Hot Target

by Marliss Melton

"From a ballet dancer?" Tristan's incredulous query carried over the general din.

  Stu leaned toward him and stated quietly, "According to Coenen, Kapova used to be KGB."

  Tristan rolled his eyes. "Give me a break. I can't believe Juliet withheld this from me. What the fuck?" he repeated, visibly irate.

  "They were probably still watching her," Jeremiah suggested.

  Tristan didn't hear him. "She made up some bullshit excuse about how Goebel was dead so there was no point of holding his minions accountable. And then she kicked me to the curb."

  Jeremiah sat forward to reason with him. "Listen, Tristan. You need to look at this from Juliet's perspective. Coenen showed up where he was least expected. He threatened your life if Juliet didn't back off. What would you have done, if your roles were reversed?"

  Tristan's eyebrows met over his nose as he pondered the question. Several beats of silence followed. "I would have protected Juliet," he admitted. His frown abruptly cleared.

  "Right. And if protecting Juliet translated into staying away from her, you'd have pushed her away for her own good." Jeremiah sat back, clasped his hands on the tabletop, and closed his eyes. Stu and Tristan, who were used to him slipping into semi-meditative states at random times, ignored him.

  "Jesus." Tristan clapped a hand to his forehead. "How could I have missed Coenen? How did I not see him? And Kapova standing right next to me, without me noticing?"

  "Stingrays," Stu explained with a magnanimous shrug.

  A sudden thought had Tristan cursing under his breath. "Coenen knows Juliet's address," he told his teammates.

  Jeremiah lurched in his seat, his eyes flying open. "We need to check on Juliet," he said, reaching for his cell phone. "I'll have Emma call her."

  Tristan shot him a wary look. "Why?" he demanded, and then his eyes widened. "Wait, was that an intuitive hit?"

  Jeremiah's gift for reading the intentions of foes and friends alike was an enhanced form of intuition. Stu didn't begin to understand it, but Jeremiah's insight had saved Echo Platoon from loss of life on multiple occasions. And ever since their cruise-ship vacation had gone awry the year before, Tristan put great stock in Jeremiah's premonitions and had told the whole Team they should be do the same.

  "We should check on her," Jeremiah answered as he thumbed a message to his wife.

  "Hell with that." Tristan reached for his wallet. "We'll check on her in person."

  Stu glanced regretfully at his full mug of beer.

  "That works." Jeremiah put his phone away, lending urgency to Tristan's decision.

  As Tristan tossed two twenties on the table, Stu considered what he'd just forfeited by choosing his teammate over Hilary. Considering her generous disposition, she might forgive him for breaking his promise, but he would refuse her forgiveness. He had chosen Tristan over her, and knowing himself, he would always choose the Team over any woman. Certainly Hilary deserved better than that.

  He had broken the Unbreakable Vow, and he would reap the consequences.

  * * *

  "Sit." Renata made it sound like an invitation—as if it were her house. She waved her deadly Glock to signify that Juliet should park herself on the sofa.

  Juliet didn't want to sit. She wanted to dive for her purse and retrieve her Ruger to even the odds a bit. Unfortunately, her purse was perched on the breakfast bar in her kitchen—about three steps too far to keep from taking a bullet in the back. The fact that Renata carried a silenced pistol, albeit a small one, easy to conceal, could mean only one thing—she was planning to use it and didn't want anyone hearing the shot.

  Panic threatened Juliet's control. Well, of course Renata was going to use her gun. The woman hadn't chased Juliet all the way from the West Coast to converse about her lover's art.

  "Would you like a drink?" Juliet offered, praying for an excuse to head to the kitchen.

  "Thank you, no. Sit," the woman repeated.

  Renata's aim, centered over Juliet's heart, motivated her to drop swiftly onto the sofa.

  "For you, dear." Renata's smile was a parody of graciousness as she offered Juliet the wrapped package. "I thought you might like to see one of Peter's best paintings. You'll recognize the subject, I'm sure. Unwrap it," she ordered coldly.

  Masking tape held the brown paper securely in place. Juliet proceeded to remove it while weighing her odds of tackling Renata without getting shot. The woman had planted herself on the other side of the coffee table, just beyond grabbing distance. The safety on her 22-caliber was already off, her index finger curled in readiness around the trigger. One false move on Juliet's part and Renata—Bergit—would finish her. There was no more doubt that the two women were one and the same.

