Black Surrender

by Jasmin Quinn

  Michael narrowed his eyes. “You might have blown your fucking cover. Your three years would be down the toilet.”

  Anto smirked. “In Russia we say shitter. And I didn’t blow my fucking cover.” He surveyed the room, his eyes lighting on the serving dishes on the table.

  Then another more dangerous thought hit Michael. “How the fuck did you track me down?”

  Anto shrugged as he wandered over to the table, picking up a plate and piling it with scrambled eggs and potatoes. “Where’s the toast?”

  “No toast, Anto. Eat a croissant.”

  Anto sniffed. “You’re getting weak, Michael. Yogurt, fruit, pretty pastries for breakfast. Soon you’ll be wearing adult diapers and hiding in cubbyholes.” He glanced over at the coffee table, spotted the scotch and grinned. He carried his plate and a glass to an oversized arm chair, dropped the plate to the table and reached for the scotch, pouring himself a generous measure. He took a large gulp and then grinned at Michael who had not moved from where he stood. “Maybe I’m wrong about you. Scotch for breakfast. Still a man with a semblance of respectability.”

  Michael closed his eyes briefly, then took a seat across from Anto, watching as he shovelled cold eggs into his mouth. “Anto, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I was under the impression that you needed my help.” He swallowed down the mouthful and smirked, taking a drink of scotch as a chaser. “Isn’t that why you called me?”

  “I didn’t mean for you to come here. And how the fuck do you know my room number?” Michael reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch and poured a small measure into his glass. He was not a man to let other men drink alone.

  Anto shrugged and took a bite of the fried potatoes. The man could eat an elephant. And maybe he did. How else could he keep his large muscular frame in shape? When Anto wasn’t pretending he was Rusya Savisin’s right hand man, he was a skilled boxer and all that entailed. It’s what kept him hard, quick, tough and deadly. Michael was often grateful that Anto was his friend and not an enemy. Or at least as close to a friend as Anto would permit. Who knew though? The same guy sitting across from him, eating his room service and drinking his scotch had, not so long ago, savagely beat Dean Copeland, another of Jackman’s field agents, to protect his cover. Anto had very few scruples.

  “My charm and good looks get me what I want, Michael.” Anto grinned ferociously, clearly establishing that he was not going to reveal how he tracked Michael to this hotel and this room.

  Nothing felt safe anymore.

  “Who’s here with you?” Anto asked suddenly as he swiped at his bearded mouth with his hand.

  “Just a woman.” Michael knew he should trust Anto, but Anto was also the kind of man that sneered at softness and sentimentality. He didn’t understand gallantry.

  Anto shook his head as he discarded his empty plate onto the coffee table. “Bullshit. Not just a woman. Not while you are in the middle of something like this.”

  Michael sighed. “Maybe I just needed a good fuck to release some tension.”

  “Still bullshit, brother.”

  Michael considered Anto across the table. What should he tell him? When he called Anto this morning, he intended it as a soft reach out. Let Anto know that he’d been ambushed by a couple of Russians, find out if they’d been borrowed from Savisin. That’s all he’d told Anto, no mention of Isabelle or Jack Creed. He sure as hell didn’t expect Anto to personally deliver the news.

  He decided to sidestep Anto’s question. Instead, he asked, “What did you find out, Anto?”

  “Whoever the fuck the Russians were, they weren’t ours.”

  Ours. Meaning his and Rusya’s. Michael almost shuddered. It happened to agents who were deep undercover for too long; they started to identify with the organization they were supposed to be spying on. It had its positives since an agent would become so deep that his cover got tighter and tighter. But it also had drawbacks – loyalties got confused sometimes. Agents were either lost or might even be turned into double-agents.

  Michael tried to read Anto, but the giant was inscrutable. He knew Anto was truly loyal to only one man in the world. Not Jackman, but Dean Copeland, the same agent he viciously beat last fall. The two had shared a history in a brutal Russian prison. They had each other’s backs, saved each other’s lives. When Jackman came for Dean, Dean refused to leave without Anto. It was a two-for-one. Anto, undereducated and brilliant at the same time.

