by Leslie Jones
A tail had never even occurred to her. Tears of impotence and fury burned behind her eyes. Nothing could have prepared her for this, but it pissed her off that she couldn’t figure out what to do. She’d have some time to think, though, after her prisoner was as helpless as she felt. She took four steps forward and pressed the gun to his chest, glaring up at him.
“Do it!”
He shrugged and turned, crossing his wrists behind his back. Ready to leap away if he moved, she tucked the gun under an arm and wrapped the scarf over and around his wrists. Tying it tightly made her simultaneously feel safer and ashamed. She’d never in her life assaulted anyone. When she finished, she put a hand between his shoulder blades and nudged him forward.
“Sit down.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, but settled himself back into the armchair. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said again.
“Yeah, well, it’s the best I can come up with at the moment. Put your feet together.”
Sorting through the rest of her clothes frustrated her. The only other scarf she could lay her hands on was rainbow-colored and silky. Maybe a pair of nylons would be better? No; too stretchy. She set the gun on the carpet and twined the silky fabric around his clunky boots, relieved once his ankles were tied. After slipping off her long coat, she dropped it onto the carpet and stepped over it. “I have to search you.”
“Be gentle.”
Was he laughing at her? She couldn’t tell. Setting the gun on the carpet beside the chair, she gingerly patted his shoulders. Wait. If he had a weapon, it would be at his waist, right? She moved her hands down his shirt to his ribs. He twisted away from her questing fingers.
“That tickles!”
She growled her frustration, pressing more firmly around his waist. No gun, thank God. She felt the thrill of fear as she belatedly realized that if he’d had one, he could have simply drawn it and shot her while driving.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she set the gun onto the bedspread beside her and pressed her fingers to her temples, where an insistent throbbing made her grit her teeth.
“All right. Now we talk.”
Chapter 7
Saturday, February 18. 1:00 a.m.
Ebony Point Hotel & Conference Center. Boston, Massachusetts.
Fatianova dropped her handbag onto the king-sized bed and dug out a couple of dollar bills to tip the bellboy. Compared to colorful rubles, American currency seemed dull to her. The man deposited her two copper spinner cases by the door, thanked her, and left. Fourteen hours in the air, long lines through Customs, and a trip on a minibus left her exhausted to the point she saw double. She barely had the energy to look around.
Still, the Boston hotel seemed huge after the cramped rooms in Moscow. As the head of one of the larger research and development teams at The Kuznetsov Institute of Applied Nuclear Physics—and the only woman—she merited a room to herself. She’d had to push hard to be included on this trip; neither her supervisor nor the administrator appreciated her work in predictive analysis for core meltdowns. In case of catastrophe, the first thing they would want is the scope of damage—radiation levels, speed of spread, effects on the population. But since no core had melted down, her research went unvalued.
Soon enough, she wouldn’t need the Institute’s paltry salary. Living the pampered life she craved floated so near her grasp she felt it. As soon as she sold her prize, she would be set for life.
A huge yawn caught her by surprise just as someone knocked at her hotel room door. She frowned, displeased. Maybe if she ignored it, whoever it was would go away. But the knock came again. Sighing, she pulled the door open.
Fyodor Petrov grinned at her, holding aloft a bottle of vodka. “Look what I snagged at the duty-free.”
He stepped forward as though to come in, but she held her ground. “Not tonight, okay, Fyodor? It’s late and I’m tired.”
He slipped around her anyway, walking all the way to the center of the room before heading for the ice bucket and glasses by the television. Pouring several fingers of vodka into each glass, he brought them to her and handed her one. She took it automatically.
He dropped his gaze to her breasts, still covered by her trench coat with its sable fur collar. “Jesus Christ, Fatya. Take off your coat.”
“Don’t call me that. You have no right.”
He downed his vodka in one gulp. “We work together. Why can’t we be friends, too? Chill out and have a drink.”
