by Ronie Kendig
“I’m falling asleep. Is there a point?”
“You want Bisera alive, yes?”
The chilling words froze Iskra. He could not— “How dare you!”
“Me?” He snorted. Shook his head. “No, Viorica. It’s Veratti. Remember that. The man who makes people disappear every day.”
Her breathing ragged, she struggled to keep her anger in check.
“If you want Bisera alive—”
“Do not threaten her, or it will be the last thing—”
“Then listen closely, Wild Rose.”
* * *
Leif identified the small, squat building that matched their coordinates and thumped Lawe’s arm. Scattered up and down the street, the rest of the team had already fallen into position, a strategic insertion so that when Leif and Lawe showed, they could be confident their backs were covered.
They entered the club, which also could have been called a defunct café with a bar. Dimly lit, its dark wood reeking of—
“Cigars.” Lawe inhaled deeply and grinned. He slapped Leif’s back. “Feels like home.”
“Feels like pain,” Leif countered, stretching his back, which afforded him time to take in their surroundings.
To his nine, the long bar stretched the length of the room. Mirrors threw scant light across the paneled walls of the restaurant, which was a generous word, considering there could only be a dozen tables and the dance floor wasn’t more than twenty by thirty. What the patrons lacked in numbers they made up in stale cigar smoke and the smell of liquor. Three men barreled past them toward the exit, knocking Leif’s shoulder. Probably drunk.
Lawe was right. This felt like home. Like they were back at an FOB, chilling before their next assignment sent them outside the wire.
Leif went to the bar and ordered a Moscow mule.
“A girl drink?” Lawe snorted then turned to the bartender. “Whiskey neat.”
Leif snorted. With their drinks, they negotiated the tables and headed to the rear. They sat, backs against the wall, monitoring the activity of the so-called club. But as Leif nursed the mule, assessing their infiltration of the club, something buzzed his brain. His gaze hit the team. Then the patrons.
His team was too obvious. Too American. All in one location.
Would Viorica notice? But more importantly—what would she be doing at a hole-in-the-wall place like this?
“So, your friend actually put eyes on the queen?” Lawe asked.
Leif wanted to know the same thing. If Iliescu’s asset had seen Viorica here, where was she? “That’s what he said.” He lifted his drink.
“What happened to your hand?” Lawe asked.
Leif glanced down, remembering the standoff with Viorica in Greece. “She did.”
Lawe puffed a cigar. “Come again?”
“When she got caught in the door, she used a ring to slice it up, trying to force me to let go.”
“So that’s how she got past you. Spy gadgets.”
“Think I’d let her get away because of a couple scratches?” A strange trill scampered up his neck. “You know better.” Was she here—was that why he had this feeling? Had they been made? He searched the sidewalk outside the dank club through the windows. Then scanned the interior.
“Yeah, but what about a pair of pretty blue eyes?”
“Brown, and I never said they were pretty.”
Smirking, Lawe let a lazy curl of smoke fill the air, looking far too proud of himself. “You never mentioned them, period.” He grinned. “But apparently you took note.”
“Taking note is my job. Yours too.” Yet even as he said it, something snagged in his mind. He rewound the mental film. The shifting shadows. Signs on the dingy walls. Laughter—Baddar and Mercy chatting at a corner table. But there. Beyond them . . .
“Well, I’d just like to know when she’s going to show, or if I’m out twenty for a bad drink and bad company.” Lawe pushed to his feet. “Going to hit the head.”
“Uh-huh.” Leif saw the brown eyes he’d just mentioned to Lawe. Sitting right there. Son of a . . . Though he was looking in her direction, he also took in his periphery. Lawe walking to the back bathroom. Devine and Klein talking football. Nobody else had spotted her. How long had she been there, monitoring them?
Glass in hand, he made his way over to her corner. Pulled out a chair, fighting the shadows and dim lighting to gauge her response to his approach.
“That seat is taken.” A Russian accent dripped from her words.
“Yes.” He parked himself on it. “It is. Glad you noticed.” He folded his arms on the table and leaned forward conspiratorially. “So, tell me, are you following me?”
“It is hard to follow someone who arrives after you.”
So he’d been right. She’d been here awhile, watching and assessing. There was no sense in playing dumb. Not with the woman who’d sliced his hand and leapt off a building. Extreme measures warranted extreme directness. “You have something I want.”
Her hard and steadfast expression didn’t change. “You’re not the first man to say that to me.”
Leif knew that was probably her tactic. Embarrass him, get him off-kilter. “I’m not going to go away, Viorica.”
She tilted her snifter, which held ice and a clear liquid, in a toast. “Score one for the American and his tenacity.” After a sip, she squinted at him, then looked at each team member one by one. How had she picked them out? “You feel threatened by me.”
“I could say the same about you.”
She arched her eyebrow.
“The man behind the bar has stayed to the far right since I sat down.” Leif nudged aside his glass. “Near a weapon.”
Swimming in confidence, she pulled forward and condensed the gap between them to inches. Black fabric hugged her arms and torso, accenting her jet-black hair. “What I have that you want”—she was nearly smirking—“will not change hands.”
