by Lea Griffith
Ella needed to have a little sit-down with the Piper. It really was time he came clean on some things.
She rested her head on the bed beside Jude’s arm. She was so damn tired.
“He’s got to stop.” One of the men who’d cost her damn near everything had entered the room. Ella sighed soundlessly.
“He’ll never stop. I told you that, and you said you could handle him, keep him busy on missions that wouldn’t get him killed and keep him far from Dresden,” she reminded the Piper. She stopped for a moment and really looked at him. “You look really tired, old man.”
He snorted before rubbing his eyes. “I am old. Too old for this shit.”
Ella shrugged. “You set the board, and now moves are being made. This was what it was all about,” she bit out.
The Piper nodded. “I did my best, but the bastard just keeps coming, doesn’t he?” There was a rueful note in his voice as he disregarded her comment.
“Yeah,” she returned. “He does.”
She raised her head and stared at Jude. His eyes remained closed, but she felt his attention. He was awake. Ella stood and moved away from the bed. Jude’s eyes opened immediately, the black of his gaze snaring her, refusing to let her leave completely.
Always it was Jude. In every dream, in every breath, it was always Jude.
She watched him, noticing the exact instant he realized he was strapped to the bed. He tugged on each arm once and relaxed. Or at least he appeared to relax. With Jude, that was never reality. He was ready for anything at all times.
“Take them off,” he demanded in a deep voice. His gaze never left hers.
She opened her mouth—to say what, she didn’t know—but the Piper beat her to it. “No.”
Jude continued to stare at Ella. “Take them off, or when I get free I’ll make you both pay.”
There was so much in his gaze. Questions, pain, rage—the tangle of emotions traveled the air between them. And Ella was in no position to give him the answers or assurances he needed from her. Had needed for over a year now.
“Jude—” she began.
“I don’t deal with traitors,” he bit out.
Oh, that hurt. Cut bone deep and left her bleeding inside.
“No one has asked you to, son,” the Piper said, his voice now low and carrying a hint of frustration. “Then again, no one here is a traitor.”
The skin over Jude’s cheekbones went ruddy. Ella had really only seen it do that when he was buried inside her, so it was unique to see it now, and for an entirely different emotion. He was furious. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could do about that.
Jude’s gaze finally shifted to the creator of Endgame Ops. “Take off the restraints.”
The Piper shook his head and stepped beside the bed. “No. There is work to be done, and while I would love nothing more than to release you, we appear to have different objectives. Ella Banning has a mission to complete, and you, Dagan, have to return to your team. If I let you out of the restraints, you’ll take her, and I know what you’re apparently blind to. She’ll go with you, willingly, if it means you stay safe. And that will destroy any chance we have of finding out who is pulling Horace Dresden’s strings.”
Jude sat abruptly, reclining one second, upright the next. The chains attached to the leather cuffs on his arms and legs jangled against the metal framework of the bed he was on. The sound was strident, and Ella winced. The Piper shifted to his right. Her back snapped straight, and she reached for the weapon in her side holster, snapping the strap holding it in place.
Jude’s head rotated, and once again she was pinned under his night-sky gaze. “You gonna shoot me, Ella-Bella?”
Her breath left her in a rush. He doubted her and it—hurt. She would never shoot Jude. But she’d earned his doubt and would have to carry it with her when she left. The Piper’s head swiveled in her direction, and his pupils dilated. He lowered the hand that had been reaching for his weapon and took a small step back from Jude.
“I wouldn’t shoot him,” the Piper said wearily.
“I wouldn’t let you,” she responded, making sure her voice didn’t waver but conveyed her intent.
“I’m going to reach for my pocket, Ella. I’ve got something to leave Dagan.” The Piper waited for her nod and reached in, pulling out a sheet of paper. He set the paper on the small table beside the bed and stepped away again.
“We have a plane to catch,” the Piper tossed in her direction as he left the room. “Say what you need to say, and let’s go.”
Ella closed her eyes and drew on the dwindling core of strength inside her. She could leave him again. She had to.
“Don’t do this, Ella.” Jude’s voice reached inside her, and whether he would ever know it or not, it bolstered that failing strength. “Whatever has happened, let me help you.”
Ella allowed her gaze to rove over his big body, up his wide chest and up farther over his face. She appreciated his tanned skin and the black hair that had a tendency to curl when he let it grow past the shorter style he preferred. She prized the bump in the bridge of his nose. She treasured his ebony eyes. She had always enjoyed his big hands and the tensile power of his corded, muscular body. She cherished his pride, his loyalty, and the way he had shown her he was hers. He wasn’t a beautiful man; he had been too much of a soldier not to bear the scars of his profession. But he was sexy as hell, and to her, he was everything.
She loved Jude Dagan. She always would.
Ella pushed down every bit of love and loss she felt, burying it under her duty.
“I had hoped you’d never see me again. That I’d never have to see you and remember what I’ve given up. But we rarely get what we want.” She spoke quietly as she walked to the end of the bed. “Sometimes though, you have a chance to apologize.”
He laughed, and it was harsh in the silence of the room. “Is that why you’re standing there? To apologize?”
