Elite Ops Complete Series

by Lora Leigh

  She was going to die. And unlike Trent’s “death,” hers would be forever.

  Dots danced before her eyes as she struggled to breathe. Darkness edged at her mind and her eyes grew dazed as she watched his arm pull back. Watched the blade glint, sunlight striking off it, nearly blinding her.

  As she accepted the fact that she couldn’t throw him, couldn’t evade that night, a curious roar filled the air. It was enraged, animalistic, and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in primal response.

  As the swift arc of the knife closed on her throat, she was suddenly free.

  The unexpected rush of air had her strangling, oxygen wheezing through her lungs as she was jerked roughly from the ground and shoved into the dubious protection of the tall hedges that made the corridor.

  She slumped in the snow, shaking her head as she fought to understand exactly what had happened. When she managed to clear her vision and focus, it was over.

  John’s fist rammed into Alberto’s bloody face, the force of it driving the other man’s head back and slumping him to the ground.

  “Take care of this.” John jumped back from the body, scooping the knife up as he moved as he turned to Travis, his gray eyes snapping with storm-cloud intensity. “I want to know who hired him and why before you return. Understood?”

  Travis nodded sharply before using the ripped sleeve of Alberto’s long-sleeved shirt to secure his hands. He ripped the material away casually, tied it tight around the other man’s wrists, then hauled him up until he could toss him over his shoulder.

  “Bailey.” John was beside her in a second, his hands going to her arm where a long, narrow slice oozed blood.

  She blinked up at him.

  “Took you long enough,” she managed to wheeze. “Where the hell was Greer’s security? He has cameras every other fucking foot and no one saw this?”

  She could feel the anger beginning to burn in her fast and hot. If he wanted her dead that bad, why not just use a bullet?

  “The security force was called to check an intrusion on the other side of the property.” Raymond and Myron stepped into the corridor. “We had a break in the fence. A young boy who had been hired to distract us. Supposedly so your good friend Alberto could sneak in to see his girlfriend.”

  She glared at the two men. “Someone hired him, told him where I was.” She moved to her feet as John wrapped his arm around her and lifted her against him. “It had to have been someone here.”

  They looked at each other, frowned, then turned back to her.

  “No one involved in our special negotiations would have done this,” Myron informed her. “They would have known better. Warbucks doesn’t want you dead, Bailey. As you yourself know, there’s no desire to see your vast holdings left to charity. Why else would an order have been given to Orion to keep you alive?”

  Myron made the statement so casually. As though the death of her parents meant nothing, whereas her own would mean a loss of financial holdings.

  “I’ll find out who it was,” John stated. “Travis will question Alberto before dumping his body where it will serve as the best message to anyone else stupid enough to threaten me or mine.”

  Could a man’s tone, or his words, more clearly declare ownership? Bailey shot him a glare beneath her lashes. She didn’t belong to anyone, least of all an arrogant “dead” man who had no intentions of sticking around once his mission was complete.

  “You trust your man in this, then?” Myron asked. “We could have taken care of it here.”

  “You didn’t take care of your security, gentlemen,” he snarled. “I’m beginning to doubt the safekeeping of any item my clients may purchase as well. You can’t ensure the safety of your guests.”

  With that, he lifted Bailey into his arms, carrying her as though her leg had been sliced off rather than her arm scratched deeply.

  She’d actually come out of this little fight much better than she had expected to, she told herself. She was still alive. She might not need stitches. She was still breathing and John was rabid with anger and concern.

  What more could a woman want?

  Pain shot through her, perhaps mockingly, as the slice in her arm throbbed. She let herself relax in John’s embrace, though, and allowed him to slip her through the back of the house and up the stairs to their room.

  Guests were none the wiser, and hopefully there would be no gossip to take care of later. If she could just get through this, get the wound cleaned and bandaged, then she should be good to go. At least until the next attack. Damn, she could use a vacation.

  “From now on, you don’t enter that garden,” John ordered roughly as he laid her on the bed. “Understood?”

