Countdown to Zero Hour

by Nico Rosso

  “You’re on the outside like me.” But instead of the common ground bonding them, Hayley looked at him with wary caution.

  They hit the second floor and started down a door-lined hallway toward Gogol, one of the nicer goons from Rolan’s nightclub. His thick, wavy hair reached to just below his jawline, reminding Art of a European soccer player. And he almost always wore a tracksuit, same as today. The guard waved them forward, smiling like everyone was arriving for a ski trip.

  Art murmured for Hayley. “No one here’s on stable ground. From the top down. So you have to watch every step.”

  She slowed, and he kept pace with her. The hallway was a kill zone. A shooter with cover could easily pick off anyone trying to get from one end to the other. This area was to be avoided. All the doors must be the living quarters. He’d have to seek out alternate routes around the slaughterhouse.

  Gogol motioned them toward him with increasing enthusiasm, speaking in Russian. “Today, Artem.”

  Hayley glared at Art out of the side of her eye. “Artem?”

  So she had at least a basic understanding of the language. “But you call me Art.”

  They reached Gogol, and he swung a door open. Inside was a basic room: bed, side table, dresser. No window.

  “This is you,” Gogol instructed in Russian, nodding his head for Art.

  Art put the cooler down in the hall and sidled past the man. The room smelled like paint and drywall. He tossed his duffel on the narrow bed. The wood creaked and settled. No one had even sat on it yet.

  “And for you.” Gogol stumbled over broken English, pointing Hayley one door farther. When she turned to look, the Russian gave her a quick glance up and down, then waggled his eyebrows for Art.

  As far as Art knew, Hayley was the only woman on the compound. Even typical schoolyard bullshit like Gogol’s display had to be killed quickly so Hayley wasn’t always surrounded by mouth breathers. Art hit Gogol with the deadeye until the other man’s smile faded. Shaking his head, Art made a quick motion across his own crotch, indicating there was to be no business below the belt.

  Gogol put more professionalism in his posture when Art stepped back into the hallway. Hayley had missed the whole exchange. She stood, looking at her door. It was the last room on the hall. Art was glad he’d be next door and could keep an eye on her safety. Knowing she’d be just a wall away was another kind of thrill. Private, the kind that made his blood run a little faster. Even though she was hands-off.

  She was also checking out the proximity of their rooms. “Tell him,” she said to Art, “that I want a room closer to the kitchen.”

  How could he explain all the reasons she needed to be as near to him as possible? Anything he said now would seem like a come-on. Which was a possibility he would’ve entertained with Hayley in entirely different circumstances. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t use the real spice of attraction he was feeling in the role he had to play with the Russians. “I’m your best translator here. Might want to stick with me.”

  She really was the master chef, keeping her jaw set against any arguments. “I’m not here to talk. I’m here to cook.”

  Goddamn, he wanted an empty after-hours restaurant and a table full of beer bottles to share with Hayley. She could talk tough, they’d share war stories, break glass and be invisible to the rest of the world.

  All eyes were on them in the compound, though. And there was no chance of peace. He translated her request to Gogol.

  The man screwed up his face and scratched at his temple. “There’s only the room they built for the maid,” he mused in Russian.

  A maid? Art added another noncombatant to the list. So far it had just been Hayley.

  Gogol continued. “But she just comes every other day and doesn’t sleep here.”

  Art recalculated. He’d have to plan the assault for one of the days she wasn’t there. Too bad it wouldn’t be that easy to get Hayley out of the line of fire, as well.

  He told her about the maid’s room.

  She nodded. “That’s what I need.”

  “Any way to change the master chef’s mind?” He already knew the answer.

  It was in the hardened steel of her eyes. “No chance.”

  He lifted the cooler again and told Gogol to lead the way to the maid’s room. The three of them walked out of the hallway and into a set of wide-open rooms, like lounges, one with a pool table. On the other side of these rooms was another hallway, this one with only two doors across from each other. Conference rooms, Art remembered from the initial plans for the layout. He’d need to get inside for the best recon, but one should have a window, the other completely closed off except a single door.

  Gogol turned to one side of the large, central rooms where a stairwell led down, then muttered to himself, changed his mind and walked back into the hallway with the guards’ rooms.

  One door looked like all the others, but it opened to reveal another stairwell turning down. Satisfied with his navigation, Gogol stepped down and encouraged Art and Hayley to follow.

  Art kept bumping his knuckles along the narrow walls while he carried the cooler in the jagged descent. Another killing zone. Definitely to be avoided unless the team had the high ground.

  But there was no immediate danger down there yet. Just Gogol, still smiling, though less sure. He stepped from the stairway landing and opened a simple door next to a laundry area in a service hallway.

  Hayley didn’t hesitate, walking into the room and placing her duffel at the foot of the small bed.

  There was one high window and no lamp on the side table.

  Art asked, doubtful, “This’ll work for your quarters?” He revised himself. “Room?”

  She peered at him, almost through him. “It’s perfect. Soldier.” There was a hint of victory in her quick smile, like she gained some leverage on him.

