The first song segued into the second, and wow, Livia was right, the rest of the world did fade away. Chloe leaned in closer to the microphone. And no, damn it, the sensation had nothing to do with who she stared at. For that matter, looking at him made it all the easier to pour herself into the forget-his-ass tune spinning up.
The jaunty beat of the music drew her in. The grinding emotions of the melody and lyrics pumped through her veins as clearly as across her vocal chords. Her college degrees may have been in piano performance and orchestral conducting, but she’d taken and enjoyed her fair share of voice classes. Somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten the joy of this part of her career.
A few more stanzas, and she would be able to stare at Jimmy Gage without even really seeing him at all, not that he was smiling anyway. Or even looking at her.
His attention seemed to be firmly planted on the guy a row ahead of him. A guy who was pushing through to the next row, closer to the front, with no signs of stopping. Her heart pounded harder than the percussion section.
She forced herself not to miss a beat, even as Jimmy plowed forward to grab the collar of the man trying to climb onstage.
* THE OASIS NIGHTCLUB, ADANA, TURKEY
Nunez climbed the final three steps into the five-star nightclub toward the door host. “Hola, mi amigo,” he said only to receive a blank look, so he swapped to accented English. “How are you, my friend?”
The muscle-bound snob in a suit as slick as his pulled-back hair and fedora assessed him with a dismissive sniff. No doubt calculating the make and cost of his Canali suit and Rolex. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you may.” Nunez fiddled with a gold cuff link, which actually housed a hidden camera that recorded movies complete with sound to a flash drive hidden inside his jacket liner. The door dude also wore a coat in spite of the warm weather. Seemed everyone had something to hide tonight.
Nunez casually strolled around the portico for a better shot of the doorman’s face beneath the hat. “I was hoping to have a good raki tonight, and I heard this was the place.”
The door host eyed the Versace necktie and hesitated an instant before sniffing again. “Sorry, the club is full. I can’t let you in until some people leave.”
Nunez reached for his money clip with a wad of lira and peeled off one at a time until he saw the glint in the overpaid fascist’s eyes.
He palmed them and offered his hand. “Could you take another look and see if perhaps you’ve miscounted the crowd?”
The ponytailed guard pocketed the cash and opened the door with another sniff, sniff. Probably a cokehead. “Have a nice time, sir, and be careful with your raki. It is tough on the uninitiated.”
Nunez nodded and entered the smoky bar.
He angled sideways to avoid the couple making out against the wall by the coat check station. No morals police here.
Turkey was a democratic, secular, constitutional republic. While 99 percent of the population was Muslim, the country adhered to its secular makeup, which included banning by law head cover in government buildings, schools, and universities, for both males and females. And the scantily clad ladies here bore that out.
The secular slant of the government also allowed for free-flowing alcohol, a freedom being exercised to the fullest tonight, given the sound of clinking glasses mingling with the techno beat of European rock.
Of the bars on his list, he’d opted for Miguel Carvalho to start with the one employing the mystery woman, a decision reinforced by how little information existed on her and the fact that so far none of the other agents on the ground had been able to locate a second woman with a similar name. He’d only been able to find one grainy photo on file of Marta A. Surac in an old case file looking into drug trafficking. Given the date on the photo and the woman’s appearance, she must be in her forties. Not much to go on, but something at least.
He swept past the red velvet drapes into the main barroom, ignoring the avaricious female eyes checking out the new meat. He was here for one particular woman.
The low-lying cloud of smoke mixed with too many colognes hit him in a wave that lured him deeper into this world of excesses. Tables spread across half the space. Luminaires cast shadows over faces he needed to record. He made his way over the packed dance floor vibrating from frenetic bodies and overloud music.
A brass barstool gave him the best vantage point to peruse the room and begin spreading his cash like carrion to draw the vultures. He checked out a steady stream of waitresses with plunging silk necklines defying gravity to stay in place.
Eleven and a half minutes in, he spotted a possible Marta-Anya match just as the DJ dimmed the lights and spun up a Livia Cicero ballad. The waitress’s long blond hair gathered back in a clasp shone like a beacon among the predominantly dark-haired locals, although her dusky skin and brown eyes with an exotic tilt hinted at a bottle of hair bleach. He tracked her progress, logging details.
Why couldn’t anyone find more than a single photo? Even other records were confusing as hell. Anya Surac here. Marta A. Surac, forty-three, reported elsewhere. She seemed to have fallen out of thin air, and there were no records of her traveling.
Odd, but not totally out of the realm of possibility. No passports were required in the EU, so she could be from any multitude of small villages that at best reported births in church records—if at all. Furthermore, if her background was shady, there could be name changes involved to further complicate matters.
The one grainy photo on file of Marta A. Surac resembled the Anya woman. In the dim lighting, she appeared to be younger than the woman in the photo, but he couldn’t be sure without a closer look.
An army lieutenant grabbed her ass. Apparently tonight lieutenant was Greek for “fucking moron.”
Nunez started forward.
