"Screw them," Jayne growled, through clenched teeth.
"Ye’re no’ even dressed!" MacTavish said, reaching for the blanket.
Jayne cocked her head and stood on wobbly, naked legs, pulling her hospital gown over her hips, a sarcastic eyebrow raised. I never knew you to be such a prude.
The heart rate monitor chirped and whined, so Jayne ripped the electrodes from her body, causing the alarm to shriek in protest. A female nurse burst into the room, her mouth open, already demanding answers. When she saw the look on Jayne's face, she froze in her tracks, nodded and backed out, calling for the doctor on duty down the hall.
Jayne turned to the nearest mirror, stumbling toward the bathroom and shrugged off McTavish's helping hands. The IV still connected to her left arm tugged at her wrist painfully, so she ripped it out, pressing down on the insertion point with a piece of gauze she found on the counter next to her bed.
Ignoring McTavish’s protest, she forced herself to pause, then walked with a steady gait into the bathroom. Voices out in the hall announced the arrival of several doctors.
Jayne turned, aware that her ass hung out of the hospital gown for all the world to see, and glared at MacTavish. Do your job, or I'll find someone else to do it for you.
MacTavish interpreted her look correctly. His eyes narrowed, and he gave a short a curt nod, then turned to the doctors and spread both arms wide. "All right lads, show’s over."
"What are you talking about?" demanded one of the surgeons. "She's not ready to be up and about yet!” he said, pointing past MacTavish.
"I ken that, you ken that, but that doesna matter—it's what she kens as matters. Now out!" he said, rounding up the doctors and physically shoving them into the hallway.
Jayne let herself smirk under the tight bandages and turned from the scene, confident MacTavish had her back. As the cool air of the bathroom caressed the exposed skin of her ass, Jayne allowed the smile to widen, despite the discomfort it brought. She imagined MacTavish truly having her back, and for a split second, the pain in her face vanished.
She stood before the mirror and turned the lights on. Now was the moment of truth. She’d paid a disgusting sum of money, equal to half the gross domestic products of several second-world nations, to ensure the surgery was performed as quickly and skillfully as possible. It was time to see the payoff.
As Jayne unwrapped the mummy in the mirror, her eyes remained steady. She may change her face, she may change her hair, and maybe her personality and voice—and everything else—in the name of survival. She paused, her hand above her head, the yellowed, dirty gauze hanging limp from her delicate grasp.
But those are still my eyes. I'm still in here. That's all that matters.
"It's too early!" called out one of the surgeons.
“Aye, but ye ken how fast she heals…" MacTavish argued.
As the men bickered in the main room, Jayne continued to unwrap herself, locks of golden hair emerging between layers of gauze like veins of gold in a desert mine.
Almost there…
With every layer of gauze she removed, the pressure on her face lessened, and the pain increased just slightly. Her jaw ached, her cheeks burned, but the desire to do something, to get out of the hospital bed, and to grasp her fate with both hands was overpowering. Once she’d started unwrapping, there was no turning back.
One of the surgeons said something about scar tissue, but Jayne didn't care anymore. She had to act, she had to get out of here. The gauze continued to come off, and more and more of her hair, greasy and lank from lack of proper care, appeared.
Jayne narrowed her eyes at the sight in the mirror. Most of her face still remained under a layer of gauze, and clumps of her hair stick out in all directions.
I’ll need a facial after this for sure.
"I said get out! If I have to say it again, ye’re friend here's going to be performing another surgery!” MacTavish bellowed.
Jayne smirked, the movement making the last layer of gauze bulge in the mirror. She closed her eyes and unwrapped the final layer, grimacing only a little as the fluids absorbed by the gauze stuck to her delicate skin and pulled painfully as it broke free. Cold air touched her skin and made goose pimples raced down her arms like Alpine skiers.
It's done then. She dropped the wadded, funky gauze wrappings to the floor and put both hands on the cold porcelain sink before her, leaning forward.
Jayne took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
The face that stared back at her was pink and slightly puffy, but perfect. No scars. She turned her head left and right, up and down. No scars at all. The money she'd spent had been worth it after all.
