He snorted. “Very funny.”
“Speaking of money, though… Why would you come down here with only seventy-eight dollars? For that matter, why did you come down here with your actual identification? Didn’t they teach you anything at Langley?”
John took the large black coffee the waitress brought him. “I started out with a hundred. Hookers might be cheap, but hotel bellboys aren’t. Plus I had some room service. Had to tip the server.”
Billie raised an eyebrow. “You tipped three people with twenty-two dollars?” she asked. “Aren’t you generous?”
He shrugged. “As for the I.D., I hadn’t figured on staying long. I was hoping that you’d be reasonable and agree to return to the States with me without a fight. Thought maybe coming down here as myself might appeal to the sense of camaraderie you buried six feet under when you left the agency.”
Billie laughed. “Did it ever occur to you to read my file?” she queried. “I know it like the back of my hand, even the psych evals. Apparently I have trust issues with men. Oddly enough, that’s considered an asset.”
He studied her as he drank his coffee. John then swallowed a mouthful and said, “I read the file. Half that shit’s written by bureaucrats who sit in an office all day and haven’t seen the field in twenty years. And those psych profiles? They were probably written by people who were afraid of you.”
She tipped her cup toward him. “I’ll give you that one,” she said.
Lifting the cup to her mouth again she paused, sighing lightly as she instead set it on the table. Billie looked at John with intent as she asked, “Why are you here, John? And I don’t mean why you came to St. Thomas—I already know the answer to that.”
John copied her sigh and set his cup next to hers. “We need you to come home, Billie, because you might be the only person who can help us.”
She blinked once. “This has something to do with what happened to Eddie Lamacek, doesn’t it?” she asked. He nodded. “Okay… You said something last night about some training program the guys had been recruited for. Tell me about it.”
“I’m sure you’ve guessed that there was some intense physical training involved. Makes sense, after all, given that these guys are soldiers,” John began. “But there’s more. The guys were undergoing testing as well.”
“Testing?” Billie countered with a frown. “What, you mean like experiments? Were they taking some sort of experimental drugs?”
He nodded again, slowly. Billie groaned and shook her head. “Un-fucking-believable. What the hell were they thinking? They’re smarter than that. We always said we’d stay away from any kind of experimental shit.”
“I’m guessing they were offered substantial compensation for their involvement,” John replied.
As he was speaking, a large black SUV pulled up to the curb outside. Three men got out and two more came around the vehicle from the front and back. All were conspicuously clad in black and brandishing assault weapons that Billie’s mind immediately identified as being Russian in origin.
The people outside scattered as soon as they took notice, but no one inside the Coconut Hut had noticed the danger about to befall them. Billie launched herself at John, screaming the words “Get down!” as she did so.
The first scream tore through the air a split second after the first of the bullets smashed through the large picture window. Tourists and staff alike tripped and fell over one another in a mad scramble to find cover. Billie’s gut twisted as she saw the brunette who’d checked out John take a bullet in the back, sending her flying over a table. She didn’t move after hitting the floor.
Crawling hurriedly for the end of the counter, Billie hoped like hell that it was thick enough to provide cover from which she and John could mount a counterattack. “Hey Spyboy—was that a gun in your pocket, or were you just happy to see me?” she asked as she breathlessly reached her goal.
John threw himself behind the counter behind her; a chunk was sheared off the end right where his head had been a split second before. “Now who’s flirting?” he threw back at her, though he pulled a Glock from beneath his jacket as he spoke.
She pulled her Sig from under her own and looked at him. “Ready?”
He nodded, and in unison, they both turned onto their knees and rose up to look over the counter, firing as soon as they cleared the top. Billie hit the man on the far right square between the eyes, his body slamming backward into the SUV before it hit the ground in a heap. John wounded another, catching him in the shoulder as the men still standing ran to shield themselves behind the truck.
“Wilhelmina Ryan!” came her name on a shout. “Give yourself up, suka. No one else has to die.”
