by MB Austin
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Epilogue
About the Author
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Strictly Need to Know
When covert operator Maji Rios returns to her sleepy Long Island refuge after years of being anyone the Army needs her to be, all she wants is a quiet summer. Saving a gorgeous stranger from Russian mobsters on her first night home was not in her plans. Nor was waking up with her the next day, inside the notorious Benedetti family’s estate, already on the clock for her next mission.
One brush with danger can't scare Rose diStephano away from her last weeks with her favorite cousin, Angelo Benedetti. How hard could tagging along to Maji's martial arts camp be? Even if it means pretending that Maji is Angelo's girlfriend, rather than the woman she is falling in love with.
Maji will do whatever she must to complete her mission. Infiltrate enemy territory? Check. Protect civilians from blowback? Check. Keep Rose from getting too close? Ouch.
Strictly Need to Know
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Strictly Need to Know
© 2017 By MB Austin. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13:978-1-63555-115-0
This Electronic Original is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: December 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
Acknowledgments
Going from a story idea to first published novel was a long and sometimes bumpy ride. It would not have been successful, much less fun, without the help and company of a whole cast of characters. My eternal gratitude goes to those friends and family who indulged me in many conversations about how to give the “woman in danger” her own agency, what makes a hero, how to make reasonable force as cool as blowing stuff up, and other issues I had to wrestle with before I could get what I wanted onto the page. Huge thanks also to all the beta readers who gave me honest and constructive feedback, and to my critique group for helping me build on strengths and break bad habits.
Special thanks to my editor, Ruth, for being both kind and ruthless; to my military advisors, Lauren Osinski (Army) and Lt Colonel Bethany Ryals (USAF, retired), for their enthusiasm and great patience; and to my wife, Basha, for reading many alternate scenes and keeping version control in her head (for me), along with her opinions about which worked better (for her).
For Basha
Whither thou goest, baby.
Chapter One
Thwack! Maji’s attacker slapped the mat and rolled back to standing as the next one moved in on her. Thwack! The dance continued. At the eye of the storm, Maji Rios conserved her movements, focusing on technique over muscle. After an afternoon of drills in the dojo, she’d sweated enough to feel washed clean. For long, delicious moments at a stretch, she’d had to concentrate on nothing but her body and her sparring partners. Tired now, she felt her attention wander. She dodged the next oncomer, clapped twice. Everyone halted, waited respectfully in silence.
“Thanks, everybody. This was just the welcome home I needed.” She smiled at her friend Bubbles, now the head instructor, and bowed the two junior instructors out.
“That all you got?” Bubbles asked when the younger black belts had left. “You really all rehabbed?”
“I’m good,” Maji replied, stretching. “Just jetlagged.” She had gone directly from JFK to Oyster Cove via the Long Island Railroad. In her mind, she had left Sgt. Ariela Rios back at the airport and walked onto the train as her old self, Maji. She’d stopped at Hannah’s house just long enough to drop her Army duffel in the living room and headed for the dojo without so much as hanging her clothes in her room upstairs.
But walking in the back door of the dojo erased the time gone by. The locker room smelled the same, and her locker waited for her as if she’d been there only yesterday, Rios on the nameplate, gi hung neatly inside. She hadn’t felt any urge to poke her head into Hannah’s office or the mat rooms but suited up first, knowing everything here would be as it had always been.
Standing across from her now, Bubbles seemed reassuringly the same. Except for the new stripe on her black belt. She’d kept progressing while Maji—well, Maji had taken another track, one with no kata but plenty of tests. It was reassuring today to see how much of Hannah’s teaching came back, latent memory in the body like an unused language returning to the mind upon hearing it spoken again. A muffled clang of locker doors and laughter reached them from the locker room as the two junior instructors headed out to go swim at the pond, or sit down at their parents’ supper tables, or whatever kids their age did these days. Kids? She’d been their age when she enlisted, Maji reminded herself as she racked the staffs onto the wall.
“Hey,” she said with a frown, “we skipped gun drills. Knives, too.”
Bubbles shrugged. “It’s your first day back. Hannah said keep it simple.”
Did she now? Maji glanced over her shoulder at the two-way mirror between Hannah’s office and the mat room. Hannah certified trumps Army field certified, then. Well, I wouldn’t trust me with a prop gun, either. “What else did Sensei ordain?”
“Don’t be a brat,” Bubbles replied. “It’s been a rough time for all of us, you know.”
The guilt over missing Ava’s last months wiped any lingering self-pity from Maji’s mind. “Yeah. Sorry. So, what else, then?”
Bubbles sighed. “No questions about the Army, the Fallujah thing, where you’ve been, all that.”
