by Pamela Clare
It made him want to protect her.
Damn.
He moved away, as if he could distance himself from his protective feelings. He concentrated on monitoring the sounds beyond the room, giving her an oasis of calm as he tamped down his emotions. Get the intel and get her out of here, he told himself. And then walk away.
“Pssst.”
He turned.
She stood next to the open safe door with a bit of the devil in her eyes, braid over one shoulder, jeans hugging her waist.
Admiration and lust swelled through him as he moved toward her, eyes locked on hers. Her excellence was sexy. Her enjoyment was sexy. She was sexy. But she was so much more—he’d recognized that on a gut level at that party, and he’d been drawn to her ever since.
It was here that he admitted it to himself: he was falling for this woman.
A lump formed in his throat, because he still might have to sacrifice her. No Associate on the planet would choose a thief over hundreds of innocent lives.
He stopped in front of her.
She grinned.
Everything had seemed so clear before, and Cole loved clarity. It’s why he loved math—a math solution was right or wrong, never something in between. Numbers added up in a way that people never did, and you could always count on them. For years, math had provided certainty in a painful, turbulent life.
“After you,” she said.
He tore his gaze from hers and surveyed the interior.
Math made things black and white and Angel turned them gray. Because a few days ago, choosing between all of those kids and a jewel thief would’ve been a no-brainer. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Could he sacrifice her if the job called for it?
Could he?
He moved lightly and quickly into the safe, as though her field of gravity wasn’t warping the one true path he’d been on for so long.
She’s not for you. One simple statement to clear away the complexity.
It didn’t work.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to decide. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that.
The safe was set up like a walk-in closet lined with metal shelves that held boxes of different colors.
“Tell me you plan to really ream this guy,” she said.
“I do.” He pulled out his phone and took a shot of the way things looked, and then quickly located what he sought: the agreements and ownership documents. They consisted of a few files and two flash drives. He kneeled on the floor, sorting out the important stuff.
She was looking at the shelves. Going for the diamonds?
“Come here and help me,” he said. He had her turn the pages of a coded list as he took pictures, one page after another, one document after another. Shipping concerns, ports. Contacts.
Bingo.
Everything he needed would be in here—somewhere. He’d narrow down the codes and names across all of these files to a few shipping companies and then a few key details.
It wouldn’t be enough simply to find a falsified manifest in the files of a Borgola-connected shipping company—half of the Borgola-related manifests would be falsified. What he needed was a deviation from the deviation. He’d been tracking the minutia of the organization for months. Every shipment of cargo was connected to a specific web of other activities, such as secret ground transport, the exchange of funds in offshore accounts, shady networks. Now that he had this haystack of details, he could run programs—logistics equations calibrated to the criminal enterprise. Like a dark story problem.
His specialty.
He emailed the shots and downloads to Dax, just in case something happened on the way back to the room—they were far from home free.
Dax wasn’t familiar enough with Cole’s work to run the equations in time, but it was better than nothing. And it would alert Dax to start assembling a team on the airstrip.
He felt almost himself once more.
People had emotions all the time. You learned to un-choose them.
They went through other files, and Cole got shots of everything in hard copy as she laid them out: Hong Kong concerns. A school in Sumatra. Slavik, German, Colombian, Panamanian. The guy had operations everywhere. Every piece of this would give him worlds.
He sensed Angel acting as the alert one now, one ear on the sounds beyond the safe as she assisted him. It allowed him to work faster.
“Just a few last things. Nobody knows we’re here. Hand me that flash.”
She complied. When he glanced at his phone he realized nothing he’d sent had gone through. Why couldn’t he transmit? This was bad—had Borgola blocked signals? Was he onto them?
“What?”
“Connection’s down.” If he could get the stuff onto his laptop back in his room he could do a workaround. “Help me put this stuff back.”
Together they restored the safe to its original appearance, working in harmony except for the one time when her long braid got caught between two boxes they shoved in simultaneously. She gave him a scolding glance, like he wasn’t paying attention well enough, but it was more comical than anything.
They moved too much in unison.
They didn’t even need to use the photo for a guide; Angel knew where everything went, as if she’d made a mental map. They closed up the safe and got the hell out of that room, sneaking back out through his office and into the night.
“Midnight stroll.” He took her hand. Even if they got caught now, the only oddity would be how they’d gotten out of the room unseen.
Still they were stealthy, heading back the way they’d come, slipping carefully through the shadows and the blind spots. Angel’s dark hair flashed like silk in the moonlight, but she seemed so distant from him now.
He turned to her. “You okay?”
“Aside from your blackmailing me and the footage Borgola has on me and the kind of shit I just saw in that room, you mean?”
It was cold water in his face. She was absolutely right—he wasn’t her lover, her friend, or her ally. He was a blackmailer who’d made her feel dirty, used. He’d used her when he got her off in front of the cameras, and he’d used her for her Fenton Furst abilities. He’d brought her into this dark place. He had no right to her secrets. No right to her. And she probably couldn’t wait to get away from him. “Right.” he said.