Fyodor disgusted her. His receding hairline merged into a thin ponytail, which always looked greasy to her. Add his constantly scruffy chin, squinty eyes, and big lips, and he seemed downright seedy.
Sighing, she slipped the coat off and hung it in the closet. The trouble was, she needed him to bring her precious cargo into the United States. He had contacts among the Armenians she lacked. Once she had it, though . . . she enjoyed her mental image of ramming her shiv into his heart.
True to form, his gaze slid down her body. He’d seen her outfit at the airport and on the plane; she wore a stylish gray wool-and-silk dress with sleeves ending at her wrists and a skirt that caressed her knees. It fit her trim body like a glove, with the faux belt nipping in her waist. She disliked looking unkempt. After so many hours, though, strands of hair hung around her face and she felt grimy. All she wanted was a hot shower and bed.
Fyodor splashed more liquor into his glass and unbuttoned his brown wool sport coat. His shirt, creased from the long flight, gaped open halfway down his hairy chest. He wore a gold cross that nestled against it. Sitting on the edge of the bed without invitation, he grinned and gestured to her untouched glass. “It’ll help you relax, Fatya. You’re too uptight.”
“If it’ll get you out of my room so I can sleep, fine.” She drained the glass, not even blinking at the burn crawling down her throat. “Okay. Good night.”
“Hang on, hang on,” he said, getting up to refill his glass. He brought the bottle to her, but she covered the top of the glass with her hand. “We have something important to discuss. I thought maybe you’d want to fortify yourself, but it’s up to you.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Nyet.”
His tone alarmed her. “What is it, then?”
He moistened his lips. “Our package is stalled in the Yukon.”
“What?” A chill crawled through her gut. “What happened?”
“My Armenian friend hasn’t heard from his courier,” Fyodor admitted, grimacing. “The plane made it to Whitehorse, Canada. The pilot was supposed to make contact with someone reliable to smuggle it across the border. But neither of us has heard a thing from either of them. The pilot isn’t returning my calls. Maybe the Mounties caught and arrested him. Maybe the smuggler stole it. Hell, for all I know the plane crashed.”
Fury exploded through her. She slapped Fyodor with every bit of force she could muster. He staggered back, shocked.
“You had one job, you utter moron,” she hissed. “One. Single. Job.”
He rubbed his cheek sullenly. “It’s not my fault.”
“Of course it’s your fault. Why I ever thought you could—”
“It’ll be fine,” he insisted. “I’ll call tomorrow. You’ll see. Everything will work out.”
“It better.” Fatianova curled her fingers into fists. “I’ve spent too much time and money on this to fail now.”
Fyodor tilted the bottle toward her, brows raised in question. She snatched it and poured three fingers into her glass, tossing the whole thing back in one swallow. He’d been right; fortifying herself did help.
“The auction is in a week, Fyodor. If I miss this chance because of your incompetence . . .” She let her voice trail away in tacit threat.
Fyodor came close to her, so close she felt his rank breath against her cheek. “I know you, Fatya. I know how you think. I saw how you handled Konstantin.”
“And?”
“If you try to cross me, you’ll wish you’d never been born. Understand
?”
When she killed Fyodor, she intended to carve him up piece by piece. She walked to the door and jerked it open. “Get out.”
“Pleasant dreams, my sweet.”
Chapter 8
Saturday, February 18. 1:30 a.m.
Hyatt Regency. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
Mace worked his fingers around the woolen scarf. She’d done a decent job of securing him—if he were a normal man. For a trained Delta Force special operator, he could free himself in just a few minutes. He didn’t try. Whoever Lark was, she needed his protection. He couldn’t help himself. He’d seen her terror when those men attacked her. He’d looked into her eyes and seen intelligence, determination, and grit. But past the danger, past the fear, past the now-loaded revolver, he’d seen the purity of her spirit. She wasn’t naïve, but she was an innocent in the truest sense of the word. And that innocence was afraid. That purity was under threat. His need to protect and defend blocked out all else.
