Every Last Breath

by Juno Rushdan

  Ilya shrugged. “With you and Papa dead, the big dogs back in Russia were willing to forego further retribution, but the other three families getting busted put a major crimp in the cash flow. I had to step up and bring big money in or be put down six feet under.”

  The ripples of Maddox’s mistake had killed the possibility of Ilya going legit. But he had accepted the role with too much zeal to make Cole believe this lifestyle was an unwelcome burden.

  “Who would’ve guessed you’d be an overachiever,” Cole said.

  Ilya laughed, picking up a cup of coffee, and wandered toward the glass doors.

  The itch to leave niggled under Cole’s skin. “Look, I’m not here to rehash history or give you a hard time about the choices you’ve made.” Not today, anyway. “I need a favor.” He followed his brother toward the back of the room. “I’m here because of the auction tomorrow. I want your passcode. I need you to step aside in this.”

  Ilya froze, facing the doors overlooking the pool. Slowly, he pivoted on a velvet-slippered heel, brows knitting. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

  “How doesn’t matter. I know. You’re going to leave it at that, because I’m your blood.”

  Ilya eyed him hard, like he wanted to reach into Cole’s head and rip out his thoughts. “When did this become your field of interest? Whatever I spend at the auction, I can make up threefold on the open black market. I already have a buyer lined up. Why should I do this?”

  “Because I’ve asked it. Because you owe me.”

  Ilya stared at him for a long, long time.

  All traces of the brother Cole knew faded away in that look, leaving the true face of the cold-blooded gangster Ilya had become. Ilya’s gaze fell as he drifted to the chairs by the door with a view of the bay, sipping his coffee. “Vitali!” He sat in a high-backed lounge chair and propped an ankle on his knee. “Bring me the envelope that came by messenger.”

  Cole strode to his brother and leaned a shoulder against the glass wall. The plants providing the only cover were on the other end of the room, probably to give an unobstructed view of the water from this part of the solarium.

  He rubbed the back of his head at the unease crawling over him, and his gaze veered toward the woods.

  As crazy as it seemed, he couldn’t shake the sense they were being watched. Confronting his past demons must be frying his instincts.

  “You should stay and wind bathe with me,” Ilya said, referring to walking around outside naked. A practice of cleansing the pores, passed down from their father. “Nothing like the air licking your balls in the morning. Other than tea-bagging the mouth of a pretty young thing.” He cackled.

  The prickle along Cole’s skin had him turning to stare back outside. “Can’t. I have to go.”

  Vitali came in, carrying a five-by-seven envelope. He handed it to Ilya and cut his eyes at Cole before disappearing down the hall.

  “This makes us even, bratik,” Ilya said. “My life debt to you is paid.”

  They’d never be even, not in this lifetime, and Ilya would never understand why.

  Surveying the grounds, Cole stood upright. “Thank you for the passcode.”

  “It’s not a passcode.”

  Cole’s gaze swung to his brother. “What do you mean?”

  “Here, see for yourself.” Ilya stood with the envelope extended, his back to the woods.

  A flicker of light glinted in the trees over Ilya’s shoulder. Cole tensed, ignoring the envelope Ilya offered. He tipped his head at the unnatural glimmer that had winked in the trees, the wrongness of it, trying to identify the source.

  There it was again. A dot of light danced, then held steady. Sunlight reflected off glass. Light hitting the scope of a sniper rifle.

  Cole lunged for his brother as the wall shattered in a spray of shards. Another bullet whistled past his ear.

  But the next hot slug struck him with a searing burn.

  Chapter 10

  Vienna, Virginia

  7:13 a.m. EDT

  Humidity saturated the dense, sticky air. Fire flared in Maddox’s lungs as she sprinted the last yards of her short, three-mile run back to her building. Her legs shook, thighs burning, right-side ribs aching in protest.

  Herman, her neighbor’s Vizsla–terrier mix, galloped at her side, his tongue lolling from his mouth. Stopping at the front steps, she checked her smartwatch. Twenty-three minutes. Not shabby.

