by Ronie Kendig
“How’s it going?” Boone asked as he closed the trunk and passed the last bag to Nuala, who seemed a little flushed.
Flushed? It wasn’t hot outside. Not yet anyway.
“Thanks,” Nuala said, her gaze flicking to Boone’s face, then down, then back.
Holy crushing operatives! Hadn’t she gotten over the big lug after all this time? Surely with the way Boone doted and crooned over the ailing Keeley, Nuala would know better. But here she stood, her confidence wobbling it seemed.
“Any progress? Tips?” Boone asked.
“Just that we’re filling some bellies but not exactly making friends,” Téya said, remembering the talk with Noodle about being positive. “We’re making an impact, I’m just not sure it’s the one we’re after.”
Boone tossed his chin toward her gloved hand. “How’s the hand?”
“Fine.” Téya had to ask, “Why didn’t you tell Trace?”
Boone smirked. “He had enough things to work out. The mark doesn’t affect us here.”
“Doesn’t affect us?” How could he say that? “Trace said it could entice people to attack me—if I’m down, I can’t search. That affects us.”
“Actually,” Boone said, “I disagree. I think the burn is The Turk’s way of saying if anyone but him touches you, they’re as good as dead, too.”
“Too.” She nodded in disbelief. “Thanks.” It wasn’t a question of if The Turk would kill her, but when. So reassuring.
Nuala touched Boone’s thick bicep, probably to let him know his words weren’t comforting. But she quickly removed her hand. “I don’t think that’s what he meant. Just—”
“It is what it is,” Boone said with a thick-necked shrug. “Ignorance gets people killed.”
“Wow, don’t placate me, Ramage,” Téya said. “Wouldn’t want me to worry or anything.”
“Hey, I call it like I see it.”
Téya thumbed back toward the Roma slums. “We’re going back to the wolves now. It’s safer in there.” She gave him a wry grin.
Nuala hesitated then smiled up at Boone. “Thanks for grabbing the bread for us. Bye.”
With a nod, Boone—oblivious to the girl’s charms—said, “Meet you back here at eight.”
“Unless you hear from us before,” Téya said. “And we’re grabbing dinner before we go back. I’m starving!”
They’d no sooner turned the corner than a group of children surrounded them. Reminding herself to breathe, Téya told herself the brand wasn’t burning again. That it was her imagination reacting to the mob scene—even though the mobbers were half the size and were excited, not angry, to see them. But there were so many this time.
“I guess word got out,” Nuala said. “Maybe word will get to the Lorings….”
“I sure hope so,” Téya said, taking in the dirty, pleading faces. “How do we know they aren’t siblings?”
“We don’t.” Nuala started passing out the bread.
Téya couldn’t help but marvel at how the youngest member of Zulu held no reservations about this. And why should they? The kids were hungry. The parents were without money. Téya really had to get herself together, remember what was really important in life.
But we have to find the Lorings.
They worked their way through the slums, growing strangely and disgustingly accustomed to the stench and filth. Strike that. Téya would never be accustomed, but it wasn’t as bothersome as it was yesterday.
When she turned, she met the eyes of a boy who looked to be fourteen or so. Intelligence and shrewdness lurked behind those brown orbs. “You’ve already received a loaf today,” Téya said, a teasing note in her voice. “We have to spread the fun, don’t you think?”
Another lazy lift of his shoulder. “I want two loaves—”
“Two?”
“And a thing of that cheese you got in that bag.”
Bold teen. “Sorry, but—”
“I can take you to them.” His words rushed out.
“We have the loaves here”—her mind caught up with his more likely meaning—“wait.” Téya leaned in, glancing at Nuala, who had gone still. “What do you mean? Take us to whom?”
“You look for the Lorings, right?”
