by Pamela Clare
It wasn’t supposed to involve blood and corpses.
Yes, she’d had a few close calls. She’d been roughed up more than once. She’d had to do things in bed she hadn’t wanted to do with men she hadn’t wanted to touch. She’d even had to eat escargot. But this particular mission had turned out to be a whole lot more than she’d bargained for.
She closed her eyes against the pain in her head—and the images in her mind. “God, I’m glad I don’t have your job.”
Julian gave her hand another squeeze. “It’s going to be okay.”
They pushed out the back door into early morning light. From a distance of about twenty feet to her right, cameras began to whir, reporters shouting out questions.
Just freaking great.
Dudaev’s murder would be front page, above the fold.
Then came a shout. “Holly?”
Holly recognized that voice.
Joaquin.
Of course he would be here. Joaquin Ramirez was the paper’s best photographer, the shooter all the editors wanted to assign to stories that were likely to appear on the front page.
“Hey, you got to let me through, man. She’s my friend.”
“I’m sorry, but you need to stay behind the line.”
“Hey, Darcangelo!” Joaquin called. “Tell these guys to let me through.”
The gurney was lifted into the back of the ambulance.
“You can see her at the hospital, Ramirez,” Julian called back, climbing into the ambulance beside Holly.
Then the doors were closed, and they were off.
* * *
Nick sat outside Bauer’s office waiting to be debriefed, his stomach empty apart from coffee. He looked down at the small photo of Dani he carried in his wallet when he wasn’t on assignment. She was smiling at the camera, her dark hair caught in a breeze, a smile on her beautiful face as she posed in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow, enjoying just being a tourist.
They’d been on vacation—one of the few times they’d been able to get away together. She’d just come off a long mission in Ukraine, so they’d spent most of their week in Moscow in their hotel room, making up for weeks of being apart. They’d talked about leaving the Agency, getting married, having a couple of kids.
Three months later, she was gone.
Nick hadn’t been able to tell his family how she died or how he’d been wounded. They didn’t know what he did for a living. He’d told them only that she’d been killed in a robbery. His mother, who’d been pushing for a big Georgian Orthodox wedding since the day she’d met Dani, had lit a candle for her at church. And though Nick saw the worried glances they shared with one another when they thought he wasn’t looking, they hadn’t mentioned her again.
But Nick hadn’t been able to let it go.
He hadn’t been able to let her go.
He wanted to tell her that he’d killed the man who’d ended her life, but he couldn’t. There was nothing he could ever say to her or do for her again.
People said the pain would lessen with time, but Nick had begun to think a person just got used to living with it.
Dani.
He kissed the photo, tucked it back in his wallet, pushing aside the ache that always lingered in his chest. He glanced at his watch.
He’d left Denver immediately, catching a special military flight from Buckley Air Force Base back to DC. The USB drive, laptop, and the listening device he’d found were now in Bauer’s hands.
He’d accomplished his mission—for the most part. He’d eliminated Ms. Bradshaw as a suspect, retrieved the stolen data, and terminated Dudaev, but he’d failed to identify Dudaev’s contact. Bauer would be disappointed about that last part.
Dudaev was dead.
The thought struck Nick again, some part of him struggling to grasp that the son of a bitch who’d killed Dani was truly gone. Two years of wondering what had gone wrong. Two years of grief and rage. Two years of waiting for Dudaev to step into his crosshairs. Now it was over.
Or was it?
He’d had a long time to think on the flight back from Denver. He’d thought about his visit with Kramer and Kramer’s warning. He’d thought about Dudaev and what he’d seen on the bastard’s computer screen. He’d thought about Dani and the night she’d died. He’d thought about the internal investigation. He’d thought about the dead and missing operatives. He’d turned it all over in his mind like pieces of a puzzle.
And then the pieces had come together with a click.
The Agency was investigating the Batumi op, trying to answer the questions that had haunted Nick for two long years, and the operatives who’d been a part of that mission were being permanently silenced.
Someone didn’t want the truth to come out.
Had that someone been Dudaev, or was there a traitor inside the Agency?
Driven by that question, Nick had done something he would never have imagined himself doing. He’d cloned the laptop to an external hard drive before turning it in and had hidden the external hard drive in his rental car.
You must be out of your fucking mind.
Nine years of service to the Agency, a spotless record, several commendations. One stupid move, and he would throw all of that away—not to mention land himself in prison or find himself with a bullet in the brain. He’d known this when he’d cloned the drive, but he’d done it anyway.
If someone other than Dudaev was gunning for him, he wanted to know who they were—and be able to see them coming.
He stood, glanced at his watch, caffeine, lack of sleep, and too many unanswered questions making him restless. It wasn’t like Bauer to keep him waiting. He wanted to get this over with and check into a hotel so that he could get some sleep, buy a bunch of equipment—CPUs, monitors, keyboards—and then take a crack at decrypting those cloned files.
“More coffee?” Cheryl, who’d worked as Bauer’s executive assistant for as long as Nick had been with the Agency, pointed toward the almost empty pot on the counter near her desk. “I need you to drink the old stuff so I can make a fresh pot.”
