More memories had emerged from the depths, not about Vadim but personal ones she hadn’t told Jack. She needed time to mull them over and make decisions.
At twelve-thirty Jack closed the bedroom door on the sleeping Sophie and went downstairs to meet the Haz-Mat team. The official van had just pulled up outside.
He could still feel the warmth of her body and detect her scent on his skin. Leaving her would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he had no choice.
Sophie had proclaimed him chef supreme for his stew of leftovers. They’d laughed and eaten and drunk the wine on the terrace to a chorus of summer insects.
Then they’d made love in the antique bed.
He’d kissed her and she’d sighed. He skimmed his fingertips up her spine and along the elegant arch of her neck, and she purred. He worshipped her taut breasts, laving and drawing her nipples into his mouth, and she moaned. She kissed him back with fierce passion, wrapping herself around him, greedy for him as he was for her.
His body had hardened to the point of pain. He ached to have her, to claim her. Even more, he needed to imprint Sophie on his spirit. So he ignored the other need.
He moved against her with infinite slowness, memorizing every inch of her fine-grained skin with every inch of his. He tasted her—her mouth, her ears, the delicate skin of her temples and her throat, down her womanly body to taste the feminine essence between her legs. When she arched off the bed and cried his name, he moved up and entered her. Just barely.
She gripped him with her legs, kissed his chest.
He gritted his teeth, and withdrew.
She arched up, urged him deeper.
He held himself above her, savored the tug of her body.
She moaned, clamped her hands on his butt and drew him down. “Jack, please!”
He contemplated her, so beautiful with her midnight hair spread over the pillow, her body dewy with perspiration, her rapid breaths perfumed with wine and kisses. And then he thrust all the way inside her, joining them body and spirit. Soul to soul.
“Sophie!” He was unable to wait any longer. His desperate need overwhelmed him, didn’t allow slow or soft.
He filled her, thrust again, again, fast and furious. She’d stayed right with him, clutching at his back and murmuring her need, until she cried out, and the pressure of his climax sent him with her over the brink in a blinding release.
Afterward, he had held her close until she’d slept. He’d watched her, silently apologizing for leaving her, for hurting her. When he’d heard the van pull up in front of the house, he’d eased out of bed, lifted his Glock from the bedside stand and slipped on his jeans.
His hand on the door latch, he stowed the reverie for the future and opened the door.
A team of five covered in white protective suits trooped into the house and up to the room where the statuette was. Their leader ordered Jack in clipped Italian, “Stai,” which sounded an awful lot like a command to Fido. He remained at the foot of the stairs and listened to the click and beep of their equipment.
Ironic that he and Sophie had lived with the uranium for days and now he was being ordered to keep away for his safety.
Moments later the group descended with the uranium in a sealed kit. The Haz-Mat chief nodded and said, “Radioattivo.” Radioactive. As he left, he handed Jack the hollowed-out statuette, apparently safe without its contents.
Jack set the little saint on a hall table. So they’d been right, only too slow to figure it out. Were they in danger for having been near it? But if the statuette was safe, maybe there’d been no leak. He didn’t know enough Italian to ask.
After they left, Jack drove away down the hill road.
He found the winding route to the Autostrade and pointed the Opel north toward Florence on the A1. From Florence to Venice was two hundred and fifty-five kilometers, one hundred and fifty-eight miles. He should make it to Venice in three hours.
Still dark. Appropriate.
Or should he let the light of day shine on his revenge?
Revenge? Or would justice suffice?
Was his determination to kill Vadim screwed up? Or was it moral and just, as he’d always believed? He’d never questioned his goal before. He’d never had reason. No self-pity for him, but he felt like a clock wound too tight.
The hatred in his chest still clawed at him, but other emotions, other needs wedged in. The anguish and guilt that had held sway for five years no longer sustained him.
He’d changed. Sophie had changed him.
When he looked down the long barrel of the rest of his life, he no longer saw nothing.
