Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2)

by Stella Barcelona

  Using a one-time phone, H.L. punched in digits for J.R. “Are you watching the news?”

  “Yes.”

  Stepping into the drizzly Paris night, H.L. said, “I thought we agreed any attack on the vehicles this evening would be futile.”

  “We did. Fortunately”—J.R. drew in a deep intake of breath and exhaled—“we’re not the only anarchists in town.”

  “Given the trouble Fairfax and Hernandez created today, I say end them. At the first possible moment.”

  “Proceeding forward with that plan,” J.R. said.

  “Are you mindful of the warning I received earlier?”

  Earlier in the afternoon, their deep, undercover contact had a few seconds to give H.L. a hurried, almost breathless communication of what was transpiring with the Amicus team and their ability to access Black Raven data. The hurried communication had been for them to be careful with the use of burner phones, to make sure other phones were disabled, and to turn off other devices.

  “We’re mindful of it. Yes. He isn’t telling us anything M.C. didn’t already figure out. Black Raven has to be stopped, if we’re going to continue. And we will continue.”

  “Be more than mindful.” H.L. climbed the steps of the jet.

  “We’re two steps ahead of you. We’re not only going to put an end to Jesus Hernandez and his meddling with the Amicus team, we’re going to put a serious end to Black Raven’s cyber-data collecting capabilities.”

  “How?”

  “The details of the plan M.C. and I have developed will fucking amaze you.” J.R. chuckled. “This is what we set into play.”

  As J.R. explained the plan, H.L. listened. J.R. was right. He was amazed, because the plan was goddamn brilliant.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Zeus stepped into the suite that he shared with Sam. Touching his watchband, he muted his microphone on the connection he had with Gabe. As he listened to his brother recount the facts of the fruitless search for Maximov in Syria, he said to Sam, “You waited up for me?”

  “Answer is obvious,” she whispered.

  She’d been on the couch and rose to her feet as Zeus entered their private living room. A pillow nestled against the armrest had an indent where her head had been. Glasses on, hair hanging loose and straight, her laptop was on. It rested on the cushion, next to a rumpled blanket. She wore form-fitting leggings and a black sweatshirt unzipped enough to show the ridges of black lace on her camisole.

  He hadn’t bothered with a shirt after the doctor had bandaged his arm. With her eyes on the now fist-sized, round, blackish-purple mark on his chest that showed where the bullet had hit his flak-vest, he asked, “You okay with looking at a bruise?”

  She went pale, but nodded. “That must hurt.”

  “Not if I don’t think about it.”

  In his earpiece, Gabe was winding down his narrative. “Face facts, bro. Maximov is a ghost. It’s either Praptan, or nowhere. As far as I can tell, the government-sanctioned task force has no other leads.”

  To Sam, Zeus said, “The search in Syria for Maximov didn’t pan out.”

  He pressed his watch, making the connection on his line live again. “Gabe, Ragno, I’m with Sam now. She had strong opposition to her motion to interview Stollen. The judges took the matter under advisement.”

  “We’re in position to go in now. The ruling could be days away. The interview could take even longer to set up,” Gabe said.

  “You’re waiting till we have a ruling and if it’s favorable, you’re waiting until after Sam interviews Stollen.”

  “I propose that we go in now, then if Stollen adds any additional intel leading to ground we haven’t covered, I’ll go in on a more targeted search,” Gabe offered.

  “I know you don’t like waiting, but that’s part of the job right now. Stop arguing. Sam, when should we expect a ruling on the motions? And what is the earliest the interview could take place, assuming the ruling is favorable?”

  Some of the color had returned to her cheeks. She kept her eyes on his, steady, as though she couldn’t bear to see the wounds. He didn’t blame her. Aftereffects of what had almost happened still jolted him, and he usually didn’t feel aftershocks from putting himself in harm’s way.

  “Tomorrow, or Monday for a ruling,” she answered. “Given that Stollen is Robert Brier’s client, even if we get a favorable ruling, I think the court will defer to his request to delay the interview until he can be present. So, perhaps Tuesday for the interview.”

