“I have a passport for you,” he said, neatly sidestepping her landmine of a question. “Today, you are Anita Borg. Belgian.”
“I don’t want to use anything that PSS has in their files,” she said.
“They do not know about this one,” he told her. “I had one made secretly, weeks ago, at my expense. I like to have options. Always.”
Her mouth tightened as she glanced back at Rachel’s sleeping form on the bed. “We can’t go anywhere near Sea-Tac.”
“This is true. We will leave from Portland, which means we have a two hour drive ahead of us, minimum, to add to our travel time. Therefore, we must move. Soon.” He glanced pointedly at Rachel.
Tamar’s face darkened. “She needs her sleep,” she said rebelliously. “She went to bed late last night. She’s wiped out.”
Val felt his jaw twitch. “I’ll go get my laptop from the car and book the flights,” he said grimly. “When I return, you must be ready.”
“For breakfast,” Tam specified. “With Erin and Connor and Kev and Sveti to soften the blow. I can’t just dump the kid and disappear with no buildup, Janos, so take that into account when you book your flights.”
“Call me Val,” he said through clenched teeth. She didn’t.
He sprinted through the bracing cold in the forest, soaring on that wild, jagged high. His feet barely touched the ground. He could not identify the source of the euphoria. The aftereffects of that intense sexual encounter, no doubt. He had not filmed it, not this last time. That, at least, was theirs. Secret and private. He should have filmed it to be sure he had another installment for Imre, but he couldn’t bear to.
Another time. Because there would be another time, and another, and another. If he was anywhere near that woman, he would be trying to seduce her. The urge to assail her defenses was out of his control.
Oddly enough, he was getting used to being out of control.
It was inadvisable to get so excited. The woman would drug, stun, or shoot him at the slightest provocation, after all. But what they had done last night was burned into his sense memory. Every word, every gesture. Every succulent, dangerous, deadly detail of her.
He slid into the cold SUV, forcing warmth and circulation into numb fingers, logged on, and found an afternoon flight for Rome via Atlanta. Though the way she was dragging her feet, so reluctant to leave her child, it was doubtful they would actually catch it. He stowed his pistol in the case beneath the seat. He regretted leaving it behind, but even in checked baggage, a pistol attracted attention.
He was gratified when he got back to see that Tamar had moved briskly once he was not there to see it. Rachel was bathed, dressed, and stuffed into her coat, and Tamar was gathering the odds and ends of yesterday’s spending spree, shoving items into shopping bags. She was casually dressed: designer jeans, a loose, nubbly beige sweater.
“I can’t climb on a plane with my lingerie and toiletries falling out of a paper shopping bag,” she bitched.
“I anticipated this problem, which is why I ordered you a suitcase yesterday,” was his smooth rejoinder.
“Hmmph.” She tossed her things into the suitcase he had hauled back from the SUV without any thanks and shrugged on her coat.
She scooped Rachel up, but the little girl leaned out of her arms and reached for Val. He swept her up, placed her on his shoulders, and set a brisk pace toward the main hotel, Tamar trailing sullenly behind.
Breakfast was a tense affair, though they had a lot of company. Val sipped coffee and stared grimly at the minutes ticking by on his watch. Sveti tried to persuade Rachel to consume scrambled eggs and pancakes, but the little girl had realized that her mother’s departure was imminent, and she was cranky. Tamar’s friends, gathered at the table, were all giving him cold-eyed looks that seemed to say, although Tamar had not told them exactly where she was going or why, they suspected it—and him.
Tamar, on the other hand, was overwhelming Erin and her husband with a long list scrawled on hotel stationery of the pediatrician’s recommendations for Rachel’s diet, allergies, and food intolerances. Then the nightly physical therapy exercises, the massages for ankles and hip, the asthma medications, cortisone drops for croup, ear drops, and so on. Minutes ticked by. Twenty. Thirty.
Connor McCloud’s eyes glazed over halfway through, and Erin had long since passed her own child over to one of her sisters-in-law, frowning anxiously as she took careful little notes on the margin of the list. Words poured out of Tamar like water from a fire hose. Her fists were clenched, jaw tight, eyes red.
