by Dianna Love
The second hand on his watch marched on with no regard for his sanity. Something had gone wrong.
Service staff in crisp black tuxedos moved through the elegant party carrying silver platters. One of the staff paused next to Josh. “Would you care for something, sir?”
Yeah. I’d kill for a cellular signal for about ten seconds. Just long enough to check his phone for text messages. Without a magic wand, even the best staff couldn’t make that happen.
“No, thanks.” He strolled past floral decorations a foot taller than he was. At six feet, two inches, Josh could see over most of the crowd. He visually swept the partygoers peppered around the enormous ballroom, searching for Chelsea and Mendelson, the German guy Josh was here to meet.
Still no vivacious beauty with a head of black hair and eyes green as spring leaves.
Ninety-nine seconds.
Frustration burrowed into the center of his skull. He hated stuffy parties, but Mendelson had dictated the location and arranged for the gilded invitation. If Josh closed his eyes, he could be back in the states at the charity ball his parents hosted for five hundred guests every spring. Same mind-numbing conversations. Same put-me-in-a-catatonic-state Baroque music played by a string ensemble much like the ones his mother hired.
She claimed the peaceful music kept people calm.
Not doing a damn thing for him right now. His heart hammered like Charlie Watts cutting loose on a drum solo at a Rolling Stones concert.
Come on, Chelsea.
She’d never missed a meeting. Not even their occasional casual rendezvous to scratch an itch.
Hell, there’d never been anything casual about the hot sex they shared. They’d burn hard and fast, like a flash fire. Then go their separate ways afterwards. No drama.
The perfect relationship to keep loneliness at bay.
Not a relationship in the true sense of the word, but he did care for her. Needed to know she was safe. He’d never had a more dependable informant or go-between. So where was she?
Had Mendelson changed the plans?
Had Chelsea backed out?
No. Not with a man’s life on the line.
And she had just as much investment in extracting a captured CIA agent tonight as Josh did. The CIA asset had information on a terrorist cell planning to detonate bombs in Los Angeles and Dublin.
In two days.
Chelsea’s grandmother lived in Dublin in a nursing home, too ill to be moved without risking her health.
Josh’s gut snarled at him to get out of this place, disappear before he ended up in the same fix as Chelsea, who might be imprisoned with the CIA agent right now.
Good advice. That he couldn’t follow.
His gut didn’t get a say this time.
Josh lifted his drink slowly, his eyes trained on the second hand of his watch.
She’d blister his ears for staying. He’d let her if she’d just walk through those beveled-glass doors at the entrance.
If the muscles across his shoulders got any tighter he’d split the seams on this tux the next time he stretched. Relax a little. Think. She could handle herself just as proficiently with a weapon—or in hand-to-hand combat – as he could.
Another commonality between them even if she wasn’t trained as an operative. She’d gained survival skills on the streets in Liverpool where failure meant a short life.
His hard-times training had been back in New York as a street rat, but it was nothing like the professional training he’d received.
He and Chelsea had one major difference.
His team of hired mercs was loyal to the US.
Chelsea pledged her allegiance to the almighty dollar and the highest offer. Strictly business with her.
Or it had been until this op, when she discovered her grandmother was at risk.
Had cool-as-ice Chelsea allowed emotions to rule her actions this once and made a mistake?
If she had and couldn’t contact him, there was no way for him to know what kind of trouble she was in or for him to help her. He should follow SOP at this point and disappear.
Especially after the cryptic warning in her last text. She’d typed that damned XOXO at the end of the text.
When they first slept together, she’d told him two things to never forget. She didn’t do late, so if she ever failed to show on time, he should not wait for her. And if she sent XOXO in a message it meant she might have to vanish.
Might.
A word that would haunt him forever if he left now.
The sound of a familiar footstep tapping across polished oak floors reached his ears. He honed in on it, listening as he turned to scan the crowd. There it was, moving toward him. A confident click, click, click that lifted just above polite conversation.
