Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  Anto considered this. “The name Emin. A dime a dozen in Turkey.” To Janice, “I need a copy of that to take with me. Maybe I should go to Cyprus first.”

  Rusya nodded, this time he agreed. “I’m coming with you.”

  Both Janice and Anto protested. ‘You’re not in any shape to be traipsing half-way across the world,” Janice said.

  And Anto added, “It’s not safe for you, out of Vancouver right now.”

  Rusya dropped his eyes to his hands and let the silence linger. His head was pounding and he needed to take something for it and go back to bed. He met Anto’s eyes as he stood, a flat dark tone to his voice. “I’m coming with you.”

  Chapter 48

  Esma sat on the concrete floor, waiting for something to happen. Anything. She was behind bars, locked up, alone and ignored. Her brain was working overtime and she felt despair deep in her bones, so deep it was like a cancer that wouldn’t be cured. She wasn’t afraid of dying but she wanted to live. That’s what made the ache so intense. The realization that the next time the cell door opened, it could be a harbinger of her death. Before it didn’t matter, now it did.

  Three weeks and she was still locked up. Jackman had not yet graced her with his delightful presence, and she wondered if he ever would. Maybe he felt guilty about the punch he laid on her in his office. She’d never seen him get physical before, but he’d had his enemy slip through his fingers and she had goaded him. Probably deserved the thump on her head. Still, she didn’t think Jackman had a conscience, thought he was incapable of feeling guilt, empathy. A fucking prick of the highest magnitude.

  The only human being that was in contact with her was Mack Welling, the Aussie. The one who stepped between her and Jackman and walked her out of his office without Jackman’s permission. She had been pretty fucking tired and in a lot of pain, but she still felt awe for this man. How the fuck would anyone dare do what he did and live to tell about it? And no sweat, no panic. Helped her off the floor and strolled her out.

  Mack brought her meals, talked to her while she ate. Gave her changes of clothes every other day. Shampoo and other toiletries to keep the bathroom stocked. Asked after her health, physical and mental. He was a good guy. But he couldn’t answer her questions about what Jackman was planning for her and despite that, she kept asking. Peppering him, every time he showed up. He was patient with her, often sitting with her while she ate, answering what he could, sometimes with humour. No, the world hadn’t fallen apart because she wasn’t out and about. Everything was normal, no zombie apocalypse. But he had no answers to her questions about Jackman, to what was next. Whether she would live or die. Mack hadn’t liked that question, though.

  She was more or less recovered from her wounds. The cut in her leg stitched up by the doctor. The cut on her head, left alone, but healing. Her fractured arm wrapped tightly. It didn’t pain her much and she didn’t want to be weighted down by a cast on her arm so she refused the suggestion. Her sprained ankle had mended, and her concussion was better. Of course she was healing, she had nowhere to go, and nothing to do to exacerbate her injuries.

  Outside her obvious state of affairs, Esma had a new problem. And this current one made all the others pale in comparison. She was late, like in menstrual period late. She’d lost track of time, being in Rusya’s home, being away from the compound. Every three months she had a birth control shot but as she counted back the weeks, she realized she hadn’t had a shot in months because first, she was drying out, then she was trying not to drink, and then she was suddenly thrust into the assignment as Rusya’s translator. With all that was going on, with the fight with her inner demons, birth control, even sex, had not really been on the forefront of her thoughts.

  She tried to logic out her fears of a pregnancy. After all, she’d experienced a lot of trauma over the past few weeks. Stress fucked with the cycle. Except hers. She was never late. She could set her calendar to how regular she was, even when she was in prison in Turkey, even when her husband was slapping her around. She tried to think back to when she had her last period. She counted the weeks and if she was counting right, she might have missed two cycles. How could she not have realized?

