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For my parents, on their 50th wedding anniversary:
Thank you for giving me a profound example
Of lifelong love
And lifelong laughter
For my grandmothers, Ida and Dorothy,
And my grandfathers, Willie and Aaron:
I hope this has brought you joy and pride
From where you drink, play cards, and dance upon the clouds
And for Sara Moss:
As we wander in and out of the Irish bars of Queens
In a lifelong seminar about love and dreams
You are the best wingman
A girl could ever hope for
Acknowledgments
As always, this one is for Joelle Delbourgo, my agent, who continues to tirelessly show me the ropes and encourage me to take a leap of faith—cheers to you, Joelle! I love who you are and what a champion you are of me and of my work. And for Abby Zidle, Marla Daniels, and everyone at Pocket Star: you continue to lead me, to inspire me, and to blow me away with your work, commitment, intelligence, humor, and faith in me. Thank you, a million times over! My hat is off to you all, and as a great lover of fedoras, that’s really saying something.
As this is the completion of a series, I’ve thought a lot about family, both the family I was born into and the ones I’ve created. This is for all of you.
Firstly, to my parents, Ronnie and Myron; my brother, Odin; my sister-in-law, Mara; and their son, Noah Vinny: thank you for the love, support, humor and unfailing confidence in who I am. You have always been the home waters I have landed upon, in good times and bad. Love and kisses to one and all!
To my aunt Carol; uncle Stan; cousins Alan, Mitchell, Kristyn, and Viktoria, and their families; as well as my cousins Danny, Liz, Ryan, Sydney, Lori, Michael, Roberta, and their families: thank you for always cheering me on, and for being constantly in awe of the path less traveled. I love you all and am so grateful for how you have supported me.
For friends who are my anchor, a created family who make me feel loved beyond compare: Anna Stone, Abby Sher, Sara Moss, Julia Motyka, Allyson Johnson, Jessica Lissy, Marc Rosenthal, Steve Greer, Harris Shultz, Jeremy Johnson, Chris Kipiniak, Rachel Fowler, Erin Graham, Ashley Hazel, Erin Moon, Jonathan Fields, and Stephanie Kovacs Cohen. And always for Samantha Karpel Katz, who walks by my side and guides my life path, and for Jane Brandes, Jared Katz, and Indy . . . know that in Sam’s absence, we, her community, will dance by your side for life.
For Antonio Harrison, who started me off in audiobooks, and the extended audiobook producers who continue to build my career: Simon & Schuster, audible.com, Hachette, Rohan Audio, DuArt, Audiomedia Production and Recorded Books as well as the engineers who have rocked my world, many of whom have formed their own companies: Ian Hackney, Cliff Charles, Jon Autry, Tim Warner, Alex Vieira, Charles McCrorey, Keith Reynolds, Julia Farhat, Jayme Mattler, Iris McElroy, and Michelle Figueroa.
For Pete Rohan, Judy Evans, and Kyle Willoughby of Rohan Audio, who expertly produced the audiobooks of this series through Audible Studios, and for the narrators who have rocked it out on my books: Lauren Fortgang, Mark Boyett, Peter Ganim, Therese Plummer, Allyson Johnson, Julia Motyka, LJ Ganser, James Fouhey, Chris Kipiniak, Eileen Stevens, Piper Goodeve, Eva Kaminsky, Jonathan Davis, and Suzanne Toren (and Jen Van Dyck, Khristine Hvam, and Stephen Bel Davies, whom I hope to get in on one series or another). Thank you all. Your work continues to inspire, and I continue to learn and grow from hearing your craft. I am honored to call myself your colleague.
