by Ronie Kendig
The girl who’d fallen hard and fast for a special operator was feeling a bit giddy right now. But the one who’d been crushed by said operator tightened her abs, ready for a sparring match. Was there a but to his statement? Or was he just sweet-talking her, hoping to get her back?
“Don’t scowl at me like that,” he said. “I mean it.”
“Okay.” She managed that word without it shaking her. “Tell me.”
He looked like a scared schoolboy. A really well-built, smart-aleck, tatted schoolboy with a thick beard and gray-blue eyes. “Tell you what?”
“You said you thought the same way until you met me. What changed your mind? And know,” she said, trying to barricade her heart and hope, “that I’m not convinced your mind is changed. I think you still see me as the cheerleader.”
“I’m a guy, Pete,” he said, using the nickname that drove her crazy. The one he’d whispered against her ear, butchering her real name in an intense romantic moment. It had stuck. “We are visually based. I can’t help it. You are beautiful.”
She let out a disgusted sigh. “S—”
“Back up,” Adam said, motioning. “Forget I said that.” He ran a hand over his beard and leaned into the table. “The first time I saw you line up a shot on a Taliban leader and nail him at nearly a mile, I was sunk. Then, seeing you enter that hut and ferret out the scoundrel literally hiding behind women’s skirts, I had mad respect for you.” He shifted toward her. “You were the total package. I never thought I’d find someone who liked to take a carbine to the range and massacre the target, then doll up for a night on the town. That woman?” He shook his head. “Didn’t exist—until you marched into Bagram. Help me understand why that is a bad thing. Why can’t you be both a kick-butt woman and a beautiful one?”
“It’s not that I can’t—and I am, by the way—but that you see the cheerleader and your brain stops working.”
He studied the table again. “Can’t help it if I’m crazy about you.”
Her heart tripped over that statement. Over the man sitting before her, lost in his own masculinity. Which also wasn’t bad. Because Adam Lawe was a powerful presence. Maybe that was what scared her. She was afraid of losing herself. Of giving herself to him again and having him stomp the life out of her. She wanted him. Wanted to be with him.
But Adam . . . Adam was career first and only. If she became an obstacle to that pursuit, he’d walk. Again.
“What am I doing wrong?” he asked, his words pleading. “Tell me. How do I get you to give me another chance?”
It was a cruel answer, but the only one that would tell her where she stood. “Walk away.” At his confusion, she breathed the fatal words. “From the Army and from Reaper.”
A frown slithered through his expression and pushed him back. “You serious?”
“It’s the only way I’ll know you want me, just not an excursion or entertainment while we’re on missions.”
“Pete, I walked away from you because if we did this, if we made it official—”
Made it official? Her heart rapid-fired.
“—and we both stay active, there is no guarantee we’ll both come home. I can’t guarantee I will make it back to you, and the thought of hurting you like that—”
“So it’s okay to hurt me now?”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly—”
“What if you don’t come back?” he asked, stabbing his hand at her. “How am I supposed to recover from that?”
“Okay!” Their server appeared with steaming plates of food. “Bacon-bacon cheeseburger with sweet potato fries?”
Swallowing, Peyton sat up as the waiter set down her meal, then delivered the other to Adam. Her ears were ringing with words she’d never considered. He worried about leaving her a widow. They’d never talked about having kids—it was just too weird to imagine the brawny operator trying not to drop a newborn—but it hung at the back of their minds. It was too complicated. Too . . . domestic for Adam. But the words that had her struggling for air, unable to think about anything else . . .
“How am I supposed to recover from that?”
The soldier who’d had enough brass on his Class As to supply an entire war effort, the man who rushed into danger without a second thought, the man who’d faced down commandos and terrorists with near irreverence—that soldier was afraid. Afraid of losing her.
CHAPTER 15
REAPER HEADQUARTERS, MARYLAND
“Where is she?”
In his hub at the Reaper headquarters, Cell looked up from his bank of monitors to where the deputy director stood, being faced down by Leif.
“She’s working,” Iliescu said.
“This is like the second, third time you’ve sent her out. She has a kid here.” He lifted a hand. “She was back, what, two, three days? And already—”
“She has a rock-solid focus on the Book of the Wars.”
“You’re sending her after it?”
“Leif, I’ll talk to you, but right now I have something else to deal with.”
“We will talk.” Leif pivoted and left.
Iliescu blew out a breath, then turned and entered Cell’s office. “Got a minute?”
The gyro from lunch plummeted to Cell’s toes and threatened to vault right back up his throat. “Um, sure,” he said as the deputy director entered and closed the door. Locked it. “Do I need to make arrangements for my body?”
“Depends,” came the director’s terse reply.
Mentally, Cell traveled the monitors surrounding him, wondering if he’d left some of his guilt up for the director’s viewing pleasure. “On what?”
“You.” Iliescu leaned back, an ankle resting on a knee as he rubbed his chin. “Anything you need to tell me, Mr. Purcell?”
Formal address. Meant he was annoyed. Which crime was Cell supposed to confess? His system nearly crashing? Using Mei when he’d been told not to? Digging into Above Top Secret files to get a lead on suspicions that were only hunches? That alone was enough to turn the director’s anger into a hydrogen bomb.