She’s not for you. He’d transmit the data and get Angel the hell out.
Too late he caught sight of a man in a shadowed alcove. The man wandered into the lit part of the corridor. Mapes.
“Out for a stroll?” Mapes asked.
“Got a problem with that, Mapes?” Cole tightened his arm over Angel.
Mapes smiled, gave him an innocent face. “I don’t,” he said. Emphasis on ‘I’.
Cole’s pulse sped. What had Mapes seen? Cole didn’t like the way he looked at them.
Cole smiled. “Well, if somebody decides it’s a problem, I’m sure they’ll let me know.” They took off again, strolling down the hall, doing the excruciating sort of pretending that they were doing now. They slipped back into the room without turning on the lights, but even in the dimness he noted the grim line of her jaw.
“Not your biggest fan,” she observed. She was speaking carefully for the camera and recorder, which was still covered, but she wanted to know if Mapes was a problem.
“He’s nobody,” he said. “Just jealous.” He grabbed his laptop, sat next to her on the bed, and opened a browser. No connection. He tried the house network, and still nothing. Sometimes Borgola got paranoid and had his techies block people’s ability to connect. It didn’t mean the old man suspected him specifically, though it could. He’d feel better once he transmitted. He fired up his Internet workaround, setting up the walls to create a secure and unblockable connection.
If only he could set up walls like that between him and Angel. Shut down his emotions. Cut the heat between them. He started transferring the files over and began low-level decryption, waiting for various bars to fill.
“The guy seemed
like a menace, though.”
“The dinner went beautifully. Nothing can spoil that for us.” He looked at her significantly. “It’s all good. I knew it would be.”
She regarded him thoughtfully. “What if our dinner hadn’t been so delightful?”
The mission, she meant.
He tapped in a few more commands and started one of his logistics equations running. “I always knew it would be.”
“My dad has this saying, Ratón que no sabe más que un horado, presto es cazado.”
Alarm shot through him.
“It means, the rat that only knows one hole is soon caught by the cat.”
“I know what it means, darling.” Worse, he knew what she meant: What if they’d gotten caught? That had been the question that turned her mood back there.
He was only surprised she hadn’t figured it out before.
She’d trusted him.
He needed to make it right. Somehow. Not now. “You gotta let me concentrate on this thing.”
The workaround failed. He’d have to do this the old fashioned way—by running the equations and calling Dax with the locations and routes. He went through the photos, grabbing details from the hard copy agreements, then started in on the downloads from the flash.
Angel poked him.
“Not now,” he whispered.
She showed him something written on the pad. What was Plan B? And I’m not talking about escape routes.
He shook his head.
“What?” she hissed.
The stuff was still decrypting. “Who cares?”
“I do,” she said.
The file was open. He scanned through charts, matching what he remembered to what he saw. This wasn’t it. He started decryption on another file while he narrowed down his shipping companies to three. Closer. He plugged new variables into a side equation. He pulled up details on Borgola’s West Coast networks, connecting the dots.
She had more for him. You had one. You had a Plan B and it needed to allow you to complete your mission. What was it?
He shook his head. He didn’t want to lie to her, but how could he just type it out? To throw you under the train, but that was the backup plan before I fell for you.
She was typing furiously. I was plan B. You would’ve let me take the fall.
He stared at the words on the screen, feeling trapped by them. He had the crazy impulse to grab the device, to type that it wouldn’t have come to that. But he knew as well as any Associate that he didn’t have that level of control.
Even giving me the gun was part of it. Not about trust, she added. She watched his face, wanting him to deny it.
She was right. She’d taken his giving her the gun as a gesture of trust. That was part of it.
He hated the confusion she sparked in him. Hated that he was falling for her. He owed her the truth—that’s what he could give her. It’s what he’d want.
He looked at her straight. “Yes. You’re right.”
Bewilderment shone in her eyes. He knew she was picturing herself in that room, at Borgola’s mercy.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
She widened her eyes.
There was nothing more to say.
A soft beep. He turned away. He had his info now: Caslon Shipping. He called up the routing and scheduling charts and figured out the boat’s data.
He’d done what it took to get the intel he needed to save hundreds of kids. That’s who he was. Dax’s guys could get the location off satellite feeds now. They could get to the people on time. He grabbed the earpiece he used with Dax and turned to her.
The pain and bewilderment in her eyes killed him. He’d fucked her and he would’ve let her die. Worse than die. An unspoken question: How could you?
What was he supposed to tell her? Now that I know you, I wouldn’t have devised a plan like that?
So he met her eyes once more, let her see him for who he was, let her hate him. It was the hardest thing in the world. He had the information he’d been willing to risk everything for, but her pain twisted into his heart like a knife. He reminded himself that she was a thief, that she’d taken a gamble when she ripped off Borgola. None of it mattered.
