From what she could see of its exterior, the hostel didn’t run to luxury. Faded paint, weathered jambs, single-glazed windows, it probably wouldn’t rate even one star in the Michelin Guide. And if there were any security cameras—not necessarily unlikely, given the hostel owner’s CIA connection—they were hidden better than most.
Damon exited the building and got their bags from the trunk; apparently he had to leave the Yugo parked on the street. Trailing him back inside, Rory caught up with the Fed at the back stairs.
As she’d expected, their room on the third floor was a sturdy, bare-bones affair, as evidenced by the terra-cotta bricks exposed by broken plaster. The ambience was light-years from a Marriott or a cheerful B&B or even the Y. But since the walls were sound and a thorough check didn’t turn up any spy-holes or electronic surveillance, Rory didn’t have any complaints.
Still, she wasn’t about to take unnecessary chances this early with such an important commission. Stepping into the private bath, she opened the faucet and played her fingers through the running water. The irregular, syncopated splashing echoed in the narrow space. “Is it safe?” she asked in a low tone that wouldn’t carry far. Picking up the white bar of soap on the ceramic lavatory, she sniffed it. Detecting only a mild fragrance, she proceeded to wash her hands. Why let the water go to waste?
Damon snorted, turning back from his own examination of the walls, ceiling, floor, and furnishings to watch her, his hands coming to rest on his hips. “We’re safe enough, so long as we don’t draw suspicion.” The answer came in the Oxford-flavored English of Jamil Abdou, his current persona; apparently it wasn’t unusual for Middle Eastern men to seek higher education in the UK. He lounged against the jamb, watching her with that steady chestnut brown stare of his that made her arms and nipples prickle with awareness. “You’re as bad as I am.”
Absurdly delighted by his compliment, Rory gave him a broad smile and went to test the bed. “I’m a professional.” It had all the resistance of a down pillow. When she sat down, she sank inches deep in a squeaking, cotton-covered marshmallow that was a struggle to escape—especially while ignoring the smirk on her supposed partner’s face. A drawback, but nothing insurmountable.
The too-soft mattress wasn’t a problem since she figured Damon would be around to distract her from any discomfort. And if it proved to be more than she could ignore, she could always sleep on top of him.
She probably would, anyway. The bed wasn’t that large.
All in all, life was good.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Damon’s stroll through the market nearest the hostel was an exercise in surreality. As easily as that, he’d found three of the targets on his kill list. Two weeks before the auction and they were already here, jostling for position and advantage: some of the most-wanted terrorists in the world walking with bald-faced arrogance in front of UN KFOR troops, so certain of their impunity.
Luckily, the influx of terrorists for the auction was a built-in cover in and of itself, so his presence would be less noteworthy. As Jamil Abdou, a member of the infamous PKU, he was just one more out-of-town tough to the local gangs, not someone muscling in on their action.
It also meant he could start his hunt sooner.
Even as early as that night.
But first, he had to establish his bona fides.
Damon walked up to another terrorist he recognized; the veteran of many a bombing, he was dark and lanky, built like a ferret and just as vicious in a fight—perfect for Damon’s purposes. He murmured a name in greeting when he was within earshot. “Ahmad.”
Fear and caution sparked in the other man’s aura before he turned to present an expressionless face. “Jamil.” He matched his pace to Damon’s. “It is good you are here.”
Despite the words of welcome, Ahmad eyed him guardedly. As he should, even though they’d worked together before; Damon had gone to great lengths to cultivate Abdou’s reputation for cold-blooded, no-nonsense results for precisely such a reaction.
Rory gave Damon a few seconds’ head start, using the time to adjust her clothes and appearance. Taking inspiration from women she’d seen in their drive into town, she added lines of care, a doughy jawline, and flab on the hips, dulling the color of her face and turning her hair thin and dun drab, until she looked like any Kosovar’s tired aunt. Average and not worth a second glance. Perfect.