“I got nothing,” he lied.
“What happened to your computer on the plane?”
Well, crap. “It crashed. A Trojan was attached to some . . .” His pulse jiggled. He glanced at his screens, mind racing. “You’re monitoring my system.”
“That,” Iliescu said, his anger finally sparking, “has nothing to do with why your system crashed.”
“You’re freakin’ monitoring me? Babysitting me?”
“You’re new in this office, so I’ll forgive your disrespect and rudeness,” the director said, his face reddening. “What I won’t forgive is your disobeying a direct order.” He rose to his full height. “You might be a genius where it comes to computers—”
“Might be?”
“—but there are analysts who could take you down in a heartbeat.”
Cell snorted. His screens blipped. Words started sliding off the screen, falling to the bottom as if they were resting on a floor. Then they vanished. “Son of a batch of cookies.” They were toying with him, mocking him.
“There was a reason I told you not to reach out to Dragon Mei.”
“I had a hunch—”
“And it has devastated our ability to move forward.”
Cell blanched. “No. It was just my system.”
“I wish it was, but your system—”
“Devious foul betrayer,” Cell growled. It made sense now. “Because you were monitoring and jacking my system, they got into the agency’s computers. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“Do not put this on us.” Iliescu’s brow furrowed. “Had you obeyed orders, respected my instructions and agency protocols, we would not be struggling to get the problem isolated.”
Gaping, Cell considered his screens, which were now functioning again. Cursed himself for not thinking the agency would spy on him. “Holy out of the fire and into the spying pan.” They were spies. What else would they do?
And why wasn’t the director outright livid? “Why are you so calm? That’s a sick calm, not a good calm. What’s wrong?” he asked, feeling as if menthol filled his aching lungs.
Iliescu considered him, his eyes dark with reproach.
“You’re not yanking my clearance or having me escorted out—which is completely within your rights.”
“I don’t need you to tell me what I can do.”
“So something’s happened or”—he tried not to gloat—“you need me.”
“We will deal with your negligence and defiance later.” Iliescu checked the door, then lifted a device from his pocket. Clicked it. A jammer? “The information Mei sent you may have also been relayed to certain parties whom I have gone to great lengths to conceal things from.” He stared at Cell for a long time.
A really long time.
Cell shifted. Grew uncomfortable and knew where this was going. What it was about. Who it was about. Leif. “Okay” was the only word he managed to drag through the thick sludge of ominous silence and a guilty conscience.
“I think we understand each other. What you’ve done not only compromised Langley and this division, but it has put him at great risk.”
“I . . .”
“I think you consider him a friend.”
“I do.”
“Then I need what you have, because if he’s compromised, you have no idea the storm you’ve unleashed on him.” Iliescu stood. “Fill me in. Completely. Or we may lose our only hope for stopping ArC and keeping our assets alive.”
***
ITALY
Iskra strode into the upscale Italian restaurant in a silk pantsuit and heels. Her attire wasn’t for the company she would keep in these walls, but to play the part, she had to dress the part. She approached the lectern where the host stood with an apathetic expression.
“Yes?” he droned.
“Miss Todorova?” a deep, gravelly voice called as two men in suits approached, arms resting comfortably at their sides—near weapons, no doubt.
“Ah,” the host said, shifting on his feet. “Forgive me, signora, I did not realize—”
“Please.” The burly man spoke again and motioned her past the foyer, irritation tugging his pocked but chiseled face. He might not be muscled like Adam Lawe, but he was clearly experienced in getting his way.
She inclined her head. “You kept me waiting,” she said, sauntering past him and praying he could not detect the twitch of her heart.
In a quiet, secluded area of the restaurant, two guards were posted at double doors, which opened upon a command from her escort. As Iskra entered, her nerves strangely unsettled, she saw someone—a woman—exit through a side door.
A dozen elegantly decorated tables adorned the lavish room that held one customer. Impeccably dressed, his hair tousled slightly and threaded with silver, Ciro Veratti sat like a king holding court.
His gaze swept her as she approached. “Miss Todorova, had I any idea that you would one day be free of Hristoff . . .”
“What would your supermodel girlfriend say about you flirting with me?” She slid into a chair across from him.
His laugh was light and far too relaxed. “That she knows my character and my admiration for capable, beautiful women.”
As a waiter placed a black linen cloth across Veratti’s lap, Iskra noted there were no utensils on her side of the table. “Afraid I have a vendetta?” She sent him a demure smile as the staff poured glasses of red wine.
“I am amused by you but not foolish.” A shadow passed over his deep-set eyes. “And you are not here to eat, but to listen.”
“I am curious,” she said. “Why come to a restaurant when you have ample staff at your estate who could do what these employees do? Would it not have been simpler and more private to meet there?”
“Presence brings notoriety, Miss Todorova. Not everything I do is for myself. By frequenting Giuseppe’s, my name and money are associated with this fine establishment. That will bring him business, and he, in turn, graciously allows me a fabulous porterhouse.”
“And scares off his own business, too.”
