Inside Man

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “I don’t know who is with her. They’ll be spread out, watching approaches.” Agata got to her feet as the bus came to a stop. The engine sighed, then cut out. She reached up into the overhead shelf for a pack.

  Cain squeezed out between the seats and around her. It forced him to brush past her. She merely glanced at him. “Here.” She held out the top strap of his heavier pack, for him to haul off the shelf. She went back to pulling her own down.

  “How do we do this? You go first?” He hefted the pack to the floor. He wouldn’t put it on until they were off the bus. He suddenly wished it was a cast iron body suit.

  Agata caught his wrist and waited for him to look at her properly. She gave him a tiny smile. “Zima isn’t out there, or Dima wouldn’t be standing right there, out in the open. She would have warned us.” Her fingers were hot. Soft. “Relax, Cain.”

  He grimaced.

  “I mean it. My world now, remember? Breathe and relax.”

  Right. This was Agata. He could give up control because she had proved herself capable, more than once.

  Cain stood back and let her go first and tried to not ogle her perfect ass beneath the thick ski pants as they inched down the corridor between the seats. The bus door swung open, and cold air gusted into the bus. It began snowing half-way to Grenoble. Now the cloud cover was thick and gray. The flakes were falling even faster, here.

  Agata hesitated before stepping onto the concrete, proving she’d lied about not being worried. Then he saw that the deep right-hand pocket of her coat was unzipped.

  His gut tightened even more. His pulse racked up a gear. Cain made himself follow her down onto the concrete apron, trying to look like a normal tourist. At least it gave him an excuse to look around in all four directions.

  No familiar faces peered back at him. No one had white hair.

  A slender tendril of relief tried to worm through him. He clamped it down. Every time he had relaxed, lately, things had gone wrong.

  Agata moved over to the dark-haired woman, slinging her pack over one arm as she walked. Cain followed.

  The dark-haired woman merely nodded at them. She didn’t smile. Her eyes were grave. She wasn’t as young as she appeared to be from a distance. Cain put her age at somewhere in her early to mid forties.

  Agata lowered the pack. “Something’s happened,” she said sharply.

  The note in Agata’s voice shoved Cain’s senses to hyper-alert. His skin prickled with it.

  The woman, Dima, glanced around. “Later,” she said stiffly. “We have two cars. Scott will take Mr. Warren back to the States, while we—”

  “Dima,” Agata said, her voice sharp, but the volume low, so passers-by weren’t alerted. The bus was emptying, the people standing on the concrete apron thinning out.

  Dima hesitated. “Leela was shot, in Maryland,” she said softly. “She’s dead.”

  Agata had mentioned the name, once. Leela was part of the Seven Seas unit. Or, she had been.

  Agata made a soft, choked sound and closed her eyes.

  Cain rested his hand on the back of her shoulder, in sympathy.

  She turned on her heel and put her arm around his neck.

  Cain froze, shocked. She was seeking comfort from him? It was undeniable. Agata shivered against him. She thought he could help her. Even the dark-haired woman didn’t look aghast at the idea.

  Cain brought his arm around Agata’s back. He found his hand was stroking. Soothing. It felt…normal. For a dozen heartbeats, he provided comfort and for those few moments, he was a good person.

  As Agata loosened her arm, and gave a great sniff, Cain dropped his arm reluctantly. The warmth didn’t depart all at once, and he knew, suddenly, he would do anything, shift entire mountains, to get that feeling back.

  A man approached them, angling in from the other side of the bus station. He had shorn, dark blond hair and pale blue eyes which made Cain think of Aryan Brown Shirts. The man had solid shoulders and an alert air.

  “Still clear, but we can’t linger,” he told Dima. His gaze met Cain’s. He nodded a stiff acknowledgement.

  The stiffness, the remote air, was horribly familiar. Most of the members of Cain’s security detail in Paris used the same impersonal front.

  The realization crashed upon Cain with an impact which stole his wind; They all knew who he was. They had access to the same files Agata did.

