by Eve Langlais
Help isn’t coming, Fran. But he’d let her think it might be for a while longer.
Darren heard the whisper of steps. He didn’t turn, playing the hapless victim for a woman who’d admitted to her Russian spy upbringing and killer nature.
A woman who couldn’t bring herself to eliminate me, not in Paris or on the rooftop patio on the island.
For some reason, he kept returning to that one glaring fact. She could have murdered him, many times over. Could have, but instead, she’d allowed him to take her prisoner.
Why? That was the one thing he couldn’t figure out. Killers didn’t get cold feet. They couldn’t hesitate or show mercy because they never knew if the one that got away would be the one to put a bullet between their eyes.
A knife didn’t materialize between his shoulders blades, and he didn’t get shoved into the big blue sea. She let him live, which meant she wanted something from him.
Does she want me? He really had to stop with the foolish flights of fancy.
Darren turned to face her. She looked fetching despite her disheveled appearance, her clothes wilted from the rain they’d encountered on the way to the yacht. Navigating the floating dock with her over a shoulder as it heaved with each angry swell had proven interesting.
“This is a nice ship,” she remarked. “Yours?”
“Yes. I managed to get a message out.” When people started dying, he’d decided it was time to get himself and his team off that island. The boat had arrived and docked as the storm hit. Darren ended up boarding it without his team. He left them to clean up the mess so he could deal with Fran on his own.
“Is that the coast?” She pointed at a dark line on the horizon.
“Yes. You going to swim for it?”
“Would you let me?”
“I would, but I feel like I should mention that there are sharks in these waters.” He stared pointedly at her.
She rolled her eyes. “Are you really going to whine about my job again? Kind of hypocritical since your school provides the same kind of training.”
“We’re not the same.” He heard the defensive, angry note in his statement.
“We are. My being Russian doesn’t make it any better or worse. We just work for opposing sides. Why not admit that the real reason you’re upset is because you never once caught on?”
He hadn’t. How could he have been so blind? “I’m not upset.”
“Liar. Anyone can see you are bothered by the fact I’m an agent. Or is it because you were bested by a woman?”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The women I know have always been more dangerous than the men.”
“Then why act so offended?”
“If I were offended, would I offer you a job? Work for me.” Darren had not even known he’d say it until the offer spilled from his lips.
He could see he’d taken her off guard. “I am not defecting.”
“I never said defect. I said work for me. That is what you do, right? Take jobs for rich clients. Or do you only work for Russian employers?”
“Nationality is not a problem.” He could see he’d piqued her curiosity when she asked, “A job doing what?”
“I need a new bodyguard.”
That truly dropped her jaw. “Me? Why? You have your man, Marcus.”
A giant meathead who’d worked for him for years and was now a friend. “I think Marcus might be asking for time off soon.” He’d met a girl. About time.
“So you think it’s a good idea to ask a Russian spy—one who’s been told to kill you—to protect you instead? Are you high?”
“No, I’m practical. Come work for me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I’ll pay you.”
“That’s just it. I’m not an independent contractor. Everything has to go through my superiors.”
“Fine. Call them and tell them I want to hire you.”
“No.” She shook her head. “You’re just trying to fool me.”
“Fool you how? You keep assuming you know me and what I’m going to do.”
“I do know you.”
“Because of Paris? Who says the Darren you met in Paris is the real me?” That person had died. This man was older and wilier, but obviously not wiser. Only an idiot would hire an assassin from the other side.
She shook her head. “My superiors will never go for it.”
“Why don’t you try asking first?”
“You aren’t going to stop until I say yes, are you?” she said with a sigh.
“I’m a man who gets what he wants.” Except with her.
“I’ll need to make a call before I can give you an answer.”
He knew she expected him to balk. Which was why he pulled out a burner phone he had placed on board. The real reason he was in sight of the coast? Just enough signal to get a call out to the mainland.
She eyed him then the phone. “This is crazy.”
Yes. And it felt great. Darren was usually the responsible academy owner. Pushing paper. Ensuring he kept the funding at the right levels, brought in the right kind of specialists to teach. He didn’t have much to do with the students or their missions once they left his training grounds. It just looked like he had close ties with Bad Boy because of his friendship with Harry who fed him stories secondhand. Only recently had he gotten to live an adventure and have some fun. He wasn’t ready to go back to the office and push more paper.
Francesca dialed a number and held the phone to her ear. When she spoke in a rapid-fire stream of Russian, it took him by surprise. Surely, he’d not expected otherwise? Yet it did shock him because he’d heard her speak flawless French, and her English had only a hint of an accent. Now, she showed her linguistic skills with yet another language. The musical beauty of the speech, even if barked at times, captivated him.
What did she say? Had he grossly miscalculated? Was she even now planning her extraction and his demise?
He blinked as her words, in English, penetrated. “Sergei is asking how much you are willing to pay.”
“For what?”
“What do you think? The job.”
