by Radclyffe
“Not working tonight?” the bartender asked, leaning on his outstretched arms as he stared.
Irina caressed Mitch’s cheek. “A little of both.”
“Huh,” the bartender grunted. “Where’s Olik?”
“I don’t know,” Irina answered, “I thought he would be here.”
“Haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”
His tone was as flat and unreadable as his smooth, solid features. The conversation quickly put out the tension blazing in Mitch’s hard-on, and he was grateful for that. He didn’t need the distraction. He needed to get a handle on Irina’s game. He didn’t know the players, and he had to find out fast. The bartender seemed to be probing for information. Obviously, no one trusted anyone else, and neither Irina nor the bartender was giving anything away.
“Tell him to call me.” Irina stepped back from Mitch and gripped his hand. “Come on, new boy. You promised me a good time.”
“What’s your number,” the bartender called after her. “If he comes in.”
Irina looked back. “Olik knows.”
“So what if he forgot?”
“Then I’ll be here tomorrow night.”
Mitch dug a five out of his pocket and tossed it on the bar. His knuckles brushed along the length of his cock, and the feeling was both foreign and grounding. Irina was either a natural-born actress, or completely fearless. His stomach roiled, but he’d be damned if he’d let on how nervous he was. He slung his arm around Irina’s shoulders. “My bike’s out back.”
As she led him down the narrow hall toward the rear exit, he heard the sounds of frantic sex in the shadowed alcoves along the way. He and Irina had come close to having sex back here one night. She’d done things to him that he didn’t mean to let happen and that had twisted his head around until Sandy straightened him out as only Sandy could. His thoughts cleared as he thought about her. Sandy kept him steady.
Irina pushed through the fire door and he followed her quickly out into the alley. He’d left his Ducati against the wall at the far end. Otherwise, the area was deserted save for a few rats scurrying from the shaft of light that had cut through the shadows from the open door.
He glanced at Irina. “Are you—”
She slapped him across the face so hard his head rocked back and his lip tore open against the edge of a tooth. He tasted blood and braced himself for the next blow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been beaten in an alley. The last time he’d been trying to prevent a john from roughing up Sandy. He’d won the fight then, but he wasn’t about to hit Irina.
“That’s for making me want you,” Irina snapped.
“Like I said,” Mitch replied evenly. “Sorry.”
“Let’s go,” Irina said. “This place stinks almost as bad as the jail.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place. I want clothes.”
Mitch rubbed his jaw and felt a bruise rising. He couldn’t think of a reason not to go back to Irina’s house. If the Russians were watching, they’d see them together, which was just what he wanted. He didn’t have a way to signal Frye and Watts about the plan, but in this kind of job, he was going to be on his own a lot. He was okay with that.
“Did anyone come with you?” he asked.
“No,” Irina said sharply. “Some men dropped me off and said you would be here.” She stopped by the side of his bike. The light from the street highlighted her face. Her expression was hard and cold. “They explained to me what would happen if I didn’t do as they say.”
“What did they tell you to do?”
“Anything I had to do to find out what they wanted to know.” She looked him up and down. “Including fucking you.”
“You’re not going to have to do that.”
Mitch straddled the bike and handed her a helmet. She put it on and climbed on behind him. Then she wrapped her arms around his waist and slid her fingers underneath the waistband of his jeans.
“Maybe I will anyhow.”
*
“Aw, for fuck’s sake.” Watts jerked upright in his seat as the Ducati roared around the corner and headed in the opposite direction toward North Philadelphia. “There he goes.”
Rebecca didn’t bother answering. She cranked the starter and made a quick U-turn to follow Mitch. Since this part of town was fairly deserted midweek in the middle of the night, she had to hang back without other traffic to use as cover.
“Keep an eye out for anyone else following him,” she said.
Watts divided his attention between the side mirror and squinting into the distance at the single red taillight. “You think Clark has a tail on them too?”