Black hair flashed into view. Halle-damn-lujah. Chelsea headed toward him with her signature smooth gait on a pair of five-inch black heels.
He caught himself before his face revealed a reaction to the punch of relief slamming his solar plexus. Showtime. He shoved cold disregard into his eyes.
What had been the delay?
Shiny black hair fell past her shoulders, a long strand dipping to touch the enticing hint of breasts he’d spent hours appreciating on their stolen encounters. She’d showcased them nicely tonight, in a strapless black sequined dress that sparkled under the crystal chandeliers. Sexy-as-hell body, but that hadn’t been what he’d noticed when they’d first met. It was the sparkle of Irish in her husky voice that had turned his head.
She wasn’t the love of his life. He couldn’t have one. Neither could she, with their career choices. But even though they sometimes went months without a word from each other, he’d realized tonight that she’d carved a spot in his world he didn’t want vacated.
She played her role, too, chilly expression in eyes he’d seen laughing only a day ago. She ignored the admiring gazes snapping in her direction as servers opened a path for her.
Ludwig Mendelson followed a half step behind Chelsea, his shoulders back, body square and thick like a wrestler. His hair was short and too silver for a man only in his forties. Pale skin stretched across a pudgy face punctuated by two unforgiving, ice-chip blue eyes. An inch or so shy of six feet tall, he strode as if the world should drop at his feet and pay homage.
If that were true he wouldn’t need the two bodyguards following close behind, both stuffed into tuxedos tailored for the Hulk.
Mendelson had a reputation for being unpredictable.
He’d chosen this party, but could’ve just as easily demanded a meeting at a location that required mountain climbing gear. Josh had the German’s file memorized and had come to England prepared to do pretty much anything required to finalize this exchange on Mendelson’s terms.
He knew more than he wanted to know about a man with a preference for over-the-top, perverted styles of interrogation.
Just seeing Mendelson walk so close to Chelsea twisted a fist inside Josh’s gut, but she’d built one hell of a reputation in the international crime community for arranging meetings like this one, and for punishing anyone who tried to harm her.
Still, something was amiss or she’d have been on time.
When she reached Josh, she waited until Mendelson stepped up next to her before speaking first to Josh. “Mr. Taylor, meet my associate, Herr Mendelson.”
Offering neither his hand nor any verbal acknowledgment, Josh announced, “You’re late.”
Mendelson moved his chunky shoulders in a slight shrug then glanced over at Chelsea who didn’t bat an eyelash. His German accent came out as blunt as his face. “Beauty is not a rushed process. Men have always waited on women.”
Had she really been the reason for the delay? Or not?
If so, had she done so on purpose?
Cognizant of Mendelson’s close scrutiny, Josh swirled his scotch and took a sip. He tinged his words with just enough irritation to hide the concern that brewed in his gut over Chelsea. “I came here to retrieve my client’s asset and del
iver your payment.” He targeted Chelsea with his next verbal shot. “You were chosen as liaison because of your reliability and your reputation for being punctual.” Tell me what’s going on. Any sign.
“You could have gone on your way if waitin’ was a burden,” Chelsea warned with just enough venom in her Irish lilt to sell the deadly glint in her eyes.
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Had she wanted him to leave?
She pressed on. “We’ve all an investment in tonight’s meeting. The sooner we stop natterin’ on, the sooner we’ll each be enjoyin’ the spoils.”
Josh leveled Mendelson with a let’s-get-to-the-bottom-line look. “Satisfied that I’m here alone?”
“If I were not, you would no longer be standing here.”
Meaning Josh would be dead already. Mendelson believed Josh had a transport of weapons waiting nearby to exchange for the CIA agent, so he pointed out, “I can’t keep someone mobile in this area for long without drawing attention.”
Mendelson smiled, his eyes eager. “Then I suggest we get moving and complete our transaction.”
