by Sable Jordan
Kizzie wiped her hand over her hair. A nuclear weapon—a salted bomb—in the hands of an explosives dealer with ties to rebel factions? This was bad. Very, very bad. She kept a lid on the litany of expletives and managed, “Where?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Kurchatov, K—”
“Kazakhstan?” she finished, quickly interpreting the implication. “Holy shit.”
With the aid of Kazakh troops, America had been guarding the abandoned Soviet weapons production site for the last twenty years. The entire operation was hush-hush, leading the few people who knew that tidbit to wonder why what amounted to a couple buildings on an empty lot would need the protection of the US army. Now she knew—Harvey. And it had been stolen out from right beneath America’s nose. Or smuggled….
“And you’re buying it?”
“That,” Xander said, “and the recipe. Nikolay had a scientist working to reverse engineer the makeup of the bomb, hoping to produce more. I didn’t need that, but he was already halfway through, so….” He shrugged. “A bit of money trouble arose and he asked for funding that would come out of the purchase price with the stipulation that I’d be the sole owner of the technology. Being that we’ve worked together a number of times before, I bought in.”
“In what capacity did you work together before?”
“In a capacity other than Harvey,” he said pointedly. “He kept me abreast of his progress, checking in every month like clockwork, but there’d always been a problem with getting the exact mix right. This bomb is some four to six decades old, and there isn’t exactly an instruction manual to go with it. You can understand it’s a delicate operation. A few months back, he notified me that he had it. They were streamlining the design to make it smaller, easier to detonate while meeting modern safety standards—”
“Safety standards for a nuclear weapon,” she mocked, returning her attention to Nikolay’s file. “Talk about tits on a bull.” And, Jesus, smaller?
“I was to meet with him three weeks ago to settle up. Obviously his death made that appointment impossible to keep.”
Kizzie’s head snapped up. “Death? When you started this conversation the man was missing.”
“Nikolay Sokoviev is dead,” Xander said with absolute certainty.
“Uhhh…Did’ya kill him?”
“Yes, Kizzie. I killed the man I invested a small fortune into and, silly me, I forgot to get the technology.”
One shoulder lifted. “Hey, I don’t know how you guys roll in the ICBG.”
“I didn’t kill him.” Her brows went north and, understanding the unspoken question, Xander followed with one of his own. “Tell me, Kizzie. You’ve just kidnapped a known explosives dealer. What’s your next move? Call his people and ask for ransom?”
He has a point. “Then how do you know Niko didn’t take your money and the technology, and run?”
He tilted his head and frowned. “Do I strike you as the kind of man you want to cross? You don’t get to be me without burying a few bodies.”
Kizzie caught every thread of menace in his tone, as much an answer to her question as it was a warning. “Right. Niko-the-holy is dead.” She flipped to the next page in the dossier. It mentioned his two boys, Sacha Sokoviev, 29, and Misha Berlitz, 14. Niko, you old dog… “Anything else about Harvey? What type of materials—”
“I don’t have the formula,” he reminded. “And that’s the problem.”
“For a man who invested millions, you’re awful trusting.”
“Like I said, people know not to cross me.”
An exasperated breath—“Please put away the neon ‘don’t fuck me over’ sign, Xander. Bright lights make my head hurt this early in the morning.”
“Not just yet. I see it all over your face,” his voice rose in a horribly whiny imitation of hers, “I can’t let Xander have Harvey. He’s a bad, bad criminal. I’m gonna steal it and hand it over to Connolly.”
“I sound nothing like that,” she said, deadpan.
“Except, you can’t do that, can you, Kizzie? ‘Cause if you did, you wouldn’t get 3-19, which is what you’re really after. Add to that the fact you don’t know if you can trust Connolly and you’re in a real clusterfuck, huh?”
“My life has been one long clusterfuck, Xander,” her head cocked and she grinned, “You just happen to be the newest fucker in it, so bully for you. If this little sidebar’s over, can we get back to Harvey? Is that why Nikolay was on America’s shit list?”
