by Sable Jordan
“You really want to do this right now?”
Phil guided the car to the side of the road, stopped in front of a Metro entrance and threw it in park. Removing two cartridges from the middle console, he slammed them on the dash and unfastened the shoulder holster housing the Sig P226.
Xander reached for the gun and Phil grabbed his arm. “Hold on.”
“I don’t have time—”
“Stop being an asshole. And stop lying to yourself, and me, you asshole. Give me your shirt.” He motioned to the bloodstain on the cream top Xander wore and began working on the buttons of his own. The undershirt came over his head too, knowing Xander didn’t have a jacket and would freeze once the anger in his blood ebbed.
“Shit’s real, X—I get that. This would be a lot eas—” Phil didn’t finish, seeing the warning look on Xander’s face. Tight-lipped, he handed his buddy the clothes, took the ruined linens in exchange. “All right, be a dick. But be clear. You being stupid means Harvey’s a bust. You know that, right?”
Dressed once again, Xander took the weapon and clips; opened the car door. “Then it’s a bust.”
* * * *
Chantilly, Virginia
Two days of pouring over information and Jack Holloway had finally made the discovery he was hoping for. Connolly was impatient, nothing new there, but Jack sure wasn’t about to go traipsing off to chase a cell phone without some specific location in mind. Now he was faced with two definite options—the spot in Canada, or the one in Panama.
He played a hunch and shut down his laptop.
Packing up his gear, he grabbed his mobile, perched it between his ear and shoulder, wishing he was calling Gale instead as he shoved his clothes into a duffel. He chuckled at the incredulous drawl still playing in his head. Laytuh. It always got worse when she was going for apathy.
“What’d you find?” Bill asked, skipping the pleasantries.
Jack took a moment to consider what he was about to do, and then said, “Headed to Canada. I’ll update you when more info’s available.”
The call ended, and Jack left the room. Destination: Dulles International.
14
St. Petersburg, Russia
He remembered the three-story house vaguely. He’d been back a few times since he was a kid, but it never seemed quite as large as it had then, quite as grandiose. It was a ridiculous fusion of old-world Russia meets American shabby-chic; half the items cheap, Martha Stewart magazine reproductions mixed among the heavy, dark, hand-carved wooden furniture meant to last generations.
Sacha never did care for it. Too Americanized, like the man who owned the place. Too loose and free flowing and willing to compromise. But it was all his now, or would be once certain legal documents were sorted, and he would enjoy striking the match and setting it all aflame.
Just as soon as he found what he was looking for.
Xander Duquesne was no longer an option. But Sacha had a feeling that would be the case before the meeting was ever set. He should have killed him when he had the chance, but would not focus on the missed opportunity. Neither his body nor the girl’s had been found in the rubble of the tunnels, and none of the night guards were left alive to stop them from walking right out the front door of the chateau. Just as soon as Sacha’s men tracked him down, Xander would die. Also on that list were Gigi and his missing puppets, Sumi and Zlata. He’d bring all three bitches back and kill them himself. After he made them dance, of course.
He was in pain. The shoulder and foot injuries hurt more without the daily pinch of cocaine he was so accustomed to. But he’d given his last bag of sugar to Xander—proof he was out of his gourd when he was high. Sharing was one thing, but the last bag? And to him?
Oddly enough it was something the filthy American had said that brought Sacha to the home today. An exact set. He never knew.
Sling supporting one shoulder, crutch under the other, he slowly mounted the steps to the third floor where he entered his father’s office. For a man who sold explosives for a living, Nikolay was more family-oriented than Sacha could imagine. Pictures of him as a boy graced one wall, the opposite filled with pictures of his brother, Misha. There were none of their mothers, and Sacha was just fine with that. He sat in the chair behind the desk and opened a ledger that lay upon it.
He flipped a page, and another, until he had gone through the book, and then yanked open the drawers, rifling in the spaces for any clue as to who she was. But there was nothing.
