by Livia Grant
He'd pointed the car straight at the golf cart full of armed guards barreling down on them. Crouching low, he pressed the automatic window button to make the glass go down. The second there was room, he stuck his left hand out the window, peppering several shots into the crowded vehicle in their path. The cart swerved, but continued, now less than one-hundred feet away as Mrs. Marshall screamed, "It's locked!"
Fucking of course it is, you idiot. It's also in Russian.
"Hold on!" He had to focus on getting off Bratva property first and foremost, firing two more bullets at the guards, this time hitting the driver in time for the cart to jerk to the side, allowing Ryder to gun the Ferrari past it.
He pressed his foot to the floor, knowing he'd need all the speed he could get to break through the front gate with the sports car. He barked his next order, "Brace yourself. It's gonna get rough for a minute." The terrorized sobs of children in the backseat reminded him of what was at risk.
They hit sixty-five kilometers per hour just before they connected with the twelve-foot steel front gate. He was counting on the intel being correct and that they weren't about to hit an impenetrable wall. Certainly, the impact jarred the occupants of the luxury vehicle, but he shot out onto the snowy street so fast, he almost lost control on the slippery pavement. As the ass-end of the car fishtailed, more bullets shot through the back window, this time one grazed Mrs. Marshall's left arm. Only a small yelp told him she'd been hit, but he didn't have time to focus on that. They still had a lot of ground to cover to get to safety.
"Hand me my phone," he asked as he focused on exiting the winding streets of the upscale suburb, going as fast as he safely could to prevent spinning out or being pulled over by the local police who were on the Volkov payroll.
He used his thumbprint to unlock the smartphone, searching through his contacts to find the number he'd been looking for and pressing a simple '9-1-1-SEND' before handing the phone back to the rescued mother.
They drove in silence for a few minutes with only the sound of the young girls whimpering in fear in the backseat as their soundtrack, and their mother whispering soothing reassurances to them that everything would be okay now. His first instinct was to tell her not to lie to her children, but with each mile they progressed, his stress level decreased marginally as chances for a successful extract from Russia went up exponentially for each minute his rearview mirror stayed clear. Still on high alert he finally asked, "You were hit. How bad is it?"
"It's a graze. I'm applying pressure."
He was impressed with the kidnapped woman's composure under the circumstances. Things could have turned out very differently had she fallen apart like he'd feared.
"Who the hell are you and why did you help us?" she asked for the second time.
His answer was gruff, even for him. "Who I am isn't important."
"I thought for sure we were dead. That Chip would be getting pictures of us murdered."
"That would have been the best outcome. More likely you would have been murdered and your daughters would have ended up being sold into slavery to some unknown pedophile whacko half way around the world, never to be seen again."
"Oh my God, that's even worse than I had imagined," the mother cried out in disbelieving anguish. "Is that why you helped us?"
He didn't owe her an answer. He'd already forfeited years of cover work in the space of a minute for her and her daughters, so no, he didn't owe her another fucking thing. He answered anyway. "I helped you because what they did crossed a line I won't cross. It was dishonorable bringing innocent women and children into the war."
"What war?"
Ryder's chuckle sounded out of place in the heaviness of the car. He forgot that most people around the globe were ignorant to the real depravity of the world. He didn't bother answering.
Normally he would zigzag his way to his destination to make sure he wasn't being followed, but not tonight. No one following them would be hanging back to observe, they'd be trying to run him off the road. He took the fastest route to the preplanned destination he and his local handler had agreed to meet if his cover was blown, knowing the only real obstacle between him and there were the hundreds of Moscow police cars now on the road looking for the 2015 Ferrari he was driving. With the chief of police in the Volkovs' back pocket, Artel would have the police working to find them. Not only would the Volkovs then get their revenge, but the police would try to pin the kidnapping on Nicolai Romanovski.
He needed to get the fuck out of town.
They were only a few miles from the tiny airstrip on the outskirts of the city, in the heart of the manufacturing district. Flights in and out served industrial fat-cats with private jets who liked to fly between factories. Most Americans would be surprised to know that an unmarked, nondescript Cessina was fueled and ready to take off within thirty minutes of an agent's call for help, no questions asked. He'd already been down this path after being shot on the job and was counting on tonight's flight being his last out of Russia.
He wasn't sure of the time, but suspected it was around four in the morning, so any lights would have alarmed him. As expected, the tiny tower used at the strip was dark. He turned off the headlights before driving the already crunched front end of poor Alexi's pride-and-joy through its second locked gate of the night, zigzagging through the warehouses turned hangars until he got to the appointed building.
The roar of the sports car was his only arrival announcement, yet the two-story metal door to the hangar slid open wide enough for him to drive in. He relaxed slightly the second the door slid closed behind them, making the distinctive car that much harder for the Volkovs to find in the game of hide and seek they were playing.
Emergency lighting was his only guide as he wove through the half-dozen small aircraft to park out of the way. After they were in the air, the car would be stripped and disposed of.
Mrs. Marshall had gripped the handle to the door, but he stopped her, talking softly as he took his Glock from her, putting it back into his shoulder holster where it belonged and handing her the half empty weapon he'd taken from Artel Volkov.
