Dangerous Passion

by Lisa Marie Rice

  The sniper was firing wildly now, blindly, shot after shot, in a deadly fusillade. It was only a question of time before he hit them.

  “Go.” Drake wanted to caress her face, but his hand wouldn’t coordinate. All he did was leave a streak of blood down her cheek. “Go. Get to the end of the corridor. Under the print on the wall is a keypad. The code is—”

  “No, absolutely not.” Grace’s voice was sharp, the voice a soldier would use to a wounded comrade. “We’re going together. You must get up, my darling. I can’t carry you and I won’t leave you, so you need to get up.”

  A round came so close he felt the air displacement. They had to get out now.

  Grace put her shoulder under his arm again and stood, shakily, bearing a good portion of his weight. She slipped on his blood getting him upright and he could feel her effort.

  “Go,” Drake gasped, trying to push her away. They flinched as a series of shots flung needle-sharp shards of marble from the mantelpiece. One stuck in her cheek and she simply reached up and pulled it out. Goddamn it, they were going to die here, right now. “Get out of here,” he whispered.

  Her jaws clenched. “Not without you. Forget about it. We live together or we die together, it’s your choice, Drake. Do you understand?” She waited a moment to allow him to gather what little strength he had, then nodded. “Now, let’s go.”

  She lurched forward, right arm around his waist, left hand holding on to his hand dangling over her shoulder. Drake straightened, ignoring the pain from his chest and back, gritting his teeth hard against the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him.

  They were supposed to run for the door, but instead they shuffled. The burning curtains provided a good screen, but Drake had no way of knowing where the sniper was positioned across the street. They couldn’t be certain that they weren’t in his sights right now, the sniper preparing in this very instant to blow Grace’s beautiful head off her shoulders.

  He stiffened his knees. He couldn’t fail her.

  He heard her heavy panting as they made their way to the door. She could have saved herself by now, been long gone, but she’d made it clear she wasn’t leaving without him.

  He wasn’t going to be the cause of her death. No way.

  A lifetime of discipline asserted itself. He wasn’t going to slow Grace down. Fuck it if he could barely stand, barely see, barely think. She needed him.

  Grace left him, rushed to the trolley and poured a bottle of grappa over the couch and threw a burning log into the cushions. It caught fire with a roar. Smart woman. The sniper wouldn’t be able to see anything within a radius of at least a few feet around the burning sofa. She had bought them another precious few seconds.

  They had to move fast.

  “Wait.” He stopped, swaying, then turned around. It was a sign of his mental confusion that he had walked right by the trolley.

  “Where are you going?” Grace gasped. She was panting, face dripping with sweat from the exertion of holding him up and the heat of the burning room.

  Drake shuffled forward. “Trolley.” He didn’t have the breath to explain.

  In his study, his vault contained at least twenty million dollars in diamonds, credit cards on accounts with hefty sums in them, and cash in a number of currencies. They couldn’t stop to empty his vault. They had to make it out as fast as possible, via a route no one knew about, not even his bodyguards.

  “Stay here, I’ll get it.” Grace took a deep breath and plunged toward the burning sofa. She grabbed the trolley’s handle and was by his side in an instant, putting her shoulder back under his arm and urging him forward, all in one smooth move.

  The sniper had shifted tactics, deciding to sweep the room starting from the north end. The shots were badly distorted, ricocheting, but they still had more than enough punch to kill. They were coming at a steady pace, heading straight for them.

  Grace was trembling badly, trying to bear his weight. He straightened, moved away from her, shuffled as fast as he could toward the door and all but shoved her through it, then fell forward.

  They landed in a heap on the other side, Drake toppling on top of Grace. For a second, he was stunned, fighting hard not to black out, holding ferociously onto consciousness. Under him, he felt Grace’s narrow rib cage moving as she fought to pull in air. She was pale and sweating. Drake rolled off her and gathered his energy to kick the door closed.

  Now the sniper had a fire and another thick wall to see through. It was entirely possible that they had become invisible.