He waited a moment before responding. “Specifically? I don’t think so. I believe he was on the radar for his being a member of the ICBG, as you put it. Russia left him unchecked for years knowing full well what his business was, and America didn’t appreciate it. A lot of those rebel factions he supplied were fighting against interests the US had in certain countries. And rumor had it Niko was lining big pockets in Moscow to stay untouchable.”
“Well, somebody touched him. Sure it’s not Amer—”
“Positive.” The certainty made her leave it alone.
“So who else knows about it?”
“The scientist he was working with, one Anders Yurevich. Also dead, right around the time Nikolay went missing. Found at his home in Belarus—bullet in his head. Place was ransacked, from what I understand. The hard drives on his computers had been wiped.”
“And you know this because…?” She waited for an answer, but wasn’t surprised when one didn’t come.
“Apart from him, the only other person would be Nikolay’s eldest son, Sacha,” Xander said, derision evident in his voice.
“Whoa. Doesn’t sound like you and Sacha are as friendly as you and Saint Niko.” Kizzie read further into the dossier. A little over thirty years ago, Nikolay made frequent trips to Japan, that info consistent with the modified RDX Xander had spoken about. She filed the data and waited for an answer to her question.
Xander produced another file, this one on Sacha Sokoviev. “Nikolay loved his son, but he did not like him. He often referred to Sacha in private as ‘Chernyi Russkii’.”
“The Black Russian?” The face staring back at Kizzie from the glossy page held nothing remarkable: dark hair, square chin and jaw, pale skin. His cheeks were flat planes and his nose was defined. But something about his eyes made him look a little off. “Five-parts vodka, two-parts coffee, huh?”
Xander chuckled. “An apt description. Russian-American, raised in the States before being shipped back to Russia at 16. At 20 he decides to make a name for himself, not wanting to be involved with the father who didn’t raise him. But you know what they say about apples and trees. So Sacha started his own hustle; prostitution rings, human trafficking, drugs and the like—a network that extended through the Baltics, reached across the Atlantic. It runs like clockwork for seven years before he’s picked up for the murder of a prostitute in Bali. Apparently, prostitutes aren’t worth the fuss in some parts of the world, and after being held for a while awaiting trial, the evidence linking Sacha to the crime up and walks out.
“The prodigal son returned home in the last year or two, and Nikolay embraced him with open arms; slowly began exposing him to the family business. But, unlike the parable, Sacha did not change his old ways. The kid’s got something to prove, and I warned Nikolay he was more of a liability than an asset.”
“Sounds personal.”
“In a manner of speaking. Years ago, I witnessed Sacha’s treatment of his sub and was less than impressed.”
Kizzie looked up. “He’s a freak boy like you?”
“I wasn’t a ‘freak boy’ when you begged me to fuck you on my yacht, was I, Princess?” Xander said. He didn’t speak again until she dropped her gaze. “Yes, Sacha’s a Dom. We might both be in the Lifestyle, but we live by two completely different ethos.”
“Rigorous standards you fellas in the ICBG have,” she muttered.
Xander ignored her. “With Nikolay out of the picture, Sacha has obviously inherited
the family business. He has Harvey. By rights it’s mine, but what he’ll do with it is anybody’s guess. I have a feeling he wants to cut me out of this arrangement, and that’s not an option.”
The thought of a nuclear weapon in the hands of a man like Sacha made her skin crawl. And Xander was right; the idea of acquiring that technology and handing it over to someone of his own nefarious reputation didn’t set right either. Kizzie was already operating on the premise he was telling her a half-truth. She’d have to think of a way to secure Harvey for herself. Whether or not it went to Connolly was still up for debate. She had other choices. “What do you plan to do with it?”
“I have a buyer, ” he answered plainly.
“I’m assuming this buyer is not one of the five sanctioned nuclear weapons states.” He didn’t respond and she continued, incredulous. “You’d really sell something this dangerous to a country with no qualms about using it?”