She looked nothing like Jayne Renolds. The face that stared back at her looked exactly like Lisa Melton, perhaps after waking with a hangover.
Jayne tried to smile, and Lisa smiled back, manufactured dimples and all.
She touched her cheeks, smooth as a baby’s skin. Oh my…I can certainly get used to this…
She’d have to change her hair color, but she could do that on the flight. For Jayne had no intention of staying in the safety of her secret base on the Isle of Man for much longer.
MacTavish’s s soft footsteps approached the bathroom. "Ah, lassie…"
Jayne turned and put one hand on an out thrust hip. "Well…what you think?" she asked, attempting to toss her lanky hair over one shoulder and strike a seductive pose.
"I think ye’re the most beautiful woman I've ever seen…" he breathed. “Whether I recognize ye or no.”
That took Jayne by surprise. She stepped back, her bare ass touching the cold porcelain causing her to squeak in surprise.
MacTavish laughed.
"Laugh it up…" she pouted, crossing her arms.
MacTavish glanced down, his grin widening. “Aye, I will.”
Jayne followed his gaze. "It's cold in here!" she said, barely controlling the urge to stamp one bare foot on the cold floor.
MacTavish’s eyes twinkled. “Aye, I'd noticed." He turned after one lingering look that offered a promise, and disappeared into the recovery room.
Jayne had just enough time to compose herself before he returned with a plush white robe. He tossed it to her. "Darius is on the phone for you."
All the humor and mirth had vanished from his face with that one sentence. The brief insight into the private side of Ronald MacTavish had disappeared as fast as it had emerged from his thick shell.
Jayne shucked the nasty hospital gown, bracing herself as her nakedness met the cold air before slipping into the warm rope. She sighed in bliss as the plush terrycloth tickled her senses.
"Well? Does he have an update?" she demanded, tying the soft white belt around her waist.
“Aye, but he’s no speaking to me."
Jayne walked past him, using one arm to make the Scotsman stand out of her way. The solid warmth her arm encountered in pushing against his midsection made her belly tingle. With the wrappings off her face, Jayne felt like a new person. She looked like a new person, but fun could wait.
Sighing, she turned to the phone. Fun would have to wait. World War III was about to ruin everything.
"Darius. What is it?" she demanded, speaking into the phone.
"Have you seen the videos? Mikhailovich is an amateur. It's a complete shitshow."
Jayne grunted. "Agreed. Have you found our friend?"
"Yeah, I found his ass. He's already started taking over Mikhailovich’s assets in Moscow."
“Is he now?" Jayne turned and arched an eyebrow at MacTavish. "It seems our friend Igor is thinking of making a move."
"Oh, he's making a move—the question is, against you or the Council?" Darius observed.
Jayne considered her next words. "I don't think it makes a difference. If he believes that bullshit story about me dying, he's either incompetent, or stupid. If he thinks he can pull a fast one on me while I’m under the radar, he's definitely stupid and incompetent."
"What you want me to do?"
"Whatever you do, don't make contact. Stay back and observe. I didn't spend all of my influence to keep Russia out of the war only to have this fool ruin everything. Mikhailovich has some important contacts I need inside the Politburo. Who knows what the hell might happen if Igor fucking Voroshilov takes over."
"I'll keep an eye on things."
"Good." Jayne ended the call and dropped the phone to the bed. She placed her hands on her hips and looked at MacTavish.
"Christ," the Scotsman said crossing his arms. “Ye’ve got that look again. What’re ye goin’ to do?" he asked, ignoring the clamoring in the hallway and the pounding on the door. The doctors continued to demand entrance to examine their patient.
Jayne smiled, feeling her puffy skin crinkling around her lips, and ignoring the pain. “I’m going to Moscow.” She’d have time to ice her face on the flight, too.
McTavish dropped his hands to his sides and clenched them into fists. "Moscow?" he demanded, taking on a tone of a scolding parent. “Are ye out of yer mind? What the bloody hell do ye want to go to Moscow for?"
Jayne ran one hand through her hair and decided it was definitely time for a shower. She glanced at MacTavish through half-closed eyelids. "I'm going to send a message, dear. A message no one will miss."
