by Kylie Brant
“As always. Do you have plans this evening?”
Nick looked at Sara from the corner of his eye and saw that she was openly listening to his side of the conversation. “Why do you ask?”
“Our two friends are in town. I understand they’re looking for you.”
Hinrich and Roven. Luc’s grim tone tipped Nick off. The fact that the two smugglers had come hunting for Falcol could mean serious trouble. Losing what most certainly had been a lucrative contract with Mannen, they’d be looking to screw this job up for Nick in any number of ways. And he had a feeling that Mannen would spook easily if it appeared there were complications.
Nick’s gaze narrowed as he mentally sifted through his options.
“You heard me, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Helping Sara up the curb, he regretfully turned away from the direction of the nightclub he’d planned to visit and looked down the street.
“What do you propose to do about it?”
Raising a hand to hail a passing taxi, Nick replied, “I propose to let them find me.”
Every major city in the world, regardless of its beauty or history, had an underbelly. It was, perhaps, nature’s most consistent equalizer. Nick had spent more time than he’d like to consider lurking in alleys much like this one, in locales scattered across the globe. In his line of work it was a given, something to be accepted without reflection.
He waited for Luc’s signal. The other man had planted a few well-placed rumors about where Michel Falcol would be tonight, and now Nick waited to see if Hinrich and Roven would take the bait. He had no reason to suspect otherwise. Both men were ruthless about eliminating competition.
The cell phone in Nick’s pocket vibrated soundlessly. He reached for it, held it up to his ear. “Yeah.”
“South of you, one block, heading your direction.”
Without another word, Nick broke the connection and replaced the phone in his pocket. He slipped from the shadows and approached the alley’s entrance, adrenaline spiking in his veins.
A vagrant stumbled into the alley, clutching a prized bottle, but came up short when he saw Nick. Not a word was exchanged, but the man retreated far more quickly, with more coordination, than he’d managed a moment ago. It was for the best. The last thing Nick wanted was a bystander to worry about.
Voices were coming closer, the words guttural and low. German. So that would be Hinrich talking. Although he knew a bit of the language, Nick didn’t spend time trying to translate. He simply waited until the men were nearly even with the alley, then slipped out of it, to stand before them.
“Messieurs.” His French was flawless, his sudden appearance taking the men by surprise. “I understand that you seek Michel Falcol.”
The pair recovered quickly. They drifted apart so that each would flank Nick if they rushed him. “What do you know of Falcol?” It was Roven speaking. French was his native tongue, although from what Nick had heard he’d spent most of the last decade out of the country.
“I know that you have found him.”
There was a quick verbal exchange between the two men, and Hinrich eyed Nick more speculatively. It was clear Roven had interpreted for him.
“You heard correctly,” Louis Roven told Nick. He smiled, a quick baring of pointed teeth. With his sharp features and slight body, he had a rodentlike quality. “We have heard of your reputation and wish to discuss business with you.”
“Step into my office.” Nick waved them into the alley, and after exchanging a quick look, the men followed him as he backed into its shadows.
“Do you know who we are?” Hinrich’s accent was atrocious, but understandable.
“Your reputations precede you.”
This reply seemed to give the German some trouble, so Roven took over the conversation again. “As does yours. It appears we have a client in common. The American.”
“Correction. He used to be your client. Now he’s mine.” Nick lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, a gesture guaranteed to infuriate. “Had he been satisfied with your services, mes amis, he would not have come searching for me. Your operation is not large enough to meet his requirements.”
Hinrich must have picked up at least some of his meaning, because he released a furious spate of German. Roven smiled again, but there was no humor in the expression. “Surely you do not mean to be deliberately offensive. We are reasonable men. We are willing to offer to act as partners in the endeavor. Equal split.”
Nick threw his head back and laughed, while both of the men eyed him narrowly. He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. His response was insultingly clear. There was a flash of metal as Hinrich slipped a knife from his sleeve, a nearly silent snick as the blade opened.
“Given your reputation, I had expected more intelligence.” Roven’s voice was steady as he and his friend advanced upon Nick. “But rumors have a way of inflating reputations, don’t you agree?”
Nick’s blood cooled, leaving his mind clear and calculating. “I’ll let you be the judge of that yourself.” The words had no sooner left his mouth than his left foot kicked out, knocking the knife from the German’s hand.
Roven fell back, his hand groping at his leg. Ankle holster, Nick realized, even as he dove with the German toward the dropped knife. The near silent deadly scene took on a sense of increasing urgency. He managed to dodge the hamlike fist Hinrich threw at his chin, catching the blow on his shoulder instead. With a move he’d shown Sara in Florida, he flattened his palm and drove the butt of his hand straight up, splintering the man’s nose. From the corner of his eye he detected movement, and grasped the German’s shirt, swinging the man around to block the oncoming bullet.
Hinrich jerked as his body absorbed the shot Roven fired just then, and Nick used him as a shield to rush the other man. Roven paused, his eyes widening in horror as he realized his mistake, and in the next moment, Nick had reached across Hinrich’s sagging shoulders to grab the other man by the throat.
