by Will Jordan
Drake grinned, returning to his computer. ‘All right. Go to work.’
‘I’m on it.’ She rose from her seat, but seemed to think better of it. ‘Oh, and Ryan?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Try to get some sleep, would you? You look like shit these days.’
‘Sounds like good advice to me,’ another voice remarked.
Drake and Frost both looked up to see Dietrich hanging by the door.
‘Some people actually knock before coming in,’ Drake pointed out with an angry look, wondering how much he’d overheard.
Dietrich shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Duly noted.’
‘What do you want?’
‘A word. In private,’ he added with a dismissive look at Frost.
The young woman crossed her arms and returned his gaze with one of simmering hostility, making no move to leave.
‘All right, Keira,’ Drake prompted her. ‘I’ll pick up with you later. And remember what we talked about.’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ she replied, not taking her eyes off Dietrich.
‘Better get to it,’ he suggested. ‘And let me know as soon as you have something.’
She seemed reluctant to leave, but at last nodded agreement. Giving Dietrich one last hostile look, she turned and strode out of the office, closing the door much harder than was necessary.
Dietrich smiled in amusement. ‘Quite a little firecracker, isn’t she?’
‘She doesn’t react well to certain kinds of people.’
This prompted a cocked eyebrow. ‘Really? What kind?’
‘Your kind,’ Drake said. ‘Look, I’ve got a lot to do. What do you want to talk about?’
The older man helped himself to the spare seat. ‘You, actually.’
‘What about me?’
‘I want to know why you’re here, Ryan. This operation has got fuck-up written all over it. Most people would have passed it up, but you took it on. You practically begged me to come on board despite our history. Why?’
Drake shrugged. ‘Someone had to do it.’
‘Bullshit.’ The word was delivered with such conviction and finality that it reminded Drake of a judge passing sentence. ‘They offered you something, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so desperate to get this done. What was it? A promotion? Another step up the ladder?’
‘I don’t have time to listen to this—’
‘Then make time,’ Dietrich cut in. ‘Because I’m not risking my life just so you can move into a bigger fucking office. You already killed my career on your way up. Are you trying to finish the job now?’
Drake had heard enough. ‘If you weren’t such an arrogant fuck-up, you’d still be a team leader,’ he snapped. ‘What? You think I did what I did just so I could take your job? Grow up. You almost got two people killed because you wanted all the glory for yourself. I wonder how many other lives you risked over the years.’
Far from rising to the bait, Dietrich merely sat there regarding him with a look of mild amusement. ‘You know, when I first met you, you were just a shit-headed kid straight out of the military. And now look at you.’ He gestured around the cluttered office. ‘King of your own little hill. But if you think this is the start of something bigger and better, you’re wrong. Men like Cain will tell you whatever you want to hear – anything to make you do what they want. And when they have no more use for you, they’ll throw you away like a piece of trash.’
Drake clenched his jaw and looked away from the older man’s probing gaze. ‘Thanks for the moral lesson,’ he said at last. ‘Now piss off and let me get on with my work.’
Dietrich rose from his seat but didn’t leave. Resting his hands on the desk, he leaned forward a little and locked eyes with Drake.
‘Whatever they promised you, I hope it was worth it.’
Pushing himself away from the desk, he turned and marched out of the office.
Chapter 12
BREATHING HARD, DRAKE circled the heavy punchbag and laid into it with a flurry of lefts and rights. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head. The impacts jarred his arms, sending shock waves through bone and sinew, but still he kept on with grim determination.
Dietrich’s words echoed in his ears.
But if you think this is the start of something bigger and better, you’re wrong. Men like Cain will tell you whatever you want to hear – anything to make you do what they want.
He gritted his teeth as his fists slammed into the padded leather again and again. The heavy bag, patched and gaffer taped in places, lurched and swayed with the impacts.
And when they have no more use for you, they’ll throw you away like a piece of trash.
His heart was pounding and his breath coming in gasps as he circled the bag, muscles burning and legs heavy. Still the anger burned inside him, unquenched by his punishing workout.
His knuckles ached from the punishment, blood seeping from the torn flesh to soak the tape and bandages around his hands, but he ignored it. He was like a man possessed, laying into the bag again and again.
Dietrich was an arsehole; an arrogant, bitter, jealous bastard. But none of those things could change the fact that he was absolutely right about what he’d said.
With an exhausted sigh, he landed one final blow before leaning in against the bag, struggling to draw ragged, pained breaths.
His right hand ached, pulses of pain racing up millions of nerve endings to his brain. He’d broken it in a boxing match years earlier when he’d still entertained the idea of being a professional fighter, needing surgery to mend the shattered bones. The old injury still gave him problems from time to time.
All day he’d tried to find justification for his decision to accept Cain’s offer. He’d tried to tell himself that if he hadn’t taken on the job, someone else would have done it, if only because they’d been ordered. He’d almost convinced himself that they were doing a good thing by rescuing a woman from what was no doubt an appalling situation.
None of these excuses sat well with him, because that’s all they were – excuses. They weren’t the truth.