Ah, yes. His spur-of-the-moment offer for her to work for him. Because he was fucking insane. However, he couldn’t back out. Not now. Maybe if he under-quoted, they’d say no and let him off the hook.
“Five thousand a day.” The ridiculous sum, five times what he paid Marcus, slipped off his tongue.
She blinked. She spat something in Russian at the phone. Then stared at him. Someone replied. “Sergei says for that price you can have three more agents.”
“No, I just want you.” How true that claim resonated.
She nattered again in Russian. Asked him a few more questions—How long? What kind of danger was expected? Duties? He didn’t say bedroom activities, but he wondered if Sergei did when her brow creased and she barked into the phone.
A frown on her face, she hung up and handed it back. “Congratulations, I now work for you.”
Someone didn’t sound happy. So he just had to push it. “Sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“As your boss, shouldn’t you address me as sir?”
He was pretty sure the stream of language coming from her mouth didn’t have the word sir in it. He waited until she was done to grind her a bit more. “Are we going to have an issue, or are you capable of being a pro?”
Fran struggled with her scowl. “You bought me and now expect me to be your lap dog.”
“As you keep reminding me, this is what you do. I’d think you’d be happy. I’m an easy job. Real easy to please.” Giving her pleasure was what he truly enjoyed.
“I won’t sleep with you.”
“What if someone attacks me while I’m asleep? That happened you know, a few days before my house got blown up.” An unfortunate accident that had happened during an assassination attempt.
“I heard. You need to upgrade your security.”
“And that’s why we should shar
e a room.” He pushed her a little harder.
“I will be close by.”
“You’ll have to be more than close at the end of the month.”
“Why?”
“Wedding. I’ll need you to come as my plus one.”
“Expecting trouble?”
“Only if we’re lucky. It’s a hitman wedding for one of our best students, Reaper.”
“He’s still alive?” She looked impressed.
“You know him?”
“Not personally, but he has been used as an example of not being stupid and living a long, fruitful life.”
It irritated Darren to no end that she found Reaper interesting. “He’s getting married. For real. And we’re throwing a big party. Inviting everyone to it.”
“I take it you don’t like him,” she stated.
“Of course I like him, or I wouldn’t have offered to pay for the damned thing.”
“You like him so much that you would paint a target on him by throwing a large wedding? Is it his friends you hate?”
“Nope. A lot of them are acquaintances of mine, too.”
“It’s a trap,” she finally stated.
“Exactly. We’re counting on drawing the wrong kind of attention. It’s going to be the biggest mercenary bash ever thrown, and all the bad guys are invited.”
Her lips quirked. “Don’t forget the bad girls.”
“Wouldn’t be a party without them. So, you’ll be my date?”
“As my employer, you’ll be required to dress me for the occasion.”
“Of course.”
“I need a weapon.”
“I’ll make sure you have the very best.”
“Not then. Now.”
“What do you mean now?”
She pointed behind him.
He turned to see, wondering if this was when she’d make her move and toss him overboard. Except he realized the distant whup-whup-whup sound was a pair of helicopters, and they were coming toward them.
Didn’t mean shit. They were in waters close to the Keys. Helicopters flew around all over the place. Tourists wanting to see the whales and dolphins. People jumping between the islands. This was an everyday occurrence and nothing to panic about.
Not according to his new bodyguard.
Fran planted her hands on her hips and snapped, “Stop staring like that idiot Ivan who got run over by the tank and show me the weapons cabinet.”
“How does someone get run over by a tank?”
“By being stupid. Like you right now. Where do you keep the guns?”
“Below deck in a locked cabinet.”
“Perfect. After you open it for me, you will find yourself a corner to hide in.” Fran turned into a dominant force of nature and ordered him around.
Not happening. “I am not hiding.”
“As your new bodyguard, I say you are.”
“I’m your boss, and I’m telling you no.”
She glared. “It is going in my report to Sergei that you are a difficult client.”
“For refusing to act cowardly?”
“Refusing a direct protective order, thereby placing your life at risk, which means I must put my life at risk. There is an extra fee for each occurrence.”
“You’re going to charge me extra for being assertive?”
“No, we are charging you more for being stupid,” she corrected, following him below deck.
As he dialed the combination for the safe, she kept craning to peer out the door.
“Hurry up, they are moving in fast.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s for us,” he said.
“Seems awfully coincidental given that there’s nothing around us.”
“If they’re homing in on our location, then it’s because of your phone call.” He paused, leaning against the gun cabinet. “Did you call for help and lie about it?”
She frowned. “Why would I lie? I don’t need help.” She lunged, wrapping an arm around him, jabbing her fingers into his skin, sapping his strength. “I can take care of myself, and you.”
She kept pressing, and he went limp. Too late to curse his own stupidity. The problem with letting his dick and emotions rule him. His eyes shut before he hit the floor.
Chapter Five
Even the biggest men couldn’t fight biology—or pressure points. Darren succumbed, his heavy body slumping as gravity dragged it to the floor. Right in her way, of course. Given his big frame blocked the door of the weapons cabinet, Francesca had to shove him out of the way. Being a smart operative, she’d waited for the click of the safe lock indicating he’d opened it before she took him out—for his own protection.
