The Russian (Federal Hellions Book 2)

by Gray Gardner

  Eubanks shook his head and bit his lip as he tried to find the words to shut Ferguson up. He finally just pulled his pistol out. Not necessary, but effective.

  “I think it’s time for everyone to retire back their rooms,” he sneered.

  “Wait,” Burton protested, holding up her hand. She had so many questions. Was it the Red Patriots of the People who were trying to kill her? What did they do after finding her accountant’s house empty? Did President Austin only serve one term and then move to Russia only because of this diary she was supposed to have? Why did Connor look like he’d seen a ghost? Why was Ferguson being so nice?

  “This is far from over,” Connor said, looking at the senior agent.

  “She deserves to know,” Ferguson muttered, agreeing with Connor.

  “Out!” Eubanks ordered. The atypical trio slowly shuffled out of the room and were unhappily escorted back to their respective quarters by much larger agents in dark suits. Being left alone with their thoughts after experiencing what they just had didn’t benefit any of them.

  Ferguson traced the barrel of his gun around his face as tears ran down his cheeks, head bent over his knees as he sat on the side of his bed. Shame crashed down on his shoulders as he thought of how innocent she’d been. And now how utterly unaffected she was because of her precipitous will to not only survive, but be successful. The guilt he felt for betraying her was nothing compared to the longing he had to just go back to that simpler time in his life. He liked her. She liked him. Nothing was as effortless as that anymore. The thought of his wife at home made him feel even worse.

  Connor pulled Baylor into his room and down onto his bed, spooning her and holding her like he’d never let her go. She was there with him and that was all he needed. Everything else pushed out of his mind as they lay in the dark.

  Baylor’s mind raced. She’d always wondered why the President of the United States of America had seemed like such a jerk to her. Everyone she knew had voted for him in 1996, but when the 2000 elections rolled around she inexplicably felt strongly about supporting his opponent. Asshole. And the head of Scotland Yard stopped by her house once a week for tea during her final semester at St. Andrews—Chilton. And his pretty friend, Lieutenant Reddy, always smiling at her as she uncomfortably let them into her home every Wednesday afternoon. They were so nice and she’d just assumed it was some service they did for all victims on the ferry.

  They explained to her about the ferry, and how there were terrorists, and it would be best if she gave the police any information she had pertaining to her grandfather. Then they explained that they would seal her files. Truly, she wished she could help. She couldn’t give them anything, though. They still came weekly, anyway.

  She had no memories of Agent Dustin. Good riddance.

  And Ferguson. She only knew him as the nice man from the CIA’s anti-terror unit who said that he was just going to keep in contact with her so the British and American authorities could make sure she was all right after the November 7th terrorist attack. He was straight with her about the RPP and the legend of Trotsky’s diary, and she even allowed a search of her home. Nothing was recovered, of course. She always wondered why she felt so attracted to him. He even came to her graduation and helped close up her home as she headed back to America to attend UVA. The guy called her for all 4 years of school, making sure she was okay.

  She’d just thought all of these people were in her life to make sure she was okay. How could she have been so stupid? They were keeping tabs on her. They wanted information from her.

  Then, when she returned to England to pursue her masters at Oxford, Ferguson was nowhere to be found. Which made her think about him even more. No wonder he was so shocked and guilty looking when she and her friends ran into him at a familiar pub in London. He wasn’t supposed to have contact with her anymore. She’d served out her usefulness to the CIA. That kiss they shared at the end of that night, outside the pub with cabs waiting, the perfect one she thought was their first, was just too good to be the first. Too familiar. She’d thought it was a sign that they were supposed to be together. That lying bastard.

  And he had made promises to her, too. He had promised to seal her file within the deepest depths of the CIA so that she’d be safe. He’d promised he would protect her from everyone who wanted to hurt her, even after they apprehended the last known member of the RPP. Too bad he turned out to be the one who’d hurt her the most. She’d almost forgotten this part of her life. Almost.

  She willed the image of John Ferguson and all of his refined British charm out of her already crowded head. She thought of Connor instead, imperfect but still too hot for her. Everything she thought she didn’t want any more she now wanted with him: love, a future, someone to just depend on. She exhaled heavily and thought about him with his shirt off, pressed into her back, strong arms surrounding her. Eubanks and Payne suddenly jumped in there somewhere. She closed her eyes tighter and hummed until her throat hurt. And what was with the boy band music, anyway?

  About twenty agents congregated for a meeting the following morning. Burton sat uncomfortably between Connor and Ferguson, her attention being called to order every now and then. She couldn’t really focus, though. Eubanks and some other suit were flipping through images of Saint Petersburg and drawing red squiggly lines across regional maps. The walls were covered with digital images of trade routes and forms of transportation. She rubbed her eyes in the artificial light.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally interrupted weakly. The whole room turned to her. She cleared her throat and said in a more capacious voice, “I just don’t think I can do this.”

  Eubanks shifted his weight and angrily said, “Burton, this is not the time.”

  “No,” she replied, pushing back her chair across the white tiled floor and standing. “I know that you all can’t help what happened all those years ago, but neither can I. I… I’m wiped, okay? You’ve been training me for weeks and drilling me and testing me and I really don’t have the energy. You’ve just picked the wrong person for this. I’m sorry.”

