by Debra Webb
The pause drew out long enough that he wasn’t sure she intended to honor her part of the bargain.
Then, finally, she spoke. “We were coworkers—early in my career. He was older and this big hero. Charming, good-looking. I fell for all of it.”
“Was he married?” Levi had a feeling.
“Oh, yes.”
Man, that sucked. “That had to hurt.”
“Hurt like hell for a while. But I got over it.”
She stared at the ocean. Levi wished he could read her mind. He wondered if she kept everyone at arm’s length like this because of that one jerk. “I apologize for the male species. I don’t know how a guy does something like that and sleeps at night.”
She laughed softly. “I asked him that very question. He said I needed to grow up and get with the program. Nothing is real but the mission.”
Levi let the silence sit between them for a time. He doubted she would want to hear his advice but he’d never been able to hold back when someone was in pain. However long ago this bad relationship happened, it still carried a major influence in her life.
“That was his way of denying the guilt.” Levi wished he could kick the crap out of the guy. Then again, Casey probably already had. “If what you do in life isn’t real, there are no consequences. You’re free to use and abuse anyone.”
Casey kicked at the sand. “I think maybe he was right.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve watched too many so-called happy couples start hating each other and end up in divorce. None of it’s real.”
“That works, I suppose,” he offered. “If you like taking the easy way out. You can’t fall if you don’t take the leap.”
She had nothing more to say. He’d obviously said too much.
The timing worked out though.
A pale light filtered from the opening of the passageway tucked amid the jagged foothills of the cliffs overlooking the sea.
“Heads up,” he murmured.
Someone was coming.
Chapter Thirteen
Chicago, 3:15 a.m.
Slade Keaton sat in the darkness of the brownstone that housed his office. His pulse thrummed loudly in his ears. He needed that call to come.
As much as he did not want his suspicions confirmed, he needed to know. Now.
Maggie was angry at him for avoiding her today. He should never have allowed her to get so close. But her coffee shop had presented the optimal vantage point for his surveillance needs.
A perfect view of the Colby Agency offices.
And he had been weak.
He’d made a foolish mistake.
One he already regretted.
He rubbed his jaw. The situation was no longer within his control. He had taken every step possible to maintain that dominion, and still he had lost.
For two years he had waited and watched. The timing had required some tweaking but he’d made it happen.
Two years wasted.
His goal would never see fruition if what he suspected was true. Lucas and Victoria’s trip to Mexico last month had changed everything.
Slade could only hope that the worst had not happened. The call he awaited would confirm his concerns one way or the other.
His next move would depend entirely on it.
Metal vibrated against wood as the screen of his cell lit with an incoming call.
“Keaton.” The air stalled in his lungs.
“Contact was made.”
Slade closed his eyes. He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Status?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
He didn’t like any of this. “Just give me the status.”
“The dragon has roused.”
Resignation crushed down on his shoulders. “It’s done, then.”
“Affirmative.”
Slade surveyed the dark room. Light was not required. He had memorized every crack in the wall. This life was over. Like the others before it, the name Slade Keaton was now useless.
“What do you want me to do?” the caller asked.
There were, however, loose ends requiring immediate attention.
“Whatever it takes.”
“Copy. Whatever it takes.”
“Call when it’s done.”
Slade ended the call and sat in silent mourning for a time. For the energy he had invested…the level of comfort he had achieved. Perhaps for the woman who owned the coffee shop as well.
Lucas Camp had no idea what he had started.
There would be war.
Chapter Fourteen
Acapulco
Casey braced to move.
She monitored their progress as Alayna, followed closely by Jazz and flanked by four of her security team, moved across the sand toward the hotel. A light blazed to life above the balcony of Casey and Stark’s room.
Giving him a nudge with her elbow, she pointed to the floor above theirs. The floor that didn’t exist. Their hunch had been correct.
Raised voices drew her attention back to Alayna and her entourage. Three new arrivals outfitted in black, including ski masks, surrounded the group. Casey’s heart slugged through a couple of beats. Where the hell had they come from?
One of Alayna’s bodyguards went for his weapon. He dropped in the sand. Another joined him. The hissing pops of the masked men’s weapons had scarcely been audible over the crash of the waves.
Twenty yards was all that separated Casey and Stark from the encounter. They could overtake the gunmen…?.
As if he’d read her mind, Stark clasped her arm and held on tight. “Not yet,” he murmured.
Unable to look away, Casey watched as the remaining two members of Alayna’s security detail were executed. Her fingers itched on the trigger of her 9mm. They had to do something.
One of the men leveled his weapon at Jazz’s head. Before he, too, could be executed Alayna raised a hand, apparently in his defense. A fierce exchange between her and the masked man who appeared to be in charge played out while the other two members of his party scanned the beach.
At last the man lowered his weapon. Alayna and Jazz were ushered toward the water.
The boats. Casey’s attention swung to the large vessels anchored offshore. The attackers had to have come from the water and one of those vessels. “If she gets aboard one of those boats we might never locate her again.”
