An Uncommon Honeymoon

by Susan Mann

  Grandpa nodded. “Displaying their membership and loyalty.”

  “Exactly,” Quinn said. “If we find out all three have the same tattoo, maybe we can uncover some connections that give us more intel on Borovsky.”

  “Like Borovsky sees himself as Perun, Russian god of thunder?” James asked.

  Quinn lifted a shoulder. “You never know. Maybe we’ll find out Borovsky’s studied Slavic mythology. Maybe Anatoly’s tattoo has nothing to do with Perun or Borovsky and he’s just really into axes.”

  “All are possibilities. I have every confidence you will discover the true meaning of Anatoly’s tattoo,” Grandpa said, his eyes shining with pride.

  “Me too,” James added with a smile. Turning his attention to Sydney, he said, “Thanks for bringing us up to speed on Ziegler’s research. We’ll be in touch.”

  “You’re welcome and okay,” Sydney stammered, clearly perplexed by the strange and sudden turn the briefing had taken.

  “You’ve done an excellent job with all of this,” Grandpa said. “Really. Well done. You are a credit to the DS and T.”

  Relief overtook Sydney’s features as she heaved a huge sigh. “Thank you, sir.”

  Grandpa dipped his head. “Carry on.”

  Quinn had to force her steps to remain steady and measured as they walked for the door. Once outside the lab, they stopped. A bundle of nervous energy, she bounced on the balls of her feet.

  James grinned at her. “You’re about to explode.”

  “I am. I gotta go.” She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed James on the lips. Then she pecked her grandfather’s cheek, spun on her heel, and race-walked down the corridor.

  Grandpa’s voice echoed when he called out, “Happy hunting, angel.”

  She turned around and walked backward long enough to wave and say, “Thanks.” Facing forward again, she made quick time returning to the library. She had research to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Quinn sat down at her desk and ordered her thoughts.

  She would first pursue the thing that had caused her brain to itch in the first place: Anatoly’s tattoo. Pen in hand, she sketched a crude outline of the double-headed battle axe on a yellow legal pad. She eyed her rendering and snorted. It would never be mistaken for a da Vinci.

  Under the axe, she wrote the word Perun using both Latin and Cyrillic characters.

  Next, she composed an email to Reem asking if there were any photos of the three men’s tattoos available for her to examine. In the U. S., tattoos could be photographed when a person was arrested and booked. She hoped the police in Russia had a similar procedure in place.

  Email sent, she set off on a quest to learn more about Perun. Some sources indicated the storm god sported silver hair and a golden mustache. In addition to his axe, he was also associated with arrows of thunder and lightning, fire, eagles, horses and carts, and hammers. It came as no surprise to read that, like Thor’s hammer Mjölnir, Perun’s axe always returned to his hand after smiting evildoers.

  The archeological evidence pointing toward an ancient cult of Perun grounded the mythology in real life. The ruins of a shrine to Perun had been discovered on the island of Peryn not far from Novgorod in the 1950s. It consisted of a circular ditch in the ground with eight round fire pits positioned at equidistant points corresponding to points on the compass. A tall oak idol was likely erected in the hole at the center of the circle. She copied the diagram of the site on her legal pad and jotted a note indicating the layout was similar to symbols of Perun called “thunder marks.” Ancient devotees had hewn such marks on wooden beams of their homes to protect them from lightning strikes.

  While new bits of trivia about Perun were now and forever lodged in her brain, it still didn’t get her any closer to Borovsky. Her research path was blocked until she heard back from Reem, so she spent the next hour reviewing books for possible inclusion in the library’s collection.

  Duty performed, she checked her email and whispered a quiet “yay” when Reem’s response included photos of the three men’s tattoos. Viktor’s and Yefimov’s had been taken at the time of their arrests. Anatoly’s tattoos had been documented posthumously.

  Quinn studied each tattoo. Her disappointment at not finding Perun’s axe on Yefimov or Viktor was short-lived when she recognized a different tattoo on all three. It was the circular thunder mark she’d run across earlier.

