by Cari Z
“Good. One last thing. If either of you get a communication from our client on this job, do me a favor and ignore it.”
Oh, that was interesting. “Has Mr. Ashad been reaching out?” I asked.
“Not him. Lord Thorburn has, on his behalf, or so he says, but….” There was a long pause. “Let’s just say he’s being persistent, and I don’t want him to distract you from the job. If he calls you, if he texts, just don’t say anything. If you must, redirect him to me.”
Gerard had been bothering KIS? Was he that desperate for news? Did he have so little faith?
Glancing down at my filth-stained self, I sighed. He might have a point.
Patricia lived in a two-level converted farmhouse with tile floors, white furnishings, and a fence around it that was probably electrified, given the lightning bolt warning signs at regular intervals. There were security cameras, sensors along the doors and windows, and as we walked up to the door she said, “Watch out for Napoleon, he hasn’t had a walk since my neighbor came over this morning, and he might be a bit mad about it.”
Oh lord, did she have a guard dog? Some giant mastiff or bulldog, something that could bite a man’s leg practically in two as it caught them trying to break in? I tensed, ready to put my bag between Alex and whatever was behind that door.
“Yip! Yip yip!”
Wait….
“There you are, Napoleon!” Patricia bent down and picked up a Yoda-eared, white-furred ball of fluff. Its face had brown markings like a raccoon, and its silky belly fur nearly reached the ground. “How is my darling?” she cooed. “How is my sweet baby chiot? Maman t’adore, oh oui, je t’aime, oui….”
“Mind moving your reunion out of the entrance?” Alex asked, and the fatigue in his voice must have registered, because Patricia moved without the smart remark I’d expected.
“The guest bedroom is up the stairs to the right,” she told us. “There’s a bathroom up there for you to share as well. I’ll get some dinner going while you two clean up.”
“Much obliged.” I felt oddly coated from the activities of the day, not just from sweat but with the fear and anxiety that had accompanied it. A shower would do much to set me to rights again, and it had to be ten times as appealing for Alex. He didn’t say anything, though, just regripped his duffel bag and headed for the stairs.
The bedroom was bright and vaguely nautical, with white furniture edged in cobalt blue with a sea-green duvet across the bed that looked sinfully comfortable. Speaking of beds… there was only the one.
It was a step up from mildew-scented cots two nights ago, but not quite as appropriate as our individual double beds last night had been. “Oh. Um.” I glanced at Alex. “Perhaps there’s another bedroom? I’m more than happy to let you have this one, I just….”
He shook his head, then winced. “This is it. If it’s gonna be a problem, I can take the couch.” He shrugged. “I probably won’t sleep all that much tonight anyway.”
Oh, there was no way this side of hell I was exiling this man to a couch. “It’s absolutely fine, and of course you’re going to sleep, look at you. You need the rest!”
Alex dropped his bag and sank onto the edge of the bed, gingerly rubbing his forehead like he was staving off a headache—or trying to prevent the one he already had from worsening. “I’d rather not look, thanks, I’ve seen the mess already.”
“Are you referring to your nose? Because it’s not that bad, really….” I leaned in to get a closer look. “Actually, it’s marvelously straight, all things considered. Just black and blue and rather swollen.”
“Yeah, I went ahead and set it back at the hotel.”
“You set… your own broken nose.” I felt mildly ill just thinking about it.
Alex’s grin was real this time. “I once broke my own nose knocking into a doorframe. It’s fragile as hell, so setting it is very familiar at this point. It’s not a big deal, Mal.”
It seemed like it should be. To have broken a bone so many times that it hardly mattered anymore… the thought transfixed me—or perhaps it was more like being paralyzed. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head, this tired man sitting before me casually jerking a part of his own face back into position.
“Mal. You okay?”
And now I’d drifted off crouched in front of him like some sort of strange, hovering gargoyle. I was absolutely smashing it in the useless category today. “I’m fine, yes. Just….” I couldn’t bear the thought of him not sleeping. “Will you please try at least to take a nap? I’d be more than happy to watch over you, although I’m afraid my presence will be rather redundant after all of Patricia’s efforts at security.”
