Every Last Breath

by Juno Rushdan

  She gained her bearings and popped the retention release on the baton, flicking it with her wrist, expanding the full twenty-six inches.

  Novak closed in. Blindingly fast. Boogeyman eyes raged behind glasses. He lobbed a foam roller at her head.

  She ducked, sidestepping, and swung the baton, belting him with lightning strikes.

  He didn’t slow. Didn’t seem to feel the popping bite of any of her strikes. Just kept storming forward with shocking force like a freakish Terminator. Teeth bared. Snarling.

  With each startling advance, he pressed her backward. Herding her to a corner. Where he’d have her trapped. Pinned. Able to hurt her badly.

  She raised her right knee high and thrust her foot out with all the power she could muster. Her well-aimed heel connected with his groin. It should’ve dropped him, but it didn’t. A swift follow-up kick to his gut propelled him back inches, giving her a narrow opening.

  And she took it.

  Desperate to put space between herself and Novak’s grasp, she scrambled away from him. She spotted her gun under the massage table and went for it.

  Scalding pain tore into her scalp, and she was wrenched back on her heels as he snatched her ponytail. On reflex, she reached for her hair.

  He knocked the baton from her fingers and threw her against the wall. Her head bounced off the sheetrock with a crack, knocking the comms piece out of her ear.

  A brutal stab of agony mushroomed in her skull. She fought to keep her eyes open, not let her knees buckle. The tang of aluminum filled her mouth. She blocked and threw punches on instinct, her aim wild as her vision cleared.

  Until a vicious blow sent her sprawling.

  With horror movie speed, he caught her in a rear headlock, keeping her upright on her feet. His arm was an iron band around her throat.

  The natural inclination was to lean back to lighten the pressure on the windpipe. If you did, you’d be defenseless with no balance and your attacker would have you.

  She shrugged her shoulders, creating a pocket of space, and tucked her chin into the crook of his elbow, clutching the inside of his arm. She pitched forward from the waist, bending at the knees, and drove a heel into his instep to get his hold to loosen.

  Growling in her ear, he jerked her side to side, trying to knock her off balance. Sounding like a deranged beast that wanted to tear the flesh from her limbs. She stepped her foot behind his, locking his leg, and popped her elbow back into his solar plexus. With the other hand, she twisted his wrist, spun out of his grasp, and, planting her free foot, torqued his arm to throw him to the ground.

  The technique was precise, flawless, but he seized her jacket, yanking her down along with him. They smacked to the cold tile in a tangle, rolling, punching.

  He outweighed her by a good forty pounds and was amped to a manic level. But she was strong and fast, had years of vigorous training, and she fought him with everything in her.

  She jabbed at the stab wound she’d given him in the fight on the boat, trying to exploit his one apparent weakness.

  Sweet Jesus! Why didn’t he wince? Why didn’t he show any signs of a physical deficit?

  In a blink, he threw a headbutt, rattling her brain, and flipped her onto her back.

  She deflected his blows and pivoted her hips forward, kicking him, driving his body further down hers. Grabbing one of his arms, she threw her legs straight up, wrapping them around his neck, and punched his other arm between her thighs. She had his head trapped low by her hips and had his free arm locked in her grip. Using her legs, she applied as much pressure as she could to his neck, shutting off his airway.

  A solid triangle choke hold.

  All she had to do was squeeze her thighs. Squeeze hard. Keep her grip on his arm. Bring him deeper into the submission hold. Not let go.

  His features contorted into something ghoulish. Eyes full of nightmarish determination drilled into her like hot nails. Then everything changed, and her advantage evaporated. So fast but so mind-boggling, it unfolded in slow motion.

  The Ghost rose up on his knees, hoisting her entire body from the floor with him. Like a damn machine.

  What kind of drug was he on?

  Her heart ricocheted. The only thing keeping him from killing her was her grip on his arm and her legs squeezing his throat.

  A demented smile broke through his feral snarl.

