Her lips curved into a predatory smile as she took his hand, running it up her smooth, naked leg, pushing his fingers beyond her skirt’s too-short-to-be-decent hemline while she licked at his earlobe. “Getting me drunk isn’t necessary,” she purred.
With Ben still giving him the stink-eye, he forced his hand higher. “I want to take care of you…” His other hand caught her chin as he lowered his lips onto her open mouth, kissing her until she was splayed against the black leather couch they sat on, panting.
Standing, he grinned down at her for a moment before he turned and headed for the VIP’s private bar, shouldering his way in. He got the attention of the same bartender he’d been using all night—a petite blonde with a pixie-cut and sly brown eyes—and held up two fingers. As soon as she saw him she nodded, continuing to mix the drink for the waitress who was waiting next to him.
“I thought it was you but I was unsure.”
Michael secured a puzzled look on his face before turning. “Do I know you?” he said in the same thick German accent he’d been using all night, giving the man behind him a remote smile, his gaze straying to the long, raised scar that slid down the side of his face into a hook near the corner of his mouth. It gave him a perverse satisfaction to know that it hadn’t faded over time.
The smile returned, causing the scar to crinkle. “Come on, I won’t ruin your game. I just wanted to say hello,” the man said. “It’s been too long.”
Not nearly long enough.
He looked past the young man in front of him. Two armed guards were standing a few yards away and he smirked. “I see Daddy still won’t let you cross the street by yourself,” Michael said, sufficiently knocking the smug look off his face. “What are you doing here, Estefan?”
“My father’s businesses have grown in your absence, Cartero,” Estefan said with another self-satisfied smile. “I am his second in command these days.”
“Good for you,” he said with a disinterested shrug—as if he hadn’t been keeping tabs on Alberto Reyes and his ever-growing reach. As if the idea of killing both Estefan and his goons wasn’t fighting to take precedence over the job he was currently working.
His bartender slid two drinks across the bar. A Kettle One and a water, both on the rocks. The water was marked with a lime wedge but she tapped a manicured finger against its rim, just in case and he smiled at her. Pia’s vodka had enough Rohypnol in it to tranquilize a horse.
Michael reached into the breast pocket of his suit to pull out a thick stack of bills, held together with a wide silver clip. He peeled off a few hundred Euros. “Pour Mr. Second-in-Command whatever he wants—the rest is for you,” he said, picking up his drinks before he turned and looked Estefan full in the face and gave him a wink. “See you around, kid.”
3
His cell phone, set to vibrate, rattled on the plush carpeted floor of Pia’s bedroom. Michael reached down and found it without looking. It was a text.
Finished?
He looked at the woman sleeping next to him. She wasn’t just sleeping, she was totally zonked by the sedative slipped into her drink at the club. He’d taken her to bed and joined her—played along until the drugs took effect. He felt a twinge. Always did when the job involved women, but he buried it. Twinges caused hesitation. Hesitation wasn't something he could afford.
Almost. Done in ten.
Michael sat up, pulled on his pants and got to work. He cloned her cell phone and her computer, collected a DNA sample and scanned her fingerprints and retinas. Jorge Cordova lived in a fortress with state-of-the-art security that only he and his daughter were coded for.
He didn’t bother to wipe down his prints when he left. They weren’t in any system or database he needed to worry about. He even tossed a business card on her nightstand before he left—tonight he was Gregor Ehrlichmann, an investment banker from Berlin.
Cordova was due back in Barcelona tomorrow night. He’d gain access to his home using the samples he’d collected and put a bullet in his brain. The clones he’d made of Pia’s computer and cell would be used to generate a trail of evidence that would prove she hired a hit man to take out Daddy because he froze her thirty-million-dollar trust fund.
Poor Pia was about to have a very bad day.
