by Dana Marton
“Don’t—” By the time she pulled back, wishing she’d slept in her bra, he was done, leaving her midriff bare. The night air felt cold against the sheen of sweat on her back.
He ripped the ribbon of material in half. “Bandages. You have to learn to think on your feet. Come on, up the wall.”
The plastic “rocks” screwed into the boards were as slippery as the rope had been under her muddy boots. He was coming up behind her, but didn’t pass her this time. Maybe he was hanging out to catch her again if she fell. She gritted her teeth and refused to slip. Her shirt was damp with sweat by the time she made it all the way up and straddled the top.
He sat next to her—wasn’t even breathing hard. “That was good. You’re getting the hang of how to distribute your weight when you reach.”
She’d followed the instructions he’d given her last time. A miracle that she’d remembered under the circumstances.
He was a first-rate hard-ass, a government man, so she disliked him on principle—a sentiment common in the hacker community—but he was a hell of a trainer. She admired skill and knowledge in any form. This guy had it in spades. The bad news was most of the time she hated his guts. The good news was she was getting stronger and better every day.
Thunder clapped overhead.
She looked up, then at him. “Did you know men are six times more likely to be struck by lightning than women?”
One eyebrow slid up his forehead. She could have sworn his upper lip twitched. “Hop into your harness. Down we go,” he said and pulled on a rope that hung down the wall on the other side, putting some muscles into play.
He wasn’t hard to look at. If she had to seduce him to get away from him…She had promised herself to do absolutely anything.
Deep breath.
Maybe not that.
After years of abstinence, the thought of seducing anyone should have felt a lot more exciting. But Tarasov—She would find another path to freedom. The thought of cozying up to the man left her feeling jumpy. He was a live wire. Her sense of self-preservation said to stay away from him.
He probably wasn’t as hot as she was beginning to think, anyway. Most likely, it was a case of even stale bread looking tasty to a starving woman.
It ticked her off that she would find him attractive even while thoroughly disliking him. Wasn’t that abnormal? Weren’t women supposed to be attracted to men to whom they felt an emotional connection? Men were supposed to be the ones who jumped at hormones and visuals.
There wasn’t a micron of a connection between the two of them, that was for sure. They were as different as two people could be. She was a loner, a hacker—antiregulation and therefore antigovernment by definition, one hundred percent intellectual. He was on some kind of commando team, a soldier who jumped to decisions made by politicians, a breed that hadn’t got a single thing right since the Declaration of Independence, and he was a muscle man through and through.
She clipped on her harness and stepped away from the wall. Her thigh muscles were trembling, but she held steady, envying Nick’s graceful ease. A flick of her thumb released the catch, allowing her to slide fast enough to catch up with him halfway down. He hadn’t been going full speed.
They finished the rest side by side, unhooked the harnesses and let them drop. Sometimes, when they worked in sync like this, it almost felt as if she were catching up to him in skill. Then he would pull ahead and leave her in the dust—mud tonight—and she would realize how wide the gap between them really was.
“Why pick me for this mission? Everything I know about information-technology security is outdated.” She spit out the question she’d fallen asleep thinking about.
He stopped to look at her. “It wasn’t factual knowledge we were after, it was a way of thinking. You’re good both at logic and creative problem solving. You have outstanding intuition when it comes to complex systems. As far as what you’ve missed—” He shrugged. “You’re a quick learner. It won’t take you long to get up to speed.”
The compliments—although, he probably meant them as simple evaluation—felt nice. And they wanted her to get up to speed, which implied longterm access to computers and the Internet and free time to spend on them. She was out of prison, years early, and what they were asking in exchange was the one thing that had been on top of her do-once-I’m-out list. Visions of computer code danced before her eyes.
“Barbed-wire crawl.” He moved toward the next obstacle. “Let’s go. On the double.”
She recited a colorful string of swear words under her breath—stuff she’d learned in the can—as she followed.
The sun wasn’t exactly breaching the horizon, but the sky was beginning to lighten. He looked like a life-sized action figure in the odd light. His body was hard, carved with muscles, his biceps stretching the black T-shirt that seemed to be part of his uniform. He wasn’t tall, five foot ten maybe, just an inch or so taller than Carly, but you wouldn’t notice until you were right up close. His intense presence and attitude made him seem larger than life.
She dropped to the ground when they reached the barbed-wire grid and crawled through the mud on her stomach, made it without losing any skin off her back. They moved on to the next obstacle, Jacob’s ladder—two poles reaching to the sky with boards between them, which she had to climb, the trick being that the distance between the boards grew the higher up you went, until the last one was wider than anyone could reach so you had to jump to get a hold of it. She gripped the wood with the tips of her fingers, pulled herself up, went over then started her descent.
The inverted platforms came next, an exercise where they had to help each other up a structure that looked similar to an upside down pyramid—square platforms in increasing sizes on top of each other, the gap farther and farther once again. It was an obstacle that couldn’t be conquered alone except for the first level or two. When she reached the critical point, Nick was there, with his hands on her waist to push her up. Then it was her turn to pull him to the next level. As lean as he looked, the man was damned heavy.
