Dark Rules (The DARK Files Book 3)

by Vaughan,Susan

  “They’ll pat me down. No strip search.” He hoped to hell not. “Talk me through the electronics one last time.”

  She gave a sharp nod and crossed her arms, the motion plumping her breasts in the tiny swimsuit bra. Her breasts weren’t large, but high and enough to fill his hands. He swallowed.

  “First, the security,” she said. “You have a GPS button implanted in one of your shirt buttons. I can track you room to room on the floor plan.”

  He could handle himself with Roszca, but fear for her tied sailor’s knots in his guts. The damn sunglasses blocked him from reading her intent. He shouldn’t, but he reached out to snatch them.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” Tiny lines formed between her brows.

  He dangled the glasses by one earpiece. “We’ve discussed contingencies. If something happens to me, if the GPS goes down, you are not — I repeat not — to go ashore or try to confront Roszca.”

  Her chin shot up. “I know what to do. I call Jack Thorne on the contact boat. DARK officers will handle extraction. I’m not stupid, Simon.”

  He handed back her sunglasses. “An understatement if ever I heard one. I know you’re capable, but we’re outnumbered. And outgunned.” He grinned. “Don’t tell anybody you heard this from me, but stick to the rules and regs on this one.”

  She lifted one shoulder in too-deliberate nonchalance as she replaced her dark-tinted shield. “No problem because nothing will happen. You’ll be fine.”

  “Keep a good thought. Okay, the surveillance toys?”

  “You have a sensitive mic in your earring in case I have to contact you.”

  He tugged at his left earlobe, which still tingled from her touch. “Sweet. That’s set. I don’t have to do anything with the mic.”

  “You also have listening chips wired into small felt circles. Scraping the shiny side activates the adhesive as well as the unit itself. Then you can attach them to the backs of pictures or the bottoms of lamps.”

  “And anyone looking at them will think they’re those doodads that protect surfaces.”

  “Exactly.” Her expression softened as she warmed to her favorite subject. “The technology is undetectable by any counter-surveillance devices they might have. You have seven of them. Three behind the buttons on your Henley and four in your waistband. That’s it.”

  “You’re amazing.” He ached to kiss her for luck. The danger of the mission and the temptation of her nearness streaked excitement through him with a flash as hot as the tropical sun. She stood close. He could pull her into his embrace.

  Her cheeks flushed as if she knew what he was thinking. Then she lowered her chin and averted her gaze.

  He edged away. Clenching his fists, he willed himself calm and into his undercover role. He stopped his progress toward the salon when she stiffened and focus on the island.

  “Your escorts have arrived.” She pointed at two large men on the dock. “Mr. Clean guys on steroids. The twins that Thorne’s snitch told us about, Stepan and Sergiy.” She grimaced.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.” He slipped on Oakleys, quantum leaps above the knock-off sunglasses he’d bought on the Manhattan street corner, and jammed his bare feet into Italian kidskin loafers.

  “I’ll be listening. Be careful.”

  He stared at her grimly. “Listening is all you can do. They’ll be watching the boat. Stay below if you can. Out of sight.”

  She sucked in a quick breath as she shoved her sunglasses up on her head. “Nagging, Simon, or ordering? I know my job. You do yours and you can trust me to do mine.”

  His gut clenched at the resentment flaming in her eyes. Dammit, he didn’t intend to give orders. He just wanted her safe. Hell, he just wanted her — period. What could he say? He couldn’t tease her, and his fear for her made him say the wrong things. They weren’t exactly friends, and professional concern didn’t quite cover it. Her ire and his protectiveness tied his tongue and clamped his jaw.

  More reasons he was better off alone.

  No matter if the prospect of being alone was beginning to ream an emptiness in his chest.

  So he merely waved and climbed into the yacht’s tender, a fiberglass dinghy lowered from the stern and tied to the port side. At this point, he’d rather face Roszca and an army of bodyguards.

  When the inboard engine didn’t start at the first key turn, he hoped that wasn’t an omen.

