by Amelia Autin
Then she’d escaped in truth, taking all the evidence of his crimes she could lay her hands on. And his life had never been the same. At first he’d tried to find her because he was afraid she’d take her evidence to the authorities. But when the arrest he’d expected almost hourly failed to materialize, his motive for finding her changed. Then he’d thought it was because she’d dared to run, diminishing him in his men’s eyes. In the first year after her departure he’d been forced to put down two attempted takeovers of his empire by men within his organization who’d thought he was losing his touch...just because Caterina had made him look foolish by escaping.
But after his empire was secure again, after he’d killed a few men to prove himself still the most powerful, the most ruthless of men in the Bratva, he realized the real truth. He wanted to bring her back to him—to force her back into his bed where she belonged—because sex without Caterina had lost its zest.
Even though he had his pick of the young women brought into the US by the human trafficking ring, even though his men singled out the prettiest, youngest, most virginal-looking blondes for him to deflower before putting them to work as prostitutes, it still hadn’t been enough. The tears of the women he raped did nothing for him—he’d craved the hate in Caterina’s eyes. The hate...and the immensely powerful feeling it gave him to know she couldn’t stop him taking her...despite her hatred.
But eventually...after all these years without her...he’d adjusted. The fire to possess her, control her, conquer her, had dimmed. Then he’d merely wanted her dead. Not just to ensure the evidence she’d stolen never fell into the wrong hands—though that had been a concern—but to have his revenge on her for depriving him of the sexual pleasure she’d given him. Pleasure he’d never been able to recapture with another woman no matter how hard he tried.
What was money, after all? he’d reasoned when he raised the price on her head. A means to an end. A million dollars was worth it. Oh yes, Caterina Mateja had been worth a million dollars to him...dead.
She still was. That hadn’t changed. With Caterina dead, the case against him would fall apart like a house of cards with one card removed from the bottom of the stack. So close! he raged suddenly. His men had been so close.
Vishenko no more believed in miracles than he believed in God. But if he did believe in them, then Caterina’s escape had been one. He’d used nearly every tool in his arsenal, had called in markers from a half dozen of his fellow crime bosses within the Bratva, had bought the best law enforcement officials his money could buy—the plan should have been foolproof.
But at least her near-death experience would make her reconsider testifying. Wouldn’t it? Changing her mind about that wouldn’t save her life—she still needed to die—but it would buy him a little time.
* * *
Cate woke late. She knew it by the angle of the sun’s rays coming through her bedroom window. She laid there for a moment, trying to remember where she was. Fayetteville, her brain finally supplied. Safe house. With Liam.
Liam. She turned over and tucked her hand beneath her cheek as she thought about him. He reminded her so much of Alec in the way he looked, the way he talked, even his mannerisms. But—and it seemed almost sacrilegious to admit after Alec had rescued her from a life on the run and convinced her she had a purpose in life far greater than just continuing to live—she liked Liam even more than she liked Alec...and that was saying a lot. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Alec had eyes only for her cousin, Angelina...but she didn’t think so. Not entirely.
There was just something special about Liam—his heart-stopping smile, the way his eyes smiled even before his lips did, the flashes of self-deprecating humor that told her even though he was a serious man in many respects he didn’t take himself too seriously. She liked that about him. And then there was the way he so carefully didn’t touch her if he could help it, as if he knew—well, perhaps he does, she admitted with a little pang of pain. Perhaps Alec told him. Or perhaps I told him when I flinched away from his hand yesterday. He’s a very perceptive man. It wouldn’t take much for him to figure out I can’t... I don’t...
She hadn’t wanted him to know. Silly, she realized now. She couldn’t keep who and what she was a secret from him—he already knew, at least in part. And eventually the whole world would know everything...when she testified. Hadn’t she already had this discussion with herself, when Alec had convinced her to testify? “‘I am only one,’” she whispered, reminding herself why she was here. Why she was putting herself through this. “‘But I am one.’”
