Every Last Breath

by Juno Rushdan

  Even if she was a Gray Box agent.

  Incredible. The Gray Box was supposed to be a myth. Like the boogeyman. Something the Americans made up and leaked to scare terrorists and others who operated in the underworld.

  Van Helden patted his tuft of cottony hair and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his rosy nose. The little man reminded Aleksander of the frantic white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. He was only missing a pocket watch.

  “We’ll begin the auction immediately,” Van Helden said. “The opening bid is $5 million. The winner will transfer the money using this secure network.” He indicated the computer near the piano.

  Aleksander pulled his e-cigarette from the jacket of his tux and twirled it between his fingers while Val swept up alongside Reinhart’s personal bodyguard.

  Two security guards posted outside exchanged words and rushed into the parlor. “We need to assist downstairs, sir.”

  “Go! Go!” Van Helden waved a feverish hand, his cheeks deepening to the color of bruised tomatoes.

  The guards hurried away as the barrage of gunfire downstairs intensified. From the sound of it, four different weapons were currently in play.

  Van Helden lowered his head, rubbing his bushy white brows with trembling fingers.

  Rotund Reinhart sipped champagne as if this were a normal day, while his security guard tensed on alert. Both men would be nothing more than speed bumps.

  With no new guards posted outside, their window to strike opened.

  Ejecting the blade from the e-cigarette casing, he spun on his heel and slit Reinhart’s jugular in a smooth, fluid stroke.

  His son sliced the security guard’s throat.

  The guard dropped before anyone could blink. Reinhart’s champagne flute crashed to the dining table. Blood flowed from the German’s throat, saturating his white shirt, and he collapsed, his head striking the table on the way down. The resounding thud echoed in Aleksander’s stomach. The air was fragrant with the scent of death mixed with gunpowder wafting from the lower level.

  Mouth agape, Van Helden clutched a fist to his chest. He scurried back as if retreat were possible. “She was right about you. You’re not Kassar.”

  Aleksander stalked the white rabbit, cornering him against the piano. “Yes, she was. But I was also right about her. So let’s conclude our business quickly. I need to be on my way.” He clutched Van Helden’s brachial plexus—the tender group of nerves between the neck and shoulder running from the spinal cord—and pressed the tip of the bloody scalpel to his eye socket, beneath the frame of the glasses. “Where is it?”

  Shaking his head, Van Helden’s eyes went wide with terror. His jaw went slack.

  A simple squeeze, the right amount of pressure, and the white rabbit gave a shrill shriek. His fear-stricken gaze swung to a pair of cabinet doors below the computer console.

  Aleksander shoved him toward it. Trembling, Van Helden scampered to the cabinet, throwing panicked glances over his shoulder. He flung the doors open, scuttling aside.

  “Go set the explosives on the helm, remote detonation, and meet me at the helipad,” Aleksander said to Val, who nodded.

  Aleksander strode to the cabinet and peered inside. A safe. A McClain cipher lock safe.

  He had enough C-4 explosives in the heels of his own shoes to blow it, but given the nature of the contents, he couldn’t take the risk.

  Van Helden inched toward the second set of glass doors. Aleksander swooped down with such speed, the poor man cowered.

  “Open it.” Aleksander grabbed and squeezed the brachial plexus again, digging his thumb in.

  Van Helden’s face contorted in agony, and a high-pitched yelp squeezed from his lips. “I can’t. If I do, this will ruin me. My reputation is invaluable.” With more pressure, he screamed again. “I’ll only open the safe once payment hits the offshore account of the seller.”

  This persistence was quite vexing. “Open it. Now. Or I’ll take away more than your reputation. Things you’ll miss. A finger. An ear. Your tongue.”

  The stiff puff of hair didn’t move as Van Helden shook his head, eyes bulging, cheeks flaming red on his otherwise pallid face. “I haven’t stayed in business this long by caving under intimidation. You will transfer $5 million to the offshore account of the seller and a $1 million penalty to my personal account for bringing a weapon. Or my men won’t let you off this boat alive.”