  Conscious of the tremor in her fingers, Juliet drew a measured breath. Since Bergit wished to witness her reaction to the artwork, Juliet would take her time while seeking a way out of this predicament.

  "Did your brother send you here?" she asked by way of distraction.

  "My brother?" The question clearly startled Bergit, though she was swift to summon a mocking smile. "Oh, did you just figure that out? I wondered when you would make the connection. Actually, Hans ordered me to stay away from you. He wants to let bygones be bygones." Bergit waved a hand in the air to signify how insignificant his wishes were. "Hans had a thing for Anya—always did," she added, on a note of disgust. "Can't you do that any faster?"

  Juliet pulled the tape from the wrapping to keep Bergit from snapping at her again, yet still slowly enough to buy more time. In light of the woman's statement, it occurred to Juliet that Coenen might have been sincere in his warning. What if he hadn't been trying to scare Juliet so much as trying to protect her from his sister? Was that why he had thrown her cell phone off the patio—so Bergit would have difficulty finding her again?

  "Your brother killed my parents," Juliet protested. "I saw him after the accident. He looked into the car to make sure they were dead."

  "You think that accident was his doing?" Bergit crowed with laughter. "Please." Her laughter abated suddenly. "I'm the one who punished Anya for her betrayal. Hans begged to look into the car to make sure Anya wasn't suffering. Such a weak stomach he has." Her lips curled with disdain. "Peter used him strictly to recruit young people. My brother has a gift for that," she relented. "Anya was no impressionable idealist, and yet Hans persuaded her to advance Dieter's vision, at least for a while."

  Juliet took note of the woman's reversion to Dieter Goebel's original name. "Is that what you've been doing with the mural center—advancing Dieter's vision?"

  "Of course. America's youth despise the corruption born out of capitalism. They will rise up in protest and herald a new era."

  "Did Hans recruit them the way he did my mother?" Juliet already knew the answer. In hindsight, Hans seemed almost noble compared to his sister, who was holding Juliet at gunpoint, forcing her to play this awful game.

  "Some he recruited. Others he sent my way through the penal system."

  The brown paper slipped abruptly to the floor exposing a portrait of a pretty blonde. Vaguely impressionistic and not the best likeness, there was still no mistaking the subject for anyone but Juliet's mother. Herein lay the motivation for Bergit's revenge, Juliet guessed.

  "Dieter painted that one year before his death." Bergit's voice shook with disdain and jealousy so palpable that Juliet lifted wary eyes at her.

  "Do you know what it felt like, knowing he was still obsessed with her after all these years?" Bergit's voice roughened with loathing. "I was loyal to him from the day we met. Anya betrayed him. I found a way to empower Dieter, to lift him out of the ashes of the Cold War. What did Anya do? She married herself to the West. I loved that man for decades and tended him in sickness. Did he paint a portrait of me at the end of his life?"

  Her face grew taut with rage. "No." A muscle ticked in her still-smooth check. "He painted Anya, the bitch who brought about his downfall. Why? Because he loved her still, that's why—in spite of everything. He loved h
er best, not me!"

  Bergit's breath came in harsh pants that mirrored the wild beat of Juliet's pounding heart.

  "At least she warned you first." Sensing the end was near, Juliet defended her mother.

  Bergit's eyes flashed with outrage. "There is nothing you can say that will redeem your mother," she spat, raising the snout of the silenced gun to aim it at Juliet's head. "You act just like her."

  "Is love no excuse?" Juliet demanded, desperate to keep the woman talking. "Love will make you do anything. My mother did what she did for my father. Look at you. You built your life around the man you loved." Her own thoughts went to Tristan, who—if Bergit had her way—would never know that Juliet wanted to build her life around him if she could only find the courage.

  "No more talking." Bergit reached for the portrait, wrenched it from Juliet's grasp, and propped it on the recliner opposite the sofa.

  With her heart racing, Juliet waited to see what the woman would do next. Bergit backed several steps from the portrait, raised her pistol, and fired it at Anya's likeness.

  Juliet screamed involuntarily. "No!"