Ella allowed a smile to curve her lips before shaking her head. “No. It’s not time yet to apologize for the things I’ve done. You, probably much like King, will think what you want. It’s not my job to change your mind or bury myself in recriminations.”
He sighed and rattled his bindings again. “Then what the hell is your job, Ella?”
“Why, it’s the same job we’ve had for nearly two years, Jude.” She saw him wince and knew instinctively it was because she’d used his first name. Yet another thing she loved about the man before her…his name. “Destroying Horace Dresden.”
“Then let me go, and let me help you,” he said, more demand than request.
She straightened then, giving him the full force of her gaze. “You need to return to Endgame. Following me will get you nowhere but dead. Go home, Jude, to your teammates.”
“It’s time, Ella.” The Piper’s voice rang out from the other room.
She would try one more time. “Don’t come after me.” She let her gaze slide once more over the man who owned her heart, body, and soul. Then she turned.
She’d made it to the doorway when he spoke.
“I’ll come after you. I’ll never stop coming after you. You owe me the truth. And I owe you for what you allowed to happen to Micah and Nina. You almost killed us all. Dresden would have loved that, wouldn’t he?”
She breathed in deeply through the pain of his words. She hadn’t set up what happened that night in the desert surrounding Beirut, but she’d definitely taken advantage of it. Micah Samson had been one of Jude’s best friends, and he’d fallen that night. Nina had been one of Ella’s, and she’d fallen back in DC, before they ever set foot on the C-130 headed to Beirut. Both of their losses haunted her. She had no choice but to push through it.
She took another step, and again his words stopped her.
“One more thing… When I find you, and I will find you, I will make you pay for this, Ell
a. I thought my life ended when I saw you die in Beirut. But if you make me hunt you down again, what I do when I find you will destroy us both. I’ll say it one more time: don’t do this. Make me understand, Ella. Let me help you.” His voice was sandpaper over gravel by the time he finished.
And she was shredded by it. She glanced over her shoulder at him. His face was ravaged by what he’d gone through over her. Such a strong man, his purpose embedded in the framework of his bones—and she’d nearly broken him. She was scalded by the rage in his eyes, but it was nothing less than she deserved.
He’d move on from her. And even though a tiny part of her, the most jealous part, prayed he never forgot what they had shared together, the bigger part prayed he did indeed move on. Because Ella was living on borrowed time. She had resigned herself to her fate when she’d agreed to work with the Piper. She would probably die ending Dresden. There was nothing for her with Jude, no matter how much both of them wished it could be so.
“I said I wouldn’t apologize, but as fickle as fate is, this might be my last chance,” she whispered. She lowered her head, unable to look at him and still have the strength to walk away. “I love you, Jude Dagan. I will always love you. I’m sorry.”
Then she walked away, hearing him curse her and struggle against his bonds.
Chapter 4
“Ah, Ella! You’re back,” Horace Dresden called out from his position at the head of the enormous dining table.
Ella walked in, portraying a casualness she did not feel. She walked a tightrope with the monster that was Horace Dresden. She could be neither too strong, nor too weak. Instead, she struggled to place herself right in the middle between those two approaches.
Anton Segorski sat to Dresden’s left, and to his right sat Abrafo Nadege. Segorski was a worm. Nadege was a vulture. The African warlord had spent the last two years setting up shop in Burundi, Africa, stealing wealth and mining diamonds. He’d amassed a following of ragtag, disenfranchised mercenary fighters from all over Africa, but his specialty was taking young boys and forcing them into his army.
It was interesting that Segorski was already back with Dresden. Ella figured the Russian would be gloating about his ricin and formulating plans to maim and destroy innocents.
“I’m back,” she acknowledged in a neutral tone, hitting the high bar and pouring herself a shot of Jack Daniel’s. It had been Jude’s whiskey of choice. Ella did whatever she could to hold him close.
She tossed back the shot, letting the burn hit her gut before she turned and rested against the large, oak high bar. She raised an eyebrow at Dresden, waiting.
“Come,” he urged. “Sit and eat with us.”
Ella snorted, unladylike and loud in the silence of the giant dining room. “Eat dinner with murderers and terrorists? I’ll pass.” She turned and poured another shot, placing a single ice cube in the crystal highball glass before adding two fingers of whiskey over the top.
Dresden laughed as she knew he would. He’d once told her he preferred her feisty rather than meek and obsequious. Of course the only reason she’d been obedient had been because he’d allowed Vasily Savidge to break her into tiny pieces.
She tossed back the second shot and waited for it to numb her.
Vasily Savidge couldn’t hurt her anymore, ever again. He’d perished under the onslaught of two bullets—one courtesy of King McNally, the other thanks to Loretta Bernstein. Where was that woman, anyway? Ella knew she’d survived the CIA’s blitzkrieg of Dresden’s Beirut property. She’d left as Endgame hustled Allie Redding out. Loretta had been hurt but not bad enough to prevent her from running and holing up somewhere Ella hadn’t been able to locate yet.
And she would locate the woman. She had some explaining to do. She also had intel Ella needed.