“Lead on.” Josh lifted his glass in a subtle gesture that said get on with it, you’re wasting my time. He knew the exchange wouldn’t go down here.
Mendelson didn’t disappoint. “My car is waiting.”
Sucked to be right sometimes.
Following the Mendelson entourage, Josh held his blank mask in place, but unease clawed at the back of his neck. In spite of the XOXO message, Chelsea hadn’t vanished but neither could they discuss anything now that the game was on.
He was just glad to know she’d be close enough for him to snatch along with the CIA captive tonight, because he wasn’t leaving this country without both of them.
If she needed to disappear, he could make that happen and keep her safe at the same time. His body might take a beating if she didn’t see it his way, but he didn’t think she’d purposely kill him, so he’d heal and she’d be alive.
All other details could be worked out after that.
Outside the lavish home, attendants rushed through the crisp fall air, opening car doors for late arrivals and retrieving vehicles for early departures. Josh had driven here in a rented Mercedes, but Chelsea wouldn’t be riding with him. That meant there wasn’t a chance of talking before they reached the location where Mendelson held the CIA agent, Len Rikker.
It had taken five days of intense negotiations to convince Mendelson that Josh represented black market weapons dealer Puno de Hierro, known as Iron Fist, who operated out of Nicaragua.
And that Len Rikker was no international spook but one of Puno de Hierro’s assets.
Among Mendelson’s multi-faceted enterprises, he brokered resources for terrorist operations. Josh’s team had tracked the German for twelve days and finally gotten a break when the weapons shipment Mendelson needed as currency for another deal had gone missing.
Thanks to Josh’s team who’d stolen it.
That team now waited to move in.
No government would admit to employing mercenary soldiers like Josh’s team, but most countries tapped similar off-the-record elite operatives for missions that couldn’t be run through the usual channels, or couldn’t be acknowledged under any circumstances. The CIA would normally turn to one of its own elite military units to extract a captured agent, but they wanted this sterile.
A hands-off operation with none of their assets involved.
Sabrina Slye, who headed up Josh’s team, had questioned the “why” behind the agency’s decision to send in her team, but the powers-that-be weren’t in the habit of answering to anyone.
Much less a merc. She’d turned down the mission until someone way up the CIA food chain – a man she wouldn’t name – had asked her personally to bring home their agent.
And to do it soon, before Mendelson disappeared again.
He often moved his high-value assets daily.
Sabrina had freedom to execute her operations with full autonomy since her people were considered expendable resources that no government agency would admit hiring and sure as hell wouldn’t lift a finger to save.
A young man rushed up to Josh and pointed as a Mercedes rental rolled up to the curb. “Your car, sir.”
Right behind Mendelson’s sleek black limousine.
Josh continued toward the end of the walkway lit by landscape beacons. The bodyguards took position on each side of the limo’s open passenger door where Chelsea paused.
Mendelson’s lips tilted with amusement. A pit viper’s smile. “I have arranged a driver for you.”
A driver who matched Mendelson’s bodyguards in size – and grim expression – sat behind the wheel of Josh’s Mercedes.
As expected.
If he refused the driver, the deal would fall apart. Everyone involved knew that. But this was all about power plays so Josh spun the tables with one of his own. He made a show of looking at his watch. “Your window of time to complete our meeting is running out.”
In other words, the weapons shipment Josh was supposed to be handing Mendelson in trade would not remain in the area indefinitely.
Mendelson’s gaze turned black as his soul. He ignored Josh and waved Chelsea into the car.
Chelsea glanced back with what Josh could only describe as regret in her gaze and gave a tiny shake of her head that no one could have seen but Josh.
She was definitely leaving, and saying goodbye.
Didn’t she know by now that he could help her with whatever was wrong? He had until he closed the deal with Mendelson to stop her from leaving. She wouldn’t go without her money after coming this far.
Now that Josh had been given an unwanted driver, calling his team on the satellite phone hidden in the driver’s door panel of his car was out.
