by Kate Johnson
Or, at least, someone with Daz’s security code.
I sniffed the air again. That sweet smell was a little bit like perfume. Actually, a lot like perfume.
Well, well, I thought. Looks like we have a femme fatale on our hands here, Nate. And three guesses as to who it is.
Luke thinks it’s hilarious that I named my gun, but I know for a fact that he talks to his. Anyway, I like my gun. It’s been very helpful to me in tight spots. It’s called Belinda, after the girl who helped me pass English when I was sixteen.
I had Belinda—the gun, this time, not the girl—in a brace under my jacket, and my hand hovered ready to draw her as I made my way to Daz’s study. But the room appeared empty, the only light coming from the computer screen which made everything look green and rather spooky.
But being a big strong scary spy, I wasn’t scared. Much.
A quick sweep of the room revealed no one hiding in a darkened corner, so I set down my gun and checked out the computer. There were no programs open, so if anyone had been here before me, I didn’t know what they were looking for. And I wasn’t sure I had the luxury of hanging around to find out.
I stuck a USB stick into the computer and started downloading files. I didn’t check their contents, just got everything from the hard drive, as well as an internet cache and list of bookmarks. I could check them all out later. It’d be easier if I could just lift the whole hard drive out, but then Daz might get suspicious.
Drumming my fingers on my thigh—so as not to create any noise that might alert anyone else to my presence, or hide theirs from me—I watched the transfer bar creep up, little by little.
And became aware of a noise.
At first I thought it was heavy breathing and made a face of disgust. No doubt Daz had lured some young lovely upstairs for a quickie. Hopefully, they’d be heading to one of the bedrooms, and not in here.
But I made ready to snatch the USB stick free and leap into the shadows, just in case.
Then I realized the noise was not coming from outside the room. It was coming—I listened carefully—from a small cupboard on the far side.
A cupboard I’d dismissed when I entered as far too small for a person to hide in.
Stupid Nate. I picked up Belinda and crept as silently as possible towards the cupboard, praying that the floor wouldn’t squeak. It didn’t, and I made it over there without making a sound—at least, not one that could be picked up over the wheezing coming from the cupboard.
It sounded to me like someone hyperventilating. Maybe having an asthma attack. Maybe suffocating. There was a strong possibility that Daz had locked someone in there on purpose to die. It was a horrible idea, but then he was a horrible man.
I took a breath, counted to three and yanked open the door with one hand while aiming my gun with the other.
And stared.
“Huh,” I said.
Chapter Three
Huddled inside the tiny cupboard, folded up like origami, was Natalya. She was shaking and hyperventilating, her cheeks stained with mascara, her face gleaming with an unhealthy pallor. When she saw me, instead of making excuses or trying to run or hurt me, she threw her arms around my legs and clung to me.
Interesting.
“Uh, Natalya?” I said, and she shuddered and looked up at me.
“I need air,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I need…”
“Yes?”
“I need to get out,” she said and made a lurch towards the window.
I followed, a little uncertain, gun still in hand, but all she really seemed to want to do was gulp in some fresh air. Being December, of course, said air was bloody freezing, and she shivered attractively as she huddled by the window.
“Claustrophobia?” I asked, watching her take deep breaths. The fact that this entailed watching her breasts was of little to no consequence to a professional like me.
She nodded, shuddering.
“In that case,” I said, “I can’t help wondering what you were doing inside a cupboard.”
Natalya rubbed her arms, which were prickled with gooseflesh. They were bare, like a lot of the rest of her. Her dress was backless, sideless, and very nearly frontless, too. It was long, but there were high slits up each side.
She had great legs. I noticed that purely objectively, in case I should, you know, have to make a description.
“I was hiding,” she whispered, pulling the window shut. “I thought you were Daz.”
“I’m not,” I said, and she gave me an up-and-down so swift I nearly missed it.
“No,” she said softly, “you’re not.”
I didn’t miss the look she gave me this time, however.
When I was a kid, my nan, as I think I mentioned, had a huge white cat. He used to stalk local vermin, mice and birds and things, and when he spotted something he wanted to kill, he’d crouch down low and his eyes would fix on the target, and the most calculating expression would come over his face.
I was seeing that same expression on Natalya’s makeup-streaked face.
“Can I get you a glass of water?” I said abruptly.
“I’m feeling much better,” she said, sliding sinuously to her feet.
“Yeah. But hydration is important,” I said. “I think there’s a bedroom next door. I’m sure it has a bathroom and I can get you some water. Maybe you should lie down.”
She gave me a slow, sensuous blink. “That sounds like a good idea,” she purred.
Just like the cat.
Her hand slipped into mine and I couldn’t help but notice how clammy her palm was. She’d recovered quickly, but it was my guess that the claustrophobia was real.
There was indeed a bedroom next door, and it did indeed have a bathroom attached. Natalya arranged herself beautifully on the edge of the bed, toeing off her shoes and rubbing one bare foot against her calf.
I wondered how far she’d go with this. Seduce me all the way, or just tie me to the bed and leave me there?