  There was pounding on the steel door that led into the vestibule, shouts ringing out. His men, having heard the shots, trying to get to him. Smoke sensors would also have sounded an alarm.

  For an instant, Drake was tempted to simply punch in the code that would open the door from the inside and let his men take over. Right now, he was in no shape to lead Grace to safety. There was something wrong with him. He was probably badly concussed and if his brain was swelling or if there was subdural hemorrhaging all the willpower in the world wouldn’t keep him on his feet.

  His men were handpicked for loyalty, but even the remote possibility that one or more of his men were traitors was too big a risk to take. He would be handing Grace over to his enemies.

  Unthinkable.

  He was used to risk taking, though not on behalf of someone he loved. It was terrifying, yet it had to be done. He’d rather go down fighting, trying to shield Grace, than hand her over like a lamb to slaughter.

  He made for the end of the corridor, for what looked like a blank wall but was a secret passageway to a hidden elevator in the building only he had access to.

  The wall was only fifty feet away. It looked miles away, at the end of an endless tunnel surrounded by gray fog.

  He talked quickly, hoping to get it all out before he lost consciousness, gulping in air, shaking his head in an effort to keep conscious.

  “Grace, there’s a keypad on the wall at the end of this corridor, under the flower print. Code…” He sucked in air, coughed. “Code 9076. Punch it in, door will open…” The gray was turning to black at the edges of his vision. “Elevator,” he gasped. “To basement. SUV in slot 58.” With a fumbling hand, he dug into his pants pocket. He always carried the key to a getaway car no one knew about, a secret cell phone and several credit cards. He’d spent his life ready to run at a second’s notice. “Key.” It dangled from his nerveless fingers.

  They’d been shuffling forward as he talked, Grace bearing almost his entire weight, pulling the trolley behind them.

  Finally, after what felt like a century, they were at the wall and Grace punched in the code. The pounding at the door to his quarters grew fiercer, the shouts louder. They would be debating amongst themselves whether to break down the door. They could try. It was built to bank-vault specifications. If and when they finally managed it, they would open the door to the charred remains of what had once been his home.

  The sniper was still shooting at a steady pace, but had started to shoot into other rooms, hoping for a random hit.

  A section of the wall slid open and Grace helped him into the elevator, still dragging the trolley. He found it almost impossible to pick up his feet and if it hadn’t been for Grace’s arm around his waist, he would have fallen.

  He couldn’t fall. If he fell, he’d never get up again.

  She didn’t need further instructions. Drake was blessed in having fallen in love with an intelligent woman. She didn’t tempest him with questions or idle comments. His strength was ebbing second to second, and he had to conserve it.

  They were in deep trouble. She understood that and didn’t waste their resources.

  If he’d had the strength, he would have kissed her.

  The bottom dropped out of the world. The elevator was an emergency exit and had been designed to fall as fast as possible, faster than safety regulations allowed. In seconds they were in the basement.

  Drake kept his fleet of vehicles in a walled-off section of t
he basement to the right that only he or his men had access to, but kept his secret getaway vehicle separate. Slot 58 was to the left.

  He opened his mouth to croak out Go left, when he saw that Grace had already figured out the number system. The slot was close by. It was pointless having a quick getaway car far from the emergency elevator.

  Even moving sluggishly, feet dragging, they were at the Tahoe in seconds, Grace unlocking the doors with the key fob from five feet away. Instead of heading for the driver’s side, she opened the passenger side door first.

  Drake shook his head, resisting.

  If enemies were coming after them, she had to get in first and, if necessary, pull away without him.

  He tried to say it. “Get…in…first.” His lungs were heaving, his voice was hoarse. He was clinging to the doorframe with shaking fingers.

  She didn’t pay any attention at all, simply pushed and prodded until he half fell in. She shoved his legs in, threw the trolley in, slammed the door behind him and ran to the driver’s side.