It was cold comfort. Especially with thoughts of Liam fresh in her mind. What wouldn’t she give to be able to come to him—whole, clean—and see where their attraction took them? If nine years ago had never happened. But that was stupid. If nine years ago hadn’t happened, Liam would never have entered her life. She wouldn’t have been in that courthouse yesterday morning. No one would have attempted to kill her. And Liam wouldn’t have been forced to come to her rescue. To save her life.
She rose eventually and made her way quietly, cautiously, to the upstairs bathroom, taking along the plastic bag with the toothbrush and other essentials the Morgans had given her at the other safe house—the one in Fairfax. No one else seemed to be around, so either they were still asleep—not very likely—or they’d all awakened far earlier than she had and were already downstairs.
Finished in the bathroom, Cate returned to her bedroom, dressed quickly in one of the three changes of clothes the Morgans had supplied her with, then made her way downstairs. She followed her ears to the kitchen, where she could hear faint deep voices, though she couldn’t make out the words. She crept silently nearer, then checked abruptly in the doorway when she spotted a stranger sitting at the kitchen table with Liam drinking coffee.
When the two men saw her, they both put down their coffee cups and stood. The tall black stranger reached her first, his hand outstretched. “Good morning, Ms. Mateja,” he said in his booming voice. “You don’t know me, but I’ve been following your case very closely. I’m Nick D’Arcy.”
She shook his hand. “Are you Liam’s boss?”
“No, ma’am. I’m the head of the agency. But we’ve been involved in this case from the beginning. One of my agents put this case together with Liam’s brother,” he said, indicating Liam standing on the other side of her in his shirtsleeves, his gun in its shoulder holster clearly visible. “And I’m the one who arranged this safe house for you.” He smiled gently. “I hope my people have made you comfortable here, Ms. Mateja.”
“Oh yes. I—” wasn’t expecting a lot, she almost said, but then realized that might come across wrong. I’m used to making do, didn’t sound right, either. She smiled perfunctorily and settled for saying, “Very comfortable, thank you. But please call me Cate.”
Liam took a step closer to her, his hand outstretched as if to touch her...but he didn’t. “Cate, D’Arcy was just telling me he has another plan for us—if you agree.”
She looked from one man to the other. “Another plan?”
“Why don’t you sit down,” Nick D’Arcy said, “and we can discuss it.” He moved to the coffeemaker on the counter. “Want some coffee?”
“No thank you.” Cate didn’t drink coffee. She’d been too young to acquire the coffee habit before she’d first come to this country, and for six of the past seven years coffee had been a luxury she couldn’t afford, even if she’d wanted to...which she didn’t.
Liam opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice, offering it to her. “Juice?”
“Yes, please.”
He grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet and filled it before handing it to her. She accepted it with a simple, “Thank you.”
D’Arcy had refilled Liam’s coffee cup and his own, and they settled around the table. “Here’s the situation, Ms.—Cate,” he corrected hims
elf smoothly. “I don’t know how much Liam told you about this case, but—”
“Very little.” She glanced apologetically at Liam. She didn’t want to seem critical, but he really hadn’t said all that much. Need to know, she reminded herself now. He’d told her only what she needed to know...no more, no less. “I know another witness is dead,” she admitted, glancing down at her hands. “I knew her,” she added, almost to herself. Then her eyes met D’Arcy’s. “Not friends, you understand. But I met her when we were first brought to this country nine years ago. She was a year older than me.” She could have said a lot more, but anything she revealed about the other woman would be far too revealing...about herself. About what had happened to them both.
“I’m going to tell you a little story,” D’Arcy said. “And afterward I think you’ll understand why I’m not willing to take chances this time around. Did you want some breakfast before I start?” he asked, shifting gears. “This could take a while.” When she shook her head, sipping at her orange juice, he took a deep swallow of coffee. He placed the cup back on the table, arranging it just so, as if he was mentally arranging exactly what to tell her in the few seconds it took him. Then he looked at her, all softness gone from his face.
