I’m there until it’s too late.”
She spit in his face and was in no position to dodge as the back of his fist connected with her jaw. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth just as the darkness closed in on her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The game had changed.
Shawn Kimball kept an ice pack against his broken nose as he scrolled through the numbers on Grace’s phone, comparing them to those on the phone he’d stolen from the pilot.
He glanced once at the woman. She was out cold, her hair matted with blood and tangled around her swollen face. He’d tied her hands and feet and tossed her in the corner. It would be a while yet until she woke up.
Kimball had accepted the job to help William Sloane recreate The Passover Project because the money had been too good to pass up. But he wasn’t an idiot. He’d been around Sloane too long not to realize that he had every intention of getting rid of anyone who had ties to this particular job.
But sometimes it wasn’t the money. He had enough money to last ten lifetimes. Sometimes the past just had to be dealt with. And this was one of those times. He didn’t have any particular loyalty to Kamir Tussad. Hell, he didn’t have loyalty to anyone but himself. But when Gabe Brennan was working undercover with Tussad, he’d screwed up three major arms deals Kimball had been brokering, the US confiscating the weapons and killing several of his business associates.
At the time, Tussad had been merely inconvenienced. He had enough power and enough contacts to sweep the mistakes under the rug and offer new deals. There was certainly not a shortage of men and women in the world who wanted to hold all the power during the next war—because there was always another war. It was the way the world worked.
No, it hadn’t been Tussad who’d suffered. Kimball had been the broker for all the bad deals, and it was him who’d been stripped and beaten. He was the one who’d taken well-placed knife wounds—wounds that wouldn’t kill, only give excruciating pain. Tussad had eventually come to his aid because he had another job he needed Kimball to facilitate, but his usefulness was the only reason he’d interfered. Kimball would be dead otherwise.
The CIA had thought he was still doing his job for them at the time. It hadn’t been hard to feed them lies and give them the occasional victory. So when he’d told them someone on the inside was betraying them, the agency had been in such disarray trying to find the culprit that it hadn’t been difficult to break into classified files and see what agents were working undercover in Tussad’s organization. He’d been handed Derrick Kyle and Gabe Brennan on a silver platter.
He’d heard whispers of Gabe before, of course. Everyone had heard whispers. But no one really believed he existed. Men like that didn’t really exist. But Gabe Brennan did exist, and Kimball had seen it as a personal challenge to make the legend nothing more than a pathetic memory.
Once Kimball had found out about Gabe, he’d known immediately he would have to betray him to Tussad to get the exact outcome he wanted. They’d had to work quickly because Gabe was trained to be aware when things were about to turn to shit. They’d managed to find out as much about Gabe Brennan as anyone knew in less than twenty-four hours. As soon as they’d discovered he had a wife and daughter, it was clear what their course of action should be. And when they dug a little deeper into Grace’s background, it was decided that she’d be left alive. Her kinds of talents might be of use in the future.
He laughed despite his throbbing face. She was about to become very useful. And William Sloane was about to get a rude awakening. The Passover Project was about to go on the open market to the highest bidder. And Gabe Brennan was going to help him do it.
He picked up the dead pilot’s phone and pressed the button to dial back his last call.
“What’s going on, Simon?” Gabe said on the other end of the line.
“Simon isn’t available at the moment. He’d have to pick up all of his intestines off the floor first.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, but Gabe didn’t disappoint him. His voice was cold and unemotional.
“And who would this be?” he asked.
“Someone who has a deal to offer.”
“Ahh, this must be the infamous Shawn Kimball. You’ve got a lot of varied interests. I found your file interesting.”
“Did you?” Shawn asked. “I found yours interesting as well. Of course, I read it before it was wiped from the system. But I remember you well.”
“I had a feeling we might have crossed paths before. But I don’t think you’re the man in charge of this particular operation. Have you decided to take matters into your own hands?”
“You could say that.” Shawn appreciated the fact that he didn’t have to spell things out for his adversary. It put them on a much more level playing ground. “I’ve decided my employer isn’t the man to handle The Passover Project. I’m even willing to give you his name once we get down to business.”
“And do we have business, Kimball?”
“I’ve been impressed with how quickly you’ve tracked us down. Killing Standridge certainly put a wrench in things, but you didn’t destroy all of his research. I’ve already found another scientist willing to take up the good doctor’s work.”
Kimball knew he had Gabe’s attention now. “I know you’ll have the second part of the formula once you steal the painting.”
“You still need the third part of the formula from the second painting. And even then it will only work if your scientist can recreate the first part that was destroyed.”
“It’s awfully nice of you to warn me of these obstacles. But don’t worry. I’ve had the missing part of the formula all along. My employer was kind enough to already have it in his possession. It seems he’s somehow related to the original scientist who created the formula. Genetics are damned interesting. Haven’t you ever wondered where you come from?”
“I don’t have the time to have the birds-and-the-bees talk with you, Kimball. You’ve yet to tell me how we have business. In the next few hours, I’m going to be in possession of the last part of the formula you need. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I give it to you.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’ll give the painting to me and walk away.”
“Will I? Why would I do something like that?”
“Because I have something I believe you’ll want back.” Kimball looked at Grace once more, wishing he could slit her throat and send him the pictures. But the time for her to die would come soon. “She’s not dead yet. Your wife put up a hell of a fight. Of course, she’s still a woman. It wasn’t hard to take her down.”
He appreciated the fact that Gabe didn’t even pause to think as he lied.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kimball.”
“I think you do. We’ll make an even trade. You’ll give me the painting, and I’ll give you back your wife. If you manage to do it within the next sixteen hours, I’ll make sure I don’t give her back to you in pieces.”
“Give me the name of the man who hired you as an act of good faith.”
Kimball leaned back in his chair and adjusted his ice pack. Damned if Gabe Brennan wasn’t entertaining.
“Sure,” Kimball said with a shrug. “If you kill him, i
t’ll save me the trouble. It was going to be a real pain in the ass anyway. I’m working against the clock as it is. You’ve probably heard of him. His name is William Sloane.”
The silence on the end of the phone was very telling. “As in the Speaker of the House, William Sloane?”
“That’s the one.”
“Interesting,” Gabe said.
“Mr. Sloane is under the impression that he would make an excellent dictator. That power can only go the person who controls The Passover Project.”
“And what if I refuse to meet your demands?”
“Then I’ll keep your woman alive.” His voice rang with the promise of truth. “She’ll be begging for death by the time I’m through with her. And while I’m at it, I hope you’re not too attached to the boy wonder you’ve got stashed away in that fortress of yours. My men have been busy in your absence. He’s only got a few minutes left before he’s just another part of the rubble. It’s a shame, really. I’ve heard he’s quite brilliant.”
For the first time he heard the urgency in Gabe’s voice, and he smiled.
“When do we make the exchange?”
“Oxford Park Station at noon. Platform seven.”
“I’ll be there.”
The line went dead, and Kimball wished he’d be able to see Gabe’s face when he realized he was too late to save his wife.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Iran
“Ethan,” Gabe said into their com link. “Evacuate now. Sound the alarm so the guards will know, and use the emergency exit. Don’t argue. Start running.”
He mouthed the word bomb to Jack and Logan, and they stared back at him with identical looks of gravity on their faces. They’d been in situations like this before, and sometimes there was nothing you could do but wait and listen.
Gabe listened to Ethan’s muttered curses just before the line went dead. He tossed his phone on the table and willed it to ring. He knew it would take Ethan a few minutes to work his way through the underground tunnels that ran beneath the building and get to the safe house he’d designated for any agents who might be in trouble.