  “Yes, boss,” she murmured mockingly as the door opened again.

  Looking up again she watched, her expression closed, as Jerric Abbas and his rumored lover, Catalina Lamont, entered the bedroom and closed the door behind them.

  “Is she all right?” Jerric asked quietly, his voice, his manner calm and unfeeling.

  Bailey felt tears come to her eyes. How like David he still was, despite his attempts to appear otherwise. The same look in his eyes, the same tight controlled line of his lips when concerned.

  She remembered that same look on his face when she had trained with the Mossad during her first year with the CIA. Each time she’d been hurt he’d carried the weight of it, as though he blamed himself.

  “I’m fine, just a little scratched,” she told him, wincing as John moved back to her and tore off the one sleeve of her T-shirt.

  “Stitches?” Catalina moved closer. “Is Greer or his henchman sending a surgeon?”

  “A surgeon?” Bailey muttered. “It’s a scratch.”

  “It requires stitches,” John informed her tightly as he jerked his cell phone from his pants.

  Hitting speed dial, he waited a second before saying, “She needs stitches.” He listened to whatever the response was on the other line before flipping the phone closed and shoved it back into the clip.

  “Greer already has someone on the way,” he stated, his voice low.

  “Probably a butcher.” Bailey groaned as she turned and stared at the wound, frowning. “It’s not that bad. Some salve and a bandage and I’ll be good to go.”

  “Stop being so stubborn.” It was Jerric who voiced the order, his tone as commanding as any general’s. “The wound needs proper care no matter your … feelings.”

  He started to say something else. Bailey turned her head and narrowed her eyes.

  “No matter my aversion to needles,” she finished quietly for him. “Why didn’t you just say it?”

  “Enough.” John was suddenly in her face, his expression furious. “You need stitches whether you want them or not. Just as you’ll need an antibiotic shot. What about tetanus?”

  “Updated.” She glared back at him. “Don’t order me, John. You’re not the boss of me no matter what you believe.”

  “Stop arguing with me or I’ll have you sedated on top of it,” he threatened. “And stop baiting Jerric. He has enough problems dealing with that one.” He jerked his head to Catalina, who smiled innocently.

  Catalina. Tehya. God, these people had more names and identities than she had socks. Jerric was married as Micah Sloane, to one of the nicest young women he could have found. Risa Clay had been terrorized by her father before his death, and after. When Micah had been sent in to protect her from Orion, there had been no doubt he had fallen in love with her.

  “Some men enjoy being difficult.” Catalina crossed her arms over her breasts as she gave the men another falsely sweet grin. “Jerric is one of the most difficult.”

  Jerric grunted at that before turning back to John as he straightened from the bed.

  “If everything is well here, then Catalina and I will leave for the time being,” he told John. “If you require any help, please let us know.”

  Bailey nearly rolled her eyes.

  As they left she turned back to John, watch
ing as he moved to the bathroom and seconds later returned with a damp rag. Wiping the blood away, he surveyed the cut again.

  “It doesn’t need stitches.” She sighed again. “Come on, John. I know my own body. It’s not hurting nearly bad enough to have to do that.”

  “And I said stop arguing.”

  He obviously wasn’t going to pay attention, and honestly, she was so bruised and sore at the moment that she really didn’t give a damn.

  “Make sure he has painkillers,” she muttered. “And that he numbs it. I’m not in the mood for more pain if you don’t mind.”

  Like Jerric, he grunted at the comment, obviously put out.

  It wasn’t long before Raymond Greer’s surgeon arrived. A plastic surgeon even. What the rich and famous could accomplish in a small amount of time.

  John ushered in the two men, standing back with Raymond as the surgeon checked out the wound.

  Bailey closed her eyes at the first shot and winced.

  “That better be a painkiller,” she told him.

  The white-haired doctor chuckled. “Of course. I know my job, my dear,” he assured her before he laid out what he needed to work.