Marta-Anya spun on her spike heel, ponytail slicing the air. Her hand flashed with a streak of metal. She stabbed a steak knife into the wooden table half an inch away from the luminaire. Slowly, precisely, she eased away and gestured to the soldier’s uneaten meal with a smile as if it were common practice to embed eating utensils in varnished mahogany.
Nunez leaned back in his chair and watched the show. The lady in red did not need his help.
Three other men in uniform at the table whistled and applauded. She nodded regally and strode away, no swish to her steps or the silk dress. Nothing but efficiency and speed. With those looks, her speed, and her ass—uh, sass—she no doubt raked in generous tips.
He studied her as she drew closer and her face became clearer . . . Definitely not in her forties. More like mid-twenties. He scrutinized her features for any signs of plastic surgery and found none. Adding years for a disguise was easy. Shaving years off for a disguise, however, he’d always been able to see through.
Damn.
So he was dealing with two different women. The older Surac woman who was his suspect and this younger woman who might or might not be tied in. Without question, they bore a striking resemblance to each other, even with the age difference. The similarity of names certainly upped the chances that they were related.
She walked right past him and leaned on the bar to ask for another round of drinks in Turkish. He did a double take. She was short. He wouldn’t have guessed it from the way she’d reined in that table with such massive chutzpah. Maybe five foot two. She arched up on her toes to place the order.
“Nice job,” he said in Spanish, since that was his cover country.
She frowned at him and shook her head uncomprehendingly.
“Nice job?” he swapped to carefully accented English. “Handling those soldiers”—he glanced at her brass name tag pinned to her dress—“Anya.”
He could speak passable Turkish and understood it fluently, but he wanted to keep that bit of information to himself.
“Oh, that was nothing,” she answered in heavily accented English while counting bills before shoving them in her apron pocket.
That was nothing? Looked impressiv
e to him. Impressive enough to keep even him on guard around her. There weren’t many who could accomplish that after so long spent watching his back.
“Would you like another drink?”
“Where did you learn to defend yourself so effectively?”
She peered back over her shoulder through narrowed eyes. “Are you looking for a demonstration? I have another knife within reach, although I grow weary from how long I carry trays. I might miss and cut off a finger.”
“But I didn’t touch you.”
“There are many ways to touch a person that are equally as . . .” Her brow furrowed as she apparently searched for the right word. “Disrespectful.”
Her grasp of English seemed quite extensive for a Turkish barmaid. Except she didn’t look Turkish, more Russian. But again, appearances could be deceiving.
“No disrespect meant. In fact, that move of yours earned my complete respect.”
She sniffed. “I must return to work or I am fired. Do you want a drink or not?”
He passed her his empty glass along with two folded bills, triple what the drink should cost. “Raki.”
Raki was the national drink of Turkey, also called aslan sütü or lion’s milk because of how it turned cloudy white when mixed with water. She took the money without comment or thanks.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
“I am much of a worker.”
“You seemed fine with speaking to those guys over there—as long as they kept their hands to themselves. Maybe I should wear a uniform next time.” Like Chuck Tanaka.
“I was only taking their order as I have done yours. Now I need to return to work.” She flipped the money between her fingers before sliding it into her apron pouch. She reached across the bar, snagged his drink, and centered it on a napkin. “Have a nice evening.”
He extended an arm, blocking her exit. “How much would it cost to cover your wages for an hour so we could talk?”
“I do not talk to patrons.” Her eyes flicked to a small paring knife lying behind the bar in a pile of sliced limes.
Didn’t need to tell him twice. “Fair enough then. I will just have to monopolize your time placing drink orders until I am roaring drunk.”
“Orders are always welcome.” She pushed aside his arm as easily as she brushed off his advance.
He studied her brisk stride away and felt an unwelcome arousal inside him. That sort of distraction on the job meant death.
While she wasn’t the Marta A. Surac on their suspect list, he couldn’t ignore the possible connection. She was all the more suspicious for her easy capacity for violence she showed with the knife, and then there was her unflappable self-assurance. Yeah, he would definitely be hanging out here for a while longer, throwing around dough to cement his cover.
Except a quiet voice whispered in his head that he had just joined the ranks of the fucking morons.
FIVE
INCIRLIK AIR BASE
Fuck, that hurt.
Jimmy ducked to avoid another swing, his jaw still throbbing. One soldier trying to make his way up on the stage had swelled into an all-out brawl involving most of the first three rows. How had the dumb ass expected to make it past the shoulder-to-shoulder wall of security, easily identifiable in their cammos and blue berets?
Officers and senior NCOs pulled at the barely-old-enough-to-shave contingent pummeling out their pent-up energy. Jimmy had his eyes set on scooping up Chloe and getting her away from this chaos with her glittery heels and negligible costume intact. This woman sure had an uncanny knack for landing in the middle of trouble.
Jimmy dodged a blow and delivered a gut punch that reverberated up his arm. He didn’t even want to think about how much damage the frenzy of a stomping mob could inflict on someone as fragile as Chloe. She looked so damn pale and delicate up there, it stroked all his protective instincts.
He could subdue these clowns, inflicting minimal damage, but that would take time. Reaching Chloe pronto limited how long he could waste on defensive moves.