  She thought about telling Mack she was pregnant, but she didn’t trust him. He was nice looking and a cool character. And kind. And maybe the kind of guy who would turn her head if she wasn’t already in love with Rusya. She was also certain Jackman was behind the whole Mack-playing-nursemaid production, though Mack wouldn’t say when she asked. But it was like Jackman to play it that way. Rather than beating her to death yet, which she appreciated, he was using Mack to get her to drop her defences. Maybe get something started between the two of them, get Mack to gain her trust, so he’d get the unedited version of what happened.

  She got up from the floor, stretching her stiffness out, then walked into the bathroom and examined herself in the mirror. She looked better now. Her face had healed, the little cuts and scrapes were gone and only a small scar under her right eye still noticeable. She moved her head from side to side, looking at herself from all angles. Her face didn’t seem puffier, though she was guessing about the signs of pregnancy. She never thought she would ever have children. Never the right time and she thought that by the time it would be the right time she’d be either 60 or dead.

  She turned sideways, pulled her shirt up, and pressed her palm to her stomach. It seemed flat, not as taut as usual but that was because she hadn’t worked-out in weeks. She was losing some muscle mass. No visible signs of a baby, maybe she was just seriously late. She dropped her shirt, frowned at her reflection. It was wishful thinking – the tiredness she was feeling was no longer from the trauma of the crash or the exertion from the hike to the logging camp. Or her injuries. Or her broken heart.

  Just another fucking day in the life of Esma. She was pregnant, with Rusya’s baby.

  She left the bathroom, crossed the cell floor (6 giant steps) and dropped herself onto the cot. On her back, her hand under her sweater, her palm laid flat on her belly. The implications were staggering. Jackman didn’t know about the relationship she had with Rusya, if indeed she did have one with him. He wouldn’t think he could use her to influence Rusya. But his baby! If Jackman found out she was carrying Rusya’s baby, it would change everything. It would give Jackman so much leverage over Rusya.

  She couldn’t let that happen. She didn’t know, hadn’t decided if she was happy about becoming a mother, but at the same time, she sure as fuck wasn’t going to let Jackman use her baby as an asset in a turf war. She could lie, she supposed, say it wasn’t Rusya’s, but she didn’t think he’d believe her. Jackman had dossiers on his agents, knew them inside and out. Their pasts, their likes, dislikes, their quirks. He knew she talked a good talk, but until Jackman rescued her, the only man she’d been with was her husband. After, she’d had a few brief relationships, but none lasted because she was too intense, too mouthy. A few one nighters when she was dead drunk and lacking judgement. But sobriety had changed her; she wasn’t sexual anymore, not until Rusya. Jackman knew that, would know it was Rusya’s, and even if not, he’d wait until she gave birth and then find out for sure.

  She sat up, a little flare of panic rippling through her as she imagined giving birth to her baby in this cell. Imagined that the first thing her child would know was concrete walls. Her eyes burned at the mental image. She had to leave. She had to find a way out of her cell, away from this compound. She had to disappear. She stood, paced the length of the room, turned and paced back. Again and again, trying to decide how to escape, waiting for Mack to come.

  When he showed up with her lunch, she said, “Are you for real, Mack?”

  Mack set the tray of food down on a small table in the corner of the cell and turned to Esma. “I believe I am, though from an existential point of view, I might only exist because you acknowledge my presence.”

  Esma narrowed her eyes as she walked over to the tray of food and inventoried it. “I’m not feeling the fun toda
y, Mack.”

  He jutted out a lower lip and nodded lightly. “Sorry, Esma. Want to start again?”

  That’s another thing she liked about Mack. He apologized. Had Rusya ever?

  Esma picked up the sandwich – a bun with ham and tomatoes. At least no cheese. She took a bite and chewed. “Why are you babysitting me? You’re not a guard, I don’t even know what the fuck you are to Jackman.” Same question, different day.

  “An agent. Like you.” Same answer, different day.

  She swallowed, took another bite. “But why you?”

  He leaned against the concrete wall and tugged his hands into his jean pockets. “I got nothing better to do right now and I like you. Want to make sure you’re doing okay.”