  And never apologetic.

  Michael needed someone to have his and Isabelle’s back if this little caper turned sideways. He needed to trust Anto. “I already know that. This isn’t about me.”

  Anto cocked his head. “Who then?”

  “The woman in the shower. Isabelle. My next door neighbour. The Russian’s were after her.”

  “But not Savisin’s grunts.” Anto repeated. “So whose?”

  Michael leaned forward and forced Anto to lean in as he said softly, “Jack Creed’s.”

  “What?” Anto was clearly startled.

  “Shhh. It would be good if we could get you in and out of here without Isabelle any the wiser.”

  Anto didn’t shhh. “How the fuck did you get mixed up with Jack Creed?”

  “He’s Isabelle’s husband.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Savisin and Creed are partners in some pretty fucked up business ventures. Creed’s in town to connect with Rusya. And you’re fucking Creed’s wife.”

  “That might just be Jack’s cover. He may be in town to connect with Isabelle.”

  “To retrieve his runaway wife?”

  “No, he wants her to do a job for him.”

  “A blowjob?”

  Michael forgot he was trying to keep his voice down. “Piss off, Anto. She has some specialized skills.”

  “What’s more special than a blow job?”

  “Stop fucking around. After she gets him what he wants, he’ll let her go.”

  Anto stopped fucking around. “Don’t be naïve. Creed’s a sonofabitch.”

  Michael frowned. “I know. I’m trying to decide between doing the job and forcing Creed’s hand or taking Isabelle and going into deep hiding for a while.”

  “There’s a third option.” Anto noted, rubbing his hands together, eying the bottle of scotch.

  “What?”

  “You could get the fuck out of the middle of this. Let that prick have his woman back and move on.”

  Michael shook his head. “I thought about that. But I just can’t do that, Anto.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you Michael? Jackman would go nuts if he knew you were putting yourself in danger over Creed’s wife.”

  Michael sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes at the hulk across from him. “This goes no further Anto. Jackman can’t know.”

  Anto shrugged off Michael’s aggression. “It’s not my business to tell. Besides, I don’t talk to Jackman, I talk to you.”

  The sound of running water vanished and Michael glanced at the bedroom door, then back to Anto. “Keep your voice down. I doubt we’ll see her for another 30 minutes. That should give us enough time to finish this conversation and for you to get the fuck out.”

  Anto dropped his voice an octave. “Just so I’m clear. Creed wants something from his wife and you want Creed’s wife for yourself.”

  Michael nodded. That was Anto, bulldoze right through the bullshit to the crux of the problem.

  “What happened to you, Michael? Did you fall on your head?”

  Michael understood this question; would have asked it himself not so long ago. “No. If you saw her, you’d get it.”

  “Well, now I want to see her.” And as if on cue, Isabelle opened the bedroom door and stepped into the living room. She was naked except for a small towel draped around her body, knotted at the swell of her breasts, reaching just barely past the tops of her thighs. Her long auburn hair was damp, and her curls hugged her shoulders and shapely back like ivy on a sculpture of Aphrodite. She was utter
ly breathtaking. As she entered the room, she said, “Michael, I just thought of something…” And froze as her eyes landed on Anto.

  Both men stood up and faced her. Michael disconcerted, Anto grinning lecherously.

  “Isabelle,” Michael’s voice was gentle, as if she were a gazelle and he was trying not to startle her. Isabelle’s eyes flickered from Anto’s face to Michael’s. He saw a trace of panic in their depths. “It’s okay. This isn’t what it looks like.”

  Anto laughed from the belly. “Yeah. He’s not cheating on you with me. He’s too ugly for me.”

  “What’s going on Michael?” Isabelle’s fingers curled into her towel, unwittingly drawing it up her thighs a couple of inches.

  Michael murmured to Anto, “Please stop. Let me handle this.”

  Anto shrugged and tucked his hands into his jean pockets.

  “He’s a friend, Isabelle.” He glanced sideways at Anto, noticed the bastard’s lengthy perusal of Isabelle, wanted to kick him in the nuts.