By the time they got to the rope bridge, she was beginning to have serious doubts about whether or not she would be able to complete the course tonight. She’d worked too hard the day before, and the day before that. Each day since she’d arrived at Quantico, he’d pushed her to the limit. This time, he was pushing her beyond. Didn’t he understand that her body needed time to recover? She was unsteady with exhaustion, every part aching, pain pulsating through her muscles in protest.
He walked a few feet in front of her, the coarse ropes swaying under them.
“Wait—” Her feet slipped and she reached out on instinct, her fist closing around the back of his shirt instead of the rope that served for railing.
He turned to catch her, but she was flailing with her other arm and shifting her weight too rapidly. The rope bridge swung wide. She fell forward, onto him, bringing down the both of them.
He was splayed on the bottom, as hard as a prison mattress. She lay on top of him, dueling instincts warring inside her, one pushing for her to get up and away, the other to hang on until the bridge stopped swaying.
When he shifted, she was startled by the sudden, sharp awareness that ran along the length of her.
“If you ever find yourself on a rope bridge, trying to bring down an enemy, remember this move,” he said, deadpan.
He was probably laughing his butt off at what a klutz she was. She hoped he couldn’t see her cheeks burning and if he did, he didn’t realize the reaction wasn’t purely the effect of acute embarrassment.
They’d been body-to-body pressed together during self-defense training, but this was different. On the mat, she was too focused on figuring what his next move would be, anticipating the pain when he flipped her and slammed her to the ground. He had told her she had to learn how to fall, how to roll, how to come up and fight even if she was hurt.
This time, as he waited for her to get her bearings and stand up, her focus switched too easily from t
he exercise to the hard body beneath her. Oh, God. She shouldn’t be noticing him like that. She pushed away and scrambled off him, scooting across the bridge as if she were chased by a full platoon with machine guns.
By the time she made it through the entire obstacle course, the rain had stopped and the sun had cleared the horizon. She dropped where she was, breathing hard and staring at the sky, not caring what he thought.
He stood over her with a shuttered expression. “When you recover, I have a surprise for you.”
“As soon as I can get up, I’m going to bed.”
She was so tired, death would have been a relief. Then slowly, another sensation came seeping up through the fatigue. She was feeling kind of…pumped, she realized. She’d done it. Even in the wet night with no sleep, she’d conquered the course. As much as she dreaded the pain and exhaustion of her training each day, a part of her reveled in the challenge of it all, in pushing herself to the limit and discovering new reserves. She found unexpected joy in conquering physical obstacles and she liked the feeling of satisfaction that came with that.
In prison, all they had wanted of her was to keep quiet and out of trouble. But once again, after a long, long time, something was expected of her. That part felt pretty good, actually.
“Ever wonder where the computer labs are?” he asked.
He got her attention. She sat up, hating how effortlessly he was reeling her in. “Am I going to be allowed to go near a PC finally?”
Her stomach growled over the last words. Ever since she’d gotten here, she’d been eating like a pig. She didn’t even want to think about the number of calories she had consumed in doughnuts alone. It was a testament to the grueling training that she hadn’t gained an ounce.
“After target practice.”
“You’re kidding.” After the training she’d just had?
“Seven a.m. every day. The schedule didn’t change. Two straight clips into the bull’s-eye and the PC lab is yours. I’ll make sure your ID is authorized for 24/7 access.”
“Wow, a major vote of trust,” she said with a dose of sarcasm. About time. Up until now, she could only get into buildings, even the dorms where she slept, if he was with her and let her in. And she desperately needed to spend some time with a computer. Alone.
“Deal?” he was asking.
She was half regretting the first deal she’d made with him, with Law and Moretti. Agreeing to their mission hadn’t bought her freedom. She was still locked up, still couldn’t do what she wanted. All she’d accomplished had been trading the prison guards for Tarasov. For the most part, that didn’t feel like much of an improvement.
“I can do it,” she warned him and was surprised when it hit her that she meant it. So far, target practice was turning out to be something she was naturally good at. Looked like all those video games she’d played in her younger years left her with pretty good hand-eye coordination.
The past two weeks had been slowly building up the self-confidence that had eroded to nothing in prison. She had conquered whatever he’d thrown her way. And Nick Tarasov didn’t pull his punches.
He held her gaze. “I never had a doubt.”
“What time is it now?”
“Six-thirty,” he said without glancing at his wristwatch.
She knew him well enough by now to know that pleading or arguing with him would change nothing. She gave him a loathing look and dragged herself to standing, then off into the direction of her room for a five-minute shower and clean clothes, cursing Nick Tarasov all the way.
Four FBI trainees, all men, were starting their dawn run on the track, coming toward her. They all wore the agency logo T-shirt, and had the same haircut.
She looked them over and tried to be objective. Okay, so even in comparison to other fab examples of the male of the species, Nick looked pretty fine. In a lion-safari kind of way—a thrill to look at as long as you stayed in the safety of your vehicle.
She glanced back at him and realized he’d caught her watching the men. He had an amused smirk on his face.