______
“So?” Ben said when Michael walked in a few hours later. The kid was sitting on the couch of their suite playing Call of Duty: Ghosts and eating nachos. Sometimes he wished he was the boss’ son… and then he remembered that the boss, Livingston Shaw, made Charles Manson look like a door-to-door Bible salesman.
He took off his suit jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the chair. “Samples are collected and handed over to tech. They’ll use them to do what they do. In a day or so, we’ll be ready to roll.”
Ben rolled his eyes at the television screen. “I wasn’t asking for an operational de-brief, Major Stick-up-the-ass. How was she? Did the infamous Pia Cordova live up to the hype?”
“Pure magic. Best night of my life.” He sat down and stared at the television screen, watched the kid kill a couple dozen insurgents. “You wanna explain to me why I get stuck with all the shit jobs?”
“We flipped for it. Besides, shit job—really? That chick was bangin’ hot and she wanted it—bad.” The kid cocked his head to the side and worked the controller double-time.
“Yeah, well, next time feel free to be the one to give it to her.” He needed a shower.
Ben cut him a look. “You didn’t sleep with her.” He shook his head in disgust. “Do you
even have testicles?”
“Ask your mom, she’d know.” He reached for the nachos. They were cold, but whatever.
Ben laughed. “The only way she’d notice your balls is if they were blue and shaped like Vicodin.” He paused the game and tossed the controller onto the table. It landed in the nachos. “Seriously, how are you gonna get over that chick if you won’t let yourself get over her?”
“Careful, kid.” It’d been over a year since he’d seen Sabrina, if you didn’t count every time he closed his eyes. Forget about her? He’d have better luck forgetting how to breathe.
Ben just laughed. “First off, I’m not a kid. I’m only three years younger than you are. Second—”
The cell on the coffee table let out a beep. Ben picked it up and rolled his eyes before flipping it open. “It’s the asshole,” he said in a stage whisper before he spoke in the phone. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
4
He and Ben had been called into FSS’ Barcelona office at three AM. By Livingston Shaw. Whatever was about to go down couldn’t be good.
Michael thought of the last time he’d been called into a private audience with Shaw. He’d been told that the implant in his back wasn’t just a tracking device, used to keep tabs on him. It was also there to kill him if he got out of line.
He reached for the base of his spine. It was still there. It would always be there—a capsule, the size of a dime. Inside was enough military-grade bio-toxin to wipe out a small town. It was rigged with a detonation chip that responded to a phone number. Once the number was dialed, voice recognition software would take over. One word code and a seven digit code was all it would take to kill him.
He looked at Ben. He and his father were the only two who could detonate the capsule. One was his boss. The other was his partner. Ben looked at him and smiled. Michael dropped his hand and stared at the floor.
First Security Solutions had offices all over the world. On the surface, they were a private firm that provided protection to visiting U.S. dignitaries and supplemental security to American Embassies, worldwide—but that was a bunch of bullshit.
In reality, FSS was a privatized military organization that specialized in government-sanctioned covert ops. They were wolves in sheep’s clothing. They went places that'd give the CIA a case of the flop-sweats and did things that’d make a SEAL hide in his mother’s skirts. Michael had been on board for three years now and he’d hated every
single second of it.
They took the elevator to the thirty-second floor. The doors slid open, revealing an expansive office—blood-red carpet surrounded by endless banks of bullet-proof windows. He didn’t have to see it to know what it looked like. Eleven offices in as many countries and they all looked the same, right down to the throw pillows and drink coasters.
“Shit,” Ben said under his breath. Michael looked up to see Brian Lark standing next to the boss’ desk, poised like a pet dog. Which was exactly what he was.
He felt the rage—years old and bone-deep—rear its ugly head. Their eyes met and Lark’s dimples popped out as the smirked deepened to an actual smile. Heavily-muscled arms covered in coffee-colored skin crossed over his massive chest. Lark knew exactly what he was thinking—he could read his bring it on, asshole expression from across the room. His hand fell to the grip of his Kimber .45 and began to lift it off his hip.
