by AJ Quinn
Darien exhaled and shook her head. “No allergies, but let’s keep it to a local.”
Price looked at her with questions and skepticism in his eyes, and she felt forced to explain. “I’m not a fan of pain, Dr. Price. But I’ve had some experience with narcotics and I hate how they make me feel even more.”
There was a tense, silent moment before he shrugged. “All right.” He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and began the task of removing bandages and methodically cleaning and stitching, trying to put her back together.
Just like Humpty bloody Dumpty.
Beyond clenching her left fist and an initial painful intake of breath, Darien didn’t make another sound as Price cut through the bloodied field dressings covering the bullet wound. She gritted her teeth and gathered her resolve around her like a cloak, ignoring the pain radiating up her arm and the persistent pounding in her head.
Once she had successfully distanced herself from the pain, she looked down and watched Price make progress on her arm. With the bandage removed, she could see now where the bullet had entered her right arm at a shallow angle just above her wrist and continued for several inches. No wonder it hurts.
She watched him inject something that stung ridiculously but then numbed the area, providing an incredible measure of relief while he cleaned debris out of the wound. He then began making a neat row of tiny stitches. “This will probably scar, which is too bad because it’s a nice arm. But it should fade given time. Or you can see a plastic surgeon once you get home.”
Darien bowed her head tiredly. “I’m not worried,” she said. “It’s certainly not the first scar I’ve gotten and I somehow doubt it will be the last.”
Price nodded and continued working on her arm. Once he was finished, she obliged him by lying down and raising her chin a notch. But she couldn’t prevent a wince and closed her eyes when he probed the contusion on her forehead before adding several more stitches to a cut just below her hairline.
When she opened her eyes again, she watched warily while he put a brace over the fresh bandages on her forearm and slipped a cotton sling around her neck. She met his gaze and expelled a long breath but didn’t say anything.
“It’s meant to stop you from doing any further damage to yourself,” Price said in response to her unasked question. “Not that I hold much hope in that regard.”
Darien knew he was right. If stopping Petrov meant she needed to act, she would block out the pain, disregard any personal risk, and do whatever had to be done. But for now she was beyond thinking, beyond caring. The past twenty-four hours had yielded little sleep and an excess of adrenaline. And she knew the adrenaline that had been insulating her was no longer working, just as the combination of pain and lack of sleep had her eyes gritty and burning.
She bit her lip and struggled to remain alert. Noted that her hands had begun to shake. She took an extra moment, inhaled a slow measured breath, and tried to sit upright, but only managed to prop herself up on her elbows before she was forced to abandon her effort. The failure left her feeling even more bruised, and agonizingly vulnerable.
She was aware that Price was maintaining a watchful eye on her and had remained where he stood by the bed. He reached for her wrist and checked her pulse one more time, then started calmly responding to Ben, who had somehow held his questions in check until that moment.
Darien tried to concentrate and listened to Price explain his primary concern—the combination of a mild head injury on top of a recent concussion.
“Two recent concussions,” Ben corrected.
“Two?” Price all but glared at her, but she refused to look away. She could feel his displeasure and could hear the mild reprimand in his voice. Their gazes held a moment longer, but any scathing lecture he might have delivered was forestalled when Jessie placed a gently restraining hand on his arm.
Distracted, he glanced at Jessie before turning back to her. By then, Darien knew the moment had passed. Nodding to himself, Price cleared his throat and explained the head injury would likely result in some blurred vision, headaches, and possibly some dizziness. But none of it was exactly news to her—she’d been experiencing all the symptoms he was describing since regaining consciousness after crashing her bike.
“Maybe we can blame her not telling you about the second concussion on the fact her brain’s a little scrambled,” Ben said with a smile. “What about her other injuries? How long before she’s able to be back on the job?”
“Darien’s lost a fair bit of blood, but I’m guessing no matter what I suggest, she’ll be back on the job sooner than she should be,” Price responded dryly.
Darien choked back a laugh then clutched her side and groaned.
Jessie immediately leaned closer, reaching for her hand. “What’s wrong, Darien?”
Aware of the comforting heat of Jessie’s touch, Darien allowed herself to be distracted by the circular motions of Jessie’s thumb on the back of her hand. She closed her eyes, tried to clear her throat, and finally managed to say, “Nothing.”
“Don’t give me that. Tell me. What is it?”
“Don’t let him make me laugh. It hurts too much.”
It was Price’s turn to laugh. “That’s because of the bruises on her chest. Just maybe they’re what will keep her still for a while.”
The scowling words all but visible on the tip of Jessie’s tongue were preempted by Ben. “Head injury. Bruises. What else?”
Aaron Price scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The bullet that struck her arm didn’t break any bones, but I’d recommend she go for some physical therapy. The rest of her injuries are mostly cuts and bruises, and no more than one should expect after flying off a motorcycle.”
“So she’ll be okay?” Jessie asked.