He probably thought she was lusting after those guys. Not that it would have been any of his business if she did. She was an adult. Lust was a valid emotion.
She looked away and tried to picture the kind of woman he would go out with. The song “Bikini Girls with Machine Guns” came to mind.
TSERNYAKOV SCROLLED THROUGH the new e-mail messages on his cell phone as the helicopter banked to the left, circling the Moscow high-rise in front of them in preparation for landing.
The background check on Cal was in, a monster attachment. That would have to wait until he had his laptop from the bag in the back. If it all checked out, he could tell Mamuska to put Anna at ease. He would help her son. He glanced out the window at the people who were waiting for him by the chopper pad, all trusted men.
“Ready for landing, sir?” The pilot asked for his final decision.
Tsernyakov paused. Everything looked okay, which didn’t amount to anything. Everything felt okay, and that was important. He trusted his instincts, so he nodded to the man to authorize landing.
He traveled often and changed direction without warning, scheduled as many as a dozen meetings at the same time, deciding only at the last second which one he was going to attend. If his instincts prickled, he pulled out without hesitation.
The chopper touched down, and he was jumping to the roof the next minute, heading for the elevator entry under heavy guard. His office, one of many, was on the forty-second floor, on the top, overlooking the city. He passed by it and headed straight to the boardroom.
Dmitry waited outside, wearing an expensive suit and a Rolex, his tie pin glinting with a good-sized diamond in it. By the looks of him, he could have been the president of a small republic. Joseph waited with him. The same age and height as Tsernyakov, Joseph was dressed without flair but with precision in a suit that had gone out of style years before, cheap glasses, stack of papers in hand, giving the impression of a lesser clerk or secretary, the same unassuming look that Tsernyakov strove to project.
“Zdrastvuite,” they greeted him and inclined their heads.
His cell phone rang and after glancing at the displayed number, he took the call, listened to the man on the other side of the line. When he hung up, he dialed his broker, sold his stocks in a certain foreign-owned mine in Africa, bought double the stock in another.
“Let’s go,” he said when he was finished, then opened the door to let Dmitry go in first, then Joseph.
“I’m glad we could meet in person.” Dmitry walked to the leader of the group who waited inside and shook hands with a smile, greeted the others before sitting down. There were no introductions. No one offered their names.
The visitors wore ill-fitted suits, the businessman image they sought to project further impeded by their long, scraggly beards that looked out of place in the boardroom. A bunch of fanatics trying to look presentable for the sake of the deal. Who did they think they were fooling?
Joseph and Tsernyakov welcomed the men respectfully, Joseph sitting farther down at the table and putting his papers and pen in front of him, ready to take notes if asked. Tsernyakov went to the server and prepared the refreshments.
“Are you able to deliver the goods we need in the requested volume?” The director of the School Board addressed his question to Dmitry.
A more polite man would have complimented the impressive office building, waited for the tea and coffee being offered before jumping into business.
“The order is unusual in its size,” Dmitry said with a winning smile. “Would you be acquiring it for resale?”
“For personal use,” the director said, taking Dmitry’s measure. He paid no attention to those he considered lesser men.
Tsernyakov brought a tray of tea and offered it around, set the sugar bowl and plate of sliced lemons where everyone could reach them, then went back for coffee. He’d wanted to see the man in person. The School Board and its director had checked out okay. But it
was too big a deal, perhaps bigger than anything he’d ever done before, to agree to without seeing the man face-to-face.
“I’m assuming the order is for worldwide distribution within your organization.” Dmitry dropped a sugar cube into his cup. He was tall and wide-shouldered, as charismatic as a TV star when he turned on the charm. People found it hard to notice anyone else when he was in the room—the perfect decoy.
Tsernyakov worked with a couple of men like him. Certain meetings required personal contact, and he’d much rather show someone else’s face than his own. He preferred to remain in the background and pretend to be a lowly clerk. This way, he could still see face-to-face the people he did business with and get a feel for them, but they wouldn’t remember him. Who paid any attention to servants? If ever questioned, they would give a description of Dmitry or one of his other stand-ins. Besides his inner circle, there were a few dozen associates around the world who could boast having negotiated with him in person. If ever questioned, they’d all give different descriptions.
“Correct.” The director sipped his tea.
“I also have worldwide interests,” Dmitry said. “What is my guarantee that our activities won’t interfere with each other?”
A few moments of silence passed in which Tsernyakov offered coffee to those who’d declined tea.
“You will get one day’s notice and the name of the country,” the director spoke with measure.
“One month’s notice and exact location,” Dmitry responded so cordially that no one would have guessed they were bargaining over the fate of millions.
A few moments of silence passed as the director squeezed more lemon into his tea. “I might not know a month ahead. Plans change. I can give you two weeks and the name of the town.”
Tsernyakov took the tray back toward the server and nodded slightly behind the delegation’s back.
“Let’s talk about delivery,” Dmitry said.
“The sooner the better,” was the director’s enthusiastic answer.
It was business. Good business. Big business. That was all. Tsernyakov hung back. He didn’t feel responsible for the astounding number of deaths that would result. That was the School Board’s problem, their deal.