Operation: Midnight Cowboy

by Linda Castillo

  “I’m not interested,” Bo heard himself say.

  “Look, I know you and Mike were friends.”

  “We were more than friends. Damn it, you know what happened.”

  “I know none of it was your fault.”

  For the first time in a long time, Bo wanted to run. God knew he was good at it. He wanted out of that conference room. Away from Sean Cutter’s discerning gaze. He wanted to run back to Wyoming to his ranch and horses. It was the only place in the world where he could breathe. Where he didn’t have to think about what had gone down two years ago…

  “If I can’t convince you,” Cutter said, “maybe this will.”

  Bo’s heart was pounding as he watched Cutter open a thin manila folder and shove several photos toward him. “This is what Karas does to the people who cross him.”

  Bo didn’t want to look, but he did, just as Cutter knew he would. He saw horrific images that disturbed him a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit. “You always were a manipulative bastard.”

  Cutter didn’t even try to look contrite. “I still am.”

  “Yeah, well, this time it isn’t going to work.” Bo stood so abruptly, his chair fell over backward. He was midway to the door when Cutter stopped him by grabbing his arm.

  “She’s in danger, Bo. There have been two attempts on her life in the last week. Karas nearly got her last time. She’s on the edge. She’s been that way since Michael died. She won’t admit it, but she’s running scared.” He grimaced. “For God’s sake, she’s been through enough.”

  “We all have,” Bo snapped.

  Cutter’s eyes flashed. “You owe me, damn it.”

  Bo jerked his arm from Cutter’s grasp, then jabbed a shaking finger in the other man’s face. “Don’t go there, Cutter. Don’t try to use my friendship to manipulate me into doing something I do not want to do.”

  “Or something you’re afraid to do.” Cutter’s eyes burned into Bo’s. “Maybe you’re not the man for the job after all. Maybe you’re not the man I thought you were.”

  The words rankled, but Bo didn’t let himself react. The urge to walk out that door and never look back tugged at him like a powerful tide. But while Sean Cutter might be manipulative, what he’d said was true. Bo did, indeed, owe him. More than he could ever repay in his lifetime.

  Shaking his head, Cutter stalked to the door and yanked it open. His hard eyes landed on Bo. “Go ahead. Run. Run back to Wyoming like you did two years ago.”

  Aware that he was sweating beneath his leather jacket, Bo usurped the knob from the other man and closed the door. “How long?” he heard himself ask.

  “A few days.” Cutter shrugged. “A couple of weeks max. Long enough for us to dig up something on Karas that will keep the federal prosecutors happy.”

  “You already have charges on him.”

  “Prosecutors want to go for the gold. The big stuff that will keep him behind bars for a long time. Once he’s in custody, you’re off the hook.”

  If Bo hadn’t felt so lousy about the entire situation, he might have laughed at Cutter’s choice of words. When it came to Rachael Armitage, Bo would never be off the hook.

  RACHAEL SWORE she wouldn’t let them see her sweat. In the past that personal vow had always been enough to keep her cool—at least on the out side—through even the toughest ordeals. But as she made her way down the marble-tiled hall of the MIDNIGHT Agency headquarters toward the conference room, the silk blouse beneath her jacket clung to her back. The briefing she was about to attend wasn’t going to be pleasant. The only question that remained was just how bad it was going to be. Sean Cutter had a reputation for being tough.

  Yeah, well, so did she.

  She did her utmost not to limp as she entered the conference room. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her knee, she squared her shoulders and walked with as much grace as she could muster to the high-back executive chair. She was acutely aware of the two men present watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge them. The last thing she wanted was for them to see the nerves zinging just below the surface.

  Sean Cutter sat at the head of the table, studying a brown expanding file. Her file, she was sure. A file that was a little too thick, the documents inside a little too worn from too many fingers paging through them too many times. Such had been the nature of her career with the MIDNIGHT Agency.

