by Donna Young
“Katts Smeart is a synthetically enhanced poison allegedly financed and created by this man, Mikhail Davidenko, leader of the Russian terrorist sect—The Maxim. A fact the Russian government has conveniently overlooked. And the Russian Mafia has embraced.”
“Davidenko.” Ian recalled the name, acknowledging the punch of caution that jarred his spine. “Involved mostly with gambling, drug and human trafficking, arms and nuclear material dealings—even the sale of body organs. I’m not surprised about the biochemical warfare. Only that it took him so long.”
The next picture appeared on the wall—an aerial view of Davidenko on his yacht, entertaining. “Bottom line with Davidenko is profit. Biochemical manufacturing is big business these days,” Cain said.
Ian noted a few politicians, European and American—all dressed designer casual and surrounded by topless, thong-clad beauties. “Amazing what dirty money can buy.”
Cain grunted in agreement.
Ian considered the photograph again. “And Lara?”
“She’s been tracking Davidenko, gathering information through Father Xavier. We’ve always suspected Davidenko’s involvement in illegal activities within our borders. But never had proof.”
“The Maxim has a pretty long reach.” Lara’s involvement didn’t surprise him. The woman could find trouble going to the Laundromat. “How in the hell did the priest get a hold of the poison in the first place?”
Cain flashed another picture. This one was a woman. A brunette with classical features that complemented her upswept hair, wearing a strapless, black Versace gown.
In this photo, Davidenko stood to her right whispering in her ear. The curve of her mouth showed her amusement, but it was the softness in the deep brown eyes that confirmed much more.
“She’s amused, but not in love,” Ian murmured, his opinion instinctive.
“Her name is Sophia Franco,” Cain continued. But the slight raise of his brow acknowledged Ian’s comment.
“The actress?” Ian remembered Sophia Franco. Late thirties. Never headlined. Her forte was horror movies. Got a lot of press over her blood-chilling screams.
“Davidenko’s mistress,” Cain stated. “A few months back, Father Xavier managed an introduction. She’s a Roman Catholic and has become quite attached to the old man.”
“Are you saying Sophia Franco managed to get the poison to the priest?”
“It fits,” Cain responded. “We have proof that Father Xavier controls her. It’s no secret Russian terrorism is a small step from the Russian Mafia.”
“So, Sophia Franco turns in the Katts Smeart hoping to save lives and her soul? Hell of a penance.” Ian frowned. “Where is she?”
“Dead, we suspect. But I haven’t been able to confirm it yet,” Cain said, then paused. “Lara’s the courier for the Katts Smeart. She’s headed for Las Vegas where Father Xavier is supposed to pass it to her later today.”
“So Lara gets the weapon, brings it in,” Ian said, relaxing somewhat. “One-two punch. She could handle this in her sleep. If you send me in to cover her and she finds out—it won’t be pretty.”
“Pretty is the least of my worries. After this assignment, I’m forcing Lara to take a leave of absence. For her benefit.” Another pause, this time longer. “And yours.”
“Mine? How in the hell do you figure that?” He followed Cain’s gaze to the VI equipment. “You’re not getting rid of her because the two of us can’t get along, are you? Because if that’s the case, I’ll step down. Lara’s hated my guts ever since the President fiasco two months ago.” And rightly so, Ian silently acknowledged. “If she loses her career because of me, you’re signing my death warrant.”
“A few days ago, I would’ve agreed with you,” Cain reasoned. “But now, circumstances have changed. If her mission goes wrong and you have to intervene…” Cain rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, let’s just say I’m betting she’ll accept your help. Past or no past.”
“And why is that?”
“Because whether I like it or not, in the last twenty-four hours this mission became personal,” Cain responded, the hard edge back in his tone. “Lara fainted during a workout here at the center. I ordered her to get a physical. At the time, our doctors suspected anemia and took some blood samples.”