“Aleksandrov Vishenko’s branch of the Bratva was collaterally associated years ago with a domestic terrorist organization called the New World Militia, founded and run by a man named David Pennington. Ever heard of him?” Cate shook her head. “Pennington was briefly married to Vishenko’s sister, Mariella. They had one child, who they named Michael...born with a birth defect that left one leg shorter than the other. Not crippled. Just not perfect. And Pennington was a perfectionist.”
His brows twitched together. “Mariella subsequently divorced Pennington, resumed her maiden name—Vishenko—and changed her son’s last name at the same time. Then tried her best to forget she’d ever been married to Pennington. But apparently her brother didn’t share her aversion to her ex-husband. Either that, or Vishenko didn’t care about the personal aspect so long as his relationship with his ex-brother-in-law remained profitable. Which it did. Very profitable, for both men. Arms dealing, including the theft of military grade weapons. And drugs, of course—Vishenko was an up-and-coming member of one of the most powerful drug cartels in the country. He was young, but completely amoral even then.”
Amoral. A word Cate knew firsthand in relation to Vishenko. She managed to suppress a shiver at the memories, but she couldn’t do anything about her eyes. Couldn’t hide the sudden flash of revulsion the memories evoked.
D’Arcy had seen her reaction, she knew—his eyes betrayed him—but thankfully he didn’t comment on it. He went on with his story. “The Bratva bought themselves an FBI agent, the best their money could buy—a man who eventually became the special agent in charge of the FBI’s New York Field Office Criminal Division. At roughly the same time, the New World Militia infiltrated the US Marshals Service when I was still working there.”
He smiled grimly. “That brings us to where I come in. Five years earlier the FBI had approached a New York City cop named Ryan Callahan, recruiting him to go undercover with the New World Militia. To gather evidence against Pennington and bring down his organization. Callahan did that, all right. Then testified against Pennington and a host of others in the New World Militia. I was assigned to guard him. Not just until the trials, but afterward, to give him a new identity through the Witness Security Program.”
“Some people refer to it as the Witness Protection Program, Cate,” Liam threw in. “That’s one of the things US Marshals do—protect witnesses who need protection, like they were protecting you. And in some cases provide them with new identities, new lives.”
“Like me,” Cate said, remembering all at once what Alec had promised her—that after she testified against Vishenko and the other members of the conspiracy, a new life would be created for her in some little backwater town in some out-of-the-way place. Where she would be safe from reprisals. Where she could live without always looking over her shoulder. Even if she chose to return to Zakhar, the plan was for her to disappear.
“Right,” D’Arcy agreed. “I created a new identity for Callahan—Reilly O’Neill. I stashed him in a little town in the middle of nowhere—Black Rock, Wyoming—for reasons you don’t need to know. To make a long story short, three people died when the New World Militia tried to torture Callahan’s whereabouts out of his partner, something Josh Thurman—the partner—couldn’t tell them because he didn’t know. But when he and his family were murdered we knew the militia was getting close, so we faked Callahan’s death as Reilly O’Neill, and I moved him to another location.”
His eyes narrowed and his expression sharpened. “When Pennington’s conviction was overturned, I was forced to reveal Callahan was still alive and still able to testify to the prosecutors in the case, and I sent two men to retrieve him—Larry Brooks and Trace McKinnon.”
Cate’s eyes grew big. “I’ve met him... I’ve met Mr. McKinnon. He came to see me once with Alec.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d make the connection. McKinnon was clean, but Brooks was dirty. He was secretly a member of the New World Militia. He set a firebomb that almost killed Ryan Callahan—Reilly O’Neill—and the woman who is now Callahan’s wife. They escaped by the skin of their teeth. Then Callahan and another man laid a trap for Pennington—with my help. A trap Pennington walked right into,” he said with satisfaction.