"Take this. The safety isn't on so it's dangerous." When she looked confused he added. "We should be safe here, but let me check it out first. Don't exit the car until I come for you. Got it?"
Only now as he finally looked at her did he realize she was visibly shaking. Her bravery from before was beginning to desert her.
Ryder reassured her. "It's just a precaution. We'll be safely out of Russian airspace in less than two hours. Now, stay here and protect your family while I make the final arrangements. Can you do that?"
She nodded, tears in her eyes.
As he exited the car, he removed his Glock again, unwilling to approach the company jet without his weapon drawn until he confirmed all was as he expected. As he neared the only airplane with interior lights on in the cabin, Ryder's sixth sense alerted him. He didn't know what was wrong, but he trusted his gut explicitly and was suddenly glad he'd left the Marshalls in the car.
He was almost to the aircraft when someone finally stepped out of the shadows, blocking his way to the portable stairs leading to the luxury cabin.
"We've been waiting for you."
"Who the fuck are you? Where's Hansen?"
"He's on another assignment. I'm Burke. What's the nature of your emergency?"
He was deep undercover. He didn't talk to his handler daily. Hell, even weekly. It was possible that Hansen had been reassigned, but unlikely. He'd worked with Joe Hansen for three years and he'd never once sent anyone else to a meet in his place. When you're undercover, you learn to treat changes to the plan as a threat.
He trod lightly. "I burned my cover tonight. I need an extract. The Volkovs won't stop looking for me this time. There is no going back in."
Burke drew a drag from his lit cigarette, acting too cool for his own good. "Why the hell would you burn yourself?"
He lied. "I fucked up. Made a mistake. They made me."
&n
bsp; There was no way Burke was an agent. He let his emotions project on his face like a movie. Ryder saw disappointment in the man's eyes. His gut told him he'd been hoping for the arrival of the Marshall women.
Movement in the shadows caught Ryder's eye before he swung his Glock up, ready to down any threat. Just in the nick of time, he stopped from shooting the man stumbling forward, his weapon drawn. Joe Hansen emptied his magazine clip into the chest of Burke before the trusted agent fell to his knees.
Ryder checked the pulse of the traitor first, making sure he was dead before running to Hansen. The older man had fallen forward. When Ryder rolled him gently to his back, a pool of blood was left where his bullet-riddled shoulder had laid. His handler grimaced in pain.
"Sorry about that. The asshole ambushed me like I was a rookie."
Ryder quickly shucked his leather coat before taking off his shirt and pressing it hard against the fallen man's wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding. "It's okay. I made him."
"I don't know what's going on, but the police scanners are going crazy looking for you. We need to get you off the ground fast."
"I figured the Volkovs would call in all of their favors on this one."
"What'd you do? Did Vlad catch you fucking around with Irena?"
Despite the weight of the night's events, Ryder chuckled. "Naw. It was a bit more complicated than that. Let's get you onboard and I'll fill you in once we're in the air."
"But... I need to..."
"You need a doctor, and if they sent someone to take you out, you're burned too. We're both leaving Moscow tonight."
Ryder helped his friend get to the top of the stairs before adding, "I'll be back. I need to get something from the car. Tell the pilot we'll be ready in two minutes."
Ryder doubled back to the Ferrari and had a heart attack when he found an empty car. He had redrawn his pistol when Mrs. Marshall and her girls stepped out from behind the huge tires of a nearby plane. She approached warily.
"We heard gunshots so we hid."
"Smart. The good guys won. Time to go."
They took off running and when the youngest little girl had trouble keeping up, Ryder picked her up again, rushing to the stairs first. He settled the whimpering girl in a seat as far away from the bleeding Hansen as he could, shouting orders as he went.
"Everyone get buckled in. I'll go open the door to the warehouse and be back to take off." He stopped to shout into the cockpit where the pilot and co-pilot were completing pre-check. "I'll be back in one minute to close the hatch. Be ready."
Making another trip down the portable steps, Ryder now rushed to the heavy sliding door. He knew they didn't have much time. If Burke had known where to ambush Hansen, chances are others would be following him in. His suspicion was confirmed when the door slid open and a half dozen fast-moving vehicles could be seen weaving through the industrial park, several with police lights flashing.
Once the door was open wide enough for their departure, Ryder dashed back to the plane, hustling up the stairs two at a time and throwing the stairs back away from the door as soon as he was onboard. "We're about to have company! Let's get out of here!" he yelled to the pilots as he pulled the cabin door closed, latching it tight before leaning down to look out the small window.
It's gonna be fucking close.
The aircraft was mid-sized which meant it was slow to build speed. He rushed to the cockpit to strongly encourage the pilot to step on it when the first bullets hit the hull of the aircraft. They were taking fire.
"Step on it boys, or we're done for."
"Yeah, I'm sensing you really pissed someone off tonight, Helms."
Despite the danger, Ryder chuckled. "Yeah, you might say that. I have a feeling there's gonna be hell to pay when the dust settles."
