by Livia Grant
Brandon Webster, the lowest ranking man in the room other than Ryder jumped into the interrogation with the first sensible question. "Helms, why don't you lay it out for us. We read the report you filed in Germany, but I'd like to hear you walk us through what happened once you entered the Volkov compound."
Ryder nodded a thanks to his boss for helping reset the room and then launched into a detailed verbal report of everything that happened last Thursday night, beginning with getting into the car with Alexi. He left no details out, talking through his actions as well as his decision making process along the way. It took him two hours of non-stop talking. He was grateful the men around the table didn't interrupt him with stupid questions, only asking for clarification a time or two. By the time he was done, he felt drained and wished he could go home and sleep for a week.
The men in the room had other ideas.
"Thank you for your detailed report, Agent Helms." It was George Fortin speaking. "While it's unfortunate to lose your connection with the Bratva, you won't be held personally responsible for Viktor Volkov's death."
He chuckled before he could stop himself. When every face was like stone, no one understanding why he was laughing, Ryder added. "Maybe the company isn't holding me responsible, but you can bet your ass that Artel Volkov and his brothers disagree." He sobered before adding, "I'll never be able to turn my car on again without wondering if today is the day I go boom. I'll be watching over my shoulder waiting for them to show up to collect their revenge. They aren't the kind of men to let a betrayal like this go unchecked. Worse, I know I put every agent on the ground in Russia in danger as the family turns over every rock looking for me."
Ryder could see agreement in the eyes of every man around the table. It was the man in the suit at the far end of the table who stood first, bringing the meeting to a close. "Gentlemen, let's let Webster finish debriefing Agent Helms so he can get some rest." He had walked towards Ryder, stopping short of where he sat before he finished, "Well done, young man. I realize that not everyone around this table would have made the same choices you did in the same situation, but I'm on record that it was a solid operation." He reached into his vest pocket and came out with a business card, placing it in front of Ryder. "I'll be debriefing Director Ryan personally. I want you to call me if anyone gives you shit, Agent Helms."
He barely got out his, "Thank you, sir," before the man was at the door. Only then did he glance down to find out he was Deputy Director, the man second in command of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Fuck. I'm glad I didn't have a clue who he was before this meeting started.
Understanding that the highest ranking man in the room had just dismissed them, the rest of the office's occupants stood, most quietly shuffling out without another word. Several stopped to pat him on the back or shake his hand.
Only when Ryder and his boss were alone did Brandon Webster whistle. "Holy shit, that was intense."
Ryder finished the last swig of his now cold coffee before answering. "After last Thursday, that was a walk in the park," he countered. He then asked the question he needed an answer to. "How is Hansen doing? Did he make it?"
"He came through surgery and is still hanging on. The last report I got listed him in critical, but stable, condition."
It was a good sign he'd made it this long. "He's tough. He'll make it." Changing the subject, he asked his next question. "So now what the fuck happens? I get put out to pasture?"
Webster took a pack of cigarettes out and lit up. It always cracked Ryder up that the federal ban on smoking inside government buildings was broken often inside the walls of CIA headquarters. Puffing out a line of smoke, he finally answered.
"You have some choices. At thirty-eight, you're young enough to start over. With your language skills, we could place you in almost any eastern European country tomorrow. We still need eyes and ears on the ground across the globe, whether you're in deep cover or not."
Ryder'd suspected that would be the first option offered. Starting over didn't sound like much fun at the moment.
"Next..." he prompted.
"You could retire. You have thirteen active years in. That's more than most."
"Retire and do what? I don't golf and don't feel like taking up knitting."
His boss gave him a dirty look as he puffed on his cancer stick. "Smart-ass. There's a lot of work for retired agents in the private sector."
"Are you trying to get rid of me?"
"Fuck no."
Ryder was getting impatient. "Then what else is there?"
"There are plenty of options. Stay in D.C. Become a handler. Work in mission control. Put your language skills to work in interpretation and logistics. Become a trainer. There are dozens of jobs you're overqualified for."
None of those sounded very exciting, but they did sound a bit safer. Still, he'd be bored in a week with a desk job. He knew it in his heart.
Finally, Webster mentioned something that sounded slightly better. "Hell, we could put you in interrogations with your success rate at breaking people. Don't worry about it for a while. You've earned some time off. Keep your phone on in case I need to get ahold of you, but take a vacation." When Ryder made to argue, he held up his hand. "This is not a request, it's an order. I don't want to see you back here for a few weeks. Get some rest. Eat some food, and for God's sake, take a shower."
Ryder was suddenly very tired. He couldn't wait to follow his boss's directions to the letter. Eat, shower, and sleep–in that order. Pushing to his feet, he reached out to shake Webster's offered hand. "Thanks for having my back with that crowd. I didn't know what to expect."
Webster chuckled. "Hell, I don't know half the time either. I'll try to keep them off you for a week, but I'd expect a call from Chip Marshall, unless you'd rather I not pass him through to you. He called yesterday looking to thank you personally for rescuing his family. The man actually started crying while talking to me."