  “Ragno. Gabe. Hear that?”

  “Yes,” Ragno said. “So Tuesday at the earliest for Gabe to go into Praptan.”

  “Fuck me,” Gabe said. “We’re supposed to cool our heels till then?”

  “No. Strategize. Think,” Zeus said, walking closer to Sam, “Gather more intel.”

  “Maybe I should come work with you,” Gabe said. “From the looks of what happened tonight, it sure looks like you need an extra hand. I just watched the cell-phone video. Here’s the count. One. Two. Three. That’s all the time you had before becoming ash.”

  “Thanks, Gabe,” he said, his stomach churning with the reality of almost dying before he had a chance to see Ana’s dance recital, watch her graduate from high school, or walk her down the aisle. Ana was only six, for God’s sake. She needed a father. Even a mostly absent father was better than a dead father. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid, however, of permanently checking out of her life before she was old enough to handle it. “Didn’t need that reminder.”

  “It was a brilliant move on your part,” Gabe said. “I love the hell out of you. Live my life for the day that I do one thing as powerful as what you did tonight. You’re my hero. I know you know that, but if I was with you, I’d be wrapping you in the biggest hug of your life.”

  And that was why people loved his brother, Zeus thought, because the guy had a way of infusing cocoon-like warmth into a chilling, dark night. “Thanks, Gabe.”

  Ragno said, “Zeus, get some good rest.” Lowering her voice, she said, “Or whatever is coming your way. You deserve it.”

  He yanked the earpiece out of his ear, breaking the connection as he heard Gabe chuckling over Ragno’s whatever comment. In the intervening five hours since he’d thrown the suicide bomber over the railing of the bridge, he’d seen Sam once, between an interview with the French military officers in charge of ITT security and the hour it had taken the Black Raven doctor to examine him and repair the long slice along his left bicep, where a bullet grazed him. He’d taken a bullet to the chest, on the right side, a few inches below his shoulder, but the vest had done it’s work. He was bruised and sore, but intact.

  Sam had the television on the news show that had picked up the cell phone video. The grainy footage of his struggle with the bomber was chilling, given the mere three seconds that elapsed after he hoisted the man over the railing and the fireball explosion that lit the night sky as the man blew himself up.

  “Funny how people who are scared shitless still manage to take damn good cell phone videos,” Zeus muttered as he watched the video footage near its conclusion. He’d seen it, downstairs, while the doctor had been cleaning and stapling his arm.

  When she didn’t say anything, he glanced at her. She visibly paled as the screen turned orange, the light from the television glinting in her wide, frightened eyes. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and turned the television off. “Stop looking at it.”

  She nodded, glancing in his direction, but not quite seeing him. Instead, he could see from the way her eyes were focused inwards that her mind was replaying the scene. Over and over again. She held her hand against the back of her mouth, her shoulders trembling.

  “Sam, you’re safe. It’s over.”

  She shook her head. “Not me I was worried about.” Squaring her shoulders, she said, “I was, oh, God. Zeus, I was so afraid.”

  All the color faded from her face. Without heels, without makeup, without any of the sophisticated-shine an
d impenetrable style that she wore during the day, she seemed frightened and vulnerable. He had no choice but to step closer to her.

  “So afraid for you,” she whispered, as he closed his arms around her, pulling her into the warmth of his bare chest.

  “Breathe,” he said. “Slowly. One—Two—Three —Now hold it.”

  She was trembling more, and not listening to him as he smoothed her hair down and drowned in the fresh, sweet scent of jasmine.

  “Come on, Sam. Give me a deep breath in. Fight past the fear.”

  He felt her inhale.

  “Good girl. Hold it. One—Two—Three—Hold it. Now exhale. Slowly.”

  Her face was turned into his chest, at his heart. A warm puff of air hit his bare skin as she exhaled.