  Bailey turned her head, refusing to look as he sterilized the items he pulled free. Minutes later she felt a sharp prick, her head jerking back to the surgeon furiously.

  “It will numb the area, young lady,” he said, frowning back at her. “Or would you prefer to feel each stitch going in?”

  She would have thrown up. Her stomach roiled at just the suggestion. She turned her head again, watching John and Raymond from her peripheral vision curiously. The painkiller was making her head a bit woozy, but even she could detect that there was more going on here than there should have been.

  They were talking in low whispers, their voices too soft for her to make out the conversation.

  Her lashes were drifting closed as, once again, she made a mental note to ask John exactly what was going on. Right now, she was tired. The crash from the adrenaline, the shock of the wound, the certainty she’d felt that she was going to die, only to take that next breath, all combined and piled down on her.

  She was drifting in a nice, warm sea, surrounded by darkness, a feeling of security wrapping around her as long as she could hear John, sense him in the room.

  He was there. She could rest. There was no reason to struggle to remain awake to protect herself. John would protect her.

  “I’M FINISHED.” DR. DREYDEN rose from the side of the bed and meticulously packed away the bloody gauze and items he had used to stitch the wound shut.

  A bandage covered her upper arm, stark white against bruised flesh. The doctor tucked the blankets around her and stared down at her with a crooked smile before shaking his head. She seemed to have that effect on everyone.

  “Thank you for coming in, Dr. Dreyden, and as always for your discretion.” Raymond shook the doctor’s hand before leading him to the door. “Send me the bill, please. I’ll make certain everything is taken care of.”

  “It’s going to be quite a bill, my friend,” the doctor informed him. “This was my vacation, you know. My wife will pout for days.”

  “I’ll call the resort myself,” Raymond said. “I understand you’ve been trying to get reservations into one of the exclusive restaurants in town. Casamara’s?”

  The doctor paused. “We’ve yet to obtain a time.”

  “I’ll make certain you have an open reservation,” Raymond promised. “On me. I’ll take care of everything and have the owner of the restaurant contact you soon.”

  The doctor’s brows arched as he thanked Raymond before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

  “Who was it?” Raymond murmured at his side. “Has Travis contacted you yet?”

  John shook his head. “Not yet. He will soon.”

  “It wasn’t Warbucks,” Raymond promised him. “The moment Myron informed him of the attack, he went crazy. I could hear him screaming in rage over the phone myself.” He paused for a moment. “I’ve never heard Ford scream like that. I’ve never known of him to be that furious.”

  “I’ll find out who it was,” John promised before glancing at Bailey again. She was sleeping. Finally. “I’m going to have to tell her,” he stated quietly as he turned back to Raymond.

  He was going to have to warn her soon that Raymond was actually working for the good guys. Not that he expected her to believe it. Not at first.

  Raymond grinned at that. “She enjoys hating me, John. And I have to admit, it’s been fun having carte blanche to irritate her. Mary knows me too well now. I can’t irritate her near as easily.”

  Raymond and Mary’s marriage was truly a love match. Raymond loved his new wife despite her money and the power it had given him. It hadn’t gone to his head. He’d used it as he could, though, to further the investigations that his position placed him in the path of.

  He was a damned good agent himself. Sometimes, too good. He enjoyed pretending to be the bad guy far too much.

  “Find out what’s going on,” John ordered as Bailey shifted against the bed restlessly. “Tell Warbucks I’m pissed over this. I suspect he’s behind it. Suggest finishing this deal up to appease me. If word gets out that he attacked my partner, then it could damage his standing among those willing to bid for the product. They may not trust the product enough for an optimum bid if they don’t trust him any longer.”

  “Good thinking.” Raymond nodded. “I know Myron has already suggested that fear to me, so it should be simple enough.”

  John nodded as Raymond turned and walked from the room, leaving him alone with Bailey and the knowledge that he should have kept her closer to him. He should have refused Warbucks’s demands that she not be a part of the negotiation process, that he preferred to work with John alone for that. The good-ol’-boy system had placed Bailey in danger, and he didn’t like that. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Checking his watch, he picked up his cell phone and dialed.