He didn’t come right out and say it, but Cate guessed from his expression that whatever trap Pennington had walked into, he hadn’t walked out of...ever.
“Four years ago,” D’Arcy continued, “Pennington’s son, Michael Vishenko—née Pennington—tried to get revenge on the six men he held responsible for what he considered his father’s murder. Ryan Callahan was one of those men. I was another.”
“My sister was involved in that case,” Liam offered. “She almost died when she stepped in front of a bullet to protect someone else.”
“Special Agent Keira Jones was—and still is—one of the best agents I have,” D’Arcy agreed. “Although her last name is Walker now.” He pursed his lips, as if debating whether or not to reveal something, then said, “She was instrumental in locating you last year. She made the connection between a name she was asked to investigate by her former partner in the agency—McKinnon—and what seemed to be a totally unrelated case regarding someone the agency had been keeping tabs on for years, Aleksandrov Vishenko.”
D’Arcy smiled slightly. But it was the kind of smile, Cate realized, that boded ill for whoever was on the receiving end. Not her. Vishenko. D’Arcy went on to explain, “It was the contract he had out on you that tipped her off—a contract whose price was upped from a half million to a million dollars. With the agency’s blessing she helped her brother track you down. He never would have found you without her. Never would have rescued you in time.”
“Alec’s sister.” She glanced at Liam. “Your sister. Yes, I’ve met her, too. She was very kind to me.” So kind, she remembered now. And not at all judgmental. Just like Alec. Like Angelina.
“That pretty much brings you up-to-date,” D’Arcy said. “I’ve got deaths on my conscience, the Thurman family among them. But I’ve never lost a witness I was responsible for,” he told her. “I don’t want you to be the first.”
Cate glanced from him to Liam, then back again. “So what is this new plan?”
“Callahan,” D’Arcy said. “Nobody knows of his connection to the agency, which is more important than I can explain right now. And he has more lives than a cat. He should have been killed at least a half dozen times I know about—and probably a few I don’t—but somehow he’s cheated death time and again. That’s why I want to put you in his hands, Ms. Mateja—Cate. If anyone can figure out a way to keep you safe until the trial begins, it’s Ryan Callahan.”
A cold, sinking feeling washed throug
h Cate. And she knew the face she turned to Liam was ashen, her eyes stricken, unable to hide how betrayed she felt—a betrayal she had no business feeling. She knew logically Liam didn’t owe her anything. He’d kept her safe thus far, but only to help his brother. To help salvage the case against Vishenko and the rest of the defendants. Not because he cared what happened to her—twenty-four hours ago he hadn’t even met her.
Twenty-four hours? she asked herself, shocked at the answer. Dismayed. Because it seemed as if she’d always known him. Always trusted him to keep her safe.
The idea of losing Liam’s protection cut her to the bone, and for a fleeting moment she imagined if she looked down she’d see herself bleeding somewhere. Then she carefully wiped all expression from her face, pulling back within her internal borders. She was alone...as she’d always been nearly her entire adult life. As she always would be. No one but herself to count on. Liam wasn’t hers, not in any way. Not even in this. And you’d better accept it, she told herself harshly. Savagely. You’re on your own. Again. Still.
* * *
If Cate had stabbed Liam she couldn’t have wounded him more than she had with that one stricken expression...followed by that deliberate blankness. As if she thought he was abandoning her. As if she expected it.
His anger built quickly. What had he done to give her that impression? What kind of a man did she think he was? Then he remembered Alec telling him Cate’s story had literally made him sick, that she’d been Vishenko’s prisoner for two years. Two hellish years. Helpless. At the mercy of a man like Vishenko, who had no mercy in him. Those scars on her wrists told their own story. She’d eventually escaped...on her own. No one had helped her back then. Or all the years since then, except for much of this past year. She’d been on her own and on the run for six years until Alec found her. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to Liam she expected the worst from the men in her life. Except maybe Alec.