  She mounted the stairs inside leading to the second floor and knocked on her neighbor’s door. Mrs. Saunders, an African American retired schoolteacher with rheumatoid arthritis, had adopted the dog from a shelter after her husband died. A beautiful copper-brown, he was an affectionate companion but needed lots of exercise.

  The door opened, and Mrs. Saunders greeted her with a cheery smile.

  “Herman was a great buddy as usual.” Maddox handed over the leash.

  “Such a short run.”

  She usually did a six-miler before or after work when she was home, fitting it in every day without fail. Her banged-up body moaned gratitude for today’s dialed-down intensity. “I felt like taking it easy. It’s pretty hot out.”

  “Thanks so much. I appreciate it and so does Herman.”

  Maddox scratched behind the dog’s floppy ears, and he licked the sweat from her legs. “My pleasure.”

  “Honey, if you don’t mind my saying”—Mrs. Saunders painted on a grave look—“you should dump the SOB who beats you.”

  This wasn’t the first time Maddox had been seen with unexplained bruises. The contusions on her cheek and upper thigh exposed by her running shorts were obvious. She’d tried the patented excuses in the past—I fell, it happened in self-defense class, my job is hazardous sometimes—garnering raised eyebrows and a smug nod, adding credence to the assumption she was being abused and hiding it.

  The supposition was natural, and Maddox had long since stopped trying to change her neighbor’s mind.

  “Thanks for your concern.” She unlocked her apartment door directly across the hall and waved goodbye, swallowing the words I gave as good as I got.

  She locked her door, kicked off her sneakers in the bedroom, and started the shower.

  Reece had texted a situational report at 3:00 a.m. Probably assumed she was sleeping and didn’t want to disturb her with a call. She’d dozed, in between icing her bruises, but the few z’s she had nabbed couldn’t be classified as sleep.

  According to the SITREP, Cole had left a budget hotel after staying two hours and resumed more laps on I-495 while they maintained the three-mile buffer. His ring-around-the-Beltway must’ve driven Reece batshit crazy. Gideon, on the other hand, took such things in placid stride.

  They would check in again at nine. If Cole hadn’t contacted her by then, plan B.

  She stripped, dumping her sweaty clothes in a heap, got in under the water spray, and lathered up.

  Cole would simmer down, process things with a filter of rationality, sooner or later—she was gambling on the long shot of sooner—and do as his conscience dictated. The right thing.

  God, it needed to be sooner. As in before she was forced to take drastic measures, triggering him to go from an ugly DEFCON 3 to an apocalyptic DEFCON 1.

  The more she tossed over how last night had played out, the more she despised the acrid taste in her mouth. She’d fucked up. The findings of the background check he’d run had primed him to swallow her cover story, lock, stock, and barrel. And she’d fumbled. Let sappy nostalgia and foolhardy hopes of a second chance drive her to a madcap decision.

  This should’ve been about the mission from A to Z. No room for anything personal.

  She shampooed, conditioned, and hopped out of the shower. As she squeezed water from her hair with a towel, a shadow moved in her peripheral vision.

  Quick.

  Quiet.

 
Someone was in her bedroom.

  A pins-and-needles sensation flooded her fingers. She itched to grab a gun.

  Fight mode switch flipped, she wrapped the towel around her body and crept to the lower bathroom cabinet. She took out the box of tampons. With her pulse at a sprint, she pulled her loaded Boberg XR9 shorty from inside. Thumb-flicked off the safety.

  Small and lightweight, the gun had the same stopping power as a Glock. Hard lessons and the scars they’d left had taught her there was no such thing as being overprepared.

  She eased toward her bedroom, slipped through the crack of the door, and pressed into the corner of the room to her left.

  A man stood on the other side of her bed, looking out the window.

  Cole.

  The tension in her chest slackened. As she lowered the gun, he turned, facing her.

