Operation: Midnight Cowboy

by Linda Castillo

  Rachael stood in the aisle and watched both of them walk away.

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” Standing at the window in his study, Viktor Karas looked down at the people scurrying about Moscow’s Teatralnaya Square with a keen sense of disdain and waited for an answer.

  “Minneapolis.”

  “Have you located the target?”

  Ivan Petrov’s voice wafted from the speakerphone on the conference table. “She’s in the state of Wyoming, not far from the city of Cody. I’m on my way there now.”

  Karas’s eyebrows went together. It wasn’t often the American government surprised him. But this came as a total shock. He’d expected the MID NIGHT Agency to hustle Rachael Armitage into protective custody at one of their safe houses. That would have been much more convenient. Four months ago, he’d paid nearly two million dollars for the list of locations the federal government used to protect their most precious witnesses. Finding his son’s murderer was worth the cost, but he hated that the money had been spent in vain.

  “How do you know this?” Karas asked.

  “I…interrogated one of the mechanics who works at the hangar where the Cessna took off.”

  “But even the most lowly employees of the MIDNIGHT Agency have high security clearances. How did you get him to talk?”

  “I threatened to murder his wife and children, of course.”

  A surge of anger had Karas gripping the phone more tightly. “You idiot. He will go straight to the authorities and our plan will be foiled.”

  “The mechanic I spoke to will never talk again, Mr. Karas. I cut out his tongue and then I killed him.”

  Viktor Karas closed his eyes as relief settled over him. It wasn’t often that he was impressed with an employee, but he was with this young man. “A man will do anything to protect his wife and children.”

  “Including selling his soul.”

  “Wyoming is a large state,” he said, his mind already jumping ahead.

  “My recourses are extensive,” Ivan Petrov returned.

  Karas smiled, pleased that he’d chosen this young man for the job of finding his son’s murderer. “How close are you to finding her?”

  “I know she’s with a former MIDNIGHT agent by the name of Bo Ruskin. I’ll know where she’s staying by the end of the day.”

  Despite the alcohol, Viktor Karas’s heart began to pound. “Tell me about this Bo Ruskin.”

  “He’s a former MIDNIGHT agent. Sniper. Some undercover work. Left the agency two years ago. That’s where I lost track of him.”

  “Why did he leave the agency?”

  “He was involved in a shooting. Details are scarce, but whatever happened prompted him to resign.”

  Karas sipped vodka from his crystal tumbler, his interest in Bo Ruskin piqued. “Americans are a weak lot.”

  “Except for when it came to Nikolai.”

  Karas closed his eyes at the mention of his beloved son. “My boy will not rest in peace until she is dead, Ivan.”

  “I understand.”

  “Find her. Do it quickly.”

  “The only thing that has slowed me down, Mr. Karas, are the flights.”

  “Have you slept?”

  “I do not need sleep.”

  Karas smiled. “Call me the instant you know where she is.”

  “Of course, Mr. Karas.”

  Viktor Karas hit the speakerphone button. Staring out the window of his office, he sipped his vodka and thought about all the ways he could kill Rachael Armitage.

  Chapter Four

  Bo sat on the porch swing and tried hard not to think of Rachael. He tried directing his thoughts to more productive topics. The branding that needed to be done tomorrow. The training tactics he would use on the difficult young stud he’d been working with in the round pen. All the work that needed to be done around the ranch.

  But time and time again, his thoughts drifted back to her. The way she’d looked at him as he’d berated her for being irresponsible earlier in the day. Big green eyes laced with caution and a hefty dose of attitude. Hair so tawny and glossy his fingers itched to touch it. A mouth so sexy he could barely think straight every time he looked at her.

  He recalled the way her body had felt pressed against his on the wild ride to the ranch. She’d been all warm, wet curves and so soft it had taken every bit of control he possessed not to turn in the saddle and pull her to him.

