Fatal Honor: Shadow Force International

by Misty Evans

  “Copy that. If you send me the tracker’s ID number, I’ll keep a watch on her, too, via my software.”

  “Done.” They disconnected.

  Miles went into the bedroom and suited up. A nine-millimeter went into his shoulder holster, a couple of listening devices went into his Kevlar vest pocket. He pulled on a dark knit cap, a black jacket over the vest, and his motorcycle boots. Snagging his car keys and a power bar from his stash, he turned off all the lights and let himself down the fire escape in the back. He found the perfect surveillance spot not far from his car and sat in the dark with his binoculars and waited.

  As suspected, Veronica and her Ford pulled away from the curb a few minutes later.

  Miles got in his car and followed.

  TRACKING A FORMER Navy SEAL who now worked for a private protection agency wasn’t easy. Tracking Miles Duncan, a paranoid former SEAL who once held the esteemed, if unofficial, nickname of Evasion God among his team brothers, was one of the most challenging missions of Charlotte Carstons’ career.

  But she’d found him. Finally.

  The bathroom was thoroughly steamy after her long, hot shower. After the sun had gone down, the car had gotten cold. She hated cold.

  Being held in a Romanian crime lord’s torture chamber six feet under ground for months had done that to her. Like a person who’d had heat stroke and could no longer stand direct sun, she couldn’t stand the slightest chill. It took her right back to the living grave she’d endured and those horrible months at the hands of Nicolae Bourean.

  She wiped the mirror off with her towel. The shower had done her good, warming her and relaxing her muscles. The scanner built into her phone had alerted her that Miles had somehow put a tracking device on her car. She had top of the line night vision goggles that had detected him standing in the shadows of his living room watching her. She’d waited until he’d left the window before she snuck out and removed the device.

  Winding around the city’s hills and down to the wharves, she’d tried to pick up his truck following her. She’d never seen him. Not once. Still, she’d tossed the tracker into another car at the gas station before she’d gone back to the motel.

  She wanted to talk to him, she did. So much better for both of them if she didn’t. She needed to make sure Nicolae’s men hadn’t followed her and that no one was already watching Miles. As far as she knew, Nico didn’t know anything about Miles, but the Romanian clan leader had a knack for figuring out and exploiting weaknesses. Miles Duncan was Charlotte’s one and only weakness.

  He was also her only hope.

  Nine months. Eighteen days. What were the odds he still had the cross necklace she’d put around his neck before Emit Petit had arrived to whisk him away?

  The cross was her lifeline. The only way she could retrieve proof she wasn’t a traitor to her country. Inside the cross was a key that opened a secret safe. A safe that held the intel to clear her name and put Nicolae Bourean away for good. Without it, she would have to stay on the run forever.

  The scar over her collarbone, the last one Nico had given her, was still pink but fading. She had some color in her cheeks again, not just from the heat of the shower, but because she was stronger, healthier than she’d been in a long time. Her hair was no longer falling out from malnutrition although her ribs and hip bones still jutted a bit. The hunger never left her, much like the cold that had seeped into her bones.

  Somehow Nico had found out she was MI6. Going undercover inside his organization had taken months of planning and manipulating her way into his trust. She’d been careful, feeding him legitimate intel her handler passed onto her that helped Nico get what he wanted. He’d graduated from crime lord to international arms dealer and Charlotte’s job had been to find out how and why.

  Sometime during her time in the cabin with Miles, her true identity had been revealed to Nico. After she’d left Miles to try to uncover the truth about the plane crash and the follow-up terrorist act that had brought down Miles’ helicoptor, she’d walked right into a trap.

  Nico had beaten her, drugged and starved her, trying to get her to admit she was a spy, trying to get her to give up the identities of her fellow MI6 operatives in the area. Under his abuse, she lost her sense of time and direction. Her very humanness. Delusions and hallucinations invaded her brain. She would see Miles, sure he had come to save her, only to have him fade away when she reached for him.