His eyes scanned the room. Nikolay spent most of his time here. If there was any information, it would be within these four walls.
Swiveling his head left, he tried to envision his father sitting where he sat. What did the room mean to him in that way? Misha’s pictures were to the left, Sacha’s to his right, but the wall directly in front of him was oddly blank.
Sacha approached, his bandaged shoulder and foot making the going slow, wondering why, with the rest of the room being decorated, this wall was bare. A low bookshelf lined it, and on it sat the row of nesting dolls—the exact set of babushkas that sat in his office in Helsinki.
But where Sacha’s set had nine, Nikolay’s had ten.
A thrill running through him, Sacha picked up the biggest of the dolls, flipping it over to see if the name was there. Sure enough, Yuri, was stamped into the bottom.
This was it.
He hurriedly flipped the other wooden effigies, the discovery of each name assuring him he’d finally come to the end of his search. Arriving at Nikolay’s, he saw the name at the bottom, dropped it and picked up the next. The missing one. This one was different—the face painted stark white, the hair black. The eyes had a slightly different shape; more almond than round, and this doll was painted not in pants but a woman’s business suit.
Syestra.
He flipped the doll over, ready to reveal the name, but it wasn’t there. He blinked, looked again. Nothing.
Even in death it seemed Nikolay had bested him.
In a rage, he crushed the doll against the table. Hollow wood snapped easily, revealing a slip of folded paper secreted inside. Surprised at the discovery, Sacha retrieved the note, flattened it with the one hand, eager to read whatever was upon it. But it wasn’t in Russian. Or English. Just a single character of kanji—Japanese.
He laughed, a self-deprecating sound that bordered a sob.
As promised the day of his death, Nikolay Sokoviev had taken the secret to his grave.
He would have to get it translated. But at least he finally had it.
A solid thump sounded downstairs and he went to the door to scream over the railing at his bodyguards. “Sergei, Fedot, stop your playing.” Those two were always into something. There was an American saying he found entirely appropriate about good help. Yes, the American’s were useful at least for sayings.
Another bump, closer, and his hackles rose; awkwardly pulled his weapon from his hip holster.
Hobbling back to the window, he peered outside to see the car they’d arrived in—the body of his driver hanging lifelessly out the door.
Sacha had no idea who was attacking, but he needed to move fast; difficult given his injuries. Three more guards were on the premises. Which meant he had three more opportunities to escape. Their lives were of no importance.
He went back toward the door, relieved to see one of his men in the frame.
“Fedot, what’s—?”
The guard went from moving to dead in a blink.
Sacha’s eyes widened, too stunned to remember the gun in his grip. He lifted it too late, fairly passing it to the attacker who easily plucked it from his hands.
Solid fingers chopped his Adam’s Apple, crushing his larynx. His breathing faltered, and he grabbed at his throat in reflex, dropping to the floor in a poor attempt to get air. A rope looped his neck, cinched tightly, and he was dragged from the room without ceremony.
Sacha lay in the hallway, conscious enough to know what would happen, too little strength to fight it. He felt h
imself floating—proof he wasn’t dead yet. Ascension wasn’t in his cards.
Moments later he was falling—that’s more like it. The rope went taut so quickly he was sure his neck would snap. Cruel turn of fate that it didn’t. Enormous pressure mounted in his head; the noose squeezed his trachea. Dizziness set in and heaviness followed.
It took another five minutes before the muscles of his body stopped twitching—a few more for the carbon dioxide to completely saturate his blood. Finally, his heart stopped pumping.
There hung the broken puppet, spinning about the length of rope, never to dance again.
* * * *
Panamá Provence, Panama
“Anything to declare?” the cranky customs agent asked. The small, brown man hunched over his desk, staring at the computer screen.
“No.”
“Your purpose for this visit.”
“Pleasure.”
The agent reexamined the passport, trying to reconcile the blonde-haired person in the picture with the brown-haired one standing before him. One last look and he stamped the false documents, handed them over. “Welcome to Panama, Mr. Holloway. Enjoy your stay.”
