Spy Games (Tarnished Heroes)

by Bristol, Sidney

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Free Hostage

  Code of Honor

  Dark Justice: Morgan

  Nightingale

  This book 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 events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Sidney Bristol. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Tera Cuskaden

  Cover design by Kelly Martin

  Cover art from iStock and Bigstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-352-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2017

  Chapter One

  Rand Duncan sat cross-legged in the dark, eyes closed. His every fiber strained to hear the one out of place sound that would mean this location was compromised. The North Korean Ministry of State Security was circling, closing the noose in their effort to discover the United States’ objective and Rand’s mission. He’d spent the last several years working with an asset inside the North Korean borders, putting all of their lives at risk. Even in his current hideout in Seoul, he was still in danger from the MSS operatives.

  One more week, maybe a couple days to set up the extraction for his asset-informant, and Rand was home free. This gig would be over, and he could be Stateside sipping a beer and watching hockey in time for the playoffs. He was hoping the Bruins did something interesting. He’d never say that around Dad, a diehard Red Wings fan.

  The cell phone perched on his knee lit up, bathing the tiny, windowless apartment in LED light. His stomach dropped and his throat constricted. He pried one eye open to catch the number.

  A phone call was never a good thing in his line of work.

  “Hello?” Rand stood, stretching the kinks out of his muscles.

  “The courier has been made.” The speaker’s voice was monotone, devoid of inflection. And yet those words were made from the stuff of nightmares.

  The courier.

  His courier.

  Her.

  Rand didn’t know her identity, only her handwriting. She was part of his team, the crucial element that ferried information and resources from his handler to him. And now she was most likely in danger.

  “What should I do?” He crossed to the wardrobe and paused.

  The rifle case—assassinate the woman he only knew through scribbled notes.

  Or the pack—everything he needed to run and maybe save her.

  “Hold.” The line went silent.

  Courier Girl.

  She’d been leaving packages for him at a variety of dead drops all across the city for the last year, maybe longer. Sadly, it was the most legitimate human interaction he’d had since settling into this gig. Solo missions overseas were more about blending in, becoming invisible and being in the right place at the right time. Things he excelled at. Still, that bit of human connection had gotten him through some touch-and-go moments. The idea that there was someone out there who knew what he did. That might miss him. Though, why would she miss someone she’d never met and had only written a dozen or so sentences to?

  The first note had been in haste. A changed drop, some trouble, he’d never really known what happened. The words scrawled on the envelope hadn’t made sense to him at first—because they were in English—and he’d been living, speaking, and thinking in Korean for a year.

  Sorry about the blood.

  Crimson had stained one corner of the envelope.

  Rand shouldn’t have known her gender, but at the three-month period, it’d slipped out in a briefing with one of the analysts. A new guy who hadn’t known better. Knowing her gender wouldn’t put her in jeopardy, but it was a detail Rand could have lived without. In the dark, alone, his mind concocted the strangest narratives to keep him occupied.

  He’d burned the envelope but kept the strip of paper her words were scrawled on, and the next time he dropped a package, he’d included a note for her—and a Band-Aid.

  It was silly, but he’d been going stir crazy. Rand hated these deep-cover, sit-and-wait, watch-the-paint-dry gigs.

  He slung the pack on, secured his headset into place, and gathered what he thought he might need.

  Getting kidnapped by the MSS would be a death sentence. Killing Courier Girl if she wound up in their hands would be a mercy. A short, painless end. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that, but if it did, he’d do that for her. Just as he would wish someone to do for him if the tables were turned.

  “Rand.” Hector’s voice was an electric charge after whoever the hell he’d been speaking to.

  “Thank God. What’s the call?” Rand had worked with Hector since his recruitment as an off-the-books CIA operative. A contractor, technically speaking.

  “Find her. She’s not a field agent, she won’t last, and if they catch her, we lose everyone in Asia. Everyone, Rand. This is bad.” Hector rattled off an address and the name of a noodle bar.

  “You got it.” Rand switched the call to his headset to free his hands for arming the apartment. “Is there an extraction planned?”

  “No. Go to ground. Keep her safe. We’ll get a team there soon to pull her out.”

  “Will do. Leaving now.” Rand set the tripwire for his homemade claymore bomb and slipped out the door.

  Hold on, CG. I’m on my way.

  …

  Sarah Collins hunched against the wall. The restaurant was clearing out. It was just her and the package. She’d ditched her cell phone, her bag, everything except her clothes, the scarf to disguise her hair, and the envelope for the dead drop.

  She checked the time again.

