by Juno Rushdan
“Is Epsilon going?” Rho asked.
Omega quirked a brow. “I was taking you.”
Not true. Rho had sharper leadership skills than E and was better suited to hold things down here with the girl and take point on security once Daedalus arrived. But Omega needed to make sure Rho was up for anything.
“Stone took out Beta, Delta, Kappa, and Sigma by himself,” Rho said, making it sound as though Stone had obliterated a row of fraternities.
The codenames made him think of a Quentin Tarantino film, but Daedalus had insisted. Omega rarely opposed him. Reserving a hard stance for when it was absolutely necessary kept Daedalus more inclined to agree on those rare occasions. Not easy to bend such a man’s ear or his will to do anything he didn’t want to do.
“What do we know about Gideon Stone?” Rho asked.
“No military record. Agency issue.”
They were the worst. With a military guy, you knew what to prepare for, understood how they thought. They were predictable. But those Agency-bred beasts were unique.
“Where do we stand on getting leverage on Stone?” Omega asked.
Everyone had a weakness. Omega had found Gideon Stone’s in the file Cobalt had delivered. Those Gray Box Boy Scouts were hardwired to risk their lives to save innocent civilians, but making it personal, tugging at the heartstrings, was better.
Emotions always knocked someone off their game.
There was one person in Stone’s life who he cared about but had kept at a distance to protect them. If he’d really wanted to keep them safe, Stone should’ve cut them off completely. No calls, no emails.
“The guys went to the farmhouse in Martinsburg, West Virginia, found it empty, but spoke to a neighbor. The target is on a cruise and will be back Tuesday. Hopefully, this will be resolved by then, but in the meantime, we need more men,” Rho said flatly.
Omega didn’t tolerate cowards, but Rho wasn’t afraid. They’d fought and bled together in the meat grinder and come out the other side. This was a simple matter of common sense. Rho was right. They needed more men, but waiting for extra guns would delay them. The sooner they had boots on the ground, the easier it’d be to catch Stone off guard.
The island was small. If Omega could place men at the hotel and the bank, getting them was an inevitability. Once the chick learned they had her sister, it would be easy as pie to reel in that bleeding heart.
“Daedalus is flying in with a handful of men,” Omega said.
The man was in a touchy mood after hearing about Cobalt’s threat of insurance and wanted to see this finished firsthand.
“I’ll wait for him to arrive and make it work with the men on hand.” Omega strode around the table to the window of the warehouse and looked down at the abandoned waterfront. “No time to wait for more.”
Rho straightened. “When will he arrive?”
Three hours, eleven minutes. No need to look at his watch again. “Soon.”
Once Daedalus landed, Omega would switch gears and feel him out, make sure he didn’t go doomsday-explosive. The man swung to extremes, and when he got bloodthirsty, he was relentless in a fashion that left even Omega breathless. Daedalus was magnificent to behold in action, but if left unchecked, he became a danger to himself.
Everything was on the line. Omega had peeled a lot of flesh and shed a lot of blood to crown Daedalus king of this empire. They’d both do anything necessary to keep this hard-earned monopoly on U.S. counterintelligence and corporate espionage.
Daedalus would never admit it, but Cobalt was a priceless asset. The Gray Box had unrestricted access to every American intelligence agency, from the CIA and NSA to every sector of the Department of Defense. The intel Cobalt provided had been a gold mine, affording them the opportunity to expand their kingdom in ways far exceeding their wildest imaginations. The continued flow of information would solidify their hold.
This bold move to safeguard Cobalt was a massive gamble, but if they pulled it off, there’d be no stopping them. They’d already lost more men than anticipated and stuck their necks out well beyond comfortable limits, but there was no glory without sacrifice. So long as Omega kept Daedalus levelheaded and protected, he’d find a way to manage the rest. “I don’t want you to go with me and the boys to the Caymans.”
Rho shot to his feet. “Why not? I’m rock-steady. Ready to roll.”
“I need you here with Daedalus. If anything goes wrong and Stone makes it past me—”
“What are you saying?” Rho’s dark eyes narrowed.
“If something goes wrong, I need you to make sure Daedalus doesn’t go apeshit.”
No one planned for their own funeral, not in this business. And Omega wasn’t about to start. He couldn’t care less about dying, but he wouldn’t be able to focus unless he knew Rho would cover down and keep Daedalus safe.
Omega scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “If you don’t hear from me, Daedalus should let Cobalt burn, then cut and run while he can.”
“You should be the one to tell him.” Rho lowered his gaze and shook his head. “He only listens to you.”
If that were true, things would be simple. “I’ll tell him.”
A lot needed to be said. The time for such talk was never right. Work always came first, and he’d never unload before going out on something this big. Omega would only talk about what mattered most to him in the world: keeping Daedalus safe and alive, no matter the cost.
“You’ll need to remind him,” Omega said. “Just in case.”
“We go out, but we come back. Always, bro. Get your head straight. Stone rattled you, threw you a curveball, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. When we’re in a fight, we’re like gods. We can tackle anything thrown our way.”