“Drop it.” Something in his face must have convinced Roven, because the gun was allowed to slide from his hand. Nick used his free hand to shove Hinrich’s limp body aside.
“Falcol.” The man wet his lips, his eyes rolling madly. “This has all been a terrible mistake.”
Nick’s smile was almost gentle. “That’s right. And you made it.” He drove a fist into the man’s belly, doubling him over, before delivering the blow that sent him crashing to the ground, where he lay still and unconscious.
“And you call me the showoff.”
Nick didn’t look around at the sound of Luc’s voice. “Poor timing, as usual.”
“What are you complaining about?” The man strolled closer, kicked Hinrich over. “There were only two of them.”
Nick straightened, aware of dampness at his side. The damn wound had opened again. “So you won’t complain too much about clean-up detail.” He ignored the other man’s groan. “Take care of it. At least with them out of the way there’s less chance of the job being compromised.”
Expertly, Luc squatted down, felt for a pulse on the big German. “No,” he said, his gaze meeting Nick’s. “I have no question about the job being compromised.”
The man wasn’t known for his subtlety. “Meaning?”
“Just that it’s risky to take the woman to Chicago.”
Nick’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t used to having his decisions questioned. “It’s a calculated risk, I think.”
“You’ve changed the game plan for her, and that’s not like you. I’ve never known you to grow obsessed over a woman.”
Voice curt, Nick retorted, “I know exactly what I’m doing. Make sure you go through Hinrich’s and Roven’s pockets before you tip off the police to come down for them. If they’re carrying anything that can point to us, get rid of it.” Turning, he strode away, but was unable to forget Luc’s words. He was wrong, of course. He’d learned in the most tragic way possible what happened when he was distracted from the assignment at hand. He wouldn’t make that mist
ake with Sara, despite his attraction to her. Because if he did, the consequences would be deadly.
Chapter 8
It was Kim who met Nick at the door, and when he caught sight of Sara in one of the armchairs across the room he looked distinctly annoyed. “You should have gone to bed.”
She surveyed him, silently taking inventory. Gone was her urbane date from earlier this evening. The same subtle air of menace that she’d intuitively sensed the first time she’d met him was back. She’d long since found that her first impression had been all too accurate.
Kim gasped as he walked by her. “You’re bleeding.”
He shrugged off her concern, continued toward Sara. “Just reopened a previous injury.”
Sara’s stomach went hollow. Her gaze arrowed to the stain spreading on his shirt. He’d never sought a doctor’s opinion in Florida when the wound was fresh, and he’d reinjured the area twice now. It was ridiculous, under the circumstances, to feel guilty for that. “What happened?”
“A misunderstanding.” He stopped before her chair and reached for her hand, pulled her up. “With as little as you’ve eaten and slept in the last several days, you should be dead on your feet.”
She kept her voice and her gaze steady. “Something tells me that might be an unfortunate choice of words, given your recent outing.” She saw the awareness flicker in his eyes, but didn’t expect an explanation. She didn’t get one.
He turned his head, spoke to the woman getting ready to leave. “Is everything set?”
Kim halted in the act of slipping into her jacket. “Most of the deliveries have been made.”
“The wardrobe?”
“All but the shoes.”
“Have them here first thing in the morning.”
Her brows rose. “Do you realize—”
His tone was implacable. “First thing.”
“All right.” With a gesture of surrender, she pulled open the door, let herself out. And then Nick and Sara were alone. He started undoing his shirt, using just enough care that she could tell what the action cost him. And she was hit with the sudden certainty that whoever Nick had had a misunderstanding with had suffered far worse than he had.
She had no idea where the conviction came from. Perhaps from the simmering aura of latent danger that shimmered off the man in waves. He hadn’t shaved since that morning, and his jaw was shadowed. With his dark clothes and fierce expression, he looked like a bad man to cross. She didn’t doubt that someone else had recently reached a very similar conclusion.
“Here. Let me.” Pushing his hands aside, Sara finished unbuttoning his shirt, wincing a little when she saw the blood-soaked bandages. “C’mon. I’ll help you clean up.”
He followed her wordlessly into the bathroom, where she rummaged through drawers until she found the necessary supplies. Then, schooling her face to impassivity, she gently removed the soiled bandage and set about cleaning the wound again.
The muscles beneath her fingers tensed when she touched him, and she swallowed. The last thing she needed was a reminder of what it felt like to touch that hard sinewy body, to feel his warmth.
To provide a distraction for them both, she asked, “Who did you have a run-in with tonight?”
He shocked her by answering. “Smugglers. They’d done some business with Mannen in the past and were feeling rather territorial.”
Smugglers. She swallowed. “What do they smuggle? Arms? Drugs?”
“People.” He waited for her gaze to bounce up to his before continuing. “Mannen has discovered the hottest black market commodity. They find people in various countries willing to pay a fee to be provided passage to the United States. In return they’re promised documents and jobs. Instead, they’re sold to various buyers as virtual slaves.”