“I’ll give you a qualified yes,” he said. “Her blood pressure’s a little low, but she’s strong and she’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t overdo it. Perhaps you’ll have more luck convincing Darien that means allowing herself time to heal, keeping the stitches dry, getting enough rest, and letting her body get to a point where all the bruises are actually gone before she adds new ones.”
“Good luck with that,” Ben responded dryly. “You’ll find she’s damn near impossible to manage.”
No one paid much attention to Darien’s aggrieved sigh. But that was all right. At least the worst was over. Then again, maybe not. Before leaving, she watched the doctor draw a syringe. “What is that and is it really necessary?”
Price met her gaze. “Your biggest risks right now are shock and infection, so yes, it’s necessary.”
He didn’t wait for her to agree as he lifted her T-shirt, slid her shorts down until he found bare skin, and injected Darien’s hip over her muttered protest. He then pulled a thin blanket up to her shoulders, wrote down an emergency number where he could be reached, and handed it to Jessie.
“I’ll leave some tablets for the pain, but because of the head injury, I’d rather she not take anything for a few hours, if she can handle it.”
“Please don’t bother. I’ve no interest in taking any painkillers,” Darien murmured, but she wasn’t certain anyone was paying attention. Wearily closing her eyes, she listened to the rise and fall of voices before they grew distant and faded. And as the shot began to take effect, she felt the throbbing in her arm and head slowly ebb.
Chapter Twenty
The sun that had been struggling to break through the clouds had disappeared again as Jessie looked down from the window and watched Ben escort the doctor back to the waiting helicopter. All too aware that her nerves were starting to fray, she walked back toward the bed and regarded Darien. Her eyes remained closed, but there was tension visible in the stillness of her body, and as she searched her face, she knew Darien was still awake.
“Now that everyone else is gone, do you want to tell me how you’re really feeling?”
A blink—just one blink—was the only immediate response she got as Darien opened her eyes. But if carefully controlle
d and cool detachment was what Darien was aiming for, the effect was spoiled by the pain evident in the lines of strain on her face and the stubborn lock of sweat-dampened hair falling across her forehead and into her eyes.
As the silence stretched between them, the temptation to brush the hair back from her forehead was so strong that Jessie actually lifted her hand to do so. Thankfully, she caught herself at the last instant, crossed her arms, and hugged her elbows tight. “I’ll interpret your silence to mean you’re hurting like hell.”
Darien blinked again, but this time she met Jessie’s gaze. “How is it you know me so well after such a short time,” she mused, her words sounding soft and almost as bruised as her body.
“Lucky, I guess.” Jessie smiled a little. “But just so we’re clear, I have no intention of listening to the standard answer I believe you give for everything from a paper cut to multiple gunshot wounds.”
Darien bit her lip and groaned. “Please don’t make me laugh, Jesslyn. I’m begging you.”
She considered Darien’s words before opting for mercy. “All right. But you have to be honest and tell me how you’re really feeling.”
“You really won’t let me tell you I’m fine, will you?”
Darien looked at her and sighed when she shook her head. “No. I want the truth, Darien, because what happened today was much too close. I need to believe you’re okay.”
“I am okay.”
“You could have died.”
“But I didn’t die. I’m right here.” As Jessie waited for her to say more, Darien blew out what sounded like an exasperated breath. “All right, how about if I admit I’ve been better? Would it help if I told you I feel like I’ve been run over? Not that I ever have, but I have a feeling this might be what it would feel like.”
Jessie tried hard not to laugh. “That good?”
Darien gave a wry shrug and as she looked up a ghost of a smile touched her lips. “All things considered, I’m well aware I was lucky this morning. That it could have been worse. As it stands, it’s only bruises and a few stitches, all of which will heal, and I’m not only alive, I’m pretty certain I’ll survive to fight the good fight another day.”
Darien’s gaze on her face suddenly felt different—almost like a caress—and as Jessie listened to the soft cadence of Darien’s voice, something in her mind focused, sharpened. She became keenly aware of the liquid heat that inexplicably ran through her veins every time Darien looked at her.
Except this wasn’t all that inexplicable, was it? She suspected she knew exactly what it was. She could even pinpoint the moment things had changed. It had happened when she’d heard the sound of gunfire. When she’d feared for Darien’s life.
She closed her eyes then opened them instantly. She didn’t like the bleak vision that appeared, showing her just what could have happened. Shuddering, she raked a hand through her hair and pushed the image back into a dark corner of her mind. But pretending what happened hadn’t changed anything was next to impossible, and she had to come to grips with an attraction she wished she wasn’t feeling.
You are so screwed. She wasn’t ready for this. Wrong place, wrong time. Certainly not when there was still a job to be done and a terrorist organization that not only needed to be located, it needed to be stopped. Fight the good fight indeed.
But denying or ignoring whatever was simmering between her and Darien simply wasn’t working any longer. She leaned closer and took a deep breath.
She quickly discovered that was a mistake because she ended up inhaling the faint scent of sandalwood that had been teasing her senses. She also realized if Darien tilted her head up, she could easily kiss her mouth, and Jessie surprised herself by actually considering it. It took a long moment to rein in the impulse.
