The Spy Wore Red

by Wendy Rosnau

  Jacy pointed the rifle. “If I’m willing to do what? Crawl?”

  “Take it easy. This is the deal. I’m scheduled for surgery in two days. The problem is, I had planned to be Bjorn’s while he’s in Austria. I need you to agree to take the position while I’m laid up.”

  “From this chair?”

  “Why not? I would be sitting at my desk, so you can sit here in your cabin. I’ve brought you a technician wizard, a crackerjack physical therapist to speed up your recovery, and all the equipment you’ll need for both.”

  “And if something goes to hell, and Bjorn needs a pair of legs?”

  “He has a pair of legs backing him. Long, thoroughbred legs. Did I mention she’s blond?” Merrick smiled, then turned serious. “This can work, Jacy. Give it a chance. I thought you and Bjorn were friends.”

  “Cheap shot.”

  Merrick shrugged. Waited.

  More profanity rolled off the deck.

  Pushing Jacy was a gamble. He didn’t push easy. Then again, Merrick didn’t have a whole lot of choices at the moment. He needed a reliable man, and Jacy was as reliable as Maalox. Even from his wheelchair this was something he could do, and do well.

  He heard the safety mechanism click on the gun. Watched Jacy relax the rifle across his lap. Then, without a word, Jacy turned his wheelchair around and pointed it toward the cabin door. He gave a sharp whistle, and a few seconds later the door swung open.

  “How did he do that?” Vic asked. “I thought you said he was living up here by himself.”

  “He’s one spooky son of a bitch,” Tommy whispered. Merrick started up the stairs as Jacy disappeared inside. He crossed the deck and reached the door, then stopped when an animal that looked more like a wolf than a dog blocked the entrance.

  Chapter 6

  Nadja hung her cape in the closet, and as she turned she saw that Bjorn had left his coat on the floor. She scooped it up along with his scarf, her intention to hang it with hers in the closet. But when her hand came away covered in blood, she stopped, examined his coat and knew immediately what had happened—Bjorn had been shot.

  She replayed the scene at the airport in her mind, detailing each frame as if she’d filmed it. She accounted for each gunshot. There had been four. The first two had missed her by less than an inch. The fourth had taken out the van’s rear window.

  But the third…

  Nadja spun around and grabbed the doorknob leading into the bathroom. She didn’t bother to knock, or announce that she was on her way in. She simply barged inside, her voice clearly announcing her anger, if not her arrival.

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  He turned before she got the words out, a .38 aimed at her chest.

  She ignored the Beretta and scanned his body looking for the hit. He’d been standing at the vanity, his torso naked, a bloody washcloth floating in the sink. There was blood matted in the hair on his chest. A trail of blood moved over his collarbone.

  He said, “That kind of entrance usually buys a bullet.” He laid the .38 back on the vanity and turned to face the mirror again. “You in a hurry to use the can?”

  “I asked why you didn’t tell me you were hit.”

  “I wasn’t hit.”

  He angled his neck and that’s when she saw it—blood oozing from his torn flesh.

  She tossed the blood-soaked scarf at him. “Partners share everything, Odell….”

  His eyes found hers in the mirror. “Everything?”

  “Everything that matters involving their mission.” She walked up behind him and examined the wound from behind, then she locked eyes with him in the mirror once more. “No, you weren’t hit at all. I’m just seeing things, right? Your neck isn’t really ripped open. And this isn’t real blood.” She swiped at the blood with a slender finger.

  “It’s blood, but—”

  “But you weren’t hit?”

  He turned and let her get a front view of the two-inch wound. “If I’d been hit I’d still be carrying lead,” he said. “Tell me I’ve missed it.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “The bullet only tickled me.”

  “Tickled you?”

  “I felt it, that’s all,” he explained. “It touched me.”

  “You’re touched, all right. Are you sure it didn’t touch you in the head, too?” Nadja glanced down at his open duffel. He had an extensive first-aid kit sitting on top, and a number of prescription bottles. “Do you always travel with a drugstore at your disposal?”

  “It can’t hurt. You never know who is hiding in an alley.”

  He had deliberately brought up the alley. He was going to batter her with that memory the entire trip?

  She scowled at him, then squatted to rummage his medical supplies. She located a needle and thread, gauze and a scissors. One by one she took them out and placed them on the vanity.

  “It’s not going to stop bleeding without stitches.”

  “Excited about causing me more pain?”

  Without looking up at him, she said, “You flatter yourself, Odell. Not much excites me these days. Certainly not spending the evening in a hotel bathroom sewing up your neck. You’re supposed to avoid flying bullets, not step in front of them.”

  “If I hadn’t stepped in front of this one, it would have taken the back of your head off.”

  She had been reaching for the needle and thread. She stopped and glanced up, studied his face in the mirror. Was he serious?

  Suddenly a grin parted his lips. “This reminds me of another time and place. How about you? Remind you of anything?”

  “Actually, no. It doesn’t bring back a single memory.” “That’s too bad. My memory is crystal. Should I share?”

  “No, thanks.” She turned away and headed for the door, determined to let him bleed all over himself the entire night.