  Esma narrowed her eyes. He liked her? Like in like-liked her? But those weren’t the signals he was sending. He didn’t look at her like other men did and she’d wondered about his sexuality. But that was neither here nor there. If this was a seduction, Mack needed to work on his game. “Why do you like me, Mack?”

  He shrugged casually. Nothing in his face or manner suggested her questions were irritating him. “I don’t quite know. I’m rather taken with the curls in your hair.”

  Esma eyes rolled a little. “Fuck.”

  Mack strolled over and sat down on her cot. “What’s with the questions?”

  Esma set her sandwich down on the plate, leaned against the cold wall, considered the Aussie from across the cell. Sitting on her bed, but no invitation by him that suggested she join him. Nothing, just a place to sit. He was safe. He was her life jacket. She had no one else, no other options. “I need to get out of here. Away from this compound.”

  Mack nodded slightly. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Well, yeah. Of course. If Jackman thought you were still a loyal agent, you wouldn’t be locked up down here. He doesn’t trust you, doesn’t know quite what to do with you. Thinks you might have flipped sides, loyal to Savisin now.”

  “So he has you down here trying to get my confidence.”

  Mack’s blue eyes were thoughtful. “Yeah, I guess so. Though not really. I wanted to see what you were made of Esma. Wanted to understand you a little bit better.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not really a fan of violence, murder, mayhem.”

  Esma snorted as she crossed her arms and tapped her head slightly against the wall. “Man, are you in the wrong house.”

  Mack didn’t disagree. “I can probably help get you out. But we have to trust each other.”

  Esma considered him for a minute. He was it. He was all she had right now. “I know… it’s… ” A small pause and then, “Why should I trust you?”

  Mack shrugged, stood and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Why should I trust you?”

  Esma looked up at the ceiling, the concrete walls, the bars on the door, then back to him. “Maybe you shouldn’t. I don’t know.”

  He studied her. “Finish your lunch, let me think on it.” He turned, walked out and closed and locked the door behind him. “I’ll be back in a bit for the tray.”

  “Hey.” Esma called, bringing Mack’s attention back to her. “It’s not why I have to get out of here. Not because of Rusya. I don’t know where I stand with him. He might want to kill me too.”

  Mack turned back, his eyes on her face, thoughtful. “Who can you trust on the outside?”

  Esma’s mind flitted to Anto. Maybe him. But he was loyal to Rusya. Might not help her if Rusya wanted her dead. Probably not. She could use her pregnancy as a bargaining chip, a way to stay alive. Rusya lost his unborn child when he lost his wife, he wouldn’t want to lose another. Wow, she was no better than Jackman… and to what end? Would she be allowed to live to raise the child? Or would he kill her after the baby’s birth.

  Tears stung her eyes as she thought of her reality. “I have no one I can trust. I have no where to go.”

  Mack dropped his chin to his chest, thinking in a way that reminded Esma of Rusya and the tears that were burning her eyes rolled down her cheeks. She swiped at them. He looked back to her, frowned when he saw her tears. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks Mack,” Esma said softly as he left. Too softly for him to hear.

  Chapter 49

  After Mack left Esma, he put on his winter gear, picked up his cross-country skis and headed away from the compound, making his way to the trails. He did this every single day at exactly the same time. He had been with Jackman for almost a year and the minute he arrived, as soon as he could, he set a routine. In winter he skied, when the snow melted, he ran. Two hours. Same time. Every single day unless he was out on assignment or the weather was fucking around. Then he used the treadmill in the gym. He had his other routines too. Weight training, weapons practice, breakfast, lunch, dinner in the dining room at precisely the same time each day. In between, he worked on computers, encryption, code-breaking. His skills or so Jackman thought.

  His apartment was immaculate, simple, nothing of a personal nature, no photos, no plants, no cute little knick-knacks. No one entered except house-keeping once a week and they had very little to do because everything in his apartment was neat and precise. He didn’t make friends, didn’t fraternize with the opposite or same sex, and spent his evenings reading or watching news. He went to bed at precisely the same time each night and got up at 6am without fail. He didn’t drink, rarely used profanity, and didn’t go out of his way to engage people.

