by Misty Evans
Chapter Thirty-Two
Anya was wearing his sweater. Again. That fact made Ryan inordinately happy. Logic had told him she’d be in Ivanov’s suite, but he’d turned on the miniature tracking device in case she was still wearing his sweater. When the small red dot on his tablet computer had lit up and blinked her location, he’d had the same feeling. Inordinately happy.
And wasn’t that the stupidest thing? He was standing in complete darkness in a tunnel that connected the private quarters of the Russian president to his presidential bunker system in the heart of Moscow, breaking at least a dozen Russian laws—as well as a few American ones— with not one, but two women’s lives riding on his shoulders. His cover was all but blown, and the woman he was with had just assaulted the Russian prime minister and left him bleeding on the floor of the president’s private apartment. Said woman was running away with him, and all he could do was grin into the heavy darkness because she was wearing his goddamn sweater.
The silence in the tunnel was as thick as the blackout. Soundproof walls, no doubt. Anya’s breathing was light but there. He found her by touch, his fingers connecting with hers as if she were reaching for him at the same time he reached for her. There had to be a lighting system for the tunnel, but at that moment, he didn’t much care that they hadn’t found it. He could let his guard down, not worry about showing his emotions here in the dark.
He gripped her hand tight, drew her close, and whispered in her ear as he nudged her deeper into the tunnel. Soundproof or no, he wasn’t taking chances. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”
She kept her voice to a whisper as well. “I shouldn’t have attacked Andreev, but I didn’t know what to do. He tried to force me down here, and I knew if he succeeded, he’d lock me up somehow, someway. I’d never find Grams and…” She took one of those toe-deep breaths. “I’d never see you again.”
Shit. Good thing he couldn’t see her face, see the emotion on it. Her words alone were enough to swell his chest and shoot heat straight to his lower anatomy. He couldn’t afford to think with his dick right now. The goatfuck of an international incident they were about to cause—had already caused—would get him fired from the Agency.
No point in worrying about that since he’d most likely be dead before he made it back to Langley anyway.
His vision fought to adjust to the darkness. It was so complete, all he could make out was a faint oval shape in front of him. Anya’s face, hair. She was so pale, it was as if she were an angel, her luminescent skin shining through the black gloom. Her hair nearly glowing.
Ryan slipped his night vision glasses from his coat pocket and put them on. Boom, there she was in front of him. Eyes wide, hair mussed, her skin, hair, and clothing looking faintly green because of the lenses. The tunnel was cold, and he could see their breaths combining in the space between their faces. “Take my coat.”
“I’m okay.” Even as she said it, her body vibrated with a hard shiver.
He shrugged off the coat and helped her into it, ignoring her quiet protests. She couldn’t see him or the coat, so he guided her arms into the sleeves, zipped it up to her chin. Immediately her shivering ceased. She sighed contentedly.
“You’re wearing those glasses, aren’t you?” Anya’s fingers landed lightly on his face, touching the frames. The soft pads traced and explored like she was visually impaired, which she was, and double shit, his lower anatomy went sonic. “They help you see in the dark. Like night vision?”
Seeing was overrated when her fingers were so gently fondling his face. Two fingers landed on his lips, and he kissed them, once, twice.
Jesus God, he had to get his dick under control. “Anya, we have to get moving. Inga has probably already raised the alarm, and Ivanov’s guards will be looking for you. For us.”
Her fingers played over his cheekbones, drifted into the hair above his ears. Her face was turned up to his and even with sucky night vision, he saw her forehead crease in worry.
Damn.
“Why are you risking everything to help me?” Her voice, whisper and all, sounded so fragile, he couldn’t stop himself from drawing her into his arms.
She came willingly, trusting him to protect her. But how could he answer that question when he didn’t know why himself? Words never failed him, yet with her pressed close, and the worry on her face—not for her own predicament, but for him—shattered him to the bone. There were no words that could make her understand why he had just thrown his career, and possibly his life, under the bus.
