The Blood Code (A Super Agent Novel) (Entangled Edge)

by Misty Evans

  Ryan’s gut churned. Had he compromised her last night? Had he been seen coming or going from her room? Or had it been their meeting in the library?

  No one had spotted him last night, he was sure of that. But what if the library meeting had raised someone’s suspicions? What if Anya was at that moment fighting for her life?

  Not one to overdramatize, Ryan shook off that last assumption and bit into his toast. They were late. Big deal. Anya had arrived late for breakfast before, and he’d kept her up late. Ivanov and Andreev were probably dealing with normal, everyday government issues. Pennington and Morrow had been doing the same in between the endless summit meetings.

  Truman pulled a chair out and sat beside him. “Good God, you look like my aunt Edith showed you her knickers.”

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  A waiter arrived, poured Truman coffee, and took his breakfast order. Once he left, Truman slipped Ryan a new pen and an envelope. He lowered his voice, tapping the envelope. “From Del. Your specialist believes the package is in one of these spots.”

  Ryan pocketed the pen, hoping it contained the transcripts he’d been waiting for, and opened the envelope. A slip of paper was nestled inside. John Quick had narrowed the possible locations for Natasha to three. One made Ryan whistle under his breath.

  “Where is it?” Truman asked.

  The most obvious place for Ivanov to be holding Natasha Radzoya was also the most dangerous. At least in terms of rescuing her. “GI 42.”

  Truman set down his coffee cup without drinking. “But that’s…”

  “Here,” Ryan finished for him. Government Installation 42 was a secret underground intelligence center built by Stalin during the Cold War. A presidential bunker. “Under the Kremlin.”

  At the height of Stalin’s rule, it had housed fifteen hundred soldiers working round-the-clock shifts. The tunnels were steel-plated to absorb electromagnetic fields and conceal radio waves. One tunnel connected to the Moscow train and subway station, allowing for evacuation of Stalin and his top officials if necessary. Outfitted as a command center, it was the ideal place for him and his group to survive a nuclear blast.

  The Russians claimed it had been abandoned. At the cabin, Anya had insisted there was a new, improved model, complete with a lab. Ivanov had showed it to her. Had she been within spitting distance of her grandmother and not known it?

  The silverware next to Ryan’s plate of half-eaten breakfast suddenly rattled as if someone were shaking the table. Truman’s cup trembled in its saucer. The movement and sounds were so minimal, the two might have missed them if they hadn’t been silently contemplating how to pull off a rescue extraction from the world renowned bunker hidden deep underground.

  Truman set his hands flat on the table. “Bloody hell, do you feel that?”

  Ryan did. There was a vibration leaking up through the floor. Before he could answer, the tremor stopped. In the room around them, only a few other people seemed to have noticed and had the same perplexed look on their faces.

  “Earthquake?” Truman wondered out loud.

  Ryan had experienced small earthquakes in India and China. What he’d just felt was similar and yet not. It was a shock wave of some sort, but seemed too short-lived for an earthquake.

  Half a dozen cell phones began ringing. The people in the room grabbed for them, puzzlement spreading among the group. In the next few seconds, as Ryan studied the looks of shock on Pennington’s and Morrow’s faces and more ringing phones escalated the noise in the room, his blood ran cold. He knew the look on the president’s face. It wasn’t an earthquake.

  “Bomb,” he told Truman.

  Which meant only one thing.

  “Terrorists?” Truman’s eyes widened a fraction as his own cell began ringing. Around the room, people confirmed the news with shouts of “bomb” and “subway.” He rose from the chair to snatch the phone off his belt. “God save the Queen,” he whispered to no one in particular.

  God save the princess, Ryan thought, and ran for the doors.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Anya jumped at the sound of someone pounding on the bathroom door. She stepped out of the shower, grabbing the plush towel off the heated rack. She’d overslept again, and Inga was about to have a heart attack. “Give me a break, Inga. That wasn’t even three minutes. I’m going as fast as I can.”