  In some unstoppable wrestler move, he slammed her against the floor. Breath flew from her lips like a popped balloon. Pain and panic crashed through her, sending hope into a tailspin.

  Everything in her went slack. Fingers, legs, heart. The world hazed white.

  He seized her neck in a stranglehold. She was stunned, lungs straining. He had her hips locked down, but she tried to gain leverage with her legs, her heels scraping the floor. For such a slender man, he was so heavy and strong.

  A scathing ache pulsed like an angry heartbeat from her head to her tailbone. Her mind spun, thoughts racing—to Cole. She loved him. Wanted to live—for him. She should’ve told him it didn’t matter what their second chance looked like, as long as they were together.

  Calm settled over her. She had to do something. Anything. Like hell she’d let Novak win.

  Maddox clawed at his hands, scratched his face. All in vain. The Ghost’s hands squeezed her jugular, dragging her closer to death. Darkness edged her vision.

  She groped her jacket for the tube of tear gas. Her pockets were empty.

  Where was it? Did it fall out in the struggle?

  “I ran and I knew you’d follow,” he said in a hiss of berserk fury. “Knew I’d get you alone. I swore I’d kill you, Kinkade, and I’m a man of my word.”

  She extended her fingers and struck at his throat. One of his hands lifted from her, and the pressure eased enough for her to suck in a clipped breath.

  His fist pumped into her face with a thick, meaty sound. Her head jacked right. Light bloomed behind her eyes, ears ringing; her teeth tore into her lip and blood filled her mouth.

  She was dazed, everything swam, but her fate was clear. And it wasn’t good.

  For one brilliant instant, she saw Cole, heard his voice.

  Move, honey. Or you’re as good as dead. Move!

  Tear gas, she thought again frantically and patted her pants, this time in a frenzied search.

  “Not with a knife or a gun. Just my bare hands.” Novak clamped down on her windpipe as he leaned over her into the hold for added power.

  There. The tear gas was in her right pocket.

  She dug in her jeans, nails nipping the tube and slipping from the metal. With her other hand, she hit at his throat and arms and chest, each blow growing weaker. She was tiring, desperate for air.

  The burn in her lungs, the unbearable pressure was too much. His hands tightened around her throat, and it seemed as though her head might burst like a squeezed grape.

  “Doesn’t get more intimate than this,” he said, his voice rough, barely human. He drew his face close to hers as if he might bite her. Or, God forbid, kiss her.

  Worse, he exceeded her imagination.

  His tongue flicked out, and he licked her cheek in one long, disgusting sweep.

  Catching a grip on the small cylinder with her fingertips, she worked it up her pocket and pulled it into her palm. She closed her fist around the tear gas, thumbed off the top, and sprayed his eyes.

  The best thing about the gel was no danger of blowback in her face.

  Howling like a wounded wild thing, he reared back, his weight rising off her, and wiped at his eyes with his sleeves.

  She raked in a coughing breath. Her raw throat burned. Calling upon whatever strength she had left, she drew her knees into her chest and kicked him full out. He toppled like a chopped-down tree.

  Sucking in deep, ragged breaths, she spied the dull gleam of her gun.


  He shrieked and thrashed on the floor, swabbing his eyes with his shirt.

  She rolled to her hands and knees and grabbed the 9mm, leveling the barrel at him. It was then she realized she was trembling. She scrambled to her feet as he made his way up on his. When her mind cleared, the black edges around her vision lifted, and her aim sharpened.

  Novak spun around, his face fierce. Their gazes snagged. She steadied her shaking weapon hand with the other. He squinted at her with red, swollen eyes and launched forward at her with nightmarish intensity.

  She wanted to blow a hole in his skull. Paint the walls with his blood and brain matter.

  But they needed him alive.

  She shifted her aim from center mass and shot him in the leg. He fell to his knees. Glaring, he crawled undaunted in her direction, fueled by some demonic willpower.

  As he reached out for her, she put a second slug in his hand and kicked him away.

  Castle barreled into the therapy room and stopped short, taking in the sight.