Alex didn’t say anything for a long moment, just studied me before finally nodding. “If it makes you feel better. You go shower, and I’ll grab something to eat.”
This was the sort of compromise I could live with. “I’ll be right back.”
“Right back” might have been overstating it. There were hardly words to describe how luxurious the hot water felt against my knotted, stressed-out body. My tiny little cut began to bleed again, but I ignored it in favor of reveling in the sensation of being cleansed. Water was the greatest solvent for life’s little ills I’d ever found—in my youth I’d dreamed of leading underwater archeological expeditions. That was before I discovered just how claustrophobic wearing a full suit of scuba gear made me feel, but a spray like this, a hard, hot rain? Perfect.
I eventually emerged, rummaged about in the cabinet for a Band-Aid—there was a wide assortment of them—and applied it to my side, then dressed and reentered the bedroom, refreshed. I slowed my stride, though, as I took in Alex. He was already lying on his back in the bed, still on top of the duvet but at least without shoes or socks on. He’d taken painkillers, if the bottle next to the empty plate on the bedside table was any indication, and Napoleon the guard Papillon was lying beside him, sprawled on his back with all four tiny paws in the air.
“I see you’ve already found a guardian,” I said lightly, but inside I was a bit miffed that any sense of calm I might have conveyed could be easily replicated by a dog.
“Nah, Napoleon’s good at a lot of things, but guarding isn’t one of them.” Alex waved his hand toward the table. “He came up when Patricia brought those, decided to stay for a bit.”
“I see.” Well, then. Now was not the time to overthink things. “Just a mo.” I grabbed a book out of my suitcase, then returned to the bed and settled in on my half of it. “Don’t mind me at all.”
“I haven’t yet.” There was no way he could know how those three simple words made my heart flood with warmth, and I didn’t want a blush to give me away again so I opened the book and tried to get into where I’d left off. “What are you reading?”
“It’s a history of Britain after the collapse of the Roman Empire. It’s rather dry, but….” What the hell. “I could read it aloud, if you’d like.”
“Sure,” Alex said, so softly I barely heard it. “G’head.”
He was so tired, at least he wouldn’t have to put up with listening to me for long. I cleared my throat and began. “The rise of elite identities in sixth-century Britain stimulated the formation of regional ones… ah, joy, here comes yet another explanation for the aristocracy.” Alex chuckled, and I smiled before continuing.
He was asleep before I finished the page.
Chapter Nine
I WOKE up at three in the morning to the sound of Mal’s gentle snoring. He was slumped beside me on the bed, his book propped up on his chest, his glasses a little crooked on his face thanks to the swell of the pillow beneath his head. I stared at him for a long moment, the long pale eyelashes and the smooth swell of his lips, and let the wave of realization wash over me: I wanted to kiss him.
Fuck.
I wasn’t going to do that, obviously—we were on a dangerous job, and I needed my head clear, not roiling with thoughts of getting Mal into bed and having my way with him. I’d lusted after colleagues befo
re, in the military and out—I could handle it. I’d never wanted to kiss any of them like I wanted to with him, but he was startlingly unique when it came to guys I was attracted to. For one thing, I could tell he wanted me back. Why else would he volunteer to sit up and read to me until I fell asleep?
Oh yeah, because you’re so sexy right now, my brain mocked me. Who could resist a guy who looks like he got the shit so thoroughly beat out of him?
I quietly tested my body, flexing individual limbs and making faces at the ceiling to figure out how much trouble my nose was. I’d gotten lucky with the reset this time—no breathing problems, just plenty of swelling and soreness. The rest of me felt—not great, but not nearly as bad as when we’d first arrived here, either. I’d been crashing hard and had basically accepted that I was going to be a jittery, unhappy son of a bitch until my body literally forced me to sleep. Taking a nap with a guardian reading to me from a dry-as-dust history book hadn’t been part of the plan, but… damn. I’d slept for nearly nine hours.
