by Ronie Kendig
It had to be done, though. Peychinovich thought Leif had kidnapped her. Even Viorica had said that if she died, the steel magnate would never stop looking for Leif. Besides, the local police chopper likely had cameras. If it had captured her fleeing the city with Leif, whatever ruse she was playing would have been destroyed.
And it was a ruse. She said one thing, but her eyes and actions said another. She was tough and quick, but he was sure that behind her tough façade lurked a mischievous imp. When she’d mouthed off to him on the rooftop about the invisible glider, then when she’d fast-roped without the rope at the edge of the city, he’d seen her struggle to hide a smile. Which had a nuke blast yield of . . . well, enough to obliterate rational thought.
That moment stuck in the storage room, though. Her shallow breaths. The way she nervously watched his face. When he’d itched to kiss her. But he’d detected fear swimming beneath her desire, too. It warned him to behave. To save the passion for later. If there ever was a later.
Probably not. She’d hate him after—
“You strangled me.”
Leif came to his feet, conscience thudding at the sound of her hoarse words. “Sleeper hold.” He gripped the safety bars of the bed and peered down at her. “Couldn’t let you know where we were headed.”
Hurt seeped through her gaze, which rested on the ceiling, not on him.
“The chopper was local. Might’ve had cameras.”
She blinked. Processed that with a shake of her head. “Hristoff could have seen the video.”
He hated that she used his first name. It was too . . . personal. “I guess I could’ve knocked you in the head with my weapon.” Since she’d plucked his heartstrings somehow, he’d taken a less violent approach. It was slower and nearly got him killed. But she was alive. And here.
“And mess up my makeup?”
Leif snorted, surprised yet glad she didn’t hate his guts. “You’re welcome.”
She shifted, and the restraints resisted. Her hazel-brown eyes flashed.
“Command’s orders.” Ones he’d vehemently argued against. Viorica had come willingly. She wasn’t trying to get away. But Iliescu and Braun countered with a stiff reminder that she was a skilled operative and assassin. Allowing her to move freely about a military base was not an option. He saw their point and agreed they had to play this smart. But she had trusted him. Which was why he’d insisted on being here when she came to.
Lips tight, emotion roiling through her olive features, Viorica glowered. “I trusted you.”
He leaned down, elbow on the bar, and scratched his jaw. “Yeah. That part’s bugging me.”
Her brows lifted into a pinched expression. “You think . . .” She sagged. Looked back at the ceiling. “You think I’m working you.”
“Don’t we all? I’m using you to get the book.”
Her eyes, now a strange yellow-green, struck his. Panicked. “Where is it?”
His statement had been a test to gauge her reaction. Figure out what on the planet she was doing leaving Peychinovich. Her lover. Her funding. It made zero sense.
She wrestled the cuffs.
“I’d go easy,” he suggested. “They tighten the more you strain. Sort of like those Chinese finger traps I hated as a kid. Still convinced they’re a torture device.”
“Being here with you is torture enough.”
“Ouch,” he said with a laugh he didn’t feel.
“Where are we? Where are my things?”
“A secure location, and your things are here, along with your satchel.”
A glint hit her expression. “Secure location? Where?”
Now, why had that gotten such a response from her? “If I told you, it wouldn’t be secure.”
The door hissed open, the security override releasing. He peered over his shoulder and found two guards and a female doctor.
“I will break free, I always do,” Viorica growled. “And I’ll find that book, and you will never see me again.” The words were filled with hurt. But was it more?
Holding off the medical staff, he leaned closer. “V, put that vendetta on ice. This isn’t what it seems. I’ll get you out of these restraints.”
“I trusted you once. I won’t make that mistake—”
“If I release you, can we talk?”
Wariness punctured her anger. “About what?” she gritted.
“The whys, mostly.”
She considered him, mouth in a tight line.
“Agreed?”
“Mostly.”
Leif liked that she threw his words back at him.
“Chief?” the doctor insisted.