  The rendezvous should have happened two hours ago, but she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling of being followed. In all the years she’d been a courier for the CIA, she’d never had a true close call. No funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not a single one. Until tonight.

  At first, she’d thought she was being paranoid, which was common in this line of work. But then she’d spotted the same man tailing her with another guy. She’d cut through short cuts and across busy sections of the city without losing the two men until a little bit ago. Now, she needed to stay breathing and keep moving until her contact found her or she ran out of options. If she had to decide between giving up the package and her life, she knew what the right choice was. She’d never thought it would come to this.

  “Ma’am?” The hostess approached her, hands clasped, smile strained.

  “Thanks. Tea.” Sarah spoke in broken Korean, stringing together the few words she knew.
She finished off the tiny cup and slid off her stool.

  Her thirty minutes was up.

  That was her routine, what she’d been told to do since ditching her phone. Find a place. Hide. Wait half an hour. Then move again. Repeat. Whatever was in the package, the CIA could track. She couldn’t talk to her handler or anyone with the company, but they knew where she was, and if her luck held, someone would come for her. Someone she could trust.

  Sarah just had to hope they found her before those men did.

  She gripped the end of her scarf and plodded slowly toward the open doorway. Night had fallen, both a blessing and a curse. She’d be harder to pick out, but she wouldn’t be able to identify the men who’d followed her earlier all the way from the airport to her drop location.

  A steady amount of foot traffic clogged the sidewalks. Streetlights kept everything decently lit. The sense of safety was false, but she clung to it, desperate for hope.

  She took a deep breath and joined the pedestrians. Each step pressed the package tucked into the front of her jeans against her abdomen. Whatever happened to her, she could not allow anyone to capture the envelope. She didn’t even know what was in it, but that was the nature of her job. All she needed to know was that if she let it fall into the wrong hands, more people than just her would die.

  Had she told her family she loved them before she left?

  She’d been Stateside for a few days. Barely enough time to squeeze in a visit with her parents. She hadn’t been able to see her brother, his wife, or their babies. God, she hoped she’d told her parents at least that she loved them.

  Sarah paused at an intersection with the rest of the pedestrians. The hair on the back of her neck rose, and she squeezed the ends of her scarf with both hands.

  She didn’t have a weapon; all she had was her brain. Was she being followed? Or was this her paranoia?

  She turned right, down the lesser-traveled side street, and darted a quick glance behind her.

  A man maybe six feet back caught her eye.

  Shit.

  Definitely not Rand.

  If it was Rand at all. She’d only guessed at the South Korean agent’s name because she wanted it to be him. Her brother’s best friend.

  Rand had vanished on them following the accident that took her brother’s arm. Since then his parents spoke in vague terms about what he was doing, never sharing much, but she’d seen a few post cards, recognized some knickknacks. It was all a guess. She couldn’t be entirely certain, but she’d hoped that the man on the other end of the notes was the one she missed.

  She sped up, stretching her legs as far as they would go with each stride, searching the street for a place to hide, a shop or store or something, but it was dark. Empty.

  There was no way to tell if the guy was after her or if she was jumping at her shadow. He wasn’t one of the two she’d spotted earlier following her through the crowd. She’d caught sight of them several times, but this one, he was new. This guy could have just had a bad day and happened to be looking her way…

  Sarah turned to her left abruptly and darted across the street.

  Crap.

  Two men, including the one she’d locked eyes with, headed straight for her. They weren’t even trying to hide now. The second was the same man in plaid she’d spotted earlier. Too much of a coincidence. She was cut off from the main thoroughfare of activity. They’d grab her before she got back there. Panic filled her chest and she tasted bile on the back of her mouth. She inhaled, forcing herself to take deep breaths and keep her eyes peeled.

  Her only option was to run and try to lose them. If she were lucky, Rand would find her. She knew he was out there somewhere.

  She pushed the packet down farther into her pants on one stride, and the next she sprinted forward, doing a ten-yard dash to the mouth of an alley. She ducked down the warren of shadowy corridors. Men’s voices, yelling, the pounding of footsteps—they were right behind her.

  Oh God, this was bad. So very bad.

  This wasn’t what she was trained for. Where was Rand? He could protect her. Adrenaline gave her speed, but she didn’t know where she was going or how to break free.

  The shadows thickened until each step was perilous. Garbage, and God only knew what, littered the ground. The stench of rotting things clogged her nose.

  She took a right and a left. At each turn, she glanced over her shoulder—and her pursuers were just a little closer every time.

  There was no way she’d make it out of here. They were going to catch her before Rand had the chance to find her.