Ben stepped in front of him, suddenly all business. “Don’t do it,” he said in a low voice. Michael looked at him, the I’m just a fuck-up vibe he usually threw off was gone in favor of something closer to the truth.
“Michael. Benjamin, please join us,” Livingston Shaw said from his desk. His tone and words were warm, welcoming even, but Michael knew better. Livingston Shaw was Genghis Khan in a ten-thousand dollar suit. He didn’t do warm or welcoming unless it served a purpose.
The kid nailed him with a hard look. “Keep it together,” Ben said in that same low voice before he turned to his father and flashed him a smile. “I’d rather be playing X-box,” he said as he strolled across the room. Michael stayed where he was, taking a few seconds to get himself under control. Lark just kept grinning.
“Michael…” Livingston let the word trail off but its meaning was clear. Get your ass in here—now. He left the elevator and made himself follow the kid. Stopping a safe distance away, he stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands behind his back to hide the fact that they were balled into fists. Shaw smiled up at him, his guileless blue eyes alert and sharp despite the fact that it was in the middle of the night. “I just received confirmation that the first phase of the Cordova operation is complete.”
“Yes, sir,” he said in a barely controlled tone while staring at the spot just above Shaw’s head. "Cordova is due back in Barcelona tomorrow night. I'll be ready to move."
"Good. After which, the two of you will be without assignment,” Shaw said. “I have a private matter that needs your attention.”
Ben's head snapped up from studying his fingernails. “What? Oh, hell no. A month between jobs, that’s the deal,” he said. “I’m going—”
“Benjamin.” Shaw’s tone said that anyone else would be dead by now.
“—to Vegas.” Ben sighed and cut him a sidelong glance. “I had tickets to see Celine.”
“What do you need done, sir?” he said. The sooner they got their assignment, the sooner he could get the hell out of here. Every second counted when you’re fighting a losing battle against a homicidal urge to kill the man who betrayed you.
“I knew I could count on you, Michael.” Shaw smiled and gestured past them, to the reception area they’d passed on their way in. Sitting there quietly was an older gentleman in a suit slightly less expensive than Shaw’s. Michael guessed him in his early seventies, with a full head of silver hair and sharp brown eyes. He looked haggard, worn down—like he was trapped in hell and couldn’t find his way out. He knew that look. Had seen it in the mirror.
Shaw stood and circled the desk. “Michael, Benjamin, I’d like you to meet Senator Leon Maddox. His grandson is missing and you’re going to find him.”
5
Missing.
Michael cut his partner a sidelong glance. His usual smartass grin had given way to an expression that left little question to how he felt about the implication that word offered.
“You were right to come to me, Leon. I only wish you’d done so sooner,” Shaw said, sitting next to the senator before looking up at the small cluster of men. “I assure you, my son and Mr. O’Shea are the best FSS has to offer. Both have extensive experience when it comes to rescue and recovery.” Shaw gave him a slight smile that caused the muscle in Michael’s jaw to clench tight.
Leon Maddox swept a skeptical gaze over him, one that said he knew exactly who he was, exactly what he’d done, and that he was not to be trusted. “Thank you, Livingston. In the interest of foreign relations, I foolishly agreed to allow the Spanish authorities to handle the situation. I regret it.” He settled his gaze on Ben. “I understand you’re quite the tracker.”
“I’m the best,” Ben said, shooting a hostile glare at his father. “But green-lighting an off the books black-op to find junior is a bit overkill, don’t ya think?”
“Benjamin—”
“No, Livingston—the boy’s right.” Maddox looked at the man sitting next to him. “It’s a total abuse of my power and our friendship that I should even be here, asking for help.” He looked up at the kid. “But I am. And I’m not ashamed to say I’ll use you and your friend here, along with whoever and whatever is necessary to see my grandson returned,” Maddox said as he stood. He held his hand out to Ben, who in turn shook it. Maddox turned to Michael, gave him a long quiet look. “I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t blame you.” He looked the old man in the eye. Maddox issued a quiet bark of laughter before holding out his hand.
