From the #1 Hardbroiled/Police Procedural bestselling author Carolyn McCray comes a new thriller series, Spies in Stilettos. This is the prequel short story to start off the series, My Dangerous Christmastime.
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Praise for Dark Lullaby…
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Praise for The Rush…
“Buckle up! From the depths of the ocean to the reaches of outer space, this outrageously clever tale, auspiciously set in the year 2049, has an unlikely band of quirky memorable characters and a plot that will blow your mind!”
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
CIA operative Valentine Rutger rushed down the snow-slicked sidewalk. Her heels clicked along the pavement, punctuating the urgency of her mission. Finally, she reached her location. The local mall. She opened the glass door and was hit by a wave of warm air. The place was hopping. Actually the place was crammed. With Christmas Eve shoppers.
“How’s Operation: Desperation going?” Trinka, her tech support, asked in her ear.
“Just fine,” Valentine tapped the bud in her ear to turn on her mic, and answered.
There really wasn’t any other option. She’d been in Madagascar until last night and was heading out to Belarus in the morning. This was her window. Her one and only window.
Val passed by a short older woman dressed in a dark blue cloak, ringing a bell. “Care to donate?”
Val shook her head. “Sorry, I’m here to pick up a present for my daughter. Maybe later.”
The woman, probably used to the answer, simply nodded, ringing the bell again. Val hurried away from the woman and her guilt. Then she saw the long line snaking out of the toy store. The staff had posted on Facebook that they had received a shipment of the Baby Gaga dolls. Apparently, every desperate parent in the tri-state area had descended on the store.
Val walked up to the back of the line, right behind a woman with three toddlers. The Mother looked about as tired as Val felt. The youngest one was trying to throw herself from her mother’s arms, wailing as she did so. The other two boys were wrestling on the floor. And they looked like they were fighting pretty dirty. Hair-pulling was on the table.
Val had survived torture in Micronesia that was not as painful as the children’s screams. But Val was on a mission, and she would not be undone by some rambunctious toddlers.
Trying to tune out the pre-school war in front of her, Val glanced around the mall. The place looked like Christmas had hurled on the mall. There wasn’t a square inch of wall, ceiling, or railing that wasn’t covered in red or green. Apparently, poinsettias were in fashion this year. Along with gold bows. And angels. Angels were big, too.
Even someone from Tunisia would know it was Christmastime. The season was burned into your retinas.
Val’s eyes scanned over to the only other store with a line to challenge the toy store’s. It was the only coffee shop in the mall. Tired mothers and jonesing teens lined up to get their caffeine fix.
A tall, dark-haired man gathered his drink and turned toward her, blowing on his latte. Val stiffened. She knew that dark, handsome face. Ukav. He looked up and gave a sad smile.
“Be careful,” he mouthed.
No shit. “Trinka, what the hell is Ukav doing here?”
“What do you mean?” the young tech asked. You could hear her chair swivel around—the girl was at the ready at her keyboard.
“Ukav, at the mall, Trinka. Why didn’t we have an alert he was in the country?”
Val looked back over to the coffee bar to find him gone. She was sure he had been there and had warned her, but how, and more importantly, why?
“I don’t know. We’ve got all of his aliases flagged,” Trinka reported. “I’m bringing up the mall footage now.”
“Where did he go?”
“Oh my god,” Trinka said. “It is Ukav.”
“Yes,” Val said, waiting for the tech to catch up. “Now, I need to know where he went.”
It wasn’t everyday you found a KGB officer in the mall. Actually, technically, he was SVR, but that was the modern day equivalent of the KGB and there were still old-school KGB operatives running off-the-books missions. Ukav ran with the movers and shakers.
Even though tensions were not nearly as high as they were during the Cold War, that did not mean the two superpowers were buddy-buddy. As a matter of fact, in regards to any of the hotspots around the world— Iran, Syria and North Korea in particular—the USSR and the USA were on opposite sides of the negotiating table.
But why was Ukav here at the mall? Buying a latte, of all things? And why had he warned her? About the only thing the USSR and the USA agreed upon was the danger of China. Were the Chinese here, as well?
“He went toward the restrooms,” Trinka informed her.
Val turned to the harried woman in front of her. “Can you hold my place?”
The woman seemed to notice her for the first time. “Sure.”
Val took off down the mall, passing three shoe stores and a tattoo shop. When did tattoos become mainstream enough to show up in a mall? Kind of undercut the rebellious nature of ink, didn’t it? Even parental rebellion had turned corporate.
But she wasn’t here to provide cultural commentary. She was here to find out why a foreign agent was on US soil.
“Trinka, I need to know if he’s got his team with him.”
“I’m running facial recognition software already.”
“And the Chinese—run the footage against all foreign operatives.”
“Will do,” Trinka answered, sounding a little caffeinated herself.