  He started when the screen door slammed. Bo looked up to see Rachael approach. When she spotted him, she hesitated, then ventured toward him with the caution of a skittish horse. Her expression told him the conversation they were about to have was a duty she needed to get out of the way.

  “I owe you an apology,” she said. “For being late.”

  “It was a long day,” he said. “I shouldn’t have dressed you down like that.”

  “It was irresponsible of me to lose track of time the way I did. I didn’t think.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “That’s it? No lecture? No yelling?”

  “Got that out of my system earlier.” Trying not to notice her scent, he looked away. “It’s up to you to decide if you’re going to heed my good advice.”

  “That was way too easy, Ruskin. You’re getting soft in your retirement years.”

  He glanced her way. She was wearing a dark turtleneck and faded jeans. Even though it was cold, her feet were bare. He stared at them a moment, noticing her toenails were painted cherry-red. Damn, even her feet were sexy.

  He’d accepted her apology without comment so she would leave him alone.

  Evidently, she wasn’t finished. “May I sit?”

  “Sure.” He scooted over a little too quickly, a little too far.

  She settled onto the swing beside him. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “It’s chilly.”

  “Nights are cool up here this time of year.” But his mind wasn’t on the temperature, and he wasn’t the slightest bit cool. In fact, he’d broken a sweat beneath his denim jacket. All he could think was that she smelled of sandalwood and sweet musk. He breathed in deeply, savoring what he should not.

  “You probably know this already, but I’m not very good at following other people’s rules,” she began.

  “I gathered that.”

  “I’m used to doing what I want, when I want, and I’m not very subtle about it,” she continued. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a bit of a hard driver.”

  “I’ve noticed.” An owl hooted, and he looked into the darkness. “Cutter thinks you have a death wish.”

  “He’s wrong. He just—”

  “Tolerates your kamikaze tactics because you’re a good agent,” Bo finished.

  “I get things done,” she said somewhat defensively.

  Bo couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Yeah, well, your ability to get the job done aside, Cutter cares about you. If he didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

  She dropped her gaze to her hands. “In any case, I just wanted you to know I didn’t mean to appear irresponsible today. I’m really not an irresponsible person. I just tend to be…independent.”

  Independent was an understatement, but Bo didn’t say as much. He didn’t want to get into the reasons for her penchant for recklessness. He didn’t like the way he was reacting to her. He didn’t want to have to talk to her any longer than necessary. Not because sitting out here on the porch with her was unpleasant, but because she was making him feel things he didn’t want to feel—and tempting him to do things he knew he would regret.

  Mike Armitage had been his best friend. Being attracted to his widow felt wrong. Especially when Bo had been the one to pull the trigger….

  “It’s a whole different world out here than in the city,” she said after a moment.

  He risked a look at her, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Her eyes glittered like the moon on a restless lake. Even in the dim light, he saw wariness in her expression. The soft curve of her mouth. A
fragile jaw. His blood surged low and hot when he noticed moisture on her lips. For the umpteenth time he wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He wondered if her kiss would be sweet or spicy or somewhere in between. He wondered if she would pull away or lean into him for more….

  Bo rose abruptly. “It’s late. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

  She rose just as suddenly, as if his abrupt movement had startled her. “Oh. Sure.” She wiped her palms on her jeans. “Bo, I’m used to being busy and I’m not afraid of hard work. If there’s anything I can do around here…”

  Stop looking so damn sexy.

  “Get with Pauline,” he growled and walked into the house without looking back.

  RACHAEL LEFT the house just as the sun broke over the eastern horizon, streaking the sky with slashes of crimson and gold. Donning running shoes and a sweatsuit, she pounded down the trail at a speed that was far too fast for this early in her morning-ritual run. But her mind was troubled. Over the years she’d found that physical punishment was the best cure.

  An hour earlier she’d wakened to total darkness, her heart hammering, her body slicked with sweat. It wasn’t the first time bad dreams had interrupted her sleep; over the years her profession had elicited nightmares. But the dreams that had jolted her that morning had nothing to do with her job, and everything to do with a cowboy with cool blue eyes, a slow drawl and the kind of mouth that could make a girl question her self-imposed vow of going it alone.