  He kept the vehicle completely serviced, with a full tank of gas, at all times. It roared to life at the turn of the key in the ignition and Grace backed out of the slot immediately, wrenching the wheel and shooting for the exit.

  After several tries, Drake managed to buckle his seat belt. Everything was dimming. He needed to do the next things fast.

  As Grace shot up out of the underground garage onto the street, skidding wildly, barely missing an oncoming bus, Drake brought his cell phone up, squinting to make out the numbers. Shaking, he punched in a number he knew by heart. All the numbers he needed to know—cell-phone numbers, bank-account numbers—he had memorized. They were not written down anywhere—they only existed in his head.

  The call was picked up immediately. “Boss,” said a deep voice.

  The relief nearly wiped Drake out. Grigori, his best pilot.

  It was snowing heavily and cell-phone reception wasn’t very good. Drake had about a minute or two of consciousness left, but what he had to say was very simple.

  “Grigori—”

  A heavy chunk of metal fell on the hood, bounced heavily, then rolled off, leaving the hood badly dented. Grace screamed and lost control of the vehicle for a moment. Another piece of red-hot metal fell from the sky, then another. A long steel rectangle clattered down. The blade of a helicopter rotor.

  Someone had blown up the helicopter on the roof. Drake had instinctively made for the ground, and his instincts had once again proven sound.

  Grace was weaving erratically down the street, wide-eyed and white faced. “What’s happening?” she cried.

  Drake stretched out a hand to touch her arm, failed, tried again. She turned slightly at his touch, then turned her attention back to the white, icy street ahead of her. She was sitting forward in her seat, terrified, clutching the wheel with white-knuckled fingers. She wasn’t a very good driver, but she would have to do the driving. Drake was in no condition to take the wheel.

  “It’s okay,” he said to Grace and squeezed her arm. She didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together and nodded, eyes on the dangerous street ahead.

  Drake brought the cell phone back to his ear. It felt like it weighed ten tons. “Grigori, listen. Keep…the Gulfstream 4…ready to go. I’m coming down with a passenger. Don’t—don’t know when I will make it. Stay by the plane.”

  “Yes, boss,” came Grigori’s deep voice and Drake was reassured. If it took him a year to make it down to the Tampa airfield, Grigori would be there, the plane serviced and ready for takeoff in a few minutes’ time.

  Streaks of black crossed his field of vision.

  His hand was still on Grace’s arm. “Grace. My love.”

  She didn’t take her eyes off the road, trying to hold the wheel steady, but she nodded. She was listening.

  “We need to make it as fast as we can to Tampa, Florida. Don’t stop unless you have to. I have a plane waiting for us there.”

  “No! Are you crazy? You’re wounded, Drake. You’re losing blood. I’m sure the stitches in your shoulder have been torn and your back is ripped open. And you’re concussed, probably badly. I’m taking you to Ben, right now. Which hospital does he work in?”

  He was fading, his voice so weak it could barely be heard over the noise of the engine. He had to make Grace understand how important it was to get out of New York as fast as she could. To linger was to invite death.

  “Promise me.” His hoarse voice cracked as his fingers tightened on her arm. She chanced a glance at him, wide-eyed at the tone of his voice, then looked back at the street. “Promise me you won’t stop as long as you can stay awake. We must”—he coughed, something in his chest exploding with pain—“we must get out of New York and make it down to Tampa. Promise me you won’t stop unless you must.”

  The darkness was almost complete. He could barely see, barely think.

  His fingers tightened even more, the last dregs of his fading strength. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” she sobbed, risking another quick glance at him. He saw from her face that he looked bad.

  “Won’t…die,” he promised, hoping he could keep it.

  He fought the weakness, with everything in him, but it won.

  The world turned black.

  Pizdets! Shit!

  Rutskoi looked at the message he’d just paid another fucking hundred thousand dollars for.

  Drake and woman gone. Blood on floor, walls. Living room full of bullet holes, room completely burned.

  It had been almost impossible to see anything in the thermal imager because of the fire that witch started. Against all the odds, Drake and his bitch were still alive.