She answered by firing two rounds at the passenger door. A second later, the end of a rifle was turned through the shattered window on the driver’s side, and she ducked as two answering shots were fired. “I’ll take that as a no,” the voice shouted.
“Billie, I know that voice,” John said, his own a low growl.
“So do I,” she replied, her expression becoming hard. She raised up again and fired three more shots from the Sig in her hands, emptying the magazine. Dropping back down, she flicked the release switch and the empty clip dropped; she had another slammed into place as soon as it cleared.
“I meant what I said—come out here now, and we kill no one else. Not even your new friend,” the voice continued. “Refuse, and every single man, woman and child in that café will be shot along with you.”
“Th-th-they can’t do that!” said one of the waiters cowering behind the counter with them fearfully. “Oh God, I don’t want to die!”
“Shut it, kid,” Billie snapped. “You’re not going to die.”
“And you’re going to stop them how?” said a woman who appeared to be in her 40s. “All you got’s them handguns—those crazy fuckers have automatic weapons!”
John put a hand on her arm as she was about to let the woman have a piece of her mind. “Has anyone called the police?”
“Do we even need to?” asked a man holding his left calf with both hands. Blood was trickling through his fingers to drip onto the floor. “I mean, surely they’re already responding.”
A stream of bullets was fired then, and everyone behind the counter ducked their heads reflexively. “Come on out, She-Devil. My patience will not last much longer.”
“Billie, you can’t do it,” John told her. “You know he’s going to kill you before you take two steps—not to mention kill everyone in here just because he can.”
“I’m aware of that, Johnny B. Goode,” she retorted. “You got any bright ideas for getting us the hell out of here?”
“This place got a back door?” he asked.
“Of course,” Billie replied. “But we can’t leave these people undefended.”
Even as she said the words, the peal of several police sirens sang sweet music in their ears. “Shit, Andre—we got cops!” they heard another voice shout from outside.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Andre screamed, followed by a string of curses in Russian.
Billie rose carefully on her knees, peeking over the counter in time to watch as Andre Sardetsky and his remaining men scrambled into their shot-up SUV. Andre aimed his rifle—a mean-looking AN-94—toward the café and fired off a dozen or so rounds as his driver squealed tires and they pulled away from the curb, leaving their fallen compatriot.
She’d ducked again as soon as she saw the rifle, but even though the getaway vehicle had burnt rubber, she was cautious as she rose once more to look over the counter. Half a dozen police cars screamed past then, lights flashing and sirens blaring.
She stood to her feet, holstering her gun as she did so. John joined her, as did the café staff and patrons who were able. Seconds later a scream rang out as the dead brunette’s blonde friend ran to her side.
“Miranda!” she sobbed loudly, grabbing her friend’s body and dragging it into her lap.
Billie turned away from the scene before her. She couldn’t allow the
broken bodies and frightened expressions now slipping into shock to worm their way into her conscience. It wasn’t that she had no feeling, no compassion, for their suffering. She just didn’t have the time to deal with it.
“John, we have to go,” she said, and not waiting to see if he followed, she stepped around the man who’d been shot in the leg and headed into the kitchen.
“Billie, where are you going?” he asked as he came up to her side.
“The back door, of course,” she replied. “I hope your shit is packed at your hotel. We don’t have time to dick around.”
“I only brought an overnight bag with three days’ worth of clothes. It’s packed,” he replied.
“Good. Now all we gotta do is get a couple plane tickets off the island.”
John patted her shoulder as they were stepping through the back door he’d asked about. “Already got ‘em. We depart at noon on a chartered flight for Miami-Dade.”
She snorted. “Awfully confident of you to have a ticket in my name.”
“Well, one of your names,” he countered, and she looked at him with a frown. John grinned sheepishly as they walked quickly down the alley behind the buildings.
“Better hope they don’t ask to see my I.D.,” Billy remarked sourly. “Unlike you, I didn’t come down here with my real name.”