  “Your timing sucks.” She took a step, rubbery knees threatening to give, and leaned against the wall. Her insides quivered like battered Jell-O. Experience had taught her that by morning, she’d feel the ache of every wretched bruise.

  Castle cuffed the Ghost, hands behind his back. “You did all the hard work. My timing is shit-hot.”

  “The bioweapon?” she asked, regaining her bearings.

  “Reece made it with thirty seconds to spare,” Castle said. “It’s contained.”

  “Cole? Is he okay?” It was as if the universe hung in suspended animation as she waited for an answer.

  Chapter 34

  Capital One Arena, Washington, DC

  7:45 p.m. EDT

  Cole sat in the back of an ambulance, letting the EMT flash a light in his eyes while he nursed his bandaged throat. The tech had gotten the bleeding to stop, and he was fortunate there was no permanent damage or need for stitches.

  The building hadn’t been locked down under quarantine, and he heard the CDC was pulling out, which meant the bioweapon was contained.

  Maddox pushed through the arena doors onto F Street. His heart rolled over in his chest. She looked like the devil had chewed her up and spit her out, but she was alive. And nothing else mattered. He nudged the fussing EMT to the side, leaped out of the ambulance, and ran to her. She flung herself at him, and he caught her close against his body, his arms snapping around her like bands of steel.

  Their arms twined around each other in a desperate clinch. She shivered in his arms, her head tucked under his chin. He held her tighter. Holding her had never felt so good, so precious.

  Tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. He would make the most of every single day he had with her. No more regrets.

  He cupped her bruised face. “You okay?” His voice was raspy. Each word burned his sore throat.

  “Yeah, or I will be.” She yanked back, lightly touched the bandage on his neck, and her gaze fell to his bloodied clothes. Alarm widened her eyes. “Cole—”

  “Most of it isn’t mine,” he reassured her.

  “You look awful, like you’ve been through the grinder.”

  “Me? Have you looked in the mirror?” He curled an arm around her and cradled her head against his chest.

  She roped her arms around him, clutching his shirt, and a shudder ran through her. “Thank God you’re okay. I can’t lose you again.”

  “You won’t.” He kissed the top of her head. “Never again.”

  She peered up at him, her eyes misting, and nodded. “Is that Val’s blood on you?”

  “For a thoughtless, ruthless minute, I wanted to kill him. As though taking his life would’ve made me feel better, like more of a man after they kidnapped you. Then I came to my senses, because I knew you’d be ashamed of me and that you needed them alive. I tried not to kill him, but…”

  She caressed his jaw, running her fingers over his two-day stubble. “You are my personal hero. And I could never be ashamed of you. Never.”

  He rested his forehead on hers, wondering how he had made it without her and this unconditional comfort. “Are you sure you don’t want to upgrade me to superhero?”

  “Don’t push it.” She chuckled and hugged him close. “Thank you for not dying on me.” The hug tightened, rooting him in gratitude before her arms loosened, and she looked up at him. “I need you. I love you, Cole. No matter how we’ve changed or what our second chance looks like. I want it. I want you.”

  “You’ve got me.” He brushed his thumb along her cheek.

  “I think we’ve earned our shot at happiness.”

  “Yeah, we have.” He glanced at his bruised knuckles. “Is Aleksander alive?”

  “We have him in custody. I’ll get answers out of him. We just can’t let him know his son is dead.”

  * * *

  Gray Box Headquarters, Northern Virginia

  8:35 p.m. EDT

  Maddox stood in the hall outside interrogation room one beside Cole.

  A few more hours and this mission with Novak would be behind her, and she could enjoy the prospect of having a real life. A full life for the first time, with everything she wanted but had been too afraid to dream of.

  Sanborn shook Cole’s hand. “Thank you for the detailed debrief and for your assistance.”

  Cole pressed a hand to his throat. “Have you been able to find out who the seller was behind the auction?”

