by Pamela Clare
“I want you to know that I truly am sorry for what I did to you.” He kissed her hair. “I need you to believe that.”
“I believe you.” She knew, too, that he wanted her—sexually, anyway.
In that respect, he was no different from the other guys she’d slept with.
That was enough, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. It had to be. Who knew how long they’d be together or where the two of them would end up when this was over. She would go back to her life, and he would probably end up leaving the Agency or serving overseas again. Now wasn’t the time to start a relationship.
“About condoms—as incredible as it feels to be inside you without one, that’s really your call. If you don’t like the mess, I’ll make sure to grab some next time we head into town for supplies.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s kind of nice.” She smiled, touched again by his thoughtfulness.
There were ways in which he was so very different from other guys.
* * *
Holly read through Nick’s safety protocols, his stark words driving home how important it was to crack Dudaev’s password and decrypt those files, the danger they both faced coming alive for her. She hadn’t been afraid since they’d settled here—well, apart from the snakes, spiders, and yellow jackets. But now . . .
She glanced up at Nick. “Storm shelter?”
“There’s a storm shelter about thirty feet off to the side of the house next to the field.” He pointed. “I didn’t see it when we first got here because the door is overgrown by weeds, but I checked it out. It’s solid. We’ll get some emergency supplies in there just in case—ammo, water.”
“If the bad guys come, I’m supposed to hide in the shelter.”
“That’s one option. Obviously, you can’t run out the door if they’re outside. Just keep reading.”
She turned her attention back to the page. He’d thought of everything—where to take cover, how to take on intruders without getting caught in a crossfire, where to meet if they got separated. It was all variations on a theme: He fought, while she hid.
“Okay. Done.”
“Are we agreed?”
“Yes—except for the part where all I do is run and hide.”
He got that broody frown on his face. “That’s the important part.”
“If our lives are in danger, I don’t want to be skulking in a closet. I can shoot. I can reload mags for you. I can—”
He held up his hand to stop her. “Listen! It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable. I know what it means to kill, Holly. I know what it’s like to be in a real firefight. Chances are if anyone comes for us, it will be just a couple of guys—Dudaev’s goons again or maybe someone from the Agency. The best way to help is to stay safe and out of the way while I get rid of them. That way you don’t distract me, and you don’t expose yourself to the legal and emotional fallout of taking a life.”
It touched her to know he’d thought of that last part.
“What if something happens to you?”
“Then I guess you’ll get to prove what a great shot you are.”
“Wonderful.”
He got to his feet, closed the space between them, and drew her into his arms, his strength comforting. “I don’t want you getting hurt or killed because of me, and I don’t want you landing in prison. Please, Holly, promise me you’ll do what I tell you to do if it comes to a firefight. Let me do everything I can to keep you safe.”
There was something in his voice, a vulnerability she wasn’t used to hearing, and she knew that somewhere in his mind, he was thinking of Dani.
“Okay. I promise.”
* * *
After they’d grabbed a bite to eat, Nick showed Holly which programs were running on which CPUs. He had two searching in Russian, one each in Code Page 855 and Code Page 866. He had two running the Georgian alphabet, and two programmed to run in English, one using English vocabulary, the other using Latin transliterations of Georgian and Russian words.
Holly listened, then paced the length of the room a few times, a look of concentration on her face. “Dudaev wouldn’t use a Russian password. He was very proud of being Georgian. He only spoke Russian when he had to communicate with one of his Russian security guys. I just can’t imagine he’d base his password on Russian. We’d make faster progress if you had all of the machines running Georgian.”
Nick frowned. “Are you sure?”
“What language do you use for your passwords?” She sat across from him, seemed to study him. “You’re proud of your Georgian heritage. You learned Georgian first, but you stopped speaking it outside the home after you learned English. Your parents were proud to have a US citizen in the family after you were born, and that matters to you. Your passwords are based on English.”
She was dead-on, and from the smile on her pretty face, she knew it.
“Okay, we’ll try it your way.”
While he entered in the changes, she sat cross-legged on a chair, jotting down words for Nick to translate into Georgian and enter into the dictionary of the new password cracking program they’d just purchased and downloaded. They’d already run through the obvious ones—Dudaev’s name, his aliases, his birthdate, his parents’ names, the name of his hometown, his deceased wife, and so on.
The program took the words Nick entered and tried all possible variations of those words—capital letters, lowercase, a mix of numbers and letters, numbers used as letters, Latin alphabet transliterations—to guess the bastard’s password.
“I know he had a dog as a kid, but he never told me the dog’s name.”
Nick looked up from the keyboard. “If it’s the name of his favorite childhood pet, we’re fucked.”
“Most people choose passwords that represent themselves in some way—birthdays, family members, their jobs, their faith, how they see themselves. The South African banker I set up last year used versions of the phrase ‘1 percent.’”
“Seriously?” Wow. That was lame. “We haven’t tried ‘arms dealer,’ ‘smuggler,’ ‘murderer,’ or ‘asshole’ yet.”