He nodded to the medical team, not looking away from her. “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
“Not funny.”
“Yeah,” he said with a grin, “it kind of was.” He touched her shoulder—a strange thing, but he did it. Why he felt protective, why he even thought he could convince her, work her . . .
At the door, he stopped the doctor. “Who do I talk to about the restraints?”
“Colonel Brust.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Right here,” a uniform growled as he stormed past the room. “Walk with me.”
After one last glance at Viorica and a signal for the doc to wait, Leif caught up. “I—”
Brust lifted a hand. “Save it. Not happening.”
“What’s not happening?”
“Her unchained, in any respect.”
“But—”
“Son, I get you.” The colonel hadn’t looked up from the OD-green file folder he was flipping through as he stalked down the dull corridor. “In the city, you had an experience. You trusted each other.” He swiped his badge and shouldered them around a checkpoint. “But there are things you don’t know about her.”
“And things you don’t know about me.”
Brust gave him an appraising look as they trudged through the bustling command center that was like something out of a thriller movie with its black walls, ominous lighting, and hushed voices. “I know enough.”
Not even close. And Leif kept it that way, an agreement with Iliescu and his brother, and the Army chief of staff. “I need the restraints off. I’m working an assignment—”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time,” Brust said, dropping the folder on the table and turning. “It’s not happening. She’s wanted in thirteen countries. She’s killed dozens of people. Purported to have killed twice that. Don’t think she wants anything from you other than to snap your neck. That’s all the Wild Rose ever wants. And those she meets end up dead. Including that guy on the yacht we tracked her from.”
“What man?”
Brust lifted a stack of papers and rifled through them. Spun one across his desk. “Kuznetsov, Vasily. Age forty. Twin brother to Valery Kuznetsov, right hand of Peychinovich, also found dead and floating in the Moscow River.” He glowered. “See? Dead. They’re all dead, and I know you might go a little weak in the knees at the pretty brown eyes she bats at you, but I’m not going to be the one notifying Iliescu or Braun you’re belly up because you had a thing for the Russian operative. Capiche?”
“Sir, with all due respect, this isn’t about attraction. She has an artifact—”
“Actually, we have it now.” The colonel’s glower turned to a gloat. “And now we don’t need anything from her save information, which we plan to extract from her in one pain-filled second after another.”
“No.” Leif heard the bark in his voice and didn’t care. “You touch her, and I promise you will have a nightmare breathing down your neck—after I’m done with you.”
Face crimson, the colonel bellowed, “You threatening me, son?”
“Check your facts. Check my mission, and you’ll find you’re on the wrong end of this, Colonel.”
Storming out of the command bunker, Leif balled his fists and stalked back to where they were holding Viorica.
* * *
“Holeeee crap,” Bar
clay muttered.
“What?” Mercy dropped her feet to the ground and straightened in her chair, glancing at him. His whitewashed face gaped at his monitor and forced her to look, too. The security feed of the base showed a fight in one of the hallways. She sucked in a breath. Stood, leaning in closer.
A confrontation with two MPs and— “Runt.”
Barc lifted his phone. “Lawe, get to the med bay. Now. Before Runt—”
Leif slid into the two MPs. Dropped one with a half dozen strikes that were violence in motion. He snatched his weapon from its holster before the soldier even hit the ground and aimed it at the second, who lifted his hands and backed away. With no sound, the silence added an ominous feel.
“Too late,” Barc corrected. “Just get down there.”
“Don’t shoot,” Mercy willed Leif. That would be a mistake he couldn’t come back from. “What is wrong with him?” Phone in hand, she ran out of the communications center and toward the medical wing. “Sir, we’ve made the trip from Incirlik. Arrived a couple of hours ago, but something’s wrong with Runt. You won’t believe this.”
“Hang on.” The clattering of keys made it through the line before Iliescu issued a long-suffering sigh. “For the love of . . .”
“Sir?”