Lastly, for the cast, crew and staff of the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival, but especially the ones I’ve danced with the most: Katie Hartke, Ryan Quinn, Mike Borrelli, Jason O’Connell, Nance Williamson, Kurt Rhoads, Chris Edwards, Steven Paul Johnson, Rick Ercole, Wes Mann, Terry O’Brien, Patrick Halley, Russ Treyz, Earle Hugens, Jim Coyle, John Plummer, Maia Guest, Matt Amendt, Joey Parsons, Susannah Millonzi, Eleanor Handley, Wendy Stetson, John Cariani, Eric Tucker (and the Bedlam Theater Company superstars), John Henbest, Paul Bates, Ella Wrenn, Damian Effler, Jen McCreery, Brett Travis, Maggie Whitlum, Marcia Clark, Debbie Watkins-Parker, Susan Landstreet, Abigail Adams, Anna Ledwith, Jack Quigley, Jared Goldstein, Patrick Egan, Maggie Davis, Esti Bernstein, Julia McCarthy, Roy Guill, Kyle LaColla, Lanita Ward, Chloe Goldberg, Lauren Wilcher, Maureen Murtha, Amanda Feinman, Justin Propper, William Neal, Charlotte Palmer-Lane, Bo Bell, Dan Scully, Sara Jean Tosetti, and Blythe Quinlan . . . thank you all for opening my heart, teaching me how to dance in the rain, and helping me see that “sexy” and “funny” are not mutually exclusive. This one is for you!
Prologue
There’s a saying in the undercover community: When two assassins get between the sheets, only one comes out. At the moment neither Tyka Tatou nor Mahmoud Assouline was under a sheet, so it was a moot point.
Tyka had grown up in Ukraine and France, Mahmoud in Morocco. Though they’d been trained in different places, they were well suited to working together. They’d traveled to Palermo, Sicily, to exact revenge on the members of the Marconi crime syndicate who had killed their friend Gabriella, but they had gotten distracted by the huge, inviting bed in Mahmoud’s pensione. They were well matched as colleagues and equally well matched in the bedroom: Just now they’d taken their first break after engaging in several rounds of fierce and passionate sex.
They’d decided it would be wise to let off some steam before finding the remaining members of the Marconi ring, as emotions around their friend’s assassination were running high. Gabriella had been Tyka’s boss and colleague, and an honorary member of the Bod Squad, the elite undercover ops unit based in D.C. She had also been Tyka’s best friend. Gabriella had gone back undercover in the Marconi crime family after revealing to the Bod Squad that she’d been working for the CIA; the leader of the Bod Squad (officially nicknamed the Boss) had hoped that she’d provide the kind of undercover connection with the Mob that every intelligence agency sought but very few achieved. Somewhere along the way her cover had been blown, and she had been killed for it.
Tyka lit two Gauloises and handed one to Mahmoud. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a sensual and unplaceable accent. He was based in Morocco, but traveled all over the world as an independent contractor.
Tyka inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke, careful to stay on her side of the bed, sitting on the embroidered coverlet. Though they had enjoyed several bouts of extraordinary passion, Tyka was wary. Initially, Mahmoud had struck her as pretentious; too slick and put-together to be believed. Now she felt differently toward him, but was frustrated that she couldn’t seem to hold her emotions in check. She looked over to find that he was staring at her with that intense gaze of his. She’d have to keep herself walled up, protect herself. She’d had plenty of lovers; sex was a vital part of her life and her work. But she’d never given her heart away, and she wasn’t willing to now. Something about Mahmoud was getting under her skin. . . . He turned her on and unsettled her in equal measure. This was bad for her heart—and for her work.
‡‡‡
Just when Mahmoud thought Tyka was finally going to let him see a deeper part of her, he got a call from Jackson, his best friend from childhood, who was the spy who’d gotten him involved with the Bod Squad in the first place. Jackson h
ad grown up in Morocco, too, but had moved to Baltimore in high school. Between visits and emails, the boys remained close, becoming like brothers. Mahmoud’s family had been wiped out by a terrorist bomb in Casablanca in 2003, and since then, Jackson had used his resources to help Mahmoud find who was responsible. Coincidentally, the company Jackson worked for, FTP, had been investigating a white-collar heist and happened upon one of the greatest terrorist networks the world had yet seen . . . the very same network that had been responsible for the deaths of Mahmoud’s mother, father, and sister when he was just twenty-five. Several others working on different branches of the same case had joined together to form the Bod Squad (proudly coined as such by Jackson).