Even gods fall, but now wasn’t the time to remember the damn Titans. “Yeah, you’re right.” He threw Rho an easy smile to put his brother-in-arms at ease. “You know me. I cover all bases. Worst case, do whatever’s necessary to keep him safe.”
“That’s the prime directive.”
Daedalus wasn’t just a mission and Rho knew it, but Omega didn’t need to say the words.
“Oh, G-G-God,” the woman whimpered.
What was her fucking name? Lauren? Laura?
“You’re going to k-k-kill me. I’ve seen your faces. You’re talking about your plans. I’m not going to see my girls again, am I? Simone is going to steal my life. I should’ve fired her.”
Rho grabbed a roll of duct tape and unpeeled a long strip to muzzle the woman.
Omega lifted a palm, stopping him. “Listen, little momma, I hate tears and whining. If you don’t pipe down, I’ll have to pay your family a visit once I’m done with your sister.”
He picked up her wallet from the table, plucked out her driver’s license, read off her address in North Haven, Connecticut, and slipped out a photo of two blond girls from the plastic picture holder. “Twins? Six? Seven? A tough age to lose a mother. And a father. Think of your children and how you don’t want them to be orphans.”
The woman sucked in a shuddering sob, and then blessed silence.
“Ahhh, see? No need to waste the tape.”
34
Grand Cayman
Sunday, July 7 9:19 p.m. EST/10:19 p.m. EDT
After a shower, Willow blow-dried her hair, longing for a brush, elastic bands, and hair pins. Minuscule items that meant nothing separately but added up to the pieces that held her together.
On the boat, she’d been removed from the real world—her problems seemed an ocean away—and had created a new routine with Gideon.
Here, she stared at the gun on the counter, praying there’d be no reason to use it.
Gathering her damp auburn strands as if for a ponytail, she coiled her hair into a tight bun, tucking the ends, and secured it with a ballpoint pen. The twist was messier than she preferred,
but she was grounded, better prepared to handle the unexpected.
She stared in the mirror. Could Gideon be with someone like her back home?
Laughable. Right?
Or might it be possible?
A knock sounded at the door. She jumped and grabbed the gun.
“It’s me.”
Gideon. She relaxed and hurried to let him in.
“How did the bank look?” She handed him the gun.
“Fine.” With a grim face and sheen of sweat on his brow, he tossed the tools on the bed, threw on his shoulder holster, stuffed the gun inside, and covered up with the long-sleeved shirt. “Small building. Two exits. There’ll probably be two guards, four max.”
“You think we’ll have trouble?”
“I doubt the guards expect any action. People with offshore accounts wire their money in and out once it’s established. Those types of banks aren’t usually held up at gunpoint, but best for us to be prepared.” He caressed the wispy strands dangling around her face. “I like it. The messy bun.”
His gaze softened. He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed her. Quick. Soft. Licking his lips, he smiled for the first time since they’d docked.
Warmth flooded her chest, chasing away the chill. She had a glimmer of real hope that their plan might work, her life would be restored, and everything would be okay.
He ushered her out of the room and down the stairs to the restaurant, which stayed opened until midnight seven days a week. His hand was on her lower back in the intimate way that whispered of protection and possession. The tension in her body eased.
They waited by the hostess’s podium at the entrance of the small restaurant. Less than twenty tables were inside, and a handful lined the wraparound balcony overlooking the beach.
A U-shaped bar sat catty-corner to the kitchen, enclosed in a wall of glass allowing patrons to see the inner workings. Ebullient music wafted from the overhead speakers, sultry vocals, guitar strings, and drums skirting the line between reggae and calypso.
“Good evening,” the hostess said, approaching them. “Two for dinner?”
Gideon gave a curt nod, scanning the restaurant. His head didn’t swivel, but his gaze panned across everything. He was always alert and stayed in this hair-trigger state of readiness.
“Inside or outside?” the hostess asked.
Willow was eager for fresh air. “Outside.”
“Inside,” Gideon countered. “That table in the back.” He pointed to one far from the open patio doors that were letting in a balmy breeze and away from any occupied tables.
The hostess glanced between them as if waiting for a final verdict.
A million factors to keep them safe must be going through Gideon’s mind, guiding his decisions. Willow needed to follow his lead instead of worrying about fresh air, but goodness, she was dying to sit on the patio.
She shrugged one shoulder. “Inside.”
They were shown to the table he requested. He sat with his back to the wall, but Willow faced the balcony. If she couldn’t smell the sea or feel the wind, by golly, she’d look at the flickering torch flames on the terrace.
The hostess handed them menus. “Can I get you beverages?”
“I want a real drink.” Willow put a hand on his forearm. “But I don’t know what to order.”
“I thought you didn’t like alcohol.” He glanced at her for the first time since leaving the room.
“I’ve tried vodka and tequila.”
His brows drew together. “Straight?”
She nodded. Laurel had insisted on shots of vodka with a tequila chaser during that unforgettable Thanksgiving. The sickening experience hadn’t been one she wanted to repeat. Fiddling with her pearls, she tried to ignore the rapier-sharp edge in his body and wary gaze focused on everything besides her.