  That had been the worst…the desolation. Knowing he would never come for her. No one would. If she were going to defeat Nicolae Bourean, she had to do it herself.

  She never told him the truth about who she was, never endangered any other MI6 operative. Instead, she convinced Nico she didn’t have any idea about the accusations he continued to bring against her. A dangerous game, since he could decide at any time she was useless and kill her, so she’d fed him less crucial information that was accurate and gained him something. A name of a gray market contact, a location, anything that led him on a treasure hunt where he scored money, drugs, weapons, revenge on his enemies.

  After a few weeks, he came to rely more and more on her. Became convinced that she was, indeed, true to him and his syndicate. The beatings continued, and she was little more than his slave, but she was alive. Bit by bit, she regained her sanity and began forming a plan of escape.

  Escaping had come at a high price. Charlotte had been forced to leave behind a young girl Nicolae used for sex. Madeena. She’d sworn she’d go back for her, but would it be in time? Would Maddy ever want to see her again after she hadn’t been able to secure the girl’s escape to begin with?

  Time was of the essence but Charlotte couldn’t rush things. Once she’d learned that MI6 thought she’d gone to the dark side, she’d had no choice but to go it alone. The journey to America had been tough enough. Securing papers, a passport, a driver’s license. Then having to track down the most evasive man in the world, all while staying completely under the radar.

  Nico was after her. MI6 was after her. The Queen wanted her head on a platter. With her luck, even Miles would be less than happy to see her after she’d abandoned him.

  Wrapping her hair in the towel and securing her gun inside it, she snagged a second towel from the rack and tucked it around her body. Tomorrow, she would wait for him to leave his apartment and then she would search his place for the necklace. He didn’t appear to wear jewelry of any kind; she’d scanned his neck for the gold chain the cross had been on, but hadn’t seen it. She hoped it was still in his possession, in his apartment. His security system was decent, but not too tough for her to crack.

  Opening the bathroom door, Charlotte stopped halfway across the threshold. The bedroom was dark.

  She’d left the light next to the bed on, hadn’t she?

  Normal people would wonder if the bulb had burned out. Charlotte knew better.

  Her fingers instinctively went to the light switch on the bathroom wall, shutting it off so she wasn’t backlit. She whirled her body behind the door, crouching and undoing the towel around her hair to arm herself. Her pulse thrummed against her temples, blood pumping in her ears.

  Outside in the bedroom, silence reigned. Nicolae wouldn’t sit in the dark. He would have all the lights on and be waiting for her with a smile and a sickle knife. If it were one of his men, they would have taken her out in the shower.

  Who then?

  Miles?

  MI6?

  She waited, slowing her breathing, commanding her pulse to slow with it. Biding her time and listening for any telltale noise.

  One of her best skills was patience. A hunter after prey would only sit still for so long, but she had learned to remain still and silent for hours.

  Being held prisoner for nine months did that to you.

  Her Beretta had a fresh clip and a round in the chamber. Her makeup case held hairspray, a lipstick case with an injectable poison pen, a perfume bottle that when broken would act like a flashbang grenade. Not exactly an arsenal, but she’d made
do with less.

  Please let it be Miles. At least he didn’t want to torture, imprison, or kill her. At least, she didn’t think so. As careful as she’d been to keep her presence a secret, it would be no surprise if he’d spotted her, figured out she was watching him.

  There was no other exit from the bathroom unless she would squeeze herself down to the size of monkey to fit through the window at the top of the wall. She sat on the floor, the tile cool and sweaty, leaning her head against the wall. Definitely not Nicolae. He had the patience of a squirrel.

  The fear thrumming under her skin eased slightly. Nico’s minions were ruthless but lacked imagination. If there were only one, she could take him.