“And?” Ian stiffened, not bothering to cover the thread of concern. To his knowledge, Lara had never been sick a day in her life. “Was it?”
“No,” Cain admitted slowly, studying his brother. “She’s two months pregnant.”
Chapter Three
Las Vegas, Nevada. Wednesday, 1400 hours
Father Xavier Varvarinski slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, placed them beside the Bible cradled in his lap, then eased back against his hard, pine chair. Instantly, a rush of relief flooded the ache between his shoulder blades.
Even so, Xavier held his sigh of pleasure in check, not wanting the soft sound to rupture the peace that surrounded him. It wasn’t the heavy silence of the faithful which dominated most Sunday masses. Instead, it was a comforting silence—a reassuring murmur so fluid, it slid easily past the miniscule gaps in the confessional’s aged maple walls.
With his joints aching from arthritis and his lungs frail from years of tobacco abuse, Xavier had little that comforted him physically.
A true sign of being old he supposed. Still, he found solace in the midweek confessions and had insisted on upholding St. Stanislaus’s tradition when the current, younger pastor would’ve forgone the routine.
The hinges of the confessional door creaked, interrupting his thoughts. The priest’s lips lifted into a small empathetic smile. There was nothing wrong with finding reassurance in the familiar.
After a few seconds, cloth rustled against the wooden kneeler, forcing Xavier to shift forward in his chair and put his glasses back on. Reverently, his palm slid over his Bible’s leather cover—his fingertips automatically settling into its aged creases. Another comfort. The most important.
“Good afternoon, Father.” The hushed feminine greeting penetrated the screen.
“Eos,” Xavier said, turning toward the familiar voice, wincing slightly at the sharp jab of pain deep in his chest.
The ceiling light cast a slim, feminine shadow against the confessional screen. The woman was young, not more than thirty, he assumed. Her temperament soft, serene.
Xavier reached in his pocket and withdrew his pills. “Once again, your promptness astounds me,” he answered in Russian, then swallowed two tablets, dry.
“I received your message this morning.” Her tone remained hushed, her dialect now Russian, also. “Do you have the package?”
“Yes,” Xavier responded quietly. “You’ve told no one?”
“No one,” Lara replied, the lie sliding easily off her tongue. “But time is not our friend right now, Father. I need that package.”
“First things first, my child.”
Lara’s lips tilted into a half smile, forgetting for a moment the priest inside the man. “Of course.”
Xavier made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” Lara answered.
“May God keep you safe in his kingdom, Eos.”
“Thank you. And you, also,” she responded automatically, somewhat taken aback by the gesture. Something is wrong.” She noticed it in his tone—an underlying despair that Lara had heard many times during her career as a government operative. “What is it?”
He sighed. “I had prayed that this day wouldn’t come, but it seems God’s will is stronger than my pleas.”
“What do you mean? Have you been discovered? Are you in danger?”
“Danger? No,” Xavier responded slowly, as if searching for the right words. “I’m too old, and no longer a threat to anyone.”
“Then why pray for—”
“Did you know that the true test of faith is when God doesn’t answer our prayers? Most always he has a higher purpose. One that may eventuall
y come to light. Still it is hard for me to believe that he would not prevent this. No matter his purpose.”
“Surely, our purpose is the same, Father. To protect the innocent. You’ve done the government a huge favor by confiscating the substance. If there is anything I can do—”
“That’s exactly why I sent for you, Eos. I need help in saving a great deal of lives.” The priest hesitated, the uncertainty palpable. “I want to give you something. It’s under your kneeler.”
With deliberate movements, Lara reached under, her fingertips instantly touching small round beads. Slowly, she picked up the rosary. It was beautiful and old. “Is it yours?” A string of freshwater pearls looped a simple silver cross—on it, the image of Jesus suffering. The stark lines, the agonized expression were vivid in the dim light of the confessional.
“Yes. I’ve had it for many years.”