Jimmy hurdled over two tussling bodies crashing into chairs. In some distant part of his brain, he registered that his crew mates had joined in to break up the brawl. Or maybe they were battling through to drag him out before he wrecked himself for flight duties. Except he had never been downed in a bar fight, and he didn’t intend to start today.
He vaulted onstage and made his way toward the cluster of screaming performers—male and female—jamming up the exit into the wings. He latched his gaze on Chloe’s mass of blond curls piled on top of her head and pushed toward her.
Ducking a shoulder into her stomach, he hefted her up. Not much of a heft, actually. She was lighter, frailer feeling, when she wasn’t waterlogged.
A security cop headed toward them with his M-4 carbine drawn. “Halt. Put her down.”
Great. They thought he was one of the hormonal whackos.
Chloe waved, angling her head to the side. “It’s okay. He’s helping me.”
The cop nodded and rushed past them toward the fray. Jimmy pressed ahead, out of the hangar and onto the moonlit tarmac.
She jostled along on his shoulder. “You can thank me for not selling you out to that cop for fun.”
Seemed she’d used up all her gratitude earlier. “And you can thank me for saving your ass again.”
He smacked a flattened palm on her butt—only to steady her of course. And to stop the tantalizing brush of her breasts across his back.
“Ouch, you Cro-Magnon.” She smacked his butt right back. “Put me down.”
“You were wriggling. I was only keeping you from falling off.” Of course, if she touched him like that again, he might just drop her.
He sidestepped a rolling cart and plopped her back on her own damn feet. “Are you all right?”
Her piled curls slid precariously to one side, but the woman herself looked plenty steady as she gazed up at him with assessing eyes.
“I wasn’t the one in a fistfight. How are you?” She reached toward the corner of his mouth.
He flinched away. “I’m fine.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to insult your masculinity.” She folded her arms over her chest defensively. “I appreciate that you’re concerned, but I was actually okay. One of these days I really would like to save my own tookus.”
“You’re going to need something more than a couple of killer mics swinging around like a nunchaku.” Now that he had her face-to-face, that brought another irritation to mind. “I assume your allergies are under control? I notice you’re not sneezing. I waited around after your first show for a half hour to take you to the doctor.”
“I found a security cop who was happy to help me, thank you very much.”
“Good.” He stepped between her and a stream of people pouring from the mosh pit. “See if you can stay out of trouble for a while.”
“How many close calls can a person have? I already feel like I’m wearing a red shirt.”
“Red shirt?” He struggled to follow her tangential logic. God, she gave him a headache. “Like the aircraft carrier crews?”
“No. Like in a Star Trek episode. I take it you’re not a Trekkie.”
Not so much. “I rarely watch television.”
“Figures,” she mumbled. “In Star Trek, the characters wearing a red shirt variation of the uniform always ended up dead. Well, except for Scotty, of course, and . . . Never mind. You’re obviously not a card-carrying member of the Geek Club.”
The tilt of her snooty nose made it clear she hadn’t paid him a compliment.
Before he could answer, she looked toward the stage and frowned. “I hope everyone’s okay. Surely this trip will be smooth sailing from now on.”
Was she insulting their security? If so, she’d gone too far. He started to remind her who’d rescued her perky ass twice now, but the handcuffed men in uniform being escorted away didn’t exactly speak well for his side.
Where the hell was Nunez? Jimmy eyed Chloe—a long way down, since
she barely reached his chin. Too bad she couldn’t transfer some of that moxie into muscle. “I’ll stay here with you until we’re sure everything’s safe.”
She opened her mouth to argue.
He held up his index finger, stopping shy of touching her mouth. “If you leave now, you’ll only be in the way. Let security do their job in calming the crowd.”
“Fine. You’re right.” She puffed a sigh, hot and steamy along his skin.
He curled his finger closed and lowered his arm to his side. How long would he have to stand here with her?
She looked away, her hand fluttering up to sweep back her askew hair bun. “Where did you learn all those moves out there? Was it some kind of judo wrestling?”
He welcomed the distraction of a safe, neutral topic. “You’ve got the country right, different Japanese technique though. Aikido, which focuses on self-defense without harming the attacker. And I throw in an occasional good old American bar-fight punch when absolutely necessary.”
“Is martial arts standard air force survival training now?”
“I pulled some time in Japan. I took a few classes.” Actually, he’d mastered a number of martial art forms because, hey, if you planned to throw your sorry mug into every brawl, it made sense to have that mug well-defended.
“A few classes? Yeah, right.” A tiny smile tugged at a corner of her mouth. “And I really didn’t watch the Star Trek ‘Trouble with Tribbles’ episode twenty-seven times.”
Tribbles? “What can I say? I’m Mars, god of war.” He thumped his chest.
“A Roman mythology reference? That’s not what I would have expected from you.”
“If I’m not mistaken, you just called me a dumb jet jock.” Did she think he crawled straight out of the primordial ooze into the cockpit? Little did she know that to make major in the air force these days required a master’s degree. “We flyboys do read a book without pictures every now and then.”
Defender Page 6