“That’s a mistake.”
Amusement mixed with indignation and intrigue. “Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.” She angled in with a sidelong glance, shoulder and chin nearly touching. “You know my name, and by the way you said it, it has meaning. Inference. Someone says ‘God,’ and people feel a need to be reverent. ‘Paris’ conjures the Eiffel Tower in that quick little brain of yours.”
“Little?” He angled in, too, accepting the challenge in her words.
“When you contact one of your people, you use their name so they know who’s being addressed. Names not only matter, they’re imperative for clear conversation.”
Leif lifted both brows. “Is that what we’re doing, conversing?” It felt like she had him right where she wanted him.
“The bigger point is that you want something I have, but you won’t give me your name.” She shrugged. “It’s a small thing to provide, a sign of respect.”
Respect. After stealing the artifact out from under him at the facility, she was playing verbal chess. This was all about toying with Leif as a distraction. But from what?
Gaze never leaving hers, he took a sip. A discordant realization—her eyes were not brown as he’d been so convinced two minutes ago—sent a tremor of strange nerves through his muscles. Was it the lighting? Because now they were . . . green? Gold? Amber? A mesmerizing hazel that left him guessing which color to name. Olive skin betrayed her heritage, which had to be from this side of the world. She wet lips that were bare, not smothered in artificial color, and he felt another twang.
Back on track, he chided himself, toes too close to the swirling vortex that was Viorica. “Respect is earned and requires more than a conversation,” he made himself say. “The book is all I care about right now.”
“Is it?” Another wry smile as she relaxed, looking all ease and confidence. She knew she was in control. That she had the advantage, which he intended to flip. “I suppose you expect me to hand it over.” She lifted a shoulder. “Just like that.”
“Better than you handing it over to your lover, Hristoff Peychinovich.”
Something flashed through those hazel irises. When she gave another casual shrug, her hair slid over her shoulder and traced her jaw. “Is it?” There was irritation in her words.
“It is,” he said, more convinced than before that she was taking it back to Peych. He had to prevent that.
A fire flared through her expression, threatening to burn him. “Why are you so convinced I will take it to him—and what makes you better than him? What’s one thug over another?”
Leif took a moment to gauge what he’d seen. Assess her reaction and words. The way she’d shown no hesitation in openly talking with him about the book. Behind the beauty, the intelligence, and the formidable operator, a mental picture formed of a large wall. Gray and covered in slippery vines. A burden. Grief. And the way she hovered over it . . . “You’re protecting something.”
She sniffed. “The scroll—”
“So it’s a scroll.” He pointed out the information she’d revealed and was rewarded with hesitation in her face and body language. “But no, not the scroll.” He’d been called a pit bull before because of the way he chomped into something and didn’t let go. But if he pushed, if he pursued what he’d read in her—which made no sense weighed against the notorious Viorica—would he lose? Jeopardize this? But they couldn’t just sit here in a verbal sparring match, trying to outwit each other.
Call it.
“The scroll is a means to an end—you don’t care about the scroll. You want what it brings.”
“And what’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he allowed. “But whatever it gets you—that’s why you want to take it back to him. As to why I’m better?” He lifted his arms with a cocky grin. “Thought that was obvious.”
Wariness guarded her secret. “That is true of everyone searching for it. I want it for my sources. You want it for your government.” She was probing for intel. “I bring it to Hristoff”—her expression went dark—“and get what I want.”
“There.” Leif craned his neck forward, hearing the slight hitch in her breath. “That’s what you’re protecting.” The quick intake, her blink, and the way her smile faltered told him he was on the right course. “That’s sadness. Why? What did he promise you?”
“Sadness?” Her voice changed. Went hard as granite. Her wariness vanished, and confidence and fury roared to the fore.
He’d made the wrong call.
* * *
The assault of his deftly spoken words on her heart made Iskra falter. “I’m a-afraid, Mr. Soldier”—why was it so hard to speak?—“that you are sadly mistaken.” She caught the slippery reins of control and buried the mental claxon. There was no way he could know. It was impossible.
But he did. Somehow he did.
Just as Veratti had known the Americans would come. She had always considered herself a skilled operative, but the events of the last couple of weeks made her feel inept.
She straightened, thumbing the length of her glass. He knows who you are.
Easy enough to know Viorica. Her reputation preceded her in many countries due to her effectiveness and sheer determination to see her mission completed. Sometimes with flourish. The very name often alarmed people, inducing mistakes. But this man was so dangerously close to her guarded vault. She needed him focused on her persona, so he’d start making errors. Having engaged Veratti, she knew her stakes had never been higher. One did not cross the founder and leader of the Armageddon Coalition and live.
“You sure?” His voice was silk, gentle and soft against the harsh reality of her life.
“Are you, Mr. Nameless?” He was far too confident. Besides his eyes—nearly impossible to ignore—he had a lot going on in his expression. Jaw littered with stubble and mouth parked in a smirk, his face could easily be on billboards, and his physique belonged on fitness magazines. That was what she didn’t like about him—he was too pretty.
