by Cindy Dees
Kill Zone
Danger in Arms, Book 2
Cindy Dees
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Copyright © 2015 by Cindy Dees. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-64457-165-1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Before You Go…
Hot Zone
Also by Cindy Dees
About the Author
To my mother for daring me to write, my husband for daring me to love, and my daughter for daring me to shoot for the stars.
One
New York City
It took her three tense passes by the mouth of the cul-de-sac, but finally, the street was empty of other pedestrians as she approached the alley that was her target. Amanda McClintock slipped into the shadows.
Inky blackness wrapped around her as she peered into the dripping bowels of the city block. Come on, eyes, adapt already. The behemoth just ahead resolved into an overflowing trash dumpster. Farther ahead, a pair of fire escapes dangled, rusty portcullises of modern decay. Farther still, her goal—Carnegie Hall’s backstage entrance—floated in a disembodied pool of light. She eased forward cautiously, every sense on high alert.
It had stopped raining, but the brick walls on either side of her shone greasily. Puddles marked potholes in tired asphalt, and she stepped around them with catlike distaste for water. As she drew near the radius of light, faint echoes of music became audible. It was more a subliminal pulsing than actual sound, but the tempo of her heartbeat increased to match the rhythm vibrating through the air.
Four crumbling cement steps up to the porch. A last check over her shoulder. With quick twists, she unscrewed the single light bulb overhead. The alley went completely black. Slowly, it faded back into view as her eyes adjusted to the dark. She paused until the details took form and checked for any signs of movement. All clear.
She drew in a calming breath that smelled of oil and car exhaust. Releasing the fouled air slowly, she flexed her fingers. Then, with a delicate touch born of experience, she went to work on the lock of the heavy steel door before her. The double-cylinder dead bolt required double tension bars and raking both cylinders simultaneously—a tricky bit of work. She crouched down, her ear inches from the lock as she manipulated the thin metal rods inside its mechanism. A satisfying snick. Bingo. She stood up and stowed her picks.
She brushed back her cuff and glanced at the glowing face of her watch. Half a minute ahead of schedule. While she counted to thirty in her head, she searched the darkness of the alley, alert for anything unusual. Still quiet. In a detached corner of her mind, she wondered idly how much Devereaux had paid the security guard who was usually stationed here to be absent from his post. She’d bet it was a bundle. Her employer was obscenely rich and didn’t hesitate to pay big to see private justice prevail.
Twenty-eight…Twenty-nine…Thirty.
Time to go. The familiar tingle of adrenaline seeped into her bloodstream and raced across her skin. Her pulse increased sharply, and her body felt light and fast. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
A fanfare of trumpets resounded arrogantly, heralding the entrance of the violins. The strings wove mesmerizing, snake-charmer’s strains, while slowly, implacably, they were over taken and drowned by the swelling notes of brass horns. Timpani rolled forth and broke over the orchestra like an angry ocean, crashing down and sending powerful echoes across the sea of uplifted faces. Wave after wave of music descended upon the audience, pummeling it in its grandeur. The woman seated at the grand piano seemed lifted from the bench by the sheer force of the sound, compelled to batter the ivory keys. The music swelled louder and louder until the edifice was consumed by it, the very air alive and vibrating. With a final apocalyptic crash, the symphony ended.
Time froze while echoes reverberated in the void. The audience roused itself slowly from its breathless trance and applause thundered.
A dozen rows back from the stage of Carnegie Hall, Taylor Roberts squirmed uneasily in his seat, overwhelmed and unsettled by the performance. He tugged at the black bow tie pinching his neck and shifted his tall frame uncomfortably. Biting back a curse as he banged his knees on the back of the seat before him, he murmured an apology to the patron in the seat and gazed around the auditorium. What in the hell was he supposed to be watching?
It made no sense that his very first field assignment entailed nothing more than sitting in a concert hall watching a Russian debutante pound on a piano. Why would Devereaux pay good money for him to waste his time like this?
The strains of music swelled more loudly inside the building, and the detached corner of Amanda’s mind recognized the piece as Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no. 1. One of her favorites. Concentrate, you idiot! You’ve got a job to do. She paused for a moment, forcing herself back into the emotionless state of readiness necessary in her line of work.
She glanced around as the theater’s blueprints came alive before her. Orienting herself briefly, she moved off briskly down a corridor and arrived in a few moments at a door bearing a white, handwritten nameplate. In Cyrillic and English lettering was the name Marina Subova.
Show time.