Her hands had stilled as he talked, horror blooming. “In this day and age? How is that possible?”
“Some of the buyers allow the immigrants to pay off the cost of their freedom through years of labor. Most are held captive with no end in sight. They’re sold for prostitution and free labor. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be any shortage of buyers.”
She reached for the gauze, surprised to find her hands trembling. “I can’t believe that goes on in enlightened countries.”
His voice, his face, were sober. “Greed is the lowest common denominator. No country is free of its reach.”
Carefully, she taped the edges of the bandage she held against his side. “So why were the smugglers interested in you?”
“That’s easy.” His smile was humorless, sharklike. “I’m Mannen’s new source.”
Her fingers stilled, and he pulled back to look over her handiwork. Obviously satisfied, he shrugged out of his open shirt, wadded it in his hand. He walked past her, but she remained motionless. She couldn’t have moved if she tried. It occurred to her that Nick was no stranger to risk, to the shadowy world of pretense and subterfuge. A world in which he was, from everything she’d seen, more than capable of handling himself.
He just might be as deadly as Mannen was. At the thought, a shudder worked down her spine. He’d be a formidable man to cross.
And an impossible one to trust.
The hours spent in the air the next day weren’t long enough to soothe Sara’s nerves. If anything, with every mile they drew closer to O’Hare, the knots in her stomach drew tighter. Spending much of the time in the plane becoming accustomed to her new identity did little to alleviate her anxiety.
“You’ll need to show these when we land.” Nick finished the conversation he was having with Kim and came to sit beside Sara, handing her a bundle of documents. She looked through them with something approaching dread.
“It appears that I’m well traveled.” Her passport—Raeanne’s passport—she corrected herself mentally, bore several stamps, the most recent to London. And yet it was her own face she saw staring back at her. She’d switched identities often enough that she didn’t experience so much as a start at the sight of her familiar face with dark hair, and brown eyes. But she was intrigued by the speed with which he’d managed to obtain the forgeries. Of course, with his business contacts, the documents were probably no more difficult to manage than the wardrobe and hair-stylist.
Flipping through the rest of the papers, she also found a Georgia driver’s license and a social security card. “How much do forgeries like these cost?”
There was a smile in his voice. “Do I detect a note of criminal interest? Quite a bit, actually, although they would have been pricier if we were having a false one produced instead of just copying one on record with a new face.”
“So Raeanne Backstrom isn’t actually missing hers.” When he shook his head, Sara asked, “What happens if she should return to the States early, about the same time Mannen runs a check on me?”
Nick reached over and took her hand, unmindful of her resistance. “That won’t happen. I’ve left some men behind to keep track of Backstrom, along with a few other tasks.” His next question almost took her mind off the thumb he sent skating across her knuckles. “Given the cost of good forgeries, I’m assuming you’ve always used the infant death method to establish your identities.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “Actually, I’m quite adept at it by now.” She’d often been thankful, especially in moments of black humor, that she lived in the information age. Although she’d had little long-term planning in mind other than survival when she’d first fled the agents, it had quickly become apparent that she would need new identification to get a job. She’d haunted bookstores, libraries, and used the Internet as a tool. It hadn’t been long before she’d learned the benefits of cross-referencing counties for birth and death records, and the most reliable companies to use for issuing professional-looking social security cards.
She’d never run into major problems with any of the identification she’d used. But then, she’d rarely stayed in one place for long.
“Did you memorize the information I put together for you?”
Annoyance momentarily took the place of the nerves. “You know I did.”
“Let’s go through it once more. Age?”
She sighed, and gave her hand a discreet tug. It was held fast. “Twenty.”
“Place of birth?”
“Savannah.”
“Parents’ names?”
“Margaret and Henry, divorced three years ago, neither remarried.” She cut off his next question with a regal lift of her chin. “Give me some credit. I do have a bit of experience with this, you know.”
“Yes, you do.” His eyes were midnight dark, and as usual, unfathomable. “You’ll need to get used to my identity, as well. I’ll be using the name Michel Falcol.”
Her palm was getting slippery. She preferred to believe it was her destination, and not her reaction to Nick, causing the sensation. “And how is it that our little Georgian peach met and fell for a smuggler?”
“We met at a nightclub in Paris. Le Rouge. The attraction was immediate and mutual.” Was it her imagination, or was his voice growing lower, more intimate? “You agreed to accompany me on business because we could not bear to be parted.”
“Love at first sight?” She tried for a mocking tone, but the words sounded breathless instead.
“Perhaps not love. But certainly…obsession.”
Her pulse tripped, and it was difficult to continue to meet his gaze. “I’m a decent actress, but I think obsession might be beyond my capabilities.”
He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her palm. “Then I’ll have to help you with that as much as I can, won’t I?”
The bustle at the airport provided sensory bombardment. Loudspeakers were blaring, a dozen different languages could be heard in the Customs area, and the line for processing moved faster than Sara would have imagined possible.
Or perhaps it only seemed that way because she was so very reluctant to be back in Chicago.
