by Misty Evans
The human body was an amazing thing. The way it could heal even after being beaten, the way broken bones and burnt flesh could repair themselves with the correct medical intervention, the way the soul and spirit of a person could push the worst of physical experiences behind them and keep on living.
Terrorists were human too. Their bodies broke and bled like everyone else's. And sometimes their humanness was the one thing that betrayed them. Even the most die-hard, self-serving lunatic needed other human beings to survive. Basic human needs—food, shelter, water, sleep—had to be met. Money and other essentials had to change hands. An efficient organization had to have employees. The preacher had to have a congregation to preach to and the human ego had to be fed just like the stomach.
Tipping his head back, Lawson sluiced water out of his hair and reached for the soap. His partner was sleeping in the other room, and he was glad at least one of them would be fresh for the day. Zara wasn't at all what he'd expected. The pampered, spoiled rich girl image was a surface facade, and under it he saw the sparks of the operative Flynn believed she was.
He respected the fact she was facing one of her fears head-on. He didn't know any woman, and not too many men for that matter, who would willingly chase down the person who had tried to kill them. That kind of bravado made great fodder for movie scripts, but it wasn't even close to reality.
She was quirky, but underneath that was also a strength Lawson was beginning to admire. She was smart and she had balls. Bigger balls than most of the people at Langley. And all that strength and intelligence and courage was wrapped up in a sexy, sweet-smelling package sleeping twenty feet away.
The now familiar stirring in his groin brought him up short. He turned the cold water faucet further to the left and sucked in his breath at the cool blast. Better to concentrate now on washing his body than thinking about Zara. He had uncovered the link to finding Dmitri and Vos Loo and now he could complete the mission.
Then he could get back to the States and call up Johnny and the rest of Pegasus and have a couple beers with them. Tell them all about how he tracked down a couple of no-good terrorists and saved the world again. Lawson Vaughn, Superman. Make the guys laugh until they cried when he told them about chauffeured cars, four-star hotels, cussing matches and pink boots.
Sure they'd poke fun at him and call him a wuss, but, Lawson smiled to himself, every guy on the team would be jealous as hell. And that was just too good to pass up.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Thirteen
Zara hit the button on her tiny travel alarm before it went off. She'd slept deep for five straight hours, waking two minutes before the alarm was due to ring.
As she pushed the blankets off, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and wiggled her toes. Then she stood and went through a light routine of stretches. She started every morning with ballet warm-ups to keep her body strong and graceful. The first few minutes of each day she could put everything out of her mind and just focus on the way her body moved.
After completing her routine, she grabbed the clothes off the bed she'd laid out to wear for the day and headed to the bathroom. She had at least twenty minutes before Lawson knocked on the door. He expected her to still be sleeping, but she was going to be up and waiting on him. Show him she was the early bird who nailed the worm and all of that. Maybe it was petty, but after yesterday, she was keenly aware of his competitive spirit. No way was she giving him the upper hand at anything as trivial as who woke up first.
Washing her face, she realized keeping her mind on Lawson prevented her from dwelling too much about the day's agenda. Visiting the farmhouse was definitely no trip to Berthillon—goodness, what she'd give for a bowl of their world-class ice cream—but Lawson had finally included her in his operation plan. He was taking her with him and that said a lot. She had to push the anxiety away. It was just a house, nothing a soldier in Flynn's army couldn't handle.
Be a man, she told herself as she smoothed lotion on her face. You eat red meat, practice wild turkey calls and consider Fight Club a classic movie.
Zara squeezed a line of toothpaste onto her toothbrush. She could be just as tough as any man. The act would distance her from the memories of the farmhouse and from the ice-blue eyes of Dmitri. From the feel of the gun pressed to her neck. She would just shut all of that out and deal.
She pulled her “I'd rather be in Paris” T-shirt over her head and hiked up her jeans. She was a good actress. Past experience showed she could pull off anything if she set her mind to it.