  He was compelled to correct her. “Marine.” Though he wasn’t about to give her his entire service record. And while the Russians knew of his time in the military, none of them were aware of the specifics of his special forces experience with recon.

  Her victory didn’t waver. In fact, he’d given her more than she’d discovered on her own. He’d have to be very careful that she didn’t have him spilling all his secrets into her pretty little ears.

  And he couldn’t take his eyes off her hands as she unzipped her duffel and pulled out her knife roll. Her skilled fingers were the perfect extensions of her direct confidence.

  “Kitchen,” she commanded and brushed past him, out of the room and back into the house.

  Out one side of the narrow hallway with the maid’s room, the floor plan of the house opened up. Couches and low tables, all brand-new, waited for men to lounge and drink, play cards and oil their guns. Tall windows were bright with desert sunlight. Past the dirt yard outside, though, the only view was the cinder block wall surrounding the compound. Parked on the northeast edge of the house was a large water truck, probably six thousand gallons.

  The house windows would be easy to breach for the team, if they could get close enough.

  It could be a night assault. They’d kill the generators as step one or two. Art searched for security lights but didn’t see anything on battery power. There might be multiple generator backups. He needed to lock down all these variables before he could send in the shooters. Otherwise, the targets would escape and Automatik team members would die. Hayley would die.

  There were already a handful of guards hanging out in the north living room. They eyed him and Hayley suspiciously. Four pillars broke up the open space, and they weren’t large enough for one person to take cover, let alone two. He adjusted his grip on the cooler, imagining instead an M4 distributing bullets in choppy bursts. He felt how the lead would fly back in a deadly maze from the bad guys.

  “No. This way,” Gogol directed
in Russian, waving his arm to the hallway with the laundry and maid’s room. He said in English, “Kitchen.”

  Hayley didn’t hesitate, turning back and walking off. Art took another sweep of the rooms, noting the broad French doors all the way at the other end, before following. He held back from warning Hayley she was moving too fast, not checking her blind spots.

  He dismissed Gogol in Russian, “I’ve got it from here.”

  The other guard nodded, but also gave him a wink and repeated Art’s crotch-blocking gesture back to him. Gogol didn’t wait for a response and ambled off into one of the large living rooms.

  Hayley disappeared into the hallway to the kitchen. He hurried to catch up. To keep her safe. That was why he worked with Automatik: to protect innocents. But an extra burn of motivation flashed through his muscles as he strode faster toward her. Hands-off. The gesture had been clear. But he didn’t want to follow his own rules.

  * * *

  The house was a jumble, built, no doubt, by a man with a lot of money and short time. There was no corner of comfort, and any sense of flow was destroyed by choppy hallways and walls that seemed to cover secrets. And it was filled with gun-carrying men.

  But the bedroom had suited Hayley fine. It had a lock on the door.

  And the one room she really cared about was straight ahead of her. The kitchen.

  From the laundry and maid’s room hallway, she reached the side entrance of the expansive kitchen. The details were there: miles of granite, carved corbels, “antiqued” cabinets, a massive island with a deep sink. But it was slapped together. Sloppy paint edges. The drawer hardware didn’t line up, top to bottom. Someone had rushed every step of this house, like the quality was inconsequential, as long as it held up for just one week. Whatever this meeting was, it didn’t happen often enough to warrant a real, permanent house.

  All that didn’t matter, though. She turned to the stove and oven. A moan of pleasure escaped her throat.

  Art was closer than she realized and murmured with an intimate chuckle, “You like?”

  A deep pulse moved in her, connected with his laugh. “At least they got this right.” The stainless steel appliance had six cast-iron burners and a grill grate above two ovens and a broiler. On the counter next to it were two large unopened boxes plastered with photographs of expensive pots and pans.

  “You want the cooler by the fridge?” Art was already in front of the large stainless steel doors.

  “Yeah.” She knew from dragging it to the curb this morning how heavy it was. He’d been carrying it for how long now and it still seemed like nothing in his hands. “But I’ll unpack it.”

  He placed it carefully by the refrigerator and took a step back. His gaze didn’t rest, searching over the room, picking it apart. She felt that same attention on her. What had he discovered? He’d already understood her moan about the stove and was able to stir her up. Her blood pumped faster with the idea of his constant focus finding her hidden urges.

  She’d pried things out of him, too. A marine. There was something about his bearing and efficient physicality that made him seem like more than just a goon. And she’d met her share of marines and sailors in San Diego. So she’d learned another piece of the mystery man, but didn’t know how it all connected. He remained a bad guy, working for the bad guys.

  Was it just this morning that he’d picked her up? She didn’t even know what time it was now. There was a clock on the stove, but the numbers were arbitrary and remote.

  “Do I need to cook lunch?” She hadn’t even inventoried the pantry cabinets to see if there were any staples.

  He pushed up his sleeve, revealing a rugged watch and his muscled forearm. “It’s around that time.”