Trace
Salamina, Greece
1 June – 1430 Hours
With an hour-long drive from Athens to the Stoffels’ seaside estate in Salamina, Trace and Annie geared up—that is to say, he donned a tux and she a slinky navy blue dress that made a man’s mind wander—and headed out in the hired limo. Hair done up, makeup expertly applied, and poised to perfection, Annie looked every bit the heiress, especially with the leased jewels gracing her long, slender neck and the teardrop earrings teasing the line of her jaw.
Trace kept his gaze out the window, knowing he’d be in trouble if he stared.
“Reminds me of Sydney,” Annie said, her gaze locked out the other window.
He looked at her, surprised at her words.
Twirling the huge rock—another lease—on her right hand, she shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just nervous. A lot depends on me getting things right.” She finally brought those blue eyes to his. “Let’s go over it again.”
She didn’t want to go over it. She wanted to avoid a conversation with him. “You wanted to know why I did it?”
Annie clenched her eyes tight. “No. Please. Not now, Trace. I can’t…” She blew out a ragged breath and turned her attention to the world passing them by. “Things can’t always be on your terms.” The words were soft yet sharp, the dagger thrown exactly where she’d intended it.
Sitting back and once again fixing his gaze outside the limo, he said, “When we arrive—” His secure sat phone belted out the national anthem. He lifted it from his left breast pocket and glanced at the screen then answered. “Go ahead.”
“Boss-man, it’s me—Houston.”
Trace waited.
“I’ve—there’s some disturbing things happening.”
Patience was a commodity he didn’t have right now. “Well?”
“Sir, I’m… Annie’s picture is floating the underground.”
“The what?”
“We tech geeks have a lot of back channels and sites. Her picture’s out there.”
Trace sat forward, his knees practically in his chest. “Out where? What are you talking about?” His gaze hit Annie’s, and her face registered the same concern.
“I think Stoffel’s checking out her story, about being Policek. I mean, he’s digging deep.”
Hand over his mouth, Trace closed his eyes. “Please tell me her ghost life will hold up.”
The seconds that fell off the clock felt like minutes…hours.
“Houston,” Trace said with warning.
“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “We put up enough that it would look solid if done by an entity like the FBI, but he’s going to the underground. We live to find the holes. I can’t make any promises, Commander. I’d go in with the very real possibility they know she’s not a billionaire’s daughter.”
Annie
Salamina, Greece
1 June – 1630 Hours
“What?” Several feet of distance sat between her seat and Trace’s as he rode with his back to the glass that separated them from the driver, and she was grateful for every inch. It stopped her from going to him.
Trace made another call. “Need you in Salamina…as soon as possible.” The conversation went on and he thumbed his lower lip. That was his stress sign. “No, I need you here.” He nodded. “Okay.”
After he tucked away the phone and scratched the side of his face, Trace looked at her. He always struck a handsome pose, even when he wasn’t trying. He had a strong, broad forehead with a perpetually terse brow. Though his hairline had begun to recede, there wasn’t anything old or unattractive about Trace. Except his walls, especially the one that pushed them apart and separated their lives.
“Stoffel’s looking into you,” Trace sa
id quietly. “But they’re digging—deep. Possibly deeper than we faked.”
She struggled for a breath, as if someone had a chokehold on her neck. “What do we do?”
“You go in there and hold your head high. You’re Natalia Policek, spoiled brat of Anton Policek.” He swiped his hands out as if smoothing a sheet. “Nothing’s changed.”
Annie studied his face. His eyes. The line of his mouth. Set of his jaw. Trace believed she could still pull this off, so she would trust him. “Okay,” she managed.
He rapped his knuckles against the window, and it rolled down. “Drive around for a bit.”
After they were alone with their words again, Annie asked, “Why?”
“Boone’s on his way. I want to make sure he’s in place before we go in.”
“In case something goes wrong.”
Trace said nothing.
A bitter taste filled the back of her throat. “You sure—about this?” she asked quietly as she folded her arms around her tummy. Mustering her own courage, she nodded despite the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.