  That’s not really me! The silent protest died before it passed his lips, because he was that person. No, he had been that person.

  When had it changed?

  “This is Scott, Mr. Warren,” Dima told Cain. “Go with him. He has a diplomatic passport for you.”

  Before Cain could protest, Agata said, “I’ll go with them to the airport.”

  Dima looked as though she wanted to protest.

  “Tick tock,” the man called Scott murmured.

  Dima nodded. “Fine. Time to disperse. We’ve been standing here too long. Agata, Scott will give you our location. Don’t return directly.” She turned and walked away, without looking back. As she crossed the bus station, heading for the parking lot behind banks of shoveled snow, another tall man with black hair under a dark green knitted cap and the complexion of an Eastern European dropped the newspaper he was scanning into a garbage can and headed for the parking lot, too.

  Cain made himself turn and follow Scott to the street, over to a Jeep Cherokee Laredo. This was all happening too quickly. He knew the Grenoble airport. It was on the other side of the narrow valley from downtown Grenoble, about thirty minutes away on the highway.

  This was it? The end?

  Agata slid onto the back seat with Cain, as Scott got the big Laredo going and wheeled out into the traffic with a competent air.

  When she curled her hand in his, Cain held on to it like the lifeline it was, as the last grains of sand dropped to the bottom of the hourglass.

  [21]

  Parc Paul Mistral, Grenoble, France.

  The wide, divided road they were on arrowed past acres of pristine snow separated by shoveled paths and regimented trees to the right. In the middle of the park, a slim column of granite pointed to the sky. Agata wasn’t interested in which park it was. Her heart was heavy and her fear building.

  At least Cain would be out of this soon. Her job would be done. She would have got him to safety.

  His hand around hers was hot and oddly familiar. Scott felt like a stranger to her, instead.

  Scott said nothing, leaving them alone in the back seat.

  Then the tire blew. Scott cursed, fighting the wheel, as he steered the car over to the curb, through three lanes of traffic. The car dipped on the right.

  Agata made herself let go of Cain’s hand and deal with practicalities. “You grab a cab, Scott. Take Cain. I’ll change the tire and take the car back, before a gendarme tickets us.” There were no-parking-no-standing signs all along the curb and already, cars were piling up behind them, the drivers making obscene gestures at them for the delay, as they wheeled around the stranded Laredo.

  Scott gave another curse. “Fine.” He moved over to the passenger side of the car and got out.

  “Stay in the car until he has a taxi waiting,” Agata told Cain.

  His gaze met hers. There was a warmth in his eyes. “Can I help?”

  She made herself smile at him. “Engineer. Hello.” She even managed to wink as she scrambled off the high back seat and onto the pavement.

  Cain’s mouth quirked at the corners.

  A flat crack sounded, like someone had slammed a baseball out of the park, and the park was a block away.

  Scott grunted and folded to the ground. Agata dropped beside the flat tire, the Glock already out, as she stared wildly around, looking for the sniper. “Cain, get down low!” she shouted, “Between the seats!”

  Scott crawled over to where she hunkered, using one hand. His other arm hung uselessly, blood dripping from his fingers. “Has to be a pursuit vehicle. I took a roundabout route they couldn’t
predict and waylay us.” He winced and dropped onto the snowy curb. “Shit. Gonna pass out.”

  “I’ve got this,” Agata told him, lying as convincingly as she could. In fact, her fear was squeezing her chest and making her pulse thready. Her heart throbbed in her temples and ears.

  Scott sagged, his eyes closing.

  A car squealed to a stop, farther along the pavement. She could only hear the doors opening for cars trying to steer around the dead Laredo blocked her view. She gripped the Glock, knowing they were coming for her.

  Cain lurched from the open door of the car, driving himself onto the snowy pavement with a lunging step. He strode past her, throwing up his hands, just as Zima came into view. Zima’s white hair was bare. He had a silenced Makarov in his hands.

  “No!” Cain cried, stepping in front of Agata as Zima fired.

