by Lea Griffith
Jude raised his right hand. “Swear it. But only if she gives me Ella’s location.”
“I’m good, Dagan, but she’s gone ghost, and not even I can track a ghost,” Vivi told him, a mournful quality to her voice that stung him.
Jude cursed and ran a hand over his hair.
“But I do know that Svetlana Markov is headed for Moscow. In fact, she landed earlier today and registered a room at the Four Seasons…ummm, a penthouse suite,” Vivi dropped into his silence.
Rook straightened and sighed. “Stop doing this to him, baby. You’re tearing him apart.”
Vivi grabbed Rook’s hand, entwining their fingers, locking them together. “He looked at her the way you look at me, Rook. The way I’m sure I look at you. What they have doesn’t die. Besides, I owe him one…or twelve.”
“For what?” Rook asked in outrage.
“Ukraine,” Jude answered. He’d buried himself in intelligence gathering when he’d first heard rumors of a woman with a gaze of frost and a bullet scar at her temple making waves for Horace Dresden. During a two-day stint in Ukraine tracking a former Russian FSB agent, Jude had hit a gold mine. He’d managed to get a shit-ton of information from the former agent. Of course, he’d had the man strung up and hooked to battery cables at the time, but the FSB agent had sung a nice tune. Jude had netted information about Dresden hunting Rook’s wife.
Dresden had it bad for the former CIA analyst. Whether it was to kill her or have her skill set for himself was anyone’s guess. Had Jude not given Rook the intel, Vivi might well be in Dresden’s clutches today.
Rook let a really foul word slip out before he looked at Jude. “She’s right.”
Jude nodded in agreement.
“But this is it. She gives you this, and you don’t ask her anymore, Keeper. King would have my ass, and man, this shit just isn’t good for you. If she wanted to be here, she would be. She’s obviously a lost cause.”
Jude was in the other man’s face just that quick. He pushed Rook against the opposite wall and got real close. He didn’t spare a second to acknowledge that Rook was allowing this to happen. Rook and Jude were evenly matched, but Jude had rage bleeding through him. Rook only had pity.
“Don’t say that,” Jude pushed out between clenched teeth.
“Somebody needs to,” Rook responded.
Vivi reached for Jude, placing a hand on his back. Rook growled, but Vivi just shushed him. “There’s more at play here. King’s right. We don’t know everything. You find her and keep her safe, because I have a bad feeling the Piper is using her for something bigger than any of us realize.”
Jude snapped his gaze to her. He hadn’t breathed a word of what had happened in Sarajevo to anyone. That meant Vivi had her own suspicions. He wanted to talk theories with her, but he needed to get to Ella. His gut told him something huge was about to go down, and every instinct he possessed urged him to find her…protect her.
“The Piper is a good man. But even good men do bad things to get an end result,” Vivi said as she stepped back. “Let my husband go, Jude.”
Jude pushed away from Rook. “I’m sor—”
Rook threw him a look from narrowed eyes. “Don’t apologize. I wouldn’t. But I mean it. After this, no more. You leave Vivi out of this shit. Consider Ukraine my debt, you feel me?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah.” He turned to Vivi. “Where?”
“Start with Svetlana Markov. I’ll send you an encrypted file on her and her husband, both known associates of our good friend, buddy, old pal Horace Dresden. Word on the street, a.k.a. my hack of an FSB database, indicates there is a meet and greet between Yevgeny Markov, Anton Segorski, and the Russian prime minister in two days—and rumors are being tossed around about Crimea and oil. Lots and lots of oil. Oh, and money. Lots and lots of that too. Read the file, Dagan. You’ll find it interesting how they all intersect with Dresden.”
“You’ll have a twelve-hour head start. She’s got to give this information to King,” Rook warned. “If we can get Dresden…”
“I know,” Jude replied. “I’ll set up shop. I’ll give King everything I have once I arrive. Chances are that Dresden won’t show but his players will.” And by players, he meant Ella.