Without another thought for the man he’d just cleared, the officer waved the next person forward and repeated the endless process.
15
Muscat, Oman
“Take your thumb off the end!”
“Stop, Phil. Stop…please…” Kizzie’s voice echoed through the villa. “Hurts when…”
What the hell? Xander dropped his bag and climbed the stairs, following Kizzie’s pained moans to the guest bedroom. From where she sat propped against the headboard, she gripped her side, wincing from laughter. She looked up when he entered and the light left her eyes.
Phil stood from the chair at the side of the bed, the smile on his face creasing the scar over his cheek.
“Everything okay in here?”
Holding an untouched plate of food, Zlata answered from her seat beside Kizzie. “Phillip tells funny joke about coke bottle and hand job,” she shook her head, “I don’t get it.”
A chuckle escaped Kizzie’s throat and she groaned again.
“See, someone appreciates my jokes,” Phil said, clapping Xander on the shoulder. He stared him in the eye, and then nodded briefly. “Come on, Zlata. These two need to talk.”
Zlata stayed her ground. “First Kizzie eat, then I go.”
Kizzie sighed. “Like I keep telling you, I’m not hungry, and I can feed myself. You weren’t nearly this pushy a couple days ago.”
The girl’s eyes misted. “Four days ago I think I will never see my family again. Now I have hope.” She reached an arm around Kizzie’s neck and gingerly kissed both of her cheeks.
“Leave the food,” Xander said. “I’ll make sure she eats.”
Zlata looked from Kizzie to Xander and back again. “You have good Master.” Kizzie smiled awkwardly as the girl pushed herself from the bed. She handed the plate over and walked toward the door, saying, “Okay, Phillip, tell me why is funny the coke bottle.”
The pair left the room and Xander set the food on a nearby table, dropping into the chair Phil had vacated. “Seems you have a fan.”
“She’s driving me crazy, hovering like a mother hen. But she’s good people. If she hadn’t been down there I’d be dead. I owe her.” Kizzie lightly chewed her lip. “She’s been through so much, and…. Phil says they haven’t been able to find her family.”
Xander shrugged. “Unless she’s that much of a bother to you, she can stick around a while until we do.”
The news seemed to settle her, a soft smile on her face. Since Helsinki, this was his first real look at the damage Sacha had caused, and it wasn’t pretty. Her left cheek and eye were still a bit puffy and purplish, but according to Phil’s updates this was progress. She wore an oversize black tee shirt—his, he assumed—the rest of her covered by a thin blanket pulled up to her waist. Her wrists bore the burns from the rope and seeing her like this made him angry all over again.
“Tell me something,” Kizzie said, “What part of the Middle East am I in?”
“How do you know you’re—?”
“The call to prayer. Heard it for the last couple days. Only way I know what time it is. The heat, the food,” she said, jerking her chin toward the plate. “And I can smell the water—east, I think—so I know I’m on a coast. I’ve narrowed it down to Saudi Arabia, the UAE, or Oman. Phil’s a loyal bastard—cute, but loyal. Wouldn’t tell me anything, and believe me, I offered him a lot of cash. D’you know he rationed my phone time? The hell’s that about?”
“I told him to do it. You need your rest.” He smiled at her pouting, and at the ridiculous notion she could flip Phil. “You’re in Oman. At my place.”
“Your actual house?” Dark brows lifted. “Isn’t it risky for me to know where you live?”
“One of my homes.” He motioned with a hand toward her middle. “Can I…?”
When he leaned forward she hesitated, but shifted her arms to give him access. He folded the cover back slowly, revealing long, lithe legs extending from the black fabric. Apart from a few scratches and a light bruise or two, they were just as perfect as when he’d first seen them, but her left ankle had a burn that matched her wrists.
He hooked his fingers in the hem of the shirt and inched it up to expose her belly, cringing at what he saw. A large, deep purple bruise surrounded a four-inch gash in her side, the laceration held together by the string of stitches. From Phil’s reports, the physician said the sutures took and the muscle would heal, but two ribs in the area cracked. It looked painful.