He saw her.
Sophie was his life-giving connection. A shimmer of light in a cavern of darkness. He felt alive again, totally alive, when he was near her. She was his conscience, his lover, his friend, his—
Not his.
The thoughts tangled in his mind, like wires all knotted together. Sophie wouldn’t be there for him. She wanted an independent life, a future she made for herself. He would never see her again.
His heart kicked hard against his rib cage, and he nearly went off the road. Horns blared as other cars careened past him. He gripped the wheel to wrench the car straight again.
Pain and grief had been his steady companions. They would remain with him. His lips compressed into a tight line. He shifted into fourth gear and flexed his fingers to ease the stiffness from his scars.
His watch read one-fifteen.
Was Sophie awake? Should he have left her a note? No, better to put her out of his mind. He’d made sure she was safe. De Carlo was sending an officer to patrol the grounds. Anything else Jack did would only hurt her more. His chest tightened until he thought his heart would tear apart.
Sophie.
Maybe he could give himself one chance.
He picked up the sat phone from the car seat and hit a number on the speed dial.
When Sophie heard the Opel roll away down the drive, she knew she’d failed. Jack was heading to Venice to kill Vadim.
Tears pricked her eyes, and she sat up in bed. Stupida, she had no time for weeping. Jack’s life was at stake. She had to stop him. How, she didn’t know.
She dragged herself from bed and slipped on his discarded dress shirt. After a trip to the bathroom, she searched the house for the cell phone. No sign of it or the sat phone. He’d taken both.
Eyeing the house phone, she smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. She didn’t know the numbers of either of Jack’s phones.
If she phoned the task force, they might arrest him whether or not he’d done anything. She didn’t trust Commissario De Carlo not to go in with guns blazing. If she didn’t alert them, Vadim could kill Jack.
She had to try.
The automated response at the Venice Questura gave her De Carlo’s voice mail, so she hung up and called again. After much button pushing, she reached a human being who would not give her the commissario’s mobile phone number. The stubborn officer agreed to inform him of her call.
Lord knew when he’d get the message. That left her only one option.
She had to go to Venice.
She sorted through the clothing in her suitcases. She settled on the pink cropped pants and blouse she’d worn the first day Jack had taken her to the villa—practical and not bought by Vadim. The yellow espadrilles didn’t match, but they were better for walking than the prissy Gucci sandals.
She glanced at the banjo clock in the hall. One o’clock. Middle of the night. Nothing in Giordano was open.
Arturo lived above the fruttivendolo. Perhaps she could wake him and borrow his truck. Or she’d ask if he would drive her into Florence, where she could rent a car.
She made sure her traveler’s checks were in her purse, then headed out the door.
“Good evening, Sophie. How convenient.” Sebastian Vadim stepped from the shadows.
Sophie gasped and stumbled on the step. Two burly men grasped her by the arms.
“You will not
run this time, my dear. Shall we go in?”
Sophie’s heart raced. Her throat closed with fear, so she could utter only a faint squeak. How did he find her?
What if Jack came back when he found no one in Venice?
The two bodyguards half dragged, half walked her inside. White noise blared in her ears, making her head reel with dizziness. She saw no way to escape, no way to warn Jack.
The men threw her into a chair, and she clutched at its arms for something solid to hold on to.
“Ah, here is our little saint,” Vadim said in barely accented English. A sly smile curved his lips. He removed black-rimmed glasses Sophie’d never seen before and dropped them in a pocket. “The very thing I came for.”
For the first time Sophie noticed Santa Elisabetta standing on a nearby table. Her base was missing. She guessed the uranium was also missing.
Vadim would be furious.
“This visit may be briefer than I’d anticipated.” From a small bag he carried he drew out a pair of heavy protective gloves and put them on.