  Connor watched her sympathetically. If anyone deserved to turn down the CIA, it was her. She’d been through so much, but she was right. It wasn’t her fault or the CIA’s. He wondered how they would compel her to go through with it…because he knew they would.

  Eubanks threw the small remote that controlled the digital images on the wall panels across the table and started marching towards her. To everyone’s surprise, Ferguson stood up in her defense. Again, Ferguson had the surprises.

  “Agent Eubanks,” he quickly said, his chair falling backwards as he got to his feet. Everyone’s glance shifted to him. “Perhaps… Well, perhaps she’s right.”

  “Ferguson, I swear to God,” Eubanks grumbled.

  “Perhaps she’s right because she doesn’t have all of the information so she can fully understand,” he continued, holding out his hands and avoiding her eyes. “She doesn’t know how big this is. She doesn’t know how many federal agencies across the world are counting on her, not us, but her, to succeed at this mission. We need to clarify it for her.”

  “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Burton huffed, glaring over at Ferguson. “I’m really sorry, okay? I am, but I really just think you’re all going to be disappointed in the end.”

  “What if we brought in the DCI?” Ferguson quickly asked, looking hopefully at Eubanks. “And our MI6 liaison. Surely one of those people will be able to show her.”

  Eubanks was nodding and shooting glances at his assistants as Burton imagined herself strangling Ferguson. Don’t try and work it out, you blooming idiot! Get her out of there!

  “This isn’t about whether or not I want to help,” she argued. “I just… can’t. I can’t help anymore!”

  Eubanks suddenly snapped his folder shut and looked at Ferguson and Connor as his assistants scurried out of the room. “We’re going above ground. Maybe the light of day will set her straight and clear her head. Hall of Fame, o
ne hour. Get her in civilian clothes.”

  Burton opened her mouth to protest but the bastard had already left the room. The other agents shuffled around as she looked helplessly at Connor.

  “I know some sunlight will do me good,” he grinned, standing up and trying to make her feel better.

  It actually did sound nice. She’d lost track of how long she’d been in the underground training facility, but no one was supposed to go that long without natural light. She glowered at Ferguson.

  “See you up there, I guess.”

  “Yes,” he nodded, busying himself with the papers in front of him. “You will have escorts at your door to take you where you need to go.”

  “Too busy to take out the American trash yourself?” She sneered, as Connor took her hand and led her out of the room.

  “Precisely,” Ferguson replied, taking a deep breath and brushing past her, careful not to make eye contact.

  “Wanker!” she called, as Connor got her into the hallway and pulled her towards their rooms.

  “Go easy on the guy,” Connor sighed, looking down at her. “He looks like he feels really bad.”

  “Don’t take his side just because you both have penises!” she snapped, glancing back over her shoulder.

  “Burton,” he began. He’d seen regret. He’d known regret. Ferguson felt regret, he was sure of it.

  “I’ll see you in a minute,” she sighed, entering her room and closing the door. She popped her neck and sighed, then found the fresh pair of jeans neatly folded on her bed with the same t-shirt she’d walked in with hanging on a wall hook. She quickly changed and opened the door, finding Connor looking always good in anything he wore, waiting patiently for her. This time it was khakis and a polo.

  “Ready?” he asked, looking her up and down.

  “Let’s get the bloody hell out of here,” she nodded, taking his hand and following the two black suited men towards the elevators at the end of the white hallway. They swiped cards and punched in codes and spoke passwords into several speakers, and ten minutes later they walked through some double doors and were pierced with morning sunlight. They were in the large lobby of the headquarters.

  “People,” Connor said, noticing the crowds coming and going, looking terribly engaged in whatever they were doing.

  “People,” Burton grinned, rubbing her eyes in the bright light. She tried to take a step forward, but a heavy hand came down on her shoulder.

  “This way please, ma’am,” one of the suits said.

  “I knew it,” she grimaced, turning and following them across the large space and through more coded locks and doors.

  “This place is bigger than the Pentagon,” Connor mumbled, when they finally entered a large room with a hard wood floor, windows that let the sunlight in, and drapes that matched Burton’s green eyes. The walls were covered with black and white photos. “The Hall of Fame.”

  “Please wait here,” the suits politely said, suddenly leaving and closing the doors behind them.

  Burton looked around the square shaped room and finally walked to one of the tall windows. Green and yellow trees blocked any sort of grand view, but the woodlands were good enough for her. It reminded her of the cross-country team she was on at her American high school. She liked the solitude of running through the woods. She realized that she had always kind of liked being alone.

  “Baylor, the DCI is here,” Ferguson loudly stated across the room as he shut the door behind him.

  “What’s a DCI?” she asked, not turning her stare from the window.

  Ferguson approached her and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her shirt. “He’s the Director of Central Intelligence…”

  “Get off me,” she griped, slapping his hands away as she continued to watch the clouds roll in. What was his deal? Then she heard Connor clear his throat and she swore it sounded like he clicked his heels.

