Open Secret

by Fiona Quinn

  Rowan could feel Sergei’s security getting uncomfortable and curious.

  “Put the photos in the envelope, please, Clara,” Rowan said. The light shined green. “Put the envelope away in your purse. Sergei got the message.”

  The text came through: Successful download

  “We’re all done.” Rowan pulled the cord from the bottom and handed the cell phone back to Sergei. “It was nice to meet you,” he said, clapping Sergei on the back. “I’m sure we’ll be running into each other again.” He held out his hand to Clara. “Let’s go see what they have on the buffet table, darling.”

  Sergei growled, “You will regret tonight.”

  And Rowan didn’t doubt him for a second.

  Chapter Two

  Rowan

  Tuesday Night

  Brussels, Belgium

  Rowan took Clara’s hand and tugged her away. He could feel the fury radiating down her arm. Those photos had obviously pushed her buttons, and Rowan was impressed that she was able to affect such a pleasant face while squeezing his hand until his fingers were bloodless.

  Passing Thorn, Honey, and the American diplomats, Rowan was very careful to divert his attention.

  It looked like the stars had been aligned tonight.

  Mission accomplished.

  Rowan had done what he’d come to do. He had shown his face to Sergei Prokhorov. Sergei was confronted with compromising information, was implicitly threatened, and a bounty paid for silence. Sergei had allowed Rowan to take what he wanted, stood beside him and facilitated Rowan taking it. He and Clara were training their asset. When we ask, you need to give us what we want. Message delivered.

  Rowan allowed power to surge through his body.

  Exchanges like this always reminded Rowan of his tactical studies of the North American Great Plains intertribal wars. Killing wasn’t always the goal of a warrior. As a matter of fact, “counting coup” was sometimes considered the braver deed. The warrior would demonstrate his courage by proving his superiority over his enemy, risking his life to touch or strike them.

  Humiliation was a fighting tactic.

  It was the tactic they had just employed.

  Even Clara’s making fun of the guy’s dick—calling it pathetic—was strategic.

  Emotional emasculation.

  Their approach had been a necessary psychological attack. Something that couldn’t have happened from a distance. The look in Sergei’s eyes told Rowan that retribution was coming. Rowan didn’t know when or how. Or even if it would be a direct hit on him. Sergei might go after someone else in intelligence. Or maybe a government official. Someone that Sergei and his family had collected kompromat on.

  That was something to monitor.

  But tonight? Tonight, Rowan would allow himself to feel victorious.

  Those thoughts swelled Rowan’s head as he and Clara hustled down the marble steps toward a queue of taxis waiting to take the party goers to their next destinations. Halfway to the bottom, Rowan saw three men walking shoulder to shoulder down the sidewalk. Anyone in their way had to step onto the grass or street.

  They ruled those bricks.

  One talked into his phone.

  All three snarled at Clara and him.

  Rowan pivoted, dragging Clara around with him. As he placed his foot to step upward and scurry back where they could get lost in the gala crowd inside, four more goons pushed through the carved wooden doors of the museum. Sergei must have borrowed some enforcers from friends at the party.

  They were about to get sandwiched between the two teams.

  Rowan twisted again, looking for options.

  There was a group of about twenty that buzzed together at the far end of the stairs. They laughed loudly and called jokes to each other, their voices amplified by alcohol. Rowan and Clara entered into their swarm just as the group moved off the steps and walked down the sidewalk.

  Rowan pushed Clara in front of him and held onto her elbows as he steered her into the center of their mass, his height giving him the visual advantage. Together, the friends jostled and joked down to the corner of the walkway, turned to walk some more, and then entered into a parking garage.

  While Rowan disliked doing ops in men’s bathrooms, he hated doing them in parking garages.

  Their cover group stopped to call their goodnights, shake hands, and cheek kiss. Breaking into couples, they headed off to find their cars.

  Rowan slipped his hand to Clara’s lower back and tried to walk them nonchalantly toward the elevator bank.