She pulled her silk cuff down over her hand, reached for the doorknob and slipped into the pianist’s dressing room. It was spacious and well lit, strewn with clothes, sheet music, full ashtrays and empty cigarette wrappers. Across the room, Amanda spied a man on his hands and knees. His head was hidden under the dressing table, and he was clearly searching for something.
“Ah-ha!” he crowed.
He grabbed something too small for her to see from her vantage point. He backed up awkwardly until his head emerged, then grabbed onto the edge of the dressing table and hauled himself to his feet. Whatever he’d been searching for went into a pants pocket.
His hair was coarse and gray, cut in a short, military style. His shoulders, although massive, stooped heavily, and his spine curved as though he’d carried an enormous weight for far too long. He sti
ll easily topped six feet, although in his prime, Amanda recalled he hadn’t passed through the seven-foot doorways of her school with much room to spare. Grigorii Kriskin had once been a giant bear of a man. Age might have whittled away much of his bulk, but he was still formidable. She pushed down a tickle of doubt about this mission. And cleared her throat politely.
At the sound Kriskin whirled around with remarkable agility for his age. His look of caution was replaced by one of pleased surprise as recognition dawned. “Amanda! Amanda McClintock. It is very long since I see you.” His English was heavily accented with Russian gutturals. “And what carries you behind stage? You are tired to listen of Marina play, or she not do good tonight?”
“Grisha!” Amanda smiled in feigned surprise. “So, Marina’s bear still guards her wherever she goes. Actually, I came back early to beat the crush of fans who will be fighting to get a moment with our star.” While she spoke, she eased open the plastic zipper bag concealed in the pocket of her flowing skirt. She palmed the soggy gauze pad inside and stepped toward the man as if to hug him. She held his gaze steadily. Doubt registered in the old man’s faded eyes.
Man, he was good. Astonishing that his instincts were still so sharp. He sensed the danger, even though only a long-time acquaintance of the petite, nonthreatening, female persuasion was in the room. As she closed the small distance between them, the old man drew back slightly. To her trained eye, he coiled like a cat preparing to spring. His gaze flickered for the barest instant to his left. A mistake, that. She stepped nimbly to her right, cutting off his escape route, and lunged at him. Lightning fast, her hand shot out and slapped him wetly across the face with the gauze pad.
He jerked his head away and lowered a shoulder to charge. With a growl rumbling in his throat, he rushed her, grabbing her around the waist in a football tackle. The momentum of his onslaught sent them crashing heavily to the floor. He landed on top of her with a thud, knocking the breath out of her. She gasped desperately for air, riveted by the old man’s red-rimmed eyes, only a foot from her own, staring at her in unfocused rage.
She squirmed in his rib-cracking grip, trapped under his bruising weight. Suffocating, she managed to wriggle her left hand free. She groped the floor beside her hip with her fingers, searching urgently for the pad she’d dropped.
He jerked his head up sharply, clipping her squarely on the chin. Her jaw slammed shut and a rush of pain blurred her vision. Tasting blood from her badly bitten tongue, she twisted in violent desperation. Yanking for all she was worth, she pulled her entire left arm free. She swept it frantically across the floor. Spots danced in front of her eyes. Her grip on consciousness was slipping. She didn’t have much time left to save herself. Where did that damned pad go?
Taylor’s instructions had been to watch for a signal from the pianist to anyone, perhaps someone in the orchestra or in the audience. It sounded as if Marina Subova was involved in something shady or even illegal. But what? What could a world-famous concert pianist have gotten herself tangled up in?
The applause finally wound down, and the audience rustled in marked anticipation. His curiosity piqued, Taylor opened his program. Next was a piano solo, one of the pianist’s famous variations on a theme. The program explained that Subova’s full musical genius was revealed in the subtlety of her improvisations. Tonight she would be playing a variation in A minor. To Taylor, who liked classical music about as much as a trip to the dentist, the piece sounded heavy and depressing. Its melody escaped him for the most part, and occasionally a subtle discord offended his ears. He shifted in his seat and pondered the similarities between modern music and modern art—both were beyond his comprehension and vaguely disturbing somehow.
The improvisation was a huge hit with the audience, and it was several minutes before the crowd quieted enough for the evening’s performance to continue. The chubby penguin of a conductor rapped his stand with his baton. After a dramatic pause, he launched the orchestra into a final symphony.
The single breath of the chloroform derivative the old man had inhaled finally took effect, and his grasp around her loosened slightly. Thank God. With a desperate heave, Amanda shoved him off of her. He rolled sideways and rocked back onto his knees, blue-veined hands outstretched. Two gnarled thumbs jabbed for her eyes, and she twisted her entire body aside.