“Director.” Through the connection came Culver Brown’s voice—had the director called him up, too? “I heard what’s happening.”
“Get down to Metcalfe. Tell him I’m involved now.”
Shelving the confusion, Mercy huffed. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him,” Dru said. “He’s doing what his training demands.”
“You kidding me?” Culver’s objection was deep. “We have the same training—”
“You don’t, in fact,” Iliescu said. “Get there. Tell him.”
“With what I’m seeing, that won’t be enough—”
“Do it!”
When the line went dead, Mercy stared at her phone. Leif had different training from Culver? Did Dru mean specialization? Something niggling at the base of her brain said he was referencing something else. She jogged to the medical wing and rounded the corner.
Runt snapped his Glock at her. “Far enough, Maddox!”
She skidded to a stop, hands raised. “Easy, Runt.” Where was Culver? “Let’s talk. What’s going on here?”
Two more MPs entered the fray. She half expected Runt to look wild-eyed, crazy. Manic—in a rage, like Banner when he Hulked. But Runt was the epitome of calm. Focused.
A uniform rushed him.
Runt didn’t look or turn. He simply responded. And before Mercy could twitch a muscle, the MP was on the ground, unconscious. The lightning-fast reflexes had come out of nowhere and vanished just as quick, Runt sliding back into a ready stance with his weapon targeting the remaining MPs.
Where in the ’verse was Culver?
“Stand down, or I will put you down,” Runt warned in a preternaturally even voice. It seemed so wrong and menacing.
“Leif,” she said, advancing a step.
“Mercy, stay there,” he growled, not looking at her. “Do not make me hurt you.”
She balked, stunned at the threat. “Iliescu—I talked to him.”
He hesitated.
A team of doctors approached with more MPs, crowding the already too-small hallway. “Please”—a female doctor held a hand toward the window—“we need to take her to—”
“No.” Runt eyed them. His hesitation hung rank and loud. “Nobody’s taking her anywhere.” He positioned himself in the doorway.
That was what this was about? The female assassin? Surprise pushed Mercy’s gaze to the room, where the dark-haired woman lay chained to a bed, watching the showdown.
Leif homed in on Mercy again. “You talked to Iliescu?”
Her heart thudded. “Yes.” Get him to talk. Get him distracted. “You know he’s always got your six, right?” What was it Dru had said to tell Leif? Adrenaline had her botching this.
Leif didn’t answer, his focus shifting to an MP closing in.
“Easy there, buddy. Iliescu sent a message,” came Culver’s booming voice as he rounded the corner. “He’s involved. Just give it a minute.”
Leif wavered. “Brust threatened to torture her.” His jaw muscle flexed. “That’s not happening.”
“Nobody’s going to torture her,” a young male doctor said, gaping. “I have no idea what you and the colonel talked about, but we want to run an MRI, make sure—”
Runt snapped his weapon toward the chatty doctor.
“Easy,” Culver warned. “Let’s not add to the body count.”
Body count? Add to it?
Oh. The confrontation at the hotel. She skirted a look at Runt. Did he know what the team had done? How they’d gone in, put their lives in harm’s way so he could get out?
Radios squawked. The MPs tentatively reached for them but didn’t take their eyes off Runt. From this end of the hall, Mercy couldn’t understand what was being said, but their postures shifted. The MPs nodded to each other, then backed away.
Lawe rounded the corner. “Stand down, Runt. It’s good. Colonel Brust understands he’s no longer in authority over our prisoner.”
As the MPs lowered their weapons and eased back, Runt did the same. He eyed the doctors. “She doesn’t leave this room unless I or someone on my team is with her. Understood?”
The female doctor seethed. “This is—”
“Not your problem,” he finished. “I brought her in, and I am responsible for her.” Weapon still at the ready, he motioned Mercy closer. “Inside. Remove the restraints.”
Uh . . . Mercy eyed Culver, very uncomfortable with entering the room of a notorious assassin and setting her free. It was sort of like trying to pet the pretty pattern on a cobra without expecting to get bitten or die.
