by Cindy Dees
Ashe transmitted to the team at large, “Be advised. We may be rescuing two hostages and not just one. Repeat: two possible hostages. Hank and her brother.”
Ashe guessed that Perriman wasn’t in a position to be chatty at the moment, given how quietly he’d confirmed Max’s identity and given that he didn’t dive in and start rebriefing the mission now. So as the second most senior member of the rescue team, it fell to Ashe to work through the ramifications of this new wrinkle with the team, to make sure everyone was on the same page.
“The brother, henceforth to be referred to simply as Max, may be one of the kidnappers—or he may be a hostage himself. I will have to make that call on the fly. If I deem him hostile, you are green-lighted to neutralize him as necessary. Same rules of engagement as the other hostiles.”
He hated saying those words. Hank would never forgive him if she found out he’d given his team permission to kill her brother, if required. But if Max was indeed part of the gang of mobsters, he would have to suffer the same fate as the others.
“If I deem Max to be a hostage or nonhostile, we will extract him simultaneously with Hank.”
The various members of the team acknowledged the update by quietly muttering, “Copy,” or by clicking their throat mikes twice.
When everyone had checked in, Ashe asked grimly, “Say physical status of Hank and Max. Do we have two healthy and ambulatory hostages?”
“They’re hugging,” Trina replied drily. “Affirmative on ambulatory for both targets.”
For now. Assuming neither of them got shot up before the night was over. And he got the feeling that was a mighty big assumption.
* * *
Hank gulped as Max set her away from him, murmuring, “Ready for this, sis?”
“No. But it’s not like we have any choice.” She hadn’t been exactly ready to work in the Who Do Voodoo, or to get romantically entangled with a Special Forces operative, or to be an unwitting hostage in an illegal arms deal. But here she was anyway.
Max nodded tersely and turned away from her. “Stay out here until I call you in. This first meeting has nothing to do with you.”
Hank stepped back into the shadow of the yacht’s bridge as a group of men moved into the brightly lit salon. She gasped as she recognized Vitaly among the half dozen men. He looked tenser than she’d ever seen him. She also spotted the bouncer who usually stood guard at the entrance to the lap dance lounge. Had Vitaly brought the guy along to act as muscle to protect him, or just for show? She wouldn’t put it past the creep to bring along his own bodyguards to make himself look more important.
Surely this meeting between Vitaly and his bosses was some sort of reckoning over the stolen money from his club. Given that she’d emptied all the money out of his safe, she had to believe he hadn’t passed his weekly quota of cash up the chain of command. She looked on with interest, curious to see how pissed off his bosses were about it.
Hank couldn’t hear the meeting for the most part, but she didn’t have to. Remi was angry and did a lot of gesturing with his hands. Vitaly talked at length and did a lot of hand gesturing back. Except his hands were moving placatingly, pleadingly even, while Remi’s hand gestures grew increasingly agitated. A few of the loudest words floated out to her on the deck: phrases expressing fury and worry over a security breach. From what she could ascertain, Remi was a lot more concerned about covers being blown than money.
Covers? Why would a mob outfit be panicked about those? Wouldn’t a mobster be most concerned about the cash? Or maybe about looking weak to his enemies?
The silver-haired Russian got progressively redder in the face, and Vitaly grew progressively paler. Yikes. If even Vitaly was scared of this Remi guy, then he must be as psychopathic as her brother said.
Eventually, Max stepped between the two men and appeared to play peacemaker. Vitaly took advantage of the interference to ease backward several feet. From her vantage point, Hank was able to see Vitaly surreptitiously unbutton his sports jacket, as well. He must have a gun under his coat and want quick access to it. Not reassuring.
Remi looked surly at her brother’s interruption, but gradually looked more willing to be talked down off the emotional ledge. As Remi unwound, the men standing around the edges of the room relaxed, also. They clearly took their orders from the silver-haired Russian. He was the top dog around here, then.
