Countdown to Zero Hour

by Nico Rosso

  “Food allergies? Special needs?” Normal questions she’d ask anyone.

  “I’ll try to find out.”

  The ordinary details didn’t take the edge off. Art remained stony.

  “I’ve done that kind of thing in Temecula for a group of people who’d been friends since college. Four days. They’d golfed and done wine tastings.”

  “No one’s going to be golfing at this party,” he said flatly.

  “When?” she asked.

  “You leave Saturday morning.”

  “That’s in two days.” Way too fast. No one booked a cook with that short notice. The offer started to slide away from the real world she understood.

  His mouth remained stern. “I know.”

  “That’s hardly any time to prep.” She leaped into menu possibilities for that many people. “Breakfast, lunch and dinner?”

  “It’ll be a walking breakfast, but they’ll need full lunches and dinner.”

  What was the catch that had Art so stony? “You know I can’t do it for free.”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “Twenty thousand. Ten before, ten once you’re back home. Cash. No taxes.”

  She leaned back in her chair like she was hit in the face with a glass of ice water. The amount would almost clear the books with her mom. The temptation drew her in, but there were so many questions.

  “That’s more than this kind of job merits,” she said.

  “You negotiating yourself down?”

  The pile of money wasn’t enough to bend her yet. “What are you really paying for?”

  “A very quiet chef.” His gaze remained unfeeling. “Who cooks great and doesn’t ask questions and focuses on the kitchen and keeps any details to herself once she gets back home.”

  “Where is it?” she pressed.

  “The desert.”

  “Which desert?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t say.”

  This was getting downright crazy. “Then how am I supposed to find it?”

  “You don’t.” He placed his finger on the surface of the table. “I pick you up.” Dragging his finger, he drew a jagged line. “I drive you to the house. You cook. I drive you home.” He moved his finger back to the first point.

  “You make it sound so simple,” she murmured. The invisible map highlighted just how far away she’d be, in territory she didn’t understand, with Art as her only way back.

  “It should be.” Was there the smallest hint of doubt in his voice?

  The money was incredible. She’d never dreamed of getting a gig this lucrative. It would take months of impossible best nights ever with the steam cart to make that kind of cash. Instead of pulling her into the job, the money was part of the reason she was pushed away. They were paying too much. Somehow, she would end up paying.

  “It’s short notice,” she hedged. “I might have to say no, but I can give you some chefs who would take it.”

  Art remained motionless. “Like you have better plans? You’d just be slinging dumplings outside the Sea Weed.”

  Seething frustration bloomed in her. Art had been so easy to talk to. Mysterious and dangerous, yes, but also perceptive and genuinely listening. This steely version of him was like a robot programmed for intimidation. She missed the way they’d communicated. “You don’t know everything I do.”

  “I don’t need to.” God, he sat there like a typical confident bully. “The deal’s good. You should take it.”

  She hated being cornered. All the bullshit with Burton had pushed her into a dead end, and she’d done what she could to fight her way back. But things had just turned darker. Fuck the money. She’d find a way to get it somewhere else, somewhere cleaner where it wasn’t being used to leverage her. “What if I say no?”

  “You can’t,” he said, like stating a law of the universe.

  “Then why ask?” Her legs twitched to stand and run.

  “Because I’m polite.”

  “Barely.”

  That cracked a small, sad smile from him. Art kept his eyes on the table. “People don’t say no to Rolan. The ones who do aren’t people anymore.”

  Acid churned her stomach. The violence and blood she’d seen in Art’s fight in front of the club were magnified a thousand times.

  He continued, “Tell your friends and family you got a sweet job for those college yuppies again. Golfing in the desert for a week. No details. And your cell phone won’t get reception out there.”

  Moving slow and deliberate, he reached into a front pocket of his jacket. She tensed and tried to remember all the vulnerable places to attack on a man. Art didn’t seem to have any weaknesses. He finally pulled out a simple pen and a pad of paper. “Write down your address.”

  She left the pen on the table. Art waited, motionless. Was there any way out? The police? She was sure Art and Rolan could do a lot of damage to her and those around her before the cops even showed up.

  “I’m just there to cook, right?”

  Art nodded, dead serious. “I’ll make sure of it.” The edge in his voice sounded like a promise.

  The choice had been taken from her.

  She picked up the pen and put her temporary address at her friends’ guest house on the pad. The handshake with Rolan was a shady deal. Putting ink on paper was like signing her soul to the devil. And Art was the head demon. Sometimes he was close, with a wry glint in his eye just for her. Other times he was hard like a desert snake looking for its next meal.

  He stood, taking the pad and pen. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning.”

  “Time?” She tried to create a schedule leading up to that moment, but there was no order in jagged fear, sharp dollar bills and Art’s steel will that all trapped her.

  “Just before sunrise.” His sunglasses blocked his eyes, then he was gone, easily gliding through an exit and disappearing in the glow of the day.

  She knew he’d be back for her.