Rebecca grunted. “Don’t you?”
“Christ almighty, it’s a fucking daisy chain. With this many people trailing along after him, the boy’s cover’s gonna get blown.”
“Maybe Clark really is stretched thin,” Rebecca said. “Maybe the feds really don’t have the manpower for street-level surveillance.”
“Maybe. And maybe my dick’s got two heads too.”
“That is not an image I want stuck in my brain, Watts.” Rebecca cut over one block and turned left. Then she sped up, running parallel to the street Mitch and Irina had taken.
“Jesus, Loo! We’re going to lose him if he jumps onto 95.”
“Your concern for Mitch is starting to worry me, Watts. Something you want to tell me?”
“Yeah, I’ve suddenly developed the urge to suck salami. He’s still green, that’s all.”
Rebecca cut back toward Mitch’s street and as they crossed the intersection, she caught a glimpse of Mitch’s taillights two blocks north of them. She kept going another block, turned right, and paralleled him again. “I know he’s green, but he’s good. And I know where he’s going.”
Chapter Nine
Sloan pulled into the garage, cut the engine, and sat astride her bike, wondering how she had come to be sitting alone in the dark while the woman she loved waited four floors above, feeling four thousand miles away. She’d moved from the clandestine streets of Southeast Asia to the pristine corridors of DC, and when forced from government service had convinced herself that work in the private sector was satisfying. At times, it was. And in addition to being very lucrative, private contracts had brought her Michael. But she never felt the thrill of hunting a white-collar criminal the way she did when she knew her work would rid the world of someone truly evil. She had felt that way since working with Frye and her team, but Michael had paid the price for her ego gratification.
Sloan figured she’d been selfish long enough. She swung her leg over her bike and strode to the elevator. After punching in the code, she let her mind go blank. She had nothing left to think about. A few moments later, the elevator opened and she stepped into the loft. A fire had burned down to embers, and in the dying glow she saw Michael curled in a corner of the large sofa. She wore dark, loose cotton pants and a long-sleeved scoopneck top. Her legs were drawn beneath her and her arms wrapped around her slim torso. She looked cold, and Sloan felt a surge of self-loathing. She stripped off her leather jacket and tossed it onto a heavy wood frame chair on her way into the sitting area.
“Did you have dinner?” Michael asked.
“No.” Sloan detoured to add more logs to the fire before settling onto the sofa next to Michael. The six inches of space between their bodies felt like miles. “I’m okay.”
“Well, that makes one of us.”
Michael’s tone was not accusatory, but Sloan ached at the undeniable sadness. She took Michael’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, exactly?”
Sloan tried to find an answer that would be the truth. “I lost my temper and I took it out on you. That’s unforgivable, but I hope you’ll forgive me anyhow.”
Michael laughed softly, but the sadness was still there. “You have always been so charming. I’ve never been able to resist you.”
“Bad thing? Good thing?”
“Our thing.” Michael tra
ced the tight tendons in the back of Sloan’s hand with her fingertips. “I know I’m not capable of doing a lot of the things that you do. I wouldn’t really want to. I’m not interested in learning to shoot a gun. I’m probably a coward at heart—” When Sloan started to object, Michael shushed her. “I don’t enjoy physical confrontation. I live inside my head, and you—God, one of the things I love about you is how physical you are. I love how I know what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, when you touch me.” Michael’s voice trembled. “So when you leave me like you did tonight, I feel lost.”
Sloan pulled Michael into her arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby.”
“Why don’t you want me to go to this fund-raiser? Catherine and Rebecca are going.”
“Rebecca and I will be working,” Sloan said.
Michael settled her head on Sloan’s shoulder and looped an arm around her waist, trying to decipher the message. Sloan didn’t want to tell her something, and whatever that was, she seemed tormented by it. “You think there’s danger, and you don’t want me there.”
“I don’t know. Possibly. Probably.” Sloan stroked Michael’s shoulder. She didn’t know her enemy’s face, she didn’t know how to stand between Michael and harm, and that was driving her crazy.