“I’m in it for the money, sweetheart, not the morality. I do what I have to.”
“Oh, goodie. Well, I think I have a good start on who I’m dealing with,”—a pointed glance at him—“and Sach—”
“Don’t forget it either,” he interrupted. “I’m not one of the good guys, Kizzie. Point blank, I’m using you and you’re using me. We crystal on that?”
It didn’t require a response. No way she’d forget it. “Where do I come in?”
“You’re going to acquire Harvey for me.”
“Why not just kill Sacha and take it? Seems easier. One less rodent in the world is no skin off my chin.”
“This rodent prefers finesse.” The corners of his mouth turned up wickedly. “When the time comes to kill Sacha, I’ll kill him. But I want to cover all my bases beforehand.”
“So, I get in, access his hard drives…. How am I going about this?”
“You’ll be my submissive.”
She blinked, somewhat deflated at the possibility of going all Mission Impossible to get the Intel. Plus, being chattel rubbed her wrong, but if it meant getting 3-19, and Harvey….
“All right,” she said, noting his expression. “You knew I’d do it when you first called me, Xander. I’m already on your plane and en route, so save the ‘surprised’ look for a birthday or something.”
“But I am—at least shocked you didn’t put up more of a fight. I half expected to find another gun pointed at me.”
“You took all my toys, remember? And my phones, which I want back, thank you very much.” She raised a stern brow. “I had an idea that would be part of the job description when I got in the car.”
“Part, Kizzie. Not all.”
“Go on.”
“Sacha and I have a meeting in a couple days. Tomorrow night, however, he’s hosting a play party at his home in Helsinki. I’m invited—we’ll be in attendance.” Xander inhaled a deep breath. “I’ll be your Master…and I might let Sacha play with you. May even release you and give you to him for a while. A dangerous little gift.”
Kizzie frowned. She’d never been “gifted” before. The entire idea made her feel like the cheesy Christmas sweater no one wanted. “Don’t you have a regular submissive who can run this con for you?”
His jaw clenched.
“Oh, what? The chick you spank on the daily’s not part of the game?” She scored another point for herself, went back to logistics. “You get me in, what’s my out?”
“I have to be in Paris in three days—”
“That where your subbie’s holed up?” she interjected, “Some pretty Parisian flat?”
He ignored her. “I’ll come back for you when I’m done.”
She didn’t like the sound of that. Never go in without an out. She’d work it out herself. “Well, since I was asked ever so graciously…guess I’m in. And why are you smiling?”
“You just made me twenty grand.”
“I get half, right?”
“I’ll think about it,” he said with a wink. Then he stood to stretch, reached into his briefcase and handed Kizzie the book he retrieved.
Scanning the title, Surrender, she said, “‘The Idiot’s Guide to Being a Submissive?” She rolled her eyes and tossed the paperback aside. “How hard can it be to say ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’?”
“It’s all about the mindset. You’re supposed to enjoy doing it. A sub gets pleasure by giving her Master pleasure.”
“When I want to smile while doing all the grunt work, I’ll get married.” She toed off her shoes and twisted in the seat. Back to the wall of the plane, she lifted her knees to curl up in the chair. “And you being ‘pleased’ is not on the agenda. You just made it crystal clear we’re using each other, remember? My objective is to get you Harvey so I get 3-19. Then we part ways and act like this little life interlude never happened.”
Xander fixed her with a penetrating gaze she didn’t back down from. “We’ll go over it more tomorrow. You need to sleep. There’s a couch in the back. Go lay down.”
“Er-uh, that sounded a tad like an order”—she sniffed the air, crinkled her nose—“yep, even has that funky ‘order’ smell. I’ll excuse it this time, slick, but don’t make it a habit.” She closed her burning eyelids and tried to rest. “I’m fine right here.”
“No, you’re not. You’d rather sleep upright and aware than stretch out on a couch and make yourself vulnerable. That’s not you being fine, Kizzie, that’s you being stubborn. And just so you know, if I wanted you dead, you would be.”
