by Lexi Blake
There was no going back to a half-life of Scotch and songs no one else wanted to listen to and pretending he wasn’t dead inside.
He struck again and her eyes flared, her mouth opening as water bubbled out of her lungs.
“Oh, shit.” Ian thrust his good arm under her neck, turning her to the side as she vomited up what had to be a gallon of pure Arabian Sea.
“What did you do to me?” Charlie asked, her voice raw and so gorgeous to him. “I think a Mack truck hit my chest.”
He didn’t have time to argue about his CPR methods. Now that she was back, all he wanted to do was live. With a low groan, he got to his feet. They needed to get in the water, swim as far as they could. Just a chance. He would carry her as far as he could and then take whatever fate she suffered.
Live or die, he would do it with her.
He hauled her up even as she protested. “Ian, put me down. It hurts.”
Limping, he started for the port side. He would do whatever it took. Getting her out of here was the most important thing in the world. “Can’t, baby. We have to get out of here. Nelson is going to blow the ship.”
She shook her head. “No. Not ours.”
“Maybe he’s lying, but I can’t take the chance.” God, he hoped the bastard was lying because their time had to be up.
“Ian, we’re fine. Watch his boat. Watch his. Got into the water to do it.”
Her words hit him with a flash of hope. His wife was smart and kind of really fucking mean, and it would totally occur to her to hand Nelson back his surprise. He turned to the boat that was speeding away from the yacht. He could have sworn he saw Nelson standing at the bow, watching. He seemed to be holding something in his hand. Nelson waved. The asshole.
And then Nelson’s motherfucking boat exploded.
Ian stood strong as the concussive wave hit the yacht and made it list back and forth. His arms tightened around his wife and despite all the pain, he threw back his head and laughed.
Eli Nelson had just gotten taken down by a girl. A woman. Ian Taggart’s woman. It was surprisingly better than taking the fucker down himself.
The yacht continued to move, and Ian stumbled to the chaise. He laid his wife down, her gorgeous body barely covered. She had a wound on her arm, but it didn’t look serious. Dropping to his knee, he could hear the sound of Nelson’s boat hitting the water again after flying apart through the air. He would bet there were a whole lot of body parts flying around, like the best fireworks ever.
Charlie was still pale, her hand on her chest, rubbing it like it pained her. He hoped he hadn’t broken anything. “So it was a good wedding present? I didn’t get you one the first time.”
She was alive. He breathed her in. She was alive. His wife was still with him, his future right in his arms. “Best present ever.”
He kissed her as the Coast Guard started shouting in Hindi and the world was complete chaos around them.
“Tag?” Knight’s voice came over the line again. “Tag? Do you want to explain what the bloody hell just happened?”
Ian took out the earpiece and tossed it over the side of the boat.
And got back to kissing his wife.
Chapter Twenty
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Two Weeks Later
Ian moved alongside the tourists, blending in as they crowded into the packed Peter and Paul Fortress. It was a rare sunny day in Saint Petersburg, and it looked like the citizens were out in droves. It seemed to him that the minute the sun came out in Russia, all its citizens dropped whatever they were doing and found a patch of grass to lie on.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t be lazy today. Today was the day he gave his wife her life back.
After today, everyone got to go home. Even his brother, who was back in the States at the safe house with his small family and Adam and Jake’s. Avery was staying with them while the rest of the team took care of business. Chelsea had chosen to return to the States with Sean. Damn, but he hoped she was there when he and Charlie got back.
His brother had only punched him once. Sean even waited until after the doctors had pulled the slug out of Ian’s leg to do it. Simon had taken a worse thrashing, but seemed to have given as well as he got. Sean had been pissed as hell that Ian had ordered him out, but they were already back on speaking terms.
All in all, it had been a damn fine op.
He walked through the bricked archway that led to the fortress as the tour guide spoke in her heavily Russian-accented English.
“The Peter and Paul Fortress was built in 1703 by Peter the Great. He feared attacks from Sweden so he decided that this island at the delta of the Neva River would be the best defense. The fortress was founded on May 27th and this is now considered the birthdate of the city of Saint Petersburg. If you will all follow me, we will go to the cathedral.”
That was Ian’s cue to break from the herd.
He walked toward the right hand side of the fortress, cobblestones at his feet. Damn cobblestones were all over the city. He had no idea how a person was supposed to run on the things. At times like this he was happy to be an American where the streets were usually even. If he had to run down his prey here, he might break a leg.
And since his thigh still ached from the bullet he’d taken, he wanted to avoid it if he could. He wanted his prey nice and contained.
Above his head the sky was a brilliant blue with puffy white clouds. To his right, the Peter and Paul Cathedral rose from the cobblestoned ground around it, an angel and a gold cross at the very top of its spire.
To his left was his destination, though not the final one. A building made of light-brown, almost gold-colored bricks housed the still-working mint. Dusan Denisovitch stood outside wearing very Western looking jeans, a T-shirt, and Ray Bans. It was fitting he’d chosen the mint as their meet-up spot since Ian was about to make the young man a whole lot of money.