After listening to what Jackson had to say, Mahmoud ended the call and sat up in bed, beginning to dress. He was filled with a kind of frustration that he seldom let show. They were close, so close, to finding Baba Samka, the man responsible for the slaughter of his family. He’d been tracking this man for more than a decade, and the closer he got, the more determined Mahmoud became to find him. Baba Samka, known as BS or “the Silence,” was responsible for a host of white-collar crimes and terrorist attacks that put him at number one on the FBI watch list and on the radar of several other well-known intelligence agencies. Yet there were no true leads, no pictures of the man, no real intel that anyone could hold on to.
And now, Mahmoud was distracted from his search by the Ukrainian assassin who was sharing his bed. He’d had his share of lovers, and he was comfortable with the transitory nature of his sexual encounters. But something was different with Tyka, and he couldn’t put his finger on what. He wanted to make love to her, dance with her, smoke cigarettes with her, and exchange whispers in a combination of French and English . . . all in equal measure. But he wasn’t ready to commit to anything more than a passing affair. He was made to team with a woman like Tyka: she was fierce, independent, self-possessed, and skilled. Sadly it was the wrong time for anything that got in the way of finding the crazed terrorist he sought.
He turned to her, taking in the sleek beauty of her naked body, toned and slim like a wildcat’s. “What is it?” she asked, taking another puff of her cigarette. Gauloises were her favorite, and Mahmoud had them on hand for her. Tyka never looked happier than when smoking, and she barely looked happy then. But at least her tight coils released a bit.
“We need to leave at once,” he said, “and do what we came here to do. There’s been another wrinkle.”
“What is it?” she asked again. “You know I won’t work with the Bod Squad anymore. If I can’t have Gabriella as my boss, I’ll have none. I’m out. I’m on my own again.”
“I know,” he said. “You’ve made that quite clear. But I think you’ll want to hear this. Both for you and for Gabriella.”
Immediately she put out her cigarette and threw on her clothes—a tight-fitting pair of black pants, high-heeled boots, and a shirt that hung off one shoulder. “Speak,” she said tightly.
“They were at Susannah’s wedding,” Mahmoud said, “when the code five was plastered across the sky. It means he’s out there. Buzz escaped and is at large, and he wants us to know he’s still there.”
“What code?” Tyka asked. “What on earth do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. The Boss’s code five, the fucking classic movie thing. Where he uses a different old film to denote the level of danger. This is like Defcon level one.”
“No,” she said, looking pale and standing rigid. “Not—”
“Yes,” Mahmoud said, wishing they hadn’t been interrupted, wishing the killer he sought were not still out there, wishing this could be finished once and for all. “It was written on the sky. Big block letters. White smoke. But, of course, no one could see any details of the plane from the ground.”
“The code five?”
“Yes. Casablanca.”
1
“Is that all?” Tyka said, gun still drawn, bodies on the floor surrounding her and Mahmoud. “That wasn’t even a challenge.”
“That is all,” Mahmoud replied evenly, looking at her with admiration. “And if I do say so myself, Ms. Tyka . . . I’d like awfully much to see how you’d handle a challenge.”
Tyka and Mahmoud had found many of the remaining members of the Marconi crime family at a café in Sicily, which also happened to be the last place Gabriella was seen alive. The heads of the syndicate had convened for an emergency meeting, since Gabriella had killed as many as she could before she was gunned down. The two assassins had made quick work of taking out the ones that remained. They performed well as a team, managing to do what they needed individually without getting in each other’s way. Tyka had worked with Gabriella for years, and had briefly agreed to join the Bod Squad, but had removed herself upon hearing of Gabriella’s death. She had a reputation for being one of the finest assassins around and was known as the silent weapon of both the Berkut (the Ukrainian special police) and the French intelligence agency, DGSE. After Gabriella’s death she’d spiraled into a kind of despair she had known only in her youth in Eastern Europe. Gabriella had become family to her, and the loss was more profound than Tyka was prepared for. Destroying the men responsible for her friend’s murder gave her just a hint of peace, a lightening in her heart. It would take a lot more to bring her real peace, but this was a good way to start.