Then she left the room to perform her own recon. While she had everything Damon’s agency could scare up about Karadzic’s stronghold, that was no substitute for doing her own prep work. Besides, there was no telling how reliable the info was; after all, it had been provided by a government agency. But even if Lucas or Felix had supplied the data, she’d still have to double-check the details, since deviations tended to crop up when they were least expected. People being people, modifications weren’t necessarily documented in a timely manner—or at all—the emphasis on ISO 9000 standards in the corporate world notwithstanding; her brush with ordinary office work had reinforced that lesson.
And there was no time like the present to start.
She headed for a market to listen to gossip and accustom her ears to the dialect, maybe even buy some of that fresh cheese she’d developed a taste for on her previous visit. While she didn’t speak Albanian with a local accent, she did so well enough to pass as Kosovar, which meant conversation wasn’t a problem, as the Feds had expected.
Just a few minutes on the streets brought home to Rory the wisdom of her guise as a much older woman. No one saw her as a threat, allowing her to eavesdrop at her leisure.
Once across the bridge and in the northeast side, it was even easier to go unnoticed. Most eyes were on the scantily clad women and young girls crowding the sidewalks, calling out offers for sex to passing men. Cars that slowed down were mobbed by women fighting to get in. It got worse the deeper into Karadzic’s territory she went. A meat market with the cattle demanding to be bought, sometimes in shrill tones, wrestling with fellow cattle for the honor of being bought.
It made her shudder inside.
Rory had nothing against prostitution. After all, what a woman did with her own body ought to be her choice—if she wanted to exchange sex for money, rather than give it away for free, who was Rory to condemn her? But these were a far cry from the professionals she’d seen in Amsterdam. The desperation in the faces of girls barely into puberty, shivering in crotch-skimming micros, said they weren’t in the world’s oldest profession by choice. And seeing fresh deliveries of sex slaves, dropped off by the vanload on strings and herded into warehouses just like cattle—the blatancy of their exploitation sickened her.
Yet as much as she hated to witness the abuse, she couldn’t look away. In any job, she had to know how to blend in, no matter where she was. Which meant she had to watch and learn, to study the behavior and body language of those she might have to mimic. Who knew what bit of info might prove necessary to fulfill her commission?
When night fell, Rory slipped her disguise and took to the rooftops where she would be less obvious, welcoming the exercise; after the heat in Florida, sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit plus a light breeze was cold.
Part of the reason for her expedition had been to identify the best locations for the relays that would let her into the backdoor of Karadzic’s security system; the miniature black boxes needed direct line of sight to get the best signal.
Many of the multistory structures she’d chosen turned out to be whorehouses. Barred windows gave her an appalling view of their dimly lit, dingy interiors. Planting the relays took time— and taught her the folly of looking through the bars. Dirty mattresses on the floors of equally dirty rooms. Barely a curtain for privacy. Obviously customers weren’t entertained on the premises. And the fecal stench emanating from one in particular that she’d had to skirt!
Much later that evening, women began to appear, trickling in steadily as though a tide had turned. They had a curfew, Rory realized when a pimp suddenly cursed a small brunette for tardiness and the meager take she surrendered. He proceeded to beat and rape her in punishment, his casual brutality ignored by bored guards.
Steeling herself not to flinch, Rory scaled the adjacent wall, forcing her mind to concentrate on finding fingerholds and toe-holds in the uneven brick wall, driving out all else but that. Thankfully, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh faded as she climbed higher.
Finding the right spot to secret the relay became an exercise in willpower. She just wanted to get out of there, but if she placed the black box in the wrong spot, she’d have to return to this hellhole and risk discovery by transferring or replacing it. She couldn’t even do it quickly since sudden moves tended to draw attention.
After a nerve-wracking search, while trying to turn a blind eye to the violence in the room below, she found a roof tile large enough to conceal the relay and facing the correct direction. It was with distinct relief that she planted the box and plotted her route to the next location on her list.
Her stomach churning in empathy for the beaten hooker, Rory fled the sight—slowly so as to escape detection—but it was only one of many and she couldn’t avoid them all. She suddenly longed to have Damon beside her, his sheer competence a comfort all its own. He might kill people, but he’d never do what she’d seen those men do to a woman.