  They were linked to each other—and to Perun.

  Were they modern-day devotees of an ancient Slavic god? Perhaps. Given their associations and occupations, it was more likely they were declaring loyalty to their crime syndicate and its boss, Konstantin Borovsky. Why Perun? Was Borovsky the modern-day devotee? Had he grown up hearing the stories of Perun’s exploits? Maybe he’d lived near Peryn at some point in his life. Maybe he still did. For all she knew, Borovsky was an egomaniac who considered himself akin to the supreme deity in the Slavic pantheon.

  She pictured him as a burly, cape-wearing axe-wielder who lived in an underground lair alit by flaming torches.

  Borovsky probably hadn’t achieved peak Bond villain status, but what if Perun was his “brand”? She searched the Russian State Registration Chamber to see if any foreign or domestic corporations included Perun or Peryn in their names.

  A corporation with the generic-sounding name of Perun Industries popped up.

  “Interesting,” she said to herself. She blew a soft raspberry when she noted corporate officer and director information would have to be requested in person. Half the people in the building she worked in could hack into the database, but triggering an international incident was not on the day’s agenda. She would be good and go through the channels. Someone from the Moscow station could make the request on her behalf.

  She dropped her pursuit of corporate information for the time being and decided to tug at the yacht thread again. She went to the Cayman Islands shipping registry, where half of the world’s super yachts were registered.

  There was no singular list of yacht names she could peruse, but there was an option of searching vessel name availability. If she typed in a name and it wasn’t available, that meant there was a boat with that name. Grabbing her pen again, she wrote a list of twenty names with Perun in them, including Perun’s Axe, Perun’s Hammer, and Thunder of Perun.

  She worked through the list and came up empty. Frustrated, she chucked her pen at the notepad. Her quest really was quixotic. The rational part of her brain told her to stop. Their best chance of drawing Borovsky out was with Ziegler’s drug. Finding out the name of his yacht wouldn’t be a bad thing, but it wasn’t mission critical.

  But the bloodhound librarian in her wouldn’t let go that easily. She reviewed her notes and made another list. When it was exhausted, she’d call it a day.

  Name after name came back available.

  Until one didn’t.

  Her eyebrows knotted as she stared at the screen. What just happened? Had she made a mistake? She typed Perun’s Chariot again. The response came back as it had before: unavailable.

  She tried not to get too excited. Her finding was based on supposition. She had exactly zero proof that a vessel called Perun’s Chariot registered in the Cayman Islands had any connection to Borovsky whatsoever. That wasn’t going to stop her from presenting everything she’d uncovered to Aldous Meyers. If he believed it actionable, he could coordinate with various international maritime agencies and track down Perun’s Chariot. There might even be a satellite or two involved in the hunt.

  She typed up a report and attached it along with the tattoo photos to an email to Meyers. Her empty stomach rumbled as she clicked send. She checked her watch and was surprised at how late it was. No wonder she was starving.

  James had to be waiting for her in his office. Quinn locked her computer, secured her work papers in her desk, and snatched her bag from a drawer. She bid good night to her coworkers and swept out the library door.

  She spotted James halfway down the hall. His eyes lit
up when he saw her. “Hey. I was just on my way to see if I could drag you away from your research. I’m hungry and it’s your turn to make dinner.”

  When they met, he turned around and walked with her. She looked up at him, side-eyed. “The thrill is already gone, huh? All I am to you now is a cook?”

  He heaved a faux sigh of resignation. “It was bound to happen.”

  She lowered her voice and said, “And here I was planning on making fajitas wearing nothing but an apron and a smile.”

  Her hand shot out and grabbed his arm when he stumbled. Once he was steady again, he gave her a dumbfounded look. “You’re pure evil, you know that, right?”

  The expression she wore was the picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh.” He gazed down at her. “I know what you’re up to. You’re trying to distract me. We get home and, you know”—he waved his hands around—“do stuff. The next thing we know, it’s too late for you to cook and we’re ordering takeout.”