“Don’t worry. In case we need it, Regina Tucker’s driver’s license is in the bag right next to her husband Adam’s.”
Billie stopped next to the Volkswagon Beetle she’d bought from a Flamingo Bay used car lot, briefly reflecting on the fact that she was going to miss this car—it wasn’t her usual style, but she’d fallen in love with it. It was a classic convertible model from the 60s, and in damn good condition. She hated to be leaving it behind. Unlocking the passenger door for John and rounding the front end, she stopped to look at him over the roof as she opened her own door.
“Let me guess—matching wedding bands are in the bag with those I.D.s?”
John nodded. “But of course,” he said, his expression straight.
“Remind me to file for divorce as soon as we get home, honey,” she said sweetly, then dropped into her seat.
Billie waited until they were alone, the door to John’s hotel room shut behind them, before she made her move. When he’d moved around her to walk toward the bed and grab his bag off of it, she took a step toward him and shot a quick, hard jab at his right kidney. John grunted and started to fall to his knees. Billie grabbed his shoulder to throw him to the floor but he surprised her by grabbing her wrist and twisting her arm. She could tell right away that his intent was merely to incapacitate, while hers had most definitely been to cause damage.
“Billie, what the fuck are you doing?” he asked, stifling a groan as he forced himself back to his feet.
With her free hand she knife-chopped the inside of his knee, then punched him in the gut. As he went down a second time, she landed a right hook to his jaw. John let go of her wrist and she jumped on top of him as he hit the floor, straddling his chest with her knees pinning his arms down. Deftly pulling her Sig from its holster, she flicked the safety off and held it pointed at his head for a second time.
“I’ve got one fucking question for you: Why?” she snapped angrily.
John frowned. “Why what, Billie? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Billie pressed the end of the gun into his forehead. “You knew who was shooting at us, Agent Courtney. My guess is that they’re the same assholes who shot up the Crabana and killed Sergei,” she said. “And funny thing is, both times they tried to kill me, they didn’t show up until after you did.”
“Christ, you think I’m working with them?!” John challenged. “Haven’t you ever heard of a coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” she replied sharply. “So either you’re working with them, or you’re fucking careless and they followed you.”
“I’ll concede they probably followed me, but that doesn’t make me careless, Billie,” he told her. Then he surprised her by grabbing her elbows and throwing himself to the left. As they rolled he was able to push her arms upward and the gun away from his face. Billie growled and tried to fight him off, but he was exercising all the force he could muster to pin her to the floor from the chest down—and considering he had about sixty pounds on her, it unfortunately wasn’t hard to do. Even with her legs trapped she’d have had an advantage if her arms were free, but he was holding them over her head, clasped tightly together at the wrist in one of his hands as the other stripped her gun from her grasp and tossed it away.
“Now you listen to me,” he said, and she could feel his breath on her face. “I am not working with Andre Sardetsky.”
“You wouldn’t be the first agent to cross the line, Courtney,” Billie snapped. “Operatives go traitor all the time.”
“Well I haven’t. I knew Andre was one of the shooters because I recognized his voice, nothing more. I’ve listened to so many fucking recordings of that bastard I’d probably recognize his voice in my sleep. I’ve been under in Russia once or twice in my career, Billie—how do you think I recognized your pal Sergei as one of the Sardetsky family? Because I’ve seen his picture. Hell, he resembles his father more than his brother Ilia does.”
Frustrated and angry, Billie growled loudly. “Then why the fuck are they here?!” she wondered aloud. “How the hell did they find us?”
John sighed. “I swear to you, I don’t know.”
As she lay there staring into his eyes, she became slowly aware of the position of his body on top of hers—his groin was situated right at the apex of her thighs. The weight of him was suddenly not as undesirable as it had been just moments ago, and the heat of his breath on her face was welcome. The expression on his face changed from one of determination to one of curiosity seconds before he lowered his lips to hers.