“I’ll help,” Culver said, giving Mercy the courage to enter the room.
Still unsettled, she eyed the female assassin who’d somehow convinced Leif to protect her, and moved to the left side of the bed, reaching for the buckle on a wrist cuff.
“What’re you doing?” the assassin asked, her gaze darting between them.
“Making it easier for you to kill us, apparently,” Mercy muttered. “Keep still.”
“I hope you realize what he just did for you,” Culver growled as he worked the straps on the other side.
“I have no reason to hurt you,” Viorica said.
“Yeah, didn’t know assassins needed a reason. Just a target,” Mercy countered.
“You don’t trust me.”
“Wow, Culver, she’s got brains after all.”
Good job, Mercy. Tick off the murdering operative. When she shifted to the hip and chest restraints, the woman lifted her hands. Mercy flinched. And hated herself for being so smart-mouthed and jumpy. The woman was only rubbing the red welts on her wrists.
“You realize,” Mercy said, feeling insanely protective of the guys she worked with, “he could’ve been killed just now. For you.” When their eyes locked, a cold violent streak slithered through her. “If anything happens to him because of you . . .” She unbuckled the final strap and stepped back as Culver assisted the assassin to an upright position.
Viorica touched her fingers to her temples. “I’m dizzy.”
“I can knock you unconscious again,” Mercy offered with a shrug. “Might resolve that issue.”
“Mercy,” Culver chided.
She had no idea why she didn’t like this woman—well, besides the cold-blooded killer thing—but she didn’t. Like royally. Like archnemesis.
Viorica lifted her jaw. An arrogant, coldhearted villain.
Then Mercy remembered the woman spoke Russian. Mercy could do that and knew that the guys wouldn’t understand. “I may not be Lara Croft,” she said in the assassin’s language, “but I’m her cousin, Trinity—you know, brilliant hacker. If you hurt him, I’ll find your enemies and relay your location to them. To every one of them.�
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Viorica’s brow rippled, both in surprise and confusion. “I do not want to hurt him.”
“What you want and what you do aren’t always the same thing,” Mercy said.
“Okay.” Runt let himself into the room, acting as if he hadn’t just had an armed standoff with the staff of a military installation. “They want you downstairs for an MRI.”
Viorica hesitated. “Why?”
“Need to verify no tracking devices.” He handed over her laundered clothes. “I told them you needed to freshen your makeup.”
Viorica took the clothes, hesitated, then gazed up at Runt, her lips parted. Was she going to pledge her undying love? Kiss him?
“Where’s the book?” the assassin asked.
Mercy snorted. “Of course. No thank-you for putting your life on the line. No acknowledgment for what you protected her from. Just ‘where is the book?’”
Runt scowled. “Show her the bathroom.”
“Right. Because I’m now reduced from hacker to lady’s maid.”
Viorica walked over to the chair where her satchel sat. She peered inside, almost as if she didn’t believe the book was gone. With a huff, she turned to them.
Gliding dramatically to the door, Mercy pointed. “Bathroom.”
The woman looked uncertainly at Leif.
“It’s secure.” He nodded toward the restroom. “Go on. I’ll wait.”
SEVENTEEN
CIA HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND
“I’m sending you something.”
“Okay.”
“We might have a problem.” Dru eyed the still image of Leif turning a weapon on their own soldiers. “Check it out. I’ll wait.” He hit SEND and then let the video replay.
“Must be serious.”
What he hadn’t sent was the video of Leif and Brust. That was EYES ONLY.
A curse hit the line.
“Now you see my problem.”
“Think he’s cracked?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” That would be worst case. “I know so little about what happened to him. There are things I suspect but can’t prove. He’s done so well. I really expected it to take more. The one medical file I scrounged up indicates ‘extreme heightened factors’ is the only primer, but AARs from the team don’t show that’s happened. He was never in that level of danger.”