  In the beginning he was monitored continuously. He was fully aware of this, fully aware that a few labels such as OCD and freak were tossed his way. It’s what he expected and wanted. He wasn’t worried about Jackman’s regard of him. He’d proven his worth and Jackman had no problem overlooking his idiosyncrasies. In fact, if anything, the boss embraced them, because whenever he wanted Mack, he knew precisely where he was.

  After the showdown with Anto Kharzin and Rusya Savisin, when Esma had first arrived at the compound, he helped her by removing her from a roomful of angry men, locking her up in a cell, getting her some medical attention. It wasn’t really stepping out of character for him. He tried to do the opposite of what he thought people should expect, opposite of what others might do in similar circumstances. It earned him a reputation, but it also allowed him to get away with behaviours that should be predictable but weren’t.

  All of it, everything he did over the last year was for a reason. It made him stand out, but it also made him invisible, because after a while people got bored with him and his predictability, his preciseness, his odd behaviour. Soon he became a background prop and no one cared what he was doing, not even Jackman, who decided his weirdness was a small price to pay for his brilliance at code-breaking and encryption.

  It was Jackman who decided Mack should work on Esma, at least that’s what Jackman thought. Befriend her, maybe seduce her. Mack slotted her into his routine, dropping by with her meals three times a day. Bringing her clean clothes and bedding as needed. Talking with her a few minutes each time.

  He had no intentions of seducing Esma for Jackman’s gain. Toying with someone’s emotions as a means to an end was not something he’d lower himself to. He let people think what they wanted about his sexuality, keeping it deliberately murky so that it would lessen expectations of him. He knew how to appear disinterested, knew how to confuse. It was all in the body language and women responded, or didn’t as the case may be, because he didn’t want them to. It was effective because even Jackman gave him the option to befriend or seduce.

  All Mack’s discipline paid off. As he skied away from the compound, he knew no one cared, or was interested, or for that matter, even watching. Patience was something of which he had an unlimited supply. His interactions with Esma were casual and regular, his daily skiing was routine. And not a single soul followed him or wasted any mental energy on what he was doing.

  Because he was so fucking predictable.

  Forty-five minutes into his skii
ng workout, he arrived at a small wood shelter. He used the side of the wall to prop himself as he took off his skis and laid them up against the little cabin. Then he dug the snow away from the door enough so he could slide through the narrow opening. Inside, he rooted through a stack of logs and retrieved a rusty chisel, which he used to pry up a floor board. Hidden beneath the floor was a cache of items, all carefully wrapped in a thick insulated waterproof bag. Money, alternate passports, credit cards, a phone. He hauled the bag from the space beneath the floor, pulled out the phone and fished a small mobile battery out of his coat pocked. The phone fired up a few minutes after it was attached to the battery and Mack tapped out a number and counted the rings.

  When the call was picked up, Mack identified himself, asked for his boss. Owen came on the line. He gave his weekly report, sharing what he knew about Jackman’s operations, about the various operatives, about Esma. Then he deviated from his script and asked for her extraction. “She’s needs a safe place to go, but I doubt she’ll agree to be put into a protection program. She’ll have some good information to share about Jackman and Savisin, so I recommend a formal debrief.”

  Owen didn’t hesitate in agreeing to the extraction and Mack felt a sliver of guilt. Her freedom was self-serving for his organization. They’d treat her well, keep her safe, but wring every scrap of information from her. Squeeze her until she had nothing left to give. Still it was better than a cold cell and an uncertain future in Jackman’s compound.

  Mack glanced at his watch. He still had seven minutes to discuss logistics. Two weeks from the day, which would work out well for Mack. He would be off the compound then, on a small job in Rome. Next week when Mack called, Owen would have the details nailed down. Mack ended the call, unplugged the phone and carefully put everything back in place. Then he left the shelter, put on his skies and returned to the compound exactly the way he came, at exactly the expected time.