  Chapter 11

  JANNA WATCHED THROUGH binoculars as Simon zipped across the smooth water of the protected cove.

  Her cheeks still felt flushed from her overreaction to Simon’s reminder to stay out of sight. Yes, she needed to be in control of her life, to stand up for herself, but this was not the time. He didn’t issue arbitrary orders. He only expressed concern about security — for all the surveillance instruments — and for her safety. She needed to stop reacting so harshly. Being strung out from lack of sleep was no excuse. She hadn’t slept well in two years.

  Simon wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t Gabe. Not even close. He wouldn’t berate her in the middle of the night. He respected her abilities and worked with her as an equal. It wasn’t an act.

  She had to resist the sensual appeal and cocky grin that curled her toes. Even the earring seemed to wink at her. Had to resist the bone-deep integrity and audacity that drew her to him. Next time, he could conceal his own electronic bugs.

  The feel of his hard body and the scent of his sun-baked skin had stolen her breath away. And not with fear. Nothing she should or would explore further. This duet on the luxury yacht was only temporary. Maintaining a professional outlook was the only way to guard her heart and her secret shame.

  Behaving professionally in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt was a lot easier than in a bikini. But DARK had mandated her wardrobe, including shorts, tank tops and sexy dresses to fit her undercover identity.

  The roar of a motor drew her attention back outside. Simon had shoved the throttle forward. Too much speed. Again. At least this boat shouldn’t take out the dock.

  The pelicans wisely flew away.

  She held her breath as he approached.

  The twin escorts awaiting him were probably no Mr. Cleans in reality. Shaved heads. Weight lifter bodies with triceps and lats that forced them to stand with their arms jutting out like small children wrapped in snowsuits. Untucked tropical shirts probably hid sidearms shoved in their waistbands. Reflective sunglasses concealed their eyes.

  Simon’s boat rammed a piling. The entire dock shook and the hulks staggered. Janna’s breath expelled in a muffled laugh. Okay, a little ramming isn’t bad. A show of force could intimidate enough to give him an edge.

  As long as the bodyguards didn’t catch on to his ineptness as a boat handler.

  She adjusted the binoculars to focus on Simon as he climbed onto the dock. He’d dressed for image in cream-colored linen trousers and a sleeveless black Henley knit that displayed hard shoulders and arms that displayed smooth strength, not grotesque bulges. A gust of wind lifted his thick shag of hair, the only softness detectable.

  He looked exactly like a street hood who’d moved up in the ranks to be second in command. An incredibly sexy street hood. She pushed away that notion along with the current of heat inside.

  He slipped his sunglasses into a pants pocket and waited for the men to approach. Tense and tautly coiled, as if he could erupt in violence at any moment, he projected power. He’d need intimidation as well if they suspected a ruse. Each of Roszca’s men stood a head taller and had a good thirty pounds on him.

  Unsmiling, the bodyguard twins exchanged a look, then ambled toward the visitor.

  They came to him. A good sign. Although the thugs must know Simon was also an underling, apparently they accepted his position as superior to theirs. Simon’s attention to image and his contemptuous demeanor worked.

  The first twin — Stepan or Sergiy? — made exaggerated gestures with his ham-sized hands.

  Janna frowned. �
��Ah, they don’t speak English.” Their linguistic limitations might mean Roszca would keep them in the room for the meeting. Three sets of eyes on Simon gave him less of a chance to plant the bugs.

  He nodded and held out his arms for a pat-down. When he turned toward her, her stomach tightened and her heart lurched. She saw not the cocky, irreverent openness she knew, but the guarded, remote mask of a predator.

  She’d barely shaken off her reaction when the second twin’s next move tripped her pulse. He slid off Simon’s belt and examined it.

  “Not the waistband, please, oh please,” she whispered.

  But a moment later, the thug handed back the belt with a curt bow. Apparently satisfied with the search, the men gestured for Simon to accompany them to shore.