The memory of the care Damon had shown her during lovemaking, even when she pushed his limits, helped to keep her on her course. As much as she wanted to hightail it back to the hostel, she had a job to do and a commission to fulfill.
But when a squall of rain blew in, she welcomed the excuse to break off. That first beating hadn’t been the last punishment she saw, nor the worst. The heartrending sights and sounds were too distracting, interfering with her concentration. She couldn’t continue and trust that her nerve would hold out; she might have done something she’d regret before the night was over. Anyway, one night’s delay was better than capture.
Rory had another reason for accepting the change in her plan: she craved Damon’s arms around her, pleasuring her with all his controlled power—tangible proof that not all men were like the brutes she’d seen in the whorehouses—no matter how needy that made her seem. Her Adonis was the only man she could turn to for that reassurance; she couldn’t imagine discussing what she’d seen tonight with her brothers, much less her father—even if she could risk contacting them at this point.
Having avoided the other lodgers at the hostel, Damon slid into the room he shared with Rory, only to find it empty, his master thief apparently still out on recon. Automatically, he stretched out his mental antennae, searching for her distinctive aura, but he couldn’t sense her anywhere nearby.
He swore in an undertone, a pang of unfamiliar concern tightening his shoulders. They hadn’t discussed what they would do upon arrival, beyond reconnaissance. If Rory was in trouble, he didn’t have any idea where to start looking for her. His range while awake was considerably less than in the half-waking state he used when dreamwalking. Too, he’d wanted to start his hunt, get his first kill in that night, but he couldn’t do that when she might interrupt him at any time.
When the rain started, Damon moved to the window to watch for her, but the wind blew rain into the room, eventually forcing him to shut the window. Faced with rain-splattered glass, he was left feeling caged and had to pace the simply furnished, lamp-lit room to relieve his disquiet.
Rory was a grown woman, but it was hours past midnight, and even in the most peaceful of circumstances, he’d never describe their location as safe. It wasn’t as if—
Damon had to snort at his rationalization. Okay, so he was worried about her. But surely she was safer at night? She was in her element, sliding through the dark.
It was strange, the responsibility he felt for her, a full-grown woman and expert in her own field. But even though he accepted that she could handle herself, he couldn’t dismiss the growing concern he felt at her continued absence. No amount of self-directed ridicule banished the nagging unease.
And that was another thing: the strength of his attachment was worrisome in someone who worked alone. After all, this partnership was a one-shot deal.
The spark of a woman’s mind, one whose piquant feel had become intimately familiar to Damon over the past several days, suddenly impinged on his awareness, slowly drawing nearer. Its bright focus was cloudy with dismay and disgust, but there was no mistaking his master thief for anyone else.
His heart leaped in response to her approach, its sudden lightness making him realize the full extent of his misgivings about Rory doing recon without backup. His cock, likewise, stirred, apparently already trained to anticipate her carnal demands.
Down, boy.
Now wasn’t the time for that.
The doorknob rattled, then turned, more than enough warning for him to draw his gun and hold it ready by his side, just in case. He couldn’t detect any undue interest directed at Rory, but he hadn’t lasted as long as he had in his line of work by making assumptions.
The heavy door opened quietly, just enough to allow a middle-aged woman to slip into the room. She closed it behind her, dropping a bag by her feet, and leaned back with a tired sigh. “This is a horrible place.” Her honest distaste came through loud and clear, a bitterness in her aura that curdled the tongue and set his teeth on edge, but Damon refused to let that distract him.
There was no reason for the stranger’s presence. He hadn’t contacted any of the agency’s local assets. So who was she and what was she doing here?
About to raise his gun and demand her name, something gave him pause, made him stay his hand. He took stock of the deep-set eyes with their bruised lids, the thin, down-turned mouth, the loose skin along her jaw. Nothing sparked in his memory, only the certainty that he must have met her somewhere before. Yet she had to know who he was; she hadn’t evinced any surprise at his presence when she entered the room.