Dance with the Enemy (The Enemy Series)

by Rob Sinclair

  The draw that he had on her was so different to what she’d felt for the last man she’d been with – her ex-husband, Tom. He’d been the perfect choice for her. He was tall, dark and handsome, came from a solid family, and was a fellow FBI officer. It was like they had been destined to be together. At least that was what everyone else thought, her dad included. In the end, it really hadn’t been quite so perfect. It wasn’t that she had never been attracted to Tom, but with him everything had been so easy. And plain.

  ‘And that was the first time you’ve fired your weapon in the line of duty?’ Logan said.

  ‘Yeah. It was,’ she said, taking her hand back and looking down at her feet as though embarrassed by the fact.

  It wasn’t just the first time she had used her gun, it was the first time she had killed someone. She had expected to be a bit more shaken up by it than she was. Maybe it would hit her later on that she had taken a life today. It could just be that she was still in denial about it.

  ‘How are those stitches holding?’

  She sat down next to him on the bed, close to him. Her hand reached out and gently touched the wounds on his face, making him flinch. She saw goose-bumps rise on his neck.

  ‘They seem to be doing pretty good,’ she said, feeling at the stitches above his eye. ‘We can leave those in, I reckon.’

  But he didn’t seem to be listening. He was staring at her, his thoughts somewhere else. She looked into his eyes and guessed what he was thinking. It was lousy timing and probably completely the wrong move to make at that moment, but despite herself, she was thinking it too.

  He gently cupped her face in his right hand and moved his face close to hers so that their lips were only inches apart. She didn’t make an attempt to move away at all. She lowered her hand from his face and looked deep into his eyes.

  ‘Carl, what are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And then she closed the gap completely, kissing him on the lips. Lightly at first, holding the position for a few seconds. Then, almost as if it were synchronised, they both parted their lips and allowed their tongues to dance. He pulled her closer to him and she gave a faint murmur.

  They released from the kiss, looking longingly at each other, both waiting to see how the other would react next.

  ‘You sure you’re okay with this?’ he said.

  ‘Carl, know when to shut up.’

  She reached down, took hold of her jumper and pulled it off over her head. He did the same, then drew her in again, kissing her even more passionately than before. After enjoying the kiss for a long period, she began to move away from him, standing up. He followed, their lips not parting.

  They began to fumble at each other’s trousers. As she reached inside his pants, Logan let out a gasp. She grabbed hold of him, instantly arousing him. With just one hand, he unhooked her bra, exposing her breasts, nipples erect. She pressed up against him, an incredible feeling of flesh on flesh. She murmured again, louder, as he lightly caressed the inside of her leg, moving his fingers slowly upwards, rubbing the outside of her cotton knickers.

  They both removed what was left of their clothing, without ever halting their kiss, then fell back onto the bed, Grainger on top, her body draped over Logan as they made love.

  Chapter 41

  The racket caused by the phone vibrating on the bedside table shook Mackie rudely from his sleep. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he reached out with the other to pick up the device, fumbling around in the dark before he finally grabbed it.

  He didn’t check the caller ID before he answered, but said, ‘Hello,’ with his eyes still half shut.

  ‘Sir, it’s me.’

  ‘Winter.’ Mackie sat up in bed drowsily and turned on the bedside lamp, then looked at the clock next to where the phone had been on the bedside table. It was five in the morning. ‘What the hell is it? Do you know what time it is?’

  Mackie’s wife, Janet, stirred next to him.

  ‘Sorry, but this is urgent,’ said Winter. ‘It’s about Logan.’

  ‘Shit,’ Mackie said. ‘Just give me a minute.’

  He got up and walked through the dark room, then turned on the light in the en-suite bathroom before entering and shutting the door. He looked at his dishevelled appearance in the mirror, then rubbed his eyes again with his spare hand.

  ‘What’s he done now?’ he said, trying his best to wake up.