  Aleksander wanted to applaud the guy. He had more nerve than expected but failed to calculate the complication of the two agents below distracting his men.

  Something excruciating was needed to quickly shift the rabbit’s perspective.

  Aleksander knocked the man’s head against the safe and held his skull there. He inserted the scalpel inside Van Helden’s ear. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pressed until the blade pushed through the spongy membrane of the eardrum.

  Van Helden’s gut-wrenching cry lifted the hairs on Aleksander’s arms. The anguished scream stretched into a blubbering howl. When blood flowed and his wails deflated to wretched sobs, Aleksander smiled.

  “Please, please. I’ll open it.”

  Aleksander withdrew the blade.

  Van Helden scrambled to enter the code, and the safe door unlocked.

  A black metal case sat inside. Aleksander snatched the case and took it to the table. He lifted the lid. A foot-long silver canister was cradled in the center of the case.

  Clutching his bloody ear, Van Helden said, “Transfer $5 million to the seller’s account and $1 million to mine. Or I won’t call the helicopter pilot back. It’s your only way off the yacht.”

  Fascinating. “Or I could shove this”—Aleksander lifted the bloody scalpel—“into your other ear.”

  “You could, and I’d make the call, but you’d never know if I gave my pilot the correct code word. I have many fail-safes in place for such circumstances.” The man shuddered from fear or pain, but fierce determination blazed in his bloodshot eyes. “And I leave with you. I suggest we hurry with the transfer.”

  Time was of the essence, and Van Helden was turning out to be an obstinate nuisance.

  Aleksander had already paid $1 million for the information about the auction and dossiers on the arms dealers, $250,000 for the tip on the Gray Box agent, $100,000 for supplies, and $50,000 in transportation.

  But bringing a global giant to its knees was priceless.

  Aleksander only needed to keep his total expenditures below $10 million. In the grand scheme of things, $6 million on top of what he’d already spent was a win. “You have a deal.”

  Chapter 15

  International Waters, Atlantic Ocean

  7:42 p.m. EDT

  Hot bullets whizzed overhead, showering the room in shell casings. The booming sound reverberated up Maddox’s spine.

  She and Cole took turns squeezing off rounds as they fell back to the doors leading to the starboard walkway. Gunfight 101: shoot and move if you want to live. The furniture offered limited coverage, but the high-velocity barrage would eat through it in minutes. Cole gave her the go-ahead with a nod and then snapped the submachine gun up to his shoulder. She maneuvered low behind a large cushioned chair while he laid down suppressive fire.

  Rising into a crouch, she flipped the selector to full automatic and sprayed the opposite side of the room with another volley, keeping the shooters ducking long enough for Cole to pull back farther. At times like this, she missed the built-in silencer of her Maxim 9. The difference in decibels was drastic. Suppressors should be standard government issue to prevent hearing loss.

  In the confined space, the noise was deafening. Her eardrums were going to ring for days.

  Guards expertly advanced wide on either side of the room. Once they were close enough, they would try to hit them from the flanks. She had to make every bullet count.

  HK MP7s spat copper-jacketed lead a
t her from the left and right, forcing her down.

  Cole tossed a heavy, round wooden dining table on to its side, and she maneuvered behind it as he shot at the guards. Her heart jackhammered in her chest. Frenzied breath burst from her lungs, but her thoughts were steady, clear.

  The quick staccato of automatic gunfire grew louder, drawing closer. She and Cole had to run for it soon.

  She ejected the buckle from her belt. A four-inch rectangle of pure flashbang power. She pressed it to activate the device and hurled it across the room. “Stun grenade. Five seconds.”

  A blinding light would flash and a deafening bang would temporarily incapacitate the security team.

  Protecting his eardrums with his fingers, Cole closed his eyes and hunched over her, as if to cover her from shrapnel spray.

  Cole knew there wouldn’t be any fallout from a flashbang, but she didn’t see the harm in letting him shelter her with his body. Not that she could’ve stopped him if she had tried.