  “Richards,” Ian answered on the first ring.

  Moving closer to the white-noise generator, John checked on Bailey again quickly.

  “She’s fine,” he stated into the connection.

  “Kira was concerned,” Ian said carefully. “We were coming to check on her later, before we leave. Kira’s uncle has had a small emergency and requires her presence.”

  It was code. Kira’s uncle was actually in perfect health; the phrase was a signal to pull the group together and prepare for the final phase of the mission.

  It was coming together. John could feel it moving closer, that surge of adrenaline, that sense of danger coming closer.

  “Give her uncle my regards. I hope everything is well with him,” John said.

  “I’ll do that,” Ian murmured. “We should be there in an hour or so to tell Bailey goodbye. Will she be awake?”

  John didn’t see how, but knowing Bailey, it wouldn’t surprise him.

  “Perhaps,” he answered. “In any event, we’ll see you when you get here.”

  He disconnected the call and paced back to the bed before pushing his fingers through his hair and exhaling a hard breath.

  He couldn’t believe he had very nearly let her down. That he had almost allowed her to be taken out of his life. One thing was for certain. It wouldn’t happen again. And when he found out who had given Alberto Rodriquez her identity and hired him to kill her, then John promised to exact a very painful revenge.

  He checked his watch again, paced the room, and waited for Travis to call. Waited to know the name of the man who would soon die.

  RAYMOND ENTERED HIS PRIVATE office rather than the library and glanced at Myron, who sat with his hands in front of his head before the blazing fireplace.

  The man looked haggard, but he invariably did whenever he was forced to deal with Warbucks. There had been a time when Raymond had wondered if Myron’s employer, Samuel Waterstone, was the traitor, but he had dropped that idea rather fast. Waterstone more amused Myr
on than anything else. Warbucks kept Myron’s nerves on edge, though.

  “He’s still upset?” Raymond asked as he moved back to his desk.

  “The man is a psychopath.” Myron sighed.

  Over the past years Myron had taken to confiding in him, as though he needed someone with whom to discuss the issues that concerned him over Warbucks. In the past years, the traitor had been concerning Myron more and more. The rages were becoming more violent, the orders often more dangerous.

  “Perhaps after this deal, we’ll have a bit of a break,” Raymond stated. “He usually takes a small vacation before planning his next venture.”

  Myron shook his head. “Do you realize how many men died stealing those missiles, Raymond? Good men.”

  The men who stole those missiles hadn’t been good men. They had been mercenaries who worked for an exorbitant price. All the same, many had been killed during the theft Warbucks had set up. It didn’t matter how many generals you blackmailed for certain information; you’d still have loyal soldiers. A lot of good soldiers had died. American boys whose lives should have mattered more than they had. That was the waste there. Those were the good men who had lost their lives.

  “It’s going to be hard for him to top the sale of these missiles.” Raymond shrugged as though it didn’t matter either way to him. “Hasn’t he stated that each sale will be bigger than the one before it?”

  Perhaps that was what worried Myron. It sure as hell worried Raymond, because the only thing bigger would be biological weapons.

  “He’s going to get us all killed.” Myron rose to his feet, paced to the mantel, and stared down at the fire before lifting his gaze to Raymond once more. “I’ve worked with him for sixteen years now. I’ve watched him, year by year, getting more and more dangerous. He’s convinced he can’t be caught. That luck so favors him, he can’t lose.”

  That didn’t sound like Ford. Still, Raymond knew there was much he didn’t know about his brother-in-law. Ford kept his own council except for the three men he had grown up with. Waterstone, Claymore and Menton-Squire were his only friends. His only confidants. Raymond couldn’t see him confiding this in the other three men, though. He sure as hell knew they weren’t working together on it. They couldn’t agree on the time of day, let alone something as important as the theft and sale of American military weapons.