The Bodyguard Contract

by Donna Young

  Lara turned upright, grabbed her palm-sized computer. A checkerboard of pictures blinked once, then stayed. “Set.” She nodded toward the inside. “Let’s get Franco.”

  Ian glanced at the distant ground below. “We can’t bring her outside. She wouldn’t have the strength to handle the ropes. And it would take too long to bring her down ourselves.” On Davidenko’s monitor, Lara watched his goons dump Sophia Franco on her bed. The bigger of the two zapped her with the Taser one last time.

  “Then…” Lara’s response was low and determined. “We’ll just have to find another way.”

  IT TOOK ALMOST A HALF HOUR for them to locate Sophia’s suite.

  By the time they had, and positioned themselves on the balcony, an older man—probably the doctor—was tucking the coverlet around a now-clean Sophia Franco.

  “If he works for Davidenko, he won’t report the assault to the authorities,” Lara murmured, before adjusting her mask.

  They circled around to the other patio door. Just beyond was the living room. The bodyguard, dressed in a dark suit, looked out of place among the delicate cream silks and velvets that made up the living area. He sat on the couch engrossed with a television program. One of the reality shows, Lara noticed.

  With cautious fingers, Lara tested the French patio door, pleased when she found it unlocked. “How convenient for us,” she whispered.

  With a nod, Lara raised her gun. Silently, she pushed the door open. Under Lara’s cover, Ian slipped through the doorway, his feet soundless on the thick, Venetian carpet.

  Ian waited to the count of three, then crept up behind the couch. Seconds later, Lara heard the grunt of surprise, the crack of bone and watched the bodyguard slide wordlessly onto his side.

  “Reality bites, doesn’t it?” she murmured. Lara had no sympathy for the man, recognizing him immediately as one who’d assaulted Sophia Franco with the Taser. Quickly, she hit the switch, dousing the room into darkness.

  With a snap, the bedroom door opened and the doctor walked out. The backlight from the bedroom made the doctor’s eyesight temporarily impaired.

  “Yuri? What’s going on?”

  Before Ian could react, Lara had stepped behind the doctor—a balding man with slightly stooped shoulders—and placed the gun under his chin. She jammed his head back. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously against the steel.

  “Yuri’s dead. And so are you, if you don’t answer some questions,” Lara whispered. “What’s your name?”

  “Moravia. Dr. Edward Moravia. I’m Mikhail Davidenko’s personal physician,” the man rasped.

  “You say that with pride, Doctor. But I can guarantee the fact that you work for Davidenko will not save you from a bullet.”

  “You hurt me, Mikhail will come after you.”

  Lara sneered. “I can only hope.”

  Ian stepped up from the shadows. “What’s wrong with the woman in there?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Remember, bullets kill.” Lara jabbed the gun, making sure she caught his larynx with the barrel’s tip.

  Moravia gasped in pain, but still managed to speak. “She’ll die if you don’t let me help her.”

  Ian noted the woman’s still form on the bed. “Is she alive?” Ian demanded, his voice hushed but lethal.

  “Yes. Barely.”

  “How many of Davidenko’s men are in the hallway, Doctor?”

  “One, but there are cameras everywhere. If you give yourselves up now—”

  Lara brought the pistol down on the back of the doctor’s head.

  With a grunt, he dropped to the floor unconscious.

  “You took pleasure in that,” Ian commented, stepping over the body.

  “Damn right I did,” Lara answered, then raced into the bedroom. “We have to disarm those cameras for a few minutes. Can you intersect the camera frequency, now that we’re hooked up?”

  “We’re risking the transmitter,” Ian admitted, following. “It won’t take long for them to find the source of the cameras malfunction. If they do, they’ll find our toy.”

  “We’ll just have to take that chance. We’re not leaving her.” Lara reached the bed. First thing she saw was the plastic stretched out beneath Sophia. Fear skittered over Lara’s nerve endings. “They’ve laid a tarp.” Killing someone on plastic, saved time. No messy DNA samples to clean up.

  “Who are you?” Sophia asked, her voice so weak Lara placed her face mere inches from the starlet’s lips.