“I’ve got to say though, Ukav wasn’t hiding,” Trinka explained. “He looked up, full-face, into the first camera he encountered.”
Yes, there was nothing stealthy about how he had revealed himself to Val. So un-KGB-like. They were usually ghosts. And equally as hard to document as apparitions.
Val arrived at the barren hallway that led to the bathrooms. “Which way?”
“He went in the women’s restroom,” Trinka said, then hurried on. “But he put something on the payphone hook.”
Cautiously, Valentine walked up to the payphone. Was it a trap? It didn’t feel very sophisticated, though, and Ukav was nothing but sophisticated in his approach. Gulping, Val put her hand on the phone and jerked it from its cradle. No bombs. No explosions. Not even a shock. Ukav must be getting rusty.
Instead, she found a sticky note attached to the lever. It was in Cyrillic. Val was fluent in a lot of languages, but written Cyrillic? Was Ukav busting her chops? She took a picture
of it and sent it to Trinka.
“Um, the note says ‘run.’”
Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Val headed to the women’s restroom. She pulled her gun from its thigh holster before carefully opening the door. The restroom appeared empty. She checked each stall just to be sure. He was nowhere to be seen. The only evidence of his passing was a loose vent.
“He’s gone up,” Val relayed to Trinka.
Climbing up on a toilet, Val checked her gun to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber. She had a knife in her boot, of course, but would it be enough? She still sported a nasty scar on her ribcage from one of Ukav’s bullets. Just because he was warning her off didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill her if she got in the way of his mission.
Without hesitation.
The scar under her bra, chafing, was proof positive.
“I’m going in,” Val informed Trinka.
“Roger that,” the petite tech replied. Such military terms sounded so odd coming out of such a cutie.
Stepping onto a toilet, Val made her way up into the duct. Penlight in her mouth, she swept the light back and forth. Scrape marks went west, so she went west. She followed the trail until she came to a junction in the ducts. Right in the middle of the crossroads was a grate that had been removed. Clearly, Ukav had gone down. She checked the opposite grate to find rope marks in the grime. He had brought repelling equipment.
Funny, she hadn’t. Wonder why? Maybe because she was just trying to get her Christmas shopping done. Was a little heads up too much to ask?
The shaft went straight down into the bowels of the building.
“I’m going down.”
“Holy crap,” Trinka announced.
Yes, it was a steep climb, but that reaction seemed a little out of context. “Trinka, what’s wrong?”
“Ukav isn’t the only foreign agent here.”
“Okay…”
“We’ve got three men from the Harkat-ul-Jihad al-Islami in the mall.”
Holy crap was right. The Harkats were hardcore terrorists. “From Pakistan or Bangladesh?”
“Bangladesh,” Trinka replied.
That only made it worse. That splinter group had been responsible for numerous foreign store bombings in India. The chatter was that they were working their way up to taking on America.
And a major American mall on Christmas Eve? That would be quite the statement.
“Get the Director looped in. Plus the FBI, Homeland and NSA.”
“Yes, ma’am,” another voice said. “Trigger here. Standing by in case you find an explosive device.”
“Good to know,” Val answered, imagining the clean-cut youth. He was the opposite of what a computer geek should look and act like. Unlike most CIA hackers, Trigger did not have a criminal background. Hell, Val didn’t think the kid had a parking ticket.
Even on Christmas Eve, the kid probably had on his three-piece suit, his tie perfectly knotted. Never loosened. His Mormon upbringing shone through. He could be making ten times what the agency paid him out in the private sector, yet he was dedicated to a life of service.
Which worked for Val. Hopefully, she wouldn’t need his expertise. Hopefully, this was just a wild goose chase led by a bored Russian. Although, as the SVR’s top asset, Ukav seldom had time to be bored.
None of that mattered right now, though. Right now, she had to climb down a slick vertical shaft, in stilettos no less. Seriously, Bond never had these problems.
Holstering her gun, Val braced her shoes against the sides, scuffing their perfect alligator leather. A small price to pay. Pressing her palms against the cool metal, Val lowered herself into the shaft. Foot by foot, she made her way down, following Ukav.
Finally, her feet hit the bottom of the shaft. Beyond the thin metal, she could hear the grinding and groaning of a furnace. Crawling, Val followed the shaft that with the dust disturbed.
Conveniently, Ukav left the grate off. At least she knew that she was hot on his trail. Crawling out of the vent, Val shook off the knot in her shoulders. Pulling her gun again, she checked her corners, then moved out into the boiler room. The place was dim and dank. Years of steam had etched their way into the concrete walls. Rivulets of water coursed down the cement.
Huge cylinders created a maze of steel in the basement. Rusted steel. The air was heavy and humid. Val pinched her nose against the strong smell of metal. Plus it was hot. The furnace wasn’t exactly well insulated.
Gun up, Val cautiously moved forward. “Any idea where the Harkats are?” she whispered into the darkness.