Nick grinned. “It’s my fault you’re all here on a Saturday, so I’ll take one for the team.”
He crossed the room and refilled his cup.
The door behind him opened, and Bauer stepped out. “You’re up, Andris. Catch any sleep on the plane?”
“Not really.” Nick walked over to his boss and gave his hand a firm shake, nodding to Lee Nguyen, who stood inside the doorway. “Good to see you, man.”
Nguyen grinned and reached out to shake Nick’s hand. “You’re looking good, staying fit.”
“If you didn’t sit on your ass all day, you would be, too.”
It was a running joke between the two of them. Nguyen had put on a few pounds after giving up fieldwork for a desk job, but he was still capable of kicking ass. Like Nick, Nguyen had been recruited by the Agency out of Delta Force, where the two had served together. It was partly because of him—and partly because he’d grown up speaking both Russian and Georgian—that Nick had landed this job.
Bauer ushered Nick into his office, closed the door. “Let’s get down to it.”
Martin Bauer had been with the SAD all of his professional career. Recruited out of college, he’d made a name for himself during Operation Desert Storm working with a team of paramilitary operators and Green Berets behind enemy lines prior to the US attack. He’d served as Nick’s supervisor for the past three years.
Bauer’s father had worked for the Agency in the early days right after World War II and was something of a Cold War legend. He’d played hide-and-seek with the KGB and the Stasi in Berlin before the Wall went up. If even half the stories they told about him were true, the man had been a certified badass.
Bauer resembled his father, whose portrait hung on the wall behind his desk. He was tall with light brown hair, brown eyes, and a face that was ordinary in every way. He’d used that plain, nondescript face for his nation’s benefit.
Nick took a
seat across from Bauer, who sank into his executive chair behind his desk, while Nguyen stood off to the side, looking out the window onto the street below.
Bauer spoke first. “You changed your cover without notifying us.”
“After I learned of Kramer’s disappearance, I felt it prudent to assume that I would be next. I couldn’t be certain my cover was intact, nor could I be sure who was responsible for what happened to Kramer or how they’d gotten the drop on him. I didn’t feel like walking into a trap, so I changed my play at the last minute.”
“It may interest you to know that one of the catering staff was kidnapped and assaulted that night. He was about your height with your coloring.” Bauer let that news sink in. “Good move on your part.”
So Dudaev had tried to eliminate him.
Nguyen glanced away from the window long enough to give him an approving nod. “Way to stay on your toes out there, man.”
Nick looked from Bauer, who was looking at his desk, to Nguyen, who was staring out the window again, a strange silence stretching between them.
“About Kramer . . .” Bauer shifted in his chair. “You met with him?”
So they knew about that.
Of course they did.
Nick nodded. “We took advantage of his passing through Denver to grab a couple of beers and some Chinese. We’re rarely in the same hemisphere.”
“What did you discuss?” Bauer asked.
Nick pushed to the back of his mind the fact that he was about to lie to his boss, a man he admired. “Mostly we talked about how much it sucks to sit on a plane when you’re tall. He didn’t have much time. I offered him a ride to the airport, but he insisted on taking a cab.”
“You didn’t discuss business?” Bauer’s gaze fixed on Nick’s and held it.
Nick shook his head. “Not really. He looked worried, rough around the edges. I asked him if anything was wrong. He told me to watch my back.”
“What do you think he meant by that?”
“He didn’t say. That’s when he got up and left.”
Nguyen turned away from the window. “You were the last person to see him before his disappearance.”
It took Nick a moment to catch the hint of accusation, and when he did, he almost laughed. “You think I—?”
“We don’t think anything,” Bauer said. “We’re just trying to put the pieces together. What time did Kramer leave the restaurant?”
Bauer and Nguyen questioned Nick about his meeting with Kramer for the better part of an hour. What had they eaten? What, exactly, had they said to each other? Had Kramer mentioned going any place other than the airport? What time had they arrived at the restaurant? Had they left together? Did Nick see Kramer get into the cab?
It was beginning to feel like an interrogation when Bauer shifted gears. “We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow. You moved on Dudaev early.”
Nick nodded. “I overheard one of Dudaev’s men at the gallery telling him that Ms. Bradshaw was under Agency surveillance and urging him to get rid of her. I took that as confirmation that I’d been made. I felt I needed to finish the mission before Dudaev got the chance to finish me.”
Bauer raised an eyebrow. “Your decision to move wasn’t influenced at all by a perceived threat against that pretty blonde?”
“Not entirely.” Was Nick that fucking transparent? “Last I heard, the Agency’s mission includes protecting the lives of US citizens.”
“You horny, Andris?” Bauer looked over at Nguyen. “I think he has a hard-on for this woman. She must really be hot.”
After the grilling about Kramer, Nick wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.
He turned the tables. “The intel Dudaev stole—it has something to do with the Batumi op and the disappearing officers, doesn’t it? That’s the focus of the internal investigation everyone’s whispering about.”