Finishing her makeup, she swept two coats of mascara on her lashes and applied a layer of lip gloss. Then she squeezed a dab of gel into her hands and scrunched her hair, taming a few flyaway hairs. Looking herself over in the mirror, she smiled. She wouldn't wait for Lawson to knock on her door. She'd one-up him and knock on his first. Wouldn't that tick him off royally?
Zara set her fists on her hips, puffed out her chest and frowned, doing her best tough-guy imitation in the mirror. “You're a beast,” she said to her reflection.
She couldn't hold back and laughed out loud. Somehow she couldn't see any man on Team Pegasus wearing pink lip gloss, no matter what the op plan called for.
Turning off the bathroom light, she headed back into the main area of the suite which was still dark. She stopped for a second to give her eyes time to adjust.
A familiar voice came from her right, near the breakfast bar. “Do you talk to yourself often?"
Zara's hand flew to her chest. She snapped it back down to her side and glared at Lawson's broad shoulders outlined by the nightlight. “What are you doing in here?"
"Wake-up call.” He moved into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light. “Although it looks like you don't need one.” His gaze flickered over her, stopping at her chest to read the words on her shirt. “What were you laughing about in the bathroom?"
The first rule of Fight Club is don't talk about Fight Club. Zara pulled her lips in between her teeth and bit down on them to keep from smiling. She turned her back on Lawson and walked to the closet. “How did you get past the chain on the door?"
"I told you that wouldn't stop me."
She grabbed her Prada jacket out of the closet and slid her arms into it. God, he was so darned sure of himself. And he was already one up on her for the day. She turned back to face him. “I want to know how you do that."
One brow rose, forming creases on his forehead. “Why? So you can figure out a different way to keep me out?"
"Yes."
Scoffing at her, he reached into her mini-fridge and pulled out two bottled waters. He tossed one to her. “Let's go to work."
She caught the water and then picked up her Kate Spade bag, sliding the water inside. “What about breakfast?"
Lawson pulled a granola bar out of his jean jacket pocket. “Voila!” He tossed that at her as well.
She let it fall to the floor. “We're in Paris and you want me to have a honey oat granola bar and water for breakfast? What are you, a prison guard?"
He leaned back against the counter, crossing his feet at the ankles and giving her a grin. “You can have a full course meal later. I want to get going. You're up for this, right? If not, feel free to stay here. There're plenty of reports to type."
Zara retrieved the granola bar and dropped it into her bag as she pushed the image of a warm, delicious street-vendor crepe out of her mind. She set her shoulders, refusing to let him sense any weakness. “All ready. Let's go."
"Good.” He walked up to her and laid his arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the door. “Now, ground rules again. First thing you have to remember is I'm in charge..."
* * * *
There it was. The farmhouse.
Zara was unprepared for the anxiety sweeping through her as she stared at the peeling paint and crumbling foundation. The past two months hadn't been kind to the abandoned building or its barn on the western edge of the property. Both were in disrepair.
She sat frozen in the passenger seat of the black Mercedes convertible coupe Lawson had borrowed from a friend. Apparently, the car was a loan from one of Yvette's gentleman friends. Seemed a certain international playboy was a bit tied up after the local police raided Yvette's flat and found a cache of drugs. An anonymous call had tipped the police off, and Yvette's friend wouldn't need his car for awhile.
Zara deduced her partner had a bit of a criminal bent.
Lawson shut off the engine. “I'm going to have a look around inside."
She was too if she could just get her legs to move. Staring at the spot where she'd held a gun pointed at Tim's head, she tried to still the tremors running through her diaphragm. “What do you hope to find?"
Opening his door, he glanced at her, then studied her more scrupulously. “Just stay here. I'll do a quick walk-through and be back in a minute."
He slid out of the seat and shut the door, and the tremors spread to her lungs as he sauntered up to the house. Fear, irrational and cold, spurted through her and she fought the urge to shout at him to be careful. In her mind, Dmitri was still there, haunting the house with his horrible dark energy.