  “It’s going to take a while to get the kitchen fired up.” Usually she’d have at least one assistant. For all his skills, Art didn’t seem like the sous-chef type.

  Opening the tall pantry doors, he peered over the stock of canned goods and prepackaged food. “Fuck ‘em. They can get by on this today. But they’ll need dinner.”

  “I’ll be ready by then.” She placed her knife roll on the broad island and went to the cooler.

  Art left the kitchen, glancing about at all the details as he went.

  Even iced, the aromas of parsley, chicken stock and fresh cod gave her a small sense of stability. She opened both doors to the brand-new refrigerator. The factory-clean interior had basic condiments and a few loaves of bread. Bachelor sandwich fixings. Her ingredients joined them on the shelves and in the bins.

  By the time she was done with the cooler, Art returned with all the other grocery bags.

  She’d shopped for the best produce she could find the day before. Cabbage, carrots, apples. Some of it went into the refrigerator. Art didn’t ask, but took the onions and potatoes and put them in the pantry.

  He returned and stared at the produce she loaded into the fridge. “That’s a big green onion.”

  “Leek.” She held it up for him to examine for a moment before stowing it in the crisper.

  “I’ve heard of those.” He pulled a bunch of celery from a bag and handed it to her.

  It was too easy. Too casual. She saw the scars on his rough knuckles and felt herself harden. “There are tricks to cooking them, but I’ll never tell.”

  The empty cooler blocked her access to the grocery bags, and she closed it with a definitive snap.

  Art picked it up; it appeared just as light as when the cooler had been full. He found a storage spot for it back near the laundry room. Swaggering as usual, he returned like they were just getting set up for a catering gig.

  But his eyes remained diligent. After glancing up at the ceiling light fixture, he turned his attention to the wide window in front of the sink. He leaned on the counter to examine something outside and his jacket rode up to reveal a heavy pistol in a holster on his hip.

  She shut the refrigerator, and a chill continued to press toward her bones. He’d been armed the whole time. She’d seen how dangerous he was with his hands and a knife. With a gun, she imagined he would be quick. Death would be as simple as snapping his fingers.

  He turned from the window and caught her peeking at where his pistol was under his jacket. “Everyone’s carrying here.” His face was serious and still.

  “Except me.” She’d gone to an indoor range with three of her girlfriends a few times and rented pistols, but was far from expert.

  “So keep your eyes open and your head down.”

  She glanced again at where his gun was holstered. “Was that in case I didn’t want to get in the car this morning?”

  He shook his head and moved until he was completely backlit by the window. His expression disappeared into shadow. “I’ll never aim this gun at you. If I start shooting, you run in the opposite direction. Run until I tell you it’s safe.”

  His voice was heavy with experience. The violence was in him, around him. But would he really protect her?

  “You keep telling me how dangerous it is, but it was you who brought me here.” She squinted, but his face was dark in front of the bright window.

  “Did you have a choice?” He led her with the question.

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “Neither did I.” His body was very still. The words barely reached her ears and wouldn’t have made it out to the rest of the house.

  The confession was for her alone.

  Her combat had always been in the kitchen, battling past egos and expectations. She’d always had to protect herself. She didn’t have a gun like everyone else in this house, but she had the tools of her trade.

  Moving so the island was between her and Art, she unbuckled her knife roll and laid it out.

  Art stepped forward as if the steel of her blades were magnetized. The shadows slipped from his face, and his gaze moved
over the knife edges and points.

  The metal of an eight-inch chef’s knife hummed when she pulled it from the roll. She knew it was sharp and had taken care of all the knives before she left, but tested the edge along the top of her thumbnail anyway. It shaved a tiny curl that drifted down like snow.

  Art’s easy smile returned. But when he stepped around the island and approached her the smile faded. It seemed like all the light of the world dimmed with the darkness he brought. She replaced the knife in the roll. Art was more dangerous than the razor-honed edge.

  “Keep them sharp,” he said, gaze level on hers. A glimmer of light returned to his eyes. “Stay safe.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the island and walked away, that rhythm of his body taking over again. Instead of going through the service hall, he walked past a long eat-in counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house and disappeared around one of the strange corners of the living room.

  The gravity of Art’s warning spun the kitchen around her. There was no safety.

  She’d been taken to a job she was forced to accept, countless hours away from her home and friends. And the one man who was her lifeline was just as gun-steel dark as the rest of this hazardous situation. She couldn’t trust him.

  But she knew she needed him.

  Chapter Five

  It wasn’t easy leaving Hayley alone, but he had work to do. And she wouldn’t have been able to set up her kitchen with him hovering, mapping the quickest egress from the room and wondering if the heavy countertops would stop a standard NATO round.

  He couldn’t tell if whoever had designed the house had intentionally included blind corners and wide spaces with no cover, or if the architect had been just plain bad at his job. The designer must’ve had an Orel Group mob boss breathing down his neck the whole time. Or the architect could’ve been a woman. But Art couldn’t imagine a woman putting up with the strange requests and bullshit needs of the bosses. The only reason Hayley was doing it was because she had to.