Ryder had had time on the plane to research the Marshall family. He hadn't known anything about them during the mission and was glad. He wouldn't have wanted to figure in the fact that they were part of one of the countries ten richest families, making their billions in oil. Marshall had taken his family to Russia on oil business that apparently had been cutting into the Volkov's livelihood.
"Naw, that's fine. If he wants to talk, I'll listen."
He was at the door, about to leave when his boss shouted, "I mean it. Get some downtime, Helms."
Ryder didn't answer.
Forty-eight hours later, Ryder finally felt rested, having slept at least half the time he'd been holed up in his apartment. He'd been living off bad Chinese and pizza, relying on delivery, since he didn't have even the basic staples in his kitchen. He wasn't usually home long enough to cook.
He should feel relaxed, but instead, he was on edge. He'd spent the last hour pacing his small apartment located only a few miles south of CIA Headquarters. This was exactly how he'd spent the weeks of his recovery the last time he was back in the States, feeling a bit like a trapped animal. He needed purpose. A goal. Without it, his mind wandered to things he shouldn't think about that only put him more on edge.
He was resisting turning on the TV or getting on the Internet. Not because he wanted entertainment, but because he knew it would be hard to resist searching for information on her. He prided himself on his self-control, yet memories of a beautiful woman he'd had the pleasure of dominating for three short hours months before refused to be quieted. While he'd been working, he'd forced himself to focus only on his mission, but short of worrying if the Volkovs had uncovered his real identity yet, he didn't have any company business to distract him from his favorite pastime–thinking of Khloe Monroe. Remembering the feel of her thick hair in his grasp as he'd fucked her–the sexy sounds she'd made as she'd allowed herself to come apart in his arms–the tears in her eyes as he'd crushed her during their brief good-bye–it all made his chest compress with an odd, empty feeling that he loathed.
Even after he took a five-mile run and a long, hot shower, he couldn't shake visions of his temporary submissive from his mind. Finally giving in to temptation, he took a seat in the plush leather lounge chair, the only furniture in his living room, and turned on the television. He spent a few minutes flipping through global news channels looking for updates on events happening halfway around the globe. But as he knew he would, he eventually found himself stopping on the entertainment channels, looking for news out of Hollywood. It was a waste of time. What were the chances of them doing a story on Khloe?
When a small rectangle appeared over the anchor's shoulder with a smiling Khloe in it, his heart lurched. He scrambled to turn up the volume, not wanting to miss any part of the story.
"Inside sources on the set of Khloe Monroe's newest movie report the actress has received several threats. Inside Edition has confirmed that security in and around the Burbank studio where she is currently filming Smuggled Dreams is at its highest level. This coming on the heels of the police activity at her New York City apartment building last week have insiders concerned for Ms. Monroe's safety."
Ryder sat up in the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, getting closer to the TV as he watched footage of a burly guy with tattoos, his arm around her waist, pushing a frightened looking Khloe through a throng of fans gathered for her autograph. He gritted his teeth watching her bodyguard shielding her with his own body.
Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Helms.
The story continued. "Sources close to the studio are concerned that the Hollywood opening of Khloe's critically acclaimed movie, Dirty Business, might be in jeopardy. It's reported that Khloe Monroe is having second thoughts about taking to the red carpet this Thursday evening with her stalker still at large. Co-star and boyfriend, Dean Reynolds, is said to be very concerned for the love of his life."
The story cut to the close-up of some pretentious asshole who appeared to be enjoying his time in the spotlight. The words 'Exclusive Interview' crawled along the bottom of the screen as the Inside Edition reporter spoke with Khloe's boyfriend. "I'm not allowed to talk about the investigation. Just know that Khloe has been in danger and those of us who love her the most are working to protect her as best we can until the culprit behind the threats against her person is in custody."
Of course she has a boyfriend now, asshole. Why would she be waiting for you? You threw her away at the end of Valentine's Day.
It didn't matter that it had been for her own good. He'd still hurt her. What she didn't know was it had hurt him to leave her there, too.
When the story ended, he flipped off the TV, pushing to his feet to pace his apartment again until he found himself in front of his laptop. He spent the next hour Googling all the information he could find on the recent threats against Khloe. He found photos from her on the red carpet in NYC the week before, looking exactly like the princess that he had nicknamed her. It only angered him more to find the asshole Dean Reynolds had been at her side and the bodyguard followed a few feet behind her. Two men who had a place in her life, unlike him.
But it was the final photo he found, posted by some asshat paparazzo, of a terrified and barefoot Khloe being hustled to a limo in a dark alley wearing only a bathrobe. She was being carried by her bodyguard. Ryder stared at the photo for several long minutes, memorizing the tired lines of her face, a sick lump of pizza settling in his gut.
Ah, Princess, what has you so spooked?
Chapter 6
The barricade gate at the security hut slid up, allowing the driver of the luxury SUV to proceed into the restricted area of the movie studio in Burbank, California. Khloe was comforted by the extreme vetting of all visitors to the historic studio. It gave her hope that the crazy stalker who'd been scaring the shit out of her wouldn't be able to get close enough to put her in danger.