It was a race to see if the advancing cars could arrive in time to block the runway. When one car went across a grassy berm in an attempt to block their departure, the pilot pushed the plane faster, pulling back the stick and lifting the wheels off the ground just in time to sail over the vehicle below. Several more bullets ricocheted off the fuselage, but luckily didn't do enough damage to down the plane.
"Nice work, gentlemen," Ryder added, patting each of the nervous pilots on the back. "Stay on your toes. I'm not sure if the Volkovs have the connections to scramble a military intervention, but I wouldn't relax until we're out of Russian airspace."
"Roger that. I saw you board. Please tell me that's the missing Marshall family back there."
"Yep."
"Holy shit, Helms. You have some balls."
"Yeah, well let's try to keep my balls intact long enough to get back to Langley where I'll be sure to get my ass chewed for burning years of work."
By the time Ryder returned to the main cabin, Mrs. Marshall was leaning over Hansen, applying pressure to his wound to help stop the bleeding. He went to her to take over.
"You should go be with your girls. I'll handle this."
She straightened, reaching to hand him the bloodied shirt. Their eyes met and he saw such relief and gratitude pouring from her expression, it almost made the burn worth it.
"I think it's time you tell me your real name, don't you?" she asked.
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me. You saved my family. I'd like to know who I'm giving thanks for when I pray."
Ryder snorted. "No one's ever prayed for me before."
"Well then, there's a first time for everything."
"Ryder." He reached out to offer his hand, but she instead rushed into his arms to give him a big hug, finally letting her emotions go, dissolving into a sobbing mess. He finally had to help her take a seat between her frightened children so he could get back to caring for his handler bleeding out on the floor.
"It's all going to be okay now."
He sure as hell hoped he wasn't lying.
Chapter 4
"Khloe!" Finally. The voice she'd been waiting for cut through the chaos swarming around her.
Guards at the door prevented Trevor from coming in. He stood a few inches above most men in the room. His buzzcut hair, broad shoulders, and visible tattoos gave him an air of danger, and the police were not inclined to allow entry. She was forced to push to her bare feet and head for the door.
"Please, Miss Monroe." The rookie who had been assigned to protect her in the lobby requested. "You're supposed to stay seated here until the captain gives us new instructions." She heard the pleading in his voice as he reached for her arm to stop her.
His touch was soft, but unexpected. She flinched away.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."
She was barely holding it together. "Please. Let my guard... my friend... I need him."
"Okay, but please go sit back down. We wouldn't want you to faint again. I'll go get him."
She let herself be led back to the couch, but didn't sit. She fumbled with the belt of her robe nervously instead.
By the time Trevor was finally headed in her direction, she was ready to crawl out of her skin. She saw the fear in his own eyes as he scanned her, trying to assess the damage to his client and friend. But he wouldn't be able to see the damage done to her. It was internal... hitting her at her core.
Her guard and friend didn't stop as he approached. Trevor scooped her up into his arms and hugged her to him so hard it hurt. Any scrap of bravery she still clung to fled as soon as she was cocooned in his arms. She was safe again.
Trevor took a seat on the same couch she'd vacated, pulling her down into his lap. Muscled arms enveloped her while she cried on his shoulder.
"What the hell happened? I got a call from your doorman while I was at the hotel that there was a problem and to get over here fast." He paused, clearing his throat. "I'm afraid to ask why you're in the lobby in your bathrobe hanging out with a whole squad of police officers. And why is there an ambulance out front?"
When she couldn't stop the tears to answer, he added, "Shhh. Everything's going to be okay." Sh
e wanted to scream at him that he couldn't possibly make that promise to her, but the growing lump in her throat choked down the words. "Why not start at the beginning. What happened after I left?"
When she could speak, she took a deep breath and relayed the events he'd missed since leaving only an hour before. She was finishing describing the hundreds of photos in her bathroom when the captain rejoined them after exiting the elevator.
"How are you feeling, Miss Monroe?" he inquired.
"As well as could be expected, I guess," she answered truthfully.
"Good. Is this your boyfriend?"
"Oh, no," she quickly asserted. "This is my personal bodyguard, Trevor."
The older cop's eyes flashed. "I have a lot of questions for you, young man."
"Excuse me?" Trevor threw back defensively.
She felt Trevor begin to vibrate beneath her.
"What was Miss Monroe doing alone and unprotected?"
Trevor shot to his feet, cradling her in his arms while he handed it right back. "What the hell? She was in her own damn condo. I escorted her in. Made sure she locked the door behind me when I left."
"And exactly when was that?" The captain's questions continued, unfazed.
"About an hour ago, I guess." Trevor didn't wait to be asked the question Khloe knew would be coming next. "I dropped her at home and then went back to The Plaza. There was an after party in Khloe's suite."
This time, the captain directed his question at her. "So you're hosting a party you didn't even attend?"
She didn't appreciate his aggressive tone. He made her feel like she was the 'perp' instead of the 'victim'. It was awkward being interrogated while being cradled in Trevor's arms. She wiggled away from him enough that he lowered her legs to the floor, yet she was relieved he kept his arm around her as she answered the captain's question impatiently. "I wasn't hosting anything, clearly. I was tired and wanted to come home."
"Where were you before returning home an hour ago?"