  Chapter Three

  For years he’d been alone just before the dawn. If his life had turned out differently, those dark, quiet moments could’ve been shared with a woman. Crisp sheets surrounding a warm body. She’d sleep with her head on his shoulder, and he’d be awake listening to her slow, even breaths. It might have even been Hayley.

  But he woke without a word or another soul close to his. These solitary moments were his to recover from the night before and prepare for what the day would bring. This morning he drove across San Diego, toward Hayley. The address she’d given him was a guest house in a decent area of town, far from his apartment in a working-class neighborhood. He had a few minutes of silence.

  Streetlights slipped past. In another hour, they wouldn’t be needed anymore. Hardly anyone else was on the road. These small hours reminded him of basic training, when the instructors would shock the recruits awake, then drill them with PT or long runs under heavy packs. That work had paid off in the mountains of Afghanistan. There hadn’t been a time of day when he wasn’t ready for a surprise attack or stealthy recon mission.

  Normal people didn’t go out at these hours. It was the time for predators. That was what Hayley thought of him. He was the muscle who’d forced her into the gig. He’d given her no choice and had none himself.

  He was trapped. The whole day before he’d found her at the farmer’s market, he’d tried to figure a way to get her out of this. But every option would’ve threatened his position with Rolan, and subsequently the operation for Automatik.

  Sitting across from Hayley, he’d wanted to burn the city down to give her a cover for escape. But he couldn’t tell her. He had to play his part: bad guy.

  After the time frame for the big meeting had been moved up, he’d met with the other Automatik operators to accelerate their own mission parameters. Planning had raced ahead, barely kee
ping up. Jackson and Harper, the two former Navy SEALs who were his closest contacts, were tasked with trailing his SUV now.

  It was reassuring to know they had his back. But once he was out in the desert, they’d have to keep low and far away. The meeting house was his environment to control, waiting until all five regional heads of the Orel Group were in the target zone.

  He’d never done any undercover work, though he’d been in plenty of deadly situations. Time always felt short on the forward bases in Afghanistan. His unit had spent months on their own without regular support from command. Being undercover in the mob was almost the same. Cut off, but never quitting on the mission. And trying to stay out of the line of fire.

  After being shot at in country, working at a home improvement store in Southern California had been a bit surreal and detached from the view of life and death he’d developed in the combat zone. He’d kept to himself in San Diego while waiting for a call from Automatik. He was still living on the outside. Most of his socializing had been jogging with two former SEAL team members on the beach. Then one day, Jackson and Harper had told him they were with Automatik and some mission specifics were coming up for him. The Russian mob in San Diego was prime for infiltration.

  When Rolan had approached him at the Sea Weed after a quick and dirty back alley brawl Art had won, it had been a smooth transition into the cover job of protecting a boss. He’d built trust with Rolan and leaked bits of intel to Jackson and Harper for over a year. Nothing had spiked their interest until he’d told them about the five-head meeting in the desert. Two weeks into the trip’s initial planning, he’d gotten the call from a voice he’d never heard before.

  “You’re the trigger.”

  He’d been briefed on what that meant. The bullet was in the chamber. Just a matter of time until shots were fired.

  It would happen in the desert. He’d run point on the operation and would create the plan from the inside, then lead the charge. And he’d have to trust the strike team was ready when he made the call. And now, goddamn, because he couldn’t do anything to keep Hayley out of this deadly world, he’d do everything to keep her from the cross fire.

  Dawn was half an hour away, and she was already on the sidewalk outside the address, a duffel bag, a large cooler and several bags of groceries piled near her feet. A streetlight up the block revealed only the shadows of her face, but he saw the tension in her posture. That dread echoed in him. If he just drove past her, left her behind as he went into the desert, she’d be safe. But he wouldn’t be. Rolan and the Orel Group would kick him out, or kill him. Then he wouldn’t be at the meeting house to run the operation to take them down. Once their power was solidified, they’d be much harder to pick apart. And too many more innocent people would be hurt.

  No one else should go through what his family had endured.

  He brought the black SUV to a stop in front of Hayley. A knit cap was pulled low on her head, just to her dark, tired and wary eyes. He popped the hatch for the back and got out, leaving the engine running. There wasn’t an ounce of trust in her and he deserved it.

  From the trunk he pulled a small leather knockoff purse and handed it to her. She unzipped it cautiously, like it hid a snake. Her eyes went wide on bundles of cash, ten thousand dollars. She quickly closed the purse, fists clutching the strap.

  “Drop it inside,” he said. “I’ll wait with your stuff.”

  The still air shimmered after she hurried away, stalking the darkness around the side of the house. After a moment and the sound of a door opening, then closing, she returned without the purse.

  He tipped his head to the building behind her. “Nice house.” There were no lights on, but someone could be watching from one of the dark windows.

  “Friends.” She was smart not to give any names and involve them.

  He reached for her duffel, but she already had her hand around the handle. He picked up the heavy cooler, and they walked together to the back of the SUV. She carefully placed the bag in the cargo area, and he followed it with the cooler, then returned for the grocery bags.