  She was almost through it when he said, “Six stitches should do it.”

  She stopped, looked over her shoulder. “You’re Mr. Survivor. Sew up yourself.”

  “I would, but the angle’s wrong.”

  “That’s too bad for you, isn’t it.”

  “Weak gut? The smell of blood make you sick? Which is it? Or is it the thought of touching me that’s bothering you? I don’t see why. It didn’t seem to bother you five years ago. In fact—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Come on, Nadja. Help me out. You said partners share everything. Lend a hand, for the sake of the mission.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then shifted her attention to the wound. He was testing her, and if she didn’t pass the test there would be more coming at her until she proved to him that she wasn’t going to crumble under pressure.

  She glanced at his neck. He was right. It would take six stitches minimum. Eight would be better, and there would be less scarring if she went left to right.

  She wished he needed twenty stitches; his asshole smile was starting to grate on her. She wanted to wipe it off his handsome face with a hard slap.

  She returned to the vanity and picked up the needle. A test indeed, she thought, one she was going to pass with flying colors.

  They were going to be spending days and nights together, and she had better get used to the scent of him under her nose, as well as the sound of his voice echoing in her ear.

  “Sit down, and shut up—” She pointed to the toilet seat.

  When he settled, she came forward with the needle in one hand and a cotton swab moistened with rubbing alcohol in the other.

  Resigned to what she had to do, she ran the threaded needle over the alcohol swab, tossed it in the garbage, then straddled his thighs.

  His body was rock hard, and it regenerated a vision of them in a shower. She was conscious of her heart pounding, and his. Conscious of the fact that his expert training would key on the slightest change in her manner if she wasn’t extremely careful. She willed herself to wiggle on his lap—to prove to him he wasn’t the one in control.

  She continued to w
iggle, rock back, once…twice. The third time she felt him, felt him solid and hard between her thighs. She wet her lips, tried not to remember what he looked like naked.

  She said, “Don’t make any sudden moves, Odell. This needle is sharp and I don’t want to hurt you…much.”

  He was naked, but he didn’t remember being stripped and put to bed. There were several blankets covering him, and they felt good. He felt safe.

  Holic blinked awake, and when he saw Pris, he smiled. “You’ve changed your hair, and you’re even more beautiful then I ever thought possible. Your mother said so, but—”

  “Never mind about me, Father. How are you feeling? Mama said you’ve been hurt, and I’ve seen your hand.”

  Holic fumbled with the bedding and reached out with his good hand. She took hold of it and bent her head and kissed his palm, then pressed his hand to her cheek and held it there.

  “Mama said not to worry, but you’ve been sleeping for an entire night and one whole day.”

  He dismissed what she was saying and continued to stare in appreciation. It was true, there had been significant changes in Pris since he’d seen her six months ago. She had always been a pretty child, then a stunning teenager. But in the six months his beautiful daughter had grown into a regal swan.

  Mady had warned him that he would be surprised, and he was. They had done well making their daughter, a child he hadn’t wanted. No, not at first. But now…

  Oh, yes, he wanted her now. She had Mady’s gentle smile, but her dark eyes and black hair were his, as was her flawless olive complexion. He liked that, seeing himself in her. Liked having his seed so prominently displayed.

  Pride filled Holic. He had never wanted to be a father. When Mady had told him she was pregnant, he had been furious with her stupidity. He had wanted to strangle her that day. Nine months later he had wanted to strangle the baby.

  But he hadn’t, and now Pris was his most sacred possession. His flesh and blood.

  “How do you feel? Are you in pain? Your hand—”

  “Will be fine. Where is your mother?”

  “Mama had to go downstairs. Some problem in reservations. What do you need? I’ll get it. I’m yours for the entire day.”

  Holic smiled. “Such a generous and obedient child.”

  “I’m no longer a child.”

  “A slip of the tongue.”

  “Are you hungry? I had stew sent up. And Sacher torte.”

  “Mady’s chocolate cake is very good.”

  “I made it this time. I’m almost as good a cook as she is now. Can we talk?”

  “About what?”

  “Your accident. How it happened?”

  “It was work related. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Years ago he had told his daughter that he worked as a government assassin. He had wanted to teach Pris an appreciation for guns, and it had been a way for him to do that without explaining his work in detail. The idea had proved to be a brilliant one. They target practiced when he came home for visits, and they had built a special bond that was now unbreakable.

  “My injury will keep me here a while to convalesce.”

  “Here at Groffen?”

  “Why not?”

  Prisca’s smile lit up the room. “I just thought you would go somewhere warm. You do that sometimes.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  She beamed. “How long will you stay?”

  “As long as it takes for my hand to heal.”

  She continued to smile at him. “Do you realize that in the time we’ve spent together you’ve never told me what your favorite color is, or your favorite food. How crazy is that?”

  Holic didn’t have a favorite color or food. He said, “Red, I think I like the color red best. Bright red. And to warm my belly, your mother’s apfelstrudel. Now answer a question for me.”

  “All right.”

  “Have you been still practicing?”

  “I knew you were going to ask me that.”

  “And?”

  “Every day, just like you said I should.”

  “Then you’ve improved?”