Funny how she’d spent so many months searching for Vitaly’s secretive boss, and now that she finally knew who he was, it didn’t matter. She’d already found her brother without uncovering Remi’s identity. That was how life always seemed to go. When she finally got something she wanted worse than anything, it didn’t really mean anything by the time she got it.
Although Ashe had been a notable exception to that rule. She hadn’t known how much she wanted him until she’d run away from him. Hadn’t realized how much she trusted him until he wasn’t there to look out for her. Hadn’t understood just how deeply she felt about him until she’d tried to rip him out of her heart and found him firmly lodged there. No doubt about it. She loved him. It wasn’t that she loved her brother more than Ashe. It was...different. Her brother was family. Ashe was...
She didn’t know how to finish that thought. He was the breath in her lungs? The fire in her belly? The laughter in her heart? All of the above?
It had been foolish to come out here without telling him where she was going. He would have vetoed her coming, of course. But now that she was trapped aboard a yacht full of armed, violent men, this caution sounded pretty darned good.
Hank sighed as her brother continued talking to Remi inside. She really wished she’d thought all this through first. But then, her impulsiveness always had gotten her into trouble. This pickle was worse than most, however. She might actually die this time around. If she made it out of this mess alive, she really ought to settle down and live a nice, quiet, boring life restoring old, ugly paintings. Maybe she would get a cat. Take up knitting. Yup, the quieter the life, the better. Except Ashe would never stand for boring. He was Mr. Action-and-Action. She wasn’t in his league no matter how hard she tried.
Max stepped back from Remi, a momentary look of relief flashing across his face. Her brother moved over to the bar and poured himself something amber-colored and alcoholic. The tension in the room drained as quickly as it had flared up before.
So fast Max didn’t even have time to set the glass down before Remi whipped out his Makarov pistol from under his coat and shot Vitaly’s bouncer in the face at point-blank range.
Hank lurched backward against the bulkhead in horror. That man had just been shot! She couldn’t see the bouncer’s body on the floor, but she could see Remi take two quick strides forward and point his pistol downward toward the floor. The man pulled the trigger again.
Vitaly stared down at his man in a combination of horror and terror. He had to be thinking he was next. God knew she did. What kind of monster was this Remi guy? And why in the world was Max working with him? Panicked so much she couldn’t breathe, let alone move, she looked up at her brother.
And got yet another shock, almost as bad as seeing Remi shoot Vitaly’s man. Max looked bored. Utterly and completely bored. He’d just witnessed a man’s murder, and he looked about as interested as if he’d been casually cleaning his fingernails.
Stunned, she stared more closely at Max’s face. There might be a miniscule hint of tension around the corners of his eyes, but a person would have to know him very well and look very closely to see it. Since when had her brother become such a cool customer and so completely unimpressed by bloody violence?
An abrupt sense of not knowing Max at all coursed through her.
She’d seen Ashe shoot a man in the backyard of his parents’ house, and it hadn’t fazed her. That had been a kill-or-be-killed situation in which the other guy shot first, and she’d been delighted to live, thank you very much. Was Max more like Ashe than she’d realized?
When in the hell had that happened? Two
of Remi’s men dragged the body outside onto the deck, and she backed away from them in horror, retreating to the farthest corner of the deck from the trail of blood leaking out of the towel wrapped around the guy’s head.
The men rolled the body overboard, and a big splash announced the end of that poor man’s life. She’d barely known him, and he’d always been gruff with her and the other waitresses, but he’d been a human being, for crying out loud.
Max stuck his head outside, sparing her only the briefest of glances before he spoke to Remi’s men. “You know you’re going to have to fish that corpse out of the water, right? We can’t leave it here for anyone to find. In the morning, you’ll need to collect the body, take it into the cypress swamps and dump it.”
“Yeah, fine. But in the meantime, it won’t bleed all over and make a huge mess for us to clean up.”
Max shrugged. “I hear ya. Good thinking. Remi wants you guys to head down to the aft deck. The American arms dealer should be here soon, and you guys need to frisk him. Check him for weapons and wires.”