At first Billie stiffened. She did not want this man kissing her, did not want to acknowledge that he was bringing desires she’d thought permanently dormant out of hibernation. And for goodness’ sake, she did not want to be responding to the pressure of his tongue probing at the seam of her lips by opening her mouth and welcoming him with her own.
With his free hand, John skimmed down her side and back up again. Shifting slightly, he slipped it under her jacket and cupped her breast, feeling for the traitorously hardening nipple and pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. A thrill of sensation shot through her and without any direction from her brain, her hips rolled into his.
John groaned softly then, and somehow it served to snap Billie out of the trance his kiss had put her under. She turned her head away from his, and now that she was no longer responding with enthusiasm, he lifted his head and looked down at her.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice thick with want.
“Get off of me,” she said, unable to look at him.
With a sigh that sounded more like a growl, he let go of her hands and rolled off of her onto his back. Billie rolled in the opposite direction as John shot into a sitting position. Wordlessly she got to her feet and went to retrieve her gun.
“We need to leave,” she said, turning for the door.
Pushing to his own feet, John stopped her by taking her arm in hand. “Billie, I really think we need to talk about what just happened.”
Billie looked at the hand on her arm pointedly. John let her go and she forced her gaze to meet his, disturbed to see a naked lust that matched her own in the now stormy blue of his eyes.
“No, John, I really think we don’t,” she replied, wrenching the door open and walking out.
They were silent on the way to the airport, silent still as they parked in the long-term lot and got their bags out of the trunk. Billie immediately turned and headed for the building looming ahead but John stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. Her expression as she looked at him was hard, but in her eyes he saw emotions too mixed to decipher. Wordlessly he held out his hand, open
ing it to reveal a small gold band. The muscles in her jaw twitched along with the vein in her throat, but she took it and slipped it on, then snatched the driver’s license he held out next.
“We don’t have to check our bags,” he said as she snatched the fake I.D., “but we should take off the guns we’re carrying.”
“You said we’re going to be alone on the plane,” Billie argued.
John nodded. “We are. But in Miami we’re going to be picking up more passengers, and packing heat would look a little suspicious. You want people asking questions?”
With a scowl on her face, she dropped her bag to the ground and jerked her belt open, pulling it through the loops of her jeans so that she could remove the holster holding the Sig. Billie then knelt down and yanked open her military-issue duffel bag and thrust it inside. After closing the bag, she stood up, slung the strap over her shoulder, and looked at him pointedly as she replaced her belt.
Stifling a sigh, John followed suit and removed his weapon. He then fell into step beside her as they headed into the airport terminal. Throughout the drive, he’d wanted several times to open his mouth and speak. About the shootings. About leaving the people at the café to deal with the police on their own.
About the kiss.
Obviously, despite having been shot at twice in less than 24 hours, kissing a woman who could kill him before he knew what was happening was such a wise move—not. In truth, he hadn’t really meant to do it, it was just that… Oh, who the hell was he kidding? Billie was a trifecta—beautiful, brainy, and badass. She was about 5 feet 9 inches tall, with blonde hair past her shoulders, and she had eyes the color of a clear summer sky. Her body had curves in all the right places, and due to all the physical training she had undergone in the Marines and the CIA, she was in incredible shape. Records showed she was as sharp as a tack, and he’d seen proof—something told him the rabbit hole wasn’t Sergei’s idea. Despite her claim when she’d resigned that she wanted to be left alone, she had prepared an escape plan.
And regrettably, she had gotten the drop on him. That kidney shot had hurt, and his knee still ached a little from the knife chop. But damn, she had fit beneath him so perfectly. She had looked so pissed and so beautiful—vulnerable, even—that he simply hadn’t been able to resist having a taste of those lips. Her response had been a welcome surprise, though he couldn’t figure out what he had done that had turned her heat to ice.
Two Evils Page 4