Rules of Revenge

by AJ Quinn

  “It seldom is.”

  Chapter Three

  Paris welcomed Darien back like an old friend. The Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame Cathedral, even the tourists and college kids crowding the sidewalks and cafés seemed to welcome her as she circled and backtracked through a labyrinth of narrow streets and ensured no one was following her.

  Traffic was heavy, but no more than usual for a cool and damp evening, and she made good time. She moved past the Saint-Michel Metro station into the Latin Quarter and haphazardly wound her way through a warren of centuries-old narrow streets. Twenty minutes later, she silenced the engine, turned off the headlight, and coasted through the shadows before coming to a stop.

  She took a quick glance at her surroundings, checking for surveillance. One final scan of the street and sidewalks for possible threats. Around her, the world continued to move. But nothing pulled at her. She saw no one paying particular attention to her, heard only the distant sounds of music and laughter and the ticking of the cooling motorcycle engine.

  Satisfied, she parked a short distance from the house. Grabbing the saddlebags, she left the motorcycle gleaming dully in the half-light the French called l’heure bleue.

  The blue hour. Twilight. Between dawn and sunrise—or dusk and sunset, in this case. When the world and everything in it lay suspended between light and dark, painted in a blue-shadowed hue. Her favorite time of day.

  Timing was everything and dressed as she was, in dark jeans and black leather, she blended easily with the shadows. Making her way through the gloom along a damp footpath, she took the stone steps two at a time, unlocked the front door, and stepped over the threshold. The house silently greeted her as the door closed behind her and darkness closed in around her.

  The alarm sensor glowed a steady green, indicating someone had already turned it off. But she wasn’t concerned as, almost immediately, her already primed senses picked up the light citrus scent of Ben’s aftershave. The familiar fragrance brought a measure of reassurance in spite of the absence of sounds or any aroma from the evening meal.

  Ben was probably somewhere upstairs with his head buried in computer files and had, no doubt, forgotten to eat. Much like someone else, she thought wryly, as the pangs she felt reminded her she hadn’t eaten in some time. Had it been lunch yesterday? Or was it the day before? She knew better, but she’d been too tired to pay attention.

  Driven as much by hunger as by the need to delay finding out what Ben wanted from her, Darien wandered toward the kitchen, dark except for light spilling in from the hallway. Dropping the saddlebags onto the floor and laying the keys on the counter, she opened the fridge.

  Clearly Ben had not spent any time shopping, as only a couple of apples, a piece of cheese, two bottles of Bière de Garde, and a half-empty bottle of wine sat forlornly on the top shelf. She selected one of the apples and hoped it would at least tide her over, already knowing it wouldn’t satisfy her hunger.

  She sighed tiredly, felt the early stages of a headache. Tomorrow would be soon enough to go to the market. For now, she wanted nothing more than to grab a quick shower, then find Ben and see if perhaps he could be persuaded to order pizza. And then she wanted to curl up in her own bed for the first time in more than a month and sleep.

  In the process of undoing the chin strap on her helmet, her senses suddenly picked up something her tired brain hadn’t fully processed yet. Her heart began to race, but even as adrenaline flooded through her, her mind became focused and clear.

  “Looking for something?” a voice asked from a few feet behind her.

  Darien straightened slowly. But even without turning around, she already knew three things. The person behind her was a woman. Young. And she had no doubt she would find a gun leveled at her chest when she finally turned to face her.

  “How did you get in here?” the woman asked, nerves evident in the voice. That was interesting and potentially troubling. Guns and nerves seldom combined to yield happy outcomes.

  Her blood quickened, but Darien kept her movements slow and steady. She put the apple down and reached for the keys she had left on the counter, holding them up for the woman to see while she turned to face her.

  The keys were a perfectly timed distraction—a magician’s sleight of hand. The woman’s eyes automatically followed the motion of her arm as she held it above her head and away from her body. As the woman focused on the glint of the dangling keys, it bought Darien the time she needed to slip her other hand unnoticed inside her jacket pocket. Enough time for her fingers to curl around the cool metal of her SIG Sauer.

