by Dana Lyons
Where’s a bottle of tequila when you need it?
With the hot water on in the shower, she stripped, stepping face first into a full spray. She soaped her hair, thinking about Lazar. What manner of madness was he up to? Was he creating boutique individuals to order?
She rinsed her hair, shaking her head no.
That’s not Lazar. But it is Ivanov.
She applied conditioner and then delivered a hard scrub to her skin to get the gunshot residue off her hands and arms.
So, whatever Lazar is doing for Ivanov, it’s not what Ivanov thinks.
A chuckle burst free as she imagined the mental combat between those two.
Why didn’t Ivanov ask about Quinn? Is this part of his mind game to draw out Quinn’s new team?
The conditioner sluiced from her hair and she turned off the water. As she wrung out her hair, the most definitive questions firmed in her mind.
Who has what to gain here? Who has what to lose?
She left her hair in a damp braid and dressed in a black shirt and khaki cargo pants. With a stiff spine and a great exhalation, she stepped out to face her pack.
They were waiting. Three stern faces ready to grill her.
“What?” she asked and shrugged, all innocence. She remembered when Simon found blood on her jeans that time she got drunk on Mescal with Rhys and broke a pervert’s nose. That evidence she was able to hide—briefly. But Ivanov’s call caught her unawares and an alarm of reaction went out before she could stop it.
Sometimes, there are no secrets in a pack.
“All right. Sit down and stop glaring at me.” She pointed at Quinn. “And no howling, understand?”
He gave her a ‘Who, me?’ comic face, but sat on a stool at the kitchen bar. Rhys and Simon each took a dining table chair and flipped it around to sit facing backwards.
They are so damn cute.
But cute wasn’t going to last long. “I had a phone call from Sasha Ivanov.”
Quinn jumped off his stool, knocking it over. It hit the tile floor with a loud crack sounding like a pistol shot.
Simon stood, still straddling his chair. His long hair drifted on kinetic energy as a wave of emotional resistance flowed out around him.
Only Rhys remained seated, but he squinted at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
She held her hands out to placate, yet used her best I’m-the-boss voice. “He has my ID from the drone footage. He wants to know why we were at Dr. Lazar’s house; he wants to talk about Lazar.”
The words landed hard until they realized she hadn’t mentioned Quinn. As she expected, everyone’s mouth dropped open and then clamped shut. She crossed her arms and let them process.
“What exactly did he say?” Rhys asked. He lifted his nose as if he’d sniffed something offensive.
She ignored him and pointed at Quinn. “Remember, no howling.”
He puffed up with indignation, but her next words deflated him momentarily.
“He wanted to know why I was at Dr. Lazar’s. He wants to meet.”
They jumped up and milled about with stiff-legged, broad-chested posturing punctuated with ear-blistering profanity.
So much for cute.
“He thinks I was able to see the drone, which I denied. But he says he wants Lazar to make him a woman like me.”
All motion stopped. Three stunned faces stared at her. Simon asked, “He thinks Lazar made you?”
She tightened her lips and notched her chin with amazement. “That’s what it sounds like to me.”
A thick silence settled in the room. More important than Ivanov and the arrest warrant or anything else in the world was their secret.
“He’s fishing,” Simon proclaimed. “Lazar said if we kept his secret, he’d keep ours. I don’t think he told Ivanov any such thing.”
“Refresh my memory, what was Lazar’s secret at that time?” she asked.
“That he took Nobility and escaped,” Simon answered.
“Just because he left his clothes behind, we think he took Nobility?” She shook her head. “I don’t think he took it.”
“The indemnity clause voided any secrets of his we might have from Draco,” Rhys protested. “But whether Ivanov is fishing doesn’t matter. We have to kill this before it goes any further.”
“When does he want to meet?” Quinn asked.
A barrage of anxiety, dread, and the urge to kill poured from him. The pulse at his neck revealed his heart beating wild as a string of firecrackers. “Tomorrow at two.”
“Where?”