Trace hunch-walked across the limo and sat on the bench beside her. His arm went across the back of the seat as he held her gaze. “A lot has passed between us, some pretty rough things, I confess, but I’d never put you in a situation I couldn’t get you out of.”
“Things happen,” Annie whispered, looking into his gray eyes. “Things out of our control.”
“And that can happen every day of every year.” His hand came to her cheek, her stomach jolting. “But in a mission”—his thumb stroked her cheek—“I’d die before sending you in if I thought it was crossing the safety threshold.”
Annie moved away from his touch, hating the way her body betrayed her. He had this way of convincing her, making her believe he was capable of almost anything. Of believing she was capable.
Twenty minutes later, the limo eased to the front portico of the estate. The driver opened the door, and after a nod to her, Trace climbed out. He stood, blocking her view, acting every bit the bodyguard. Finally, he shifted aside and held out his hand.
Annie took it and stepped from the darkened interior. Her second step went a little wobbly, nerves turning her limbs to jelly. Trace steadied her, his gaze still sweeping the area.
When she looked over her shoulder, Annie’s breath was stolen. The sprawling green lawn vanished. And beyond it, the pristine, inviting waters of the sea.
“Miss Policek?”
Annie pivoted, turning awkwardly in heels on a cobblestone drive. A man stood just outside the door, another behind him held the door. “Forgive me,” she said to the suited man as she traversed the eight steps to stand before him, then took another gander at the blue-green waters. “I was just admiring the view.”
“Indeed,” he said. “If you will come this way, please.”
With Trace behind her, she moved into the house. Resplendent crystals threw light across the foyer’s golden marble floor. A gilded rail guided guests from the lowly position of the entrance to the grand extravagance of a large open area that she could only think to call a ballroom. And yet there were richly adorned sofas scattered around the room, as well as elegant floral arrangements topping white-draped tables around which older guests sat chatting. Most, however, stood in huddles, their conversations hushed and discreet.
This could take all night.
She wasn’t even sure where to start. Remember, you’re a billion-heiress. Right.
“Miss Policek?”
Annie swirled, intentionally let her floor-length gown flutter. She kept her chin up as she met Spirapoulos’s CFO. “Mr. Christakis. How nice of you to arrange this little tête-à-tête.”
He gave her a languid smile as two men appeared beside him—and she recognized them both from Houston’s info dump this morning. “Miss Policek, I’d like to introduce you to the CEO and owner of Spirapoulos Holdings, Mr. Giles Stoffel.”
Annie extended her arm, all too aware of Trace moving in, as a bodyguard would when several men joined someone as supposedly rich and powerful as she was. “Mr. Stoffel,” she said with a pitched voice. “It was generous of you to invite me to your benefit tonight. I was pleasantly surprised when they told me of the invitation.” The man with Stoffel, his brother-in-law, shifted closer several times, clearly intent on meeting her. That girl radar went off, the one that she and most every girl out there had, to alert them to a guy’s presence. Sort of like when a lure is dropped in the water and all the fish scatter—and that’s exactly what she wanted to do, scatter.
Instead, she gave him a coy, sidelong glance though a bitter taste rose in her mouth.
“And this is Titus Batsakis, owner of Aegean Defense Systems,” Christakis said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. The prime minister would like a word.”
“Of course,” Annie said, perfecting her accent as she turned to the ADS owner. “Defense? You deal in weapons?”
“Not just,” Titus said as he lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray and handed her one. “We have many branches, including electronic and virtual training…we manufacture farm equipment and large machine tools.”
Annie rolled her eyes at the last few. “Droll,” she said with a sufficiently snotty tone. “My father, he started building farm equipment, but he said the real money is in weapons.”
“It’s interesting that I have not heard of your father, and I’m very familiar with weapons builders around the world,” Batsakis said, his dark, beady eyes roaming over her. “But had I suspected he had such a beautiful daughter, I would have met him sooner.”