  He was guessing it was serious, given the tone of Winter’s voice and the fact that he had dared call so early. He wondered whether Winter had been woken in the night too or whether he hadn’t actually gone to bed yet. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time his assistant had worked through the night.

  ‘Richard Blakemore’s dead. Killed in his own home. Two others dead at his house too.’

  Mackie suddenly became alert. He cursed loudly, an instinctive reaction, then looked nervously over at the bathroom door, aware he had been too noisy.

  Just what kind of chaos had Logan caused now?

  ‘And Modena?’

  ‘No sign of him. Apparently Selim escaped with Modena. But I’ve heard that Modena was still alive when he left the house.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Logan?’

  ‘No, not at all. In fact, what I’m telling you got called in by an FBI agent, Angela Grainger.’

  ‘So this isn’t Logan’s mess?’ Mackie said, confused and also alarmed. How had the FBI got to Blakemore before Logan? Then he thought back to the reports that Logan had been seen exiting the car park in Paris with a woman. It was all starting to make a bit more sense.

  ‘Well, depends how much you believe in coincidences,’ Winter said. ‘Logan was certainly heading to Blakemore’s last time you spoke to him.’

  Mackie cursed again. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. Logan was in cahoots with the FBI agent. Just what the hell was he playing at?

  ‘So what exactly did this FBI agent report?’

  ‘Well, there’s no mention of Logan, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But it does sound like his style,’ Mackie said, referring to the growing body count that seemed to be following Logan’s every move. ‘We need to get hold of him. Now.’

  ‘I’ve tried calling, but he’s not answering. I’ve got no idea what he’s up to now.’

  ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea what he might be doing,’ Mackie said, anger rising up inside him. He clenched his fist, trying his best to resist the urge to smash it against the marble counter.

  Even for Logan, this was a step too far. Running around with an FBI agent? Was he really that naive? Or was he just so clouded by his vendetta against Selim that he’d lost all sense of how to carry out his job? Mackie had already resolved to ignore the demands of Sanderson and Lindegaard and keep Logan out in the field, though he’d had a hard time figuring out exactly what had led him to make that decision. He felt a duty toward Logan, there was no doubt about that. He also wanted to bring Selim down once and for all. And Lindegaard had got his back up and he was now intent on defying him regardless, even if Logan wasn’t making that decision any easier to stand by.

  But he’d also genuinely thought that Logan was about to finish the job off. With Selim escaping Logan’s reach and taking Modena with him, maybe he’d been wrong. About everything.

  ‘Is there anything at Blakemore’s house to help us?’

  ‘It’s too early to tell. The French police are all over that place now. We can’t send anyone from the JIA in. We’ll just have to sit back and wait to see what they find.’

  ‘Give me some good news. Who has Lindegaard sent out there? Is it someone we can trust?’

  ‘I was coming to that. It’s not quite as straightforward as you’d hope, though. It’s Evans who’s been sent out to Paris.’

  Mackie knew of Evans. He was a slippery character, more of a tactician than a combatant. Very different to Logan. But he didn’t overly worry Mackie. In fact, his brain might be a helping hand. If Mackie could get the chance
to bring him onside.

  ‘So what’s not straightforward?’ Mackie said, bemused.

  He spun around, surprised, when there was a knock at the bathroom door.

  ‘Honey? Is everything okay?’

  He took the phone away from his ear and covered the receiver. ‘Yes, dear,’ he said to his wife. ‘I’ll be out in a minute. It’s work.’

  ‘Work! At this time! Jesus, Charles, do you never know when to stop?’

  ‘Just go to bed! I’ll be out in a minute.’

  She huffed and muttered something he couldn’t make out.

  ‘You still there?’ Mackie heard Winter say.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here. You were saying?’

  ‘I was saying I’m not sure if you’re going to like this or not. I’ve managed to get into Lindegaard’s phone. I’ve been tracking his calls and messages for the last few hours.’

  ‘Good work,’ Mackie said. He looked in the mirror and smiled. Winter was beginning to show himself to be a real asset.

  ‘Well, it’s good and it’s bad. You said you wanted some dirt on Lindegaard?’

  ‘Absolutely. What have you got?’

  ‘It seems he’s been in contact with a guy called Marko Dragovic. I’ve dug into him and he’s a Serbian immigrant who lives in France.’

  ‘Is this the good news or bad news?’

  ‘Both. The good news is I think we’ve found some dirt. This Dragovic is a known bad guy. He works as an enforcer for a Serbian gang in Paris: they run prostitution, drugs, the usual kind of thing.’

  ‘He could just be an informant, surely? Don’t forget, Lindegaard still runs his own cases for the CIA.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly how Lindegaard would know of him. Either directly as an informant or via someone else.’

  ‘So what’s the dirt then?’

  ‘Well, that brings me on to the bad news. A couple of hours ago, Lindegaard sent over a picture of Logan to Dragovic and the address of a hotel not far from Blakemore’s farmhouse. I think Logan is about to get a very unwelcome visit.’

  Chapter 42

  Logan and Grainger lay on the bed, naked, their bodies entwined.

  ‘That was unexpected,’ Logan said. The same words he had said to himself yesterday when she’d left him stranded by the side of the road, not long after they’d met. This time, though, he didn’t feel foolish about it. Not at all. He was buzzing. He felt amazing.

  ‘Was it?’ Grainger said.

  ‘Unexpected? Yeah. Not that it hadn’t crossed my mind the first time I saw you pointing that gun at me.’

  She hit his arm playfully and both of them smiled.

  ‘You like that sort of thing, do you?’ she said.

  ‘I’ll try everything once.’

  He’d not felt this relaxed for a long time. Not just in the last five months, but in years. All of a sudden, lying there in the bed, all of his troubles seemed so much further away. Not gone entirely, but at least momentarily appeased.

  What was it about Grainger? He sensed something about her, like she had gone through so much suffering, much like he had. Maybe physically she hadn’t – the perfect skin which covered her entire body proved that much – but he could tell from the look in her eyes that she’d been hurt. And badly. And that meant that there was a connection between them, a shared pain, a bond on a much deeper level than he’d felt before. He had noticed that pained look in her when she’d first mentioned her dad to him. Though he suspected that her father’s death was only part of the story.

  ‘Well, I guess it was a little unexpected,’ she said, snuggling her head into him. ‘But in a good way.’

  ‘Definitely in a good way.’

  She was lying on her side. Her fingers were running rings in the soft hairs in the centre of his otherwise smooth chest, her head resting on his shoulder. Her fingers moved to the scar below his right nipple that ran six inches down towards his bellybutton. He winced reflexively at first, not from physical pain, but from memory. With her light touch continuing to dance on his skin, he soon relaxed again.

  ‘It’s from a knife wound,’ he said, as though having one were the most normal thing in the world. ‘One of the oldest ones I have. Scars, I mean.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘From when I was a kid, a teenager. Let’s just say I hung out with the wrong crowd quite a bit.’

  ‘And the others?’ she asked.

  ‘Too many to tell.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Did he want to do this or not? Grainger wouldn’t be the first woman he had told some of these stories to, but he had certainly never opened up to anyone about them on an emotional level. And the most recent scars, those that had come from his encounter with Selim, he had never spoken to anyone about.

  But his scars, and the memories that went with them, told the story of who he was. They explained his life.

  ‘A lot of them are actually from back then,’ Logan began, taking the plunge, ‘when I was still a kid. Some of the smaller ones are even older than that one. Cigarette burns, belt buckles, forks.’

  ‘Forks?’

  ‘Yeah. This one here,’ he said, leaning forward and pointing to four small white circles on his back, ‘this was from a fork. There was a good centimetre or so of it in there. I pulled it out myself. My parents used to beat me pretty badly. My foster parents. Or at least my foster dad, Trevor, did. Did all kinds of shit to me. Gwenn, that was my foster mum, just used to watch and cry … but she never tried to stop him.’

  He’d always resented her for that, even though he knew that she must have suffered at the man’s hands just as much as he and the other kids had. He’d spent five years with them, up until he was fifteen years old. By that time his foster dad no longer dared to touch him. In the end it was Logan who was shipped out for the protection of Trevor, after Logan took it upon himself to give the man some comeuppance.

  Grainger continued to work her hands around his body without saying a word. He didn’t know whether he should carry on talking or not.

  He did.

  ‘That one there.’ He pointed at a scar on his left thigh, close to his groin. It looked like a starfish, the skin having been pulled inwards at awkward angles during healing to create what looked like the creature’s legs. ‘That one was the first time I got shot. I was twenty-two by that point, already on the job.’

  ‘That must have hurt like hell.’

  No shit. They all had.

  He’d been on a mission in Russia, on the trail of one of the original oligarchs a few years after the break-up of the Soviet Union. Like many others, the man he was after had forced his way to the top through a heady mixture of violence and corruption. His mistake, though, was in trying to take his brand of business management into the western world. Logan had eventually got his man following an armed siege of one of the man’s properties, which had been more like a barracks than a home. Logan had been shot in the process of trying to flee the property with the captured oligarch, before ultimately taking him into the custody of the Americans.

  ‘At the time, that was the most pain I’d ever felt,’ he said. ‘It took months for the limp to go. I’ve only been shot once since then, in my left arm.’ She moved her hand up to that scar, which he’d received in Poland, where he’d been on the case of a human trafficking gang. ‘That was even worse because of the bone damage. It took so long to recover that my arm was like a twig before I was finally able to use it again. The muscle had just disappeared through not being used. Since then I’ve tried to make sure I don’t get shot. Never did like hospitals.’

  ‘How old were you when you started this?’ she said. ‘Your job, I mean.’

  ‘I was seventeen,’ he said. The matter-of-fact tone of his voice may have suggested that he was nonchalant about it. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  She raised her head, looking shocked.

  ‘It was the best thing that could have happened for me,’ he said. Though these days, he wasn�
��t always sure he believed that anymore. ‘I was going nowhere in life; had run away from home, was messing around with the wrong people. I was dealing drugs by the time I was sixteen. You’ve just seen the scars. You don’t get many friends in that business. I probably wouldn’t have lived past twenty if I hadn’t come into this job.’

  ‘And how do you come into it? What you’ve just described doesn’t seem to be the sort of profile the intelligence agencies go for. No offence.’

  ‘None taken. What, you thought they only accept people with solid degrees and a stable family background?’

  ‘I guess so. Well, I don’t know what I thought. I never really thought about it.’

  ‘Actually lost souls make great agents. They’ve got nothing to lose. I had nothing to lose. MI5, MI6 and the likes might be full of university graduates and toffs, but that certainly doesn’t fit the bill for what I do.’

  ‘So you’re really not MI6?

  ‘No.’

  ‘I guess it makes sense. So how did it happen? I’m assuming you didn’t see an ad in the local newspaper.’

  ‘When I was seventeen I got friendly with another dealer. He was quite a bit older than me but we used to cruise around together. His name was Pete. We’d been working together for months when he asked me to be his right-hand man. He said he wanted to take out the Yardies, the gang that ran one of the areas near where we lived. He was my friend, so I went along with it. I was young and stupid – what else was I going to do? Only problem was, the Yardies got wind of it, and when they confronted us, five against two, I got my first real scar. The one across my chest.’

  She moved her hand up to it again, stroking over it with her fingers.

  ‘You were lucky.’

  He nodded. ‘And not for the last time. But they hadn’t wanted to kill me. If they had, they would have done. But Pete, he wasn’t so lucky. He got knifed straight in the heart. He bled to death in my arms.’