Dangerous Allies (The Ruby Danger Series Book 1)

C
opyright
© 2015 by Rickie Blair.

Published in Canada in 2015 by Barkley Books.

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Alex Saskalidis aka 187designz.

The use of any part of this publication reproduced,
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-9936417-4-9

T
he teen hunched
his shoulders in the oversized leather jacket and tapped the 9 mm Makarov tucked into his belt. What would it be like to kill a man? He had to get it right, show Viktor what he could do. His leg jackhammered in the BMW’s rear footwell as he traced another line through the condensation on the window and counted the floors of the apartment building opposite. One. Two. Three. And four, where—

He jumped as Viktor clamped a hand on his thigh.

“Stop that. You’re making me crazy.”

The teen willed his leg to be still. The jackhammer moved to his chest.

Viktor released his grip.

“Yury will be alone. Get the stories. Get out. Simple.”

The teen nodded. Simple. The word echoed in his ears as he stepped from the car, his breath turning to frost, and flipped up his jacket collar with unsteady hands. Simple. He trotted to the front door, the pistol and silencer digging into his back. With a ragged breath, he pushed open the door and headed for the stairwell. He took the narrow steps two at a time, brushing the wall with one hand, silently counting as his fingers bumped over rough patches in the plaster. Simple.

At the fourth floor he paced down the hall, slipping the gun out from under his jacket. He had not bothered to bring spare ammunition; eight rounds would be more than enough. Raising the weapon in his right hand, he rapped on Yury’s door with his left.

The door opened and almost immediately slammed shut.

But the teen was quick, his foot already inside the jamb, and he gasped in pain as the door rammed his thin leather boot. He shoved the door into Yury, who toppled onto the floor. The hammering in the teen’s chest slowed when he saw the fear in the man’s eyes.

He waved the pistol.

“The stories for
Izvestia
. Get them.”

At a sudden noise he jerked his head to the tiny kitchen on the right. Something sizzled in a pan, but the room was empty. Glancing at a closed bedroom door on his left, he waved the gun again.

“Now.”

Yury pushed off the floor with shaking arms, walked to a desk under the window and pointed to a folder. The teen placed his pistol on the desk and signaled that the weapon was still within reach. He tucked the folder under his jacket and turned to pick up the gun.

“Yury, who was that?” a voice called from the bedroom.

The teen dove for the pistol. But as he closed his fingers on the grip Yury tackled him, knocking him off balance and against the desk. A bone snapped in the teen’s upper arm, a shudder racked his body and the gun went off. Glass erupted in a china cabinet across the room and the weapon flew from his grasp. He crashed, grunting, onto the floor with Yury’s full weight upon him.

The gun lay about six feet away, in the broken glass below the china cabinet. As the teen crawled over the glass shards to the pistol, Yury grabbed his jacket with both hands, trying to hold him back.

Stretching out with his left hand, the teen curled his finger on the trigger. He twisted his torso and fired, but his shots went wild as Yury grappled for the gun. With an agonizing heave, the teen wrenched the pistol into Yury’s chest and pulled the trigger. Blood blossomed on the man’s shirt and he slumped to the floor. The teen collapsed on his knees beside the body, gasping. His heart hammered like blows from a fist as he gazed into Yury’s lifeless eyes.

He struggled to his feet, relief mingling with satisfaction, and looked down at the body.
Simple.

A cough caught in his throat and he turned to the door. Smoke spewed from the kitchen, filling the room. In the haze stood a woman, who gaped at Yury’s body with a hand cupped over her mouth. She lifted her eyes to the teen. He stared at her, his mouth slack.

Yury will be alone.

A child’s cry pierced the silence.

“Mama!”

The woman’s eyes widened and she threw herself against the teen, hurling them both onto the floor. He screamed as pain jolted his right arm. Thrusting the gun into her chest, he fired.

Nothing. The magazine was empty.

With a roar of frustration, he raised the gun and battered her head until she lay still. Then he stood over her body, his chest heaving, before bending to yank a silver locket and chain from her throat. He staggered to the door.

A knot of people drew back as he limped into the hall with the pistol shaking in his outstretched hand and his other arm cradled at his side. Blood dripped from gashes on his head, smoke smudged his face, and his pants hung in shreds.