As the seconds ticked by, Jessie realized Darien had been silent for much too long. She needed to say something. Something amusing. Something blasé. But as she inched closer, still wanting to but not allowing herself to touch, a modicum of truth slipped from her lips before she could stop it. “It seems I need you to do more than survive, Darien.”
Darien flashed a half smile that failed when the lines of strain bracketing her mouth grew more pronounced. Her expression became grave and watchful, and although it was obvious she was in pain, it was equally apparent she was determined to tough it out. At least her eyes were brighter than they’d been since she’d awakened in the safe house, the sharp intelligence clearly visible once again. “I’m sorry,” Darien said. “It’s not been one of my finer days. I didn’t mean for that to sound quite so flippant.”
“I know you didn’t. But I’m serious. For at least the next week or so, I not only need you to survive, I also need you to not fly off motorcycles. Or cage fight. Or do anything else that will add to the damage you’ve already inflicted on yourself.
“I hear you.” A grin—lightning quick and just as lethal—made a brief appearance. “But I’m afraid that’s a promise I can’t make.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not me you need to tell. You need to talk to Nadia Petrov.”
Jessie stiffened. “What do you mean? Why Petrov?”
“Because unless I’m seriously mistaken, she set me up and tried to kill me earlier this morning.”
“Well, I know that—”
“No, I mean she tried to kill me, Jesslyn. Not Ari.” Her smoky gaze narrowed before her eyes slid closed. The silence stretched until she continued in a quiet voice. “If Petrov truly believed Ari was an arms dealer, this morning’s meeting would have taken place. But it didn’t. Instead, she tried to kill me, and with a little bit more luck or slightly better aim, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
*
Darien licked her lips and tried to remember when the thought had first occurred to her, but everything was hurting too much and the answer wouldn’t come. The only thing she knew for certain was that her words had rocked Jessie, and as they stared at each other, Darien was certain she could all but read her thoughts.
Was it possible? Did Petrov know who Ari really was? Did she know Darien was the woman who had killed her father and helped destroy his organization fifteen years earlier? And, if that was the case, how the hell had it happened?
She knew a lot of time and effort had gone into crafting her cover story. Creating Ari. If the legend had remained intact as it should have, Nadia Petrov would have gone ahead with the meeting that morning. Everything should have gone according to plan. She would have negotiated the purchase of the weapons, and they would have followed the weapons back to Petrov’s lair, effectively terminating the threat, capturing everyone involved, and putting an end to the Guild once and for all.
That was how it was supposed to work. That was how it should have worked.
But instead of following a carefully scripted plan, the day had swiftly and decisively gone to hell. Her legend appeared to have been compromised from the start, their communications had been expertly jammed, and but for a bit of luck, she would have been killed. Now, the only thing that mattered was figuring out how to stay alive long enough to see things through.
She closed her eyes, aware for a moment only of how fiercely her head was pounding and how badly the stitches in her arm burned. But even as her thoughts began to spiral into free fall, she had to admit she appreciated the irony the situation presented.
The children of Arianna Troy and Dmitri Petrov going head to head all these years later.
The events from fifteen years earlier had bound them, and it was clear neither had managed to break completely free. Nor would they—not while there were loose ends. And there was no question. As tangled as it was, the skein that was their lives was continuing to unravel. There were loose ends everywhere.
“Your bike,” Jessie said suddenly. “Yuri said Petrov wanted you to come alone on your motorcycle. That would seem to imply she had a certain level of knowledge. Personal knowledge. Is there any way she could she have traced you through the Ducati? Could it h
ave helped her somehow find out who you really are?”
Darien shook her head. Wincing, she bit her lip and tried to sit up without much success. “The Ducati was set up for Ari as part of the legend from the time of purchase. Complete with all registration documents and its license plate.”
“All right. What about Yuri?”
“Again, I’d have to say no. It’s not that I haven’t considered the possibility, but Yuri’s only ever known me as Ari. And the first time we met goes back a long time. Almost ten years. I was working a covert operation, and the team arranged for me to get into a small fight club where Yuri was part owner.”
“Ten years ago? Jesus, Dare, even I can do the math. Are you telling me you started cage fighting at eighteen?”
“Actually, I’d been fighting for more than a year by then, but I never fought anywhere Yuri would have either seen me or heard of me.”
“How can you be certain?”
Darien would have laughed if she had the energy. “Because my earliest fights took place in Thailand. In some hardscrabble villages no one ever heard of, where I was gathering information on a British gun runner selling arms to the FARC. And trust me when I tell you, my own mother could have had front-row seats to any of those fights and wouldn’t have recognized me.”
As her determination to continue wavered, she felt the walls closing around her, pushing closer. She needed time to think. Maybe after her head stopped throbbing, and after the world stopped spinning, she’d be able to think.
She was grateful that Jessie’s presence kept even darker thoughts at bay because the meeting with Petrov on the side of the Black Forest High Road had morphed from a simple covert operation into something much more sinister. It became a trap.
It became an execution.