“Likewise.”
He chuckled. “You hesitated on my boat.”
“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have put two in your forehead, gone back to the hotel, ordered room service, and watched a movie,” she said sweetly.
“So it’s like that?”
Her eyes flashed open. “Just like that.” She didn’t miss the grin on his face when he went to the galley.
Returning with sandwiches and a couple bottles of water Xander said, “You can find me in the cockpit if you have any more questions.”
Kizzie smothered a yawn with her hand. “I do have one.”
“Shoot, or should I say, go ahead.”
“Who the hell are you?” She lifted her heavy lids again, forced herself to focus on his face. “I’ve got you pegged through your time at LSU. Only child—middle class parents. Then you disappear, not a whisper, only to show up a very rich man many years later. What happened in that gap?” When he didn’t show any signs he would answer Kizzie gave him a sly smile and coaxed, “Aww, come on, Duquesne. Didn’t you once say ‘relationships thrive on trust’?”
Xander cleared his throat and sat in the chair he’d vacated. “Codename: Kizzie Baldwin—born Kendra Elyze Porter….”
Her smile faded, and she forced herself not to react—but it felt like all the breath had been sucked from her body.
“32 years of age,” Xander went on, voice clear and direct, “only child to Loretta and Samuel ‘Big Sam’ Porter. Dad was an O-8—Major General of the Marine Corps; Mom was with the DOD, GS-15 if memory serves. Impressive. Both deceased—car wreck. You survived. Raised by your maternal grandmother, Nadine Anderson, until her death when you were seventeen.
“Accepted early admission to West Point where you excelled in your studies; the standard for every good cadet. But you, Kizzie…you were something special. The accolades are extensive: a knack for languages, excellent marksman, skilled in hand-to-hand combat and a proficiency with knives that’s just downright scary. There you were, on track to graduate magna cum laude—your Second Lieutenant Commission was in the bag, and you’da had no problem rising in ranks with daddy being a vet. Yet, in your third year at the Point, you drop out…. Why?”
She ground her teeth. Anyone searching for Kizzie Baldwin got a legend showing her to be a graduate of Cal Poly who studied philosophy and worked as a freelance travel writer. Xander had somehow managed access to her real info; dredging up a past she’d spent years forgetting about; years atoning for.
The Point’s behind you…it’s all be
hind you.
He’d mentioned having low friends in high places, and his knowledge of her true identity affirmed a sneaking suspicion there was a leak in the Agency. She’d have to track it down.
And kill Duquesne.
Xander stood again, gathered the items on the table. “Now, do you have any more questions regarding this mission?”
She stared up at him defiantly, unwilling to let him know he’d struck a nerve. Silence settled heavy in the cabin before Kizzie finally broke it with, “As a matter of fact, I do. Who killed Nikolay Sokoviev?”
“Oh,” Xander said as though he’d forgotten to mention it before. “Sacha.”
3
Helsinki, Finland
At the first alcove, the puppet clutched the bag of tools to her side and followed the farthest tunnel on her left, wending her way deeper into the bedrock maze beneath the chateau. There were twelve passages in total; the paths intersecting at various locations to create little cubbies where one would then decide which shaft to traverse next. Choosing the wrong channel only prolonged the distress of being 30 meters underground in a warm, dimly lit space. This, like the rough-hewn walls, was all part of the design. The intent was to disorient, to cause panic, so the traveler was fairly consumed by fear once they’d arrived at the destination to which nearly every passage led—The Dungeon. That’s what the Puppet Master called it, and at each mention of his private playroom, both pleasure and pride would fill his otherwise bland features.
Most times the puppet was thankful for his plainness; it made his subtle shifts in mood easier to read. With one glance she could tell when the Master was displeased, even if he did not voice that displeasure. It was at those moments she wished his features were more distinguished, more grotesque. Nothing scared her more than knowing a face so absolutely normal masked the mind of a monster.