The jackhammer in his chest returned as he lurched to the stairwell and the car that waited below.

A
s the gleaming
white prow of the Apollonis sliced through the turquoise waves of the Caribbean, Ruby Delaney stretched out on the Emperor Suite’s balcony and savored the total absence of gawkers, stalkers, and e-mailed death threats.

Day Two of the one-week cruise intended to restart her life and things were going pretty well. So well that she decided to call that creepy steward and ask him to make her another gin and tonic. She tried to remember his name. Bogger? Bogwash? She snapped her fingers. Bogdan, that was it.

Ruby checked her cellphone. Ten-fifteen a.m. She made a face, then sat up and swung her legs over the side of the chaise. If she was going to have a third drink before noon, she better make it herself. No reason for the entire ship to know. Besides, that last gin and tonic had at least one-sixth of a lime in it, when she had specifically asked for one-eighth. She eyed the enormous piece of fruit marooned in her empty glass and rolled her eyes. If she had wanted fruit juice, she would have asked for fruit juice.

There was another reason. If she made it herself, she wouldn’t have to look at the tattooed cobra that slithered down Bogdan’s cheek, wrapped twice around his neck and disappeared under the collar of his uniform. She shuddered. Not to mention the way he looked at her. She shuddered again. Even after nearly ten years as an actor, she still resented being ogled like a hooker.

‘It comes with the territory,’ her agent Felicity always said, ‘just smile and nod.’

Smile and nod. She could do that. But another gin and tonic would make it a lot easier.

After tying a crimson silk pareo around her bikini, she reached for the floppy sun hat on the foot of the chaise, settled the hat on her head, and glanced at the balcony’s hot tub. Four water-stained screenplays perched on its edge. She had promised Felicity that she would read them and return to Manhattan rested and ready to tackle the auditions her agent was prepping. ‘We need to get you back out there,’ Felicity had said, ‘if you’re serious about turning things around, that is.’

Ruby frowned. Of course she was serious. But she had scanned those scripts, and they were, in a word, sh—

Oops. She had also promised to rein in the swearing. Not to mention the drinking. Pursing her lips, she checked her empty glass. Felicity couldn’t have meant
now
, surely. She turned to the suite’s open French doors.

The piercing cries of gulls overhead caught her attention, and she shaded her eyes and peered up at them. Her jaw dropped when she saw two much larger birds, floating far above the gulls. Before leaving Manhattan, Ruby had downloaded an article on birds of the southeastern Caribbean that described the Magnificent Frigatebird and its seven-foot wingspan. And now they were right above her, two
Fregata magnificens
, gliding on the Caribbean thermals. She watched in awe as they swooped and soared in the crystal blue sky.

‘They’re also called pirate birds,’ the article said, ‘because they rob other sea birds of their hard-earned catch.’

The frigatebirds swerved south and drifted farther and farther from the ship until they were two black dots in the sky. She must remember to tell her little nieces about them.

She would also tell Antony, if he ever returned. Her husband had disappeared after breakfast and she had not seen him since. Ruby dropped her hand and looked at the open door. Second honeymoon, my ass. Frowning, she tapped a finger on her mouth. Was ‘ass’ considered swearing? She shook her head.
Nah.

Ruby walked to the edge of the balcony, leaned her elbows on the railing with her head in her hands, and stared at the shimmering waves. There were no ships on the horizon, no fishing boats, not even a porpoise or two to flash through the surface and break the monotony. She straightened up and ran a hand along the Emperor Suite’s polished wood railing. It was almost as wide as the balance beam she had practiced on so many times in her high school gym.

Tapping the railing, Ruby checked the three partial decks that rose at the ship’s prow to her left. Yesterday she had worried about the gated metal walkways that circled those decks, though they were marked
keep out,
but after seeing no one but crew on them she had relaxed. The walkways were deserted today as well.

She walked through the French doors and into the air-conditioned suite. Her bare feet sank into the luxurious carpet as she strolled to the bar, pausing to pluck a smooth-skinned lime from the immense fruit bowl on the dining table. After tossing ice cubes into a fresh glass, she picked up a paring knife, divided the lime into eight equal wedges, and licked the juice from her fingers. As her mouth puckered from the tart fruit, Ruby surveyed the living room’s leather upholstery and thirty-foot expanse of glass. So much for a romantic, secluded vacation. They were the most talked about guests on the ship.