  Cocksucker had made it out, but at least Rutskoi had wounded him. Or the woman. Or both, he thought viciously. Let it be both. Let them be bleeding their fucking hearts out on the street.

  When he understood that Drake and the woman had probably made it out of the room, Rutskoi had sprinted to the rooftop and had taken out the helicopter on the opposite roof with ten incendiary rounds, watching with satisfaction as the helicopter exploded and fell in burning pieces through the snow to the street thirty stories below. Just to vent his frustration, Rutskoi had shot the pilot who had come out of a small, warm shed on the rooftop. It had given him immense pleasure to take Drake’s pilot down.

  Shit.

  No, control. He needed control. He waited a moment, forcing himself to move into the sniper’s mind-set of dispassionate detachment, then descended the stairs.

  Rutskoi went back into the empty apartment and calmly broke down his Barrett, placing the pieces in their foam cutouts with steady hands that didn’t in any way betray the turmoil inside.

  Drake had escaped. Okay. But the game wasn’t over yet. He was wounded and he hadn’t been able to escape with many resources.

  And he was running with a woman he cared for. She would slow him down, force him to make mistakes. Drake was an operator, a clever, ruthless man. He would do what was necessary to survive. But with a woman to drag along behind him and protect, Drake would slip up. And Rutskoi would get him.

  Rutskoi knew exactly how to track him down.

  Terabyte.

  Twenty genius hackers working out of Estonia, who provided around-the-clock services to anyone, for the right price. They could find out anything on anyone. Need dirt on your new boss? In 24 hours, Terabyte will deliver a dossier including video footage of the boss fucking a call girl. Need to know someone’s bank password? Easy. Terabyte can get classified information in a day, top-secret information in a day and a half.

  Word had it that one of them had been the NSA’s top cyber expert and could hack into the array of military satellites ringing the globe.

  For the right price, they would monitor the entire world for any appearance of Grace Larsen or Viktor Drakovich, in any of his incarnations.

  Rutskoi had known Drake long enough, had studied him long enough, to know many of his pseudonyms, which he’d feed to Terabyt
e, together with a database of the companies Drake owned that he knew of.

  It was entirely possible that with Terabyte’s help, he could track Drake to earth very soon.

  The woman would slow him down, make him vulnerable. She would be the death of him.

  Fifteen

  Bed. He was lying on a bed.

  It was raining.

  Drake opened his eyes briefly, then shut them against the pain in his head. But not before he’d seen a ceiling. Gray, low, cracked. The cracks ran diagonally across the tiny room like a big river with tributaries running off it.

  He opened his eyes again, ignoring the sharp pain, taking stock.

  Small room, maybe five meters by five meters. Walls painted a dusty tan a long time ago. A small television set high up on a wall bracket, chained to the bracket. A cheap plastic wardrobe missing a handle on one door. A desk, a chair. An open door giving on to a small, white-tiled bathroom.

  The mattress under him was as soft as a sponge, guaranteed to provide a restless night’s sleep.

  Where were they? In a cheap motel room, obviously, but where?

  He turned his head to the bedside table and had to wait for the room to stop spinning before reaching out to the notepad next to the old-fashioned rotary-dial telephone. It took him a couple of tries to coordinate his hand’s movements. Finally, he had the pad in his hand and brought it to his face, trying fiercely to focus.

  JORDAN’S MOTOR COURT, he read. WALLIS, SOUTH CARO-LINA.

  He’d never heard of Wallis, but he knew where South Carolina was.

  Where was Grace? That he was alone in the motel room could be seen at a glance.

  He had no memory of how he got here and understood that he must have been out for at least eight hours, probably more. If Grace had stopped, it was because she was too exhausted to go on.

  So…where was she?

  Drake felt a sharp ache in his chest that had nothing to do with wounds and everything to do with missing her. He would survive his wounds. His body was already knitting itself up, he could feel it. The headache and muscle pains were nothing.