  After the three disappeared through the shrubbery, she lowered the binoculars. She peeled the damp cotton shirt away from her skin and wished she could dive into the cove’s water to clear her head and cool her body. Since she couldn’t run, she’d swim for exercise. Snorkeling would be good here. There were a couple of small reefs and an area under the cliffs where fish would congregate. When she peered into the water, two long, sinewy forms gliding out of the white hull’s shadow changed her mind.

  Barracudas.

  A light shudder rippled through her. Swim with predators? Barracudas usually didn’t attack humans, but the island’s human predators were quite enough for now.

  She turned to the ship’s computer and the bank of surveillance monitors concealed in the navigation panels. Time to do her job. To wait and listen.

  ***

  Simon observed cameras eyeing him from the white stone wall surrounding the estate. He downshifted his overt swagger to a confident stride. In spite of his hatred for Roszca, whose weapons killed without mercy, he had to show respect, like Wharton would. And did. On the videos of the arms broker’s conversations with Simon’s supposed boss, Wharton exhibited the deference he’d once owed to his U.S. Marine-Corps superiors.

  Just before they reached the iron-gate entrance to the compound, Simon heard a crackle in his earring receiver.

  “This is a test. If you can hear me, scratch the top of your head.”

  After he complied, Janna said, “A-okay. Be careful.” Silence.

  No surprise, an electronic panel beside the gate controlled entry. The bodyguard on his left blocked his view as he punched in a code. Janna could get him past that if necessary, but he expected they’d be more subtle than a B and E.

  The gate swung open without a sound. No squeak was a good thing.

  Inside the compound, other guards patrolled. Three or four, maybe.

  The massive mahogany door and windowless façade lent the house’s front the look of a white stone fortress more than that of a classy estate. They entered a cavernous foyer dominated by a polished table and a floral centerpiece as big as the ones in hotel lobbies. Simon caught himself before he whistled in awe.

  An arched doorway led to a two-story-high living room with beamed ceilings. His brief glance took in marble floors, dark wood and antiques, French by the look of them. Tall arches opened to a flower-filled courtyard. Silent fans circulated the salty trade wind.

  And on each wall, covering all angles, electronic eyes. Openness to the outdoors didn’t mean freedom. He glanced past the teak benches and kidney-shaped pool to the far wing containing the security headquarters. Someone was always watching. He suppressed the urge to give a middle-finger salute.

  His escorts ushered him down a hall and through another carved mahogany door into a smaller, private parlor that also opened onto the courtyard.

  “You wait,” one stone-faced hulk said in an accent similar to that of the New York Cleatian informer.

  Simon nodded, expecting the two to leave him alone, but they stood unsmiling and watchful, one by the only door, the other by the courtyard arch. For all their animation, they could’ve been statues.

  The small sitting room was less formal than the parlor, but no less luxurious. Bright paintings of Caribbean gardens and marketplaces added color to the otherwise all-white room, including its silk-upholstered bamboo furniture. A wide-screen television occupied one wall, a bookcase another, a computer monitor a corner. A chess game covered an inlaid marble-topped table. An informal game room where Roszca apparently spent leisure time.

  Several good places to plant bugs.

  Sticking the felt-camouflaged bugs behind paintings or beneath lamps would require speed and dexterity. He glanced at the hulking twins standing opposite each other.

  And subterfuge.

  He surreptitiously checked his hands as he strolled around the room. Sweaty smudges on his host’s white silk would not be cool. “You guys know if this island gets Playboy TV?” He picked up the remote from an end table.

  The bodyguards’ eyes shifted to each other in puzzlement. Either they didn’t understand enough English, or they had to figure out the answer.

  Simon slid a felt circle from beneath his top shirt button.

  Stepan — or Sergiy — shrugged. He frowned, the expression scrunching his single black eyebrow into a caterpillar-like curl. “No TV.”

  “No problem.” Simon replaced the remote, now with its fake furniture protector beneath it. One down, six to go.

  The carved door swung open into the room, and the bodyguards stood aside deferentially.

  The man Simon had been waiting to meet marched in.

  “Welcome to my island, Mr. Simon.” Viktor Roszca’s lightly accented voice rumbled with the confidence of power even though his tone remained soft. He shifted his cigar — Cuban, at a guess — to his left hand and held out his right.