Fresh drink in hand, she walked back onto the balcony. As she bent to place her glass by the chaise, a light flashed in the corner of her eye. She squinted under the brim of her hat. Sunlight reflected off a metal object held by a man on one of the metal walkways. He raised the object in an outstretched arm and steadied it with his other hand.

Then aimed it at her.

Ruby’s heart skipped a beat and she gripped her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. The gulls’ harsh cries echoed overhead and from inside the suite came the muffled sound of a vacuum cleaner. She held her breath. Should she run? Call for help?

The figure shifted and turned away from the light. He was holding a camera. Ruby clapped a hand to her chest and gulped air.

The photographer stepped back from the blazing light and into the shadows. Ruby recognized the short-sleeved safari jacket that strained its buttons and the unruly brown hair that poked out from under a Yankees baseball cap. They belonged to the same paparazzo who had run onto the dock when she and Antony boarded the Apollonis. ‘Ruby, over here! Ruby, Ruby Danger!’ he had shouted.

Antony had hurried her along the gangplank. But Ruby knew the paparazzo wouldn’t give up, so she turned in his direction and paused long enough for his automatic shutter to click half a dozen times. She had never dreamed he would board the ship. She frowned, chewing on her bottom lip. What other pictures did he have? Antony would blame her for encouraging him.

The photographer raised the camera nearer his face and gestured at her as if she was a pal, posing for a snapshot. What would it be this time? ‘Former TV Star Ruby Delaney Drowns Her Sorrows Alone On Luxury Cruise’? Or the usual roundup of ‘Celebrity Cellulite’? Ruby gave her thighs a quick appraising glance and then thrust out her chin. She’d give him something to shoot, all right.

She lowered her drink to the table by her chaise and untied her pareo, letting it flutter to the ground. Then she walked to the edge of the balcony, placed both hands on the railing and drew several deep breaths to center herself. Pushing down with her hands, she sprang onto the railing and settled her bare feet while holding on with her hands.

Ruby balanced with her knees bent, the polished wooden railing smooth beneath her fingers, before releasing her grip and standing. The Caribbean rushed by over one hundred feet below as she raised her face to the horizon and stretched her arms to either side.

A soft breeze ruffled her hair, and she brushed a strand from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she walked toward the stern of the Apollonis with her back to the paparazzo. Midway, she paused and looked over her shoulder, smiling at the photographer who held the camera close to his face.

He was shooting now, for sure.

Passengers on other balconies stared up at her, poked their companions, and pointed. Ruby grinned and did a simple pirouette. She paused and then, treading lightly, turned again and walked back along the railing toward the ship’s prow and the photographer.

The ship lurched without warning and she teetered toward the water. Crouching, she waved her arms on either side to regain her balance. Her heart pounded as she fought the impulse to look down at the waves ten decks below.

She rose and resumed her pace. Her body swayed with the ship as she placed one foot in front of the other. Sweat trickled down her forehead. A sudden breeze caught her hat and lifted it off her head. The straw circle swirled in the air and then drifted to the water, where it floated on the surface like flotsam from a wreck. Ruby watched it disappear, sucked under by the ship’s powerful backwash.

She dragged her eyes back to the railing. A clear spot on the balcony a few feet ahead would be perfect for a dismount. Six more steps. She paused to catch her breath and then stepped forward.

Five.

Four.

She shifted her weight, ignoring the urge to wipe away the sweat stinging her eyes.

Three.

The ship shuddered. Ruby waved her arms and waited for her heartbeat to slow. After a few seconds, she took another step forward.

Two.

One.

She twirled, jumping onto the balcony, and landed with knees bent. For a second she stayed put, relishing the solid ground under her feet. Then she straightened up, grinned, and waved at the paparazzo.

He blew her a kiss.

The passengers applauded, at least, those who weren’t bent over their phones. Ruby smirked. Probably uploading photos to Twitter. She turned to the open door and froze.

A maid leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a scruffy ponytail and the nameplate on her short-sleeved blue uniform read,
Mila
. Frowning, the maid stepped back from the door. Ruby lowered her head as she slipped through the entrance beside her.

Obviously, not a fan.