Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (5 page)

“On security matters,” Zeus continued, “this is not a democracy. There is no room for argument. There is a reason for everything Black Raven does. Sometimes it will not be apparent to you. Do not put us in a position where questionable judgment on your part causes us to take unnecessary risks with your lives and our own. Put the vests on and move out. Agent Small will handle transportation of personal and business effects.”

“We have computers and iPads with sensitive information, not to mention files, trial binders, and other documents,” Charles said, straightening his shoulders as he adjusted his cardigan. “I need to personally oversee the transportation of our work product.”

Zeus directed his ironclad gaze at Charles. “Souls first, bullshit later. Your life is our number one concern, and because you don’t seem to understand the urgency of the situation, let me explain it further. Until we know differently, we’re assuming Stanley Morgan was murdered.”

Eric said, “Now that’s just plain ridiculous. He had a heart attack. No one has suggested that.”

“Zeus,” Samantha said, worry that matched Eric’s indignation sending blood pulsing through her veins. “At the request of Judge O’Connor, the autopsy was expedited. The report just came in and indicates death due to cardiopulmonary event, precipitated by severe hypoglycemia, with a suspicion of insulin overdose. To our knowledge, the investigation has not revealed foul play. Do you know something we don’t?”

“Sudden cardiac arrest in a diabetic could be a natural death,” Zeus nodded. “It could also be the result of an intentional insulin overdose, which could mean suicide, or it could be foul play.”

“He didn’t commit suicide,” Samantha said.

“No way,” Charles agreed.

Zeus gave them a nod. “So given that he was a key player in a proceeding that is being threatened by every crazy wannabe terrorist and damn legitimate ones, I’d say an accidental death is unlikely. If you want a security company that looks at the world with rose-colored glasses, you’ve got the wrong one here.”

“No terrorist group has claimed responsibility,” Eric pointed out, rubbing his hand through his red hair, shaking his head, and reaching for the glass of water he had poured.

“Lose the clichés,” Zeus retorted. “Terrorists don’t always claim responsibility.”

“Maximov does,” Eric said. “Through the cells that operate on his behalf.”

“Maximov isn’t the only game in town,” Zeus retorted. “You’re in a position to know that. For now, we assume foul play. Black Raven also assumes the Colombian team was the target of a terrorist act. So right now, you’re in an unsecure environment, it’s a potential target, and threat level is high. No more debate. You’re leaving. Now. All possessions and work items will be at your next destination within the hour. Let me repeat: on security issues, this is not a democracy. If you choose not to leave immediately, I will consider that you have chosen to forego Black Raven protection and our employment contract, which each of you signed, will be void.” He glanced at Samantha. “Not an option for you.”

Eric stood, his cheeks flushed red. Instead of arguing, he gulped down the water, slammed the glass down hard enough to rattle the covered dishes on the table, and gave a headshake of frustration in Zeus’s direction.

“Put the vests on over your clothes by loosening the side straps and pulling it over your head,” Zeus instructed. “Adjust the shoulder straps so the bottom of the vest sits above your navel. We’re taking stairs, going through the kitchen, and exiting through service doors. We’ll direct which car you’re to go into as we exit.”

As she undid the Velcro side straps, Samantha glanced at each member of her team. Abe and Charles were complying. Eric stood still, his face red, his breathing rapid.
Dear God, is he going to continue to argue with Zeus?
She slipped the vest over her head and gave him a pointed look. “Eric?” she asked. “It’s a waste of time to argue.”
Zeus is immovable
. “I need you to comply.”

Her second chair attorney gave her a frantic, panicked glance as he clutched his throat with both hands. His knees buckled and foam spittle flew from his mouth. He gagged a harsh, rattling breath. Yellowish, foamy liquid gurgled out of his mouth.

Horrified, Sam started across the room to grab Eric before he crashed into the table.

“Ragno, Eric Moss collapsed. Fast-acting poison, I suspect. Call 112 and get our medics here ASAP.” Zeus’s commands came fast, but his tone was level and calm. “Alert marshals and ITT security. Lewis—stay with Eric. Communicate with our medics. Small—find that waiter. Sam—stop.”

An ironclad grip on her forearm jerked her to a halt as Eric fell half across the dinner table.

“Lambert. Axel. Get your clients out of here. Move!”