  “Grand duchess,” Ivanov’s voice cut through the heavy door as if it were no more than cotton. “There has been a terrorist attack. I must insist you move immediately to my chambers for your own protection.”

  A terrorist attack? On the Great Kremlin Palace?

  Oh, no.

  Ryan. Was he okay? Anya started drying as fast as her hands would move. They shook so badly, she dropped the towel. Twice. “Dammit,” she muttered under her breath, and then to the door, she said, “I’m coming. Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

  The doorknob rattled. Thank God she’d locked it. Ivanov swore in Russian. “There is no time, Anya. You must come with me. Now!”

  “Two seconds,” she yelled back, throwing on Ryan’s sweater, and snatching up her dress pants. She didn’t have time to bandage her wound.

  He banged on the door again, frustration evident. “You may dress in my chambers.”

  Why was he so adamant about getting her to his chambers? Were the terrorists inside the Palace?

  Still barefoot, but fully clothed, she yanked open the door and ran her fingers through her wet hair to comb it out of her face. “Where are they?”

  Ivanov barely glanced at her, grabbing her arm, and hustling her to the secret door connecting their rooms. Andreev stood guard, and when she came into view, his gaze swept her from head to toe. His attention seemed to linger on the too-big men’s sweater.

  “The terrorists bombed the train station,” Ivanov said.

  The train station. So they weren’t in the Palace. A smidgen of relief washed over Anya. “How many were killed? Injured? Which group is behind it?”

  Ivanov either didn’t hear her question or chose to ignore it as he led her past her bed and the dresser, moved back to its original place, and into the secret hallway. Guards with ugly black assault weapons hurried past. Behind them, Andreev followed, closing the door to Anya’s room. He entered Ivanov’s chambers and shut that door as well, snapping the lock into place.

  A set of red suitcases and a briefcase sat on Ivanov’s bed. Beside them, a collection of his dirks.

  He hadn’t answered her questions. “Were many people hurt?” she asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Ivanov let go of her hand as he headed for the sitting area. “My guards will escort me to the presidential office to meet with my cabinet. You will stay here until I return. There is TV and food. Inga will be here shortly. If you have need of anything else, it will have to wait.”

  Andreev passed by her and began gathering papers on Ivanov’s desk. Ivanov moved the picture of Peter the Great out of the way and punched buttons on the safe’s keypad.

  Ivanov was worried. More than worried, frightened. Under the tightly reined-in emotions, she could tell he was freaking out. The suitcases and valued antique dirks told her he was ready to run. A natural reaction to a terrorist attack, but the thought unnerved her. He was president of Russia, after all. Shouldn’t he be more composed? More in charge? More concerned about the people who’d been hurt?

  More concerned about the world leaders inside the Palace under his protection?

  A hundred and one questions ran through her brain. What kind of bomb had the terrorists used? Nuclear? Biological? She didn’t know how far away the train station was, but if they were in danger, she at least wanted her shoes on to face it. “Why can’t I stay in my room?”

  Ivanov extracted a leather case and shut the safe door hard before turning to her. “The safest place for you is here.”

  Andreev piped up. “In case of evacuation, time is of the essence. You will stay in this
room until further notice.”

  Evacuation. So maybe he was concerned about the safety of everyone in the Palace, not just his own. If they were considering evacuation, however, the situation must have been dire.

  The dread in her chest had been sitting there, waiting. Now it exploded to life. Terrorists were trying to stop the summit, and they’d done enough damage to make Ivanov consider leaving the presidential Palace. No wonder he was freaking out.

  But why would it be faster to evacuate if she were in Ivanov’s chambers rather than across the hall?

  Her first instinct was to run. But run where?

  Her second instinct was to find Ryan. But, again, where was he in all this mess? And how would she find him if she was trapped here?

  Caught up in her thoughts, she watched mutely as Ivanov and Andreev raced out the door and past the ever-present guards, leaving her and her questions alone.

  Fighting the urge to run back to the Golden Chambers, she slumped down on the sofa and stared at the charred logs and ash in the fireplace grate. What was she going to do now?