“The dining room at the Montgomery Grand on Rue de la Regence. I don’t expect to have an opportunity to serve the warrant. But it’s a public place. I have to go.”
Quinn shook his head. “He owns that property, so he’ll probably fly in on his helicopter and have a substantial armed force on the premises. Not only are you not going to serve a warrant, you’re a fool to think you’re safe in a public place with him.”
“Simon and I will be in the room at other tables,” Rhys said.
She watched Quinn as his thoughts drifted to a different landscape. She caught Simon’s eye and nodded toward Quinn, motioning to cut her throat and shaking her head ‘no’. He got her meaning and jutted his chin in agreement.
Eyes still glazed, Quinn spoke in a robotic voice. “The main dining room has a glass wall, and there’s a water tower about a thousand yards due north.” He pulled from his reverie and announced, “I can climb the tower with a rifle and set up by myself, no spotter. I can’t let the three of you go in there alone.”
“All right,” she said. “That sounds like a plan. When do you need to start climbing to be in position by two?”
“I should be at the base of the tower before sunrise to minimize being seen.”
“Okay. That puts Rhys and Simon in the dining room and you on the tower. I like it,” she said.
Quinn stood and patted down his pockets. “I’ll go over to the range and get what I need.” He got to the door and turned around. “I can do this.”
His eyes scrunched with pain that ripped her heart open, but she hid her grief. She nodded. “I know.”
Once he left and the room quieted, she asked Simon, “You have something to put in his coffee in the morning?”
“Yeah. Knock out drops. They’re bitter, but he won’t notice them in his coffee. He’ll sleep all day. Two o’clock, you say?”
“No, noon. You and Rhys get your tables at eleven and eleven-thirty. Hopefully, we’ll be back before he wakes up.”
“That’s going to be one angry guy when he wakes,” Simon lamented.
“Yes, one angry wolf, too,” she said.
At 0300, she woke and heard voices and soft steps from the kitchen. She dressed and joined them.
Quinn wore all black. The best and latest equipment required to scale a tower and shoot someone from a thousand yards sat on the table. But Quinn’s pretty eyes were clouded with pain.
He pointed to a stack of papers. “These are the schematics for the hotel. You should check them out before you go.” He drained his coffee cup and set it in the sink.
Simon stood behind him and winked at her. “I’m going to drop him off.”
“I need a minute with him,” she said, and drew Quinn into her bedroom.
He stood before her, ready to charge into battle and take point. “I can do this.”
She stroked his face and rubbed his eyebrows where they wrinkled in pain. “I know you can. But you don’t have to. You don’t have to prove anything to us.” She patted the bed. “Sit with me a minute before you go.”
“Just for a minute,” he complained. “Simon’s all ready to go.” He sat perched on the edge of the bed.
“You have to tell me if this is your suicide mission.” The question caught him off-guard.
“What do you mean?” He drew back, shocked.
“I mean to know if you’re working on a death wish and no longer want to be a part of me and this pack?
”
Her question succeeded in distracting him from the sedation. She felt it creeping into his mind before he noticed it.
“Of course, I want to be a part of you and the pack. This isn’t a suicide mission.”
“You’re not a sole survivor looking to join the dead who left you behind?”
In place of his answer, he blinked. Slowly. “You drugged me.”
“Do you trust me?” she asked as she helped him lie back.
“I can’t believe you drugged me,” he said, slurring his words.
“I’m sorry, but you were unreasonable. Do you trust me?”
He nodded, the movement sluggish while he fought to keep his eyes open. “Trust you. Don’t trust Ivanov.”
She kissed him softly on the lips, and whispered, “I don’t trust Ivanov either.”
His head fell to the side in a deep sleep. She added softly, “But I do trust Lazar.” She removed his shoes and belt and took them to Simon in the next room. “Hide these, in case he wakes up before we get back.” She glanced at the table full of equipment and the rifle case. “Take all of it, get rid of it.”
Rhys came through the front door. “Got him?”