  “Breathe in. One—Two—Three—Hold it, hold—”

  “Not me. I was scared for—”

  “Don’t talk. Hold your breath. Now inhale again. As deep as you can. Hold it.” Long minutes passed where she did nothing but breathe in sync with him, following his instructions.

  “The breathing thing—”

  “Don’t talk. Inhale.”

  She did.

  “Hold it.” More time passed.

  “That really works,” she whispered.

  “It’s the one—two—three—hold it that does it. Go on. Breathe. One—two— three—hold it.”

  Her shoulders stopped trembling and holding her became about something more than helping her breathe. She exhaled. “God. Why am I such a wimp?”

  “Not a wimp. What happened tonight was pretty damn horrific. Even experienced agents have some creative techniques to talk themselves back from the ledge.” Arms holding her tight, he inhaled deep, the scent of jasmine and rose and everything that was Sam. “In our case, the phrase ‘We’ll always have Paris’ means something different than the norm, doesn’t it?”

  With her face buried against his chest, her arms around his waist, she sighed. “Gosh. I’d love to have the cliché right now. Long strolls on grand avenues, roaming through museums, champagne in a sidewalk café, the romance of it all, and the shopping. Oh. And French macarons. Fresh, small, delicious bites of heaven.”

  He chuckled. “Macarons?”

  “My favorite cookies.”

  “That, I can deliver. Even this week. We are in Paris, after all.”

  Glancing up at him, she looked uncertain. “You’ll have to eat a bite out of each one.”

  “Not a problem. As long as your favorite flavor isn’t pistachio.”

  “Nope. Almond. Or coconut. Or strawberry. Even chocolate will do.” She drew a deep breath. “I was so scared for you. And so relieved”—she pushed slightly back from him—“when I knew you were fine. Jesus, Zeus. How can you put yourself in that much danger?”

  “Just my job, Sam. It’s what I do.”

  God, he thought, grinding his teeth together as his body responded to being pressed against hers. Wanting to be nowhere else in the entire world at the moment, his only thought was simple and demanding. This fucking day needs to end.

  “You should try to get some sleep.”

  She walked with him, hand in hand, to her bedroom. There, she turned to him. “Would you like to stay with me?”

  More than I want my next breath. Or any of my tomorrows.

  He pulled down the thick comforter of her bed. “Climb in.”

  Standing beside him, a slender hand on his right arm, she shook her head. “Not without you.”

  He turned to see her eyes searching his. Using his index finger, Zeus pushed wayward blonde strands behind her ear. “Given how we started the day, how you made it clear you’d prefer to sleep than have sex, I’m not sure I should be taking advantage of the situation—”

  “You said you would, though. I think you said you’d be back at it, if given any opportunity.”

  “Not now, Sam. You’re exhausted. Scared. Probably suffering from shock, and I’d feel like I was taking advantage of you. Aside from my threat to do so this morning, I don’t do that kind of shit. Don’t need sex that bad.”

  She tiptoed fast, catching him by surprise as she threw her arms around his neck. “Don’t always take the high road, Hernandez. I’m asking you to stay and I’m not so exhausted that I don’t know what I’m doing. Please. Just stay.” Face pressed upwards to him, her beautiful lips bare and naturally moist, inviting his—regardless of whether she intended an invitation. “This isn’t about sex. I’d be surprised if you even had the inclination, given what you just went through. I want you to hold me. Please.”

  Hell. Hold her? Yeah—that was what he’d thought he wanted earlier in the day—like at five a.m. when he’d been satiated. But not now. Did she really expect him to get in bed with her and not have sex?

  Fuckitall.

  Even though it was now technically Friday, his craptastic Thursday was never going to end. He unbuttoned his jeans and stepped out of them. Keeping his boxers on, he watched her strip off her sweatshirt and unpeel her leggings. She dropped them on the floor and climbed into bed wearing a black thong and camisole. Sliding in next to her, he reached for her and pulled her close, not bothering to hide the fact that he was now almost fully erect.