  MI6 wouldn’t kill her. They’d haul her back to Vauxhall and interrogate her. After escaping Nicolae, she’d had to lay low, but had tried contacting her old handler. He’d told her she’d been branded a traitor and MI6 had her on an internal wanted list. She had no proof she wasn’t a double agent or that she’d been held against her will by Nico, except for the scars on her body. Those wouldn’t be enough for them to grant her a pardon. She had to retrieve the video intel she’d shot back on that mountain when the scientist’s plane—and then Miles’ helo—had been shot down.

  She’d lied when she’d told him she hadn’t seen what happened with the helo. Not only had she witnessed the horrible explosion, she had most of it on video. The terrorist responsible was on that footage as well. Worse, Madeena knew the man. Knew where he hid out.

  Charlotte had no doubt Miles would kill for that information.

  The air around her shifted, causing her to stop breathing, to strain her ears. She’d heard nothing, saw no movement in the shadows, yet she felt a very distinctive presence. Close.

  Too close.

  “You going to come out of the bathroom on your own, darlin’,” a lightly accented Southern voice said from the doorway, “or am I going to have to come in there and carry y’all out?”

  That voice. A tiny thrill went through her, every cell in her body rejoicing at the sound of that deep, husky voice.

  Charlotte remembered the first time she’d heard him speak. He’d been unconscious for days, barely clinging to life, in and out of consciousness. Exhausted from caring for him and keeping her location a secret, she’d fallen asleep next to him in bed, her head lying near his. He’d touched her face with the tips of his fingers, waking her, and said, “You must be my guardian angel.”

  He’d fallen right back to sleep, but it had made her giddy that he’d woken up and spoken to her. Twenty-four hours later, he was fully awake and wanting to know what had happened.

  She was no guardian angel. Angel of death was more like it. It was her fault the scientist’s plane had been shot down in those mountains. Her fault he’d needed rescuing by the Navy SEALs.

  If Miles had found out she was the cause of all of that—the trouble that killed his teammates—no wonder he hadn’t knocked on her motel room door and kissed her silly when she opened it.

  Maybe he did want to kill her. She wouldn’t blame him.

  Tucking herself closer to the wall, she tried to see through the slit in the doorframe. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness but she couldn’t make out his whereabouts.

  She could feel him, though. Every place that he had touched, every spot he had kissed in her cabin in the mountains, was suddenly alive again. Not scarred and bruised and broken, but tingling with anticipation.

  Laying her brow against the cold metal of the gun barrel, she closed her eyes for a second. She’d been waiting for this moment, looking forward to a reunion with him. Never in all those fantasies had she envisioned herself sitting on a dirty bathroom floor, wrapped in nothing but a towel with no way out.

  In her version of the reunion, she’d planned on retrieving the video from her hidden safe first, putting Nicolae behind bars where he could never hurt anyone again, and then showing up on Miles’ door with a clean slate and the tiniest hope for the future.

  Best laid plans…

  Without warning, the door banged fully open, smacking her body and nearly knocking the gun from her hands. A shadow moved, hands grabbing her and smacking the wrist of her gun hand into the edge of the sink. She grunted, trying to hold onto the Beretta as she kicked out at the same time with her right foot.

  She landed a solid hit to her attacker’s shin. He grunted and knocked her wrist against the sink once more, the impact sending a shockwave up her arm and forcing her to let go.

  No stranger to pain, she suppressed the cry that exploded in her throat, kicking out again with both legs and nailing him in the knees this round. The towel covering her backside slid on the tile floor from the effort, causing her to go down on her back as he released his grip on her wrist.

  But now he had her gun.

  A large hand wrapped around her ankle. One jerk and she was flipped over onto her belly, the towel coming completely undone, her chin bouncing on the floor.

  Ow.

  The tiles chafed against her naked skin. She fought, reaching for anything that would give her purchase, anything that could be used as a weapon.

  Her fingernails scratched against something hard. The tiny garbage can under the sink. It was only plastic, but it would work if…she could…reach…it…

  Miles plopped down on her butt, his heavy weight pining her to the floor. She heard him eject the Beretta’s magazine, clear the chamber of the round. He reached down and knocked her outstretched hand away from the direction of the garbage can; one of his did the job of restraining both of hers above her head.