  “We’re friends.” Lara knelt next to the bed, took off her glove then grabbed the woman’s hand. It was cold, clammy with death. “We’re taking you out of here.”

  “You’re too late.” A tear slipped down the side of Sophia’s temple.

  “No—”

  “She’s right,” Ian whispered, then swore. Lara followed his gaze to a tube that ran from Sophia’s thigh, through a pump, to an embalming basin on the other side of the bed. “They’re draining her blood, the bastards. Pumping her dry through her femoral artery.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sophia rasped.

  Still, Ian pulled the tube. With both hands, he applied pressure to the artery. “We need a tourniquet.”

  “No,” Sophia rasped. “Please.”

  “Sophia listen to me.” Lara’s words were urgent, her tone shadowed with sadness. “You have to tell me what happened to the Katts Smeart.”

  “Gave it to father…” Sophia’s eyes fluttered shut. “My baby…mistake.”

  Lara checked her pulse, then the stillness of her chest. “She’s dead,” she said flatly.

  Beyond the door, Moravia yelled for help.

  Ian swore, threw the tube down. “You didn’t hit the doctor hard enough.”

  “Give me another shot at it. He’ll stay down this time.” Lara stepped past Ian, but he grabbed her arm. In the distance they heard the slam of the door, heard the running feet.

  “If they find us in here, it’ll be the Alamo all over again.”

  “Sophia—”

  “We can’t do anything for her now, damn it.” Ian grabbed Lara, hauled her behind him to the patio. A split second later, two men ran in, guns raised. Both were dark and ugly, with ponytailed hair and stone-cut faces. Bodybuilding carbon copies dressed in matching black suits.

  “Turn on the light, Viktor.” The order jarred the darkness. Both men saw the doctor at the same time. The first man went in search of his comrade, while the other dropped to his knees and shook the doctor.

  Outside, Ian swung over the cemented wall, fired. The patio doors exploded. “Go!”

  Lara saw the three men dive to the floor. She dropped her clip, shoved in her cable anchor. Gunfire sprayed around her, kicking up bits of concrete. She swung over the wall, pulled the trigger, hearing the thump of the anchor imbedding the cement below the balcony. After one tug, she clipped her harness and let go.

  The two guards leaned over the wall, firing. Bullets strafed the limestone and slate above her. Ian emptied his clip, forcing both men to take cover.

  Lara ducked, then hit the lever unlocking her harness brake and dived into a free fall. She counted to three, then jerked the brake and stopped six feet above ground. After tilting her gun toward the castle, she glanced down, half expecting security to meet them. When no one appeared, Lara released her harness and hit the ground running.

  Chapter Seven

  Darkness invaded the maze. The air was thick with the scent of earth and fresh-cut branches, the sweet hint of roses. Lara came to a stop, taking in oxygen in huge deep gulps. “Damn it.” After a moment, she grabbed the ski mask from her head, shook her hair free of the bun.

  Ian appeared behind her, his footsteps soundless. “That was close.”

  “Too close.” Quickly, they stripped down to the shorts they wore beneath. Lara tied the ends of her blouse high up under her breasts. She reached for Ian’s backpack, pulled out a yellow T-shirt and threw it to him before shoving the pants into the pack.

  Ian tossed it bac
k. “I’ll keep this one on.”

  “Why?” Before he could stop her, she pulled down the neck of his shirt, saw the line of blood where the bullet creased his skin. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s just a scratch. I caught some flying cement on the way down. But the blood will show through the lighter shirt.”

  The copper scent of blood caught in her nose.

  Lara took a deep breath through her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t—” A wave of nausea rolled through her. She tried to recover, but another crashed over the first.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Just a little sick.” Automatically, she shook her head, then realized her mistake. This time her stomach heaved in protest. “The blood. It’s making me nauseous. Can’t deal with raw meat or chicken anymore, either.” Lara dug into her shorts pocket and brought out a piece of peppermint candy.

  “A little—” Ian swore, but a protective arm went around her nonetheless. “When was the last time you ate or slept?”