She cared, terribly. It hurt her to leave. He hated hurting her.
He pushed guilt away with a series of rationalizations. If they succeeded, the quality of Rachel and Tamar’s life would be immensely improved. His offer was probably their only hope of continued survival.
If Hegel had come in Val’s stead or sent any other operative, Tamar would already be in Georg’s hands, and Rachel would be locked up alone, in a terrifying limbo. And if Novak should come to know of the child . . .
His mind shied away from the thought.
Then again, if Tamar and Rachel had managed to flee the day before, they might have had a fighting chance alone, somewhere in the world, under a new name. Anyone’s guess.
And Imre would have been doomed to a slow and horrible death.
He took a swallow of the strong, black coffee. Bitter as poison. There was no point thinking about it. He had made his choice and set it all in motion. What was done was done.
“Three drops, did you write that down? Two milliliters of distilled water in the aerosol machine, and make sure she’s watching Elmo or Pooh while you do it, or nothing doing. Did you get that?”
Rachel began to wail.
“Got that,” Erin said distractedly, scribbling. “Three drops, two milliliters—Elmo, Pooh.”
“I’ll give you some cash for the medicines.” Tamar dug into her purse. Her voice vibrated with tension, pitched loudly enough to be heard over Rachel’s wailing.
Erin rolled her eyes. “Get real.”
“I mean it,” Tamar insisted. “This stuff costs big bucks at the pharmacy. I can’t let you—”
“Screw you, Tam,” Connor said brusquely. “Don’t insult us. Now go and hug that kid, for God’s sake, before we all get thrown out of this place for disturbing the peace. Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
Tamar made a harsh, wordless sound and grabbed the screaming child, pulling her onto her lap. She buried her face against Rachel’s hair and murmured to her between earsplitting shrieks.
Val strategically fled the dining hall at this point, as many others were choosing to do with him, but he couldn’t get away from the anguished sounds without leaving the building entirely. It was terrible.
Final good-byes, loading of cars, transferring of car seats, final admonitions, and still more final good-byes ensued. A teeth-grinding interval later, they were finally pulling onto the interstate in blessed silence. Tamar’s hands were clenched, her back stiff. Her stony silence had an accusing weight that got heavier with each mile that passed.
By the time they were halfway to Portland, he could stand it no longer. “Would you stop it?” he blurted. “I am sorry your daughter is unhappy, but it is not forever. We have to work fast so—”
“If we survive at all,” Tamar pointed out. “Or if I survive, rather. Let’s be honest. I’m the one whose head is on the block.”
He blew out a harsh breath. “I have tried in every way to make this risk worth your while,” he said urgently. “For Rachel, too. She will survive without you for a few—”
“Look, you don’t know how it feels, OK? So why don’t you just fuck off and let me sulk?”
He turned away, stung into silence. It was true enough. He did not know how it felt. Nor would he ever want to learn.
They speeded down the highway in a hostile silence for over an hour. By the time they reached signs for Highway 205 and the Portland Airport, he was contemplating an odd,
unexpected thought.
He glanced over at her set face, her red eyes. Whatever Tamar might lack in manners or maternal softness, one thing was certain. A child of hers would never have to wonder if her mother cared.
Tam cared so much, it looked like she was about to explode.
Whatever she had done in the past, she was ready to defend her young with fang and claw. He thought of his own childhood. His conclusion was glaringly obvious.
Rachel was fortunate. And the child knew it. With her experience, she knew in her bones that the monsters under the bed were all too real. The mother she’d handpicked was perfect for battling monsters.
He waited for a few more miles and blurted it out.
“You are a good mother,” he said.
Tamar gave him an incredulous look. “And how could someone like you make a judgment like that?”
He was affronted. “What do you mean, someone like me? Why not me? I am entitled to my opinions, like anyone else.”
She made a derisive sound. “You’re not like anyone else, Janos,” she said. “And besides, the poor kid could have been kidnapped or murdered yesterday, remember? Thanks to you, I might add.”