She glimpsed a square of white. And dived for it. With her eyes screwed tightly shut to avoid the old man’s gouging fingers, she swung her open hand blindly toward his face. She contacted him squarely across the nose, and he reeled back with a grunt. He got a hand up and grabbed her wrist, holding the drugged gauze away from his face. Amanda strained against him, frozen in a momentary stalemate. Their gazes locked beyond their straining hands.
His eyes were a watery gray and rheumy, his pupils contracted to tiny black points of fury that promised vengeance against this unprovoked attack. A single question raged in their pale depths. Why?
She flinched at the sight. This wasn’t just some nameless, faceless target. This was a man she’d known since she was a little girl. He had two sons and a half-dozen grandchildren. Had loved his wife fiercely until she died of breast cancer a few years back. He liked to fish. And she was attacking him.
Her hand was slowly forced another millimeter away from his face, and panic hit her. He’d kill her if he got the chance, old friend or not. Of that she had no doubt. Pure survival adrenaline surged in her veins, and she leaned into his powerful wrist. Thankfully, his muscles began to tremble and inexorably began to give way. The pad drew near his face. Abrupt sadness washed across his features. And then, an expression of determination, defiance even, entered his gaze. His jaw rippled powerfully, and a crunching sound came from his mouth as if he’d just shattered a tooth.
Oh, God. No!
Amanda ripped free of his grasp, which suddenly went slack. He jerked in a single head-to-toe spasm, and his face contorted in a rictus of pain. His breath came in a short, rattling gasp. He made a brief choking noise and clutched at his throat. His hands fell away, bent into twisted, useless claws. Amanda reached out and pried his jaws open as his eyes rolled up into his head.
A whoosh of bitter air rushed forth. It smelled of almonds.
Cyanide.
He toppled over slowly onto her lap and lay there, motionless. No. No, no, no! Not Grigorii. Panting heavily, she rolled his limp form off of her and scrambled backward on her hands and knees. Panic clawed at her, horror at what had just happened freezing her brain into immobility. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She was supposed to use their acquaintance to get close to him and knock him out. Then the next team would come in and carry him away for some drug-assisted questioning. All neat and clean.
His face was a monstrous shade of red, his lips pulled away from his teeth in an exaggerated snarl. His eyes stared at nothing. She smelled urine. The acrid odor turned her stomach, and abruptly, she tore at her skirt. Her pocket. The plastic bag in her pocket.
She snatched the bag out and slammed it to her mouth just as she gagged and vomited up the meager contents of her stomach. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, clammy against her skin. Shivering violently, she dry heaved again.
She had to get out of here. Away from death. Away from the body.
She leaned forward and pressed her fingers to Grigorii’s neck. There would be no pulse, but she had to check. He was too good to screw up killing himself. His skin was already cool to the touch beneath a scratchy stubble. She yanked her hand away from his lifeless, rubbery flesh. Acting on instinct, she reached into his pants pocket and grabbed the object he’d been searching for.
Using the wall for support, she climbed clumsily to her feet. A stabbing pain in her right ankle announced that she’d twisted it in their fall. The joint collapsed when she tried to put weight on it, and streaks of white fury shot up her calf. Now what? She struggled to form rational thoughts. Finally, belatedly, her training kicked in and her brain began to function. She had to make it back outside without being ca
ught and then call in someone to clean up this disaster.
She limped to the door and peered cautiously outside. The corridor was still deserted, but she’d be noticed for sure if she bunny-hopped all the way back to the alley. There was no help for it. She was going to have to walk out of here. She swore under her breath but then collected herself. Emotion later. She supported herself against the wall, using her forearm without conscious thought, so ingrained in her was it to leave no fingerprints. As quickly as she could manage, she hobbled down the hall. By dint of brutal concentration, she suppressed the pain radiating outward in increasing waves from her injured ankle. The journey back to the exit took fully twice as long as her entrance, but her luck held and she encountered no one.
She stepped out into the wet evening and inhaled a long, steadying breath. She forced down the agony one last time. Just a few more seconds and then she could fall apart. After an excruciating descent down the steps and away from the porch, she stopped in a deep shadow and pulled out a radio transmitter. One long, two short and one long beep went out to unseen faces nearby. Her silk evening blouse clung to her shoulder blades, soaked by a film of sweat that had nothing to do with being overwarm. The pain finally overtook her self-control, and she sagged against the cool, damp wall.
In seconds, four shadows rounded the corner into the alley. The first faceless form hissed, “What are you doing here? You were supposed to leave the area immediately.”