Nguyen’s brows drew together in a frown, a hint of warning in his voice. “Nick—”
Bauer cut across him. “What makes you say that?”
“Dudaev’s computer was going into sleep mode when I found it. I caught a glimpse of images before the screen went blank—photos of me, of you two, of Kramer and the others. He had a file on Dani, too. Dani ought to have been purged from the system two years ago. If the intel he stole from us was new, it wouldn’t have contained data on her—unless someone is looking into how and why she died.”
He let that hang in the air for a moment. “As for the rest, it’s a strange coincidence that photos of Dani surface on Dudaev’s computer while operatives who were part of the Batumi op keep disappearing and turning up dead, don’t you think?”
Nick had worked for the CIA too long to believe in coincidences.
Bauer leaned back in his chair, clearly trying to make up his mind how much to tell Nick. He drew a deep breath, as if about to take a plunge. “Dudaev was working on behalf of the Georgian mafia to expose US intelligence officers and assets in Eastern Europe to their criminal and terrorist buddies. As for an internal investigation, if there is one, that’s something I can’t discuss.”
It was a simple answer. It made sense. It fit most of the evidence.
But it didn’t explain everything—Dani’s file, for example.
For the first time in his career, Nick wondered whether Bauer was lying to him.
Nguyen glanced at his watch. “We need to get back to the debriefing and what went wrong with this mission.”
Nick felt compelled to defend his actions. “The contact may have gotten away, but the files have been recovered, and Dudaev is no longer a danger to the United States or its operatives. I completed the most important elements of this mission.”
“No, you didn’t.” Bauer drew something out of his top drawer and dropped it on the desk—the USB drive Nick had recovered. “The drive has been erased. The classified files it contained were downloaded and then overwritten by a virus. You didn’t retrieve the data. Bradshaw did.”
Chapter Five
Drowsy from the most recent dose of morphine, Holly repeated what the doctor had told her, her hair still damp from the shower they’d let her take once they’d completed the forensic exam. “It was some kind of anesthetic—a derivative of fentanyl. She said they’d never seen anything like it. They want to keep me overnight.”
“Fentanyl?” Kara stood next to Holly’s bed, together with her husband, Reece Sheridan, who looked as good in a T-shirt and jeans as he did in a three-piece suit.
“Is that like GHB or Rohypnol?” Tessa Darcangelo sat next to the bed. Tessa was a former I-Team member who now worked as a freelancer. She’d also written a couple of award-winning books about human trafficking.
“The doctor said it acted in a similar way to drugs they use to knock patients out for surgery. My headache and nausea are a side effect.”
“That could have been lethal,” Reece said. Then he asked the question that had been running through Holly’s mind. “Who could have had access to something like that?”
“I don’t know.” Russian agents had used a fentanyl-based gas to knock out a room full of people during the Moscow theater hostage crisis some years ago, but Holly didn’t tell Reece this. “The doctor said I came close to cardiac and respiratory arrest.”
“Well, that’s a reassuring thought.” Tessa’s words were laden with equal parts Southern sweetness and sarcasm.
In less than an hour after Holly had arrived in the ER, most of the gang had gathered in the waiting room, their presence more comforting than Holly could have imagined. She’d lived most of her thirty-three years without close friends and wasn’t used to needing anyone. But right now, she needed them, and they were here for her.
Unlike her case officer. Where was he?
Holly told herself that he would approach her only when he knew it was safe. She’d spoken to him face-to-face only a few times over the years, and each time had been carefully managed. He would come. But when?
She felt for her clutch beneath the blankets, closed her f
ingers around it, afraid that in her drugged stupor she might lose it.
“I’m so sorry, Holly.” Kara’s long, brown hair was still wet from her shower. She and Reece had just gotten out of bed when Julian called them. “It must have been terrifying to wake up like that.”
An image of Dudaev’s corpse, with the two bloody holes in his forehead, crashed through Holly’s mind. She took a deep breath, fighting a wave of nausea. “Thanks.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right.” Reece pressed his hand on top of hers and Kara’s and held them both. “Chief Irving will get to the bottom of this.”
Holly didn’t say so, but Dudaev’s murder would soon be taken away from Chief Irving and the Denver Police and transferred, together with all the evidence, into federal hands. “I hope you’re right.”
Whoever the killer was, he hadn’t taken Dudaev’s money or the necklace. He’d been after only Dudaev and the files.
That alone meant he—or she—was all kinds of dangerous.
Watch what you say. You’re drugged. Don’t get sloppy.
Julian walked in. “Look what I found at the rifle range.”
Marc Hunter, Sophie’s husband, followed behind him, wearing butter-soft faded jeans and a dark green Fat Tire T-shirt. “Looks like you’ve had a rough night.”
“Just the worst date ever.” His sympathy had Holly fighting tears again.
“Hell, yeah, it was.” Julian went to stand beside Tessa, one big hand coming to rest on his wife’s shoulder. “That was a damned awful thing to wake up to.”
She looked up at both men. “Thanks for coming.”
Marc walked up to her bedside and gave her a hug, a worried frown on his face. “Hey, we take care of our own. You know that.”