Food and plates jettisoned in the air. He hit the carpeted floor with a jarring thud as plates, food, and silverware landed around and on top of him. His face and neck flamed red and his eyes rolled back as he struggled for a gurgling breath, his hands on his neck.

Her mind registered Agent Lambert pulling Abe past her and Agent Axel pushing Charles through the doorway, but her gaze was focused on Eric. His feet flutter-kicked, as his body bent and contorted with the effort of trying to breathe. Zeus’s grip had tightened on her arm to the point of pain. He was turning her in the direction of the doorway. She struggled to break free from his grasp, slapping at his hand that had a death grip on her right bicep. Not loosening the grip, he stepped in front of her. His body became an impervious wall of solid flesh, blocking her vision of Eric.

Dark eyes held hers. “Walk out.”

“No.”

He placed a firm hand on her left shoulder, strong-arming her in a restrained push. If he had wanted to push her six feet into the hallway, he could have, with a fraction of his strength. “Go now.”

“I won’t leave him.”

He bent at the waist, crouched into a squat, gripped her wrist with his right hand, and slung her over his shoulders. As he stood, his left arm folded over her calves, pressing her legs against his chest and down his body. Her eyeglasses fell on the floor with a soft thud.

“Let. Me. Down.” His shoulder dug into her belly with each step he took. Her left hand was her only limb that was free. She punched him in the back, the action as effective as punching a steel wall. There was no sign he felt her hammer-fisted punches while her wrist screamed from the strain. Her effort didn’t slow his pace.

He went down the hallway and to the stairs. “Small and Lewis, keep talking. Teams for Small and Lewis. Sixth floor, now. Medic team?”

“Let me down,” Samantha said, landing a punch on Zeus’s spine as he opened the door to the stairwell. From what she could tell, he was impervious to her hit.

“Will you walk down the stairs without argument?”

“Yes.”

He slipped through the doorway without letting her down, and took the steps at a jog.

“I said yes, dammit,” she said, barely able to get the words out as his shoulder dug into her midsection with each of his downward steps.

“Don’t believe you.”

“I’m. Going. To. Vomit.”

“Go ahead.”

“Seriously.”

He paused at the next landing, pulled her off his shoulder, and stood her so that her feet touched the floor. He held her up, his hands under her shoulders. Without glasses or contacts, her vision blurred. The stairwell spun from the quick movement. Agents ran past them, on their way up. Black eyes looked into hers as she leaned against the wall for support. He was virtually leaning into her as he assessed her. He smelled of a fresh forest after a rain, of slightly aromatic soap, of musk. So goddamn much like the man of her dreams—if she admitted to herself that such a man or dreams existed—that she could feel herself melting just from breathing the air that surrounded him. “Stop crowding me.”

“Did you eat or drink anything from that table?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Feel okay?”

She nodded. Above them, a door opened and shut. The agents who were running to the upper floors had apparently made it there. “Eric?”

“Don’t know yet.” Dark eyes, devoid of optimism, studied her. He drew a deep breath. Quiet in the stairwell told her that for the moment, they were alone. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. The upside down jogging down the stairs got to me. Plus, I really need my glasses,” she said. “And that was totally unnecessary. You don’t need to manhandle me like that.”

“Glasses will catch up to you. Sam, look—”

“Samantha. Not Sam.”

He shrugged. “Sam to me. Let the rest of the world call you Samantha.” With a jerk of his chin, he gestured to the stairs that led down. “Keep going.” She pretended like climbing down the stairs without her glasses wasn’t problematic and got moving, despite her blurred vision. He fell in step next to her. “When I say leave a room, leave
the fucking room. Don’t let our past interfere—”

“Don’t mention our past, Hernandez. Not now. Not ever again.”

“I’m not playing that game. I’m giving fair notice–we will talk about it. I’d prefer sooner, rather than later. I will wear you down, if you insist on pretending it never happened—”

“Oh, it happened. There’s no pretending involved,” she said, careful to keep her voice calm. “It just doesn’t matter now. If it matters at all to you, just think about your wife and your child for perspective. Or,” she gave him a sideways glance as they reached another landing. By her count, they were on the second floor. Even with her pathetic, blurred vision, as he turned to her she saw his jaw was set and his cheeks slightly flushed, “However many children you might have by now.”

“Only one, and about my—”

“That wasn’t a question. I don’t want details.”