  Keeping her hand where it was, she tilted her head and silently contemplated her next move. Shoot first, ask questions later?

  An instant later, the decision was made for her, even before someone turned on the lights and a familiar voice shouted from the doorway, “Darien—Dare, no. Don’t kill them. They’re with me.”

  Darien stilled. She hadn’t needed Ben’s warning to hold back because another woman had just stepped into the kitchen and captured her attention. She experienced a strange sense of déjà vu.

  Five eight. Slender physique. Delicate features framed by collar-length blond hair. Eyes the color of warm honey. A sexy mouth.

  Grace. Only younger.

  *

  “If I’d wanted to kill them, they’d already be dead.”

  The wry intonation in the faintly accented voice was unmistakable, even behind the motorcycle helmet’s face shield. Jessie heard Elle sputter angrily in response, but there was nothing she could do for her. All she could do was work to control her own reaction, gather her composure, as the tall, leather-clad woman Ben had called Darien tossed the keys she was holding on to the counter. In the next instant, she stripped off the helmet.

  The act shook loose a waterfall of hair as dark as night and revealed a face that immediately caught and held Jessie’s attention. She was trained to notice faces, but even if she hadn’t been, she would have noticed this one. Late twenties with ice-edged cheekbones, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes. She’d been blessed with a flawless golden skin that was faintly sunburned and spoke at mixed heritage. Possibly European and Middle Eastern.

  Stunning, yes. Without a doubt. But the simple statement rang true. She could hear the truth of it in the woman’s—Darien’s—voice. See it in eyes that had seen a lot and weren’t at all trusting. And in her predatory stance. Disciplined. Intense. Deadly.

  This woman could kill them. Of that she was equally certain.

  “And to be clear, it’s not that I had some wild epiphany,” she continued softly, her voice low and smoky as she briefly slanted cool eyes toward Jessie, “but that one looks too much like Grace to be anything but a relative. Her daughter, I would guess.”

  “I’m thinking right now that’s a good thing,” Ben muttered.

  Jessie’s suspicion was piqued. “You know my mother?”

  Dark hair swirled as Darien turned to look at her once again. Her lips parted, allowing the tip of her tongue to momentarily appear, as if tasting the drawn out silence. “It was a long time ago. Almost Jurassic. But, yes, I know your mother. You’ve got Grace’s face, your father’s eyes. Makes me wonder if you resemble them in any other ways.”

  “I’d like to think so, but at a minimum, my attitude’s my own,” Jessie responded dryly. Observing Darien, she sensed an air of danger about her that took her aback even as her voice seemed to hold a trace of humor.

  She quickly told herself it was her imagination. Before she could think to say anything else, Elle interrupted. “Maybe you believe recognition stopped you, but I was the one holding a gun on you. So just how were you planning on killing anyone?”

  Darien’s stare was dark and sharp as she turned to face Elle, and Jessie had no doubt most people backed down from that stare. Without saying a word, Darien’s right hand disappeared into her jacket pocket. When it came back into view, she was holding a SIG Sauer P229, her index finger resting lightly by the trigger.

  “We
ll, damn,” Elle whispered.

  Jessie stared at the weapon a moment longer, then smiled faintly. “That would have certainly done the trick,” she said. “But it would have made a hell of a mess of your jacket, don’t you think?”

  “Wouldn’t have been the first time.” Darien’s voice was soft and amused. “But it would have been a shame. The jacket’s a favorite of mine.”

  The stunning face was suddenly lit by a surge of silent laughter before it ghosted away, leaving only a memory of it in her eyes.

  Unprepared for the effect the smile had on her, Jessie stared for just an instant longer. It was the kind of smile that made a woman think of doing whatever she could to see that smile again. Her pulse leaped and nerves danced skittishly across her skin.

  As thoughts began to jumble in her mind, she realized she’d have to steel herself the next time she saw that smile and kept her eyes on the gun as it disappeared back into a pocket.