  “Are we friends, Michael?” Anto was toying with him.

  Michael glared at Anto and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Then to Isabelle. “It’s all good. Go get dressed.”

  Isabelle furrowed her brow, her nervousness replaced by annoyance at his tone of voice. “I am dressed, Michael. In some cultures, this towel would be considered overdressed!”

  Anto narrowed his eyes at Isabelle and cocked his head to one side. Michael needed Isabelle to be compliant just this once. Anto was a hard man, hard with women. He didn’t tolerate female games as he put it. What Michael liked about Isabelle, Anto would hate. He would never put up with Isabelle’s feistiness.

  Anto smiled coldly. “She’s right Michael, she is overdressed.” And then to Isabelle, “Perhaps you should take the towel off and show me what you’re really about.”

  Isabelle settled her eyes on Anto. Annoyance gave way to anger as her face flushed. She balled up her hands and placed them on hips. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my hotel room?”

  Anto turned to Michael, his tone menacing. “Control your woman, Michael, before I do.”

  Isabelle gasped audibly as she turned to Michael. “How on earth are you friends with this Neanderthal?”

  Anto snorted his laughter, giving Michael little choice but to contain the situation before it got away on him. He stalked over to Isabelle, grabbed her by her upper arm and dragged her into the bedroom.

  He heard Anto’s merry eruption of amusement as Isabelle struggled to get free.

  “Anto, shut the fuck up and sit down!” he snarled over his shoulder before slamming the bedroom door behind him and Isabelle. He turned to Isabelle as she yanked herself out of his grip and staggered back a few paces.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Isabelle hissed, her hands on her hips, no fear. It pissed him off that she wasn’t afraid of him. He needed to control the situation and she was such a fucking loose cannon.

  “I am the fucking guy who’s going to save your ass. Could you work with me here? My friend is a little old school. Woman should be seen and not heard.”

  “Too bad for him.”

  “Isabelle. He’s the guy who will have our backs if we need it, so let off a little bit. You’ll earn his respect faster if you show him what you’re made of instead of running off at the mouth.”

  Isabelle sucked in a deep, angry breath. “Oh Michael, you are such an asshole.”

  “Yes. I generally am.” Michael agreed, his words clipped. “Stay in here, get dressed and keep the fucking door closed. When he’s gone, you can come out.”

  “If you think…” but Michael cut her off.

  “Enough! You and I can talk about this later.” He was blunt. And then cruel as he added. “Just remember, you need me more than I need you. Don’t push me.”

  He watched her crumble, felt like a bastard, then wondered why he felt like a bastard. But he could contemplate that later. He turned his back to her, stalked out of the room and closed the door firmly behind him.

  As he re-entered the living room, Anto had reseated himself in his chair, holding a wine glass, sampling the red wine from the open bottle. “Got ‘er in hand?”

  Michael sat down on the sofa and looked hard at Anto. “Anto, for once in your fucking life, could you act like a human?”

  Anto appeared to consider Michael’s request. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think I can, Michael.”

  Michael sighed. “I’m changing hotels this morning. I’m not sure if Creed is watching me or Isabelle or both. But we can’t be here.”

  “You’d think she’d be a little more compliant, given that she was married to Jack Creed,” Anto said as if Michael hadn’t spoken.

  “Anto, focus please”

  “I could tame her Michael.” He seemed serious.

  Michael scowled. “You touch a fucking hair on her head and I will end you. Keep your hands off her.”

  Anto bared his teeth as he snorted his laughter. “So, it is like that, eh? You’re falling for her. You’re gonna get yourself killed.” He grinned again as if Michael getting killed would be amusing.

  “I’m trying not to get killed. I’m trying to keep Isabelle safe. I need to know if you have my back.”

  “Of course, I have your back.” Anto’s smile was replaced by a scowl of irritation. “I’ll always have your back.”

  Michael felt a small spark of relief, but he kept it hidden from Anto. He didn’t want the bastard to know how much he needed him on this. “What do you think Jack Creed wants from Isabelle?”

  “What has she got to offer, besides her fuckable body?”