Rook and Vivi both nodded. “I don’t know who King will send, but I’ll be volunteering,” Rook said. “You might want to consider letting your team leader in on this, Jude. Otherwise, he’ll bench your ass, maybe even kick you off the team. You do remember you have a team, right, Dagan?”
Jude hung his head. Shame speared him. “I never forget my team.” He raised his head and stared at Rook, letting everything he’d felt over the past year infiltrate his gaze. “She was my soul. I have to know. But I won’t compromise my team. Ever.”
Rook took a step toward Jude and held out his hand. “Brother. I’ll see you in Moscow.”
Jude grasped Rook’s forearm in the way all warriors had, inclined his head, and stepped around his teammate to Vivi. He placed his hand on her cheek and bent his forehead to hers. “Thank you. I’m sorry King’s going to rip you a new ass over this.”
“Big, bad CIA operative here. I can handle King.” She smiled, and Jude knew shame again. “Find her. Bring her home. She’s been gone too long, Jude,” Vivi whispered.
Jude headed to his room, grabbed a go bag, and walked out of the Civil War–era mansion they’d taken over as their headquarters in Port Royal. And he kept walking—to his car where he got in, gunned the engine, and screeched out of the driveway.
Time was ticking down. He had to get to Moscow and set up shop, do recon, and figure out what the hell was going on.
He had to find Ella. Before she did something neither of them could come back from.
Chapter 6
Ella strapped the sleek, black matte-finished H&K VP9 in the holster at her back and slipped her combat knife into its special scabbard at her side. She put her fawn-colored leather coat over them both, thinking about the meeting she had with Svetlana Markov in around thirty minutes.
She had researched Markov ad nauseam over the last two days, and what she’d discovered could fit in a thimble. The woman had supposedly been born in Moscow, raised in Moscow, and if she moved the wrong way with Ella today, she’d die in Moscow. Other than that, Ella had no idea what to expect.
Dresden had told her nothing other than that Yevgeny Markov’s wife was in his pocket and Ella was to meet with the woman.
A brief knock sounded on the door, and Ella reached for her weapon. She was expecting no one.
“Obsluzhivaniye nomerov,” a disembodied voice called out.
“I don’t speak Russian,” Ella answered. It was a lie. She knew Russian as well as she knew Lebanese, but today she was a corn-fed, straight-out-of-Nebraska tourist. She wouldn’t tip anyone off by speaking fluent Russian.
No one knew this, but Harrison Black had kept her supplied in identities for the last year. She didn’t trust Dresden, so she’d reached out to Black through Brody, and he’d reluctantly—okay, had his arm twisted by the Piper—agreed to supply her.
Nobody did fake identities like Harrison Black. The surly former SAS agent knew his stuff, and though he grumbled every time she contacted him, he still called her Ella-Bella. Team. King was going to be so pissed off when he discovered Black had helped her. Hopefully, she’d get a chance to run interference for Black before King took his head off in anger.
“Message,” came the stilted reply, pulling her from her musing. “For you.”
Ella cautiously opened the door, prepared for anything. A slight man dressed in the accoutrements of a bellhop was holding a single sheaf of paper, which he handed to her before turning on his heel and leaving.
Ella took the paper, unfolded it, and read.
Meet me in Saint Basil’s.
Ella’s mind whirred. She’d love to have Brody around to bounce things off. H
e’d served as her friend, teammate, and handler for the last year. He’d couriered information for her to the Piper, and he’d been her sounding board when shit got bad.
Right now, she’d love to have him at her back.
Ella had been told to meet the woman in the State Historical Museum. She didn’t care for the change in venue, but it wasn’t tourist season and there were ongoing renovations at Saint Basil’s. Perhaps that’s why Svetlana had chosen it—less line of sight, more barriers to hide behind. Still, Ella was prepared for anything at this point, and it was too late to turn around.
How many times would she have to tell herself that?
Instead of continuing to beat herself up, she made her way to Saint Basil’s Cathedral. The beautiful, multicolored onion domes played supplicants to a stunning blue Moscow sky. The air was crisp, and all around her, tourists were snapping shots and laughing, completely unaware that somewhere in the world Horace Dresden was plotting their demise in his bid to line his pockets.