Watching Lawson test the front door and walk inside, she forced herself to breathe. When nothing happened—no yelling met her ears, no guns were fired—she checked the time on her watch and ticked off the seconds one by one.
She should be in the house with him. Should be doing her job. But by the time the second hand had swept the dial three times, her heart was thudding harder. She'd replayed the memories of that morning in her mind over and over. Trying to block it out did no good. She could feel Dmitri's body hugging hers, could feel his breath on her cheek. When she thought of what could have happened if Lawson hadn't been there...
In a flash, time rewound. “Let her go,” Lawson commanded, lowering his gun and taking a step toward her and Dmitri.
Zara flinched as Dmitri shoved the gun deeper into her neck. “Why would I?"
"The murder of an American citizen is a crime that will put you in prison for the rest of your life."
Dmitri stood silent. Lawson took another step forward. “My guess is you had your lieutenant do your dirty work here tonight and, so far, you haven't committed a crime that will get you more than a few months in jail. But if you kill her"—he glanced at Zara and back to Dmitri—"you'll be kissing someone's ass in prison on a daily basis until Hell decorates for Christmas."
Zara sensed Dmitri considering Lawson's words. She clutched at hope.
But of course Dmitri was Dmitri. “Do you really think I will let you go?” he whispered in her ear. His soft, cruel laughter sent a shiver down her spine. “Stupid girl."
In that moment, Zara knew she'd truly lost the game. She hated losing. Anger boiled up inside her, along with desperation.
Without considering the consequences, she picked up her booted foot and slammed it down on top of Dmitri's, yelling like a banshee. He tried not to react, but grunted in pain nevertheless, bending forward enough for her to grab his arm again and use the momentum to jerk him off balance. As their bodies fell forward, he stuck his left hand out in front of them to stop the fall. Zara pushed the hand holding the gun upward. It went off, sending a bullet whizzing millimeters from her head.
She had barely hit the ground with Dmitri on top of her when Lawson slammed his own booted foot down on the terrorist's hand, breaking bones and knocking the gun clear...
As the second hand on her watch swept the twelve again, Zara blinked back to the present. Lawson had said he'd be back in a minute. How long did it take to do a quick walk-through? Her mind raced from one disastrous scenario to another.
Ridiculous, she told herself. Dmitri was off somewhere playing Mad Scientist. He wasn't anywhere near the farmhouse and didn't even know she and Lawson were on his trail.
She knew she was overreacting, but never in her life had she experienced such a physical reaction to her mind playing tricks on her. Not even when the doctors told her she would never dance again. Not even when she struggled through Interrogation at the Farm. Knowing something logically didn't make it any easier physically. As she parted her lips and struggled to take a deep breath, her fingers shook and her thighs spasmed.
Still Lawson failed to reappear. She had to quit thinking about Dmitri. Shut him out and turn on her inner actress. Pretend she was out for a drive in the country with a sexy man and...
It wasn't working. If she didn't do something soon, she'd lose it. Move, her brain commanded. Take control. Opening the car door, she forced her frozen legs to stand and then to defy their trembling weakness and walk toward the house. She intentionally avoided the spot where she'd stood with Dmitri.
"Lawson,” she called as she climbed the porch steps. “Lawson!"
At least she was moving. Taking some control. She charged through the front door and flung herself into the living room, and there he was, half-running toward her, his face intense as always. She stopped dead still.
"What is it?” He reached for her. “What's wrong?"
His hands on her arms and the look in his eyes brought her back to reality. Drawing in a ragged breath, she mentally chastised herself.
Dmitri wasn't in the house.
Lawson was all right.
She was all right.
He rubbed her arms. “Jesus, Zara. Why were you screaming?"
"I wasn't screaming. I was ... just ... just..."