“It’s beautiful,” Lara murmured. She grasped the cross in her fingers, surprised over the chill of the metal against her skin. Somehow she’d expected it to be warm. “I can’t take this.”
“You must. It is the key to my situation.”
“I don’t understand.” Lara frowned, turning the cross over in her hand.
“You will.”
“Father, I don’t have time for cryptic puzzles. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to bring Anton Novak to me.”
“The arms dealer?” She let out a low laugh. “I realize what you’ve provided to our government is beyond our expectations. But Novak?” She shook her head. “That’s impossible. He’s Mikhail Davidenko’s right-hand man.” Lara’s fingers tightened on the rosary. “Why?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I must see him within the next forty-eight hours.” He slid an envelope through a thin gap at the bottom of the screen. “He is meeting a client here. At midnight tonight.”
Lara glanced down at the information, saw an electronic key card with it. “And the key?”
“The key is to a room at the Château Bontecou. Room seven twenty one. I’m registered under the name Jim Brisbane. Bring Novak there and wait for me.”
“Father, maybe if you tell me what you’re involved in—”
“It’s personal, little one. Very personal.”
“A vendetta?”
“More like a contract,” he admitted. “With God.”
Trepidation slithered, coating her spine like slick oil. “I will keep your secrets. I always have. I promise. You have only to tell me—”
“I’ve told you what I need. And you can keep your promise by doing what I ask.” Impatience deepened his accent.
With his impatience, came hers. “I’m sorry, Father, even if I could figure a way, I would need a reason. And my superiors’ approval. Even then, I would require more than forty-eight hours. Anton Novak is a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous is a relative term,” he whispered. “Look, Eos, I have the biochemical your government wants. Enough to wipe out an entire city.”
Everything in Lara stilled. “And I told you, we are very grateful.”
“Then understand, I wouldn’t put you in this position except you’re my last hope. Bring me Novak. And tell no one.”
“Or?”
“Or I will be forced to release the poison on thousands of people.”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, her words urgent. “We’ve known each other too long. You would not kill innocents.”
“It’s in your best interest to believe me. What’s at stake is worth far more than my immortal soul.” She heard the scrape of his chair, the grunt of effort it took him to stand. “You are my only option. And I’m sorry for it. Now that you’ve accepted my gift, you have no choice.”
His gift? Lara gripped the silver tight, understanding. “You poisoned the cross.” Her stomach pitched, then rolled. “How long do I have?”
“Long enough.” Behind the determination, she heard the sympathy. “Once you have Anton Novak in your custody, take him to Las Vegas. Wait at the Château Bontecou and I will contact you within the next twenty-four hours. You give me Anton Novak and I will give you Katts Smeart and its antidote.”
“There’s an antidote.” Lara shuddered with relief.
“Yes, there is.” Xavier sighed, as if his burden suddenly seemed too much. “I’m sorry, little one, but I couldn’t take the chance that you would not help me. Work quickly, any longer than forty-eight hours and the antidote will not save you.” He hesitated for a moment. “Please. No innocents need be involved. Not if you handle this problem for me.”
After raising his hand, he once again made the sign of the cross. “God be with you, my child.” With that, Father Xavier Varvarinski stepped out of the confessional.
Lara listened to the receding footsteps, understanding that it would be of no use to follow him. Not even to tell him he was wrong. Her uncontaminated hand slid to her stomach. Innocents were already involved.
Mojave Desert, North of Las Vegas
Wednesday, 2200 hours
PREGNANT. For the hundredth time, she pressed her fingers to her lids and swore. She’d never been one to cry before—not because of any sort of toughness or principle, but simply because she wasn’t capable—could never find the release mechanism within her.
Now she didn’t have eyes, she thought with disgust, she had two spigots. Both spurting water at the slightest emotional whim.
Lara glanced up at the stars, their shine all flash and sass against the shaded layers of the indigo sky. It seemed pregnancy, or more specifically her whacked-out hormones, had found that mechanism.