  “Holy shit. What happened?” She rushed to him and looked at his arm. His jacket was frayed as if pierced by a bullet. The blood on his shoulder stilled her.

  Did he get into an altercation with Ilya?

  Weariness hung heavy on his face, his solemn gaze a weight on her shoulders. “Flesh wound. Sniper bullet caught Ilya in the chest. Second bullet hit me.”

  The news rocked her back on her heels as if it’d been a physical blow. He’d gone to see his brother because of her and had almost been killed. By a sniper? She touched his shoulder where the bullet had shredded a hole in his jacket, and he winced.

  “Is your brother okay?” She couldn’t believe she was asking, but Ilya was his family.

  “Not critical. If I hadn’t gotten him out of the way, it would’ve killed him.”

  And the world would be a better place. “You’re probably glad you were there for him.”

  He clicked his tongue. “Not so sure.”

  She met his eyes, a question tap-dancing on her tongue. Did he get the passcode?

  It hung between them, smothering other words. But asking him would only fuel his distrust.

  He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “What happened to you?” He stared at her cheek, his brows creased, mouth in a hard frown.

  Sweet of him to be concerned when he was the one bleeding on her account. “Occupational byproduct. Looks worse than it feels.” She put her palm to his chest and absorbed the thudding of his heart, grateful for the rock-steady beat. “Let me clean you up.”

  She hurried to the bathroom.

  Not only had she roped him into this mess, but she’d almost lost him for good. Again. Hands trembling, she tucked her gun back into the box of tampons, pulled out the med kit, and took it to the bedroom.

  She stilled, down to her fingertips, in the doorway. He sat on her bed, waiting. Bare to the waist, legs spread wide. The striking tats on his muscle-corded arms held her spellbound as she tried to absorb the sight of him.

  Her belly tightened with awareness, sparking an inappropriate tingle.

  But the blood on his shoulder revived her urgency, and she tore her gaze away.

  “This is what you want.” He held out something in his hand.

  A white envelope with elegant gold script across the top that read Ilya Reznikov.

  Triumph burst in her chest like fireworks. Cole had gotten the passcode with plenty of time to spare. They’d be able to access the auction tomorrow. Thank goodness. She wanted to rip open the envelope and verify the contents, but his cold stare pinned her.

  Calculating, measuring her response. A test.

  Something inside her quivered with desperation to pass.

  She eased between his legs. Ignoring the envelope, she opened the med kit and set it beside him. Her damp curls fell, dripping on his chest.

  A twitch coursed through him, dragging her gaze down the chiseled landscape of his body.

  “Sorry.” She corralled her hair over her shoulder out of his way.

  “I don’t mind.” His voice was husky and low. Thick with promise.

  Or maybe it was just her desperate imagination.

  Cole set the envelope on the nightstand next to her cell phone, ran his hands down his legs, and gripped his knees.

  Her mind warred with her heart, and her mouth was mired somewhere in the middle. Words were usually effortless when she was on the job. This time, not knowing the right thing to say, she bit her tongue.

  She put on latex gloves, set out gauze and saline solution. Cleaning the wound would burn like hell. “This is going to hurt.”

  “When it comes to you, I’m accustomed to pain.”

  The sting of his words bled through her, but she didn’t let her equanimity falter.

  “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” She squeezed the saline into the wound.

  He gave a sharp hiss and tightened his jaw.

  The bullet had clipped his deltoid, but there wasn’t any damage to the axillary nerve. She tore open a packet of Celox, a grainy blood-clotting agent that didn’t burn like some others and would help him heal faster. Rubbing a little powder deep in his wound, she worked quickly to minimize his discomfort. She pressed clean gauze to it, wrapping it with a pressure bandage.

  “There. Should be good until we get you stitches. Lucky there’s no major damage.”

  “You’re pretty good at that.” He nodded down at his arm.

  She tugged the gloves off. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” Patching up herself and battle brothers in the field was her only hobby. No time for anything else in her life.