  The gaping hole between the painted image of her mother's eyes suggested the bullet would have drilled straight through Anya's brain to blow out the other side had she been a living presence.

  Bergit rounded on Juliet, who felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She was next. To her surprise, Bergit thumbed the safety on the Glock and laid it carefully on the arm of the recliner.

  Cautious hope beat back Juliet's shock. What was this? The answer came swiftly as, without warning, Bergit hurdled the coffee table, sending Juliet's can of soda flying, as she attacked with her bare hands.

  Stunned by the woman's brute strength, Juliet found herself pinned against the back of the couch, Bergit's hands encircling her neck. The strength in the woman's fingers brought to mind the ferocity of her handshake the day they'd first met. Juliet counterattacked, gouging her opponent's eyes. Within seconds, she thought she had secured her freedom, only to suffer a stinging blow to her cheek as she tried to slip under the woman's arm.

  Springing up, Bergit seized Juliet by the hair, dragged her off the couch, and threw her face-down across the coffee table. The audible crack of a rib as it struck the table's edge preceded an explosion of pain in Juliet's right side. Ignoring it, she tried to scramble up.

  Bergit grabbed her hair again. Yanking Juliet's head up and back, the crazed ex-spy seized her throat and applied a crushing grip to the delicate cartilage of her windpipe.

  Juliet attempted to mule kick her attacker, but the jarring movement engendered so much agony in her ribs that the effort proved feeble. She seized the older woman's hands and tried to peel Bergit's powerful fingers from her larynx. Spots swam before her eyes. How could this be happening? How could a woman twice her age have beaten her so quickly? Bergit must have spent a lifetime honing her deadly skills.

  The pulse hammering in Juliet's eardrums nearly disguised the knock at her door. Bergit froze, her grip slackening just enough that Juliet could sip in a life-saving breath.

  "Juliet!"

  Tristan! His voice, so beautiful, so dear, confirmed her greatest hope and imparted a burst of strength to her oxygen-deprived muscles. Grinding her teeth against the pain, Juliet wrenched from Bergit's hold and managed to gain her freedom. She lunged for the woman's Glock, scrambling over the coffee table to reach it. Before she could reach it, Bergit seized the back of Juliet's blouse, jerking her backward. Then, with unerring accuracy, Bergit kneed Juliet hard in the ribs she'd just broken.

  With a cry of agony, Juliet collapsed inward. Bergit flung her down again. Finding herself splayed across the carpet, Juliet tried to voice a warning. "Tristan!" But his name emerged as scarcely more than a whisper.

  Retrieving her weapon, Bergit swung around and flipped the safety off as she aimed it at Juliet. "Not the way I wanted to kill you," she admitted, breathing heavily from her exertions, "but it will do."

  * * *

  "It's not working," Tristan snarled. The code he'd used the previous week resulted in nothing but a flashing red light.

  Given the sounds coming from Juliet's apartment, the visions Jeremiah claimed he was picking up on their way from the pub were probably accurate. The intuitive SEAL had envisioned a stranger in his sister-in-law in her apartment—someone whose intentions were foul. From the other side of the door, came a chilling scream. "No!"

  Picturing Coenen as he throttled Juliet, Tristan slammed his hand against the door in frustration and fear. "Juliet changed the code," he raged. Of course she would have, knowing Coenen had her address.

  Jeremiah ran a hand over the solid steel surface. "We can't kick this in," he said. "The hinges are reinforced."

  "We can shoot them," Stu offered, brandishing the high-tech pistol he'd pulled from his trunk.

  Sweat breached Tristan's pores. "Good idea. Do it."

  "Wait." Jeremiah stared at the keypad. "The last combination was Emma's birthday, 0106. Try Sammy's, May fifth—0505," he translated quickly.

  Tristan punched in the numbers, and a green light flashed. "That's it!" Signaling for Stu to cover him, he lowered the lever carefully, opening the door just far enough to peer inside.

  A vision of Renata Blumenthal's pale bun drew Tristan up short. He'd expected to see Coenen, not his sister, terrorizing Juliet. She clutched a small silenced pistol in one hand, aiming it at something just beyond Tristan's view. Long legs stretching out from behind the recliner confirmed the worst. Juliet!