“Yes,” Simon affirmed. “He’s going to sleep for a while.” He looked at his watch. “Since it’s so early, I’ll give him another dose before we leave.”
Dreya scrubbed her face in exhaustion. She could block most of Quinn’s pain, but not all. With him knocked out, she had a little break from his suffering. “It’s four, I need to lie down until seven. We’ll make a plan then.”
Simon rose. “I’ll check on him, then get rid of all this gear.”
She sagged against Rhys. “Come hold me so I can sleep.” They entered Quinn’s neat and tidy room. She stripped and crawled into bed, shivering. “Hurry, it’s cold.”
Rhys crawled in, scooted up to her back and wrapped his arms around her. Warmth flooded her body and she relaxed against him.
I got you.
I know. Thank you.
Get some sleep. I’m here. I got your back.
She closed her eyes, drifting with a lingering thought.
All roads lead back to Lazar.
8
The schematics of Ivanov’s hotel spread across the kitchen table. It didn’t take long for Dreya to see it was a fortified position. “Limited exits undoubtedly well-guarded. The warrant will have to wait, as it looks like Mr. Ivanov wins this round.”
“Depends on what he wants,” Rhys added.
“He said he wants a woman like Dreya,” Simon protested. “What’s to keep him from taking the original? After all, he’s a kidnapper and human trafficker. He owns this position, we couldn’t stop him. I’m telling you, this is insane. I don't like it.”
She shrugged one shoulder to relieve her anxiety level. “For some reason, I seem to fascinate him. Plus, he has questions about Lazar. It’s going to be a nice sit-down, no fireworks; I’m not there to serve the warrant or allow myself to be kidnapped. With a little luck, he’ll let slip the location of the lab.”
She’d dressed in the best she could get on base. Black slacks, flat shoes, a grey, light-weight knit sweater, hair pulled back in a French braid. No jacket, no purse, no gun. Just her sunglasses.
“I feel naked,” she complained. She ran her hands up and down her torso. Her body had grown leaner, harder. Sometimes, she felt like she walked around in someone else’s body. She asked Rhys, “I feel vulnerable. Do I look okay?”
“Yes, on both counts. That’s what I’m worried about. Come on, time to leave.”
It was a long quiet ride from the base to town. He parked several blocks from the hotel. “I’ll see you there. No fireworks, remember?” He gave her and Simon the I’m-Dad look before walking off in a hurry.
After a few minutes, Simon asked, “Do you know what’s going on?”
She gave him a slanted glance. “No. But I have a plan. Let’s see what Ivanov wants, first.”
“How can you have a plan if you don’t know what’s going on?” His amused grin took the bite from his words.
“It’s a crazy plan.” She mimicked him and grinned to ease the sting of her words. “You have to trust me.” She checked her watch. “Your turn.” She tapped her head. “Keep me informed.”
Soon, she heard from Rhys. I’m in. No sign of Ivanov. Simon coming through the door now.
“My turn,” she said, feeling as if she walked into the lion’s den. It was three blocks to the hotel, downhill all the way.
During the fifteen-minute walk, she got a complete view of the hotel by the time she reached the front entrance: ten floors with a helipad on top and a wall of glass overlooking the city on one side. As soon as she stepped through the revolving glass door, a young man in a Bell Captain’s uniform called her. “Miss Love?”
A quick glance and she noted his round face peppered with pimples. His micro-reads showed him genuine and eager. Not a threat. “Yes?”
“Mr. Ivanov requests your presence in his room instead of the dining room.”
She pulled up her shiniest smile while checking with Rhys. Is Ivanov in the room?
Yes.
To the Bell Captain, she said, “Tell Mr. Ivanov our appointment was for the dining room, and I’ll see him there. Which way?”
“Oh,” he blurted. His mouth dropped open then clamped shut. He stalled, processing the moment before suddenly answering, “Oh, the dining room is that way to the elevator and you want the ninth floor, it’s marked ‘D’.”
She exited the elevator into the crescent shaped dining room still wearing her shades. A maître d’ met her at the entrance; he looked like he ran an obstacle course for fun.