He bristled. “Ah, sì? Forgive me for trying to keep you from getting abducted or slaughtered—”
“Adopting Rachel at all was an irresponsible act, considering who and what I am,” she continued grimly. “It’s just like you said in Shibumi. I’m using her. I’m a crazy, selfish bitch.” She paused and swallowed. “And this stunt I’m pulling now has got to be the craziest, most selfish thing I’ve ever done. Forget the slick reasons why. Let’s be brutally honest, OK? I’m in this for the revenge. No other reason.” She looked out her window. “If I get snuffed, she’ll probably be better off with Erin and Connor anyhow.”
Against his will, memories flashed into Val’s mind. The day he’d found his mother dead on the bathroom floor. Giulietta, the Italian girl from Palermo, another whore in Kustler’s stable, who had shared their apartment for a while. Her baby girl had died in her crib one icy cold winter day, right next to an open window, while Giulietta floated on the bed nearby in a heroin daze.
He could still see Giulietta in his mind’s eye, when she came down from her high. Staring into the crib with her hands on her face. Eyes staring out of her head. Screaming.
She’d screamed for hours, or so it had seemed to him at the time. Those screams still echoed distantly through his mind. He pushed the memory away. It still made his gut feel hollow.
“You are wrong,” he said stubbornly. “She would not be better off without you. You’re a good mother. And I know. Trust me. I have seen some bad ones.”
She shot him a piercing glance, opened her mouth to speak . . . and shut it again. Something in his voice or face had blocked whatever cutting thing she’d been poised to say. Just as well. His nerves were more raw than usual today. He stared straight out the windshield and concentrated on driving. Willing her not to ask questions.
Reminiscences from his grim childhood were not calculated to lighten anybody’s mood.
Things went with blessed smoothness at the airport. In short order, they were stretched out in big, soft reclining seats in the first-class section of the jumbo airliner, both of them pretending to sleep.
He couldn’t stop stealing glances at her hand, where it rested on her shapely, jeans-clad thigh. It looked so strong and capable, and yet delicate, the slenderness of her fingers accentuated by the heavy, savage-looking thumb ring she wore, made of contrasting bands of colored gold. He wondered what defense applications the ring had, and decided that an airplane would be an indiscreet place to ask.
He liked her French manicure. He liked the fading, gummy shadow of a child’s fake tattoo on her slender wrist, some cartoon character that populated an American three-year-old’s fantasy world. A tender, secret detail that made him smile. He liked the way her sweater cuff draped over her forearm. So graceful, every curve, every line of her.
She infuriated him; she fascinated him. He was obsessed. He accepted that fact, let it sink in without resisting it. Made it part of the matrix so that he would take it into account while making decisions.
He was going to seduce her again at the first opportunity. This fact had the weight and inevitability of natural law, the kind that governed the turning of the planets, the movement of the stars.
Not just to save Imre, though. Not anymore. God help him, he had just tripled his problems and responsibilities. Imre, Tamar, Rachel.
At this point, the only way to save himself was by somehow saving them all.
Never again. Tam established it in her head, a constant drone beneath the frantic chatter of all the other thoughts and fears and feelings. The man was inside her head, invading her thoughts, her senses. Compromising her powers of reasoning. She could not afford to be so distracted on the eve of the riskiest stunt of her entire career.
If it was just about sex, that would have been bad enough, but it wasn’t. These flashes of emotional connection shook her, disarmed her, left her speechless and stammering. Buzzing with feelings.
She was curious about him, fascinated by him, interested in him, like a teenage girl crushed out on a rock star. Robot Bitch had gone to pieces. Rachel had started the disintegration process, and Val Janos was the killing blow. Life was so much simpler back in the good old days when Robot Bitch ruled.
She was unsteady all the time. Bowled over by his scent. How did a guy with the massive dose of male hormones necessary to render him that potent and dangerous still manage to smell so good? It was against the basic laws of nature.