  “Yesterday,” she said, not minding that he yelled, as long as he didn’t move. She gripped his arm tighter just to make sure he didn’t. The mint soothed, then stopped the queasiness.

  “Did it occur to you to sleep or eat on the plane out here?”

  “It occurred to me. But it didn’t seem like a good idea since I piloted my Cessna out here,” she commented, then forced her body to relax. She took a deep breath, giving the world a chance to right itself. Finally, she felt strong enough to step away from Ian. “I didn’t think to eat at the time. I was angry, if you must know. At you.”

  “You’re always mad at me—have been for months. That never stopped you from eating before.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. There’s quite a bit of difference between being pissed off about your code name and being pregnant with your baby.” Of all the stupid attitudes…

  “Get over it, Red. Then eat something,” Ian ordered.

  “You make it sound like I’m starving myself on purpose, Ian,” she said, exasperation melding now with anger. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “You’re not helping anybody, if you don’t take care of yourself.”

  “A woman is dead up there. They killed her,” she snapped. “If I’d been thinking a little bit more about the mission—”

  “She’d still be dead and a hundred other people might be, too.”

  Lara sat on the bench, the weight of the world suddenly pressing in. Ian sat beside her, gathered her close. “There was nothing we could do, Red. He’d tapped into a major artery—”

  Ian stopped, put his finger up and snagged his gun from its ankle holster.

  “Yo! Hand over your paper!”

  Lara jump up and swung around, fists raised. Even in the dark, she saw two teenage boys, dressed in droopy jeans and oversize T-shirts. She forced her muscles to relax. “Paper?” Lara asked, confused.

  “Coin, bitch. Cash.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Ian ordered. “And get lost. This is a private party.” Ian shoved his weapon back into the ankle holster and spared no more than a glance at the two teenagers holding knives. In his current mood, he didn’t trust himself not to shoot them.

  One of teens stood back and let the skinnier of the two take the lead.

  Obviously, they didn’t see the gun. Snot-nosed brats wanting cash for a quick fix or bragging rights to their friends. “There’s nothing but trouble here,” he advised, his tone hard.

  “Shut the hell up,” the leader said.

  Ian pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “They’re kids, Ian. Don’t you dare take your anger out on them.”

  “Who you calling a kid, bitch?” The huskier of the two puffed out his chest, then flashed his switchblade. “Shut the hell up or I’ll carve your pretty chica face.”

  Lara raised an eyebrow. Chica meant girl in Spanish. Right? Lucky for them, she wasn’t sure.

  “That’s it,” Ian warned. “I’m counting to three. If you aren’t gone by then, you’re going to need a hospital. Got me?”

  “Yeah, I got you, Pops. Right here.” Skinny grabbed his crotch and laughed.

  “Ian,” Lara warned. “Don’t, they’re just…expanding their horizons.”

  Ian snorted. “Into what? Grand larceny?”

  “I told you to be quiet, bitch.” The leader stepped forward, underestimating Lara’s frustration and her reach. She kicked out, hitting the boy’s wrist. He screamed and dropped the knife.

  She turned to Ian. “See. No harm done.”

  The huskier teen threw his knife. Ian blocked it with his backpack. When the knife hit the ground. Ian glanced from it to the boy. “Well?”

  The boy froze. Ian sighed, scooped up the blade and turned his back on the kid. “Damn it, Red. Is this your idea of how to handle teenagers?”

  “I’m not having this conversation with you—”

  “Watch out,” Ian ordered.

  With a yell, Skinny launched himself at Lara. She sidestepped, stuck out her foot and shoved with her shoulder. He tripped into a nearby rosebush. His howls rent the air.

  “For God’s sake, they’re just thorns,” she snapped, her own patience worn thin. With a quick glance she took in the scratches across his face and arms, decided he’d survive.

  “Are you guys finished?” Ian asked, his tone disdainful, his fingers twirling the switchblade—deciding if it was worth Lara’s fury to beat some sense into the boys.

  Suddenly, the first one grabbed his friend and yanked. “We’re outta here. You all are crazy.”