  The bombing was certainly unexpected, and while part of her wanted to run far away, another part wanted to do something to help. She wasn’t a doctor, but people needed all kinds of care when something like this happened. If only she knew more about what was going on.

  The suite was too quiet, and for a minute, she considered turning on the TV in Ivanov’s bedroom. But besides the fact that being in there for any reason appalled her, a new thought rose to the surface. She was alone in Ivanov’s private quarters, and would be until Inga showed up to babysit her.

  A sudden calm mixed with a weird excitement came over her. There was nothing she could do about the terrorists or the destruction from the bomb. What she could do, however, was help herself, and maybe a lot more people as well.

  She pushed off of the sofa and eyed Ivanov’s desk. A thorough inspection would surely give her all the evidence she needed against him.

  If only I’d grabbed Ryan’s cell phone…

  Well, why couldn’t she go back to her suite and grab it? Socks and shoes, too? No one would know if she used the secret hallway between the rooms, and it sure beat doing nothing. In for a penny, in for a pound. Another of Grams favorite sayings, this one British.

  The four steps between the doors was microscopic compared to the size of the entire Palace, but for some reason, they seemed like the great divide to Anya as she eased through Ivanov’s private door and scanned the hallway. Voices drifted to her, distant but getting closer. More armed guards? Afraid she’d lose her nerve, she slid the president’s door closed, hopped across the divide, and opened hers.

  Ivanov had given her a golden opportunity to case his personal quarters and get any kind of damning information she could scrounge up. She didn’t want to waste too much time grabbing her shoes and the cell phone, so she went directly to the hiding place with focused determination. If she and the others inside the Palace were in any kind of danger from the terrorists, she’d at least have a way to communicate, and the small piece of proof that Ivanov had killed her parents.

  Ryan’s business card and the paper went back into her bra, but the phone was a problem. While it was slim and no longer than the palm of her hand, it nevertheless weighted down the light fabric of her linen and wool slacks when she slipped it into a pocket.

  Anya jammed the elaborate trim back into place and entered the enormous walk-in closet. She found her dress belt and wove it through the belt loops of her pants, tightened it, and slipped the phone into the waistband at the small of her back. Tight, but manageable. Ryan’s sweater draped low and was bulky enough to hide any telltale bulge.

  Next she grabbed dark wool socks. Ryan’s socks. She’d put them and her boots on once she was back in Ivanov’s quarters. Inga would arrive any minute, and Anya wanted as much time as possible alone.

  Ivanov seemed to trust the older woman more than anyone else in the Palace, maybe even more than Andreev. Anya wondered why. Was Inga related to him? Didn’t seem likely, but there was definite loyalty on both sides. She’d have to ask Inga a few questions and see if she could figure it out.

  As she turned to find where she’d stowed her boots, a hand came around her mouth, cutting off her startled gasp. An arm locked around her midsection, pressing her back against a hard stomach and chest.

  Reflexes kicking in, she drove her elbow into her assailant’s ribs. He grunted, but didn’t let go. She raised a foot to slam her heel down on his just as he spoke in her ear. “It’s me. Ryan.”

  At the last split second, she tried to rein in her heel, but it was too late. Adrenaline was shooting through her veins like a caffeine and sugar cocktail. She made contact with the top of his foot, although with slightly less force than intended. Which was good, since she wasn’t wearing shoes and he was.

  “Damn,” he muttered, dropping his hand from her mouth. “Even barefoot, you’re dangerous.”

  She sputtered a soft laugh and eyed him over her shoulder. His face was tense, tight lines pinching the corners of his eyes. He was worried.

  Well, that made two of them. “That’s what you get for sneaking up on me. I thought you were a terrorist.”

  His arm was still secured tight around her waist, his body heat soaking through the sweater. Now it was his turn to chuckle. “I’ve been a traitor but never a terrorist.”

