“Stitches are for pussies.” Vincent forced his eyes open and caught the smirk on Silva’s face before he wiped it away.
“Actually, stitching up a pussy would be completely counterproductive,” she said without cracking a smile, even when Silva snickered out loud.
A phone buzzed. Mads straightened and stepped aside as she answered it. “We’re fine. Had a little surprise waiting in my room. Yeah, he’s alive. We’ll bring him down.”
Closing his eyes, Vincent allowed himself to drift to the gray place this side of sleep. Pain faded to a distant ache but he could still hear their voices. Silva grabbed him by an arm and hauled him up over his shoulder in a firefighter hold. He kept his body loose and limp as they carried him away.
It didn’t matter where. As long as she was there too.
Chapter Fifteen
Vincent
Over the years, Vincent had honed the skill of sensing his surroundings while appearing to still be asleep or passed out. Sure, he could fly up and kill at the softest whisper, but sometimes the appearance of unconsciousness while his senses slowly stretched open could gain crucial information. First, sounds came to him. The steady hum of the air conditioner. Voices, too soft and low to distinguish who spoke, or even how many, but they were close. He could almost feel their energy in the air. His right thigh ached, but it wasn’t a sharp stabbing pain any longer. A few stings across his shoulder. He breathed slightly deeper and felt the skin pull across his ribs. The cut she’d given him. His fingers tingled and he let his awareness focus on each extremity. He sat in a chair, his head slouched down. His neck ached but he didn’t move. Not yet. No wonder his fingers were tingling. His hands were tied behind his back.
His thighs were spread fairly wide too. His feet were probably tied to the chair.
So, the good agents didn’t trust him. It almost made him laugh. He pushed his head back and deliberately let out a low, agonized groan. Time to see who all’s playing this game.
Someone stepped closer to his chair. Male. Deep breathing, slight hint of cheap-ass cologne. Been drinking good whiskey, though.
Vincent blinked and groaned again, giving his head a little shake. “Where am I?”
“You paid one of my agents an unwanted visit.” The man had a deep bass voice, half good-old-boy from Alabama or Georgia, half sit-your-ass-down command that one only gained as an officer in the military. “We don’t like mafia hit men showing up uninvited.”
“I had to get my gun back.”
Someone snickered, probably Silva.
“So we got ourselves a smart-ass mafia hit man. Care to tell us your name so we know how to label the box we’re using to ship you back to Vlasenko?”
He opened his eyes. The man speaking to him was a tall, wide-shouldered black man. No uniform, so his military days were behind him, but he definitely had an air of command and impatience that said he didn’t take shit off nobody. “Vlasenko’s men call me G.”
“So Agent Archer told me. But we’d like a more official name so we know what to do with you.”
Mads Archer. Now we’re getting somewhere. She wasn’t in the room, though he had a feeling she’d be close by, listening. Silva stood by the door, using his bulk to fill the doorway. From the looks of the room, they were still at the seedy hotel, in a very outdated conference room that hadn’t been used in decades. An ice machine rattled in the corner by an antique pop machine that looked like it still dispensed glass bottles. “It’s short for Ghost.”
“And what name did your mama use when she was changing your shitty diaper, G?”
He gave a slow, wide smile. “That’s classified.”
“Bullshit.”
“Pull out a phone and I’ll prove it.”
The man shared a long glance with Silva and then he pulled out his phone. “Number?”
Vincent recited the phone number for status updates. He hadn’t used it in nearly three years, but that number was engraved in his brain. The man entered it and turned the phone on speaker. A female voice said, “Hello. Please identify yourself.”
“Gyres.” Then he recited a six-digit code in Russian.
“Password verified. Please hold.” A few seconds later, a real man answered. “Copper Canyon.”
He was supposed to answer with one of several code words that would tell them his situation, but the man holding the phone rolled his eyes. “Enough with this spy shit. Who the hell are you?”
“Identify yourself, please, sir.”
“Alexander Lyons, head of the joint ICE-FBI operation Liberation, calling from Nassau, Bahamas, where your boy showed up uninvited in the middle of a critical undercover action against human trafficking.”
“Mr. Lyons, Gyres is an asset of the Special Operations Group and working under full authority of the Central Intelligence Agency. Do you know what that means, sir?”
Lyons muttered, “That he’s fucking untouchable, even though he’s neck-deep in the Vlasenko bratva.”
“Indeed he is. If he needs your assistance to complete his mission, our government would look upon your task force most favorably, whether your operation is successful or not. Do you need assistance, Gyres?”
Vincent grinned at Lyons and rolled his shoulders to remind the man that his wrists were tied. “I don’t know yet. You got a jet or two on standby?”
“Affirmative.”
“Fuck.” Lyons jerked his head in Silva’s direction, and the man sauntered over to yank on the ropes binding Vincent’s wrists. “He doesn’t need assistance. We’re letting him go.” Lyons disconnected the call with a scowl as Vincent stretched his arms and shook some feeling back into his hands. “A fucking spook. Just what we need. What the fuck are you doing with Vlasenko?”
I’ve been asking myself the same fucking question for months. “My job.”