Ignorance could be bliss.
Ella didn’t sense anyone watching her, which was a marked difference from Sarajevo a mere three days ago. Her steps didn’t falter, but she wanted to fall to her knees at the shot of pain she felt in remembering Jude’s face.
Betrayal. Rage.
She’d caused that.
Ella entered the cathedral but didn’t pause to admire the colorful murals and mosaic tiles the cathedral was known for. Ivan the Terrible had created an ode to Jerusalem as only a proper Byzantine Christian could, and it had stood the test of time. For Ella, it was nothing more than a place to meet and discuss business that would bring her closer to eliminating Horace Dresden.
To her left, she saw a woman standing in front of a large section of wall currently under renovation. A beige drape was her backdrop. The woman was taller than Ella, maybe five nine or so, with startlingly blond hair pulled into an elegant chignon, and wearing sunglasses.
Ella came closer, willing the woman to take off her glasses, and surprisingly she did, meeting Ella’s gaze with no small amount of aggression. The aggression gave Ella pause. This was a simple meet and greet—get some information, and get out. The meeting between Segorski, Svetlana Markov’s husband, and the prime minister wasn’t until tomorrow, yet the woman acted as if they were about to plot to overthrow the entire Russian government.
Chills skated down Ella’s spine, and the feeling of being watched made an appearance like a hammer to the back of her neck. She smiled at the Markov woman, hoping to ease the tension as she held out her hand.
Svetlana Markov dismissed her hand with a look. “You’re late,” the woman hissed so softly that Ella wondered if she’d spoken at all. “Do you not know what I risk meeting you?”
“I’m right on time,” Ella replied, coming to a standstill about three feet from the other woman. “Shall we?” Ella inquired as she motioned to a small alcove to their left.
“Here’s fine,” Svetlana said. She cocked her head and stared at Ella from head to toe. Finally, she gave Ella a look that said she found her lacking. Ella almost laughed. The nerve. “For some reason I expected more of a…soldier.”
“Your expectations aren’t much of a concern to me, Svetlana. Now, why am I here?” Ella inquired politely, her face blank, her mind whirring. The woman had no accent, and she kept both her face and body absolutely still. Only her eyes betrayed her—as if they couldn’t contain her wrath at the world around her. She was…disquieting. And very, very trained. Ella hadn’t anticipated that.
“He didn’t tell you? Perhaps you aren’t as important to him as he led me to believe,” Svetlana said, running a red-tipped nail over her lips.
“We can play games. I’m okay with that. But if I leave here without the information Dresden has been promised, you will lose. And, Svetlana?” Ella said, leaning closer to the woman so she could whisper and still be heard, getting all up in her personal space. “I’ve seen what happens to people who lose to Dresden.” Ella slowly lifted a finger and traced the scar at her temple.
“Back away,” Svetlana responded harshly.
Ella did, giving the woman a moment to collect herself. Though fear wasn’t visible on Svetlana’s face, it permeated the air.
And still Ella’s neck felt the weight of either a scope or someone’s gaze. She turned discreetly, seeking the shadows in every corner and seeing no one.
Svetlana Markov had been bred wealthy. It was another thing besides the fear and aggression she reeked of. Her clothes were Dior, her shoes and purse matching. Her hair color was flawless, though definitely from a bottle. She smoothed back the wispy strands of hair that had escaped her updo, and fidgeted, just once, from foot to foot.
Ella made her nervous, and that pissed Svetlana Markov off.
“Why am I here, Svetlana?” Ella was done playing.
“He will want to know what Yevgeny’s plans are,” Svetlana said, glancing around and finding no one paying any undue attention to them.
“And you’re going to tell me?” Ella pushed.
Svetlana stared at her, eyes pinning Ella in place. “He plans to crawl into the prime minister’s pocket by offering up Horace’s location.”
She called him Horace. How cute, Ella thought with disgust. Was she a lover? She dismissed that immediately. Svetlana’s angst didn’t have a jealous lover vibe. Ella was missing something, and she couldn’t put a finger on it. “So he’s going to tell the prime minister where Dresden is, and then the prime minister will attack? I don’t understand what that nets your husband.”