She kept sneaking peeks at him. Checking out the length of his legs, the broad, hard shape of his chest, the outrageous breadth of his shoulders. Mmmm, how she liked big, thick, cut shoulders that she couldn’t quite get her fingers around. And his somber, beautiful face. His beard stubble was starting to get soft, not scratchy. She had no whisker burn, even after last night’s mad nuzzling.
She wanted to explore him, to set off into the uncharted wilderness of his fascinating self and never come back. She wanted to open his pants and play with his big, beautiful cock like a toy. To study the patterns his body hair made on his skin. To memorize every scar. To hear all of the scar stories. And tell him hers, too. If he was interested.
She wanted to shock him, rock him, make him crazy with lust.
And laugh with him. Of all things. Stupid fantasy. Dream on.
Her only recourse was to keep her mouth shut, her eyes averted, and ignore him as much as possible. She kept her eyes fixed on the moonlit clouds outside the oval window. They had dimmed the lights in the forward cabin, and the curtain was pulled for privacy.
It would have been far better if it wasn’t. That drawn curtain gave her some very, very dangerous ideas.
She unfolded the blanket the airline had provided and swathed herself from neck to toe, determined to feign sleep. She had no intention at all of giving into it with so much to occupy her mind, but her tired body betrayed her.
She tipped straight into an uneasy dream.
She was wearing the red chemise Stengl had dressed her in, and searching desperately for something to wear, anything but that hateful scrap of limp red silk. She could find nothing. Even being naked would be better, but the chemise wouldn’t come off. The red silk stuck to her like a stain. She tore at her body until it was bleeding, and then suddenly, her body was no longer a woman’s body—it was a doll, brittle and fragile. Crack, she held a stiff leg with no joint, a high-heeled foot with painted red toenails like a storefront mannequin. Then the other leg broke off. She shattered from within, exploding in a shower of dusty shards.
Even broken into pieces, you are beautiful.
She knew that velvet voice. She recognized the strong hand sifting through broken shards, shreds of red silk until he found it. Her heart.
It looked like a cheap toy or a pincushion. Made of puffy red satin stuffed with fluff, trimmed with lace and tiny bows. He dusted it off an
d cradled it in his big hand. It transformed, glowing. Light shone right through his hands. It beat, it shone, it blazed through his fingers. Alive.
Heat glowed in her body, a deep, yearning throb, and she came back to consciousness very slowly and carefully, as if something inside her knew she’d be cheated of her prize if she rushed it. She drifted with majestic slowness, letting waves of pleasure intensify, rocking her higher until the crest broke and pulsed in long breaking waves.
Her eyes opened, amazed, to see the darkened cabin of the plane, the drawn curtain, the blanket under her chin. And Val, leaning over her, his eyes gleaming in the dimness. His hand, down the front of her jeans.
Oh. She’d bought the next jeans size up, since Rachel’s you-take-a-bite-and-then-I-take-a-bite game had put a little extra layer of meat on her ass, but she hadn’t filled out the new size entirely. There was plenty of room for his hand. His fingers rested on either side of her throbbing clit, catching it in a gentle, patient clasp . . . waiting to see what she thought of the situation now that she was awake.
She licked her lips, cleared her throat. What the hell did she think of it? She knew how her body felt about it, but that was not relevant. Her body had no vote in this. Her head had to prevail. She gathered her strength to be bitchy, shove him away. It was a tremendous effort.
“You sneaky bastard,” she whispered. “Is this your usual move? Wait until the woman is drugged or asleep, and then you make your move? You should be ashamed.”
He looked completely unembarrassed. “No, Tamar. Only with you. I must use every dirty trick I can devise, or I will get nowhere.”
“You’re a snake.” Her voice quivered, like her thighs.
“Sì, certo. I would do anything to feel you come again. Any desperate, wrong, immoral thing and feel no shame at all. Be warned.”
The low rasp of his voice caressed her, his coffee-scented breath tickled her ear. Her face glowed, hot as a coal. It made her think of the heart in her dream. Magically transformed.
Ultimate Weapon Page 25