MacTavish arched an eyebrow. “Aye?”
“Aye.” Jayne stepped forward and placed one hand on his broad chest. "Mikhailovich is finished. If Braaten doesn't kill him, Voroshilov will when he tries to return to Moscow. The mission’s over. Now that America has attacked North Korea, I've got much bigger fish than Braaten to fry. But everything hinges on Moscow staying out of the war."
MacTavish grunted, taking a hesitant step back. Jayne stepped forward, pressing her chest against his abdomen. "Indeed. But first," she said brushing past him, trailing her hand on his arm to pull him behind her into the bathroom. "I need a shower,” she purred.
33
Cowboy
West of Smolensk, Russian Federation
Mikhailovich Estate
Cooper used his rifle as a crutch and struggled to his feet. He stood, wracked by pain after the concussive blast that flung him from the house. He closed his eyes and exhaled, rolling his shoulders, stretching his back.
A loud noise caused him to turn and glare over one shoulder. The garage was engulfed in flames, the ceiling partially collapsed.
How long was I out?
As he watched, several timbers gave way and fell, sending up a shower of sparks and smoke, crushing the already burning cars. A tire exploded with another blast. He looked from the garage to his present location. The grenade must've set off a secondary explosion—perhaps a car’s fuel tank?
He glanced down as he shouldered his rifle and patted the charred glove covering his right hand. His entire arm still smoldered.
"Just another day at the office…" he muttered, turning from the conflagration now consuming the entire house.
In the distance down the driveway, he spotted blinking lights. His ears still rang with the muted roar of the explosion, but his eyes—enhanced by the AR glasses—easily picked out the outline of Mikhailovich’s car, turned sideways across the road, nose-in against a tree. A black scorch mark on the gravel showed where his drone—Lyssa—sacrificed itself to stop the getaway car.
Cooper walked toward the wreckage, one shaky step at a time, then thought of the ambassador's wife, still in Mikhailovich’s custody. He picked up his pace, and grimacing against the pain—his knee never had healed 100% after the gunshot wound in Tehran that led to the end of his career with the Teams—and jogged the rest of the way, his boots crunching on gravel.
By the time he made it to the car, his ears had recovered enough to pick up the sound of a helicopter orbiting somewhere over the trees. Landing lights flitted in and out between the bare branches overhead. Whatever it was, it was big.
Assuming the helicopter to be at least neutral, if not friendly, by the fact that he hadn’t been ripped to shreds when on the open road, Cooper approached the car with his rifle at his shoulder, ready to take on the most immediate threat. The driver’s door opened and Cooper froze, dropping to his good knee.
A large man stumbled out and landed on his hands and knees in the gravel driveway. He shook his head, then threw up.
The passenger door opened, and a much smaller man—Mikhailovich—fell out and collapsed against a small tree next to the road. He said something unintelligible to the driver, and waved him on, encouraging him to move further down the road.
The driver noticed Cooper at that point and clambered to his feet. He grunted an alert, and Mikhailovich turned to face him. The man’s eyes went wide, then narrowed to slits of barely controlled rage.
"You!" he called, limping around the car, using it to support his weight as he moved to the trunk. "You are the son of a whore who destroyed my house—my house!" he screamed, staring over Cooper’s shoulder, his arms wide.
Cooper’s finger tightened on the trigger. I should drop your ass right here and now.
Movement from the driver pulled Cooper's attention away from Mikhailovich. The Russian crime boss’s tirade distracted Cooper long enough for the driver to draw a weapon. He held his Makarov pistol with both hands—if a little shaky—aimed at Cooper's torso.
In reply, Cooper hit the thumb switch on his rifle and ignited the laser sight on his weapon, centering a glowing—unwavering—red dot on the driver’s chest. The driver looked down at his chest, watching the red dot, then glanced at Cooper, frowning.
"What are you waiting for, Sasha?” asked Mikhailovich as he popped the trunk. "Shoot him!" he said, gesturing impatiently at Cooper.
"Drop it, bub," Cooper said. His voice still sounded as if he were speaking through a tube, but he put enough strength into his words that the driver blinked in surprise at Cooper's flawless Russian.