Holly laughed. “The funny thing about jerks is that they never see themselves as jerks. Criminals work up narratives in their heads to excuse and glorify their actions. Many even see themselves as heroes in their own dramas. In his own mind, Dudaev was handsome, cultured, exciting, courageous. He thought of himself as a bold businessman, a patriot, a fantastic lover.”
She got a look of revulsion on her face, stuck out her tongue.
Nick hated to admit it, but it bothered him to think of her naked with that son of a bitch. “I take it from the look on your face the latter assumption wasn’t true?”
She shook her head. “Let’s just say he was a terrible kisser—all tongue and no technique. I suppose I should thank you for preventing me from having to sleep with him—though you did almost kill me.”
Nick’s temper spiked. “Don’t joke about that. It isn’t funny.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.” Her gaze held his. “For a while, I thought you were the worst thing that had ever happened to me.”
It hurt to hear her say that, but it was probably the truth. He’d drugged her, almost killing her. He’d left her in bed in a pool of blood beside a corpse. He’d misled and humiliated her. He’d assaulted her, abducted her, interrogated her.
Yeah, really, he couldn’t argue with her there.
“What do you think now?”
She looked up, gave him an enigmatic smile. “I guess we have to wait and see how the story ends.”
Chapter Nineteen
Holly awoke to find herself alone in the bedroom. She stretched, felt wetness and a slight soreness between her thighs, and smiled, last night fresh in her mind.
She had dropped ice down the back of Nick’s T-shirt and Nick had chased her around the house and caught her, carrying her here as if she were a sack of potatoes. He’d peeled off her clothes and fucked her long and slow until she’d come twice, the pleasure of it so intense that
she’d thought for a moment it might kill her. Now she knew why the French referred to orgasm as la petite mort—the little death.
Why are you so damned good in bed?
The same reason I’m good in combat—a detailed knowledge of human anatomy. But mostly, honey, I just want to make you feel good.
She realized with some surprise that she’d been with Nick longer than she’d been with any man in the past five years or so. They’d been together for three days before he’d kidnapped her, and now they’d been lovers again for almost a week.
Not that they were together together. They hadn’t talked about the future or updated their relationship statuses on Facebook. Who knew where this would end or what would become of them? Even so, Holly felt closer to him than she had to any man.
Crazy talk, Bradshaw.
She showered, slipped into a T-shirt and shorts, brushed her teeth, and went downstairs to make coffee. She found Nick where she knew she’d find him—sitting in front of the computers. He wore only a pair of jeans and had a cute case of bedhead, a shock of dark curls hanging down over his brow.
He really did need a haircut.
She bent down, kissed his bare shoulder, the sight of him bringing last night to her mind again. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He smiled up at her, but she could see lines of worry on his face.
He was frustrated at their lack of progress. So was she.
They’d been at this together for five days now, Holly wracking her brain for words or concepts that Dudaev might have used in a password, the computers running twenty-four-seven. She was beginning to wonder whether she’d made a mistake, doubt gnawing at her during quiet moments. What if Dudaev had on some whim chosen to base his password on Russian or English?
She didn’t want to steer Nick in the wrong direction or lose them precious time. Every hour that went by brought with it the possibility that they would be found and arrested or killed. If they couldn’t find something in these files that Nick could use to bargain for immunity, he’d go to federal prison just for taking the files. If they couldn’t prove that he’d been ordered to kill Dudaev, he would likely go to prison for life—if he wasn’t murdered before his case got to court.
Holly had no idea what would happen to her. She would have to ask Javier for help, or go into hiding until her CO assured her she was safe again.
She drew up the other chair and sat down beside him. He’d hacked into the city’s wireless signal and was reading headlines. “Catching up on the news?”
“I’ve been keeping up with what they’re saying about us.” He scrolled up, and there on the page was a blurry shot of his face and Holly’s staff-writer photo. “We’re big news, at least in Colorado. Your paper has had us on the front page every day. We’re going to have to be extra careful when we go into town for supplies. You might want to color your hair. I need to grow a beard.”
Holly quickly read through the article, which Alex had written. It stated that Nick was wanted in connection both with the murder of Sasha Dudayev and her abduction. It mentioned the firefight at the gas station, stating that “sources close to the investigation”—she could guess who they were—believed she’d gone with Nick again simply to save her life. It also mentioned her single Tweet and speculation that she had been trying to reach out to tell her family and friends she was okay.
Nowhere did it mention the Agency.
There was a quote from her father.
“I’m a decorated veteran who served my country all my life, and I’m shocked by the inefficiency with which the search for my daughter is being conducted.”
“How like my dad to bring up his military record even though it has nothing to do with the situation.” She should be beyond the hurt. After all, he’d been her father for her entire life. And yet the hurt was there. “You were right about him, you know. He never really cared about me. If I’d been a son . . . Well, I wasn’t, was I?”
There was also a quote from her mother.
“I haven’t been able to sleep since I heard she was taken. I’m just torn apart and so stressed.”