  “Amanda, Willow, and Daniel are going to turn their focus to that in the morning. Willow discovered the Le Monde newspaper used in the proof of product video could’ve been purchased from any number of shops here in DC or New York. There’s no way to isolate where the video was filmed. At least we have Aleksander Novak and the bioweapon. A huge win for us. One we wouldn’t have gotten without you,” Sanborn said. “You turned out to be an invaluable asset. I’d love for you to consider joining us.”

  Anytime Sanborn spotted talent, he went into recruitment mode. No way would he pass up a chance to add Cole to his prized collection.

  “I can guarantee fulfilling work far beyond what you’re doing in the private sector, where I suspect you’re underutilized and have to put up with a fair degree of bullcrap. As a bonus, you’d get to see a heck of a lot more of Maddox than you will otherwise. Picture an adrenaline-filled deployment somewhere sandy together.”

  Cole smiled at Maddox, raking his long hair back, and her heart fluttered. He was so kick-ass cool, she wanted to kiss him.

  “Thank you for the tempting offer. But you can’t afford me, and I’m not taking a pay cut.”

  She hiked an eyebrow. “What kind of paycheck do you bring home?”

  “The sweet six-figure kind.”

  Her breath caught. “How sweet?”

  “Probably three times what you’re making.”

  “Sorry, sir,” she said to Sanborn. “But he can’t quit.”

  The three of them shared a light chuckle.

  “I should probably be the one recruiting for my boss. Donovan Carmichael could use some of your black ops folks.”

  “Donovan and I go way back from our former days at the Agency. He’d love to get his hands on my people, but I pity the person foolish enough to poach from me.” Sanborn gave a wolfish smile.

  Cole raised his palms in a hands-off gesture.

  “I’m afraid you can’t sit in on Novak’s interrogation,” Sanborn said. “You’re free to go, but Maddox will be done soon if you’d like to wait for her in the conference room.”

  Cole cupped her arm, caressing her with his intense gaze. Her face heated, and her soul sighed. She was so thankful and ecstatic to have him back, and she’d show him every day.

  “I’ll wait,” he said.

  She nodded. “See you in a few.”

  Sanborn opened the door to the viewing room that looked in
on the interrogation cell through one-way glass. “Daniel, escort Cole to the conference room. See that he has anything he needs to be comfortable.”

  As Daniel Cutter joined them in the hall, he looked the happiest Maddox had ever seen him. Almost satisfied for once. Working the case with them must’ve been a boost. Maybe the guy would tone down his gung ho style.

  The entire team had pulled together, unlike any other op, to get this mission done. Made them tighter, stronger than ever. Ironic considering there was a mole in their midst.

  “Novak keeps asking for coffee, food, and to see his son,” Cutter said.

  Sanborn’s lips flattened into a tight line. “Let Janet know to get him something.”

  “Sir,” Maddox said, “Novak is in pain and uncomfortable and I’d rather keep him that way until he starts talking. I need some concrete answers first.”

  “Okay.” Sanborn nodded and gestured to Cutter that it was okay to leave.

  Cutter chatted with Cole on their way to the conference room, passing Nicole Tully, who carried a microwaveable meal, looking the same as she always did, probably headed to the ITM section.

  No one appeared any less innocent or guiltier. No one was the slightest bit out of character, as if they were on edge from harboring a terrible secret. Since the yacht, she’d made a list of everyone in the Gray Box, checking it twice—was it him, or maybe her?—but none of them struck her as the traitorous type. They were some of the best spies in the world and couldn’t tell who the liar playing them for fools was.

  And that made their predicament horrifying.

  “Maddox, you and Castle owe me an explanation.” Sanborn’s voice was firm and coarse.

  She braced herself. “Sir, if you don’t mind letting me question Novak, I think everything will become clear.”

  “All right. But I expect full transparency.”

  Maddox gathered her thoughts, took a deep breath, and entered interrogation room one.

  Sitting in a chair, Novak clutched his bandaged hand. His wrist was handcuffed to the bolted-down steel table. His face was scratched and bruised. Weary eyes reflected the dissipation of adrenaline and whatever he’d been hopped up on.