She held her breath, biting her lower lip. He wore his usual silk suit and open-collared silk shirt, but his salt-and-pepper hair was bleached blond. A disguise, along with the glasses? How could she have ever liked this foul man? She’d once thought him kind and honorable, but now she sensed an aura of evil, of malevolence, that sent chills over her scalp.
He lifted the statuette. A frown furrowed his brow. He turned the marble piece over, exclaiming in Cleatian. He stalked over to her, shook it in front of her face. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”
Fury and righteous indignation swept fear aside. Sophie straightened her shoulders. “You mean the stolen uranium? The polizia confiscated it. They know about your plot. I remember everything.”
She didn’t see the blow coming that knocked her to the floor.
With a dejected slump to his shoulders, Jack slid his Glock into the belt holster. He surveyed the opulent parlor.
The rose-brick house was empty, shuttered and dark.
Did Vadim go to Cleatia? Could he get past the border?
Jack paced the Oriental carpet and thought. During his drive he’d notified De Carlo, but the task force was delayed. Now it didn’t matter.
Without a clue to Vadim’s whereabouts, Jack ought to return to Sophie. In case Vadim had more men looking for her.
And he ought to let her know nothing had happened to him. Three-thirty. He hated to wake her, but she’d be worried if she found him gone. On his sat phone he punched in the number of the farmhouse.
“Pronto, hello. J-Jack?”
The tremble in her voice slugged him in the gut. “Sophie, it’s me.”
“Not alone. Don’t—”
“She cannot speak with you now, Thorne. You will have to settle for me.”
He had heard that voice only once, five years ago, but he recognized the smooth, accented tones. “Vadim!”
“Ah, I am flattered that you remember me.”
Jack’s pulse clattered. Ice-edged horror clawed down his spine. How in hell did Vadim find Sophie? “You bastard. If you hurt her—”
“An empty threat, Thorne. You will do nothing except what I say. You have been a thorn—so to speak—in my side for five years. Oh, yes, your search for me has not gone unnoticed. Now you have found me.”
Jack slammed the palazzo’s front door behind him and ran to the police launch. He’d contacted the task force earlier and set it up. He motioned to the startled driver to get going, then mouthed, “Police dock.”
The open powerboat’s inboard engine growled to life, and the wide-eyed young officer steered into the canal.
No time to waste. Vadim had Sophie. Jack had to save her. “What do you want?” he barked into the phone.
“A meeting. What else? I will pass the time with Signora Rinaldi until you arrive. She may not enjoy it as much as I, of course. You will want to hurry.”
“Vadim, you freaking sick monster…” Jack’s words blasted empty air.
Vadim had disconnected.
Chapter 17
Dressed in black ATSA jumpsuits—called “ninjas” in agency slang—Jack Thorne and Matt Leoni crouched beyond the Giordano farmhouse’s terrace shrubbery.
The night was cool, but sweat trickled down Jack’s spine. Dew soaked through the microfiber to his knee. Minor irritations he ignored as he focused night-vision binoculars on Vadim’s two hulking henchmen. Each had a pistol in a shoulder holster. They were gabbing about who-knows-what on the terrace. Smoke wafted on the light breeze—Nazionale or some other European brand of cigarette.
Every nerve in Jack’s body twanged on hyperalert. A heavy, slick ball of dread sat in his gut. He couldn’t let someone else he loved die at Vadim’s hand.
Sophie, be alive, be alive. Please, God, not Sophie.
For the moment, all he could do was watch and wait.
Thank God Leoni’d met him at the police dock. The deceptively lazy officer had taken it from there. From nowhere he’d commandeered a police helicopter to deliver the entire team and its commando arms and equipment to Giordano. They’d made the trip in record time.
At four-thirty, darkness still cloaked them from detection. High, thin clouds covered the waning moon. The officer sent earlier to check on Sophie’s safety had been found dead, his neck broken. That implied Vadim hadn’t come alone. A reconnoiter of his Mercedes and of the grounds determined that he had two hired guns for support.