I wasn’t about to find out. More’s the pity. I filled a toothbrush mug with water, added one of the pills I’d earmarked for the guards and handed it over. “Bottoms up,” I said cheerfully and watched her drink.
If she’d knocked out the guards, chances are she’d been planning the same for me. Ah well, good job I wasn’t going to let her seduce me.
Dammit.
Two nights before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring. Mostly because I’d drugged them all. Having slipped a little something into Anatole and Yuri’s drinks, I rolled my eyes at the rest of the partygoers and lugged the two Russians out to the X5. Cuffing them in the back seat, I carefully placed Natalya in the front seat, and we set off back to London.
It was kind of creepy, actually. I wondered idly if Anatole and Yuri had been partaking of the other substances on offer. If so, my sleeping pills might kill them. Yeah, and see me cry about it.
Anatole had rented a swanky place in Belgravia, so I dropped him and Yuri off there, secure in the knowledge they’d be out like lights until at least midday. Nevertheless, I set up surveillance on them while they slept, so if anything happened, I’d know about it.
Then I got back in the X5, checked on Natalya and drove to Hammersmith.
It’s a funny thing about London. Geographically speaking, Belgravia and Hammersmith are not that far away from each other. Actually, the London boroughs are right next door to each other. But whereas the pleasant streets of Belgravia are lined with Porsches and Maseratis and every house costs more than the annual budgets of many large multinational corporations, cross into Hammersmith and you’ll find it’s usually on fire.
Has character, though. And apparently it’s “up-and-coming”, which means that at least the fires get put out.
I lived there, at least when I wasn’t off saving the world and whatnot. I’d been renting nearer to SO17’s base, which was a couple of hours away, but the Hammersmith flat was all my own.
I unlocked the door, carried
Natalya inside and tried to figure out what to do with her. Clearly, she was guilty of something, which meant I didn’t feel too bad about handcuffing her to the bed. But on the other hand…
I only had one bedroom, and I wanted to sleep, too.
I looked at the delicious handful in my arms. Well, dammit, I couldn’t very well handcuff her to the sofa, could I?
Scowling, I stomped into the bedroom, dumped her in my bed and cuffed her hands to the headboard. She could damn well stay in her clothes. The last thing I needed was a naked woman in my bed.
Well, actually, it wasn’t the last thing I needed at all. It was probably the first. Dammit.
I lay on the sofa for the rest of the night, and didn’t sleep a bit.
By the time morning arrived, a couple of theories had formed in my head. Well, what with the scantily-clad temptress next door, there wasn’t much else to do. At least, nothing I’d be prepared to tell you about.
First up, my theory was that she was a spy, same as me. Well, clearly not same as me, because surely she’d have had better intelligence and would have known that Anatole was going to figure out her lack of Russian linguistic skills. Besides, who was she working for? Could be American, I supposed, but then I still didn’t buy the terrible accent.
Unless…maybe the bad accent was a bluff to put me off. Maybe it was all some elaborate scheme—a double bluff. Maybe she spoke perfect Russian, but was trying to kid Anatole that she didn’t. Maybe, like me, she was pleading ignorance.
But that was a little risky, since men like Anatole and Daz weren’t known for their sense of humor. They wouldn’t find it amusing that she was pretending.
So, back to square one and the assumption that she really didn’t speak Russian. That she was pretending, because…what? She’d seen too many Bond films and thought it sounded glamorous? Granted, there were certain types of men who found that sort of thing attractive. There was definitely a market for mail-order brides from the Eastern bloc.
But why was she pretending in the first place? And why was she in Daz’s office? How had she got his computer codes?
What was she doing?
Okay, so I lied about having a couple of theories. I decided early on that she couldn’t be a spy, which left me with thief and journalist, basically. Since Daz was apparently giving her money for her charity, I figured—
Wait. Her charity.
I booted up my computer and searched for WarDogs and got everything from canine handlers to sports teams. Searching that in conjunction with Natalya’s name still didn’t get me anything useful. I didn’t even have a surname to go on.
I sighed, got some coffee and settled in for a long, long search. About seven a.m., the old lady over the road plugged in her musical Christmas lights, which sure as hell didn’t fill me with goodwill towards her. Bingle bong, bingle bong, bingle bingle bong… Bah.
Humbug.
Why don’t old people sleep? My nan used to get up about three in the morning sometimes. Drove me mad. Of course, I get up at three in the morning now, but at least I have reason. She used to just stump around the place, swearing.
I narrowed my eyes. Speaking of swearing, was I becoming hallucinatory from lack of sleep, or was someone inventing new curse words in my bedroom?
I grabbed the pot of coffee, nudged open the door and found my lady twisted up in the covers, showing quite a lot of thigh.
She glowered at me.
“Good morning,” I said, leaning in the doorway.
“Is it?”
She looked like hell. Last night’s makeup was smudged all over her face, her hair was a train-wreck and her lovely dress was creased and crumpled. Above her head, her hands were still chained to my bedstead. The stretch made her back arch, her breasts rise.
She looked like hell, but an attractive hell.