  His insistence to do things his way had gotten them hemmed up in this gunfight. If he’d listened to her, trusted her, they might’ve been able to take out the guards quietly. They’d have ended the auction going on upstairs by now.

  She covered her ears and shut her eyes.

  His heart thudded in a wild beat against her back.

  On a mission, she never considered how much she wanted to make it through alive. Such thinking impaired judgment, and fear led to indecision. For the first time, making it out alive—with him—was all she could think about. Precisely the thing that could get them killed.

  The ear-piercing boom rocked the room. Cole grabbed her hand and they made a break for it.

  They burst through the door outside. A steady, high-pitched noise whistled in her ears. She grasped the railing, sucking in a shaky breath. A blanket of ashen clouds blocked out the moon. The sea was an endless stretch of stark black.

  Their plan had disintegrated the moment Kassar had outed her.

  Damn it. Had Cole been foolish enough to trust Ilya with the truth? The bastard wouldn’t have hesitated in ratting her out, but he would’ve contacted Van Helden. Not another bidder.

  Lights from an inbound helo pierced the darkness.

  “ETA one minute,” Castle said in her ear. She’d never been so happy to hear her brother’s voice. “Harper got a facial recognition hit on the man posing as Kassar. He’s Aleksander Novak, also known as the Ghost. A hitman who takes impossible, high-profile jobs. A CIA officer died getting his picture. Lover Boy is right. Stay away from him.”

  Castle agreeing with Cole on anything was reason enough to give her pause, but if she were a guy, Castle wouldn’t dare ask her to stand down.

  Cole shoved her up against the side of the yacht, shielding her from incoming fire.

  Bullets whizzed by them. Some ricocheted off the metal rail. Sparks erupted in a riot of tiny flashes. She was off her game, needed to get her head fully locked back into this. Now wasn’t the time to worry about how her cover had been blown or to get mired down by feelings.

  Cole returned fire, taking out the guard.

  Rotor blades hacked the night air. Gunfire echoed from the top deck. There must be more guards near the helm. The helicopter hovered over the bow of the yacht. Castle’s unmistakable juggernaut frame and the strapping figure of Reece rappelled out of the chopper on black ropes, shutting down hostiles on the upper level with a controlled ammo spray.

  Maddox spun toward the stern and ran for the staircase leading to the auction room. A bullet narrowly missed her head, blowing out a window behind her. Ducking, she pressed on. Running barefoot in the storm of a gunfight was never good, but she had no other option. Her shoes were still in the sitting room.

  More bullets pinged the side of the yacht. Not slowing, she glanced over her shoulder.

  Cole was pinned with his back pressed to the hull, popping off shots. “Wait! Maddox!”

  The roar of gunfire swallowed the rest of Cole’s words. Her heartbeat pulsed in her throat, washing over her ears. She dug for numb detachment.

  The stairs came into sight. She had to get back to the main deck, make sure the smallpox-M didn’t make it off the yacht. She checked her ammo while moving. The mag held thirty to forty rounds. She was low. Ten left. Enough, if she was shrewd.

  “Maddox, where are you?” Reece asked in her ear.

  “Starboard side. Headed to the saloon. Main deck. Cole is under fire on the level below.”

  “Roger. Castle’s coming to you. I’ll help Cole.”

  She raced up the stairs and rounded the corner. Rushing through the glass doors of the sitting room, she came face to face with the Ghost.

  * * *

  Aleksander lunged, swinging the heavy metal briefcase against the woman’s hands, throwing off her aim. A volley of bullets shot out the glass, shattering the doors into a million jagged pieces. He knocked the gun from her grip and smashed the case into her torso. The force sent her scuttling backward. Dropping the case, he seized her throat.

  Her eyes bulged as she struggled to breathe, grappling with his wrists to break free. He tightened his grip and slammed her head against the wall. Her lips parted in a stunned gasp, but she was formidable and recovered quickly like this wasn’t her first knockdown, drag-out brawl.

  Too quickly.

  She thrust a knee up into his groin. Then the heels of her palms struck his temples.