Once the CO understood what Vadim wanted—Jack—he agreed that Jack could enter alone.
But first they had to neutralize the hired guns.
Leather scraped against stone as the two stepped on their cigarettes. They headed in opposite directions to circle the grounds, a patrol they apparently did once an hour.
Jack and Leoni exchanged hand signals as they followed, Leoni to the left, Jack to the right.
His target was squat and square, a cinder block of a man who might be strong but not agile. Speed and silence were key in taking him down.
Jack stayed low and behind the abundant cover until his man meandered well away from the house. At the first opening, he stepped out and delivered a solid punch downward to the collarbone, sinking the man to his knees with barely a sound. Jack slipped the weapon from his holster and used it to conk him on the temple. The thug dropped like the stone block he resembled.
One down.
Just in time. The first light of dawn was erasing the darkness, shading everything with gray tones. With quick and silent movements Jack secured the unconscious man’s hands and feet with plastic cuffs and his mouth with tape. He slipped the man’s Beretta into a ninja leg pocket.
In a moment, Leoni met him on the terrace. “Got mine,” he whispered.
Standing to one side, Jack peered in. He could see through the dining room to the sitting room.
Vadim and Sophie sat in facing armchairs. Jack could see her only in profile, but she looked okay. Scared but unharmed. He exhaled slowly, releasing the fear she might already be dead. She stared at Vadim, but from so far back in her seat she could’ve been part of the upholstery.
Vadim leaned forward, talking to Sophie. More like pontificating, judging from his smirk. A smug expression Jack would erase soon.
Just behind them on a small table stood the saint figure.
So Vadim knew he’d lost the uranium. That was bound to make him even angrier. And maybe scared. Saqr wouldn’t understand. Or forgive.
Good, Jack could play on his enemy’s emotions.
I’m going in, he signaled to Leoni and adjusted his hidden mic.
Leoni tapped his transceiver and gave him a thumbs-up.
His Glock in his hand, Jack opened the terrace door and stepped inside.
The hall clock chimed the half hour, Sophie noted. Little more than an hour since Jack had telephoned. Two more hours until he could possibly arrive.
Her cheek throbbed where Vadim had struck her. He hadn’t touched her again, although he’d impl
ied to Jack he would. If she could keep him talking, perhaps he wouldn’t hurt her more. At that feeble hope, her pulse threaded unevenly.
“You’ve used people all along,” she said. To her, the statement was an accusation, but to him, it would be an opportunity to boast. She kept her hands clasped in her lap and tried to appear calm.
“Of course. People are so easily manipulated.” He droned on about convincing the locals who lived near his Veneto villa that he was a respectable businessman.
When he wound down, she asked, “How did you find this house? How did you know I was here?”
A nasty smile curved his lips. “My men combed these hill towns. In the bars, people are friendly. They gossip. Some are in need of euros to buy more wine. Like your gardener.”
“Silvio?” She’d smelled alcohol on his breath in the early mornings. And he’d known the night before the Fiorasole market day that she and Jack were going.
“He was most helpful, keeping my men informed. Tonight he demanded too much. He will not be troubled by his thirst—or his greed—again.”
He’d killed poor old Silvio without a qualm. Or his bodyguards had.
Sophie suppressed a shudder. Showing fear or shock might anger him again. And there was more she wanted to know. “You were planning to use me, but that was by chance, wasn’t it?”
Vadim leaned back his head and laughed. “Naive child. You really believe that your luggage and credit-card disasters were coincidence?”
Her mouth dropped open. He couldn’t possibly manipulate Alitalia or MasterCard. “How?”
His chest puffed out with pride at his machinations. “My dear cousin telephoned about your arrival. All I needed was to pass a few euros to a baggage handler and the hotel clerk.”
A click came from across the hall. The French door from the terrace had opened and closed.
Frowning, Vadim rose from his chair. “Ugo, I ordered you to remain outside.”
Deadly Memories Page 21