  Alone in front of the elevators, Quinn pressed the down button. “Would eating Chinese naked in bed together be such a bad thing?”

  His eyes crossed a little. “No. Not a bad thing. At all. Ever.”

  “So my plan worked.”

  His enthusiastic grin was infectious.

  “Absolutely.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Several days later, James’s ringing phone awoke Quinn from a sound sleep. While he fumbled with his phone and cleared his throat, she blinked and squinted against the morning light filtering into their apartment bedroom. Clearly irritated by the commotion, Rasputin leaped off the bed and stalked out.

  “Hello.” James sat up and, after a brief pause, replied to the caller in Russian.

  Her addled state didn’t allow her to catch much of what James was saying.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed the pen that lived on his nightstand, and began to write. As he did, he made the kind of monosyllabic grunting noises people make to let the other person know they’re furiously writing down every detail of imparted information.

  Curiosity piqued, Quinn was now fully awake and caught bits and pieces of what James said. He thanked the caller and offered to buy him a drink the next time he was in town. The call ended.

  “I take it that was your Moscow contact,” she said.

  “Mm-hmm. Just as we suspected, there’s no way for us to contact Borovsky directly.” Their conversation stalled when James got up and used the bathroom. “Got the info on one of his lieutenants, a guy named Ivan Ovechkin,” he said as he exited. “We’ll start with him.”

  “Good. Now that we know Perun’s Chariot belongs to Borovsky and assuming he’s on it, we can start planning the op to meet up with him in person.”

  James headed for the kitchen while Quinn took her turn in the bathroom. While she washed her hands, inspiration struck. Excited by her idea, she hurried from the bathroom and found James at the sink, filling the coffeepot with water.

  “Let me take point,” Quinn said.

  James looked at her with a puzzled expression.

  “On the op. I should be the one to meet with Borovsky.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.”

  Her lips pressed together in a deep frown. “Not this again,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Not what again?”

  “Your overprotective streak.” Her aggravation burned hot. “I’m a trained operative, the same as you.”

  He slapped the faucet off. “I’m fully aware of that.” “And yet you still treat me like I’m the librarian you met at the Westside Library a year and a half ago.”

  “That’s a load of crap.” He dumped the water into the coffeemaker and jabbed at the start button. Then he whirled on her, his eyes blazing. “And completely unfair. Did I say you weren’t ready when we were tasked to break into Ziegler’s office? No. I was thrilled to have you by my side. And what about Saint Petersburg? Never once did I even hint you shouldn’t go in with the rest of us.”

  “That doesn’t mean it hasn’t come back now.” Her volume had risen to equal his.

  Still clad in only his boxers, he crossed his arms over his bare chest and widened his stance in defiance. “It hasn’t.”

  “So you have some other reason why I shouldn’t take point?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Borovsky is a Russian man. He’s never going to give a woman the time of day. We’ve got to go at him from a position of strength and respect. And that means man to man. That means me. I take point.”

  Quinn shook her head. “No. That’s exactly the opposite of what I think we should do.”

  “So now you’re an expert on Russia? After being there once? I lived there, you know.”

  She rocketed so beyond livid, her vision went wonky before an eerie calm settled over her. In a dispassionate tone, she said, “I know I’m not an expert on Russia. And you don’t have to remind me you lived there. I missed you every stinkin’ day you were gone.”

  He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could utter a sound.

  “So you don’t think I know enough about anything to have a good reason why I should take point, huh? Well, I do because I know men. You said it yourself. Borovsky loves beautiful women. I’m no supermodel, but I like to think I clean up pretty good.”

  James’s shoulders lowered a fraction.

  “And I agree with you that a super-rich, super-powerful man like Borovsky won’t respect me because I’m a woman. That’s the entire point. We use his machismo to our advantage. He’ll assume I’m just some weak-willed woman he can overpower with his animal magnetism. If I bait it so he thinks he can get the formula and I’ll succumb to his charms, he’ll be begging me to meet him in person.”

