by Rachel Grant
“Not anymore.”
She’d shown her cards too soon. It was a solid move, but spying was too deeply ingrained. After years in the business, he couldn’t handle love and the vulnerabilities it invited. But that didn’t change the fact that he wanted her. If she let him, next time he’d seduce her properly and wouldn’t be a raging ass afterward. “One week,” he said.
She raised a brow in question.
“The Hay-Adams or wherever you want to go. I can give you a week.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want ephemeral. I can get that from a bar pickup seven days a week. That’s not what I want from you.” She stood and left the room. A moment later, he heard her in the kitchen, offering to help wash using words she must have learned from the women in the nomad camp.
Pain lodged in his gut over the finality in her rejection. He’d expected it. Hell, he deserved it. But it didn’t make accepting it any easier.
He occupied himself before their departure with helping the soldiers prep for the river crossing: checking fuel tanks, and rehashing the plan, going over the maps. Busy work, as well as a strange ending to what had been an intense, private journey.
At last they were on the boat, a familiar, simple aluminum riveted hull propelled with an outboard motor and tiller steering. He could be back in Chicago prepping for a day on Lake Michigan, except this was nothing like that, with everyone on the boat armed with machine guns and the precious cargo to be delivered was the woman he wanted with every beat of his cold heart.
The crossing itself was almost anticlimactic after everything they’d been through.
A large, dark Humvee waited on the rise above the opposite bank. The team of Kurdish soldiers pointed their machine guns at the vehicle with unflinching vigilance. Ian pulled his own gun, and motioned for Cressida to do the same.
They would take no foolish chances.
The skipper steered the boat toward the beach, raising the motor as he did so. They ran aground, and two soldiers in front hopped over the bow onto the truncated beach.
From the shrubs that lined the bank, Ian heard the prearranged bird call. Sean Logan and his team.
Upon hearing the sound, Cressida tucked her gun away and jumped over the gunwale, splashing into the shallow water as she raced up the beach.
“Cressida! Wait.”
She ignored him, completely unmindful that she’d just created a target of herself. Ian would be dammed before he let anyone take a shot at her. He darted after her, catching her around the waist and pulling her back against his chest. “Wait.”
She shoved at him. “Let me go! We know it’s Sean.”
“Yes, but there could be others. Like Zack. And Todros. They could be waiting to take a shot at you.”
She froze. “Damn. I’m sorry! I didn’t think—”
“It’s okay. This isn’t your world. It’s mine.”
She leaned her forehead on his chest. “Your world sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Their Kurdish escort surrounded them and walked them up the short beach. At the bank, Cressida glanced around for permission to climb. Ian gave a short nod, remaining at her back.
She’d taken two steps up the soft, silty slope, when a black man in fatigues emerged from the foliage, crouched down, and thrust his hand to her. “Hey, Cress. Long time no see.”
She let out a soft squeal and took his hand. He pulled her up and dropped her on the bank next to him, moving as he did so to block her from view of the river. As soon as her feet landed, she threw her arms around him.
Jealousy rocked Ian when Logan’s arms circled her and crushed her to his chest. Christ, he was pathetic. It was one thing to be jealous of Todros Ganem—the son of a bitch had lived with Cressida for the better part of a year—but he had zero cause to be jealous of Logan, and a million reasons to be grateful she counted the man as one of her friends.
But he couldn’t imagine how a man could be her friend and not want her. It was illogical, unthinkable. Like Earth without gravity. Impossible.
For the first time he considered how he’d feel someday upon hearing the news Cressida had fallen in love. That she’d gotten married. Or was having another man’s child.
How could he live with himself, knowing she could have been his, but he’d pushed her away?
He climbed the bank and was proud of himself for not yanking her from the Raptor operative’s arms.
Cressida pulled back. “Damn, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” She nodded to Ian. “Sean Logan, this is Ian Boyd.”