“Stay put,” Stark ordered, “and cover me.”
No way. Casey reached for him but he was too fast.
Stark moved across the sand, the moon spotlighting him as if he were on stage.
Casey couldn’t breathe. She leveled her weapon and prepared to fire. If one of the gunmen turned around and spotted Stark she would put him down.
Stark was almost on the group. Casey eased from the protection of the rocks, her attention fixed on the movements in front of her. She rushed forward, her bare feet sinking into the sand, slowing her down.
“That’s far enough,” Stark ordered.
Two of the men whipped around. Casey dropped one, Stark eliminated the other.
The third, the one in charge, kept Alayna and Jazz moving toward the water. Casey sprinted after them. Stark reached the group first.
“Drop your weapon,” Stark ordered.
Alayna stopped, got a nudge with the muzzle of the boss’s weapon for her trouble. Jazz whimpered in fear.
The man, his weapon in Alayna’s back, didn’t speak, didn’t lower his weapon and didn’t turn around. Fearless, was he?
“Drop it or I will shoot,” Stark repeated.
The blood roared in Casey’s ears. What was wrong with this guy? Was he deaf? Or just stupid?
Cold steel nudged the back of her head. “You drop your weapon, honey,” a male voice ordered in flawless English.
Casey braced to hit the sand and roll as another masked man rushed past her. She screamed, “Behind you, Stark!”
Too late. The gunman rammed his weapon into Stark’s back.
Casey’s weapon was snatche
d from her hand. She cursed herself for allowing a moment’s distraction. The gunman ripped the bag from her shoulder and shoved her forward. “Move,” he ordered.
As Casey stepped forward, the man in charge turned around and slugged Stark. He swung back, catching the guy with an uppercut. Casey smiled. Good for you, Stark.
A small outboard motorboat swayed in the water a few yards from the shore. Alayna and Jazz were forced aboard first. The lead man climbed in next. The cold water sloshed around Casey’s legs as she and Stark were ushered closer.
Brutal arms wrapped around Casey’s waist and hauled her into the boat. When the goon released her she elbowed him hard in the chest, aiming for the sternum. He yanked her by the hair and growled a threat into her ear.
She gave him a look that dared him to try putting any part of himself on or near her for the good it did in the dark.
Stark climbed in next to her.
The compact anchor was lifted from the water and tossed in the boat. The engine revved to life.
“You,” the man in charge said to Stark, “you’re the pilot.”
The boat rocked slightly as Stark got into position to navigate. Alayna remained mute. Jazz fidgeted next to her. Two of the masked men were left behind as the boat cut through the water, headed, apparently, for the larger of the two anchored vessels. Yachts. One, some eighty or more feet in length. Large enough to serve as a floating home. A decidedly handy means of transportation when staying under the world’s radar.
The spray of salt water filled the air, prompting a blast of adrenaline through her veins. The answers she needed likely waited on that vessel. Surviving long enough to pass along those answers was considerably less likely.
She hadn’t said anything to Stark yet because what she suspected was highly classified. Many times during her career she had heard rumors about the Dragon. She’d even heard that the person designated as the Dragon was female. Elusive and deadly. There were few real details, more legends and fables than anything.
Casey turned back to the shore. The two men who had been left behind had cleanup detail, she figured. Four men had been killed on that beach. The scout who’d come up behind her could have easily taken out both her and Stark. There had been several opportunities before they were forced into the boat.
She and Stark had been spared for a reason.
Interrogation, she suspected.
There was only one thing either of them knew that would be of interest. The identity of who had sent them.
Casey rested her gaze on the yacht they were approaching. Whoever waited aboard the fancy boat should just bring it on because she would die first.
Truth was, if this was the Dragon they were dealing with, they were dead already.
Sunrise
CASEY HADN’T SEEN Stark in hours. Once onboard the yacht, they had been separated. She hugged his jacket around her and paced the luxurious stateroom. If a girl was going to be a prisoner, this was the place to be.
She’d heard no screaming. No gunshots. Nothing. She studied the sleek paneling on the walls, then the lush ceilings and carpeting. Soundproofed. Guests could be eaten alive in one stateroom and their neighbor would never know it.
The small windows were blocked by automatic darkening shades, preventing her from seeing out. But the time according to the wall clock was past seven-thirty. The sun would be up, heating things up.
More pacing. She had been doing that since the goon who’d manhandled her had stuck her in here. There was an en suite washroom. She’d taken advantage of that, washed the seawater off her skin, finger-combed her hair. Mostly to pass the time.
She rubbed her palms up and down her arms, relishing the soft fabric of Stark’s jacket. His scent still lingered on the fabric—on her. She’d been wearing his jacket so long, her skin had drunk in the smell of him.
Would they kill him? Whoever they were. The she Fernandez had been referring to, obviously. Code name the Dragon, possibly.
Immensely dangerous, definitely.