  The sight of the second man gave her pause. She’d seen him before. Met him at some point. But for the life of her she couldn’t remember his name. She couldn’t remember where she’d seen his face. Odd, because his was a memorable face. Dark eyes. Hawkish nose. Square jaw that hadn’t been shaved for at least twenty-four hours. His body language and the directness of his stare told her he was law enforcement. The jeans and cowboy boots told her he held disdain for any kind of dress code. Who was he and what the hell was he doing here?

  She looked at Cutter and frowned. “You wanted to see me?”

  He frowned back, watching her the way a disapproving parent might watch an unruly teenager who was about to be grounded for life. “Have a seat.”

  Never taking her eyes from her superior, she sat opposite the cowboy and set her leather pad on the table in front of her.

  “How are you feeling?” Cutter asked.

  “Good enough to return to work.” She gazed at him levelly. “I’m hoping you won’t disappoint me.”

  The two men exchanged a look she didn’t understand. A look that gave her a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. “It looks a lot worse than it is,” she said, referring to the bruises on her face.

  “I have the report from the doc right here.” Cutter looked down at the file. “Dislocated shoulder. The laceration on your left temple required seven stitches. You had fluid drained from your knee.” He scowled at her. “I guess it sounds worse than what it really is, too, huh?”

  Rachael flushed. “I heal fast.”

  “Yeah, and I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  It was then that she knew the minor injuries she’d sustained in the car crash were the least of her worries. “I can do desk work until the bruises fade.”

  “No need because effective immediately you are on administrative leave.”

  An emotion that was alarmingly close to panic gripped her and squeezed. “Cutter, I feel fine.”

  “This isn’t about how you feel.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I feel I would be much more effective in the field. You know that.”

  “What I know is that the most powerful crime lord in the world wants you dead. It’s my responsibility to make sure he doesn’t succeed.”

  “But—”

  “This is Bo Ruskin,” he interrupted, nodding at the cowboy.

  Ruskin.

  Her memory stirred. Ruskin was a former MIDNIGHT agent. He and Michael had worked together. They’d been friends. Ruskin had been there the night Michael was killed….

  “We’ve met,” she said. At the funeral. No wonder she hadn’t remembered him. Those dark weeks following her late husband’s death had been a blur of grief and rage and insurmountable loss….

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ruskin drawled in a deep baritone.

  Cutter continued. “You will be accompanying Agent Ruskin to an undisclosed location this afternoon for safekeeping until Karas is apprehended.”

  The words jerked her back to the matter at hand. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said.

  “I’m afraid that’s an order,” Cutter returned.

  “You can’t take me off Karas now.” She held her fingers a fraction of an inch apart. “I’m this close to nailing him.”

  “And he came that close to killing you three days ago.” Cutter sighed, then looked at Bo Ruskin. “Can you excuse us a moment?”

  “You bet.” The cowboy rose, tipped his hat at her, then started toward the door.

  Rachael got the impression of wide shoulders, narrow hips encased in denim and cowboy boots. But her focus was on the man yanking the proverbial rug out from
beneath her feet.

  “Cutter, please don’t do this,” she said, hating the pleading tone of her voice. “I’m close to—”

  “You have twenty minutes to gather your notes and files on Karas and turn everything over to me.”

  She almost couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re assigning my case to another team?”

  “Not that you’ve ever been much of a team player. But yes, I’m assigning a fresh team.”

  “That’s incredibly unfair.”

  “This is not about fair. It’s about keeping you alive. Keeping you healthy.” Cutter leaned forward. His eyes sought hers, held them. “You’re a good agent, Rachael. One of my best. I don’t want to lose you. But you need some downtime. I advise you to make the best of this.” He motioned toward her shoulder. “Get yourself healed. Get your perspective back. The last couple of years have been tough for you.”

  “I’ve dealt with it,” she ground out, hating that her voice quivered.

  “You can’t even say it.”

  “I’ve dealt with Michael’s death, damn it. I have.”

  “You’ve dealt with it by working yourself into the ground. By jumping first and thinking later. I should have put a stop to it long before now.”