Lyons blew out a sigh. He grabbed a chair and swung it around so he sat backward, facing him. “What can you tell us about his operation?”
Vincent probed his left shoulder. Some powder burns. Nothing major. His hearing was better in that ear, so he must have been out an hour or two. Someone had cut his pants open over his thigh and bandaged the wound. “How long was I out?”
Silva handed him a cold bottle of water. “Two hours.”
He drained the whole bottle without pausing. He needed more fluids, but that’d do for now. “You got anything to eat?”
Lyons gave another nod to Silva, who rifled through a duffel bag near the door to grab a couple of candy bars. “Anything else we can get you, Your Majesty?”
“Yeah.” Vincent ripped the candy open and took a bite. “You can get me Mads.”
“No fucking way.” Lyons crossed his arms. “She already took a huge risk by letting Vlasenko’s goons pick her up. With all the shit that went down by the dock, she’s lucky she made it out.”
“I got her out.” Lyons opened his mouth but Vincent cut him off. “I gave her a gun. I drew fire so she could get out. I made sure she could escape. Now I want to talk to her. And no one else.”
“I’m here.” She stepped into the room, ignoring Lyon’s scowl. “You said you’d exchange information.”
“To a point, yes. I’ve got my own mission to complete.”
“Do they move all the women by cruise ship?”
Vincent sat back in the chair and opened the other candy bar. His legs were still tied, but he didn’t intend to go anywhere soon. “Not all, but the big-ticket sales, yeah. They invite the buyers onto a private superyacht, one of several small decommissioned cruise ships Vlasenko owns, complete with tickets for the trip. That’s the buy-in for the sale.”
“What’s the name of the ship?” Lyons asked.
“Doesn’t matter. He uses more than one, and most of the time the trips are legit. If anyone starts sniffing around, he fakes the
papers and changes the name. I’ve got no idea what the ship tonight was called.”
“It’s a pretty sweet setup,” Mads said. “The ship was smaller than the big liners, but larger than a yacht. It’d be easy to carry twenty or more guests and still offer privacy and luxury. Does he use other hotels as the holding pens?”
“Absolutely, though the Royal Reefs is the only one I’ve personally been to in the Bahamas.”
“He owns at least two other hotels in Nassau alone.” Lyons looked over at Mads. “Do you have the file handy? I’m assuming he’ll move operations somewhere else after that strike.”
“He won’t move anything for a while.” Vincent wished he had another drink. A big steak. A few hours of sleep. Or better yet, another duel with Mads to see if she’d have the balls to stab him again.
She didn’t even look at him, concentrating instead on a thick file spread out on the conference table. “Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t have enough product. At most, he has four girls. He typically sells at least eight.”
“How many buyers does that usually pull in?”
“Ten, sometimes twelve. He likes the competition because it drives the price up—but he doesn’t want a lot of buyers going home mad, either. He’s made a market for his product, always offering high-end, beautiful young women for sale, and he takes very good care of the buyers. They go home with a gorgeous cruise, fantastic food and fine entertainment, even if they don’t buy anything but a ticket on the boat.”
Lyons got up and plugged enough change into the machine to retrieve two icy bottles of Coke. He popped off the cap and handed one to Vincent. He took a long pull on the bottle. Sugar and caffeine would get him on his feet, but he’d have to eat a real meal soon. Then sleep. Even just a few hours where he didn’t have to keep part of his senses alert and wide open would be heaven.
“So what’s the plan?” Mads paced back and forth. She’d showered, changed into dark pants and a red tank, and braided her hair. With a gun on one hip and a knife sheath on the other, she wasn’t the helpless tourist any longer. Though, he’d never believed that this woman was helpless. Not after looking into her eyes. “We’ve got jack shit now.”
“Your cover’s shot to hell,” Lyons said. “Even if G hadn’t shown up here, there’s no way I’d allow you to go back.”
She halted and turned to level a hard stare at her boss. “Allow?”
“I wasn’t a huge fan of this setup in the first place. It’s too damned risky. Even if the rival gang hadn’t shown up, you could have been raped, murdered or shipped off somewhere for this sale.”
“You would have found me in time. Unless they realized I was bugged and cut it out of me.”
Lyons turned to Vincent. “Did she make a convincing tourist?”
He studied her, watching the way her eyes narrowed and her chin lowered. She had the instincts of a pit bull. Once she committed to a fight and got a bite, she wasn’t going to let go until one of them was dead. “Yes, and no. I knew from the beginning there was no way in hell she was a tourist. Did Vlasenko’s men? No. Would they have figured it out eventually? Maybe. Mads disappearing the same night the rivals attack... It’s going to bring his paranoia to a whole new level of crazy.”
“Maybe we can use that against him,” Mads replied. “The last thing he’d expect would be for me to show up again.”
“Fuck, no way,” Lyons growled out. “That would be insanely stupid.”
“We don’t call her Mads for nothing,” Silva said. “How would you get back in?”
She pinned Vincent with a smile. Not a soft, admiring smile, but a hard I-dare-you-to-fuck-with-me kind of grin that pushed his own buttons. “G could take me.”