Casey didn’t dare give in to the need to sleep. Determined to find a way to escape, she had searched the room for any sort of usable weapon or hiding place. What she would give for a tire iron just now. She’d found nothing. No eating utensils accidentally left behind. No tweezers, scissors, nail files. Not one thing to work with.
Lucas would be doing some pacing himself by now. She hadn’t checked in as she’d planned last night. Lucas would likely have called her uncle. Maybe Uncle Thomas would order a special ops team to retrieve her.
And Stark.
If he was still alive.
She wanted him to be alive.
He’d been a good partner, as partners went.
At the sound of metal against metal, her gaze veered to the door. The lever lowered and the door opened. Her nasty buddy, automatic rifle in hand, strode into the room.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Casey rolled her eyes and plopped into the white plush chair next to the sofa. The man was Hispanic but with no lingering accent. A grizzly beard and too-long, tousled hair coupled with his black attire and S.W.A.T.-issue boots labeled him a mercenary.
He stood next to her, the business end of the weapon stuck in her face.
“Where’s my partner?” she demanded. Not that she expected an answer but that was beside the point.
He kept his eyes on the closed door and his mouth shut.
“Where are we?” she asked, just to annoy him.
Silence.
“What time is breakfast?” She hadn’t eaten in about twenty-four hours. No answer.
“Were you born this charming or did you go to school for that?”
Casey crossed her legs and tapped her foot against the air. She was sick of waiting.
A moment later the door opened and a woman entered.
Casey started to make a wisecrack but words failed her as her brain assimilated what her eyes saw.
Female. Fiftyish. Short, spiky hair. Coal-black save for the invasion of gray streaks. Dark eyes set off by the deftly applied makeup. Tall, svelte. The charcoal slacks and sweater were tasteful and elegant.
Casey couldn’t breathe for a moment. This was…impossible.
“I have just one question.” The woman moved a few steps closer.
“I was about to say the same thing,” Casey interjected, more to disguise her surprise than to show off her wit. “Are you Alayna’s mother?” She looked more closely at the woman. The coloring was different but the eyes were the same. “I’m aware that Alayna is Keaton’s sister. Does that make you his mother, too?” She put her fingers to her lips. “Sorry, that was two questions.”
The woman smiled. “Clever, aren’t you?”
“On occasion.”
“I know who sent you.”
Casey’s sass fizzled. This woman couldn’t know. Casey had to restrain her need to stare openmouthed at the woman. She looked exactly like—
“Why did he send you?”
“Let me see my partner,” Casey bartered, “and I’ll tell you.”
Fury blazed in the woman’s dark eyes that were eerily familiar. “Why were you sent here?” she repeated.
“Not until I see Stark.” If this woman had already asked him that question and gotten the answer, she wouldn’t need to ask Casey. Though they had been sent by different clients, the reason was the same.
Obviously she hadn’t gotten the answer from Stark.
“I will have the answer,” the woman promised.
“Didn’t you ask your daughter?”
Her eyes went from burning up with fury to ice-cold. But if that was all she wanted to know, Alayna could tell her that. Was Alayna not talking to mommy dearest?
“Thirty years,” the woman said, her lips tight. “Why has Lucas waited thirty years?”
Casey held her outward reaction in check. How did this woman know Lucas? Who the heck was she? Casey was not going to like the answer, she feared. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who’s Lucas?”
“Your godfather. Close friend to your uncle Thomas. I know both men far better than you ever will.” The ghost of a smile haunted the mouth that obviously hadn’t formed the expression in so long a miracle would be in order to bring about the real thing.
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Your name is Casey Manning. You’re twenty-eight. You graduated from UCLA and went directly into the service of the Central Intelligence Agency. Your last performance evaluation cited you as reckless. That’s why you were taken out of field operations and put on probation. Shall I ask my question again?”
“Since you know all the answers,” Casey argued, “why go to all the trouble to bring me here? I left a perfectly good pair of stilettos on the beach back there.”
The woman turned to her underling. “Take her below with the other one. Kill them both.” With that the lady exited the room with the same flourish with which she’d entered. Casey was still reeling from what she’d seen.
How was this possible?
Somehow she had to get word to Lucas.
This was beyond bizarre.
“Get up.” Dirty Man poked her shoulder with the rifle barrel.
Gladly. If she’d read between the lines accurately, he was taking her to Stark. Couldn’t kill a man who was already dead, which meant he was alive.
Though she hadn’t figured a way out of this yet, maybe he had. Or perhaps she would on the way.
There wasn’t much to see but a richly paneled corridor between the stateroom where she’d been held and the narrow winding stairs that led down to the lowest deck. This deck wasn’t quite so luxuriously appointed as the others. The deck hands and security detail likely populated this area. She supposed Alayna and Jazz were in one of the staterooms close to the one Casey had been kept in.
So far no avenue of escape had jumped out at Casey. She considered attempting to overtake the guy ushering her along but she needed to let this thing play out. On the off chance she escaped, she might as well leave with more information than she came with. And she needed to find Stark.
“Stop there,” her guard ordered. “Stand to the side.”