“I…” He lightly fingered the injury and then looked her in the eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts to laugh…and cough…and move…breathing’s a little tough and sleeping’s a bitch. Bathing…” she shrugged, “Just another day in this glamorous life.” A bright smile crossed her face. “I’m out-freakin’-standing.”
Xander righted her clothes and pulled up the cover, clearing his throat before he spoke again. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
She blinked once. Twice. “Wow…. ‘I’m glad you’re doing better’?”
“I am.”
“Y’know, I took you for a lot of things, Duquesne, but not a coward.”
“Coward?”
“Was that your version of an apology?”
His anger flared. “You knew exactly what…” he began in a flurry. The most stubborn, smart-mouthed little… The raging went on in his head as he turned and stalked from her bedroom.
“Coward!” she shouted after him, then moaned at the exerted energy.
He laughed at her pain, and then entered the closet in his suite across the hall, crouching to access the floor safe. With angry jabs he punched in the combination and mashed his thumb against the ID scanner. A soft thunk and he lifted back the door, yanking a flash drive and a manila envelope from the grotto. Passing back through his bedroom, he snatched a laptop from the desk and marched into Kizzie’s room again.
“This is all the apology you get.” He held the envelope and jump drive out to her. “The Intel I promised on 3-19. It’s yours.”
Brown eyes narrowed further.
“Dammit, Kizzie, just take it and we’re square. I feel bad enough as it is.”
“A criminal with a guilt complex who picks up strays,” she snorted, “That’s sure to kill your run for head villain of the ICBG.”
His nostrils flared. “I’ll leave the laptop if you want to start looking it over.” She continued the glowering and his shoulders slumped. He responded mechanically, “I’m sorry, Kizzie.”
“For?”
A slow breath—“I wasn’t thinking straight when I gave you the water. Phil told me how you ended up in Sacha’s playroom. My fault.”
“And?”
He clenched his teeth. “That Sacha didn’t kill your stubborn ass, and that you’re too banged up to spank right now. Don’t push it, kid.”
“Kid?” Kizzie’s frown dissolved into peals of laughter, but returned with the pain that decision caused. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? You’re kinda cute when you’re brooding.”
“And I’m sorry for whatever I stirred up in you with that lashing.” Her smile faded, but Xander pressed on. “‘Red would’ve been a blessing’. What’s that about?”
“I don’t remem—”
“Don’t bullshit me. What happened, Princess? In your past, I mean. Who hurt you?”
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “You want to talk about what happened to your last sub?” She paused a beat and said, “Now, any more questions regarding this mission?”
Xander took the hint and tried again with the peace offering. “Mission’s over. Soon as you’re well enough to travel, Phil will get you wherever you want to go—phones and toys too. There’s cash in a duffel downstairs—call it guilt money for compromising your place in Panama. For what it’s worth, you have my word I won’t track you down.” He put the envelope and storage drive on the bed beside her and bent over, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, Princess.”
“Sit down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your hearing going in your old age? Sit down, Duquesne,” she commanded.
He frowned. “I think you’re forgetting who’s—”
“Pretending to be your sub still doesn’t make you my Master, Xander.” She jerked her head toward the chair. “Sit.”
Dropping into the seat, he set the laptop on the floor.
“For starters, I don’t want your money. We had a deal, “ Kizzie said. “I haven’t lived up to my end, and the way I see it, you sorta saved my ass…twice. So, until you get Harvey, I’m still on the team.”
Xander leaned to one side, working the smart phone from his back pocket. “Job’s a bust.” Accessing the web, he brought up the story he’d scoured during the long flight from France and handed her the device.
“Massacre at Sokoviev Estate. Sacha Sokoviev found dead…. Five others.... Overdose…suicide?” Kizzie translated from the screen. Then she glanced accusingly at Xander. “Did you kill him?”