  The shot took Cain in the shoulder, spun him around and threw him backward. He staggered and fell beside her. Groaned, as blood spread out from beneath him, staining the snow. His gaze sought her face. “Run,” he whispered and closed his eyes.

  Instinct. She didn’t understand fully why running was the smart thing to do, but she obeyed the instinct. Logic would fill in the gap later. Agata pushed off from the side of the Laredo and sprinted across the sidewalk.

  A bullet zinged across the concrete in front of her, spraying snow.

  She gave a little gasping shriek and ran even harder, angling for one of the well-shoveled paths. Her ski boots had little grip on the soles. She skidded and slipped and waved her arms but kept going.

  Her lack of grip on the snowy walkway saved her life. Her heel skidded forward, jolting her backward, just as another low, hard crack echoed across the park.

  Agata felt the bullet whip past her nose as she flailed for balance. She let herself drop backward, flipping over to land on her hands. The snow was a foot high, enough to hide behind if she stayed low.

  That had been a rifle shot. Zima had been carrying a pistol. There was another person in play. Was Agata wrong to have left Cain behind?

  No. Zima wanted her. The farther away from Cain she was, the safer he would be, for she would draw Zima to her.

  That was why running had been the smart thing to do.

  The decision made, Agata pushed her gun into her pocket, drew in a deep breath, shoved herself to her feet, spun and sprinted once more. She dived down another path when it presented itself. Then another, changing directions at random, to make herself a harder target to anticipate. The other side of the park was not far away. The few people traversing it were hunkered down, warned by the rifle shot to take cover. Some of them shrieked in fear.

  Agata hurdled a man sprawled on the path, his gloved hands over his head. There were others, ahead, too.

  Then it occurred to her with a d’uh sound in the back of her head. Why was she using the paths?

  She leaped over the bank of snow at the side of the path and charged through the fresh powder, running hard, directly for the stone gateway ahead. Her arms pumped. Snow swooshed up with each step, for she didn’t bother lifting her feet. It would slow her down too much.

  Another rifle shot sounded. This one didn’t come as close.

  Agata burst through the gates and onto a wide avenue, then plunged straight into the traffic. Brakes squealed and hoods dipped. Cars skidded, swerving wildly on the slippery road, trying to avoid her and every other car as they lost control.

  Side panels crumpled with the characteristic flat dimpling sound as the cars piled up. Agata didn’t stop to look. She leapt over the dividing concrete barrier and kept going, dodging the nose of a Peugeot as it nudged into her flight path.

  Another leap onto the opposite side of the road, and a quick glance behind her.

  There. The woman who had been at the TGV station in Valence. She was running across the park, a rifle in her hand, with snow clinging to her dark pants up to her hips. She wore a mint-green coat and matching cap which would be chic on Parisian streets, but looked incongruous, here.

  People were getting out of their dented and wrecked cars, screaming at Agata and at each other, in typical excited French fashion, their hands and arms waving.

  Agata ignored them. They would slow the woman down.

  She ran, veering into a new street as it opened up, then another. Quick changes, not boxing herself in or losing ground. She pressed on, putting distance between herself and the park.

  Agata couldn’t keep up the sprint for long. She slowed to a steadier pace, then dropped to a jog to get her breath back, before running once more. The footing was treacherous, and would be fatal if she wrenched her ankle. However, the rigid ski boots were actually doing her a favor, by holding her ankles in a firm, straight line, even when her feet slipped.

  Only, they were also leaving behind an easy to follow and distinct trail in the fresh snow.

  She almost fell into the river when the road she was on ended abruptly, with nothing but a six-foot drop into the icy water below. Agata looked along the river in both directions, her lungs burning. Where next?

  The banks of the river, here, had long ago been built up with brick walls. Across the river, mountains rose up in steep crags. Halfway up the closest peak, an ancient stone building clung to the mountain. It had a curtain wall and other ancient defenses and looked impregnable.