She licked her dry lips. “You want some water?” I asked, and she gave me a filthy look.
I smiled.
“Come on, I had to,” I said.
“Did you.” It wasn’t a question. Her words were like slabs of granite. But I’d been hit with harder things.
“What were you doing in that cupboard?” I asked.
“Playing hide and seek. I was about to win.”
“Did you switch off Daz’s security cameras?”
“Someone switched them off?” She widened her eyes in faux innocence.
I ignored it. “Someone did.”
“Is that so.” Once again, it wasn’t a question.
“Are you really claustrophobic?”
“Yes.” A flicker of—fear? revulsion? terror?—crossed her face, then it was gone, and her mask of disdain was back.
“So why were you in the cupboard?”
She gave me a narrow-eyed look. “I don’t like you,” she said.
“Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart,” I replied, which was a lie, because I was starting to like her a lot. I didn’t trust her an inch, but I liked her. I guess that says something about me, huh?
She stretched, which was distracting, and rattled the handcuffs. “Are you going to leave me like this all day?”
“I might. View’s pretty good from where I am.”
“Pervert.”
I grinned.
“Come on,” she said. “My arms are bloody killing me.”
I considered this. Right now, I’d no idea how dangerous she might be. Of course, in that dress it’d be pretty hard to conceal any weaponry, and I’d removed her shoes and jewelry last night.
“Okay,” I said. “But not without Belinda.”
She frowned, watched me leave the room. I ran a glass of water for her, grabbed an extra coffee mug and my gun brace and went back in.
“So where’s this Belinda?” she asked as I knelt on the edge of the bed and unfastened the cuffs.
I tapped the SIG-Sauer hanging under my arm. “Right here.”
She gave a choked laugh. “You’re kidding me.”
I gave her a level look. “I never kid when I’m armed.”
She swallowed, and I smiled internally. Then I saw the genuine fear in her eyes and reassessed.
The gun scared her. Really scared her. I’ve seen fear before, and she wasn’t pretending. Which meant she wasn’t a spook—probably wasn’t even a cop. Your average beat copper in Britain doesn’t carry a gun, and neither does your average citizen. We don’t have the right to bear arms. Well, generally speaking. I personally had lots of rights.
Daz King, on the other hand, didn’t. This didn’t stop him, however, from bearing lots and lots of arms and handing them out like candy to his friends and followers. It was one of the reasons we were so keen to keep Anatole out of the picture. Anyone who supplied Daz with more weaponry was to be discouraged almost as strongly as Daz himself.
The girl on the bed in front of me had seen firearms up close and personal. And seen what they could do. She wouldn’t be so scared otherwise.
I kicked some clothes off a chair and pulled it up to the bed.
“What’s your name?”
She never took her eyes off my gun. “Natalya.”
“Your real name.”
“I—”
“If you’re really called Natalya then my name is Dmitri,” I said.
“But—”
“And didn’t you used to have an accent?”
Her mouth opened. Then it closed.
“Crap,” she said.
Chapter Four
I let her go into the bathroom to wash her face, because her eyelids were starting to stick together when she blinked. My bed was a mess from all that makeup, but that was the least of my worries.
I didn’t expect she’d try to escape from the bathroom, mostly because the window was the size of a postage stamp, and I’d have been surprised if she tried to commit suicide with anything she found in there. About the most hazardous thing she could do would be to swallow a bottle of shampoo; I kept medication in the kitchen, and my razor was hardly cutthroat.
She emerged, cleaner,
fresher, younger without all that crap on her face. Still pretty, in fact maybe more so.
“You know what would be really nice?” she said. “Some real clothes.”
I gave her a slow once-over, which she didn’t seem to appreciate, then handed her a sweater. She tugged it on, then curled back up on the bed and pulled the duvet over her legs. She looked small and adorable.
“Go on, then,” she said, and I sat in the chair by the bed and regarded her.
“Let’s start with your name,” I said, and she sighed.
“Let’s start with who you are before I tell you anything.”
“I’m the one with the gun here,” I reminded her.
“Yes, which is why I want to know who you are.” She paused, and this time she looked me over. “You’re not working for Daz.”
She sounded like she was convincing herself. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, you’re a lot more pleasant than anyone he knows.”
I smiled. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
“I don’t. But you’re…you’re not like him.”
I took that as a compliment.
“Are you a cop?”
“I work for the government,” I told her, which was true enough.
“Our government?” she asked, shrewdly.
“Yep. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Hah.” She gave Belinda a pointed look.
“I’m probably not going to hurt you,” I amended. “Look. I think you can help me, and I can help you too.”
“Oh yeah, you’ve already been a great help,” she said, folding her arms.
“I can protect you,” I said.
“I don’t need your protection,” she said, and I held my tongue. Her gaze fell to the duvet, and I could almost see the cogs turning in her head.
“It’s Daz, isn’t it?” she said, heavily. “He’s…you’re going to…”
“You already know he’s bad news,” I said quietly.
“Yes,” she nodded without hesitation, “he is.”
Her fingers pulled at the duvet cover. She still didn’t look at me.