With a sigh, she turned toward the north, searching the sky, using the diversion to undermine the chaotic emotions churning within.
She saw the belt first, its stars winking—bright beacons that led her to the sword. Within moments, she’d outlined the whole constellation. Orion.
Jerk.
If only she hadn’t let her guard down, hadn’t allowed herself to find solace in his arms. Humiliation rose to her throat, but anger caused the muscles to constrict. If only…
Damn Ian. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She’d been taking the shots of progesterone for birth control and never had a problem—until now.
She’d been close to her goals. Goals she’d set long ago. Ones that didn’t include children or marriage.
Mercers weren’t meant for relationships, or families. So where did that leave her? “Getting through the next three days,” she promised, determined. Then what?
She concentrated on her surroundings. An ocean of sand stretched between her and the horizon—with nothing between except boulders, scrub bushes… and the occasional tumbleweeds the wind tossed about.
In the distance, a diesel engine rumbled and gravel crunched, shattering the desert’s tranquility. She crouched behind the boulder, peered through her infrared binoculars until she caught the shimmer of movement. Soon a semi appeared, its black cab blending easily in the darkness. The steel of its tractor trailer flashed—a mirror reflecting the moonlight. Lara’s thumb pushed the zoom on her binoculars for a closer look.
Flanking one side was a dark sedan. Automatically, Lara noted the license plate.
When both the big rig and car slowed down to a snails pace, she glanced at her wristwatch.
Half an hour early. How convenient.
Within minutes, the two vehicles stopped, but their headlights remained on, the engines running.
The driver of the diesel immediately jumped out of the cab, his potbelly heaving with the effort. With urgent, bowlegged strides he headed for the nearest bush.
Long trip, Lara mused. She kept the driver in her peripheral vision, heard his grunt of relief, while she scanned the perimeter.
The semi’s headlights glared through the sedan’s back window revealing two men. Almost immediately, the driver of the sedan got out. Dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, the guy resembled a walking bald, brick wall with enough bulked-up muscle to make her wonder if
he’d been nursed on steroids.
Once, just once, she’d like to see a hired thug with limbs the size of twigs.
Steroid Boy chose to stay near the car. His eyes expertly took in the immediate area. In one hand, he held a deadly Uzi. Keeping beat to some unknown tune, he tapped the weapon against his thigh.
The other driver had finished his business. He returned to his perch in the big rig’s cab, then lit a cigarette.
Lara sat on the ground, her back against the boulder and considered her next move. Three men. Less than she expected from Novak.
After checking her utility belt, she twisted the silencer onto her Glock and glanced once more over the top of the boulder. Assured no one had moved, she slid her ski mask into place and took a deep breath.
Using the shadows for cover, she maneuvered through the sparse cover of boulders and brush until she reached the back of the semi’s trailer. Easily thirteen feet in length, it could carry millions of dollars worth of illegal arms.
A cough echoed in the night air. Harmless. Still, she waited a scant few seconds before tugging the swing doors’ lever. Locked. Not surprised, she tucked her gun into her waistband, grabbed the hinge and boosted herself onto the bumper.
The top of the trailer was a good four feet above her own five-seven height. She took a deep breath and jumped. Her fingertips snagged the edge of the steel roof and she shimmied up to the top of the trailer.
Flat against the top, Lara’s quick scan told her no one had moved. She tugged a rope free from her belt—a long cable of solid, moldable acid. Quickly, she placed it in a tight circle on the steel roof then reached for a small plastic bottle with the activating solution. She attached a climbing suction cup in the middle and poured the solution over the rope.
Soon acid ate through steel. The smell, only slightly pungent, lost its fierceness in the desert wind.
With a quick tug on the suction cup, Lara broke the steel free.
A chopper sounded in the distance and Lara swore. Hastily, she slid down the side panel of the truck, then hung by her fingers on its edge and waited.