Or he was about to get murdered in front of a bunch of tourists. It was a risk Ian was willing to take because he wanted it all. He wanted his wife and his family. He wanted a home.
“Dobroye utro, Mr. Taggart.” Dusan said good morning with an almost formal tip of his head. The man was roughly Charlie’s age. He pegged him at thirty or so. A ripe age to want to move ahead in the world.
“Zdravstvujtye.” A simple hello, or as simple as Russian ever got.
Dusan smiled. “Your accent is good.”
He shrugged, taking in the four men surrounding Dusan. The young man’s muscle was out in force. At least Ian knew Charlie’s cousin was taking the meeting seriously. Or he was about to get jumped. His wife kept chiding him for his wretched pessimism, but until he actually pulled this off, he would just wait to see if someone was going to pull a gun.
“He’s already in the cathedral,” said a voice in his ear.
Luckily, Ian had backup of his own. Alex was in position outside the cathedral watching their prey. He’d spotted Liam as they’d walked in, ready to come to his aid should the second in command of the Denisovitch syndicate become unruly.
Of course, if he didn’t, he just might become the first in command.
“So you are the man who married my pretty cousin,” Dusan said. “I always like Charlotte and Chelsea. On the rare occasions my uncle would allow me to see them, they were nice girls. Smart girls. I did not like the way he treat them, you understand.”
Charlie’s cousin spoke fairly good English, though it was easy to tell it wasn’t something that came naturally to him. He spoke slowly and some of his words seemed broken, though he was easy to understand.
“Your father doesn’t feel the same way.”
Dusan shrugged, looking off in the distance. “My father believe that blood is all that matters, but I know blood can hurt blood. I have been my father’s son for far too long to not understand this.”
So his intelligence was right. He was making this gamble because he’d learned there was a fissure in the family that ran deep. Dusan was trusted by his father, but
still treated as a child. It was time to be bold. The watch on his hand read eleven forty-nine. His time was running out. “If you suddenly found yourself at the head of the syndicate, would you feel the need to continue your father’s mission?”
A slow smile cross the younger man’s face. “Our mission should be to make money, Mr. Taggart. My father, he take too much time pursuing vengeance for a man who everyone agrees was monster. If my cousin is satisfied with her life and will no longer play games with us, then we will no longer play games with her. Besides, I hear she has new place to live now.”
Ian laughed a little because he was pretty sure Dusan wasn’t talking about Dallas. “I think we’ll have to keep the Loa Mali property strictly as a vacation place.”
The king had been very grateful. He also felt more than guilty about his servant turning on Charlie. He’d gifted them with a gorgeous piece of beach property. Once Ian got over the whole nearly being killed by Somali pirates thing, it would make a great getaway spot.
And the king was searching for a new man to take over his research. Both the Agency and MI6 believed the research had been destroyed. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
“Like I say,” Dusan continued. “I hope Charlotte is happy.”
She seemed happy. He was going to make it his new mission to ensure that she always was. “I’ll take care of her.”
Dusan lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. “See that you do or I may have to pay visit to America myself. When I was fifteen, I get very sick. My father and uncle left me to rot because they had other things to do. My cousins, they nursed me back. No. I will not pursue vengeance against my family. Nor will anyone in power. It is time for a new power in this house. But I might be persuaded to avenge my little cousins should anything bad happen to them.”
The men around him nodded gravely.
“All right, then.” He turned toward the cathedral. God, his freaking in-laws were Russian mob. At least this once it came in handy.
“Mr. Taggart, since you do me favor, why don’t I do one for you?”
“Yes?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the church.
“The men Nelson worked for, they have more people in their employ, people who still seem to work for their nations but who truly owe their loyalty to The Collective. I worry this will be bad for my business. Tell your friends to watch their backs. They never will know when a partner will turn on them. Rather like family. Now go. It’s almost noon. If you miss this chance, we have to wait another week, and I have plans for celebrating tonight.”
Dusan wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Someone had tipped off Nelson. There was a mole, and he wasn’t sure who to trust anymore.
Which was a good reason to be happy he wasn’t in that life anymore. He could trust his crew and no one else.
Damn, but he hoped Ten hadn’t gotten into anything bad. Under all that charm was a cold son of a bitch. Could he really be that mercenary?
He let the thought go because all that mattered was the job in front of him.
“He’s inside making the rounds. He doesn’t have his normal guard with him. It looks like Charlie’s cousin pulled through. Apparently his usual guard had a terrible car accident yesterday. Doesn’t look like he’ll live,” Alex said over the Bluetooth.
Ian made his way through the massive wrought iron gates that led to the Peter and Paul Cathedral steps, the tops adorned with gold tips. He walked up the steps, surrounded by tourists. Most of them followed guides carrying numbers and walking frantically about trying to fit everything in. Many had small devices in their ears to hear the guide better in the crowded, noisy tourist spots of the city.
No one would think twice of a tall man walking though the cathedral. Hell, he fit in well in Northern Europe. Just last night his wife had claimed he was a Viking come to plunder her.
Yeah, he’d done that up right.