“I want my grandson home and I want the bastards that took him dead. Every last one of them. I want it understood that they’ve messed with the wrong man—am I clear?”
“As a bell, sir.” He took the hand offered, gave it a firm shake before moving to the side, letting the Senator pass on his way to the elevator.
______
“They were visiting family friends—an old boarding school roommate of Senator Maddox’s son, Jon.” Livingston used a discreet button panel on his desk to activate the large LCD screen behind his desk. “It was to be a quick trip, before school started for their children, Claire—age nine and Leo—age six.” The screen behind him flipped through various family photos. The Maddox family, on the steps of the Alhambra palace in Granada. Leo and Claire sitting in the stands at the Plaza de Toros Monumental. The screen flashed to a close-up of Leo. “He and his mother took an early morning trip to Mercat Del Encants. She became distracted by a merchant and when she turned around, Leo was gone.” Livingston dropped his hands onto his desk.
“No ransom demands?” Michael said.
“No," Livingston said.
“Surveillance?”
His boss nodded and hit another button. Leo’s picture was replaced by surprisingly clear security footage. The camera was aimed directly at a string of high-priced booths. To the left of the screen, a well-dressed blonde strolled the aisle with a small boy in tow. The blonde was stopped in the middle of the thoroughfare by a young girl peddling scarves and the boy pulls away, eager to use his mother’s distraction to his best advantage. She turned her head for a few seconds—five at best—but it was enough. The instant her back was turned, a man swept into the frame, ball cap pulled low to hide his face, and scooped the boy into his arms. He clamped a hand over Leo’s mouth and was gone before the blonde even manages to tell the girl, no thanks.
Livingston paused the feed. “That’s it—ten seconds of tape. Less than helpful, I’m afraid.”
Michael stared at the frozen image on the screen. The guy on the screen kept his face turned away—seemed to know that the camera was there so it was safe to assume that whoever he was, he’d planned the abduction. He studied at the frozen images on the screen, tried not to let the look of absolute terror on the boy's face bother him.
“Where was their security detail?”
Livingston inclined his head and shrugged. “Jon Maddox is an up and comer—his father is pinning presidential hopes on his chest—but his wife, Sara, is... less than cooperative. She’d been expressly forbidden from taking Leo from the hotel without his detail and sh
e agreed.”
“But she did it anyway,” Ben said, shooting him a sidelong glance.
“Any chance she’s involved?” he said.
Livingston shook his head. “No. She’s completely beside herself. Leon said she’d been under heavy sedation since the abduction.”
Michael said nothing. He wasn’t counting anyone out—not even the old man. Leon Maddox played the part of bereaved grandfather to a tee but if he'd learned anything it was that the face most people showed the world was a lie.
“What about her?” He tipped his chin at the screen, indicating the young woman with the scarves. “Anyone talk to her? Ask her what she saw?”
“Spanish authorities haven’t been able to find her.”
“Bullshit. They can’t find one girl?” This came from Lark, who until now had been content to sit quietly. He crossed his arms over his chest, shooting a pointed look his way. “Either they don’t care or they’ve been paid not to look,” he said.
“My guess is both,” Michael said, studying the frozen video. The girl looked scared, that’s for sure, but she didn’t look surprised by what was happening.
“I guess we have our square one.” Michael stood, ready to get started but his partner had different ideas.
“I have a question.” Ben said, his clear blue eyes gone ice-cold. "Why the hell do you care about some kid that got snatched from a flea market?”
“Leon Maddox is my friend.” Livingston folded his hands on his blotter and pinned his son with a pointed look.
“You don’t have friends. You have chess pieces.” Ben shook his head. “There’s always something in it for you—so what is it?”
“Believe it or not, Benjamin, I happen to care a great deal about what happens to Leo Maddox—”
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 2