Darren might have some field skills, but he was a white-collar, operations type who worked with paper and handshakes, not in the field where every decision counted. He lacked experience and know-how. This, however, was what she did. Protect the client. Sergei had been very clear. Even without the money, her orders were to keep Darren alive until further notice. Especially since he might know more about who pulled the strings on the island.
While not well liked, Stefanov remained a person of import. The fact that he’d been killed wouldn’t sit well. It didn’t help that many would wonder if they might be killed next. If a man like Stefanov could fall, then who was safe?
Whoever hunted them on that island was not only well-informed but also well-armed. Just look at the approaching helicopters. Overkill to sink one little boat with two people aboard.
Was someone peeved that Darren had escaped the island and the murder game they’d tried to play? Too bad. When it came to games, Marina didn’t like to lose.
Grabbing a rifle from the cabinet, as well as tucking Darren’s knife into a pocket, she moved to the doorway leading to the deck, the whupping beat of rotor blades loud. She dared a peek, squinting against the dawning light, and noted the choppers getting close but still high overhead. She couldn’t see any markings on them. They were still too far out. But coming in fast.
An exit onto the deck, and the whipping winds caught at her hair. She held the rifle behind her back and used her free hand to cover her eyes against the glare of the sun as she stared at the incoming helicopters.
According to Darren, they could be benign. Her gut said otherwise.
One of them veered off to the left, while the other kept coming.
Closer.
Closer. Dipping low so that it just skimmed the tops of the water.
Closer still. Almost on top of them.
She didn’t loosen her grip on the gun, nor did she stop watching.
Perhaps this was just someone gawking, but instinct had been honed into her from a young age. She knew better than to ignore it. When her gut yelled, Move! she dove sideways and heard the pop-pop-pop and thud of bullets smacking into the wooden planks.
I was right. She couldn’t wait to rub it in Darren’s face because she had every intention of surviving to taunt him.
She ducked around the side of the wheelhouse, brought the rifle to her shoulder, counted to three, and heaved in a big breath. Leaning out, she raised the rifle and sighted almost blindly.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The windshield of the chopper cracked from the bullet that hit it. A ping said another shot ricocheted, while the third appeared to have missed.
Her shooting instructor would have yelled at her for such crappy aim.
She ducked back behind the wheelhouse, turning her face to the side as a spray of bullets splintered the deck. Despite not being a nautically minded person, she knew the boat couldn’t accept much abuse or they’d start taking on water. The battle needed to end now before it was too late, but how to fight against a chopper that even now wheeled about for another run? A pity there wasn’t a rocket launcher in the gun cabinet.
If Sergei had planned this, I’d have a rocket launcher and more.
The boat engine suddenly came to life, a growl to counter the whir of the helicopter blades. Was there someone else on board? She’d never had a chanc
e to check.
A peek upward showed no one driving the ship, yet the anchor was lifting, the rattle of chain automated and startling.
She popped out to shoot again at the helicopter, most of her shots missing but for one. The money shot. She must have hit the pilot because the chopper listed, dipping forward, coming toward the boat. Zaebis!
More Russian curse words might have erupted except the boat lurched, throwing her off balance. She spread her arms, just barely bracing against the wheelhouse as the boat moved out of the path of the crashing helicopter.
One of the revolving blades screamed along the metal railing as the aircraft tipped into the ocean with a big splash. Water sloshed over the deck of the yacht, soaking her feet. Marina ran across to the other side of the boat and got to see the commotion underwater as the chopper kept sinking, the blades still churning until the engine died. What didn’t die so easily was the shooter.
A head bobbed up in the ocean water swells.
Don’t show mercy. To hesitate is to invite your own death. A lesson she never forgot.
She lifted the rifle and fired. The waves messed with her shot, heaving the target so that his shoulder, not his head, blossomed red. Not a killing wound, but spilling enough blood to ensure that he wouldn’t be rescued, not in these hungry waters.
One danger taken care of, she took a breath and wondered again at the mobility of the yacht. The ghost-driven boat kept chugging, and a peek downstairs showed Darren still passed out. She clambered into the wheelhouse and was disturbed to see the steering wheel moving without aid. A crackling of the radio. “Big Kahuna, Big Kahuna, this is Fraggle Q. Do you read? We’re showing impact.”
She grabbed the receiver and clicked it. “Are you driving the boat?”
A surprised voice barked, “Who the fuck is this? What have you done with the boss man?”
“He’s fine, but not for long.” Because if she weren’t mistaken, she heard a new whup-whup from the other helicopter, the one that had veered away. It was coming at her from a different direction. Playing chase.
“Where’s the boss? I want to talk to him.”
“Darren can’t come to the phone right now, and we’re in trouble. Bogey coming in hot.” She’d watched the movies. For some reason, speaking the slang put men at ease.