  Michael clenched and unclenched his fists. “Anto, you’re offending me.”

  Anto shrugged. “I’ll stop then, Michael. I won’t play with you anymore. And I will not play with Isabelle. She’s all yours. I still get to look though.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Anto narrowed his eyes and swallowed the wine in his glass with one fluid movement. “Jealousy is a stupid emotion, Michael.” He wiped a hand across his mouth, then added more wine to his glass.

  “I’m looking forward to the day you meet your match, Anto.” Michael snarled viciously.

  “It will be a long fucking wait.” He paused, tapping his finger on the wine glass. “I know Jack Creed, you know Red Riding Hood. What do you think she has to offer Creed?”

  “Isabelle is a master thief.”

  Anto almost choked on the wine he’d been drinking. “She’s too tall and curvy to be a thief.”

  “Anto! What does that have to do with anything? She’s a bloody thief and Creed probably wants her to steal something for him.”

  “And what does she get in exchange?”

  “He’s holding something over her head. She hasn’t said. It can’t just be about a divorce. But maybe his promise to leave her alone.”

  Anto grunted. “You can’t go into this without all the information. And Jack Creed’s promises last as long as my girlfriends. Why would he leave her alone?”

  “Because I’ll ask him to.” Michael’s voice took on a deadly edge.

  But Anto shook his head. “That’s not enough. You can’t kill Jack Creed. His ugly useless grunts, yes. But not him. Rusya and Jack have a partnership. You don’t have the backup you need to wade into that kind of shitstorm. You’ll get crushed if you go it alone. And I doubt very much that Jackman will consider your leggy girlfriend enough of a reason to go nuclear on Rusya.

  Michael sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his fingers. “I know. So how do I get Creed to make good on his promise to Isabelle?”

  “We need something on him. Something we can use to force him to follow through. I’ll think about it. Talk to Rusya, see what I can rattle out of him.” He grinned. “This is going to be fucking interesting.” He stood up. “How will I contact you?”

  “I’ll call you. We’re meeting Creed at 8 tonight, in the lobby here.”

  Anto frowned. “Not here.
Not a good idea. You’re already exposed enough. Suggest somewhere else – the Massey Club. It’s private and discreet.”

  Michael nodded. “Yeah, the Massey Club. Good.” They both stood up.

  Anto headed towards the door looking back at Michael as he opened it. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that. You should already know. She’s messing with your head.” Then he left.

  Michael remained standing, undecided on his next move. He waited to see if Isabelle would emerge, but she gave no signs of doing so. He sighed as he placed the do not disturb sign on the outside handle of the door and then closed and locked the door.

  Chapter Nine

  Isabelle was sitting in a chair at a small table beside the bedroom window, painting her nails. She was dressed in an emerald green long-sleeved silk blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt. Seductively made-up, black stilettos with red soles topped off by silky black nylons. Isabelle in all her splendour was so intoxicating that ironically, Michael wanted to rip her clothes off, muss her hair, kiss the lipstick off her mouth. She didn’t look up when he walked into the bedroom. She was pointedly ignoring him. The silent treatment. He thought he should shake her or fuck her. Either way that would get her talking. But instead he said, “Isabelle, I trust you.”

  That surprised her and she glanced at him, her face guarded.

  “But I need you to trust me. You’ve lived Jack Creed’s world. You know the expectations. That’s my world too. You can’t disrespect me in front of others. It makes me look weak. If I can’t handle my woman, how the fuck can I handle the important business?”

  Isabelle drew her attention to her nails, blowing on them lightly to dry them. “I know,” she said softly. “I understand. It’s just… I can’t go back to that world, Michael, not with him. Not with you.” She paused, her eyes still glued to her fingers. “I was wrong to ask you to be part of this. Jack wants me to do a job and I’ll just do it. And trust him to let me walk away. Which is what I have to do.”

  “What are you saying, Isabelle?” Michael’s words were cool, without inflection.

  She lifted one her shoulders in a half-shrug. “I can take care of myself. Before I was just anxious, panicking. I want you to step back from this. I’m okay to handle it myself.”