  His gaze found hers and his dark eyes held her ensnared.

  The dangerous edge running through him, drawing her in, had always been the backbone of the young man she’d fallen for. But the wear and tear of time looked good on him, worked in his favor. A sophisticated accessory. As did the arresting refinement of his body, hard curves and sharp angles. More tempting than ever.

  Brutally gorgeous. He’d been hers once. She’d give anything to have him again. For a day. For an hour. Damn, she’d take ten minutes.

  She caressed his cheeks, leaning into the warmth of his body. A tremble of longing shivered through the center of her, and she didn’t hide it.

  He brushed his knuckles over her bruised cheek. Her skin tingled, nerve endings awash in the muscle memory of his strong hands sweeping over her in the darkness, their limbs inexorably tangled, his strained breath in her ear, sweat coating their skin.

  The heat in his eyes burned bright and hot as a signal fire, inviting her home. The knots in her stomach loosened as new ones bunched in her chest. Old scars growing sore as a fresh wound opened. The years she’d spent piecing herself back together, trying to recover from the agonizing loss of this—while he was out in the world, alive and well all along.

  She swatted the thought away, not wanting anything to spoil those ten minutes.

  He cupped the back of her leg, caressing bare skin, pulling her closer. Her thighs quivered and her breath grew shallow. He slid his palm to cradle her head, guiding her lips toward his.

  The suspended moment whetted her anticipation. Her toes curled into the carpet, heart palpitating wildly like hummingbird wings in her throat.

  His mouth claimed hers, or hers claimed his. She didn’t know, didn’t care, lost in the shocking relief of the kiss.

  Like being submerged under water, fighting for air, drowning in the abyss, lungs too tight. Then busting through the surface into sunlight, gulping in a life-giving breath.

  That’s what it was like kissing Cole.

  * * *

  Cole couldn’t stop Maddox coming in for a kiss any more than he could turn away from watching a six-car pileup. If she needed to get this out of her system, fine, he’d oblige. He’d take what she tossed at him and swing it right back. Prove to her and himself he wasn’t going to let her have him by a leash. Not again.

  Then their lips touched.

  God, t
he sweet ache of his insides jump-starting after nine years trapped in limbo. Not quite alive. Not quite dead. Starved for affection for so, so long.

  He tried to rally his inhibitions, but they dispersed. He was an open box of dry tinder tossed in the air, and she set everything ablaze.

  Maddox put her knee on the bed, straddled his thigh, spread her toned legs wide, and rocked her towel-clad curves against him. Torturing him.

  His skin burned with a need he’d denied for almost a decade, seared down to the bone.

  Against his better judgment, he did the stupidest thing possible—deepened the kiss. He took total command of her mouth, intent on drawing out her pleasure with every erotic stroke of his tongue. He slid his hand up under her towel and gripped her bare backside.

  She wound her arms around his neck, her fingers diving into his hair. Her cool wet curls caressed his hot skin. A soft groan escaped her, the wicked vibrations shooting to his groin.

  His body tightened, strained with want. He hadn’t been with a woman in three years, but the only one he’d ever hungered for was her.

  He longed to rip off her towel, give in to the raw urge, and take her, but kissing her was like running in quicksand. Each caress and taste sucked him deeper into the ravening intensity, with no traction to be found in the millions of grains, threatening to swallow him whole.

  He damn sure couldn’t sleep with her.

  The cell on the nightstand rang.

  She went rigid, her mouth leaving his, gaze whipping toward the phone.

  He glanced at the screen. “Helios Importing and Exporting.” The employer’s name that Linda had found in the background check. “Code for CIA?”

  The phone continued to ring, but she didn’t reach for it. Probably her boss checking to see if she’d made headway with the asset. More like a puppet, and she was pulling his strings.

  How had he let it happen?

  If he didn’t screw his brain in tight, they might not make it through the auction alive.

  * * *

  Helios Importing and Exporting. Code for CIA?