“So this asshole visits churches because he’s so religious, but he’s killed like a million people? I don’t get it, man. My religion and his do not even exist on the same planet.” Alex was always chatty when they were working.
Ian stepped into the ornate cathedral, the sunlight of the day giving way to a subdued light. Massive crystal chandeliers ran down the center of the space. There were no pews. No one sat in an orthodox Russian church. There was even a space left, a remnant of czarist Russia. It sat before the altar, a place swathed in rich cloth that led up to a gold covering. It was where the czar would stand.
All around him were white marble coffins with gold crosses, the final resting place of Russia’s leaders.
They were about to get a new friend. Mikhail Denisovitch claimed he was a czar. He could join them.
“That’s because you don’t understand European religions, boyo. Your religion is what, two hundred years old?” Liam got in on the discussion. “Call me back when it’s properly aged.”
Liam stepped by him, winking as he went. He nodded toward the right side of the church. “I think you’ll find what you’re looking fer over there, mate.”
Ian stopped looking at the green and white ceiling overhead. Every inch of the cathedral was painted or gilded. But he wasn’t looking for beauty.
He turned to the right and spotted his prey.
Mikhail Denisovitch stood in front of a velvet rope looking into a room off the main floor.
“This is the resting place of the Romanovs,” a tour guide was saying. “Hopefully we can get closer.”
Denisovitch turned and the tour guide paled.
“We come back later. Come along. It is almost time for our lunch.”
The gaggle of tourists flocked away. Denisovitch stared ahead, looking at the tombs of the Romanov family, slaughtered that day by the Bolsheviks at their Winter Palace. They had finally found their way here.
Ian glanced at his watch. Ten seconds if he was properly synced.
Liam flanked him, Alex coming up on the right.
The guard who was standing slightly behind Denisovitch tipped his hat and walked away, likely to join Dusan outside. Their prey was left with no one to watch over him.
Ian slipped the knife from where he’d hidden it in his sleeve. It slid into his gloved hand.
Then the world seemed to explode. The building shook. The ground beneath them reverberated with the sound.
The cannons from the Naryshkin Bastion went off every day at noon. And every day at noon the tourists screamed and turned and, just for a moment, were afraid.
That was the moment Ian Taggart struck.
He pushed his knife in precisely under Denisovitch’s ribs and into the man’s heart. There was a small gasp and the jerk of a body as it fought briefly for life.
“For Charlotte.” It didn’t matter if Denisovitch heard him. All that mattered was the job was complete and his wife no longer had to fear for her life. He eased the man down behind the velvet rope and off to the side, left the knife in, and turned and walked away.
He and Charlie were free to live the way they wanted to—together.
The sun was bright on Ian’s face as he turned toward the river and made his way out of the enclosure. With Alex and Liam behind him, they made their way to the edge of the fort and down the steps to the rocky shore where Simon and Jesse and Eve waited at the water’s edge with a boat.
Then she turned and he caught sight of her. His Charlie had her face to the sun, soaking in the day.
The sun had nothing on her.
“Are we ready to head home, then?” Liam asked.
“Yes, we are,” Ian replied, walking toward the boat.
It didn’t matter, though. Home had ceased to be a place for Ian Taggart. He hopped on the boat, the waters of the Neva rocking them as Simon fired the engine and they pulled away.
“Hello, my Master,” Charlie said to him, her wedding ring sparkling in the light as she put her arms around his neck and held her face up for a kiss.
“Hello, my love.” He looked down at the collar he’d placed arou
nd her neck before taking her mouth with his.
“Newlyweds,” Eve said, grinning. “They can’t keep their hands off each other.”
Alex took that as a cue to kiss his wife silly. Ian couldn’t let his best friend have all the fun. He kissed his Charlie again, the wind whipping through their hair as Simon started toward the Palace Bridge.
No. He didn’t need to go anywhere to be home. He was already there.
* * * *
Kensington
London, England
The Garden was quiet at this time of day, and Damon Knight preferred working here to dragging himself into the gloom of MI6. Everyone was always rushing about, doing very important things. Everything was important at MI6. The Garden was his own personal kingdom, and he missed it when he was on assignment. He tried to stay in his own quiet office as much as possible when he was in England.
He stared at the e-mail he’d just received. It looked like there was a new head of the Denisovitch syndicate. His operative in Russia announced that Denisovitch had been found dead at the Peter and Paul Cathedral just an hour before. He claimed that Dusan Denisovitch was already moving to consolidate power.
Good for Taggart. Knight had offered his own services in bringing down the man who was threatening McKay-Taggart, but he’d been quite forcibly turned down.
That had actually hurt a bit more than he would have thought. He couldn’t take it too personally. After all, Taggart had told Tennessee Smith to go to hell as well.
It just wasn’t every day that he had a man he considered a friend suspect him of being a traitor.
And it wasn’t every bloody day that he had to conclude that his partner was the real traitor.
Fuck him. The evidence was right there in front of him, a long string of coincidences that led to one conclusion—Baz was working with Nelson before he’d died.
Damon shoved a hand through his hair and cursed.
Baz had been his best mate for years. How could he not have bloody well seen it?