She was the one to look away now.
All the coldness from the depths of his lonely life seemed to rush back at him. But this was the way of things. Things ended.
He got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. He turned on the shower and the fan and activated the line to Dax.
The spray from the water misted his arm as he waited. It would be light soon in California, but it would still be dark out in the Pacific, which would make it all the easier for the team to take over the boat, pirate-style. The feds would be involved after the takeover. Some story would get concocted to make it look like a win for the feds and the feds alone.
And Dax would get a good deal of money tucked into an account in the Caribbean. Not that Dax needed it—Cole felt quite sure Dax was wealthy many times over.
Voicemail.
He tried the alternate line, staring at the shower where he’d had the hottest sex of his life. He thought about Borgola’s idea that she be his decorator, remembering how she’d squeezed his leg. He’d forgotten to tease her about it. It was too late now.
She’s not for you.
Dax answered. “Dax.”
“It’s me. I’ve got an Internet blackout and not much time,” Cole whispered. “We’re looking for a freighter out of Hong Kong run by Caslon shipping, likely under one of three flags…” he read it all, the identifiers, routing, last port, destination. He could hear Dax typing away.
They had it.
“How hot is it there?” Dax asked.
“He doesn’t know anything.”
“How hot is it?”
“I’m fine. I want to shepherd this.”
“Is he looking at you at all?” Dax asked. “I mean it. You won’t be extractable—”
“This isn’t that.” Dax suspected he was being reckless by staying. Hell, Cole had passed that mile marker ages ago. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, glanced at himself in the mirror—skin flushed, eyes a shade of wild. Volatile, that’s the only word for it. But Dax didn’t have the luxury of seeing his face, and Dax trusted his men to report when their rooms were bugged or when enemies threatened or when the pain of destroying a woman was burning a coil clear through their hearts.
“I’ll see this through,” Cole said lightly, as if he were ordering breakfast or something—I’ll have egg whites. Wheat toast. “This disintegration will be more productive if I shepherd it.”
“Productive for the Associate? Or the logistician?”
“Both.”
A nation or an organization in chaos was the most fertile ground for intelligence gathering, and Dax knew it. Chaos and destruction always yielded the most information.
“Question,” Dax said. “Has it ever struck you as odd that helio astronomers don’t simply commission rocket ships to take them directly into the sun? Imagine the data they could glean from flying directly into the sun. Don’t they want to know?”
“This isn’t that.”
“No, it’s not. Because what you want to know can’t be known.”
“We done?”
A silence. “There’s nothing you could’ve done to save them. They overdosed and they died. It’s an unknown you can’t solve for. You can never find that answer, Cole.”
Cole let the silence expand. Dax was talking about his parents. Leave it to Dax.
“The girl?”
“I’m taking her home,” Cole said.
“Do we need to worry about her?”
“No.”
“I have a situation in Rio,” Dax said. “I need you to wrap this up and leave. A gang called the Krevass.”
This was Dax’s way of asking him to look beyond this end.
“Rio. Got it.”
He hung up. Dax was wrong. Like hell this was about Cole’s parents. He shook the image of the
ir dead eyes out of his mind. The feel of cool skin.
He’d get Angel out and come back and wrap this thing up. He felt relatively sure that Borgola would see the capture of the ship as an isolated incident. He’d suspect somebody in the shipping company; he certainly wouldn’t think his secret safe had been compromised. Which meant they could unravel other parts of his organization at their leisure, start picking people up before evidence could be destroyed.
He had to stay.
Cole had been through this on other missions; there would be some point where things really started imploding, a free-for-all where the guy at the top got crazy suspicions and made all the wrong decisions.
Cole suspected that people had self destruct modes. He very much wanted to know why they got tripped and what affected them. It wasn’t about his parents—he just wanted to develop a theory of implosion behavior. Dax wasn’t a logistician, a mathematician. He didn’t get how important it was to know these things.
And in the end, Cole would get away, and Borgola would be dead or in a supermax. A job reference from a guy serving life in a supermax tended to be pretty solid with the set he typically worked for. It would make it a piece of cake to infiltrate the Krevass.
He’d done it. The kids on the boat would be rescued. Angel was walking away clean.
So why the hell did he feel like the world had ended?
Chapter Thirteen
She was almost done packing up her things. She could leave without his driving her out of there, but she didn’t want to be stupid about it. She’d take the ride home; he owed her that much.
She zipped up her bag and went to the dresser to grab her earrings and purse, glancing briefly in the mirror.
She froze.
One of her purple crystal hair beads was missing. Shit.
Her heart sank as she remembered her braid getting smashed between two boxes in the safe. If that had jostled the bead loose, it would have probably fallen off right there in the safe. Of course there were a number of other ways it could have come off, but she had a bad feeling it was back in the safe. She could just imagine it, gleaming on the padded floor for Borgola to see. Oh, he’d definitely recognize it. He’d even paid her a compliment on them.