I wasn’t going to get back to sleep, though, not with a dry mouth and a rumbling stomach. I reached over and eased Mal’s glasses off his face, struck by the urge to rub the indentation they left on his nose with my finger until it looked less red. You fucking sap. I put his glasses on the bed next to him and got up, grabbed some fresh clothes, and headed for the bathroom.
Napoleon greeted me as I hit the main floor ten minutes later, clean and hungry. I glanced over toward the living room and wasn’t surprised to see Patricia up, reclined on her couch with her tablet propped against her legs, a half-full glass of wine on the table next to her.
She looked at me and murmured, “Why are you awake? Go back to bed.”
I shook my head. “Too hungry to sleep.”
She nodded toward the kitchen. “Help yourself.”
There was a pan filled with leftover asparagus risotto in the fridge. I heaped a plate full of it, then paused. “Did Mal get some of this?”
“I took him some,” she confirmed. “You slept right through the sound of his scraping fork. It was quite impressive. You must really like him.”
“Patricia….”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not judging! I think it’s nice that you’ve found someone you feel safe enough to snuggle into bed with.”
“I wasn’t snuggling him.”
“Only because you couldn’t roll onto your side thanks to that nose.” She peered at me in the dim lamplight. “It looks better than I thought it might.”
“I’m pretty good at doctoring myself by now.”
“Certainly experienced,” she agreed. “Come and sit with me.” She pulled her legs back, and I eased myself onto her couch, plate in one hand, water in the other. I was unarmed, but it was all right—Patricia wasn’t. Which was a little odd, actually.
“Since when do you carry in your own home?”
She scowled. “Since Fawkes proved to be even better with a gun than you. There are no perches for sniping around here, no good opportunities, but if he were to attempt to get into my home… well, in case he manages it, I want to be ready. I shot him, you know.” Patricia set her tablet aside and rubbed her hands over her shoulders. “I found him terrorizing Mal and I fired at him, straight into his chest. Of course he was wearing a vest, though. He got away.” She looked down at the floor. “I let him get away with the scepter.”
And that explained why Patricia was awake at three in the morning. She tended to dwell when someone got the better of her, mainly because it almost never happened. Still…. “That wasn’t your fault.”
“It certainly wasn’t Mal’s.” She sounded a bit sharp, almost like she wanted to chide me.
I didn’t need the reminder that Mal wasn’t responsible for the shitshow he’d been thrown into, though. “No, of course not. It wasn’t mine either, it wasn’t yours, it wasn’t Robert’s. We were underprepared, and we didn’t realize it until we were already in the middle of a clusterfuck.” If I’d managed to immobilize Corday, captured her, held her back to trade for the scepter…. But there was no use in wishing for something that hadn’t happened. “Corday had the advantage yesterday, but we’ll get a handle on her. I’m sure Robert’s burning the midnight oil on this, so there’s no need for you to as well.”
She sighed. “It’s not that I don’t trust Robert, I just… I should have seen more of this. This is my job, to give you the tools you need to do yours. This time, I failed at it. I’m lucky that both of you survived.”
“Not as lucky as we are,” I joked. Patricia didn’t even crack a smile. Shit… were those tears? “Nobody gets it perfectly right every single time. Don’t let this rattle you. You are lucky, all of us are, because this gets to be a learning experience instead of a tragedy. I underestimated Corday at least as badly as you did. This?” I pointed to my face. “This was my learning experience. Don’t tell me you’d trade, because I know better.”
That did get a little smile. “Was she truly so challenging, or did you just not feel comfortable fighting a woman?”
That was a good question, one I’d spent plenty of time thinking about in the car. “In the beginning, I thought about going easy on her. Then she broke my nose, and I knew I needed to take her more seriously. Any woman goes toe to toe with a guy without blinking, and you know she’s got some serious skills. She has to, since size and strength aren’t usually on her side. I was an idiot not to see that.”