Whatever they promised you, I hope it was worth it.
‘Yeah. Me too,’ he said, pushing himself off the bag. He’d done enough for one night.
Their flight to Alaska was scheduled to leave Andrews Air Force Base tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Once at their jumping-off point, they would have a few precious hours to check their gear, make any last-minute adjustments to their plan, and prepare themselves for what lay ahead.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day, for all of them. But as for tonight, they had nothing but time.
Leaving the heavy punchbag still swinging from the rafters of his garage, he shuffled through the utility room and into the kitchen, peeling off his protective hand wraps as he went.
His home was a two-bedroom, single-storey detached house in the suburbs west of central DC. The kind of house owned by mid-level government workers and young couples thinking about starting families but not quite ready to take the plunge yet. Not a bad place by any stretch. In fact, in the right hands it could have been pretty decent. Unfortunately Drake was most definitely not the right hands.
He’d been living here for the past three years, but the place still had that chaotic ‘just moved in’ feel. Many of his belongings were still in packing boxes in the spare bedroom, forgotten and destined never to be opened.
It was as if he somehow still thought of this situation as a temporary one, as if he might suddenly have to pack up and leave tomorrow. But it wasn’t, and he didn’t.
He knew none of his neighbours beyond the occasional nod of greeting. He’d wondered from time to time what they thought of the aloof Englishman who went away for weeks or even months at a time. He didn’t suppose they held him in high regard, but that was fine by him. He was as much of an outsider here as he was in the Agency.
A takeaway pizza box was waiting for him on the kitchen counter; he’d stopped off to collect it on his way bac
k from Langley. He wasn’t all that hungry, but he knew he needed to eat something and couldn’t be bothered cooking anything. There were a stack of similar boxes in the garage.
He flipped open the box and levered a thick slice free, long strings of melted cheese still clinging to it as he took the first bite.
His laptop was resting beside the pizza box, plugged into a charging point. He hit the power button, then sat at the breakfast bar and wolfed down his pizza while it booted up.
A quick trip to the fridge-freezer saw him return with a handful of ice wrapped in a kitchen towel. Holding the ice bag against his aching hand, he found his gaze drawn to the half-empty bottle of Talisker whisky sitting a few feet further down the breakfast bar.
It had been full last night.
His eyes rested on it for a few moments longer before the Windows chime drew his attention away.
Connecting to the Net, his first port of call was CNN. com and a quick skim of the day’s news stories. Straight away his attention was drawn to the top news article: Deadly blast kills twelve in Iraq.
He clicked on the link, which took him to a video feed.
‘We now have the number of confirmed deaths at twelve, with at least three missing and another twenty people injured by the blast,’ the Iraq correspondent said, his expression as serious as his suntan. ‘The Iraqi Coalition Government has yet to release a statement on the attack, but speculation is rising that a suicide bomber was responsible.’
The feed then switched to an overhead shot of a destroyed building, one entire side caved in by what looked like a high-explosive detonation. Smoke was still rising from the rubble while rescue workers and forensics teams poked around. The streets around it were heaped with debris, crushed cars and other wreckage.
‘From the air, the scale of the destruction is plain to see,’ the reporter’s voice went on. ‘This busy street in downtown Mosul was crowded with civilians when the explosion ripped through it, bringing down a nearby building and turning bricks and mortar into deadly projectiles. It’s unclear at this stage what exactly caused the blast, leaving many to speculate that it may have been a suicide bomber. One thing is certain – another twelve people have been added to the steadily rising death toll in Iraq since the so-called “end of hostilities” …’
He’d seen enough. Closing the feed down, he spent a few more minutes skimming various other articles of lesser interest, then logged into Hotmail to check his personal emails.
Aside from the usual bill reminders, Viagra adverts and fake requests for him to confirm his banking details, there was only one email that held any meaning for him.
It was from his sister Jessica back in the UK. Just a personal correspondence, carrying no threat of rejection or disappointment, and yet somehow it was infinitely harder for him to face up to.
Jessica was everything he wasn’t – sensible, organised, in a steady job, in control of her life, and happily married with two kids. She was totally at ease with what she did, with who she was and where she was going.
He envied her, because he knew deep down he’d never have any of the things she did. He wasn’t destined for that kind of life.
The title told him everything he needed to know: Have you seen my brother anywhere???
Bracing himself for the worst, he clicked on the message:
Hello, big brother!
How’s things? Not heard from you in ages! Hope everything going well out there and that you’re happy.
Chloe keeps asking about her uncle and when he’s coming to visit again. I’m not sure what to tell her, but I was hoping I could say you’ll be back again before Christmas? It’s her birthday next month, by the way. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of that, though!?!? :.)
Do get in touch again, Ry. I worry when I haven’t heard from you in over a month! And remember there’s always a spare room here for you (hint, hint!).
All my love,
Jess.
Drake exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Jessica always made the effort with him, always tried to stay in touch, always sent little encouraging messages and took the time to speak to him on the phone. She didn’t know much about what he really did for a living, and she was perceptive enough not to ask too many questions, but neither was she an idiot. She knew enough to be worried for him.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to start on a reply.