  She had to get the package off her person. At the very least, the company could recover that. But, her handler could track the package, not her. If she hid the envelope, Rand would find it. And she’d be gone. Dead. Before she’d had a chance to see if the man on the other end of the notes was the man she hoped was there. To make things right. To beat some sense into his thick skull.

  Sarah’s lungs burned and her muscles screamed. After almost twelve hours on planes, she wasn’t in any shape to sprint for her life. She choked out a sob as she ran.

  Streetlights beckoned her forward, into the halo of safety. If only she could reach the crowd of people. She dug down deep for a burst of speed.

  Ten yards.

  The shape of a man separated from the wall. He’d been waiting for her.

  Her scream stuck in her dry throat. She was going too fast to stop.

  He grabbed her around the waist, sweeping her off her feet, one hand slapping over her mouth.

  No!

  She kicked, swung her arms, jabbing him with her elbows.

  “Stop,” he said in very clear English.

  She froze.

  Rand?

  He dragged her up against the wall. A door opened at their back. He pulled her through it and eased it shut while the sound of footsteps thundered down the alley.

  Sarah stood, shaking in the darkness. She could smell…spices. Her sweat. Oil?

  “Come on. Give me your hand.” He reached for her, his fingers brushing her arm.

  She grasped his wrist, squeezing tightly.

  Was it Rand?

  She’d told herself it was him because she needed to believe, she needed the hope, but she didn’t really know.

  He guided her across the rear of what seemed to be a clothing shop, navigating the counters, a row of baby strollers, out the back of the store, and through the loading dock exit.

  “They’ll figure out they lost us and double back. We don’t want to be here when they do.” He spoke so calmly, as if this were a normal thing. And for him, it might be. This was his life. A life she knew nothing about.

  She was smart enough to know that whatever agents were stationed in South Korea were working things across the Demilitarized Zone in North Korea. No one had to tell her that. The tense relationship with North Korea and the rest of the world was all over the news. It only made sense that Rand would be doing something here to facilitate the gathering of information. But, was this man her brother’s former best friend? Or was he a stranger?

  He propped the exit closed and moved a garbage can in front of it, maybe to hide the busted lock.

  “How’d you know I’d go this way?” She could have taken other turns.

  “I didn’t. Come on.”

  There still wasn’t enough light to see him by. She got the impression of a strong jaw and a nose that’d been broken one too many times. Her heart squeezed and she blinked away unwanted tears. Stress and lack of sleep and food did funny things to her head.

  She needed to know if it was Rand. “I’m—”

  “Don’t. No names.”

  The order burned her. But she knew better. The rules were the same for both of them. The company stressed anonymity.

  “This way.” He held out his hand again, and she took it. The touch of him was familiar, settling.

  As children, Rand had been a second, older brother to her. All of her memories contained him, next to Matt. She’d tagg
ed along behind the boys, forcing them to include her. Matt had whined and complained, while Rand smiled and made room for her.

  They walked, sometimes jogged, for what felt like hours. He doubled back and went in complete circles a time or two. It all began to blur together. Her throat was dry, her lungs ached, but the cramps in her calves and thighs were the worst.

  “Shit,” he muttered. “They’re still behind us.”

  “What?” That perked her up. Sarah glanced over her shoulder, peering into the deep shadows.

  The faint sound of voices drifted to her ears. This late, there was nothing to mask the sibilant sounds of hushed conversation.

  “What do you have on you? What are you carrying?” He stopped and faced her.

  There was just enough light from the window behind her to make out some of his face. The reddish brown hair. Those stormy eyes.

  It was Rand.

  She swallowed.

  “What are you carrying?” he said again.

  “N-nothing. My clothes. The package. There’s a tracker on the package.”

  “There has to be something else on you. The package is on a long-delay device. They can’t track you in real time. Lose the jacket and scarf. Come on.”

  Sarah wiggled out of the coat. The scarf went with it. Rand shoved both into a garbage can. He snatched her hand, and they took off at a fast jog. They zigzagged across the streets, through alleys and a train station.

  At one point, Sarah caught a clear visual of three people right behind them. Not just the two she’d seen before. She patted down her pockets, her hair, even groped her bra.

  Rand pulled her into an alcove after another fifteen minutes of silent evasion.

  “Have you had surgery recently? Anything that would put you under?” He was close enough that his breath warmed her forehead. This was her Rand—and he didn’t even know her.

  “I—uh—yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “Once.” She held out her left arm. “The radial bone got crushed. I’ve got rods and pins all in this arm now.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what they do.” He took her arm, pressing none too gently along the inner side of it where the scar was the most pronounced.

  “You think there’s a tracker in me? The Koreans did that?” She couldn’t even begin to fathom that.