So he lowered his lips to hers and answered her the only way he knew how.
She moaned under her breath, rising up on her toes and returning the kiss with her own soft lips. One hand slipped around the back of his neck, drawing his face down. The other curved around his waist and tugged him closer. Her lips played against his, pliant one second, aggressive the next. A give-and-take of tongues. All of it a loud and clear message that she understood what he couldn’t say.
And he understood what she wanted. Him. As conspirator, as spy, as the man who gave her his coat. She didn’t need to use sex to get him to help her save her grandmother. He was already here, already committed. He hadn’t told her anything about himself, hadn’t shared anything about who he was, or his past, and yet, that didn’t matter. He wasn’t Ryan Smith, or Ryan Jones, or Eddie or the other dozen alias and code names he’d developed over the years. He was just Ryan to her.
It was such a turn-on, he nearly backed her up against the cold tunnel wall, unzipped his coat—so bulky and way too big for her frame—and went to work on making her the happiest woman in Moscow. What he did instead was intensify the kiss, going hard as a rock when she responded. Hot, wet, and deep, he probed her mouth and enjoyed her moan, even though it was loud enough to echo in the tunnel and give away their location.
The two functioning brain cells still active in his frontal lobe kicked in. She was alone and bravely standing up to an egomaniac who’d killed her parents and kidnapped her grandmother. Of course, she was crushing on him. He was the only friend she had in the world right now, and he’d be taking advantage of her if he let this go any further…
Crushing on me.
He broke the kiss. His heart rebelled at the thought, but his foggy brain cells didn’t. Men and women in stressful situations often fell for each other, the adrenaline rush a natural aphrodisiac. Throw in some hero worship, the excitement of being on the run, and boom, the stress morphed into sexual desire. As soon as the danger passed, so did the emotional and physical high.
Was he freakin’ stupid? Spies were trained to resist this. Taught never to allow a dangerous situation to cloud their thinking or cause them to let down their guard. Sex was the enemy’s number one weapon. Plenty of agents, operatives, and assets had been done in by money and greed, but more had been done in by sex.
“Ryan?” Anya was breathing hard, her breath warm on his face. “What is it?”
No way should he be doing this. Taking her into the heart of GI 42, searching for a Cold War double agent, laughing in the face of his training and position in the CIA hierarchy. He should turn Anya around, march her back into Ivanov’s quarters, and help her come up with a good story about how Andreev had attacked her. How she’d feared for her life. He should go to Pennington with the measly bunch of crap they had on Ivanov, and let the president handle the potential nuclear threat. He should call Conrad at Langley and tell him, and his army of super agents, to find Natasha Romanov.
Grasping Anya’s hands, he removed them from his neck and waist, but held on to them. “We have to get moving.”
The crease appeared in her forehead again. Without waiting for her consent, he dragged her deeper into the heart of the enemy’s compound.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“How do you know which direction to go?” Anya asked, ignoring the stitch in her side.
They’d already hit several connecting tunnels, the one positive being that the intersections had lighting. Subdued, but ther
e, allowing her to see Ryan and the path in front of them.
A weird vibe hung in the air, and it had nothing to do with the fact they were jogging miles under the earth in a catacomb of steel tunnels that reflected the ugly side of the Soviet Union. Ryan had told her that a portion of Stalin’s bunker had been opened to the public back in the early 1990s, but this section had been kept from the public since it connected directly to the president’s apartments.
Regardless, it was hardly comparable to the beautiful subway system nearby. Where that system boasted opulence and pleasing architecture, this hidden bunker boasted sterile walls, terrible lighting, and cramped quarters.
In some ways, Anya felt a sense of pride in the Russian people, and those leaders who’d valued beauty and artistic expression in their transportation systems as well as their buildings. But just like in her life, outward appearances hid the unattractive truth. The hideous underbelly. These tunnels, still concealed from the public, attested to the horror of Stalin’s reign.