“How like my mom to make it about herself.”
Neither of them had said anything about her well-being or pleaded for her release or offered her a message of encouragement or strength. Not that she really needed it, but they couldn’t know that. For all they knew, she was dead in a ditch somewhere.
She felt Nick’s hand come to rest on her shoulder.
Nick’s parents had declined to comment, but one of his brothers—Peter Andris—had told reporters that the family was standing by him.
“My brother serves his country. We know that when the facts are in, there will be an explanation for all of this. Meanwhile, we’re keeping both him and Ms. Bradshaw in our prayers.”
“Hey, at least your family is representing.” She smiled over her shoulder at him, rested her hand on his.
It couldn’t be easy knowing the media had been bothering his parents and siblings—or knowing that they were living under scrutiny and suspicion because of him. But it was clear they loved him and believed in him.
Then, toward the bottom, there was a quote from Zach.
“As part of the Justice Department, the US Marshals Service takes seriously any threat against journalists and will continue to play a role in this investigation. Wherever she is, we want Ms. Bradshaw to know that we are concerned for her well-being and won’t give up until she is safely home again. We would like proof that she is well and alive. We hope her captor will contact us so that we can negotiate her release.”
Holly got a hard lump in her throat.
“It looks like your friends are standing by you.”
She nodded, swallowed. “I should send another Tweet, give them proof I’m still okay or something. I don’t want them to worry that I’m dead.”
Nick drew her into his lap, kissed her cheek. “As your kidnapper, I agree.”
They used one of the burner phones to snap a photo of Holly in front of a neutral background—a closet door. Then they emailed it to a new Gmail account they’d just created and downloaded it to the computer.
Nick studied the image of her on the screen. “This is good.”
“Good? It’s terrible. It’s worse than my DMV photo. I should have done something with my hair, put on some makeup.”
“No, it’s good. The bruise on your forehead is still visible, and so are the ones on your wrists.”
“Why is that good?” Holly didn’t follow.
“I don’t want them to think you’re here of your own volition. I don’t want you charged with aiding and abetting.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.” He was thinking of her again.
“It’s not a game, honey.” He moved aside, let her take the keyboard.
“So you keep telling me.” She logged into her IP blocker and her Twitter account and tweeted the photo to the US Marshals Service with the message:
Proof of life. #ZachMcBride
She stared at the Tweet for a moment, feeling an ache in her chest.
She missed home. She missed the paper. But mostly, she missed her friends.
There were no ciphertext messages from her CO and nothing for Holly to report yet, beyond her amazing sex life. She logged out and closed the page.
There on the screen in front of her was another browser window showing a news article written in Georgian. There was a map of Georgia, too.
Even though Holly couldn’t read a word of it—Georgian was Greek to her—something about it caught her eye.
“What is it?” Nick asked.
“I don’t know. What is the article about?”
“Republic of Abkhazia has accused Georgia of committing acts of piracy on the Black Sea because the government detained a few ships.”
“Oh.” Well, that didn’t ring any bells.
But the Black Sea.
The Black Sea.
The phrase pricked at her memory. If only she could remember why.
; It wasn’t until later, when she was making them sandwiches for lunch that it came back to her.
Star of the Black Sea.
Dudaev’s yacht.
She felt an adrenaline rush. “Nick!”
She dropped the knife she was using to spread mayo and ran for the stairs, shouting for him again. “Nick!”
He met her halfway to the top, pistol in his hand. “What is it?”
She drew a deep breath, battled back the adrenaline. “Dudaev’s yacht. He was so proud of it that he carried photos. He talked about it all the time. Its name was Star of the Black Sea.”
* * *
Zach stepped out of the elevator into the headquarters for Cobra International Solutions in downtown Denver and showed his ID to the security guard. “Whoa.”
A white marble floor stretched down a long, double-wide hallway to a reception desk, walls of brushed steel reflecting light from the white honeycomb-style lighting fixtures on the ceiling. Two sets of gray sofas sat in the center of the hallway, one facing left, the other right. The right side of the hallway was lined by freestanding meeting rooms, their walls double panes of bulletproof glass with blinds sealed in the middle.
So this is what it was like to run a private security company.
Your DOD dollars at work.
Zach walked up to the receptionist, a young woman wearing a trim pantsuit, a shoulder holster concealed beneath her jacket. “Chief Deputy US Marshal Zach McBride here to see Corbray and Tower.”
She had him sign in, then pointed him toward one of the meeting rooms. The blinds had been turned so that no one could see inside.
He found Hunter and Darcangelo already there, seated around a polished wooden table. “I got here as soon as I could. A new Tweet went up on her account about an hour ago. We’ve been analyzing it.”
He opened the folder he’d brought with him and dropped it onto the table. The color print of the image of Holly from the Tweet sat on top. She looked tired, no make up on her pretty face, her hair uncombed. And the bruises . . .
Seeing them had made Zach want to find and kill this Andris bastard.
Darcangelo reached out, picked it up. “We’re sure this image is recent?”