“It’s a public function,” Michael pointed out gently. “I’ll be arriving with you and leaving with you. And the entire time I’m there, I’ll be surrounded by police officers and businessmen and women. What could happen?”
“I don’t know,” Sloan whispered.
“I’m all right now, Sloan. I feel better every day. I’m not going to get hurt again. I’m fine.” Michael straightened and took both of Sloan’s hands in hers. “What I need is you by my side, loving me. If you do that, that will be enough.”
“Okay,” Sloan said softly, rising to walk with Michael to the bedroom, all the while knowing she had lied.
*
Sandy didn’t see Dell’s bike in front of their apartment building. She pulled the front door key from one of the many zippered pockets on her fake red leather jacket as she climbed the stoop, her stomach sinking. She’d stormed out in a huff and now Dell wasn’t home. Crap. Dell was probably mad. Well, so was she. Sort of. A little bit. And she hated the disappointment that choked her when she let herself into the dark apartment. She already knew Dell wasn’t there, so why did that make her feel bad, anyhow? It’s not like she needed her around all the time. They both had their own stuff to do. Just because they slept together most every night, it wasn’t like they were really living together. Dell still had her expensive fancy condo in Center City, although come to think of it, Sandy couldn’t remember the last time Dell had been there.
After switching on the light, she stripped on her way to the bathroom. She showered and washed the smoke out of her hair, then fished a ratty T-shirt of Dell’s she slept in out of the laundry basket. She couldn’t find a clean pair of sweatpants so she checked in Dell’s half of the dresser. The first drawer she pulled open was empty. She stared at it for a long moment, the sick feeling in her stomach growing. She’d finally pissed Dell off so much she’d left. Got sick of her running the streets, mouthing off, going her own way. What did you think? That she was going to stay forever? Grow up.
Sandy’s hands shook when she pulled open the next drawer. Her knees almost gave out when she saw Dell’s T-shirts and underwear neatly folded and stacked. Turning quickly, she raced to the single narrow closet and pulled it open. A few hangers were empty, but most of the stuff Dell had brought over from her condo was still there.
Relief left her shakier than the terror had. Tears filled her eyes and she headed for the kitchen to find a beer. A folded piece of paper sat beneath the salt shaker on the counter next to the refrigerator. Sandy stared at it as if it were a dead mouse. No way. She wasn’t touching it. Instead, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Black and Tan. She popped the top and took a long swallow while eyeing the paper. Get a grip. Geez, what a coward.
After another deep swallow, she plonked the can on the counter, knocked the plastic shaker aside, and snatched up the note. The message was short, but after reading it three times, she still couldn’t figure out what it meant.
Babe. I’m working and I might not be back tonight. I might not be back for a couple of nights. Don’t worry. If you see me anywhere, especially in the building, pretend you don’t know me. I love you, babe. D.
“Pretend you don’t know me?” Sandy shook her head angrily. “What the fuck, Dell.”
Pissed again, but finally feeling like she might not throw up, she settled onto the sofa bed to wait.
*
Mitch pulled his motorcycle along a wooden fence behind a block of row houses in North Philadelphia. It wasn’t the kind of area where anyone, even the inhabitants, walked around unarmed after dark. Many of the houses were boarded up or had been claimed by crack addicts, drug pushers, and squatters. The Russians had kept Irina and her charges in a house in the middle of the block. No lights shone from the building now, and as Mitch and Irina crossed the cracked cement patio toward the back door, he could see that most of the windows on the first floor were broken out. Those along with the door had been hastily boarded up.
“Let me go first.” Mitch leaned down and pulled a Beretta .25 from his ankle holster. “A place like this is a blinking red sign for vandals and looters. We might find company inside.”
“Wait,” Irina whispered.
Mitch watched wordlessly as she ran deftly across the debris-strewn yard. Then he couldn’t see her, but he heard stones scraping. A minute later she was back at his side, a Glock in her hand.