She froze again as reality hit home. How was she going to explain that there wasn't anything wrong? That her imagination had simply gotten the best of her? So much for acting like a man. She'd just pulled a classic hysterical-woman move.
"Crap,” she said under her breath, jerking backwards and severing Lawson's hold on her. “Never mind. I ... I was, uh...” she stammered again and clamped her lips shut. Don't stutter. God, she hated it when she did that.
Putting more distance between them, she swept her focus over the living room, and her breath caught in her throat. The furniture was covered in dirt and dust and cobwebs. She could suddenly see Dmitri and his men, moving like ghosts before her. She could see Tim tied to a chair, being beaten. She moved to the window and saw herself in the yard, Dmitri's arm around her, his gun pointed at her neck...
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fourteen
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Lawson chastised himself as he propped Zara against the trunk of the hundred-year-old oak tree and patted her face. What had he been thinking, bringing her back here?
It hadn't been necessary. He'd figured the farmhouse wouldn't give him any clues to Dmitri's current whereabouts. He'd brought Zara for his own purposes.
Lawson knew men who seemed stable until coming face-to-face with their past tormentors. He wanted Zara to look at the place she'd been held hostage and face the demons he knew lurked under her bravado. Her psych exam and therapy at Langley vetted her clean, but that meant nothing in the field. He needed to be sure she was stable if they came face-to-face with Alexandrov Dmitri.
He never dreamed his bold, in-your-face partner would react by passing out. She'd panicked, pure and simple. And he was indeed the asshole she claimed he was.
"Wake up, Zara,” he said. “Come on. Open your eyes."
She blinked several times and held onto his arm as she sat up. “What happened?"
"You fainted. How do you feel?"
She was silent for a minute and then she said, “Stupid."
"Yeah, well that makes two of us. I shouldn't have brought you here, Z. I thought you could handle it, but you're not ready for this yet."
Her whole body stiffened, and she dropped her hand from his arm. “My blood-sugar level is low, that's all.” She brushed at dirt on her leg. “Sometimes I pass out when I haven't had enough to eat. Our morning rations were a bit meager."
She wasn't going to admit she was rattled by being there. He had to admire her spirit. Patting her leg, he stood up. “Wait here. I'll be right back."
He hadn'
t gone five steps when she called to him. “Where are you going?"
"The car,” he said over his shoulder. “I've got more substantial food in there. We better get your blood-sugar level back up to par."
He opened the trunk of the Mercedes and pulled out several bags along with a blanket. He hauled the load back to the tree, spread the blanket out and started unpacking.
Zara sat watching him. “We're about to have a picnic at the site of the farmhouse incident. How quaint."
Lawson handed her a bottle of Coke. Her fingers trembled when she took it. “I knew we wouldn't get back to town until late. I grabbed a few things for lunch. Since it's only ten o'clock in the morning, I guess we'll call this brunch instead."
Zara took a swig of Coke and unwrapped the loaf of bread he'd laid near her feet. “You got up early enough to go shopping? I'm impressed.” She gestured to the food. “Where did you get all of this? One of the outdoor cafes?"
Lawson pulled his KA-BAR knife out of its holder and sliced some whitish-colored cheese from a chunky triangle. He passed the slice to her. “I took it from the hotel's kitchen."
"You stole food from the hotel?"
"You'd rather go hungry?"
Zara eyed the knife. “What is that?"
He cut off another slice of cheese. “It's a knife."
"It's a little over the top for slicing brie.” Breaking the loaf of French bread in half, she handed a piece to him. “I assume you use it for more ... military type stuff."
He sheathed the knife and took the bread from her hand. “Mostly to scare people.” He tore off a chunk of bread and laid the cheese on top of it. After taking a bite, he tried not to make a face at the strong flavor. He'd take Velveeta over this stuff any day.
"Mostly, huh? So you've done worse than just scare someone with it."
He studied her face, still pale from passing out. “Do you really want to know the answer to that?"