“I have an idea," Mikhailovich said. He turned back to face Cooper, lifting the ambassador's semiconscious wife from the trunk.
Cooper took in a deep breath and tensed. Holy shit, she’s still alive.
Kyrsten Marquadt was barely able to stand on her own and leaned back against Mikhailovich, who casually draped one hand over her chest and placed the barrel of his pistol against her temple. Her head lolled back against his shoulder and her eyes fluttered open, focused on Cooper for a second, then closed.
"Drop the gun, cowboy,” Mikhailovich said with a sneer, “and you might live long enough to see me escape with her."
Cooper jerked his head, calculating the chances. "No dice. I drop this weapon and you kill both of us." His gun wavered between the driver and Cooper.
The driver adjusted his grip, then nodded, as if coming to a decision. “I have no wish to fight you, American.”
“What?” roared Mikhailovich.
“The fuck is going on here?” asked Cooper, switching between targets. The driver raised his hands, pointing his weapon at the sky.
“You—why—” began Mikhailovich. He jostled the ambassador’s wife and put her in a position to shield him from both the driver and Cooper. “You fucking betray me…now?” His gun wavered between the driver and Cooper.
The driver turned and looked at Mikhailovich. “You are a rabid dog, Yevgeny Mikhailovich.”
“Why?” blurted the mob boss. “Why go through all this…” he said, waving the gun beside Mrs. Marquadt’s face.
The driver turned and leveled his gun at Mikhailovich.
“No!” Cooper and the Russian yelled at the same time.
“I am here to send a message from the vorya. Your kind is not wanted.” He pulled the trigger but the pistol misfired with a soft click. The driver’s eyes widened. Mikhailovich laughed.
The gunfight was swift and one-sided. Mikhailovich put a round right between his erstwhile companion’s eyes. The driver dropped like a ton of bricks, twitching and bleeding on the gravel right in front of Cooper.
“Fuck me,” Cooper whispered, trying to line up on the mob boss, who swung Mr
s. Marquadt back in front of him as a shield. “Don’t shoot her!” he called out.
Mikhailovich clicked his teeth. "Oh, come on, what do you think I am? Some kind of monster? Do you have any idea how valuable this woman is to me?" he asked, turning his pistol sideways to trace the length of its barrel along her bloodied cheek. "I know she doesn't look like much right now, but trust me, the wife of a United States ambassador will fetch a hefty price among my clients."
Cooper clenched his jaw and felt dirt grind between his teeth as he watched Mikhailovich grope the ambassador's wife. The mafia boss opened his mouth, making a rude face, then smiled.
Mrs. Marquadt turned her head, tried to say something, and vomited all over him.
It was all the distraction Cooper needed. As Mikhailovich’s eyes opened wide, and he involuntarily stepped back from the mess spewing toward his leg, Cooper saw the pistol slide from her head.
He squeezed his own trigger and sent a three-round burst downrange, but his aim was off. The last shot clipped Mikhailovich in the shoulder, which threw off his aim. Searing pain lanced Cooper’s left thigh, and only after he hit the ground and screamed under the impact, did he realize Mikhailovich had put one in his leg.
Cooper lost his grip on the rifle as his right arm went numb from the impact. His hand simply refused to function anymore. He rolled on his back, to take the pressure off his injured leg, but had the forethought to draw the pistol from his left thigh. Slick with his own blood, he made sure to have it aimed at Mikhailovich by the time the bratva boss gathered his wits and pushed Kyrsten Marquadt squarely in front of him once more.
Overhead, the helicopter circled, buzzing like a massive, angry hornet, desperate to reach its nest—it remained a dangerous threat, but harmless under the cover of trees.
“Beslan, where the fuck are you?" Cooper growled, relieved that his ears seemed almost back to normal.
The radio remained silent.
Forced to resolve the situation on his own, Cooper blinked sweat and blood out of his eyes, holding his pistol with his less than steady left hand. On his back, he aimed between his own legs at Mikhailovich’s face, just as the Russian aimed his pistol at the side of Kyrsten’s head. As the Russian pushed her to keep her upright, Kyrsten’s head snapped back and forth and her eyes fluttered open.
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