  Ben chose that moment to step the rest of the way into the room. “Personally, I still prefer the Heckler & Koch HK45 to the SIG.” He kept moving until he was in Darien’s space, close enough to touch a leather-clad arm, but not yet touching her. “You’ve been off the grid for five weeks. And then after I sent you that e-mail, you didn’t call and I didn’t know if or when to expect you.”

  Darien lifted one hand and rubbed her neck where tension had undoubtedly gathered. But her voice remained measured and controlled as she said, “Hello to you too, Ben.”

  There was history there, they were obviously connected. Probably not family, Jessie thought, noting there was nothing of Ben visible in Darien’s face. But she knew ties when she saw them, just as she knew the ties that bound people together weren’t always forged in blood.

  Whatever their connection, Darien revealed nothing. “I’m not sure how or why, but for some reason I missed that disapproving tone of yours,” she said softly.

  Ben laughed aloud. “Dare—”

  “Oh, bloody hell, Ben,” she sighed. She was clearly fighting a losing battle to keep fatigue at bay, but there was a stubborn set to her chin and defiance in her eyes. “I didn’t call because I was in an airplane preparing to leave Kabul when your e-mail reached me, and believe it or not, there are things even I can’t control—like flight times and seat availability.”

  “Really?” Ben raised a brow.

  “Yes, really. I wasn’t sure how quickly I would be able to make things happen. As luck would have it, at the last minute I managed to catch an earlier flight out of Dubai. But it was plain and simple luck, and I had to move quickly before my window of opportunity closed. I was also still trying to tie up loose ends from my last job, which left no time to call.”

  Jessie watched the exchange unfold, uncertain what to make of it. Whatever was happening, they’d clearly reached an impasse, and that didn’t bode well for the job at hand. Especially if Darien was the colleague her mother had alluded to. She found her gaze drawn back to Darien once again but couldn’t see anything beyond the cool eyes and the remote, beautiful face.

  Breaking the taut silence, Ben cleared his throat. “I assume you were successful in Afghanistan?”

  “I’m here and in one piece, aren’t I?”

  “Indeed you are”—Ben nodded and indicated the smudges of fatigue under her eyes with a finger—“but you’re tired.”

  “I’ll sleep tonight. Too tired not to.”

  “That’s good.” He gazed steadily at her, his frown more pronounced. “I know it’s not what you want to hear. But after Grace pulled me in, I realized the only person I could think of who might be able to help was you. And since you’re here now—”

  Darien gave a barely discernible shrug and then released another soft sigh. “I’m here now.”

  It took Jessie a moment to realize that somewhere in the subtext they’d arrived at some kind of accord. Perhaps even more noteworthy was the unexpected change in Ben Takahashi’s expression. Over the course of the days since she’d met him, his visage had always remained the calm, impassive face of a warrior with high, perfect cheekbones, dark eyes, and an unsmiling mouth.

  He was smiling now. And there was something else in his face Jessie couldn’t quite read, but it looked a lot like affection as he eased into the process of finally introducing Jessie and Elle to Darien Troy.

  Darien sent a brief salute across the room, acknowledging Elle who was still bristling and intent on keeping her distance. She then turned to Jessie and offered her hand—long and slender with a cool, firm grip. All business. “Grace only ever spoke of you as Jessie. Is it short for Jessica?”

  “It’s Jesslyn, actually.”

  “Nice. It suits you better than Jessica. You’re both Company? CIA?”

  “Yes.” Jessie tried to place the hint of an accent as she accepted the handshake. Definitely some French and Spanish with Arabic and Russian influences thrown into the mix. She waited, one brow rising, but there was nothing forthcoming. Whoever and whatever Darien was, she was volunteering no reciprocal information.

  In the span of the next two heartbeats, Darien picked up the apple she’d left on the counter and bit into it, chewing slowly before asking, “So, who’s going to bring me up to speed?”

  “Jessie, why don’t you take the lead,” Ben suggested.