The man offered his hand while giving Ian an assessing perusal. They shook hands. Firm, efficient. Not quite friendly.
That was okay with Ian. And he wouldn’t mind at all if the man would take his hand off the small of Cressida’s back.
The possessive feeling was probably a residual effect of being responsible for her safety for so long.
Yeah. He couldn’t swallow that lie, but if Cressida noticed his reaction, maybe she would.
Logan glanced down at the YPG rebels who waited, and waved to his team. Three men stepped forward, each carrying a large cardboard box, which they passed down into upraised arms.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“We’re paying the ransom.”
“Ransom?” she asked, her voice pitching higher than usual. “Weapons?”
Logan shook his head. “Food. Aid for families caught in the middle. And we’d have brought the supplies even if they hadn’t asked—err, demanded.”
She smiled, leaning into Logan, and the man draped his arm around her shoulder and steered her to the Humvee. “Get inside. It’s armored. You’ll be safe. I need to talk to Boyd.” When she started to protest, he added firmly, “Alone.”
With a frown, she climbed into the vehicle, and Logan turned to him.
Ian nodded to the last of the boxes as it was handed off. “What’s really in the boxes?”
“Like I said, food,” Logan answered. “Raptor doesn’t deal in arms.”
“Anymore,” Ian couldn’t help but add.
Logan nodded. “Not since Rav bought the company.”
Ian smiled as the soldiers loaded the boat. “Did they really demand a ransom?”
“They did. They weren’t afraid to seize an opportunity. Civil war does that.”
Ian silently agreed. If the women who’d picked them up from the steppe had for one moment considered Ian a threat, they’d have shot him in an instant. It didn’t take balls to make a soldier. Far from it. All you needed was desperation, and beheadings by ISIS and a chemical weapons attack on civilians launched by their own government made for a highly desperate population.
“Keith wanted me to warn you, odds are when we land at Andrews, you’ll be taken into custody. Cressida’s word will go a long way toward swaying the attorney general to get involved, but…she doesn’t have the best track record, and there’s only so much Dominick can do. The CIA and FBI don’t always play nice.” Logan’s gaze flicked to the boat. “This is your chance to disappear quietly. We can say there was a firefight during the crossing. You fell in the Tigris.”
Did Logan want him to take this out?
More important, was it what Ian wanted?
If he stayed, he could go after Zack. He had a place in Cizre. He could finish the mission.
Odds were, if he stayed, he’d never clear his name. He’d disappear into the Middle East, never able to return home. The world, his boss, his Delta Force team, they’d all believe him a traitor. But he could still gather intel for his country. It would just be delivered through different channels.
He had no doubt Cressida would try to clear him. With the chip, she might even succeed. But if she didn’t, if she couldn’t, he’d never see her again.
Stay or go?
“I’m going home,” he said firmly. Strange to call it home. He didn’t have a clue where home was.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Erica Scott’s unexpected guests set her teeth on edge.
But then, she’d always considered Dr. Patrick Hill, the executive director of the MacLeod-Hill Exploration Institute, to be something of a self-aggrandizing braggart, and she was biased against Cressida’s friend Suzanne, ever since learning the woman had abandoned Cressida in a bar in Antalya so she could hook up with Hill, right after Todd Ganem appeared.
What kind of friend does that?
The same kind who was now making Cressida’s ordeal all about herself—her fear, her worry, her distress over the bestie she’d ignored as soon as Hill was in the picture. Erica wondered if Suzanne was similar to Cressida’s mother. As a woman who also had mother issues, Erica did understand why Cressida would befriend her.
But still, the woman took drama to a new level, and she wondered how Cressida put up with Suzanne’s aggravating narcissism. Erica had no patience for narcissists, and this couple was a dynamic duo of self-absorption. They also weren’t hiding their disappointment that they’d been shunted in Erica’s direction, rather than visiting with the attorney general, the senator, or even the Raptor CEO.