  “At ease, Captain,” she heard a familiar voice say, followed by footsteps entering the large room. They echoed…almost regally.

  Slowly, she turned around and adjusted her eyes, focusing on the group of men and women fanning out into the room.

  “Well, hi there, Baylor.”

  She squinted as the tall man slowly approached her. The glaring light from the now cloudy day shone through the window and finally illuminated his face. Oh God.

  “Bollucks,” she breathlessly said through her teeth, pushing back against the cool window and hoping that maybe, just maybe she would fall through and not have to deal with this.

  “I told you, you’ve been in London way too long,” Marty Austin said, smiling that presidential smile. “You…you haven’t changed a bit.”

  She couldn’t say the same for him. The stress of losing a second term as president and she guessed the stress from directing the assholes in the CIA had left him a little more wrinkled and a whole lot grayer. It was him, though.

  “Agent Ferguson,” he grinned, shaking his hand.

  “Director, we’re pleased that you came,” Ferguson nodded, still standing next to Burton. “We have a situation…”

  “I’m up to speed,” Austin said, eyes still on Burton. “The question is, how much does she know?”

  “We’ve restored her memories of your meeting,” Ferguson said, slowly side stepping away from Burton.

  “Excellent,” Austin replied. “We helped her, now it’s time for her to help us.”

  Connor shook his head as he stood back with the rest of Austin’s entourage. That wasn’t a very good start.

  “Excuse me?” Burton asked, pushing off of the window and stepping forward. “I seem to remember being taken from my home and flown halfway around the world just to satisfy your foolish need to find some damned diary that doesn’t even exist!”

  Ferguson held his face in his hand as he tried not to look. Of course she would talk to the director that way. It’s the same way she spoke to him when he was the leader of the free world. Why would anything change? Austin was right. She was exactly the same.

  “Oh, so you haven’t found it yet?” he asked, hands folded behind his back.

  “You know damn well I haven’t found it! You’ve probably searched all of my residences by now. Disappointed?” she said, a look of satisfaction on her face. She had no idea that he had been appointed the Director of the CIA, but it made sense. He could speak at least three languages and was very well informed on foreign affairs. She still glared at him as he stood there, a thoughtful look on his face.

  “I think I still owe you for the wild goose chase you sent us on,” he declared, grabbing hold of the collar of her shirt and flipping her around his body as he sat in a large wooden chair placed aesthetically beneath some black and white pictures of the Hindenburg going down in flames.

  “Wait!” she shrieked, in a voice so high she barely recognized it.

  “You were a teenage girl, then,” President Austin said, pulling her across his lap and pinning her legs with his own. He shrugged off his suit coat and handed it to a minion who had appeared next to him from the entourage.

  “Mr. Director. President Austin!” she whined, pushing up on his strong leg but unable to go anywhere as he squeezed her legs and held her still.

  Marty Austin loosened his tie and began rolling up his sleeves.

  “Princess, I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time. You ran away from my house in the Hamptons and sent everyone into a fuss. You sent me and my entire team to your accountant’s house and you knew we wouldn’t find a damned thing. Clever, but now I’ve caught you.”

  “Ow!” she squealed, still trying to push up off of his thigh as she looked over at the crowd on the other end of the room. The minions, men and women in nondescript suits watching impassively, phones out as they e-mailed and texted; Ferguson, who kept trying to step forward but was pushed back a Secret Service agent; and Connor, who needed two Secret Service agents to hold him back as he watched a former president of the United States spank his little girlfriend.

 
; “You know you deserve this, Baylor Burton,” Austin sighed, smacking his hand down again and again. “And since you were a teenager when you pulled your little deed and sent us on a snipe hunt, I think I’ll give you a spanking that only a teenage girl deserves.”

  Baylor felt relief as his legs released her, but suddenly felt a whoosh of cool air as he swiftly pulled her jeans and underwear down and then pulled her back over his large lap. Her jeans effectively kept her from being able to squirm very much, and the mortification of having her bare ass over President Austin’s knee was almost too much.

  “Please don’t!” she begged, making Connor fight even harder as he heard the familiar plea.

  Austin continued, pouring salt into her wound as he smacked her again and again. “I should go and make you stand in the corner, but I think your bright red behind will be enough to teach you a lesson.”

  “I hate you!” she whined, fighting against his one hand pushing down on her back and the other spanking her ass. To her relief he stopped, but didn’t let her get up.

  “Now you’re going to sit here over my knee with your red, spanked bottom presented nicely to the room; and you’re going to listen to me,” Austin stated, holding the back of her thigh with his right hand and rubbing her back in a comforting way with his left.

  That was when Baylor started crying. She felt helpless and angry and frustrated and all she could do was sit there.

  “You are so unique, Baylor. I know you know that. You’re brilliant, quick on your feet, and tough as hell. My agents wouldn’t have invested in you if they thought you couldn’t do it. And a lot of young women couldn’t do this. You can. I know you have the strength, and the courage, and the resilience. If you didn’t you would have been long gone by now,” he said with a ring a respect in his voice. He gently patted her back as he felt her body relax a little. Carefully he stood her up and tugged up her underwear and pants until she slapped his hands away and finished herself.