  “I shouldn’t be penalized for not being afraid to do my job.”

  “I’m not penalizing you. But in case you haven’t figured it out by now, good old-fashioned fear is what keeps us alive. It’s what keeps us healthy in our line of work. And you don’t seem to have it anymore.”

  “I don’t have a death wish, if that’s what you’re imply—”

  He raised his hand and cut her off. “You are to treat your leave as you would any covert operation. No one knows where you are. Business as usual. You got that?”

  “I don’t agree with what you’re doing.”

  “Duly noted.” Cutter looked at his watch. “Let’s find Ruskin.”

  BO’S LEGS WERE SHAKING by the time he reached the lobby. He wanted to chalk it up to a sleepless night and the long flight from Wyoming. But he knew the queasy stomach and muscles knotted like ropes between his shoulder blades had nothing to do with fatigue—and everything to do with a woman whose face he still saw in his dreams.

  In the years he and Michael had worked together, he’d caught glimpses of her. From photos mostly, since Mike had always tried to keep his personal life as far removed from work as possible. She was a tawny-haired beauty with green eyes and the kind of smile that could bring a man to his knees. He’d listened to Michael speak of her, and Bo had been envious. On more than one occasion, Bo had razzed his fellow agent about how lucky he was to be married to the most beautiful woman in the world.

  It wasn’t too far from the truth.

  Rachael Armitage was even more beautiful now than he remembered. Tougher. A little rough around the edges. But then that’s what happened to people in this line of work.

  Bo ought to know.

  The one and only time he’d met her was at the funeral. She’d been somehow softer back then. Not quite so thin. He remembered the way the black dress she’d worn had contrasted starkly against her pale complexion. She’d looked fragile and grief-stricken and…shattered.

  But then Michael Armitage’s death had shattered a lot of people.

  Standing at the bank of windows, looking out at the dreary day beyond, Bo thought he could still smell her. A warm, female scent that reminded him of mountain columbine and rain. Wild and fragile and recklessly beautiful. Just like her.

  “Bo.”

  Cutter’s voice drilled into his thoughts. Bo spun to find the agency head and Rachael standing a few feet away. “Did you file the flight plan?” Cutter asked.

  Bo nodded. “We take off in forty-five minutes.”

  “Good.” Cutter turned to Rachael, assessed her the way a coach might assess an injured high school athlete. One that was good, but had to quit the season due to an injury. “I’m the only person who knows where you’re going. No one at the agency has a clue. Keep it that way.”

  “Yes, sir.” But she didn’t look happy about any of what was happening. Bo wasn’t happy about it, either. But for the first time since he’d walked away from the agency, he was duty-bound to do the right thing.

  “I don’t expect anything to go wrong,” Cutter said. “If it does, initiate a code ninety-nine.”

  “Roger that,” Bo said, falling easily into the old jargon.

  “I’d like you to keep me posted on Karas,” Rachael said.

  Cutter shook his head. “You will have no communication with the agency, unless, of course, you’re in danger or need help. He’s pretty much declared war on the agency. You know how sophisticated Karas’s organization is. Last we heard he had access to a satellite.”

  She uttered an unladylike curse that left no room for doubt with regard to how she felt about all of this. Had the circumstances been different, Bo might have smiled. Rachael Armitage was a woman to be reckoned with. But she was also Michael’s widow. A woman whose life he himself had played a role in devastating. A woman who would have every right to hate him if she knew the truth.

  It was up to him to make sure she never did.

  “WHY IS RACHAEL Armitage still alive?”

  Viktor Karas’s cultured voice reverberated through the elegant confines of his study. In his prime at the age of fifty, he was distinguished-looking with tastefully coifed salt-and-pepper hair and eyes the color of a Siberian lake.

  Those cold gray eyes landed on one of the two men sitting in tapestry wingback chairs adjacent his desk. Vladimir Novak was young and cocky. But his eyes were ancient. They were the eyes of a killer. And it was precisely the reason Karas had hired him.