Frankly, Erica wasn’t all that thrilled to be stuck with them either, but someone had to keep these two entertained and away from Keith, who was in constant contact with Sean while the field operative managed an extraction that included passing through ISIS-held territory in Iraq.
Erica shook her head and stepped into the kitchen to grab cheese and crackers for her guests. She was still baffled as to how her life could include spies, mercenaries, and extractions of friends from the Middle East. She was an underwater archaeologist for the US Navy, married to a tech security expert. Their lives should be bureaucratic and normal, maybe even appear a little dull—although life with Lee would never be dull.
The front door opened. Lee was home. Thank goodness. Someone to share her misery over having to deal with Hill and morning sickness at the same time. She popped a dry cracker into her mouth before delivering the platter to the living room and greeting Lee with a kiss.
He smiled down at her, but there was something in his eye that sent a shiver of fear up her spine.
“Will you excuse us for a moment?” Lee asked their guests.
Suzanne let out a slight sniff. “If it has to do with Cressida, we have a right to know.”
Lee didn’t bother to lessen the coldness of his stare. “It’s personal and none of your business.”
Wow, and here Erica thought she had limited patience for Suzanne. Of the two of them, Lee was the diplomat. This must be big. She cast Suzanne an apologetic look she didn’t feel and followed Lee into their bedroom.
He pulled her into his arms the moment the door closed. “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with them, Shortcake.”
She tucked her head against his chest and listened to his firmly beating heart. “Cressida crossed the river? They made it okay?”
“Yes. They’re driving to Erbil now.”
“Then what’s wrong? Is Cressida hurt? Is there a problem with ISIS?”
“Sean says she’s fine. Boyd didn’t take the out. He’s coming back with her.”
“That’s what we want, right?”
“I think so, but it’s a mess. Boyd is wanted for three murders in Turkey, and Curt just learned Turkish authorities intend to charge Cressida with the murder of Hejan Duhoki.”
“But…Hejan was alive when Cressida left the hotel room.”
“That was according to Boyd, who they think is her accomplice. Apparently, on the day of his death, Duhoki stole a large chunk of money from a relief organization. No one knows where the money is, but he stored the retrieval information on a USB drive. They’re saying Cressida killed him, took the drive, and jetted off to Van with Boyd to collect the money.”
The jet was the most beautiful hunk of metal and machinery Cressida had ever seen. It was bigger than she expected for a private jet, but then, according to Sean, it had long-range capabilities, and could fly from Erbil to DC without the need to refuel. Plus it was part of the Raptor fleet of jets, so while it was at the highest end of privately owned aircraft, it was outfitted to carry mercenary security teams in and out of war zones. Inside, it was divided into sections: the cockpit; the main cabin with a conference area at the front consisting of a circular table and six seats, followed by three rows of seats to hold nine more passengers; a mini galley on one side behind the rows, and a lavatory that included a separate shower stall on the opposite side; and finally, the entire back quarter of the jet was a plush private cabin for dignitaries taking advantage of Raptor’s private security arm.
Trina had flown on the jet with Keith once on a business trip to Rio—as one does when one is dating the CEO—and had told Cressida that after enjoying a private cabin, flying coach would never be the same. Cressida had laughed and called her spoiled, and Trina didn’t disagree.
Now that Cressida viewed the luxurious cabin herself, she had to admit, this kind of comfort would be something she wouldn’t mind getting used to. She flicked a glance in Ian’s direction, well aware that part of what Trina had enjoyed about the flight probably had more to do with Keith’s presence than the fact the mattress was made of memory foam.
Well, Cressida had every intention of claiming the cabin—after a week of sleeping on rocky ground, small cots, and hard pallets, a fancy mattress sounded like heaven—but she had no intention of sharing it with Ian. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him, it was that she didn’t want the heartache and regret that would come later.