Except their mission. His unit remained in limbo, awaiting critical intel on the exact location of the nuclear bomb. As soon as that came through, the mission superseded everything.
Lark had bounced from her perch on the bed and now paced around the room, muttering curses under her breath, clearly working herself up to something. He could make an educated guess.
She intended to interrogate him.
He almost smiled, but caught himself in time. Her search for weapons had entirely missed the knife in his boot. Anyway, he didn’t need hands, feet, or the knife to take her out, if he wanted to.
Instead, he waited to see what she would do next. Maybe he’d get some answers.
“So now you’re going to talk,” she said, coming to a stop in front of him. “Who are you, anyway? Not your call sign or whatever. Your real name.”
“Thomas Beckett.”
She laughed, but not like she found it funny. “Yeah, right. You were named after the Archbishop of Canterbury? Feed me another line of bull.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not the only Thomas Beckett in the history of the world. But yes, in this case, ma mère named us all after saints. She was a devou’ Catholic.”
She cocked her pink-topped head at him. He couldn’t remember when he’d found pink hair so adorable. “Which ones?”
He felt his face soften. “My older sister, Susanna. My brother is Solomon, and Bonnie is the youngest. Not sure about that one. Maybe it’s a nickname for Saint Elizabeth.”
“Who is Palaki?” She fired the question at him, perhaps to throw him off guard.
“Palachka.”
“Whatever. Your boss. Who is he?”
“I don’t have any clue, chér’. He’s not my boss. I just said that to get those men to leave.”
She scowled. “Sure. That’s why you said Palachka told you to take care of me. Kill me, right? Why?”
The last was almost a wail.
Mace shook his head. “Their orders were to bring you to him. Don’ you know why? Think, chér’. You must have some idea who this man is.”
Her arms shook. She crossed them and glared down at him. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you to tell me. Now stop pretending.”
“Look. One of us has to trust the other. I’ll go first.” He needed her to calm down. At the rate she was going, she would hyperventilate and pass out. “My name is Staff Sergeant Thomas Beckett, United States Army. Check my wallet. You’ll find my driver’s license and military ID card. Go on. See for yourself.”
She approached him slowly, wariness in her eyes. Circling to the back of the armchair, she slid her fingers into his right rear pocket and tugged the wallet free. Returning to sit on the edge of the bed, she opened it and began to rifle through it. License, Army ID card, a bank debit card, and his concealed carry permit. Her eyes widened at that one before she set it aside. Three plain white cards with his first and last name and a telephone number. Seventy-four dollars in cash, and two condoms. She turned a cute shade of pink.
“I am who I say I am. A soldier. I don’ know why someone would be after you. I met you for the firs’ time tonight when we danced. A ver’ pleasurable dance.”
She met his warm look with narrowed eyes and made a scoffing sound. “Targeted me, you mean.”
“Naw, chér’. I’m telling the truth. Now it’s your turn. What’s your real name, Lark?”
“You probably know already. Hadley Larkspur.”
“Okay, good. Thank you. What do you do for a living, Hadley?” Calm her down, get her talking about anything. Hell, at this point he’d settle for a weather report.
She groaned, fisting her hands in her hair. “Lark. Just Lark. We’re going to have an issue here if you call me Hadley.”
“Noted. Lark. Where do you live? Pixieland?” He dropped his voice, making his tone soft and teasing. Hoping to regain some of the connection they’d shared at the Promenade.
She made a noise that was half growl, half moan. “You’re hilarious.”
Mace grinned. “You have to trus’ me, Lark. I can help you.”
She started pacing again. “Help me do what? What is happening?”
“I don’ know. Untie me, and we can figure it out together.”
She laughed in his face.
“Or not. But I can still help you.”
“Then come clean with me.” Her words came out as a soft plea. “The Army can’t have sent you to kill me. That’s so illegal. I can’t even wrap my head around it. What, are you part of some rogue unit whose mission is to go around beating up innocent women?”