Ivanov’s security in place; check.
“This way.” He led her to the rear of the room where elevated tables had the best view of the city.
Ivanov sat waiting for her. When she reached the table, he lightly clapped his hands. “Bravo, lady. Bravo.” He rose and motioned her to sit next to him in a circular booth set for two. In her peripheral vision, she noted Rhys and Simon at opposite ends of the room.
She sat and nodded to the waiter, who picked up her napkin, snapped it open, and presented it to her. “Thank you.” Calmly, she saw where Quinn would have been on the water tower to take his shot.
Ivanov beamed at her. “May I?” He extended his hand.
Her smile stayed fixed as she internally recoiled from pressing the flesh with him. “Mr. Ivanov.” His hand was warm and dry, his grip steady and firm without squeezing too much.
A waiter set before her a bowl of soup, a thick vegetable broth garnished with strawberry slivers and mint leaves. The smell was divine.
Ivanov said, “I took the liberty of telling the chef to prepare something special for us. Please, enjoy.” He pointed to two bottles of wine, one red, one white, unopened on the table.
“Just water for me,” she said. After tasting the soup, she set her spoon aside. “Why did you call me, Mr. Ivanov?”
“Please, call me Sasha. And feel free to take off your sunglasses.” He nodded to the waiter to fill their water glasses.
“If you don’t mind, I have an eye condition that requires me to keep them on.”
“What condition do you have?” He paused with a pretty face, like the bloom on a carnivorous plant before it released its stench to lure in an unsuspecting insect.
“It’s personal.” She sat back as the soup was removed.
“Exactly,” he said with emphasis, as if she’d announced the winner. “Your eyesight is extraordinary. The drone footage caught you staring straight at the drone from an impossible distance.”
He set his fork down and drank from his water glass before wiping his mouth, drawing out the moment. “When the drone captured your image, I was struck by your beauty, and by the fact you could see the drone. Such ability is not naturally possible.”
“What drone?” She kept her eyes steady, dealing poker. When he refused to respond, she exhaled with impatience an
d asked, “The real reason for your call, Sasha?”
“Our friend, Dr. Anthony Lazar.”
He left a silence open to draw her out. She gauged his micro-reads, he was smooth. “Dr. Lazar and I aren’t friends.”
As if he hadn’t heard her, he continued. “Yes, and the doctor said he didn’t know you, either. But I know he lied. People lie to protect what they value; I believe you and he are close, if not friends.”
“I say I don’t know him; he says he doesn’t know me.” She shrugged one shoulder. “To draw anything else from that is purely assumption.”
The next course came, a salad of delicate greens artfully arranged on the plate, with a chevron stack of small toasts spread with a truffle honey. The earthy sweet smell of the honey inspired her stomach to rumble. She nibbled lightly at the toast; the honey was exquisite to the point of intoxicating.
Ivanov watched her closely. “The chef is superb, that’s why I hired him. You see, I don’t make assumptions. I know people. I know my chef has extraordinary talent in the kitchen, and I know you, too, possess abilities that are extraordinary.”
“Based on your assumptions, what are you suggesting?”
He leaned in and whispered, “I want to know, did Lazar genetically alter you?” Servers returned with the next course, and he sat back as they served poached fish, the firm flakes spread out like a fan.
His question, meant to take her breath away, almost succeeded. Stalling to recover, she slipped a small piece of the fish into her mouth; the delicate flavors swam through her taste buds, daring her to close her eyes.
Impatient for her answer, he went on. “Oh, dear lady, I make no assumptions I can’t prove. I think you and Lazar crossed paths somewhere that isn’t allowed on either of your passports.
“I think you’ve been edited—I believe that is how they put it—in your genetics. I’m paying Lazar to do some work for me. If you’re an example of what he can do, my business with Dr. Lazar may require some changes.”
No longer interested in the fish, she set her fork down. “Let me assure you, this particular assumption of yours is absolute pure fantasy. I am not edited, as you suggest, and I resent your speculative implication.”