  The moment the confession slipped out, his gaze dropped to the floor, and his jaw tightened. She was suddenly dying to find out what he meant by that, but she saved her questions. There would be time one of these days to put him on the spot and make him reveal his deep, dark secrets. She hoped.

  Relaxing into his body, she heaved a sigh and wondered why he hadn’t let her go yet. Although, she didn’t want him to. Like everything else about him, his solid, sheltering body reassured her, gave her confidence.

  He made her legs weak and her pulse erratic. That wonderful man-woman thing they had going. The kisses they’d share didn’t hurt either. “What are you doing here?”

  As if he realized how intimately he was pressed against her backside, he dropped his arm and released her, taking his glorious warmth and shelter with him as he stepped back. “My plan was to protect you if necessary. Apparently you’re capable of protecting yourself.”

  Instead of evacuating the Palace, he’d come back to make sure she was okay. To protect her. Anya’s heart skipped. On impulse, she turned, and hugged him. For who he was, even though she still wasn’t quite sure of his true identity. “From Ivanov or the terrorists?”

  He covered his startled reaction well, only hesitating a split second before he gathered her inside the safety of his arms and hugged her back. “Either,” he said softly against her hair. “Both.”

  Goose bumps trickled down the back of her neck and tightened her nipples. He was lean muscle and sinuous strength. Power and control, mixed with an underlying intensity that took her breath away.

  After all she’d been through in the past few days, he was the one enigma that didn’t scare her. The one mystery she wanted more of.

  She shifted her head to look at him, not taking her arms away from around his neck, and gave him a grin. His handsome face was so close that even in the dim lighting she could see flecks of amber in the rich brown of his eyes. Slanting her head up for better access, she pressed a soft kiss to the side of his face, grazing the corner of his lips. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  For a second he didn’t move, as if paralyzed. His already wide pupils widened a touch more. At the spot she kissed, his lips lifted. In surprise? In happiness?

  Whichever, he stroked her back with one of his hands, running his fingers up her spine, and giving the base of her neck a reassuring squeeze. “Ditto.”

  She kissed the other corner of his mouth. “I appreciate you wanting to protect me.”

  There was no hesitation this time. The hand at the base of her neck slid up under her hair and cradled the back of her head like he’d done in the ear
ly morning hours. His thumb massaged her scalp, making the heat in her stomach rise up through her chest and into her face.

  He lowered his head to kiss her. His lips, however, stopped a hair’s width from hers. “Makes no sense, since I barely know you, but I’d risk my life to save yours.”

  It made no sense to her either, but it felt right, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. She searched his face, saw the honesty there, and fixed her gaze on his mouth. “I hope you don’t live to regret that.”

  His mouth closed the distance, lips coaxing hers to respond. She didn’t need coaxing. She wanted Ryan with every cell in her body. Wanted his smile, his lips, and his strong arms to get her through the next few hours, the next few days.

  Intoxicating need shook her. She opened her lips to taste more. His hands slid down her back and over her sides, pressing her firmly against him while his tongue slipped between her lips. She met it with her own, running a hand up the back of his neck and drawing his head closer.

  There was so much she wanted to tell him. So much she wanted to ask him. It wasn’t fair she didn’t have time…

  Anya jerked back, heart galloping. Time. Inga was on her way. If she didn’t find Anya in Ivanov’s chambers, she’d look in here. Here, where Anya was making out with a CIA spy posing as an aide to President Pennington.

  Ryan looked dazed from the sudden shift, but immediately tensed and looked around. “What is it? Did you hear something?”

  Only the blood rushing in my ears.

  The creases in the corners of his eyes had almost disappeared. Anya wished she could take time to further erase the concern from his face, but she couldn’t. This might be her only chance to search Ivanov’s quarters. “I’m supposed to be next door. Ivanov demanded I hang out in his private chambers with Inga, in case of an evacuation. She’s on her way to babysit me, so I have to get back. But, as for the terrorists, who are they? Do you know?”

  Ryan’s grip on her waist eased and he shook his head. “I have several theories, but nothing concrete.”