  As Rowan swivelled his head and smiled down at her so he could use his peripheral vision, he muttered, “Incoming. Five. Leader’s phone to his ear. He’s calling shots on a wider op.”

  Poor choice of idioms, Rowan thought. Hopefully, there would be no shots. No guns.

  “Five of them?” Clara asked, elongating her stride. “Two unaccounted for?”

  There was an echoing shout.

  They’d been spotted.

  Rowan grabbed for Clara’s hand and pulled her behind a delivery van. They bent in two, running along, peeking through the car windows, trying to stay off the bad guys’ paths.

  The protection team had fanned out and were moving systematically, applying their training.

  Suddenly, Carla scooped the front of her dress up over her arm, and raced toward the stairs, leaving him behind.

  Rowan would have chased after her. The stairs were a good idea. But the gun pointed at his head was a deterrent.

  He looked down at the red dot on his chest. Yup, lasers, and silencers, and a second weapon. Awesome.

  “Knees,” the gun holder said. “Hands!” His voice was thickly accented.

  Rowan tapped his ear. “What? What are you saying? Do you speak English? Anglais, je t’en prie?”

  There was a sudden scream of tires. Then a woman’s scream echoed off the concrete walls. High-pitched, it held for longer than probable and was filled with both pain and terror.

  Adrenaline dumped into Rowan’s system like a bucket of ice water.

  God, Clara what the hell is happening to you?

  There was nothing he could do to help her until he helped himself.

  A third gunman. A fourth.

  A man from behind him kicked the back of Rowan’s knee, and he went down hard on the cement.

  A black hood was dragged over his head.

  This is gonna suck.

  Rowan’s hands were zip tied behind him, then the punches landed. Guts, kidneys…he’d be pissing red tomorrow. If he got a tomorrow.

  While the bag stopped him from seeing what was happening, the bag also helped the knuckles slide. The punches weren’t ineffectual, but the impact was less than if they hit and stuck. That last punch to his stomach made puke slick up Rowan’s throat. He forced it back down. He’d be damned if he was going to vomit into this bag and have to smell it through the whole ordeal.

  Suddenly, there was an engine roar, and he was caught under either arm and hefted to his feet. A click, a chunk, and a push, Rowan lay backward in what he assumed was a trunk. They pulled off his shoes and rolled him.

  Rowan found himself in fetal position in a closed trunk.

  Alone.

  He wondered what had happened to Clara. He wondered if she were dead, or captured, or if by some miracle she had escaped.

  Perhaps that scream earlier hadn’t been hers but some other gala-going socialite who saw the botched operation unfurling and had screamed out her distress.

  Rowan wanted to think that. He wanted to believe that Clara had reached the elevator bank, got back up to the museum, and called her handler for help.

  She had the photos.

  He had his phone, but there was nothing on his phone of interest. Everything he downloaded had been encrypted, sent, and wiped. It was a burner, meant to be destroyed after tonight’s mission.

  With the car in motion, Rowan had to let all of those thoughts go and focus on escaping.

  The driver slung the car around the co
rner, clipping the curb and bouncing Rowan up, knocking his head into the metal roof.

  Dazed, Rowan reached under his jacket and spun his belt to the back of his pants where he could manipulate the black box buckle. Sliding his thumbnail along the edge, he toggled the hidden latch. A razor popped out like a lizard’s tongue. Rowan pulled the blade out from its hidden compartment, careful not to lose it here in the stuffy darkness.

  Rowan needed two things—time and opportunity. Okay three. He needed some luck.

  Pressing the blade between the knuckle of his index finger and his thumb, Rowan sawed at the thick military-style flex cuffs, slicing at his bindings and trying to avoid his artery as the car bounced and popped over the roadway.

  Patience was key, and Rowan struggled to calm his system. It would help if he knew what kind of clock was ticking.

  If suddenly the car came to a stop, and he was yanked from the trunk and dragged into some hidey-hole building, yeah…he didn’t want to think about that. He needed to focus on the places he had control. His breath. His heart rate. And applying a steady pressure as the blade bit millimeter by millimeter into the plastic.