“Sure thing, sir.”
Sir? They’d called her brother “sir”? They took orders from Max? What the heck?
* * *
Ashe rounded a point of land and spotted the marina up ahead. It looked just like the satellite pictures he’d seen of it this afternoon, except lit only by scant moonlight now. Not that the low light conditions posed a problem for him. He preferred operating in the dark.
“Oy!” A sailor aboard the yacht shouted to him as he maneuvered close to the large vessel. “Tie up here!”
Tie up to the yacht itself? Not a chance. He waved off the man and pulled up two slips away from the yacht. He jumped ashore quickly before the guy could stop him and slip-tied his own craft. The knot would release with a single tug of a rope if he had to get out of here in a hurry.
“You are clear to proceed, Hollywood,” Perriman murmured in his ear.
Ashe strode down the dock to the looming yacht. He had memorized the floor plan earlier in the day and knew the gangplank would be located on the far side of the ship.
The guy whose instructions he’d ignored met him at the entry point, looking annoyed. Ashe lifted his arms without having to be asked, pasted on a patient expression, and waited for the guy to frisk him. He wasn’t worried about this thug finding any of his hidden gear. The SEALs’ reputation as the most feared and best-equipped Special Forces outfit on earth wasn’t earned for nothing.
“This way. They’re waiting for you,” his escort growled.
He’d bet they were. If he was legit and this arms deal went through, the Russian mob in that part of the country would be better equipped than most of the law enforcement agencies in the region, let alone the other criminal elements.
Ashe stepped up into the crowded salon. Vitaly Parenko was seated off to one side. The guy looked shaken. Probably had something to do with the shooting Trina had reported over the radio about thirty minutes ago. Ashe identified the shooter standing at the far end of the triangular space, a white-haired man who looked about fifty years old. Max had apparently called him by the name Remi.
He’d been tentatively identified by the support team as Vitaly’s boss and the man giving the orders around here. Ashe observed Remi closely. For a man who’d just shot and killed someone, he was shockingly calm. He didn’t show even the slightest hint of stress. Interesting.
Vitaly moved as if he were going to stand up, but Ashe wanted to cut him out of the power equation in the room as soon as possible. He strode past Hank’s boss, went directly to Remi and held out his hand. He said in Russian, “Asher Konig. Pleased to meet you.”
Remi blinked owlishly. Apparently no one had told him Ashe could speak Russian. “Ochyen priyatnuh.” Very pleased. “You may call me Remi.”
No last name, huh? Remi was probably an alias, then. That was okay. Jennie would already have a picture of the guy from Ford and Trina and be running his face through every database, legal and otherwise, in existence.
“Drink?” Remi offered.
Vitaly piped up, “He likes expensive vodka.” Hank’s boss was trying to regain some status by reminding the big boss that he was the one who’d brought Ashe to this meeting.
Ashe threw Vitaly a disparaging look. “I never mix alcohol and business. A club soda with a twist of lemon will do just fine.”
Remi nodded slightly, not necessarily in approval at Ashe, but more as if he were checking off a demonstration of credibility. “Tell me about yourself,” the Russian demanded.
Ashe perched a hip on a tall barstool and arched an eyebrow reproachfully at the guy. “How offended would you be if I asked the same of you?”
Remi held out his hands and said expansively, “I am an open book. Ask me anything you wish to know.”
Ashe shrugged. “I don’t need to know anything except the color of your money.”
Another miniscule nod from Remi. Then, “You do not wish to establish trust with me before we do business, Mr. Konig?”
“Call me Ashe. And no. I trust nobody. If you double-cross me, I’ll kill you. And I expect the same of you in return.”
Remi’s hands moved from collar to pants pocket to a button on his sports coat. The guy’s shoulder holster was clearly visible as a bulge under his left arm. He didn’t like that answer from Ashe. Which was fine with him. He’d just as soon keep this criminal mentally off balance.