  For two years her hormones had been dormant, frozen like a delicate sapling during a long, hard winter. Since her arrival at the ranch, however, it seemed the spring thaw had set in and her hormones had arisen with a vengeance. It was a complication Rachael could do without.

  She needed to stay focused and keep her mind on her goal of bringing down Viktor Karas, even if, because of Cutter, that goal had been put on hold. The last thing she needed was to get sidetracked by Bo Ruskin. After all, she was only going to be at the ranch for a few days, a couple of weeks max.

  “You are not attracted to Bo Ruskin,” she panted.

  She’d sworn after Michael’s death that she would never get involved again. At least until Viktor Karas was behind bars—or six feet under. Rachael might be a risk-taker, but she would never put her heart on the line again.

  She drove herself hard down the trail. Around her, the pinion pine and juniper stirred restlessly. Finches and sparrows chattered in the treetops of the taller ponderosa pines. Rachael maintained a punishing pace. Her quadriceps burned as she muscled her way up a steep incline.

  At the top, lungs on fire, she stopped to catch her breath. Bending at the waist, she put her hands on her knees and gulped air. As her heart rate and breathing slowed, she began to notice the stunning beauty of her surroundings.

  To the north a vast yellow plain dotted with scrub stretched as far as the eye could see. Beyond, the purple ridge of Bareback Mountain sat like some sleeping sentinel. To the east, the ridge dropped to a valley dissected by a meandering stream. It was there that she spotted the two men on horseback moving a small herd of cattle.

  She recognized Bo’s spotted horse immediately. But more than the spots on the animal’s rump, she recognized the man. The tall way he sat in the saddle. The graceful way he moved with the horse. As if he himself were part of the animal.

  Rachael reached for the binoculars in her backpack and put them to her eyes. Sure enough, Bo and one of the ranch hands were taking a small herd of cattle through the creek toward the grassy plain to the north.

  She told herself she’d grabbed the binoculars merely to identify the riders. But her eyes lingered on the man in the black hat. Bo Ruskin rode a horse as if he’d been born in the saddle. He was masculine grace and balance rolled into a single, hard-bodied package that was all too easy on the female eye.

  “You’re an idiot, Armitage,” she muttered.

  Annoyed with herself for letting her imagination run amok, Rachael lowered the binoculars and shoved them back into her backpack.

  Refusing to give the two men a second glance, she turned away from the valley and pushed herself into a run.

  IVAN PETROV had always enjoyed killing. Ever since that thrilling first time when he was fourteen and had to defend himself in that Moscow back alley. It wasn’t until he was eighteen that he realized he could get paid for it.

  He was immensely pleased with himself as he strode down the main street of Cody, Wyoming, and browsed the shops. Most were western wear. Native American jewelry. Saddlery and tack for the many ranchers who came into town to buy wares. Cody was a nice, all-American town. One where a Russian man with an accent and ponytail would stand out. So an hour ago Ivan had ducked into a quaint barbershop and had his hair cut military-short. In the western wear store next door, he’d bought jeans, boots and a hat. The getup looked dudish, but so did half of the other people walking the street. He was good at blending in when he wanted to.

  It was almost noon when he entered the small bed-and-breakfast at the edge of town. He’d registered under the name John Miller. But his stay would be a short one. By tomorrow at this time, Rachael Armitage would be dead and he would be on his way to Moscow to collect his pay.

  In his room, Ivan used his cell phone to dial Viktor Karas’s number. “I am in Cody, Wyoming,” he said without preamble.

  “Do you know where she’s staying?”

  Ivan Petrov smiled. “Bo Ruskin owns a ranch north of here.”

  “Nothing came up when I did a property search.”

  “It’s not in his name.”

  “So how did you find him?”