That made no sense, but she laughed anyway. A small tremor raced through her when his arm slid around her waist. “Mikalos says you wish to invest?”
“Da, my father gave me one-tenth of my inheritance, and if I can double it before my next birthday, he will give me all of my inheritance now. But if I cannot, or if I lose, then I will get nothing.”
Trace appeared with what looked like a cocktail and handed it to her, taking the champagne. He gave her an intentional nod, one that the ADS owner wouldn’t see, and moved away.
“What was that?” Titus asked, sounding indignant.
“Sorry,” she waved a hand dismissively. “I cannot be trusted with champagne, so Mr. Volkov keeps me stocked with cocktails.”
His dark eyes assessed her.
Annie wondered if they’d gone too far but sipped the drink—one that was apparently nonalcoholic by the taste of it—and intentionally moved her attention toward the balustrade that spanned a large, gorgeous second-story balcony. “A beautiful view. I’m not sure I’d ever leave this quaint villa if I got to see that every morning and evening.”
“That is what I tell Giles often,” he said, admiring the view—her. Not the landscape.
“You live here, too?”
“More than Giles,” he said with a laugh. “My sister is in residence here, but Giles’s business often takes him around the world.”
“I love traveling the world,” she said, finding more truth in those words than she realized she felt. Maybe it was just five years wrapped in the solitude of Manson. She’d been in Paris, Germany, London, and now Greece…
“Your father,” he began again. “What was the name of his company again?”
Unease squirmed through her. This is where it began. This where his doubts bred or died.
“Mr. Batsakis,” Annie said with a teasing reprimand to her words, “Please—do not bait me. We both know you were digging into my personal files the last twenty-four hours. If you cannot remember the name of my father’s company, then perhaps I will be better off doing business elsewhere.” She looked out over the view again. “Somewhere with water, since I find it so relaxing.”
He gave her a leering smile. “You are an incredible, forthright woman.”
“I find it serves no purpose to be otherwise.”
He stepped in, his hand going to her waist. Men were so primal, trying to physically possess anything, including
women. Over his shoulder, Annie did not directly look at Trace, but she was sure his lips were moving as he stood alone in the corner. No doubt talking to Houston.
“Excuse me, Mr. Batsakis,” a waiter said as he approached.
Titus turned, his expression growing dark. Very dark. Frightening.
“Forgive the intrusion, sir,” the waiter said as he lowered his head in deference. “The prime minister and Mr. Stoffel would appreciate a word.”
With a disgusted sigh, he straightened his jacket. Met her gaze but only long enough for her to see the fury. “I must see to them. I won’t be long, dear Natalia.”
Annie smiled her consent for him to leave. “Don’t be gone too long. I bore easily.” And with that, stirring her virgin cocktail, she wandered away…toward Trace, guessing he had a message for her.
She feigned interest in a massive portrait of a half-nude woman, something she would really never understand people fawning over.
“Something’s wrong,” came Trace’s quiet voice.
“Agreed,” she said with a smile.
“You want out? We can make that happen.”
His words about not putting her in a situation that would jeopardize her stilled her. “Would you leave?”
When he didn’t answer, she looked in his direction. Trace was staring at her—intensely.
She saw it—saw the turmoil behind his silence. “When you recruited us, you promised you’d never make a gender-based decision.”
“This isn’t about gender,” he hissed, stepping closer. “This is about a piece of slime pawing you. If he gets you alone…”
Annie swallowed. Mostly because she knew what he didn’t say. But also because of the jealous rage clouding Trace’s face. “I’m an operative. Let me do my job.” More ferocity filled her words than she felt. Had he heard the tremor in them? Her uncertainty?
His nostrils flared as his lips went flat. He gave a nod and slowly blended back into the crowd. Something about watching him vanish like that left a sickening dread in the deepest part of her soul. He’d vanished like that once before and what dawned next proved to be the blackest time of her life—utter isolation from everything and everyone she loved.