Always have a backup plan.
With a subtle movement, he twisted the platinum cufflink at his right wrist, which functioned as a tracking device. That single twist sent a signal that he was mobile but not alone.
Activating his left cufflink in a similar way alerted the team to move in.
Their five-member team had been together for six years, but Josh, Sabrina and Dingo Paddock went back to Josh’s days as a kid in a New York City group home, another name for an orphanage.
Once the limo with Mendelson and Chelsea moved off, Josh’s Mercedes pulled up next.
His driver said not a word during the forty-five minute ride, with the Mercedes boxed in between the limo and a silver Hummer. A moonless night wrapped the windows, blacking out any view of the rolling countryside he’d seen earlier, covered in autumn’s golden wash. Colors just as vibrant as a year ago when Josh and Chelsea had spent a weekend in a stone cottage an hour from here. They’d made love under a beech tree where coppery leaves floated down around them.
Sabrina had warned him and Dingo to never get attached, and Josh hadn’t before now. Too many years spent alone, watching for death around every corner, had left him numb inside. Or so he’d believed until the first time Chelsea had laughed.
Then she’d made him laugh, a genuine from-the-chest laugh he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid.
And now she intended to disappear.
Then he’d spend every day wondering if she’d survived. That was classic Chelsea. She’d never ask for help if it meant putting someone else at risk.
Too bad. Josh refused to let her face a threat, whatever it was, alone.
His driver slowed as the Mercedes passed guards at the entrance to a property. The stone entryway suggested a house was hiding beyond where the headlights pierced the night.
Mendelson’s limo, Josh’s Mercedes and the Hummer continued along a curved drive until a two-story stone structure took shape. Temporary lights had been set up, illuminating the yard. Ivy climbed the attractive farmhouse, probably built in the 1700s.
As soon as Josh exited the Mercedes, one of Mendelson’s bodyguards from the Hummer met him at his car door. “Lift your arms.”
Of course
. The pat down.
Josh lifted his hands. When the guard finished, Josh emptied his pockets, showing he had no phone or anything that could be used for communicating or killing.
The guard ordered, “Follow me.”
Josh’s neck twitched with more unease. Chelsea hadn’t gotten out of the limo yet.
He fell into step, taking stock of the few security he could locate outside the lighted area. Smoke trickled from a fireplace at one end of the house, the smell of burning hardwood riding on a light breeze. Two men with rifles posted on the rooftop. More were positioned around the perimeter, some barely visible in the shadows.
Ten, so far, counting the limo driver, who had to be armed.
But another five to ten could be hidden.
And not just hired muscle, but deadly operatives.
Josh recognized at least two from the Russian mafia. Mendelson had spared no expense, but was it to insure the safety of his prisoner, or that this weapons shipment did not get waylaid?
Sabrina and her three-person team could handle inserting past fifteen, maybe twenty guards, depending on how the security was spread around the farmhouse.
At the entrance to the house, another guard—visible guard number eleven – opened a heavy wooden door that swung on black, wrought-iron hinges. The glass lamp on a hall table supplied enough light to see the quaint foyer and a stairway against one wall.
Dried flowers and other potpourri piled in a glass bowl might have freshened the air, but it couldn’t combat the stale odor of recently fried fish. Probably cooked by Mendelson’s men.
Were the owners away from the property?
Or dead?
The guard at the door nodded and the bodyguard led Josh up the stairs to a narrow room with tall ceilings and an old-world feel. Dark bookcases were laden with rows of leather-bound books. Two mahogany chairs with tufted green upholstery sat sedately on a Turkish rug, and the scent of pipe tobacco lingered.
A homey picture, which did nothing to loosen the tight muscles in Josh’s neck. “Tell Mendelson he has five minutes.”
Heavy footsteps approached then Mendelson said, “I am here, Mr. Taylor,” on his way into the room.