  “You’ll have to decide that. But not for a few days. There’s a storm outside and it’s shut down almost everything. But as soon as it moves off, I’ll show you what I can do. Are you hungry? Do you want some stew now?”

  Holic glanced down at his useless hand. There was still numbness and swelling, and he feared what that meant. A bloody curse on Bjorn Odell, he silently vowed. A bright red bloody curse.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll feed you until your hand gets better. It will get better, won’t it?”

  He had fallen asleep in the bathtub drinking Sebor, the Czech version of absinthe. The famous “bad stuff” could peel paint, or put you six feet under in one damn big hurry if you drank too much of it.

  He hadn’t wanted to die, he’d just wanted to be put out of his misery for a while. To be transported somewhere else was what he’d needed after Nadja had finished with him on the toilet seat. She had taken great pleasure in driving that needle into his neck ten times. Or had it been a dozen?

  But that hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as the pain she’d caused him below the waist. That lap dance she’d done on him had been both heaven and hell.

  He hadn’t needed his bones warmed up after that, or anything else for that matter, but he’d climbed into the bathtub nonetheless with the Sebor.

  The bottle had gone down smooth and easy. It had eventually killed the memory of her ass stroking his crotch, but only because he’d passed out. Passing out wasn’t normal for him. His system was used to potent liquor, even rotgut. But he had definitely passed out.

  The other thing that wasn’t normal was the pounding headache he’d woken up with. It felt like someone had used his head for target practice.

  What the hell had he been thinking? Someone had just tried to kill them at the airport, and he had answered back by getting stinking drunk and scrambling his brains with Sebor.

  If there was serious drinking to be done you did it in a safe environment—on your own time. He knew the rules. He was the one who had written the bible.

  See, this was why he should have chosen Polax’s rain-or-shine brunette. Mistake number one had just been made. He reached for his pants and pulled them on. Still feeling like crap, he walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. The room was cast in shadows, and he remembered that he’d drawn the shade and the curtains when he and Nadja had first arrived. He focused his eyes on the bed. It was empty.

  In that split second he realized that he was on a roll—mistake number two had already been made. He’d trusted Nadja to keep her ass in the room.

  She should keep going, Nadja thought as she drove into Salzburg headed for Innsbruck. But the memories were too strong and they pulled her off course. Before she knew it she was heading for the river, a lump swelling her throat.

  For a moment she thought she was going to cry, but she couldn’t. Numb, then. That was all there was left inside her, an empty numbness.

  The snow was still coming down, so heavily that she couldn’t see across the River Salzach. It had been a slow drive from Vienna, but the roads were open.

  She pulled to the curb, letting the engine idle. She sat there a long fifteen minutes before she pulled back onto the road and crossed the river.

  She took the principal thoroughfare, Getreidegasse on her way to Stift Nonnberg. The route was laden with memories, and with them came a deep sadness.

  She parked out front and went inside to inquire at the front desk. She asked for Sister Catherine, then waited while a young woman left the desk. A few minutes later an elderly nun appeared, but it was not Sister Catherine.

  “I’m sorry, Fraulein, but Sister Catherine left the convent.”

  “She left?”

  “She took a position in Innsbruck a few years ago.”

  “Do you know which convent?”

  “She didn’t go to a convent. She accepted a private position.
I’m sorry but I can’t tell you more than that. Verzeihung.”

  “No, wait!”

  The nun turned. “I contacted her once through Father Ruger at Wilten Parish. Maybe he’ll be able to help you.”

  “Father Ruger? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  A dozen questions followed Nadja out the door. She left the city, keeping a close watch on the weather and the rearview mirror. With any luck Bjorn was still passed out in the bathtub at the pension and fate would continue to rescue the night.

  Still, Bjorn would be furious when he woke up and found her gone. More furious if he learned that she’d spiked his Sebor with a sleeping pill from his traveling pharmacy.

  Nadja reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone and left Bjorn a message. He was not a man to trifle with. He was a rat fighter after all. One of Onyxx’s resilient badasses.

  That’s why she wasn’t going to fool herself into thinking that a little pill and a bottle of Sebor would slow down Bjorn Odell for long.

  The smartest thing to do was plan for the worst.

  The message read, “Meet me in Salzburg at the Bergland at midnight. Room six. Nadja.”

  The message would have been believable if she wasn’t heading southwest out of the city on the main highway, Bjorn thought.

  The tracking device he’d slipped into the hem of her red cape last night on their ride to the pension was steadily blinking. He glanced at his watch, then checked the map.

  It was obvious she was playing a game with him. The question he needed answered was, was it her game, or an agenda assigned to her by Polax?

  Bjorn flipped open his cell phone and punched in Merrick’s number, but instead of hearing his commander’s New England accent on the other end, Jacy Madox’s rusty voice came over the line.

  “Hey, bro, how’s it hangin’? Or isn’t it? From what I hear, the weather there can shrivel a prune.”

  “You heard right,” Bjorn agreed. “What are you doing picking up Merrick’s private phone? You’re not back in D.C., are you?”

  “No. I’m still in Montana.”

  “Where’s Merrick?”

  “In the hospital.”