Svetlana waved her hand dismissively. “He’ll take Horace’s place if he’s successful. It’s kill or be killed. Power cannot be attained until you reach the inner sanctum, and most of the time, by then you are already dead. Do you not understand the game?”
Confusion numbed Ella. Her body seemed frozen as her mind ran through scenarios. Endgame, endgame, endgame… The words whispered through her like a cold wind. It was all a game. And what the hell was the inner sanctum?
“You didn’t know,” Svetlana said, shock threading her tone. “How could he send you here and not give you this information? Do you not know who he is?”
“Who Dresden is?” Ella asked. “Yes, he’s a—”
Svetlana threw up a hand. “Not Dresden, the Pi—”
A cough-like sound split the air, and just as suddenly, blood sprayed from Svetlana Markov’s chest. Ella caught the woman as she fell, noticing the woman’s shock had spread to her face. Her lips were moving as Ella lowered her to the ground, her head swiveling as her gaze sought the shooter.
They were alone in the hallway.
Ella lowered her head to Svetlana’s lips. “Get to Kazansky Railway Station, locker 2207, combination 24-17-24. Take the packet inside and run. Get your ass out of here. Tell your boss I tried. He must hide my sister.”
The woman was gasping now, pain and loss of blood making her pallid and gray. “I can get you help,” Ella urged.
Another coughing sound, suppressed gunfire Ella now knew, and the woman’s head split open between her eyes. Blood the color of night poured from the wound, and as Ella watched, the life fled from the Russian woman’s eyes. Ella lowered the woman’s head to the ground and pivoted on her feet before ducking farther and diving behind the small alcove she’d tried to get Svetlana into earlier.
No more shots rang out, but Ella wasn’t stupid enough to believe the shooter was gone. They wouldn’t risk Svetlana having given her any information. She was the target now. She was damn lucky they hadn’t taken that final shot at Svetlana through her.
She took a quick peek around the corner and winced as another coughing shot heralded the bullet that embedded in the wall behind her. She dodged another bullet as it found a home in the rock across from her, spitting chunks of stone onto her face.
She pulled her gun from its holster, chambered a round, and
waited. Five, four, three—she stepped out from behind the wall of the alcove and began firing in the direction the shots had come from. A man was on his knees, a rifle bearing a suppressor held to his shoulder. She had no idea where he’d come from. He’d appeared as a ghost, and she hoped to make him one for real.
Ella aimed and fired, but the man fell before her bullet could take him, his head rocking sideways from the impact of another bullet. From the hallway to the dead man’s left, another man stepped out, his black gaze piercing hers. He walked swiftly to the downed man, kicking away the weapon and checking for any identifying information. He moved like her dreams.
Warrior.
Ella turned and ran.
“Ella!” Jude called out. “Goddamn it, wait!”
Everything in her wanted to freeze. The command in his voice was absolute, but it was the plea buried beneath the order that had her heart demanding she turn around and run to him, not away.
Dresden would kill him. Whoever had ordered Svetlana killed would kill him. So she ran away, dodging tourists and security guards running toward the scene she’d just left. She didn’t slow or look back until she made it to the turnstiles at the front entrance. She didn’t see him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t close.
Jude was a big man, but he had the uncanny ability to blend into any surroundings. It was what made him such an excellent hunter and sniper. You never saw Jude unless he wanted you to, and right now, he was probably content to follow her.
But Ella had learned a few things in the year she’d been gone from him. Hiding was what she did best, and she’d take refuge in that now. She turned to her left as she exited the cathedral, once again dodging tourists. In the distance, sirens wailed, drawing closer. Ella had to ghost quickly.
She took a direct track across the Red Square, heading toward the State Historical Museum. Ella didn’t look back. She was fast but realized Jude was faster. It was colder today than it had been yesterday, and the air burned in her throat. She sprinted across the length of the square and dodged into the museum. Once inside, she stopped and searched for a security guard.