  She gave a quick nod, but she was still distracted, studying Darien. Still evaluating. Wondering where she’d fit. And how. “Sure, I can do that,” she said. “Better yet, if you can give us a few minutes to set things up, Elle and I will show you what we’ve got and what we’ve managed so far.”

  Darien nodded back, agreeing without any apparent reservation. “That works. I’ve been traveling for three days to get here and I could really use a shower and a change of clothes. Why don’t I freshen up, and then come and find you.”

  Jessie was about to direct her to the nearest bath when it occurred to her that Darien had keys to the house and could probably find her way on her own. “All right. We’ve set up in one of the rooms on the second floor. The one with the tiny perfect replicas of Michelangelo’s David all over one wall.”

  For a moment she thought she heard Darien groan, but she could have been mistaken.

  Pushing away from the counter she’d been leaning against, Darien tossed the remains of her apple into a compost container and rinsed her hands before reaching down to pick up the saddlebags.

  “You’ve probably not eaten,” Ben said. “Can I interest you in some pizza?”

  Darien shrugged. “The apple I just ate must have done the trick because I’m not very hungry anymore. How about I let you know after I’ve showered?” She moved to go, but as she reached the doorway she paused briefly. “If I can ask one question before I go—of all the rooms available in this house, why would you choose to work in the second floor dining room?”

  Jessie looked at her curiously. “I don’t think we gave it much thought. Ben said we could use anything on the first two floors and it seemed like a good work space. The room has a long table in it and Wi-Fi, which more than compensated for putting up with the images of David. Elle’s our resident tech expert, and she was able to set up our computers and hook us up to an agency base station.” Unable to see why it mattered, she moved her shoulders restlessly. “Is there a problem?”

  Darien cast a glance at Ben before she shook her head. “No. No problem. Go set up. I’ll be back down in a bit.” Before anyone said another word, she pivoted and left the room.

  As soon as Darien left, Elle moved to follow. “I’ll go get things ready. Both of us don’t need to do it.”

  Jessie absently agreed and waited to hear Elle’s footsteps receding as she climbed the stairs before turning to Ben. “I suppose the good news is that no one’s on the kitchen floor bleeding out,” she said dryly. “But since we’re supposed to be working on this together, the question just begging for an answer is when you were going to tell us about Darien.”

  She studied Ben’s expression, but it remained inscrutable as always
and told her nothing.

  “I wasn’t trying to hold anything back. But there was no point in saying something to you if Darien wasn’t coming. And since all I got from her was an acknowledgment she’d received my e-mail asking her to meet us here, I wasn’t all that certain she’d agree to help.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s got this…I can’t exactly call it a rule, because Darien doesn’t do a lot of rules. But she doesn’t normally take on back-to-back jobs without some kind of break in between. Not if she can help it, and she just spent the last five weeks in hell-and-gone Afghanistan, deep in the middle of something.”

  Jessie raised her eyes to his. “My mother described you as an old friend and said she worked closely with you when she was in the field. And you’ve got a long history with MI6. So I’m guessing you don’t need to be told we can’t afford to have someone on the team whose head isn’t completely in the game. It makes it dangerous for them and everyone around them. If your friend Darien doesn’t want to be here…”

  “Darien will be fine.”

  “Because you say so?”

  “Actually, yes.” Ben’s jaw flexed, and for a moment or two, he seemed far away.

  Jessie waited in silence until he raised his eyes again. “About Darien?” she prompted.

  “Right.” He rubbed his hands together and she felt him studying her in much the same way he had when they’d first met, days earlier. “What do you need to know?”

  “Maybe start with who she is. Is she MI6?”

  “Once upon a time, maybe, but not anymore. She wasn’t any fonder of politics than she is of rules. Says she prefers autonomy.”

  “Who doesn’t,” Jessie responded neutrally. “But it doesn’t mean she won’t work whatever side of the street she happens to be on. Does anyone hold her allegiance?”

  “Since I’m the only person she’s ever trusted enough to be her handler, I suppose I do.”

  Jessie frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”