“Want to try a drink on the sweeter side?” he asked.
Sweet, tart, she just didn’t want it to taste horrible. “Sure.”
“A buttery nipple.” Gideon scanned the balcony. “Two waters and a bottle of local beer.”
The woman gave a smile and left.
“That’s a drink?” Such an odd name.
“I think you’ll like it.” His stormy-blue eyes worked the room. “Sorry we couldn’t sit on the balcony. Lines of sight too restricted. I need to see everyone coming in and want a solid wall at my six. We’re good in this part of the restaurant. No cameras. Steer clear of the bar and the registers in the back by the restrooms.”
She swallowed the dry lump of irritation swelling in her throat and tapped her fingers against her leg.
The drinks arrived. The waiter set a tumbler in front of her containing four ounces of a milky, light brown liquid, and they ordered.
With a deep breath, she took a sip. Sweet. Strong. Decadent.
Willow licked her lips and drained the glass.
* * *
Gideon surveilled their surroundings, taking another swig from the one beer he’d been nursing. No way of knowing how many hitmen were after Willow or where they’d turn up next.
They’d avoided CCTV and were most likely safe for the night at the hotel, but he couldn’t stop his vigilant perusal or shut off the need to be ready any more than a bird could refuse to fly.
Two cooks never left the kitchen, churning out plates of food onto the stainless-steel counter for the waitstaff in a well-choreographed rhythm. The chatty bartender was slow at pouring drinks but attentive to customers. Four men strolled in and camped out at the bar. None were packing, and there were no slight bulges of concealed knives. His gaze fell to their shoes, a dead giveaway of a potential threat.
Loafers equaled tourists or locals looking for fun.
His attention boomeranged back to Willow. She didn’t force conversation, but her proximity was a distraction. He was struggling to keep focused on sweeping for suspicious activity. His skin was too tight, nervous energy pulsed in his veins, and his fingers ached. Not from anything gearing him on alert, but because he couldn’t wait to get her back to the room.
He watched her finish a second buttery nipple. She no longer played with her pearl necklace, tore paper napkins into tiny bits, or pinched the back of her hand—all coping mechanisms. And she’d taken the pen out of her hair, letting it drape her lovely shoulders.
The music switched to an upbeat remixed sound. She swayed to the beat, lounging in her chair. Hunger for his beautiful starling pumped through him. He couldn’t wait to get behind closed doors with her and enjoy the solace of being in her arms.
Tomorrow would come soon enough. Once they found the mole and her life was restored, he’d let her go. He wanted a shot at…something—hell, everything with her—but what he desired and what they both needed were far from the same.
As for romance, those sweet gestures women went gaga for made him gag. He didn’t do flowers, brunch with parents, throw on a suit to go to church, plan surprise vacations, dance around like a rhythm-challenged idiot, or dip into candlelit baths. Not him. Not ever. And he was far better at giving I’m-sorry-I-fucked-up gifts than one for a birthday or anniversary.
Who was he kidding?
Given enough time, he’d screw things up with Willow. And if by some miracle he didn’t botch it, she’d weaken him. Look at them, sitting out in the open because he didn’t have the strength to deny her, when they should be upstairs, lying low.
He did better on his own, and she’d be better off without him.
The waiter returned and removed their plates. “Can I get you two anything else?”
Willow perked in her seat, face flushed. “Another buttery nipple.”
“No. She’s had enough.” Gideon shook his head, emphasizing his point, and the waiter scuttled away.
Her stubborn chin lifted, hazel eyes flaring.
Shit. He emergency tappe
d religion like a heathen, praying she wouldn’t fight him.
“I want another drink.”
“You’ve had enough, babe.”
“When you want to touch me, it’s starling, but when you want to boss me around, it’s babe?”
Valid point. He hadn’t noticed. “You’re not used to drinking. I don’t want you to get sick.” And I’m sorry for being a dipshit control freak.
Another thing to add to the list of what she didn’t deserve.
“Dance with me.” Sighing, she slid her hand along his forearm. “You’ve barely looked at me all night.” Something about the way the words rolled from her sweet tongue and the longing in her eyes had his insides softening. “Please. A few minutes.”
He snatched his arm from her grasp, tearing his gaze away before he succumbed. If she ever figured out the power she held over him, he would be fucked. “I. Don’t. Dance.”
He didn’t dance, ever, and even if he did, dancing meant distraction.
Scooting her chair back in a screech, she was on her feet before he blinked. She strode near the doors leading to the patio—in the middle of the restaurant—and started dancing.
Fuck. All eyes zeroed in on her, destroying the low profile he’d painstakingly created, setting his teeth on edge. The one good thing was she stayed clear of the cameras.
Swaying her hips and shaking her shoulders, Willow moved to the beat of the music. Closing her eyes, she swung her hair, waving her arms and rolling her hips. She was the sexiest thing he’d seen in his life and he’d seen a lot.
Gideon clenched the arms of the chair, and the wood groaned in his tightening grip. He would’ve killed for a piece of gum.
A guy from the bar hopped off his barstool, his gaze fastened on her, and swooped in.