He kept his face impassive. “Why would I do that?”
“You work for him. You could recapture me and take me back in.”
“There’s no way I can take you back without Vlasenko knowing something’s up. He was already asking questions before I left. For all I know, he’s already got a squad scouring to nail me as soon as I pop my head up.”
“Why wouldn’t he believe that you hunted me down and brought me back for him?”
Vincent smirked. “You think a lot of yourself, don’t you? Because minding the product was never my job. If he sent me after you, it’d be to bring you back in a body bag. The only other thing he wants me to do is figure out who’s been leaking information to the Tkaczuks.”
“Tell him I was part of the attack tonight. Take me back for punishment.”
“The traitor’s someone internal. Part of his family. Not some tourist they picked up off the street.”
“Why couldn’t the Tkaczuks have planted me as a spy?”
“What do you have on them that would make your story believable?”
Lyons grimaced. “Not much. They’ve been small fish compared to Vlasenko, until recently. He probably knows way more about them than we do, which would just be asking for you to get your throat slit.”
They bickered back and forth about whether they could reach out to other contacts for information. Vincent ignored them. He couldn’t take her back as the traitor, or even a plant by the traitor. Vlasenko could smell a lie from a mile away. So the only way Vincent could even think about taking her back...
“You have an idea,” Mads said, breaking their discussion. All of them turned to stare at him.
“You won’t like it.”
“Try me. We’re desperate. I have to get back in. I can’t bear the thought that he has four other women still down in those cells, waiting to be sold and raped.”
He studied her face, trying to figure out why it was so important to her. Why she’d risk her life after being lucky to escape the first time. It had to be more than just saving a couple of women, or even scoring a direct hit against Vlasenko. It was personal for her if she was willing to risk rape, torture and death for strangers. “The only thing Vlasenko will buy is the truth.”
Silva laughed. “You’re a CIA agent who decided to come back and spy on him some more? Great plan. Why didn’t you think of that, Mads?”
“What’s the truth?” she whispered, her gaze steady on his.
He liked that. She met his gaze, no pretending. She didn’t need his or anyone’s help. She sure wouldn’t wait around for someone else to save the women she cared about. But he couldn’t figure out how she read him so easily. Nobody got inside his head, yet there she was, staring right back at him. That’s the fucking truth I’m sure as hell not going to admit. “That I came after you. I had to find you.”
“Why?” Lyon’s voice rang with suspicion.
“I wanted to.”
She bit her lip, and touched the gun on her hip. Whether she was reminding herself that she had options—or warning him off, he wasn’t sure.
“Vlasenko’s a man who values respect above just about everything but family. He’ll give his family some leeway, but he still demands their respect or they’re out. He doesn’t tolerate any dissension in the ranks. He’s the boss, his word is the law, and everyone had better do what he says without question, even if they don’t believe he has a clue.”
“What does respect have to do with getting me back inside?”
“He respects and values action, especially when it improves his reputation. He’s pissed the Tkaczuks messed up his shipment, sure. But he’s more pissed that they made him look like a fool. He’ll understand it if I say I had to find you and bring you back as a matter of principle. You escaped on my watch.”
“But...? What’s the catch?”
He let his lips quirk a moment. “It’ll sell better if I really play it up as a compulsion to find you. I had to find you...for me.”
“So you’d have to take me back for yourself.”
“Which would give him leverage over me. If he thought I was o
bsessed with you, he’d use it in a heartbeat. We’d have to be prepared for that.”
“We could use that to our advantage, though. Would it be better for me to be meek and scared of you? Or struggling and defiant?”
Vincent had to look away so she wouldn’t see too deeply. Struggling and defiant sounded way too good, and after nearly killing that girl at the bungalow, he didn’t want a woman anywhere near him if he started to lose control again.
“You couldn’t do meek and scared to save your own damned life,” Lyons said. “You’d have to fight back, and he’d have to sell that obsession. Would Vlasenko let you keep her for a while? Long enough for us to figure out his next step?”
Shifting in the seat, Vincent suddenly wished he’d asked them to cut his legs free. It made him feel too damned exposed, sitting here tied to the chair, legs spread, while they probed all his secrets. Even if they did so unknowingly. “To a point, yes. If he thought he could use her against me when the time was right, he’d sit back and watch the entertainment. We’d have to put on a good show.”
“I can play the reluctant slave girl.”
All three men looked at the strong, confident woman standing before them with a gun on her hip and her shoulders back, then burst into laughter.
“No offense, Mads, but you ain’t the slave girl type.” Silva hugged his belly like he’d hurt something laughing too hard. “Now I’d buy you making him your slave, but not the other way around.”
Vincent steeled himself to look into her eyes again. Cold, hard killer. That’s all I am. “We could sell it if she plays the reluctant slave fighting for her life. Vlasenko would probably love to see something like that.” He had to clear his throat but he refused to look away again. “It would need to be rough to be believable. Blood would help sell it.”
“I can do rough.”
Maybe it was his imagination, but her tone turned to velvet, sensual and raw and suddenly much too intimate, as if she knew secrets about him even he hadn’t figured out yet.
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