“She was probably pleased.”
I stopped midsip and stared at her. “Why would she be pleased? About what?”
“That you underestimated her. In everyday life for a woman, it’s very obnoxious, but in her line of work it’s an advantage.”
“I guess I can see that.” I could certainly feel it, the way I still ached. “What are you working on?”
“Logistics.” She frowned at her screen. “At this point, we can’t take anything for granted. She knew you on sight—how? How many other operatives does she know? I was thinking of asking Robert to send in backup for this one, but the more I think about it the more I think it might be a bad idea. It does no good to bring another member of KIS in if we’re just throwing them into peril. And freelancers are… unreliable.”
I thought of Jack. “Not all of them.”
“No, but the ones who aren’t are the ones who deal in favors, not in money, and we can’t be in the business of handing those out unless we’re desperate. And I don’t think we’re that desperate yet.” She tapped her screen a few times. “I’m betting she’ll go to Africa. Maybe to Abuja or Johannesburg, or if we’re lucky, to Dakar. I’ve got connections there that could help us. No matter where she goes, we have to assume that she’ll expect you and Mal to come after her and have someone watching the airport for your arrival.”
I nodded. “What’s your solution to that? Private plane?”
“There’s too much potential for bribery at private airfields. No, I’m thinking we fly you into the nearest adjacent airport and you make your way to where she is by car after that.”
I could see the advantages, but… “How are you going to track her once she’s left the airport? We don’t have a device on her anymore.”
“True, but we do know that she has a scepter she wants to sell. And we also know that if she had a specific buyer lined up for it, it would be gone already. No.” Patricia shook her head. “Corday wants to auction this off to the highest bidder. She has a history of doing deals in person, too—she’s not the type to put a notice up on the dark web and let things run their course remotely. She likes to meet people, make connections—possibly mete out punishments in person as well, judging from her reputation. I assembled a list of disreputable people who would be interested in buying the scepter of Mansa Musa, and Robert and I are watching them. If several of them start to move in the same direction, we’ll know where to go.”
“Smart.”
She shrugged. “Just doing my job,” she said before glancing at me. “How’s the risotto?”
> Good enough that I’d already shoveled most of it down my throat. “Delicious.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She set down her tablet and yawned. “I think I’m going to turn in for a while.”
“I’ll keep watch.”
“You don’t have to.”
Yeah, I did. “I’m up now. It’s fine.” She didn’t press me any further, just handed me her gun and went off to her room. I checked the weapon—a PAMAS-G1, older but well-maintained, with a full magazine—and tucked it into my belt, then went to put my plate away and make a cup of coffee. I didn’t really need it after nine hours of sleep, but I wanted it anyway.
I did a methodical check of the house—more out of habit than anything else, although it also served to soothe the psychological itch that had been bothering me almost since the beginning of this job—then settled back onto the couch. I listened to the quiet noises of the house, tiny creaks and groans, the sound of tap water flowing, probably Patricia brushing her teeth, and very, very faintly, the purr of Malcolm almost-but-not-quite snoring. I adjusted my position so the sharp stab in my shoulder dulled to a more distant ache, scratched a spot on my stomach, then absently trailed my fingers over the scars there.
I was lucky I could suck down a full plate of risotto and drink as much coffee as I wanted to, given how much of my intestines had been removed once the shrapnel had gotten in there. There were still a few pieces here and there, but my doctor assured me that they weren’t a danger. The scar tissue had them all wrapped up.
What would he think if he saw you? Would he touch you like this, or would he flinch?
It was one of the reasons I didn’t take a lot of lovers, especially civilian ones. The questions, the stares—the fact that I couldn’t give them a straight answer about what happened to me, since it was classified—didn’t add up to a satisfactory encounter, even if we still had sex once they’d seen. Then there were the people who were into the damage, which was worse. Does this hurt? What about if I do this? Can you even feel this? I wasn’t a pain slut, despite how much some people wanted me to be.