  Her warm lips were in the hollow of his neck. “Didn’t think you’d have the energy for that.”

  “He didn’t shoot my dick.”

  “Mmmmm,” she said. “Thank God for that.”

  “I’m taking that as an invitation.” From her, he’d never refuse it.

  “We don’t have to,” she said, shimmying herself up so that her head was next to his on the pillow, his lips were almost touching his. “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

  Yes. I am. Sure as hell doesn’t matter, though.

  He bent his lips to hers, groaning as she opened her mouth to his. Sinking his tongue into her moist mouth, sliding it along her silken tongue, he reached between her legs, and pulled the silk panties to the side. Sliding his fingers through the soft folds that that led to her core, he dipped one into her moist heat, swallowing her moan with a deep kiss.

  Wet and hot, she was ready for him. Energy at a premium, he removed his hand, pushed his boxers to mid-thigh as she pulled her panties down to her knees. Opening her legs just enough for him to enter her, he thrust up and deep, until he was buried to the hilt, his dick rejoicing with the power of the first good thing that had happened that day. As her walls welcomed him with pulsing, tight contractions, she folded her arms around his neck. They rocked together, both working their hips, so that their movements were minimal, but effective. They came together, fast and hard.

  “I was so scared,” she whispered, when she could breathe.

  “Don’t think about it.”

  “And then so relieved.”

  I love you.

  Not anything she wanted to hear. Besides, she had to already know it. Knowing the words would not only be wasted, they would be a sure mood killer on a day when they had both had enough, he kept silent. Drawing in deep breaths, fatigue now coming over him in waves, he didn’t give her the opportunity to exhibit the aftersex remorse that had come immediately after their two prior times together. He kissed her on her cheek, shifted to the side of the bed, and pulled his boxers up. Standing, he said, “Get some sleep.”

  “Stay with me.”

  He glanced at her. Surprised. Uncertain, but reading her eyes and seeing that she meant it. “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  He reached over to the night table, turned off the lamp, rolled back into the bed, and scooped her into his arms. As she nestled onto the non-bruised side of his chest, her arms fell around him. “Tell me about those sunsets at your Keys house, again.”

  Warmth flooded through him. “What do you want to know?”

  “If your daughter watches them with you. If you’ve told her to look for the emerald flash.”

  He chuckled. “Ana is still young and sweet enough to indulge me. This past October she swore she saw the green flash. The evening was spec
tacular—with wisps of clouds on the horizon that blew up with pink, rose, and golden bursts of light.” Within minutes they were both asleep, limbs pretzelled together, his arms around her, his leg over hers. A couple of hours later, she moaned, gasped for air, and cried out, into his chest. “Sam. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Her entire body was shaking. “You didn’t survive in that one.”

  “But I did.” He reached over to the lamp and turned it on. “See. I’m here.” Reaching for her hand, he took it and placed it on something he hoped would distract her.

  Fingers wrapping around his hard dick, she shook her head. “Sex isn’t a remedy for nightmares, Hernandez.”

  “Fatigue is.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Paris, France

  Friday, February 4

  Soft morning light peeked along the border of the closed drapes, enough so that Zeus could see Sam’s eyes were open and on him. “It’s six,” she said. “My alarm is going off in fifteen minutes.”

  Sitting up, with his lower back resting against pillows, and his upper back resting against the headboard, he drew her to his chest. “Feel okay?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Hmm.” He shifted his legs a bit, pulling her hips closer to his with a hint as to his favorite way to say good morning. His body certainly knew what rise and shine meant and was almost ready for a demonstration.

  “Not that, Hernandez. Your chest. Arm.”

  “Sore, but fine.” Rubbing her hair so that it was smooth, he tried to resist the urge to talk about their past. Fuck. He might not get another opportunity, because another man was proposing to her—soon—and anything he told her after the proposal was destined to be a sorry, forgotten footnote in the story of her life.

  He had to tell her the end result of what he had figured out. It was her choice whether to do anything about it. Her choice whether to change things.