  Even closing the hatch as quiet as possible sounded like a felony in the silent neighborhood.

  She winced.

  He shrugged. “Get any sleep?”

  “Not much.” Her raw voice told as much.

  “Me neither.” Again, his mind tumbled to impossible scenarios, like he was picking her up for a weekend getaway at a state park, or a mountain cabin far from anyone else. They could hike, fake bird sounds, eat and have sex without any worries. An ache coiled around him, yearning to move, as he tried to extinguish the thoughts of him and Hayley under a pile of blankets while snow fell outside dark windows.

  Before she walked to the front of the SUV, he put his hand out. She just stared at it, forcing him to explain, “I need your phone.”

  The muscles in her jaw jumped, and she hissed a whisper, “I told everyone a good story. A group of friends for a desert getaway. ATVs and barbecue and everything. And I said I’d get no reception. Do you know what it’s like lying to your mother?”

  “Yes.” His mom didn’t know he worked for Rolan. She thought he was a personal trainer and hardware guy at the home improvement store and a consultant for military officer recruits. “Nobody trusts anyone anymore.” He kept his hand out.

  She eyed him and slowly pulled her phone from a coat pocket. Communication was a lifeline. He understood that. His links to Automatik had redundancies. If all of those failed, he’d resort to smoke signals if he had to in order to bring in the heavy guns.

  Her fingers were tight on the phone as she placed it in his hand. Then she released it and recoiled.

  He confessed, “I don’t like it either.”

  As he walked to the front of the SUV, he shut the phone down. After he climbed into the driver’s seat, she tapped on the passenger door for him to unlock it. It would’ve been so much better riding with her next to him, but he had to maintain his safety concerns as Rolan’s hired man. He thumbed her toward one of the back doors. The divide between them grew so much larger after she got in the backseat and closed that door.

  She brought the morning chill with her into the car.

  He locked her phone in the signal-blocking safe box in the passenger foot well, then put the car in gear.

  “Comfortable?” He turned to check on her. The SUV had been modified, with only one row of seats and tons of leg room. The doors were also reinforced, and there was a rig for a glass divider behind the front seats. She was tiny in the black interior

  “Not really.” She tucked herself into one corner and snapped her seat belt on.

  He watched her try to peer out the side window as they pulled into the street, but the tint was too dark. She switched her gaze to the front window for a moment, but quickly looked away when her eyes found his.

  A selfish wish to get her to see him without all that mistrust made him want to tell her the truth about him and Automatik. Their relations might be repaired, slightly, but it wouldn’t make the operation any easier. And it wouldn’t make her any safer. Giving her a secret that big to keep would only screw down increased pressure. Any leaks would jeopardize both of their lives.

  She continued to stare past him at the dark streets of San Diego.

  Talking to her had felt easy. Now it was a crawl through mud under barbed wire. “Sorry to abuse your taste buds, Chef, but can you handle a fast-food breakfast?”

  “I’m not above a little drive-through.”

  He’d already mapped a place near a highway entrance. “About ten minutes.”

  “Works for me.”

  “The cooler and bags have all the ingredients you need?”

  “Specialized things and some staples. It won’t last the week, so I’ll need to market once I get there to stretch it all out.”

  “I’ll see what can
be arranged.” The building of the house had been arranged by one of the other Orel Group bosses. All Art had were the coordinates and directions. There was a small town nearby, so supplies could be had there. He was already itching to get to the house and start mapping the floor plan, then send it to his Automatik teammates.

  “Otherwise it might be a lot of butter sandwiches,” she said tersely.

  “I’m sure you’d make even that great.” He glanced at her through the rearview mirror.

  She crossed her arms and didn’t smile.

  He tried to keep his voice casual. “So who was that dude at the farmer’s market? I was a little too on task to ask, but it looked like there were a few miles of rough landscape between you two.”

  She snorted a laugh. “My ex. Burton. We were going to open a restaurant together, but he bailed. On everything.”

  Which explained why she was selling pelmeni and making deals with Rolan instead of marshaling the troops of her own kitchen. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Worse.”

  “Dick, cabron, douche bag, payaso, motherfucker.”

  She grudgingly smiled. “Better.”

  “However things went down, I’m taking your side.” The complications of a serious relationship had eluded him. He’d never thought about moving in with someone, let alone starting a business together. Fighting wars had always kept him too busy. But he’d seen his sisters go through the peaks and valleys. “Who the fuck would keep you from having your own place?” Here Art was, driving her toward a situation she might not come out of alive. “You say the word, and I can make his life real uncomfortable.”

  She uncrossed her arms and held her palms toward him. “No need. Seriously. He’s got it bad enough without me.”

  “I’ll bet. He’ll never find as good a chef as you.”

  Her head tilted, not buying. “You’ve only had my pelmeni.”

  “You’ve only seen me take down two hit men.”

  She peered at him through the rearview mirror with somber eyes.

  He filled the quiet. “Your food says a lot. Just that taste made Rolan want to have you cooking for some very important people.”