“Well, then, shall we go?” she asked, raising a dark blond eyebrow at Mahmoud as she holstered her guns, one at her side and one tucked at the small of her back. She had several more weapons and tools in the sleek black backpack she carried, as well as the small pink pistol she always kept in her boot, but had needed only two guns for this job.
He smiled at her, catching her eyes, a mischievous glint in his own. “Did you want to hang around and wait for more? Or are you the type that enjoys marking your territory?”
She huffed at him, crossing her arms in front of her. “Really, Mahmoud,” she said. “I don’t get turned on by death. If I did, I’d be fucking constantly.”
“Like we’re not already?”
“Well,” she said with a smile. “I do like to get a job done, and done right.” He laughed loudly, and she brushed past him, going to check that the coast was clear.
Tyka was successful as an assassin because she could become invisible at a moment’s notice. But when she caught Mahmoud’s eye, and saw how his gaze was burning into her, she got frightened. She had to be careful. Because around him, she was anything but invisible.
‡‡‡
Mahmoud flew a bit lower under the radar than Tyka, but was no less skilled. Based in Morocco as an independent contractor, he had clients all over the world who paid him very well for his work. He’d gotten into this branch of intelligence after his family was demolished; before that he’d worked for the Moroccan state police doing local investigative work. But something had changed in him when those he loved had been so cruelly taken from him. He had hardened and built himself into a machine . . . one that could track, capture, and kill. As far as he was concerned, everything he had done up till now was practice for the moment when he would catch the archvillain Baba Samka and torture him in the most violent way imaginable. Then, he thought, he would retire and live a simple, normal life in his beautiful home in Tangier, his favorite place on earth.
Mahmoud was debonair, wealthy, sharp, and well put together, all of which added up to him spending his life as a bachelor. He never lacked for female companionship, and there were several women he saw regularly. Would he ever share his life with anyone? His space? His heart? He didn’t think so. Though it was something he wanted, something he often wondered about, he didn’t think he was capable of real love. Not after he’d lost the people who’d meant the most to him. No, after that he’d closed up shop to anyone who wished to be more than a lover.
He looked over at Tyka and nodded. Time to move on. Much as he’d rather dally with this sexy wildcat, they
needed to hit the road. But she did something to his insides, and he found his blood ran hotter around her. “Let’s blow this joint, Ms. Tyka,” he said, gazing at her with admiration.
“Your wish is my command, Mahmoud,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“Oh, if only that were true,” he murmured. She was funny, and a challenge, and he wished he could see into the depths of her soul, but she kept herself tightly wrapped. Every once in a while he could actually catch a hint of vulnerability in her, and he relished the chance to discover more. But now her walls were clearly back up. No matter . . . it was time for him to pursue a new angle on the case, and they’d be better off if there were no complications between them.
Jackson had let him know that there was a new target to investigate, an old contact of Gabriella’s named Birdsong. Apparently he had a villa nearby, and might be working with Buzz. They’d go check it out and see what they found. And he wouldn’t mind spending more time in the company of the lady he referred to as l’Assassin Blonde. He was so attracted to her, addicted even . . . he just couldn’t seem to get enough. She was providing a much-needed distraction in the midst of an all-consuming battle within his soul.
‡‡‡
Robert Smith was weeping inconsolably. He was deeply in love with Gabriella—they had been seeing each other ever since he had trained her at the CIA. Smith was the leader of a highly specialized unit; he was also an instructor at the CIA and head of programming for Camp Peary, as well as a consultant to the FBI. He was FBI trained and CIA hired, and Gabriella had always said that made him the perfect man.
After touching down in Sicily, Smith had checked into a hotel in Palermo, near where Gabriella had grown up, to collect himself. He was in disguise as a British businessman, but the cover was a matter of routine, not necessity. He had a very helpful quality in the world of intelligence . . . he blended in, to the point of being nearly imperceptible. He was the complete opposite of the tall, dark, and vibrant Gabriella. Robert appeared to be normal, even milquetoast, thoroughly unmemorable.
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