Her driver today was Michael, an old friend of Trevor's. Together, the two men, who were each armed with pistols, bolstered her confidence. It allowed her to turn her focus back on the manuscript in front of her. She'd tried to study her lines for the last few days, but it had been hard to concentrate. Memories of the pictures plastered across all of the surfaces of her bathroom back in Manhattan continuously intruded into Khloe's thoughts at the most inopportune times. Worse, in the days following the break-in, new details had surfaced letting her know she'd been receiving escalating messages for months.
To say her confidence with the team of people who surrounded her had been shaken would be an understatement. She couldn't banish the feeling that it was time to make some major changes in her inner circle, but it would have to wait. Already juggling a busy filming scheduled for Smuggled Dreams, her current film, and public relations appearances for Dirty Business, adding on major personnel changes just wasn't a possibility. Layer on the threats and maintaining her pretend relationship with Dean, and her plate was overflowing.
Her stress levels were off the charts which meant she was only sleeping a little and eating even less.
They'd entered through the back entrance to the studio and it took them almost five minutes to wind their way through the narrow streets between the mammoth sound studios where hundreds of popular, and not so popular, movies and TV shows had been filmed over the years. Michael didn't bring the SUV to a stop until he'd pulled into the parking lot where a line of a half dozen luxury motor coaches were lined up in an impressive row.
Trevor got out first, opening Khloe's backseat door and holding his hand out to assist her from the vehicle. He may have been helping her exit the car, but his eyes were scanning across the entire area, assessing the space for danger.
She'd been locked down at the NYC Marriott for three full days with her bodyguard, refusing to leave her suite and making the police come to her when they'd insisted on another round of interviews. Flying back to California had helped her relax marginally. She may be naive, but since the break-in had occurred on the other side of the country, it was easier to pretend she was safe again in California.
The morning sun was already hot for late April. It was a good thing she didn't need to spend much time outside or she'd need another shower before she went in for hair and makeup. The gust of air-conditioning welcomed her as Trevor held the door for her as she scaled the few steps up to her personal trailer.
Being the lead female character did have its perks.
The brightness of the sun had temporarily blinded her, so she didn't see the Kaplans sitting in the middle of the living space of the luxury motorhome until it was too late to retreat. She shouldn't have been surprised to see them, but she was. Before a word was uttered, she glanced around the room to see her personal assistant, Ricky, already there, avoiding making eye contact with her. Her costume, hair and makeup crew was there, waiting to get started on her transformation. They were smart enough to stay seated at the other end of the space in front of the large mirror that doubled as Khloe's dressing room.
"I can't believe you cut off all contact with us, Khloe," Natalie attacked.
Khloe sighed, throwing her leather bag on the marble kitchen counter before crossing to the refrigerator to grab an ice cold sparkling water she'd asked always be stocked and waiting. Only after she took a swig did she answer her publicist.
"I was on lockdown."
"Not from us."
"From everyone," she answered flatly, refusing to let them intimidate her.
Natalie was so agitated she shot to her feet as Khloe took a seat in the comfortable lounge chair she liked to take a nap in if her schedule allowed for it.
"We've phoned and texted. You ignored us."
"Yes," she leveled, taking another sip of water, trying not to be drawn into the argument she should be having.
"How dare you! We need to strategize for your interviews!"
"We have all week for that. Opening night isn't until Thursday."
"I'm not talking about opening night." The tone of voice the elder woman chose to use assured Khloe she didn't want to
ask the next question.
"What interviews?" Khloe pressed, glancing sideways at Ricky, her personal assistant. If she had appointments set up, it was his job to prep her. The guilt on his face wasn't a good sign.
Bernie finally injected, "Don't think we're going to let you lose this opportunity."
"Opportunity?" Khloe was genuinely confused until Bernie set her straight.
"Your stalker, of course. You can't pay for this kind of exposure. It gets you visibility and sympathy from the fans. So far your disappearance has enhanced the story, but we're at the end of the window now. We have an exclusive set up with ABC at one this afternoon. They need time for production to prep the segment for the evening and late night news. This is excellent free publicity."
"Free publicity?" Khloe asked incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Her shout made Ricky jump. "This is my real life we're talking about, not my movie."
Bernie lectured her as if she were a naive child. "You're an actress, Kalina. You have no real life. The day you hired us and asked us to get you Oscar winning roles, you took the stage. We turned you into Khloe Monroe, and you have a responsibility to your fans... to share what's happening in your life."
Like always, his use of her birth name was meant to remind her how far she'd come since she started modeling as Kalina Monawski the summer after she'd graduated from high school. They conveniently always forgot that she'd only hired them two years ago. The first six years of her career she'd launched Khloe Monroe on her own.
That's when it hit her. "It was you. You called the media and leaked the story of the break-in in Manhattan." She hoped she was wrong.
Natalie's haughty "Of course we did," was the final straw for Khloe.