“Fallujah? Who’s asking about that?” Maji could guess, but she needed to hear it out loud.
&
nbsp; “Lots of people around here got theories, hermana. They don’t care you don’t look like Ariela Rios in the news shots. Nobody trusts the government not to lie to them.” Bubbles half smiled, an apology for the world at large. “But you know Hannah. She makes sure if you want somebody to know your story, you get to tell them yourself. Okay?”
“Okay.” Maji nodded and leaned against the padded wall, all the travel and pushed-down memories catching up at once.
“Whoa, you gonna stay awake through supper? You need to go crash, Rey can wait to meet you.”
Maji pulled herself together and gave her friend a wry smile. Rey was a vet. He’d know what to say, and what to leave alone. “Hell if I’m going miss dinner at the Dive with you two. It’s high time I checked this guy out for myself.”
“Don’t believe a word that joker says,” Bubbles objected, suppressing a smile in that way that dimpled her cheeks. “He’ll try to win you over, but you remember you love me best.”
“Nunca puedo olvidarlo,” Maji promised.
Bubbles grabbed her and hugged her tight. “God, it’s good to have you home.”
Hannah stepped out of her office and put her head around the corner, a smile on her face. “If you’re all right to ride, your bike is in the garage.”
Maji extracted herself from the hug. “Sweet!” To Bubbles she added, “Meetcha there.”
Maji rinsed dried salt and the last of her homecoming anxiety down the drain in the dojo’s showers, hung her gi up to dry out, and pulled on her traveling clothes. Jeans and sneaks were fine for Mona’s Dive-In, their favorite hangout. But once she got settled, she’d let Bubbles take her thrifting, get something nicer to round out her three-outfit wardrobe.
Only a few blocks from the dojo, Hannah and Ava’s big old Victorian looked exactly the same as always, down to the wrought-iron fence and the neatly tended flower beds. Who had trimmed back Ava’s roses this spring? Maji wondered. Probably Bubbles. She thought about going in, unpacking, and changing, but the thought of being in the house with Ava’s absence pushed her back. So she headed to the garage out back and checked over her bike. It stood ready, tires full and dust wiped off. Nearby hung a new jacket, with a note. Welcome home. Ride safely.—Ava. Blinking back tears, she wished for the hundredth time she’d been able to come home in time. Tomorrow she’d see how Hannah was coping. Really.
Angelo Benedetti slipped into the gay bar not far from Wall Street, blending in with the young brokers who frequented it. Scanning for one guy in particular, he picked him out, sitting alone at the bar. Fair-haired and slender, midthirties, the second-generation Russian was rumored to have a soft spot for traders. Angelo took the stool next to him and made a fuss about getting a drink, pronto. He looked to Sander and made a face. “Is it always like this?”
“Pretty much. You new here?”
“New?” Angelo gestured to the scene in general, the men, the action. “Do I look new?” Actually, he hadn’t been in gay bars much before. Could have got him discharged from the Army. Or in high school, killed. But pretending? Nothing new there.
Sander looked unamused. “No, no. To Wall Street. To trading. You are a broker, yes?”
“Oh, hell no. I don’t work on the floor. I come in here for the obvious, and to pick up any insider tips floating around. I day-trade.” Angelo waited for the skeptical look. “I know. Everybody thinks that’s a pipe dream. But if you’re good with algorithms, you can clean up. I write my own.”
“Really? I’m in tech support for a finance operation.” He pulled a business card from his inside jacket pocket, handed it to Angelo. “Sander. You look so familiar.”
“Angelo. That really the best line you got?” He shook Sander’s hand, held it a beat too long for custom. “Sorry, I don’t have a card. But I could give you my number.”
“I would like that.” Sander pulled out his cell phone. “Last name?”
“Just Angelo.”
Sander’s eyebrows arched, and his mouth turned down. “No last name, no phone number, no date.”
Pity. Getting close to him would be more pleasure than work. “You not going to stalk me, are you?” Angelo said, laughing. No laugh from Sander. “Fine. Benedetti. B-E—”
“I know how it’s spelled. No wonder you are Just Angelo.”
Angelo shrugged. “I tell people my last name, and from there it’s all either family biz or questions about being a hostage, or both. I’d like to skip that tonight, please, just be two guys having a drink. Can we do that?”
Sander hesitated, wary. “No, that’s not likely. Sorry.”
“Hey—we don’t pick our families. Yours is so perfect?”
Sander closed his eyes, swallowed. “Look at the card.”
Angelo read the glossy embossed type: Aleksander Khodorov. “Oh, crap. That is awkward.” He leaned over the bar, grabbing for the bartender. “Where’s my fuckin’ order?” As soon as it appeared in front of him, he downed it. “One more. Please. And whatever he’s having, on me.”