  A lightning shard of pain blasted his head, and agony pulsed in his crotch. Aleksander staggered back, groping for her throat. He only managed to rip the necklace from her chest.

  She slammed a bare foot into his gut, driving him from arm’s reach. Winded, he clutched his chest. Something hard smashed against his head. A blinding white ache exploded.

  Despite his skull throbbing under the dagger of pain, he forced his feet to steady. His vision cleared. He saw her frantic gaze sweeping the floor.

  Swallowing the weakness of his body, he tapped the manic fury inside. The wellspring of hate fueled him, and his demon fired him up inferno-hot.

  He spotted the gun at the same time as she did, and they both made a move. She threw a marble obelisk at his head, swatted a lamp at him, knocked chairs in his path to slow him down. She was something else, a real scrapper. In the lead, she dove, landing inches from snaring the gun, her fingertips nipping the butt. He pounced, pinning her face down, his elbow curled under her neck in a hammer lock.

  Wicked satisfaction pooled in his belly, flooding his chest. He wrenched her away from the gun, tightening his hold. Trapped on her belly, she was helpless. He could snap her neck, be done with her, but it’d constitute the most serious provocation for the Gray Box to settle the score. And males never took losing a female well. The way the man with the scar had stayed glued to her side as if bound by a gravitational pull stronger than any other force on the planet. Aleksander knew such love, such passion. Scarface had also moved like someone well versed in the deadly arts. A worthy adversary.

  Watching them reminded him of his love for Sonia.

  And what a man would be driven to for the sake of revenge.

  The time had come to take as many American lives as possible, in their capital no less, as retribution for the loss of his family. He couldn’t afford to be in the Gray Box’s backyard with pissed agents and Scarface hot on his heels seeking vengeance.

  “Remember this mercy, Agent Maddox Kinkade.” In a few seconds, she’d black out.

  She scratched and clawed his arm, refusing to give in despite her insurmountable disadvantage. Admirable.

  “Shh.” He tightened his grip. “Don’t fight it.”

  The white rabbit darted from under the piano and scrambled from the saloon.

  Kinkade reached up, groping the top of her head, and yanked out the metal clip fastening her updo. Her hair fell around her shoulders.

  Light glin
ted off the long object in her hand.

  She jammed the sharp rod into Aleksander’s arm and stabbed, again and again.

  Arresting pain ripped through his bicep. Growling, he forced himself to clutch the wrist of his injured arm and support his hold on her throat. Enough fun and games, playtime was over. He applied pressure up from his elbow under her chin, shutting off her oxygen. Her body weakened and went limp.

  Heavy footsteps thundered into the room, glass crunching under heels. One man running.

  Aleksander released her and leapt for the gun. Scooping it from the floor, he rolled, spun up onto his knees, and fired. Scarface dove behind a sofa, taking cover. Aleksander jumped to his feet, seized the case with the bioweapon, and whirled to lay down suppressive fire.

  But there was no need.

  As suspected, Scarface was maneuvering between the furniture. Not to sneak up on Aleksander but to reach the woman. His woman.

  Oh yes, Scarface cared more about her than chasing him or retrieving a deadly bioagent. Still, he fired, slowing Scarface’s attempts to see if she was dead or alive.

  Aleksander ran over the carpet of glass and rushed up the stairs.

  The ping of ricocheting bullets swept closer. A helicopter was setting down to land on the bow, ropes dangling. More agents. Probably crawling over the yacht like cockroaches.

  He glimpsed the bomb Val had set on the helm. Small, but the impact would be huge.

  Holding the case, he dashed to the helicopter. Van Helden was already inside. Aleksander climbed in and Val handed him the detonator. As they lifted off, he spotted two men wearing protective tactical gear and carrying guns. They cleared the port side of the yacht, noticed Aleksander’s helicopter, and opened fire.

  “Three. Two. One.” He hit the button. The bomb exploded, tearing through the helm, spraying metal and fire faster than the speed of sound.

  As the flames spread, so did Aleksander’s smile. He leaned back in the plush seat, exhilarated, bolstered. For there was no greater high, no better drug than winning.