But there was a brawn about him that wasn’t tied to his appearance. It filled up all the uncertain places of her thoughts, an invasion that made her hesitate. Pull her punches.
Which was a problem. What was she doing, sitting here with him, thinking about his body? An ignition source, he could burn down all she’d meticulously assembled. Complying with Veratti’s instructions meant flying with this fire.
Her gaze drifted to the door, though she knew she shouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave. Not if she had a chance to get Veratti to solve a problem.
“. . . the Americans are your best chance . . .”
Yes, exactly.
“Runt.”
Iskra blinked. “What?”
He looked around the small bar. “My name—you asked for my name. That’s it.”
She gave an incredulous laugh, but his expression didn’t change. Was he serious? Why would he give her a name, albeit phony, now? Why barrel ahead, regardless of the danger she presented? Or did he not take her seriously? Not understand the danger he toyed with?
His problem. She wouldn’t make this easy on him, though. He had to think this was his idea. “You think making up a silly name means I’ll just beli—”
“You’re deflecting.”
Iskra masked her reaction, but if he could see how closely that arrow had come to hitting the mark . . . How could he read her so easily? He seemed to open the book of her life and read from its tattered pages.
Annoyance stretched the planes of his face toward his now-tight lips. “Earlier you mentioned respect. I had a modicum of that for you because of your name, but now?” He shook his head. “Now that I see you’re more about games, less about action? Well, that respect took a hike. Gone.” He tapped the wood surface of the table. “I thought Viorica would be the type to call it as she saw it. A tenacious fighter.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“Apparently not.” His words were sharp, true. “How about we stop diverting the conversation and get down to business?” Fire sparked in his expression with surprising strength and anger.
Until then, she’d only seen the exterior. The pretty boy with the nice smile and easy manners. This man seizing control from her was formidable. Swift. Confidence and arrogance weren’t the same thing, but he had them both.
But his gaze . . . the way he stared at her, waiting, patient. Focused. Why are you staring back?
“Maybe you can use them.” Vasily’s haunting words took root in the intensity of the man before her. She must. If only to satisfy Veratti. But playing this game, entering the arena of this man’s world . . . could she ever regain the upper hand? Using them meant putting him in control, even if it was an illusion. She’d have to play the lapdog.
“Look.” He shifted against the table, zeroing in on her. “We can do this the hard way.” Experience lurked behind his words.
“Threatening me is not your best hand.”
“No threat. A promise, because you’re ready to run.” He squinted, the dim light of the club playing along the hard lines of his cheeks and jaw. “In Greece, when you leapt away with the book—the boat you flew to? The man who helped you?”
Her heart tripped over the reference to Vasily.
“We’ll hunt him down. And through him, we’ll find you.”
“Find me? But you already know my lover. Why would you need to find me if you know about Hristoff?” Valery had been killed because of her, but she would not be responsible for the death of his twin, too. “Why bother with a sailor who prefers water to land? Go after the big fish.”
The muscle below his left eye twitched. “That big fish isn’t the one you fled to after the facility, which says something.” He tossed back his drink. “That, and this lame attempt to downplay the sailor’s importance.”
“What you should think about,” she said, furious that she had let this go on so long, “is what my lover”—saying that word in relation to Hristoff made her want to vomit—“will do if he finds you with me. What he will do when word gets back about
this ambush by your team.”
He smirked. Shook his head, rubbing his jaw—strong hands. She recalled scratching his hand with her ring. He hadn’t flinched. Then or now. “I’m disappointed.”
“In yourself?” She arched her brow at him and scoffed, reaching for her purse, needing to give him the idea she was uninterested. “So am I.”
“Disappointed,” he hissed, “that you are supposed to be this notorious operative, but you haven’t read me. Haven’t read that this is legit.”
“What exactly is ‘this’?”
“Work with us.”
It took several heartbeats for those words to push past all her barriers. But when they did, her heart rate ramped up. This was too good to be true. God was on her side. Or the devil. She wasn’t sure which, but one of them had handed her a gold chalice.
Too easy. If this man figured out why she was suddenly working with him . . .
Okay, so she’d have to play hard to get.
Still, what would happen when he found out she was playing him?
Worry about that later.
“The way you operated in Greece and your presence here tells me you have a plan for the book.”
“Not terribly hard to figure that out. My boss wants that book.” I want the book.
“But you didn’t go back to Peych, which means something.”
This was a fast-rope to death. “It means you’re trying to find a way to convince me.” She lifted her drink and took a sip. “It’s not working. You’re wasting your time.”
He shifted. “I’m not asking you to give up the book altogether.”
She sniffed. He had no idea what he was suggesting, the price she’d pay if caught. She visually traced his scars—one etching out from his left eye and down to his cheek. The other just below his hairline. A small rise in his otherwise straight nose could be a break. His hair was sun-bleached blond, cut sharp and flat. She’d bought the tantalizing lies of a handsome man once before . . .
“What makes you think I’d give it up at all?” Veratti would kill her if she turned up without it.
“Because you’re still talking to me.”