He laughed. “Not hardly. I protect and defend.”
“Are you some sort of supersoldier?” she asked, voice hopeful. “Leap tall buildings and stuff?”
“I’m in logistics,” he said, not even batting an eyelash as he lied. “Resupply to troops overseas. Beans and bullets. That sort of thing.”
“Oh.”
Did she look disappointed? No matter how much he wanted to reassure her he was one of the good guys, he couldn’t divulge the true nature of his job. Not to anyone outside of the SpecOps community.
She came to stand before him again. “Enough fooling around. Tell me the truth, or I’ll . . . I’ll beat it out of you.”
Would she really? He doubted she would hurt a fly. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I saw a woman in trouble and I stepped in to help. You’ve got this backward. I didn’t attack you. I saved you.”
She balled up a tiny fist. When she drew back her arm, his brows shot up. Was she really going to . . . ?
The fist shot forward. At the last second, she hesitated, opening her fingers so that she slapped him instead. He barely felt it. She looked horrified, putting that same fist to her mouth.
“OhmyGodohmyGod.”
“Steady there,” he murmured. “Relax, Lark. You didn’t hurt me.”
Relief washed over her face, followed quickly by a forced glare. “That was just a warning.”
He really needed to contact his team. By now, they would be wondering where the hell he was. Too bad he’d left his phone in the parking lot. They’d find it, and assume the worst.
“Who is Palachka?”
“I don’ know.” He shook his head. “I could find out, though. I have friends—”
Lark laughed in his face. “Yeah, right. Let me guess. I need to untie you so you can call them.”
“I just need your phone. You can hold it up to my ear.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, yanking the strands before releasing them. “So you can tell them where I am? No way.”
He sobered. “You’re in way over your head, Lark.”
Lark almost screamed her frustration. That might be the biggest understatement since mammoths roamed the earth. “I wouldn’t be if you’d just tell. Me. What’s. Going. On.”
Mace blew out an annoyed breath. “Can’t tell you what I don’t know. For the last time, I save’ you. I mean you no harm.”
This conversation would go in circles, just like the
last one had. Lark swore. “Fine. Be that way. I’m leaving. You can stay here. Someone will be by in the morning to clean the room, so you’ll be free then. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and leave me the hell alone.”
Mace sighed. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’re safe here for a couple more hours. Why don’ you get some sleep? You’ll feel better for it.”
“Sure. And you’ll get free and strangle me in my sleep.”
“I won’t.”
“If you won’t tell me anything useful, I’m safer without you. You won’t know where I’ve gone.”
He looked down at his lap, then back at her. Was that regret in his eyes? “Chér’, listen. I have—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Fine. Lark. I’m not after you. The Army isn’t after you. No one I know is after you. I know I have no right to ask, but I’m asking you to trus’ me.”
She growled, stopping herself from stamping a foot in frustration as she’d done as a child. “Why are you so calm?”
His steady look unnerved her. “Because you won’ hurt me. And I won’ hurt you, Lark.”
“Yeah, right.” She forced a laugh. “Because you were just pretending you were going to kill me.”
“Yes. Think about it logically. If this Palachka tried to kidnap you, why not just let him do it? He could kill you just as easily once he had you. Why send someone else to kill you before he’d talked to you? That make’ no sense.”
No, it didn’t. Lark frowned, pressing her fingers to her temples, wishing she’d watched more spy movies. Learned interrogation techniques. Maybe even learned karate, like her friend Jocelyn Katsaros. “He changed his mind?”
Mace gave her a disappointed look. “Anyone powerful enough to hire goons like that isn’t going to kill someone until he learn’ what they know, at the very least. And, unlike you, he won’t pull his punches.”
She couldn’t argue that logic. For the first time, she considered the possibility that he might be telling the truth. “I’m sorry I tied you up. I’m sorry I hit you.”