“Those who run are not worthy of such a place. And this is a brilliant setting with capable staff and exquisite food.” Veratti sipped his wine. “Have you tasted Claude-Pierre’s skill before?”
She had no appetite for food or idle talk. “What do you want, Mr. Veratti?”
“Cooperation.”
Now Iskra laughed.
“Oh, please,” he said, waving a hand. “Do not doubt yourself, Miss Todorova. I realize you failed Hristoff on two occasions and even assisted in the murder of your patron, but I trust you and believe in you despite those failings.”
Furious, Iskra would not play games anymore. “Last time,” she said with a tilt of her head. “What do you want?”
He held up a finger, waiting until the server delivered their salads and departed. “Not until after our meal.”
Iskra gritted her teeth, fisting her hand in her lap. She had been a man’s pawn before, forced to pretend, to endure too much time with someone who only sought to control where she went and what she did.
This was Hristoff all over again. But with a gun all but pointed at her head—she could see the imprint of the burly guard’s weapon beneath his jacket—she had no choice. Which infuriated her.
“Anger looks good on you, Iskra,” Veratti said, forking his leafy greens and tomatoes.
The tone was insulting—a mix of master and lover. But she would never again sell her soul to a man.
“Hristoff said that as well.” She lifted her wine glass. “Look how he ended up.”
Veratti’s eyes glittered as he sipped his wine. He took another mouthful of salad, a smile never leaving his gaze. “Abandon that vitriol climbing your throat before it gets you in trouble, Iskra. I may not have had the pleasure of you, but I know your kind. I know what drives you, what controls you.”
“Nothing controls me,” she hissed.
With a guffaw, he stabbed his fork at the door. “I know you want to stay alive to protect that precious daughter of yours, and that does control you. It keeps you from tempting fate and leaving this room. Not that my men would allow you to leave.”
Was that a challenge? “I never knew you to be so wasteful with resources.”
He tipped his wine glass at her. “You have never known me, Miss Todorova.” A sip, and he swirled the crimson liquid in the goblet. “Do not fool yourself into thinking I am like Peychinovich, weak man that he was, though brilliant in business.” His face enlivened as their main courses arrived and Iskra’s untouched salad was whisked away. Once the waiters exited, he leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “But absolutely feckless when it came to you.”
Why that made her feel bad or guilty, Iskra could not say. But it stoked her hatred of this man.
“Hristoff cost me a great deal,” he said, cutting his steak. “In fact, I think his debt now rests on your shoulders.”
Dread curdled in her stomach. “I owe you nothing.”
“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his finger. “Who was it that did not secure the Cellini?”
She stared back defiantly.
“And who lost the Book of the Wars?”
“That was not my fault—your thugs interfered, and that had colossal ramifications.”
“You were there!” he roared, slamming down his knife. He bent forward, elbow on the table, and skewered her with a glare. “I tasked you with one objective—find out the name of the facility. Just the name. No doubt existed that you could do it. And you did. You got inside, and”—his hand and eyebrows raised—“did you deliver that information to me? Did you call and say, ‘Ciro, I have what you want’? No! No, you did not.”
She had no regrets over choosing Leif over Ciro in that situation.
Veratti sucked his teeth as he lifted his fork and studied her. Then grinned. And laughed. “I see,” he said, carving off another chunk of steak. “I see why Hristoff was so very distracted.”
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“And now he’s dead. Would you like to see that, too?”
In a blur, a weight clamped the back of her neck and slammed her face into the table. Pain crackled through her head. Training had her shoving back the chair. Gaining her feet. Palming the table and twisting, driving her foot into the back of the guard’s head with a wicked-fast round kick. He staggered.
Freed, Iskra hopped away and landed in a fighting stance. “If you have something to say—”
“Had you not so rudely interrupted me,” Veratti said, never slowing in eating his meal as he pointed to the table. “Please. Sit.”
Another guard righted her chair and palmed his weapon.
“I’ll stand,” Iskra said. “Let’s get this over with.”
Veratti huffed. “Indeed. You are ruining my dinner.”
She dared not speak the retort on the tip of her tongue.
“We have a mutual enemy, Miss Todorova.”
“Only one?”
“One,” he said with emphasis, glowering up through his thick eyebrows, “who is causing me a great deal of trouble. I want your help persuading him to . . . step aside.”
This was interesting. Not what she’d expected from the notable Ciro Veratti. “You have assassins and lackeys at your beck and call, Mr. Prime Minister. Why draw me into your problems?”
“Motivation.”
She arched her eyebrow.
“Find the right one, and you are the master of the soul.” He set down his napkin and eased back in his chair. Hands resting on either side of his plate, he studied her. “It is true that I had the book—or, more accurately, I had control of it, though it was not directly in my possession. That would create problems, draw attention. So it was held for me. But it seems that recently a certain enemy of ours—a man supposedly loyal to me—has taken it upon himself to recover the book.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Recover.”
“Indeed. You know of whom I speak.”
“Rutger Hermanns.” Saying the name felt like consent.
Veratti tilted his head in a nod. “You will take care of this problem.”
“Why would I do that?”
He eyed her. “Weren’t you looking for someone? A . . . brother?”