  “Don’t fight me, Veronica,” he said, his lips close to her ear as he held her immobile. His breath was warm, sending a fresh wave of goose bumps over her skin. “Or should I call you Charlotte? Or my favorite, Sarah?”

  Grinding her teeth, she ignored the pain in her wrist, the chafing of the tile against her breasts and hips bones, the weight of him. “Get off of me, you lughead.”

  He chuckled. “That’s not what you said the last time I was on top of you.”

  Even with the cold tiles under her, a hot flush wormed its way under her skin. The memory of him on top of her, of his body working its magic on her, was enough to make her stop fighting.

  He’s not the enemy, she reminded herself.

  If only she could breathe. “My first name is Charlotte. My friends call me Charlie.”

  “Ah, but we’re not friends, are we? Fuck buddies, lovers, maybe. Not friends. Friends call one another, they don’t leave in the middle of the night with no goodbye and disappear for nine months.” He still pinned her down, his nose brushing against her head as he spoke in her hear. “What are you doing here?”

  He’d kept track of their time apart. Charlotte took hope in that. “Let me up and I’ll explain.”

  The light drawl evaporated. “You must think I’m naive or incredibly stupid.”

  “I don’t believe either. Why?”

  “You slipped away me from once before, Agent Charlotte Carstons. I’m not turning you loose so easily again. Start talking.”

  So he did know her true identity. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in his familiar Miles scent of citrus and warm male skin, wishing she could tell him the one simple truth burning in her throat. I love you.

  He wouldn’t believe her after all the lies she’d told, and saying the words out loud wouldn’t change the fact she would have to lie to him again. Leave him again. For his safety and for hers.

  Struggling to breathe under his weight, she shoved thoughts of confessing her love aside and opened her eyes. “Nicolae Bourean, head of the Corsicani clan in Romania. I’m on the run from him. The reason I left you was to save your life. You and I survived that brutal winter in the mountains, and it’s one of my fondest memories, but when spring came, I had to ensure no one knew you and I had been together. It was too dangerous for you. I made contact with Emit Petit, told him where to find you and I left. I had work to do on my case, information I still needed befo
re I could close it out, and I had to go to Nico to get it. Unbeknownst to me, he’d figured out I was MI6. He took me prisoner. I escaped a few weeks ago, but he’s after me. He wants me back. Badly.”

  She forced herself not to shiver at the thought of what Nico would do to her if he ever did get hold of her again. Death would be a blessing. “You, Miles Duncan, literally hold the key to my survival.”

  After a long, quiet pause, Miles slid off of her, took her gun and stood a few feet away. She couldn’t see him without turning over and any sudden move could cause him to straddle her again. But she felt that solid, unwavering presence of his behind her. A second later, he flipped the wall switch and the bathroom flooded with light.

  Charlotte blinked, tried to right the towel as she kept her gaze on the tiles. The rough, dull cotton was askew, barely covering anything but a stripe across her buttocks. Her back and legs were completely bare.

  A growl tore from Miles’ lips, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

  The scars. He was seeing the scars that crisscrossed her back and thighs. Nico liked his leather belt, liked his sickle. The welts had left their marks. The tip of his knife as well. Her once flawless skin was now a mess of damaged and disfigured scars.

  “Jesus, darlin’.” Miles voice was low, controlled. “What the hell did he do to you?”

  Carefully sitting up, she drew the towel around her, hugging her knees and keeping her gaze pinned to the floor. “The cross I put around your neck before I left you,” she said. “Please tell me you still have it.”

  He was immobile for a moment, then moved as swift as he always did, bending down and clasping her chin with his big, warm hand.

  He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him.

  Their eyes locked and he scanned her face, her wet hair falling in a tangle around her head. His gray eyes were sad, angry, as they searched hers for answers. He gingerly pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes.