Finding Lies

by Rachel Lovise

  Someone was in the house.

  She found her top and pulled it over her head, but the satin shorts were harder to come by. She searched in the tangle of sheets, wondering if she’d have to run for her life bare-assed, when her fingers hit soft satin. She yanked on the skimpy shorts with relief. Although her dress was more appropriate for seducing a man than fighting one, at least she wasn’t naked.

  Ian materialized at her side. “Stay here,” he said, his voice low in her ear. “Do not leave this room under any circumstances.” His hand wrapped around her wrist and he pressed something cool and heavy into her palm. It was a gun. It was much smaller than the one he carried, but it still felt deadly and unfamiliar in her hand.

  Leah swallowed hard. She’d grown up in a place where hunting was a way of life so she didn’t recoil at being handed a weapon, but she prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use it.

  “Shoot anyone who comes through that door.”

  “What if it’s you?”

  “You’ll know if it’s me. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, realized he couldn’t see her, and said, “Yes.”

  He kissed her temple and then opened the door so soundlessly she wasn’t even sure he was gone until the room took on a preternatural silence.

  Leah stood by the bed, unsure of what to do with herself. She was afraid to move or make any sound that would alert the intruder to the fact that they were aware of his presence. After a moment she decided to stay right where she was. She tested the weight of the weapon in her hand and slid a sweaty finger around the trigger and pointed it to the ground. She’d fired a few shotguns in her lifetime, but her experience with handguns was limited to what she’d seen on TV, and she was pretty sure that didn’t count.

  She strained her ears but the house remained nerve-rackingly silent. Fear wove around her spine and pulled taut. Two deadly men were playing a lethal game of cat and mouse in the dark old house, and she was caught right in the middle. Her breathing was so shallow that if she’d held a mirror to her nose it might not have clouded.

  A sudden, jarring crash had her finger tightening reflexively around the trigger. The noise had come from downstairs. There was another loud crash and what sounded like glass shattering. Something—or someone—was slammed into a wall with enough force that picture frames rattled in the bedroom, and she heard the distinct sounds of flesh smacking flesh and heavy breathing.

  Terrified, Leah listened as the altercation rapidly escalated. It sounded as if the entire house were being torn apart and every stick of furniture splintered and destroyed. She’d prayed for a misunderstanding, hoped that it had been Svein arriving early, but if it were Svein Ian wouldn’t be fighting him in what sounded like a match to the death. It had to be Sokolov.

  She’d just come to that weighty conclusion when the sound of a gunshot exploded through the house

  Chapter 38

  Ian roared in pain as the bullet seared through the flesh of his abdomen like a hot knife through butter. He and the other man had been locked together in hand-to-hand combat and the fucker had managed to squeeze off a point blank shot in the space between them. Ian had knocked his hand aside in the nick of time, but not fast enough to completely prevent the hit.

  Ian’s vision blurred, and through a supreme effort of will forced back the darkness clouding his periphery. Leah was upstairs depending on him to keep her alive. Failure was not an option.

  The bullet had caught him in his non-dominant side, so he reared back and plowed his fist into the other man’s face with all he had. It was a blow that would have dropped most men, and this man was no exception, but his attacker was skilled and managed to pull Ian down with him, slamming him to the ground on his bad side.

  Ian’s breath whistled as pain exploded in his side. Taking advantage of his momentary stun, the man rolled to his feet and ran into the kitchen where wind and rain blew in through the open door. It only took Ian a second to catch his breath and then he was up and running after him.

  When he reached the kitchen the light flipped on and the sudden illumination blinded him. He wasn’t surprised to see that the man standing with his gun trained on him wasn’t Sokolov; he’d known from the first punch that he wasn’t dealing with the Russian.

  The intruder had a military buzz cut and black, beady eyes. His hand dropped from the light switch but he kept his gun pointed at Ian. A gust of wind at his back plastered the material of his shirt to his sides.

  “Where’s the woman?” he snarled. Ian noted the American accent. His black clothing had no visible labels, but Ian would bet money they were American brands.

  Well, wasn’t that interesting.

  “What woman?” Ian leaned one hand on the kitchen doorframe as if they were two buddies having a casual conversation, and as he did he slid the knife from his pocket with the other. His side hurt like fucking hell, but he refused to let it show.

  The man’s tone was mercenary. Flat. “I don’t have time for this. I know she’s here. I’ll find her on my own.” His finger twitched on the trigger, but before he could complete the shot his eyes glazed over and he dropped to the floor like a sack of lead. Standing behind him in the open doorway, soaked to the skin and holding a heavy copper clock, was Leah.

  “Here I am,” she said to the unconscious man. Then she gave him a hearty kick to the ribs with her bare foot. “That’s for shooting my man.”

  It was in that moment Ian Haugen realized he was hopelessly in love with her—a woman who’d taken out a would-be assassin with a clock instead of the gun still clutched in her hand.

  “You’re bleeding.” She dropped the clock and ran to him.

  Ian wrapped his good arm around her and took the gun from her unsteady hand with his other. He rested his cheek briefly on top of her wet head before saying. “I’m fine. Get me the bag of zip ties and the roll of duct tape from the hard black case in my room.”

  She ran upstairs to do as he asked. While she was gone, he walked over to the unconscious man and studied him. He guessed him to be about six feet, two hundred pounds. Most of that weight was muscle—the guy looked as if he lived in a gym. He was wearing a black t-shirt, black cargo pants, and military issue combat boots. His hair was dark and clipped like a jarhead’s.

  Ian searched the man’s pockets and recovered a satellite phone, two full clips, American cash, Norwegian krone, and a blue American passport. He opened the passport. Jeremy Walker from Oklahoma City, Oklahoma had just tried to kill them.

  Ian tossed the forged passport on the counter without a second look.

  Leah returned and handed him the plastic bag. He rolled the man over, ripped opened the package, and zip-tied his hands behind his back. He repeated the action on his feet. Grimacing from the pain in his side, Ian propped the intruder’s limp body in a kitchen chair that Leah hurriedly pulled out. Once the body was in position, Ian zip-tied the American’s arms and feet to the chair and duct taped his mouth shut.

  Leah gave the man a once over, and reassured that he was trussed like a pig, put her hands on her hips and turned to Ian. “You were shot.” Her eyes were fiery and she looked like she was angry with him. The sexy red tank and little shorts were plastered to her body from her sprint through the rain, showing off nipples that were puckered with cold. Ian stared at the tantalizing outlines and his thoughts began to stray. Her hair was in disarray and she looked spitting mad, which only brought out the color in her cheeks and made her even more beautiful.

  “Oh no you don’t,” she said, accurately reading the look in his eyes. “How can you even think about sex right now?”

  “You obviously don’t know how adrenaline—or men, work,” he muttered as she led him to the kitchen sink. She turned on the sink light, and biting her lip with determination, peeled up his shirt. The bullet had entered underneath the last rib on his left side and looked much worse than it was. Considering Leah’s lack of experience with gunshot wounds, she probably wasn’t aware of how much a surface wound could bleed.


  Ian gently prodded the entrance to the wound and fought back wooziness. “Is there an exit?” he ground out.

  She turned him around and looked at his back. “Yes.”

  He grunted. “Good. It’s just a through-and-through flesh wound; didn’t hit anything important.”

  Her lips pressed together and she didn’t say anything. She didn’t faint or cry or demand they call an ambulance. She was all business as she pulled dishtowels from a bottom drawer and began wetting them. Her fingers were gentle as she cleaned the wounds with dish soap and water. The bullet had glanced one of his ribs, possibly cracked it, but he’d suffered worse.

  When she finished he looked down at his side. The skin around the entry wound was already turning purple with bruising.

  “Doesn’t look bad at all. Grab some alcohol from the medical bag in my kit, will you? In fact, bring the whole bag down.”

  “Doesn’t look bad?” she echoed in disbelief.

  “It barely grazed me.”

  She turned her back to him and stomped upstairs. When she returned she followed his instructions, disinfecting the wounds with liberal amounts of alcohol before applying a topical numbing agent. She pressed several clean squares of gauze over the holes and then wrapped tape around his torso to hold the dressing tight.

  “You need a doctor to look at this, and you probably need antibiotics,” she said.

  “Later. There’s too much reporting at a hospital and I don’t have time for that shit right now.” When she opened her mouth to protest he grabbed her upper arms and hauled her to his chest. He knew his eyes were hard when he said, “Why the fuck did you come downstairs?”

  “I was scared. I heard the gunshot and I was afraid you were hurt or dead.”

  “I told you to stay upstairs. Do you realize what could have happened to you? What if I’d mistaken you for the man’s partner? What if he’d gotten off a lucky shot and killed you?” Fear at the very idea of it had him gripping her arms tighter than he intended. She squirmed and he immediately released her.

  “You’re lucky I did,” she snapped. “Or were you planning on pulling a Keanu Reeves and dodging the next bullet Matrix-style?”

  Ian snarled but she didn’t back down. “You’re damn right I had a plan. A plan that you interfered with.”

  “Oh really?” She lifted her brows mockingly. “Did it involve letting him finish pulling the trigger?”

  Ian knew rationally they were reacting to the situation, and yet there was nothing rational about him when he bent down and crushed his mouth to hers. When he pulled back he said, “Don’t you ever put yourself in danger for me again. Trust me when I say I can take care of myself, but in order to do that I need to know you’re safe.”

  She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her arms around him and held him. The tender gesture eased the tight ball of fear that had lodged in his chest at the sight of her holding the gun and clock.

  When she let go he saw the American was conscious again and watching them with blank, reptilian eyes. Mercenary-for-hire, Ian thought.

  “Go upstairs,” he said to Leah.

  “No way, I—” She stopped when she saw the man was awake. She responded to the mercenary’s vibes instantly, shivering and crossing her arms over her breasts. “Okay,” she said. “If you need me I’ll be in my room.”

  Ian walked her to the foot of the stairs. “I have earphones in my bag and I’m pretty sure I saw an old CD player in the desk. Why don’t you listen to some music, maybe take a bath?”

  She understood what he was going to do and she didn’t look happy about it. He didn’t like it either, and was loathe for her to see that side of him, but the man zip-tied to the kitchen chair had been sent to murder her, and he would find out why.

  “Do not come down no matter what you hear. And Leah, I fucking mean it this time.”

  Chapter 39

  The American was granted a temporary reprieve from Ian’s interrogation by Svein’s arrival half an hour later. Svein was earlier than expected and Ian was grateful to be saved the headache of Svein showing up only to find the safe house empty. If the American had found Leah then others could find her, and that meant they would be clearing the house within the hour.

  As soon as Svein walked in and saw the American zip-tied to the chair, his face turned to slate. Ian poured two mugs of coffee, handed one to Svein, and the two men walked outdoors so Ian could relate the night’s events to Svein without the would-be assassin overhearing.

  “What have you gotten from him?” Svein asked, pointing his chin to the kitchen door where, from ten yards away they could see the bound American’s sullen expression.

  “I was just getting started when you arrived. So far he claims to have never heard Sokolov’s name before.”

  Svein snarled. “As if we’re going to buy that.”

  Ian took a long swallow of coffee. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

  “Why? Men like that are trained to control their micro expressions, just as you and I are.”

  Ian knew that, but he also knew on a bone-deep level that a man like Sokolov would never hire out his own hit. It would be a point of pride for him to finish the job himself, especially after having failed twice before. Sokolov hadn’t sent the American. Ian was as sure of that as he was his own name.

  The question then was, who had? If the man was a hit-for-hire, anyone could have enlisted his services; it didn’t necessarily have to be the Americans. The reason for the hit had to be related to why Sokolov wanted Leah dead. In Ian’s field there were no such things as coincidences, and two entirely separate entities wanting Leah dead for two separate reasons would have been way beyond a coincidence. He was missing a key piece of information; a piece that he suspected was locked in Leah’s brain even if she didn’t know it.

  He told Svein as much, and although the man was reluctant to let Sokolov off the hook, he admitted it made sense.

  “How do you think he found you?” Svein asked.

  “I don’t know. But if he found us, others can.”

  “New location?”

  “As soon as possible. You can transport the dickhead in your trunk. I’ll tell Leah to pack and we’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”

  “You have a new place in mind?”

  Ian always had a backup location in mind. Contingency plans had been a must in the FSK, and it was a habit he hadn’t felt the need to break as a civilian. Men like him were always stashing things away “just in case.” Occasionally, those “just in case” items and places made the difference between life and death.

  “Two hours east.” He hated having to wait that long to get answers from the American, but Svein’s arrival had eaten the time he’d allotted himself for a preliminary interrogation, and he couldn’t risk keeping Leah there any longer. For all he knew there were more hired guns on the way as they stood there chatting.

  Svein finished his coffee and bared his teeth in a smile. “Let’s get this party started.”

  ***

  Leah had opted for a shower instead of another bath and had just finished dressing in jeans, pink ballet flats, and a gray hoodie when Ian knocked on the door and told her to pack. She didn’t ask why, just shoved all her things in her bag and hurried down to the kitchen.

  The chair where the assassin had been tied was empty, and she felt a flare of panic before she looked out the window over the sink and saw a big black man shoving a leg into a trunk before slamming it shut. She exhaled with relief. Svein had arrived, and that leg most certainly belonged to the assassin. Good, that jerk deserved to ride in the trunk.

  She poured herself a mug of coffee and carried it with her to the truck where Ian was flat on his back looking underneath the carriage. When she saw Svein she waved with more excitement then was probably necessary, but he gave her a friendly smile in return. Ian scooted out from under the truck and gave Svein a thumbs up.

  Once Leah had hopped in the truck, bringing the mug with her, the two vehicles rolled
out of the yard with her and Ian in the lead.

  “What were you doing under the truck?” Leah asked.

  “Checking for a GPS tracker. I didn’t find anything.”

  “How is your wound? Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you find out who the guy is?” she asked.

  “An American mercenary-for-hire.”

  “American?” She’d heard the man speak to Ian in the kitchen, but she’d been sneaking up behind him in the rain at the time and had been a little preoccupied with saving Ian’s life. Besides, she was used to American accents so it hadn’t stood out to her. “Why would Sokolov hire an American to come after me?”

  “He didn’t.”

  She was thoroughly confused. “Then who did?”

  “That’s a good question, and one I intend to find the answer to.”

  Leah sat in silence as he drove. Her eyes were glued to the passenger window but her brain wasn’t registering any of the sights. Was Ian suggesting that someone other than Sokolov was trying to kill her? What the hell could these people possibly think she had?

  She berated herself for the millionth time since the airport shooting for not being able to think of what it was Sokolov wanted. If only she could figure it out then maybe she and Ian wouldn’t be in danger right now.

  Ian drove exactly five miles over the speed limit, not that it mattered because they hadn’t passed a single police car since they’d left Oslo. He took so many turns on winding, wood-thickened back roads that she wasn’t sure how he knew where he was going after a while. Every time she glanced in the side view mirror she was reassured to see the silver sedan following an easy twenty yards behind.

  Ian’s phone rang half an hour into the trip. It wasn’t the same phone Anders had called on; she’d seen him disassemble that one when Svein handed him a new burner.