Nothing happened.
His mind went blank. How on earth could he explain that for the past month he’d been searching for an Agency operative who had vanished while investigating a Serbian arms-smuggling ring? How could he tell her that they had eventually found the man in several pieces, buried in a shallow grave in the woods east of Laznica? He didn’t even want to think about it himself.
He had a cover story, of course. The Agency had seen to that. To anyone who cared to ask, Drake worked for a security firm, doing threat assessments for big corporations who operated overseas. His job could take him away for weeks or months at a time.
He didn’t know how much of the story Jessica believed. If he was honest, he didn’t want to know. He hated lying to her.
He hesitated for a moment longer.
It was always the same. Her emails were witty, expressive, caring and intimate. His replies, when he could bring himself to write them, were flat, bland and detached. It was as if he was writing to a stranger. He just didn’t know what to say.
‘Shit,’ he growled, reaching for the bottle of whisky. He poured a generous glass, held it up for a moment and watched the changing patterns of light reflected in the amber-coloured liquid.
Hate yourself later, he thought, tipping it back and forcing himself to swallow the contents. He knew it was a bad idea, but that didn’t stop him. It never had.
He was well into his third glass when the doorbell rang.
‘What the hell …?’
Shuffling through to the hallway, he unlatched the front door and pulled it open a crack.
Standing on his doorstep like the world’s most delinquent-looking girl scout was Frost. She was wearing her leather jacket and clutching a helmet under her arm, her short dark hair sticking up in disarray. Her bike was parked on the sidewalk; some monstrosity of red plastic and carbon fibre that probably weighed less than she did.
‘Keira …’ he began, taken aback by her sudden appearance. ‘What are you doing here?’
The young woman gave him a crooked half-smile. ‘Some things are better not said over the phone, know what I mean?’ She nodded over his shoulder. ‘Are you going to invite me in, or leave me standing here in the friggin’ cold?’
‘Erm, yeah, of course.’ He moved aside and let her pass, then closed the door behind her.
She glanced around the cluttered hallway, taking in the faded carpet and the stack of old newspapers and magazines that he’d been meaning to take away for recycling but hadn’t gotten around to. ‘Nice place you’ve got, by the way.’
Her sarcasm was obvious. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
‘So I see. Anyway, relax. I didn’t come here to be wined and dined,’ she called over her shoulder as she strode through to the kitchen.
Dumping her helmet on the counter, she spied the pizza box straight away. Lifting the lid, she gave him a disapproving look. ‘What? No pepperoni?’
‘Can’t stand the stuff,’ he said.
‘Is that a Brit thing?’ She shrugged and pulled out a slice. ‘Fuck it.’
Drake shook his head. ‘Please, help yourself.’
‘Hey, I’ve been busting my ass for you all night,’ she retorted while in the middle of eating. ‘The least you can do is spring me for dinner.’
His eyes lit up. ‘On that subject, I hope you’ve brought more than just your charming attitude.’
‘Afraid not,’ she said, taking another mouthful. ‘There’s nothing on Maras anywhere. CIA, FBI, police, Interpol … all our searches turned up nothing. She’s a ghost.’
Drake suppressed a sigh of
frustration. It was a long shot, but it was disheartening all the same. ‘Someone must know who she is.’
‘Yeah – Cain,’ she said.
He sighed and rested his hands on the counter. ‘You did what you could. Thanks for trying, at least.’
‘There’s something else.’ She laid her pizza slice down. ‘Out of interest, I did a little research on the name Maras.’
Drake leaned closer, intrigued. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Well, my first round of searches turned up a property letting agency, and a diesel generator supplier from Pittsburgh. Hardly the kind of thing that would inspire a CIA code name, so I counted them out. Then, when I thought about her being in a Russian prison, I changed the search parameters …’
Drake picked up his glass of whisky and took a gulp. ‘Just give me the short version,’ he said as the potent alcohol settled in his stomach. ‘What did you find?’
Frost eyed the drink with a raised eyebrow.
‘I’m off the clock,’ Drake reminded her irritably. ‘Talk or walk.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, shrugging. ‘If I’ve got my facts straight, Maras refers to a legend from Baltic paganism. It was all the rage a thousand years ago, but it’s almost an extinct religion now. Anyway, according to them, Maras is a goddess of war.’
Drake frowned, feeling all the more uneasy about what they were about to do. And more important, about the woman they had been sent to rescue.
A goddess of war.
‘Heavy shit, huh?’ Frost prompted. ‘I’m not sure what I should be more worried about – the prison, the parachute jump, or her.’
‘I’d go for all three.’ He flashed a weak smile. ‘Good work, Keira. Thanks for doing this.’
‘No problem.’
‘Now go home and get yourself some rest,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a long day ahead of us.’
Again that curious half-smile. ‘Every day with Dietrich is a long day.’ Her eyes rested on the glass again, and the smile faded. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
‘Same as always,’ he evaded.
‘That bad, huh?’