  “Bo Ruskin entered a rodeo competition last year.” Ivan had been inordinately pleased when he’d stumbled upon the information while surfing the Internet. “Bull riding. Ruskin won a belt buckle for riding a bull called Bone Cruncher.”

  “Such a benign error in judgment.” Karas sounded pleased. “He hasn’t been with the agency for two years. Are you certain she’s staying with him? It’s not above Cutter to throw up a couple of red herrings.”

  Remembering the cowboy he’d shared several drinks with at the local bar, Ivan smiled. “Ruskin owns the Dripping Springs Ranch. She’s there, Mr. Karas. I’m happy to take care of both problems for you, sir.”

  Silence hissed over the line for several heartbeats. Long enough to make Ivan’s nerves tingle. Then Karas said, “I want the woman alive. Ruskin, too.”

  Disappointment grated, but Ivan endured it. He’d been looking forward to killing the woman. The man, too, if he got in the way. But he knew that to disappoint Karas now would be a mistake. Especially over something so petty. Sooner or later, he would get his chance.

  “But the American government is watching you, sir.”

  Karas smiled. “Let them watch.”

  Ivan didn’t understand. “What do you want me to do?”

  After a lengthy pause, Viktor Karas answered.

  And Ivan the Terrible smiled.

  Chapter Five

  Bo wiped the dust from his face and watched the cattle cross the dry creek bed and head toward the north pasture, where the grass hadn’t been grazed since fall. He whistled at the cow hand helping him, and motioned toward the house, telling him his work was done for the day. It had taken them exactly five hours to move seventy head of cattle and it was barely noon.

  Bo had just turned his mount toward the house four miles to the west when the cell phone clipped to his belt vibrated. Even before answering it, he knew who it was. Grimacing, he answered with a curt utterance of his last name.

  “One of my aircraft mechanics was found this morning with his tongue cut out,” Sean Cutter said without preamble. “He refueled your Cessna when you were here. Chances are, he knew where you were heading.”

  The significance of the words hit Bo like a punch. “Karas?”

  “We don’t know. But this mechanic died a slow and painful death. If he’d glanced at the flight plan you filed, he talked.”

  “Tortured?”

>   Cutter sighed. “I’ve seen a lot, Bo, but this is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Dropping his head, Bo rubbed his temples. “What else?”

  “His wallet was taken. Credit cards. Cash. ID.”

  “Could it have been a robbery?”

  “It’s possible,” Cutter said. “Or maybe someone wants it to look that way. You and I have been around long enough not to take any chances.”

  Bo silently agreed. “I flew directly to the airstrip here at the ranch.”

  “I know,” Cutter said.

  The silence that followed said it all: Viktor Karas could very well know Rachael Armitage’s whereabouts.

  “You have someone watching Karas, though, don’t you?” Bo asked.

  “Like a hawk. He was sighted in Moscow just this morning.”

  “He has a lot of thugs working for him. Maybe he sent someone.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “You know as well as I do that isn’t his style.”

  Bo did know, and even though he was sweating beneath his denim jacket, a chill swept through him. When a situation became personal to Viktor Karas, he handled the killing himself. He would dole out whatever revenge he saw fit personally. And he would enjoy every ugly moment of it.

  “He’s hands-on all the way,” Bo said bitterly.

  “We’re going to have to operate under the assumption Karas knows about the ranch.”

  Bo’s curse burned through the line. “What about Karas’s Learjet? Is it still in Moscow?”

  “The Lear left the airport in Moscow two days ago.”

  “Flight plan?”

  “Athens, Greece.”

  Bo figured they both knew the jet had not landed in Athens. “You have men on the ground there?”

  “Yeah. They’re working with Interpol. But there’s no sign of the jet.”

  “You’re certain Karas is in Moscow?”

  “We used a high-powered scope, spotted him inside his apartment on Teatralnaya Square.”

  Bo felt marginally better knowing Karas was several thousand miles away. But something about the situation didn’t feel right. “So what do we do in the interim?”