“Christ,” he muttered. Whoever had searched the place after the raid hadn’t done a very good job. “Any more surprises inside?”
“If I told you,” Irina said, “they wouldn’t be surprises.”
Mitch grabbed her arm. “You can’t shoot anyone. If you do, you’ll end up back behind bars again.”
“I’m not going back,” Irina said with finality. “Come on.”
By unspoken agreement they avoided the door. If anyone was inside, they’d probably be smart enough to rig the door with some kind of alarm, even if it was just a row of cans strategically placed on the floor. Keeping to the shadows, Mitch skirted around to the left side of the house, keeping Irina in sight, just ahead of him. Her bedroom window was still intact.
“Let’s forget this,” Mitch said. “We can get you some more clothes tomorrow.”
“Give me a boost up. The latch is loose on purpose.”
Mitch cupped his hands and sure enough, after a minute, he heard the window slide up and Irina shimmied inside. He jumped to grasp the lower windowsill, dug his toes into the soft wood wall, and clawed his way after her. Inside, the air smelled like cordite and blood. He remembered how his own blood had smelled pooling beneath his body not that long ago. With his body too weak to move and the knife jutting from his thigh, he’d wondered if he was about to die. And then Frye had leaned over him. She’d been the one to take the knife out, to stop the bleeding, to tell him he would be all right. He’d believed her.
“Bastards,” Irina cursed. The closet door was standing open—hangers in a jumble on the floor, and the single dresser was upended. The drawers had been tossed into a corner and their contents strewn around the room. The mattress lay half off the bed, its stuffing erupting from a long rent down the center. Police, probably.
“Let’s make it fast.” Mitch moved to stand by the left side of the door.
If anyone tried to come in, he would be able to swing into the open doorway and take them out by cracking them on the head with his gun. He didn’t want to have to shoot anyone. If anyone was inside, it wouldn’t be cops. Not enough manpower to continue a stakeout. Still, he didn’t want to shoot a drugged-out teenager or a drunken prostitute.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Irina pawing through the mess on the floor. She quickly jammed items into a small bag she’d dug out from un
derneath the corner of the mattress. Then she hurried to the closet and stepped inside. A thud sounded on the ceiling upstairs, and Mitch tensed. They weren’t alone. When he heard footsteps shuffle over his head, he abandoned the door and jumped across the small room to the closet.
“We have to go,” he whispered urgently, wondering what she was so eager to find. He reached inside, grabbed her arm, and yanked her out. “Now.”
She jerked her arm free. “One minute.” She fumbled around the floor and came up with what looked like a knee-high leather boot.
“You’ve got be kidding me,” Mitch cursed. “What is it with girls and their shoes. Jesus.”
“Here.” Irina thrust the bottom of the boot toward him. “Hold the heel.”
Deciding that agreeing with her was likely to get them out of the room faster than anything else, Mitch grabbed the four-inch stiletto and held on tight as Irina clutched the shoe and yanked hard. The heel broke off in his hand. Irina tugged at the sole and it stripped away from the bottom of the shoe. She pulled several items from inside, shoved them into her bag, and ran to the window. She looked back, her face framed in moonlight. “Are you coming, new boy?”
Then she disappeared.
Mitch dropped through the window and onto the ground, half expecting her to be gone. But she was crouched by the gate, waiting, and in another minute they were racing down the alley to his motorcycle. Mitch straddled the big bike and Irina jumped on behind him. They jammed helmets on and he wheeled the bike out into the street before starting the motor. If anyone in the house heard them, it would be too late to catch up with them now.
He drove fast through the empty streets until the lights of Center City appeared, and then he pulled over. He yanked off his helmet and angled around in his seat so he could see Irina. “What was that all about? And don’t tell me just clothes.”
Irina smiled, her eyes gleaming in the lights from a nearby gas station. “Why should I trust you?”