“What are you really doing here?” Sander asked, not touching the new drink.
Angelo shrugged again. “Gettin’ laid. Committing suicide. Changing history—you tell me.”
“Melodramatic much?” Sander laughed, shook his head, took a sip.
“Are you sayin’ it’s not a risk, just you being here? What if one of your father’s crew sees you?”
“Then they hope I meet a nice a guy, settle down, stop cruising joints like this. Such a bunch of old hens.”
“Wow. You shittin’ me here?”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Angelo. You’re really not out?”
Angelo laughed bitterly. “In my family, it’s more like 1946. Especially with Gino as capo. Hell, I was more out in the Army.” He hesitated, looked down at his drink. “They just let you…be you?”
“Look. I’m not saying it’s paradise. I could get bashed leaving here. But not by my own people—I’m the boss’s son, and I’m valuable in my own right. I may be a fag, but I’m their fag.”
“Hey, watch your mouth!” Angelo flared.
Sander smiled wryly, looking for the first time like his father. “Little sensitive, in the closet?”
“I spent my whole life hearing that crap from idiots. I got no use for it around here.”
“Well, good for you. Now make yourself essential, and maybe you could be yourself one day, too.”
“Nah, not within the Family. What I’m good at they don’t want. Took me months to get Gino to let me set up offshore accounts for him. Wasn’t for me, he’d still be hiding cash in a mattress.”
“You’re into banking?” Sander asked, a bit too casually.
Angelo smiled impishly at him. “You say that like, Are you into leather?” He chuckled at Sander’s blush. “Yeah, you could say I’m into it. Not like you guys, owning banks, dodging regulators. You own the racket. Tech support, my ass. You probably run a division.”
“I couldn’t say. You understand.” Sander said it lightly, but without a smile.
“I understand completely. But what I’m good at, you would be very interested in.”
“You have a truly odd way of flirting, you know that?”
Angelo shrugged and smiled affably. “I’m Italian.”
Sander smiled, finally. “Let me buy you dinner, and we’ll see if I’m interested.”
“Go out? Together?” Angelo’s smiled faded.
“My place, then. You can show me how good Italians really are in the kitchen.”
“Baby, I’m good everywhere,” Angelo bragged.
Angelo made a call to Frank, who was already on his way to Mona’s Dive-In with Rose. “Give her my apologies, and make sure she stays for supper, okay?” Maybe she’d bump into Maji, even without him there to make the introductions. Assuming Maji showed up to meet her best friend’s husband, as he’d been promised. Frank passed the phone to his cousin before he could stop him. “Hey, Rose. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Stay and try the mocha shake fo
r me. I hear they’re legendary. Okay. Love you, too.”
Sander was on the phone, as well, speaking faster Russian than Angelo could keep up with. He closed the phone and said with a smile, “Papa looks forward to meeting you. Our ride is on its way.”
Angelo swallowed. Infiltration was moving faster than expected. But that was good, right? “Great.”
Chapter Two
Humming along the waterfront on her Zero DS electric motorcycle, Maji passed joggers in tank tops, kids swimming in the chilly waters of Long Island Sound, and picnickers lounging in the shade of leafy giant maples. She marveled at how cool the Kevlar air mesh jacket felt, light and porous yet snug and reassuringly rigid in all the places reinforced to protect bones and joints.
If she overshot the restaurant by a few miles, she could track down the neighborhood of stately spreads where Angelo grew up. Should she? Another night. Hard to believe they’d spent so much time in the same part of Long Island for so many years and never met. But then, his family didn’t grace places like Mona’s Dive-In. They went upscale and expected to be comped wherever they were recognized.
Mona didn’t comp anyone she wasn’t actually friends with, and she didn’t have any friends in their circles. At any rate, Angelo would be anywhere but the House that Death Built. And without him in it, his family’s estate would be just another overpriced property by the water. Once she got unpacked, she’d track down Dev and Tom, and catch up. They’d know where Ang was.
Maji pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant and smiled up at the sign reading Mona’s Dive-In, with its illustration of a 1940s poster girl in a bikini poised to dive into a milkshake. Mmm…a mocha shake. Home.
The sound of a couple arguing drove the reverie away. Maji spotted them standing on opposite sides of their maroon town car and pulled into the space next to them, on the driver’s side where the gray-haired guy in a sport coat couldn’t see her, but the woman on the passenger side could. A quick scan showed her to be much younger than the man, late twenties to midthirties. She was looking directly at the driver, hands pressing on the car’s roof as if to shove the man on the far side away from her, along with his vehicle.