  Skinny grabbed his knife from the ground and Ian watched both boys run down the path. Satisfied they wouldn’t be back, he handed Lara the switchblade. “Here. A souvenir.”

  Lara sighed and took the knife, flipped the blade back into its handle and tucked it into her pocket. “Thank you for not hurting them.”

  “Don’t thank me, because if I see them again—” Ian bit off the sentence. Instead, he glanced up for patience and let out a long, labored sigh. “We’ve got to get going. It’s almost dawn.”

  Lara followed his gaze, noting the violet-pink-tinted sky. “Ian, Sophia said she’d given the formula to Father Xavier. There’s a good chance Davidenko had made a copy. I’m going into Davidenko’s office. If he has a copy, it’s on his computer hard drive. If I can manage to download it, even if Father Xavier exposes these people, we’ll be able to save them.”

  “We’re going into Davidenko’s office.”

  “Not this time, hotshot,” Lara corrected. “This time the job calls for a woman.”

  Thursday, 0900 hours

  “MOVE IT, RED.”

  “I’m almost there,” she whispered, knowing her earpiece would pick up her voice loud and clear for Ian on the other end. She glanced at the elevator’s monitor and counted the floors. Only seven more to go to Davidenko’s apartment.

  It had taken longer than Lara had expected to slip into the service area of the hotel unnoticed.

  Once inside, though, she searched for the ladies’ locker room. Cameras were unlikely where the women dressed. Even so, Lara kept her features hidden whenever possible.

  She broke into a locker, grabbed a uniform and passkey, then located a laundry bin and filled it with cleaning supplies.

  The service elevator doors dinged, then slid open. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes until nine.

  With a quick shove, she maneuvered the bin out into the foray.

  “Who are you?”

  Lara stopped, seemingly startled. She recognized the hired goon, had seen him in Sophia’s room.

  In four quick strides, he was in her face. “I said, who are you?”

  One look into the clear, black eyes, told Lara he had more than his fair share of intelligence.

  “Vivian.” She pointed to her stolen name tag. “I am the housekeeper. The…maid,” Lara answered, her words thick with a Spanish accent. “I am here to cl
ean.”

  Earlier, she’d lifted a blank schedule sheet from a storeroom downstairs. Now, she pulled out the same paper and pointed to the forged room order. “Senora Franco’s room.”

  The man’s gaze slid suspiciously over Lara’s bobbed wig and down her uniform. “Move aside.”

  “Si.” Lara nodded, then said, “Okay?” as if she wasn’t sure of the right answer. But the bodyguard had already shoved the shelf of cleaning supplies to one side of the cart and dug through the collection of dirty linen.

  Finding nothing, he straightened. “Okay. Third door on the left.”

  “Gracias,” Lara answered timidly, hurrying to push the bin down the corridor.

  At the door, she paused, giving her heart a moment to slow down. “That was close.”

  “You bet it was,” Ian agreed, the sarcasm palpable. “You know at least two other languages, but if I remember right, Spanish isn’t one of them. If he’d known how to speak it, your cover would’ve been blown.”

  Lara had learned Russian over the past few years with Labyrinth and French—out of spite to her father—during high school and college. Her Spanish vocabulary was painfully limited, restricted to her secret passion for Spanish pop music.

  “Well, he didn’t know it, did he?” Lara quipped and opened the door. Since most of the hotel staff sported a Russian or French accent, she didn’t want to chance either. When a language barrier existed, fewer questions were asked.

  She maneuvered through the suite and into the bedroom. Normally, the maids wouldn’t take the laundry bins into the room, but Lara had to risk it. The plastic had been removed, along with Sophia. Lara pushed the frustration away, but the sad ache remained.

  “The guard is at his post.” Ian advised. “It’s now or never, Red.”

  LARA REACHED UNDERNEATH the bin, found the duct tape and ripped her small utility case free.

  “First sign of trouble, I want you out of there.”

  Lara noticed that another door stood at the back of the suite. “I think I found the private entrance.” With luck, Davidenko was asleep.

  The hallway was small. Lara followed it until she reached the first door. Bedroom or office? She twisted the knob, found it open.