  Pop.

  There.

  He had it.

  One hand free, the other still encircled by the tie, Rowan reached up and clawed the bag from his head. The air outside of the bag was only a bit easier to breathe. Slightly more oxygen mixed in with his carbon dioxide exhalent. Maybe a little less dizzying.

  Rowan slid the razor back in place and swiveled his belt buckle with its helpful gadgets back to the front of his pants, so if the thugs did pull him out of the trunk, he might be able to keep some tools with him.

  They took his shoes. So they’d guessed he came prepared.

  Rowan’s mind worked on the knot of his situation while his fingers nimbly worked at the knot of rope that entwined his ankles.

  Free, he reached out and tugged the glow-in-the-dark pull that hung from the trunk lid. It was there by law—a safety requirement. That no one had sliced this out told Rowan that this event was a surprise to his captors, too. They were probably up front yammering on the phone, trying to pull together a next step.

  The acoustics changed as they moved into a tunnel. A tunnel might be a good place to jump and run…

  Rowan let the trunk pop up just far enough that he could see what was behind him. A pair of headlights rode half a meter from their bumper. If he were to suddenly pop out, the car’s driver behind him would be startled out of their mind. Their limbic system would do one of two things—press down the gas or press down the brake. Maybe press them both down.

  If they pressed the gas, he’d get caught between the two vehicles and probably die.

  If they stomped the brake, there would be a massive pileup behind them. Rowan would have to run forward. Forward meant he’d have whatever goons were up front chasing after him, and they’d have the benefit of shoes.

  And if the driver stomped both pedals? It was probably the first, kill-Rowan-on-impact scenario.

  Nope, too risky. He’d have to wait. He lowered the trunk until it clicked. No reason to tip off the bad guys that he had use of his limbs.

  While he waited for the acoustics and speed to change once again, Rowan patted his pockets looking for his cell phone, but of course, it was gone. If someone tried to open it, there was nothing there to find. Not a GPS locator, not a last number called, nothing.

  The car deaccelerated.

  Rowan tugged the trunk’s catch.

  When they slowed to a stop, he peeked out the back. A line of cars idled behind them. They must be at a traffic light.

  Rowan let the trunk lid budge up just enough to get his body through the crack. Still grasping the catch string, he dove out the back. He pulled the trunk shut and crouched between the cars. Rowan rose up just enough to see the driver from the car behind him wide eyed, gaping mouth, shock freezing his features in place.

  As Rowan crouch-walked toward the sidewalk, the guy laid on his horn. Others too seemed to take up the chorus. Rowan scrambled to hide between parked vehicles on the side of the road, but the pedestrians stopped, their arms thrown wide as if to protect those around them and gaped.

  Okay this isn’t good.

  Rowan decided that the mob-squad probably wouldn’t open fire on him in the street, so he stood and took off running, slowed by his flapping socks.

  The men had bailed from the car and were closing the distance.

  Rowan flew down the street, hooked corners, leaped barriers, and still they came.

  Lungs burning, heart pounding, the stitch in his side wanted to double him over, but Rowan pushed himself hard. If they caught him, they’d kill him. He could feel that decision chasing him up the street.

  Up ahead, he watched the light turn yellow. Rowan slung himself around the corner and saw an empty cab. He thought he might be enough steps ahead. Rowan pulled the door open and dove in. He jerked the door shut again, plunged to the floor, and hit the lock.

  If he timed it right, their light should be green.

  “Hey!” the driver called out.

  “A thousand euro to get me out of here,” Rowan panted. He didn’t have a way to pay the guy a thousand Euros. That detail was something that might suck in the future, Rowan reminded himself, he had plenty of present time suck to deal with.

  The cab doors up front clicked as they locked. A fist banged at the window. Angry yelling in a foreign language.

  The cabby took off. His voice pitched high. “Merde! They have guns.”