  In a split second, even without consciously thinking of his plan, Tristan threw his weight into the door, relying on Hack to cover him as he exploded into the room, first at a run, then into a diving roll.

  Renata's head swung around.

  On her face, he read the same expression of fanatical resolve he'd seen from terrorists about to be apprehended. Her silenced weapon discharged. Thoop. Juliet's legs jerked at the bullet's impact, but it was the lack of a scream that chilled his blood while making it boil at the same time.

  "Nooo!" Tristan's roar of denial sounded like the cry of a wounded animal. He tackled Renata—hard. Tangled together, they flew over the coffee table and onto the sofa where he wrested the weapon from her grasp and flipped the safety. It was all he could do not to knock her teeth out with it, but concern for Juliet had him tossing the pistol to Jeremiah and leaving Renata to Hack.

  "Juliet!" Tristan fell to his knees next to her. Blood smeared the left side of her head, flowing from her temple and pooling before his eyes on the area rug beneath her. "Oh, God. No. No. No. Please. Wake up. Wake up!"

  Except she wouldn't. Renata had shot her at point-blank range in the head. Juliet was dying or already dead. What an idiot he'd been to ever let her out of his sight! How the hell could he ever forgive himself?

  Chapter 20

  With his heart in his throat, Tristan watched as Jeremiah sought a pulse on Juliet's bruised neck. He had seen his platoon medic attend dozens of injured SEALs over the years, and even a handful of civilians, but seeing Juliet in need of his teammate's ministrations distressed him like nothing ever had.

  "Don't let her die," Tristan demanded. How could Juliet have believed he was the one in need of protection when she'd been the one in danger the whole time—not of Coenen but, rather, his crazy sister? If Juliet died now, they would never have the chance to reconcile. His life would cease to have meaning.

  "Pulse is strong. She's breathing on her own." Jeremiah moved to examine her head wound.

  A drop of hope fell onto the barren soil of dread. With the blood flowing from her wound so quickly, though, it seemed impossible to believe she could survive.

  "Call for help!" Tristan shouted at Hack, only to realize he was already talking quietly into his phone. Renata lay face down on the floor at the cyber warrior's feet, fingers interlaced behind her head, his foot planted on the small of her back.

  Jeremiah clamped a calming hand on Tristan's shoulder. "The bullet seems to have onl
y grazed her temple. I can't find an entry point. Go find me a clean towel, now."

  Inspired by Jeremiah's calm, Tristan rose unsteadily to his feet and hastened to the bathroom in search of a towel. A glance at the tub brought to mind the memory of Juliet lounging in a sea of bubbles with a look of ecstasy on her gorgeous face.

  The thought of her dying made him stagger against the cabinet, suddenly faint. He chased it from his mind. She was going to live. She had to live. Anything else was simply too unbearable to accept.

  * * *

  Hours later, Tristan glanced up at the sound of footsteps hastening toward the trauma center's waiting area. Guilt needled him as Hilary's flaming red hair came into view. Emma must have called her sister's assistant to let her know what had happened. He'd been too consumed with torment to think of notifying anyone.

  It was Jeremiah who had called Emma as the trio of SEALs followed the ambulance to Inova Fairfax Hospital.

  At Hilary's approach, Emma stood to greet her. Hack also took a step toward the petite woman, stopped, and sat back down.

  "How is she?"

  Tristan took in Hilary's wide eyes, her pink nose. Emma had obviously told her what happened.

  He didn't want to hear Emma's response at that moment. Burying his face in his hands, he resisted the childish urge to cover his ears. If only he could be more like Jeremiah, who sat with his back to the wall, eyes closed, appearing perfectly relaxed.

  "She was code yellow when the ambulance got here," Emma reported quietly, "which means her vitals are strong, but there's potential for complications. The bullet grazed the side of her skull. They're doing a CT scan right now to see if there's a brain bleed."

  Brain bleed. The horrifying phrase made Tristan nauseated. Even if Juliet pulled through, there was the prospect of neurological damage, impaired speech, and a host of other complications. He couldn't envision his proud PI giving up her career because she had to learn to talk again.

  "Dear Lord," Hilary breathed, articulating Tristan's dismay.

  "She's going to be fine," Emma stated firmly.