“Vitaly tells me you are in the import-export business.”
Since there was no question in that statement, Ashe merely sipped his club soda, forcing the Russian to carry the conversation. It was amazing the things people would reveal in their discomfort over awkward lulls in conversations.
“I am in the same business. Although I mostly import sin to America.” He seemed to think that statement was hilarious and laughed at his own joke. Ashe did not join in.
Abruptly Remi’s cackling cut off. “I do not like you, Mr. Konig. You do not accept my hospitality and drink my vodka nor do you laugh at my jokes.”
Ashe shrugged. “I have no vested interest in doing business with you. If my weapons are not appealing to you, I’m happy to sell them elsewhere.” He set down his drink and stood up.
“Not so fast, my friend.”
Ahh. So now he was Remi’s friend, huh? Ashe sank back onto the stool and took another sip of his club soda.
“Did you bring a sample of what my man, Vitaly, discussed with you?”
“Would I be here if I didn’t?” Ashe replied drily.
“Show me these weapons of yours, then.”
“Show me the girl.”
Chapter 19
Ashe stared icily at the Russian psychopath as Remi asked innocently, “What girl?”
Mission or no mission, he was done playing games with this ass. He was collecting Hank and getting out of here, now.
Ashe stood up. “I am a businessman. You took the girl as insurance that I would come and that I would bring you weapons. I have done both, and my patience is growing short.”
“You like the waitress, then? She’s good in the sack, yes?”
Ashe merely gazed at Remi, his stare flat and cold. He let all his years of lethal training and every bit of his dark experience with violence seep into his eyes.
“All right, all right. We have the girl. Bring her in.”
If Hank was working with the Russians, they were either willing to give her up to him permanently at this point, or else they wanted her to stay undercover with him and burrow deeper inside his business.
The thing was, she hadn’t shown any interest whatsoever in the weapons that he and Bastien and Perriman had chosen to dangle as bait in front of the Russian mobsters. The guns had never come up once in conversation with her. If she were a plant by the mob, surely they would have wanted her to find out how many guns he had access to, where they were, and who else he was prepared to sell them to.
The sliding door to the foredeck opened and Hank stepped inside, squinting in the bri
ght light. She looked as beautiful as ever. Unharmed, if apprehensive as she glanced in the direction of his shoes. A rush of relief washed over him so hard it threatened to throw him entirely off his game.
“Come here, Hank,” he bit out, his throat tight. He held out his left arm and she rushed over to him, burrowing herself against his side. “These gentlemen treat you all right?”
“Umm, yes. Fine.”
Either that was real fear in her voice or she was the best freaking actress in the universe. If she was working with these guys, she obviously was convinced her usefulness to them had ended and that she was expendable. No way did Perriman have it right. She wasn’t in cahoots with these Russians.
“I have a little business to conclude, and then I’ll take you home. Why don’t you go wait outside?”
“No,” Remi barked. “She stays in here.”
Ashe’s back molars ground together. Dammit. He’d wanted to get her away from Mr. Trigger Happy. “Fine. Whatever,” he conceded. “There’s a wooden crate in my boat. If you’ll have a couple of your guys carry it over here, you may inspect the merchandise.”
While Remi’s men fetched the crate of rifles, Ashe allowed himself to make eye contact with Hank. She looked scared out of her mind. But he also saw a core of determination not to give in to that fear. He let a hint of encouragement creep into his expression.
He caught sight of Max studying him intently and perhaps a bit hostilely. Maybe if the guy had stuck around to look out for his sister, she wouldn’t be huddling against some arms dealer’s side instead. Not that Ashe was complaining. She felt like a little slice of heaven next to him. He would get her out of here safely if it was the last thing he did.
Ashe asked huskily, “You hungry, kitten? Thirsty?”
“No, thank you. I ate a little while ago.”
She was trembling against his side, and it damn near destroyed him that there wasn’t much he could do about that. “This shouldn’t take long,” he murmured to her. “Just be a good girl, okay?”