“Looks like they took the direct route to the basement,” Trinka said.
The only warning of the attack was the clink of metal against metal. Val twisted, aiming up, but her shot went wide as a man threw himself from the top of the cylinder. The ricochet, though, came back, puncturing the metal. Steam blasted out, blistering the man’s face. Even so, he raised the crowbar and came down on her gun arm.
Pain jangled down the limb as the gun hit the floor and skidded under a cylinder.
Bastard.
Pivoting on her heel, Val came back around with her elbow, burying it in his solar plexus. The guy’s garlic hummus breath heated the back of her neck. Taking her very pointed heel, Val slammed it into his foot. This doubled him over even further. Her right arm still useless, Val came at him with a roundhouse kick, knocking the crow bar out of his hand.
He tried to come back with a left hook—however, he telegraphed the move from Bangladesh. She leaned back, letting the fist swing right past her. In a smooth motion, she grabbed the crow bar with her left hand and brought it up against the side of his temple. The impact made a sick thunk, and suddenly there was a dent in the guy’s skull.
He keeled over, smacking into the cement face first.
“That’s how you use a crow bar,” Val informed him as she stepped over his body.
“Ma’am, there are three terrorists down there, according to the footage,” Trigger informed her.
“Make that two,” Val countered.
She took several photos of the terrorist’s face and sent them to Trigger.
“You should still be able to get facial recognition,” she said, trying to focus on the intact side of the guy’s face. Valentine didn’t feel even a twinge of sympathy for the terrorist. They came up into her grill like that? Threatening her mall?
Technically, she couldn’t operate on American soil, but in a situation like this? She didn’t think her supervisors would complain one bit. She also didn’t think the founding fathers would be too bothered by her actions.
Gunfire sounded from deeper inside the boiler room. She turned just in time, as the bullet slid across her back. It hurt like a mofo, but wasn’t fatal. Putting a cylinder between her and the shooter, she pulled out the knife in her boot.
This was going to be tricky. Bringing a knife to a terrorist gunfight was never a good idea. But her gun was gone. She didn’t think she could call for a timeout to dig around under the steam holding tank.
So a knife it was.
Above the hiss of the steam and the groaning of the furnace, Valentine could hear the shooter’s footstep. This had to be perfectly timed, or… well, she wouldn’t need to worry about any bomb they might have set.
Kicking a few pebbles out past the cylinder, Val was rewarded by a burst of gunfire. Wild, misdirected gunfire. The gunman should be more cautious this time. Jumping from behind the cylinder, Val let the knife fly. If she had miscalculated by even a few inches, this would be the end.
Luckily, the blade flew true, striking the man square in the heart. He didn’t have time to pull the trigger. The gun slipped from his hand harmlessly. The man’s face showed surprise.
“That’s what happens when you go up against a professional,” Val told him as he pitched forward.
These guys were used to hitting soft targets in India. Welcome to America, asshole.
“I take it I can say there is only one left?” Trigger asked.
&n
bsp; “Yep,” Val said as she scooped up the assailant’s gun.
One more to go.
“You should be looking for the gas inlet,” Trigger said. “It should be on the far eastern wall.”
“Why?”
“A bomb placed there would do the most structural damage to the mall.”
“Got it,” Val said. It was nice to have a double-degreed MIT graduate on the payroll. For such a staunch young Republican, Trigger certainly knew how to think like a terrorist.
Val headed for the east wall, checking around each cylinder before she stepped out. Her right arm tingled as the nerve came back to life. Still, Val carried her acquired gun in her left hand. Not ideal, but what could she do? She couldn’t risk a single millisecond in nerve delay.
Ducking around the last cylinder, Valentine identified the bomb before the bomber. Damn, the thing was big and complicated. The man, though? Average. To think—this scrawny little guy could kill how many innocent victims?
And as the timer ticked down from 5 minutes, he didn’t even have the cojones to die with his victims. He wasn’t a suicide bomber. They had set a time delay, just as they had in India. The Taliban had realized that they were running out of willing young suicide bombers. If they kept blowing up their followers, they would be out of business pretty darn quickly.
Hence the new wave of time-delayed terrorist bombs.
Did the guy know his associates were already dead? Did he realize he was next? Apparently so, as he spun around with a gun pointed at her.
“Drop it,” Valentine ordered. “It’s over. My backup is on the way.” More quietly, she added, “Right?”
“Bomb squad, FBI, and local police are en route,” Trinka confirmed.
Good. She hated to lie to terrorists.
“Arrogant American. We might die, but so will your pig countrymen.”
Valentine thought of the little old woman manning the donation bucket. “Only if you can hold me off for more than five minutes. Your companions didn’t last five seconds.”
That got the guy’s eyes twitching, as he scanned right and left. Apparently, he had hoped that he had some backup coming, as well.
“Put it down and you’ll live,” Valentine offered.
My Dangerous Valentine Page 1