  Stretching from the old castle, down the steep slope and over the river itself, was an aerial tramline which ended at a station only fifty yards along from where Agata stood. The tram was just arriving at the station. It was not an ordinary air car. Five bubble-shaped cars hung in a row, traveling together, their orb-shaped canopies giving everyone inside a perfect three-sixty view.

  How often did the tram run? Even if it was every fifteen minutes, it would delay pursuit and give her a chance to disappear, then circle back to Cain.

  The sight of the cars, and the brief pause, pumped energy back into her limbs. Agata ran for the shed.

  [22]

  At the same time…

  Someone was slapping his face, and not lightly. The stinging blows hooked Cain’s thoughts and dragged them to coherency. He drew in a breath, remembering what had happened.

  Pain registered. His shoulder was on fire.

  It wasn’t important. What was important was survival. That was something Cain was good at. He’d honed his skills through a lifetime of testing.

  With a roar he threw himself upward, before he even opened his eyes, ready to take down whoever was standing over him. Surprise was an incomparable weapon.

  Zima leaned back and shoved his silenced pistol in Cain’s face. The safety clicked off.

  “Tsk. Tsk.” Zima shook his head.

  Cain sagged back, muffling his cry of pain as his shoulder screamed in agony.

  Zima crouched over him. Cain laid on fresh, powdery snow. His face stung from Zima’s slaps, although his shoulder was the real concern. How bad was it? He tried flexing the fingers of his left hand. Pain zinged and encouraged him not to do that again. He could feel his fingers, though, and they had moved.

  This was the first time Cain had seen Zima’s face up close. He stared at the man. Pain had removed his fear. Pain was an old companion, after all.

  Zima was older than he appeared. Fine lines around the corners of his eyes, and a hint of loose skin around his jaw spoke of age. Only the rest of his face was firm, with little fat to round it out and soften the sharp lines of his cheeks. His skin was tanned, which contrasted oddly with his white hair. His brows, though, were an insipid brown.

  His eyes were a washed-out blue, and he watched Cain put together his situation, his head tilted a little. “Are you with me now?” His accent was odd. It should be Russian, yet it was unlike any Russian accent Cain had ever heard, and he’d spent time with the Russian Mafia and thought he’d heard them all.

  “You’re slipping, Zima,” Cain told him. “You should have killed me. I’m baggage.”

  Zima smiled. “You’re leverage. Be nice. Don’t bleed out unti
l I’m done with you.”

  His response drew Cain’s attention back to his throbbing shoulder, and the warmth beneath it. Snow wasn’t warm, so it had to be his own blood heating the ground under his shoulder.

  Where the hell were they? Cain rolled his head to one side. His view was blocked by the high sides of the snow he laid in. Overhead, though, he saw tree tops, and toward his feet, the pyramid shape at the top of a modern monolith.

  They were in the park the Laredo had halted beside. Zima must have dragged him here.

  “Where is the girl running to?” Zima demanded.

  Cain laughed at him. “You really think I would tell you that? Even if I knew?”

  Zima considered him. He didn’t seem to be offended by Cain’s laughter. “Oh, I think you do know. Even if you don’t believe you do, you can guess. You’ve been with her for days. You know her. So you will give me your best guess, then I will shoot you as requested.”

  Cain had faced down murderous enemies intent on killing him, more than once. He couldn’t remember the details, although the situation felt familiar enough to tell him he’d been here before. Even so, Zima’s dead eyes and the calmness of his pronunciation sent a shiver through Cain.

  Don’t let him get to you, Cain cautioned himself. “If you will kill me anyway, why would I give her up?” he demanded.

  Zima’s smile held zero warmth. “Would you prefer I offer you a chance to live? Would that make this more palatable for you?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t believe you,” Cain said in agreement.

  Zima swapped the pistol to his other hand and pushed the sleeve of his right arm up, baring his wrist and half his forearm. “There are many inducements, though.” He gripped Cain’s shoulder.

  Cain felt Zima’s strong fingers dig into his shoulder. Into the wound itself. The tearing pain ripped through him, shredding nerves, jangling apart his thoughts, making him howl.