  Now it was Quinn’s turn to stand with her feet set apart and arms folded in front of her.

  James blew out a long breath and his gaze lowered to the floor. His arms now hanging limply at his sides, his voice was soft when he said, “The day of our wedding, right after I finished getting ready, your dad took me aside. He said he wanted to talk to me about something. I thought it was going to be a reprise of his ‘You hurt my daughter, I hurt you’ speech. It wasn’t that at all.”

  Quinn cocked her head, baffled by the abrupt change in topic.

  His focus moved from the floor to his hands, where the thumb of one rubbed into the palm of the other. “He said marriage wasn’t always going to be tickle fights and fireworks.”

  Quinn’s ill humor ebbed. “He used those exact words?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I don’t know if I should laugh or gag at the idea of my parents having tickle fights.” She let loose with an exaggerated shudder.

  He chuckled and took a step toward her. “Anyway, he told me when we engage in ‘verbal combat’—his words again—and I hurt your feelings, I need to apologize and ask for forgiveness.”

  “My mom told me pretty much the same thing,” she said and shuffled closer to him. “Now I see it was all a conspiracy.”

  “For our benefit.”

  “Yeah.” At the same time, they each took a final step that bridged the distance between them. James laced his fingers behind her back while her hands rested on his bare shoulders. “It’s hard to argue with a couple who’ve been married for almost forty years,” she said.

  “It is, so I’m going to take their advice and apologize. Your reason for wanting to take point is brilliant. I’m sorry I dismissed it before I even heard it. And I’m sorry I made that snarky comment about you and Russia and stuff. It’s not true and I was out of line.” In his face, she saw nothing but absolute sincerity when he said, “Please forgive me.”

  “I do.” As she stared at a spot on his chest, her mother’s words about both sides saying hurtful things echoed in her mind. “And I’m sorry I jumped down your throat about you still being overprotective. You’re right. You’ve never tried to keep me from being a full team member. If anything, you’
ve been incredibly supportive. I apologize.” She cut her eyes up to his face again. “Forgive me?”

  He dipped his head and caught her up in a tender kiss. “Of course.”

  She brought his mouth down on hers again and gave him a scorching one of her own. Her belly clenched as every cell in her body seemed to pulsate. She broke the kiss long enough to whisper, “I think this is the part where we make up.”

  James lifted her and set her bare bottom on the kitchen counter. “The best part.”

  Quinn wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him with abandon, reveling in the erasure of their height difference. It was delicious, being at his level: eye to eye, face to face, chest to chest. When she took his lower lip between her teeth and sucked, he gripped her hips and slid her to the edge of the counter. She threw her head back and gasped when he moved into her, writhing and bucking against him as her pleasure built.

  He released a feral growl when she raked her fingernails across his bare back. He leaned her back and thrust deeper. She grew more frantic until she arched and nearly blacked out as she expelled a long, lusty moan.

  James tensed, called out to a higher being, and then relaxed.

  Quinn panted for breath, her teeth tingling, and her every nerve buzzing. In the background, three long beeps pierced through her warm, happy haze. “Coffee’s ready,” she murmured.

  “Caffeine is good in the morning.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But you are better.”

  “Ditto.” She breathed a quiet laugh. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to slice mushrooms on this section of the counter ever again without getting hot and bothered, though.”

  “We have lots of other counter space.”

  “What happens when we’ve done this on every inch of it?”

  “We move.”

  She laughed and kissed his neck. “Sounds good to me.” She slapped his butt and said, “Come on. We need to get to work. We have an op to plan.”

  * * *

  A week later, Quinn sat on the sofa of their apartment and eyed the phone lying on the coffee table. It belonged to her recently conceived alter ego, Victoria Chamberlain. She wiped her palms over her thighs to dry the nervous perspiration and reminded herself that slipping into a new persona was something she’d been trained to do. Plus, James and her grandfather were always insisting she was a natural at it. Still, butterflies swooped in her gut as she readied to call Borovsky’s lieutenant, Ivan Ovechkin.