Much of Russia’s history was considered terrible by the free world, and Anya agreed there were many atrocities in its past, but life wasn’t just about happy endings. There was beauty to be found even in the midst of strife. Russians embraced that beauty and celebrated it. It gave them hope.
Right now, the shadowy tunnels gave her hope, even though they were far from beautiful. Or maybe it was Ryan’s presence. Although the tightness of his face, and the fact he wouldn’t look at her, made her stomach queasy. It was the kiss. Everything had changed since the kiss.
But why? They’d kissed previously, and he’d still been the imperturbable Ryan afterwards. Strong, sexy, unshakable. Why was he acting so weird now?
She stumbled, her legs heavy and weighted. Did she do something wrong? Well, duh. She’d done everything wrong since the moment she found Ivanov’s note and the plane ticket ordering her to Moscow. Since the moment she’d confirmed Grams had disappeared. Tonight, she’d knocked out the prime minister, and from the amount of blood on the floor, he might be dead.
Her stomach went queasy again, and a ringing set up camp in her ears. Had she killed a man?
Now she was on the lam, taking Ryan with her. My God, how could she be so selfish as to incriminate him in this, too?
How could she turn down his help, though? She needed him.
Way to go, Anya. Ruin a man’s life. A man who might have been the perfect prince to your princess if you weren’t so damned screwed up.
He still hadn’t answered her. Either he was ignoring her, or he was also lost in thought. She didn’t blame him if he was ignoring her. “I’m sorry.”
There, she said it. No whispering it either. She said it out loud, over the ringing in her ears. There was no one around, and they were miles under the Palace by now. Her feet burned inside her boots from the furious pace Ryan had kept. Dots danced in front of her eyes.
He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. He did, however, respond. “For what?”
He was talking again. That was a good sign. She pressed a hand against the burning in her side and tried not to sound out of breath. “Getting you mixed up in this. I’m afraid something’s going to happen—to you—and it will be my fault. I’m sorry for jeopardizing your men back at the cabin. I’m sorry for all of it.”
He stopped. Just like that. Anya, unprepared for the abrupt halt to their forward movement, ran into his back. Her heavy feet and weak legs caused her to lose her balance, but Ryan grabbed her upper arms and righted her with ease.
He rubbed his forehead and stared down the tunnel in front of them. He had to be cold, his breath fogging the air. “I have a map in my head of these tunnels.”
Anya placed a hand on a column for support and took a few deep breaths, blinking away the dots. When had she gotten so out of shape? “Huh?”
“You asked me how I know where to go. A map. Up here.” He pointed to his temple. “I memorized it a long time ago when I started with the CIA. Solomon, my friend, told me I was a dreamer to think I’d ever set foot in GI 42, but I memorized it anyway, just like I memorized Russian history and learned the language. I’ve spent my entire career wanting to be stationed in Russia, and ended up everywhere but, except for a brief stint right out of the Farm a dozen years ago. Now, here I am. Russia, the Cold War, Stalin…it fascinates me. All of it.”
That explained so much. She hated to ask but she had to know. “Am I just another Russian fascination? Is that why you were so eager to help me get down here and look for my grandmother?”
He spun to face her, and seeing her seriousness, he laughed, grabbed her free hand, and rubbed it between his. “You think I’m doing this so I can see GI 42?”
“Are you?”
He dropped her hand, and suddenly she was cold again. “What do I have to do, Anya, to prove to you I’m here because I want to help you and your grandmother? Write it in blood? Kill Ivanov? Go to prison for you?”
God, now she felt awful. She’d known since the moment she’d laid eyes on him that he was a good man, and here she was accusing him of using her to see a stupid Cold War bunker? It was the stress. She was losing her mind and her common sense.
She swallowed down the tears that clogged her throat. All she wanted to do was touch him again. Kiss him. Make him smile.