“Ella, come sit and eat with us.” Ahhh, there was the Dresden Ella knew and hated. No more Mr. Nice Guy.
She had to play the game if she wanted to win.
Ella took a seat at the opposite end of the table. Segorski mumbled something, Abrafo Nadege laughed, and Dresden merely watched her, chin in his hand, finger slowly rubbing over his lips.
Horace Dresden. Ella had been labeled a traitor, but the man across from her had defined the word. Born thirty-six years ago and raised in New York City, he’d graduated cum laude from Columbia, then gone on to join the Navy. He’d made his way through BUD/S training and become a decorated soldier.
Then something had happened approximately four years ago that set him on a very different path. Ella was after that something. It was the key to his destruction. When the Piper had first contacted her to work a mission within a mission, she’d been hesitant. Then he’d told her about Dresden’s past, and she’d known that somewhere inside that past was the way to destroy the man who’d turned on his brothers and his country. Hell, he’d turned on the entire world.
And his rise in the murky world of arms dealing had been meteoric. Within two years of going AWOL from a joint task-force team on a mission in the Kunar Province, he’d been at the top of the arms-dealer shit pile. He’d raided weapons depots belonging to the United States and Russia and become a billionaire, taking out competition swiftly and efficiently. By the time the world’s powers had realized there was a new player on the international arms-dealing stage, it had been too late. Dresden had been too powerful.
All of this was bad enough. But one of the most curious things about Dresden’s past was exactly who some of the members of that joint task-force team had been—Kingston McNally, Rook Granger, and Jonah Knight.
Men who had since dedicated themselves to the eradication of Horace Dresden.
“She will bow to me before it’s all said and done,” Anton Segorski said from his perch beside Dresden.
Dresden lifted a brow to that. “Ella bows to no one. Even Vasily had difficulty breaking her.”
Was that pride in his voice? Ella wanted to vomit.
“Are you missing Vasily, Dresden?” Abrafo Nadege queried softly. For such a large, brutish-looking man, he spoke with a refined air, voice hell-deep and cultured. To be expected, considering he’d been schooled in London. “I know he was your right hand.”
“Vasily’s loss was…unexpected,” Dresden admitted. “Right, Ella?”
Ella chuckled, the sound strident in the cavernous room, as she watched a server fill her glass with red wine. “It happened too fast. I would have preferred he suffer a bit before having his head filled with holes.” She shrugged, lifted the wine, and mimicked taking a healthy swallow. She’d had two shots. It wouldn’t do to dull her senses around these killers.
Dresden threw back his head and guffawed. Finally, he ceased, dabbed his eyes, and lifted his own wine and sipped. “Ella, you never fail to impress me. I’ve broken you, killed your friends, and still that fire you always try to hide makes an appearance.”
“I can break her again,” Segorski bit out.
Dresden struck then, standing so swiftly his chair flew out from behind him. He was on Segorski in the blink of an eye, pulling the man’s head back so far Ella wondered if his neck would snap. Dresden held a butter knife to the Russian’s throat.
“Maybe you haven’t been listening to me, friend. Ella will never be yours,” Dresden hissed in the man’s ear, pressing the butter knife into his throat so hard he began to bleed.
The Russian didn’t move, and Dresden didn’t either.
Ella sipped at her water casually. She allowed her eyes to drift to Nadege, who stared at her, his cold, hard gaze trying to ferret out her secrets. She lifted her glass to him before running a finger along her throat in a slitting motion, a salute of sorts, as the tableau in front of them played out.
Long moments passed, but finally Dresden released Segorski, who coughed and wheezed as the air rushed back into his body. Other than gasping and trying to right the damage done to his hair, he didn’t move, not even mopping up the
blood dripping down his neck.
Dresden straightened his suit coat. “Now where were we?” he asked, looking down the table at Ella.
She smiled at him. He smiled back. And so the game continued.
“We were celebrating another successful sale, Ella. I’m so glad you could join us for a time.” He turned then and addressed both Nadege and Segorski before his gaze slid to her. “I believe Ella and I have some business to discuss. Shall you finish your dinners in your rooms?” Dresden inquired. Read that as ordered. Again, Ella wondered why Segorski was here with Dresden instead of in his own hole counting containers of ricin.
She would have shuddered but giving Dresden that much of a response would have been a win for him. And that she would not do. It was tough calling back the response because nothing about being alone with Dresden was good.
Instead, she smiled. “It’s been a pleasure as always, Segorski. Don’t choke on your food, and fellas”—she addressed them both—“watch those butter knives, okay?” They both stood and left the room.
Dresden took his seat again at the table, picked up his silverware, and began slowly eating the rare filet mignon that sat in a bloody pool on his pristine white china. Silence reigned for several minutes while he finished his food. He was at his most obnoxious during these times, when he had someone hanging on the hook waiting for him.
He finished, drained his wine, and wiped his mouth. Though his gestures screamed of refinement, there was a desperation to each movement that belied any belief that the man had been raised wealthy. He seemed more of a rabid predator wearing a thin veneer of civility. Some of that animalistic nature had no doubt been drummed into him by the military.