  “Go!” Rowan yelled. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The taxi driver floored the pedal, weaving through the traffic at breakneck speed. “Am I heading for the police station?” he gasped after they had put some distance between them and the scene.

  Rowan pulled himself to the seat. “No,” he said, then rattled off the address of a safe house he had memorized just the day before.

  He needed to get back to his team and get a plan together to help Clara.

  Sergei had said they would regret this evening.

  Right now, Rowan was okay, but Clara might just be in the world of hurt.

  Chapter Three

  Avery

  Thursday Afternoon

  Washington D.C.

  Off balance, Avery Goodyear pushed her weight onto her high heels and locked her knees. Her lips curled into a tight line as she willed herself not to sprint out the office door. Focus, she rebuked herself.

  Her boss—head of EverMore, Windsor Shreveport Publishing’s label for romance, women’s fiction, and chick-lit—George Pratt, crossed his arms over his chest, stretched out his legs, and thumped his feet onto the corner of his desk.

  Always a bad sign.

  Things never went well after he struck this pose. “Taylor Knapp is in hiding,” he said.

  “I don’t blame him. His last book caused such horrible public backlash, I can’t imagine he could show his face anywhere in public without getting beaten up,” Avery said, not sure if she should move farther into the room to sit in the guest chair or not. George had positioned the chair precisely so the morning sun would catch his unlucky visitor in the left eye, blinding them. He was following a strategy from a book called How to Get the Upper Hand and Win.

  Before George was hired by Windsor Shreveport, six months ago, he had been a business acquisitions editor for a top five publisher. One of their competitor publishing houses had read the manuscript for Get the Upper Hand first and beaten George to signing the author’s name to a contract.

  Now the book was on the New York Times Bestsellers List, and all George had to show for his efforts was his present position with Windsor Shreveport, along with newly rearranged furniture and absurd alpha-male poses.

  “He’s in a secluded location, so he can focus on his manuscript,” George said.

  “So he can sleep at night without people chanting outside his windows is more like it.” Avery slid her hands into her pockets, but that didn’t feel right. She pulled them back o
ut. She stood there, awkward and uncertain. Taylor Knapp wasn’t in her author queue, thank God. She had nothing to do with him. Wanted nothing to do with him. Why was George bringing him up?

  “I think it’s a good decision,” George said. “Finding quiet and anonymity to get this damned sequel done already.”

  “Why push him?” Avery asked, holding the sliver-thin hope that Windsor Shreveport Publishing would tear up the Knapp contract and move on to something more…wholesome. Okay, wholesome was too big a stretch. Wholesome didn’t sell. Scandal sold. In today’s saturated book market, everyone was elbowing for a place. Avery closed her eyes and tried for a deep breath, but her lungs stuck at the halfway point, leaving her breathless. She lifted her gaze and caught George smirking at her.

  “Money. That’s why.” George uncrossed his ankles and came upright, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepling his fingers. Power pose number four. “Controversy makes Windsor Shreveport piles of money, which equals job security. And right now, in this industry, job security is everything.” He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you agree? I mean, what would you do, Avery, if you lost this job?” His raised brows folded his skin into four straight lines across his forehead. “Where would your editorial skills take you? Do you know how many book editors are out there trolling the Twittersphere, looking for writers who need editing at two dollars a page and no benefits? Could you make your life work out on that kind of pay check?”

  Avery swallowed past the lump in her throat. George was positioning the sword of Damocles over her head. She’d have to say yes to whatever came next. “Has Taylor Knapp given you an update on his progress?” Avery hoped to delay whatever George was priming here. A rivulet of perspiration formed on her back, trickling down her spine. She wanted to reach back to pull her silk blouse away from her humid skin, but she was afraid to show any signs of anxiety. It would just strengthen George’s hand.

  “Nope. I’m giving him to you as a gift. The updates are now on you.”

  Avery stilled, reprocessing George’s words, hoping she’d misunderstood. “I’m a romance editor. I don’t know anything about science fiction or dystopia.”