It didn’t take long to prep for the flight once they were all on board. Their group included two pilots, Sean and three Raptor operatives, plus Ian and Cressida. In the main cabin, they took seats around the conference table as they taxied to the runway.
“What’s with the door?” she asked. “I’ve never been on a jet with a door that slides to the side like that.”
“It was retrofitted to open in-flight for jumps,” Sean said. “An unusual feature for this type of aircraft, but necessary to deposit operatives in hot zones.”
She nodded and shivered. Jumping out of an airplane had never been on her to-do list. She glanced at the men seated around the table. All were former military of one branch or another, and she knew Sean had been a SEAL, like Keith. “Am I the only one here who doesn’t know how to jump out of a plane?”
The men all glanced around the table, speaking some silent alpha-male language she wasn’t privy to, then in unison, all five nodded.
A reminder she wasn’t of their ilk.
When sitting inside a private jet fleeing the Middle East in the middle of the night, accompanied by a spy and several mercenaries, one might be prone to reflect upon the choices that had gotten them there.
Choices like Todd. Or the decision not to tell anyone about the map. Or her plan to find the tunnel on her own, when she could have invited Todd or Suzanne or any number of students who would have happily participated in the project.
If she hadn’t been so secretive, Hejan wouldn’t have been able to set her up. Ian wouldn’t have had reason to follow her. She wouldn’t have been mugged. She wouldn’t have shot a man in the throat.
As the plane reached cruising altitude, the men around her talked shop. Ian offered minimal details to Sean on their activities after they disappeared in Van. For him, the mission was still classified. Burned or not, he couldn’t talk about it.
Cressida, under no such restrictions, had already provided her version of events on the long drive to Erbil and had little to add to the conversation. She stood and stretched. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to claim the bed, if that’s okay?”
Sean nodded. “It’s yours. Trina called dibs on it for you.” His smile was warm. Friendly. She’d always liked Sean. For a hard-core military man, he wasn’t nearly as closed off as some former Special Forces men she knew.
In the private cabin, she crawled into the comfy bed but wasn’t really tired. She didn’t know what she was. After days of being on the run and on edge, she could let her guard down. At last.
/> She wasn’t sure she knew how.
Even when she slept today in the YPG house, her sleep had been light. Guarded.
Back in her old life, when she was too wired to sleep, she’d pick up a book and read until three a.m., enjoying someone else’s scary adventure from a safe distance. She glanced at the bookshelf and laughed, seeing Keith’s hand at work in the books they offered guests on the plush private jet. True to form, the small library was mostly nonfiction military accounts and arranged according to the Dewey decimal system.
Keith Hatcher, mercenary CEO, closet librarian.
There were a few romances in the fiction section—mostly books by Trina’s favorite author, Darcy Burke—interspersed with the political thrillers Keith favored. Cressida was decidedly not in the mood for a thriller, and frankly, the idea of a romance depressed her. Not that she’d be able to focus on a book right now anyway.
She turned off the light and lay down on the bed, determined to try to sleep. But the dark cabin turned into the dark tunnel, and she spent ten minutes trying to banish the feeling before giving up and turning on the bedside light again.
She was too wound up, too haunted by the events of the last days, to rest.
There was a stack of Raptor stationary in the drawer of a mini writing desk. Cressida pulled out a few sheets and grabbed a pen, then settled on the bed with the paper braced on a hardback book.
When she was a girl, she’d kept a journal, until One found it and cruelly mocked her childish hopes and fears. She’d never again been able to commit her innermost thoughts to paper. Hell, One might even be the reason she’d been so secretive with her dissertation research, burying the information on her own computer’s hard drive.
She crumpled the paper without writing a word and chucked the pen across the room at the same moment the door opened.
“Ow!” Ian said. “I guess I had that coming.”
Her heart pounded at the mere sight of him. It wasn’t good how much she wanted him. “Don’t you know how to knock?”
“I didn’t want to wake you if you were sleeping.”
“Liar.”