  Vladimir squirmed. “She escaped.”

  “Escaped?”

  “We tracked her to Chicago. Caught up with her on a back road. We forced her off the road.”

  “And she got away,” Karas finished.

  “H-her car rolled down an embankment. By the time we reached it, she’d fled on foot. We pursued her, but it was dark. The terrain was difficult.”

  Despite his hatred for the woman—the federal agent who’d murdered his beloved Nikolai—Karas felt a fleeting moment of respect for her. Only the most talented and brutal men worked for him. It would take daring, resourcefulness and a good bit of luck to elude them. Rachael Armitage appeared to possess generous amounts of all three traits.

  “Twice you have attempted to kill her,” Karas said. “Twice you have failed.”

  “I am sorry,” Vladimir said. “But she appears to be well-trained.”

  Crossing to the wet bar adjacent to a row of windows that offered a stunning view of Moscow’s Teatralnaya Square, Karas snagged three crystal tumblers and poured two fingers of vodka into each. He handed tumblers to the two men.

  “My son has been dead for a month now and you are no closer to completing your mission than when you started.”

  “We have listening devices in place.” The second man spoke for the first time. “We’re working on finding a weak point at the MIDNIGHT Agency.”

  Karas turned his attention to Ivan Petrov and smiled inwardly. He was also young—not yet twenty-five—and sported a goatee and ponytail that reached halfway down his back. He might look like some pampered New York model, but in the two years he’d been with the organization, Ivan had exterminated more men than the sum of his years.

  Karas refocused his attention on the first man. After all, it was Vladimir who had been in charge of both missions. It was Vladimir who had failed. Failure was the one thing Viktor Karas would not tolerate.

  “How do you plan to rectify the situation?” Karas asked.

  Made nervous by his superior’s scrutiny, Vladimir lifted the tumbler and drank, his eyes looking anywhere but into the cold depths of his employer’s gaze. “I am flying to the United States first thing in the morning. I’m meeting my contact in New York. I’m hoping he will have information for me with regard to the woman’s location.”

&
nbsp; “You’re certain this contact has information for you?”

  “This contact—a former agent with the American CIA—has always come through for me in the past. I have information that would destroy him if it were to get back to his superiors.”

  “I see.” Viktor ran his finger around the rim of the glass. “And then?”

  “I will find her and kill her.” Looking pleased with himself, Vladimir cleared his throat.

  Karas contemplated him coldly. “This is your great plan?”

  Vladimir put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He sipped the vodka as if to clear his throat, but the coughing worsened. His face reddened. Noticeably uncomfortable, he shifted in the chair. The coughing turned into choking. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Placing both hands to his throat, he made a strangled sound and twisted in the chair.

  Please, help.

  Karas sipped his vodka, unmoving.

  Vladimir’s coughing turned violent. White foam spewed from his lips. Eyes bulging, he reached for Karas, but the older man stepped back, out of reach. “You,” he croaked.

  Karas smiled at him dispassionately. “Yes,” he said. “Me. Have a nice trip to hell.”

  Vladimir clawed at his throat. Throwing his head back, he twisted and fell from the chair. He writhed on the Persian carpet, clutching his throat and gurgling unintelligibly in Russian. After a few minutes, his eyes rolled back white. A final gasp and he lay still.

  For several seconds the only sound came from the traffic along the boulevard two stories down. Then Karas walked to the bar and refilled his tumbler. “A new poison my chemist developed,” he said. “Most expeditious, don’t you agree?”

  Ivan Petrov’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice in quick succession. “Yes,” he said, looking down at his own glass of vodka.

  Karas threw his head back and laughed. “Go ahead. Enjoy your vodka. You needn’t worry that I’ve poisoned you.”

  But the younger man’s hand trembled when he raised the glass to his lips. “Wh-why did you poison Vladimir?”

  “Because he failed. It is the one thing I will not tolerate.” Crossing to the young man in the chair, Karas put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do you understand?”