But none of that was going to work this time. “My whole life, I’ve spent looking over my shoulder. Running from things I couldn’t stand up to, or fight head-on. I can’t trust anyone. That’s what I’ve learned. So I don’t. There’s only been one person in my life I trusted and she’s…”
Her voice wobbled. She cleared her throat. I will not cry. “Grams gave me a good life, but above everything, she taught me to be independent. Not to trust or rely on anyone else. Ever. I hope you’ll forgive me for assuming the worst about you and your intentions. It’s hard for me not to.”
Ryan closed his eyes for a second as if he now felt awful. Then he opened them and looked straight at her. “I don’t trust anyone either. We’ll learn to do that together.”
He held out his hand, suspending it in the air between them.
Slowly, Anya raised her hand and slipped it into his. “That would be good.”
He tugged her beside him, and they started walking.
“If my internal compass is right, we’re heading northeast.” He pointed. “There’s an area ahead that was once used for interrogating Cold War spies. If Natasha is here, I’ll bet money that’s where Ivanov has her.”
Interrogation? Anya gripped Ryan’s hand tighter. Asked the question she had to ask. “Gram was more than just a Romanov, wasn’t she? She was heavily involved in politics, always in the middle of some debate, and advising Yeltsin behind closed doors. But why?”
“She was a Russian spy, possibly a double agent if my intel is correct.”
Grams, a spy? Anya waited for the shock to hit, but the realization made things about her past clearer. “That explains so much. Before and after my parents were killed. She and my dad talked politics a lot when I was young. She encouraged him to run for office, and I remember him agreeing, but I thought he was joking. Do you think Ivanov killed him because my father was going to run for president after Yeltsin retired?”
Ryan considered her theory. “Ivanov is obsessed with royalty, so he probably saw your father as his one true competitor to the presidential throne.”
“But why kill my mother, too?”
“She must have known something that would hurt Ivanov’s chances or maybe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Silence fell as Anya turned various ideas, including that one, over in her mind. Even walking, it was difficult to keep up with Ryan when she was so tired. Harder still to puzzle out her family’s mysterious past. “When we find Grams, I’m getting answers.”
“When. That’s good.”
“What?”
“You said ‘when’ not ‘if.’ That’s good.”
“Oh, we’ll find her. Alive and spitting nails.”
<
br /> “She was a tough woman in her time.”
“Still is.”
He stopped and smiled. “I know where you get it from then.”
Anya’s ears rang. “Oh, she’s way tougher than me. When my parents died, she buried them, helped me with my grief, packed up everything, and moved us thousands of miles to get us safely to America. She answered hundreds of my questions and got me settled in a foreign country with unending patience and grace. It must have been terrifying for her. Sad, too. To lose her only son and his wife. To have to uproot herself and her granddaughter, leave everything familiar behind, and start over.”
He’d seen the paper, seen “executed” beside her parents’ names. But he didn’t know everything.
“I was there that night.” Anya let the memory come back to her, Ryan’s hand reassuring. She knew they needed to keep moving, so she started to walk. He fell into step with her. “We were driving, and I was in the backseat. The sniper bullet came out of nowhere. I didn’t even know what it was. All I knew was, my father’s side window exploded. His head fell forward. The car went spinning out of control.”
A silent numbness set up in her chest. “The car went off the road and hit a tree. My mother was conscious, but her legs were crushed under the dashboard. She couldn’t get out. She was crying and screaming for my father, but he was already dead. A man, wearing black from head to toe, and a mask to cover his face, walked down the road. The rifle was slung over his back. My mother yelled at me to get out of the car and hide in the woods. I didn’t want to leave her. Didn’t want to leave either of them, but she insisted. So I climbed out and crept off before the man in black got to the car. I hid in the woods and saw him take a handgun from inside his coat.” Her breath hitched. “He shot my mother in the head.”
They’d come to a T-intersection. Ryan stopped, grabbed her in a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry.”