  Simon clasped his enemy’s hand in a firm grip. Soft palms, a man who had others to do his dirty work. He swallowed nausea at the cloying combo of cigar smoke and heavy cologne. “Thank you, Mr. Roszca. It’s a pleasure to be here. Colonel Wharton is eager to do business with you. He regrets that he couldn’t come in person.”

  Like Wharton, Roszca looked like a former military man, even in his flowing white pants and open-collared shirt. His unnaturally black hair, dark brows and mustache bristled with energy and strength. Unlike Wharton, prosperity and power had padded a barrel chest with more than muscle.

  Seeing the arms broker countless times on video and in news footage hadn’t prepared Simon for the impact of the man’s intensity. A few inches taller, Roszca dominated the room. He commanded all the attention of those in it. Eyes as blue as the seawater in the cove bored into Simon like laser beams.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Roszca settled onto one end of a silk-covered loveseat.

  One hulk rushed to his boss with an ashtray before a curl of cigar ash could fall.

  “Thanks.” Simon sank onto an armchair beside the loveseat.

  But comfortable? Not until this parasite living off the deaths of others was in custody. Or dead. To achieve that, he had to be very convincing and very clever. Adrenaline thumped his heart in a slow, steady beat as he immersed himself further into his role.

  “Colonel Wharton gave me only the one name. Do you have another?”

  Simon smiled, but with no hint of humor or good will. “Just Simon.”

  “A surname or a given name?”

  He had to show Roszca that he too was dangerous, that he was a man who revealed only what he wanted to. “Suit yourself.”

  It was Roszca’s turn to smile, a grim curve of lips. “I see. You have power to negotiate for your boss.”

  “Exactly.”

  Roszca leaned back against the plush cushions and aimed smoke circles at the rotating fan over his head. “Wharton and I have a long association. We met in Moscow at a Cleatian embassy function.” He launched into a rambling tale of diplomatic finagling and financial wrangling.

  Simon kept an interested mask as he sorted out what was going on. Janna must be biting her lip with anxiety. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it into other rooms to plant bugs. Appar
ently, Roszca liked to take both his time and the measure of the man he’d negotiate with. As the involved tale wound down, a maid brought in a tray with coffee and small cakes.

  Over refreshments, conversation ranged from news from the States to film festivals to horse racing. Simon held his own on current politics and thanked the luck of the draw that Roszca was a track fan and stable owner.

  Simon had left the track world years ago, but he still kept up with his friends among the jockeys and trainers. He followed the new horses and attended races whenever he could.

  “Altair’s Silver Bullet is the horse to watch next year,” Rozsca said. “I am considering buying him.”

  Simon set his cup on its china saucer. He shook his head, warming to the topic. “He’ll do, but the Saudi prince who owns him doesn’t appreciate the better talent in his stables. Silver Bullet may have great bloodlines, but Immediate Delivery has been cleaning up in early races.”

  “I shall look into it.” Roszca came to his feet. “You are a complex man, Simon. Do you play chess?”

  Matching wits with his adversary in a civilized form of warfare held an irresistible challenge and might lead to other opportunities.

  “I’d enjoy a game of chess with you, Mr. Roszca.” He stood as well. Clearly the interview had reached its end.

  “Then you will return tomorrow morning for a game or two. We shall discuss our business over lunch. Ten o’clock.”

  “I look forward to it.” A game wouldn’t give him access to more rooms since the chess table sat in here. Planting bugs just became harder. He glanced around with an admiring expression. “You have a beautiful home here.”

  “Tomorrow, I shall give you a tour.”

  They shook hands, and the bodyguards escorted Simon back to the dock.

  Disappointment itched between his shoulder blades that he’d been able to plant only two of Janna’s bugs. He’d slipped the second behind a painting in the foyer. They had only five days to find the scoop on the nuclear material before more potential buyers arrived. Five days to trick Roszca into leaving the island so DARK could pick him up. And he’d had no opportunity to hint at a yacht race.