“Look, there’s some—”

She put her hand on his forearm, interrupting him as she shook her head. “I repeat. Not interested in details. Decisions were made. We’ve both moved on. There is nothing more to say. Our past is irrevocably behind us and irrelevant to today. We’re professionals. We both have jobs to do here, and my job today is way more important to me than what happened between us seven years ago. Since my life is your job, I certainly hope you’re taking yours seriously as well. Leave the past in the past. It can only amount to a minor distraction that neither of us needs. Don’t waste time on it.”

She turned and continued down the stairs, this time at a jog. No matter how fast she went, he kept up.

Damn him.

Chapter Four

Paris, France

Tuesday, February 1

“Get my granddaughter’s ass on a jet back to the States before sunrise. Persuade her to resign from the ITT proceedings and get her the hell away from there.” Samuel Dixon’s normally calm voice crackled through Zeus’s earpiece, concern and fear over the evening’s events elevating his decibel level to just below a yell.

Zeus glanced at his watch. 0120. Tuesday. Sunrise was a mere five hours away. Considering the enormous mobilization effort Black Raven pulled together in the last thirty-six hours, the idea that the job could end this abruptly was almost laughable.

He perfectly understood the man’s about-face.

The problem was that Dixon’s granddaughter had grown into an accomplished attorney, who was operating on an international stage while building a reputation for her future. Even seven years earlier, when she still faced a rigorous year of post-graduate school and hadn’t yet passed the bar exam, she had unflagging determination and absolute certainty of her capabilities. She hadn’t been a quitter then, and Zeus doubted she’d become one.

“Give me a few minutes.” Zeus jogged up the stairs to the third floor. “I’ll have her call you, and I’ll back you up on getting her to resign.”

The likelihood of Samuel’s demand being met before sunlight broke the horizon, or at any time, was pretty damn slim. Black Raven was in the security business. Miracles were someone else’s forte.

“Bring her home, Zeus. Make it happen,” Samuel continued. “I’ll pay Black Raven’s full fee, as though you did the job in its entirety, through the verdict reading in Brussels on March first. Understand?”

“Yes. Understood.” Zeus clicked a button on his watch that controlled phone reception, breaking the connection.

Resignation? Not going to happen.

While he had worked the job of body guarding her grandfather, before he acted on his feelings for her, he and Sam had shared many late nights in the office of Dixon’s home with their laptops open. She had studied. He had dealt with security issues for Dixon’s team and Black Raven management issues. They’d had hours and hours together and many quiet conversations, where he had learned that she, who came from immense wealth, planned to work as hard as he, who came from relatively humble beginnings. Her determination to navigate and excel in the arena of prestigious legal work based on her capabilities and hard work—as opposed to the leverage that came with her grandfather’s name—was one of the many things he had loved about her.

They’d shared their dreams and ambitions. Sam’s goals were to become partner at a prestigious firm, then become a federal judge, first on a district court, then in an appeals court. At the right time, she wanted to be considered for a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. Zeus had respected such lofty ambition and the willingness to work hard to meet her goals. Even years earlier, her goals in life didn’t include Malibu mansions, townhomes in New York, and long days of shopping with other high-society ladies, all of which she could have with the snap of her well-manicured fingers. If she had dreamed of having a family with a husband and children, that was one ambition she hadn’t voiced. At most, she talked about finding a hard-working man who understood her commitment to long hours of work, who would enjoy watching sunsets, and who would help her raise Golden Labs. Maybe, he now thought, the omission of wanting children or more of a family life should’ve sent up a red flag. It hadn’t, at the time, or afterwards.

Back then, he’d wanted her to succeed, and he was happy for her that she held such a powerful position today. Which was why he wasn’t looking forward to telling her she should resign from the prestigious position.

The idea is goddamn laughable.

Sam was unlikely to follow her grandfather’s orders. Zeus knew it and he guessed Samuel knew it as well. That’s why his tone had been near the far horizon of desperate.

As he reached the third floor hallway, two agents stepped to the side to allow him into the suite that he and Sam were sharing.

“Good to have you in the trenches, sir,” Jenkins said.

Hand on the doorknob, Zeus glanced at the younger man. Todd Jenkins. Two years with Black Raven. Solid. Dependable. Eager.

“Thanks.”

As Zeus turned the doorknob and shoved open the door, he heard John Miles, the second agent, say under his breath, “Impressive one of the bosses is pulling guard duty himself, right?”

There were no easy tasks in Black Raven. What the younger agents had no way of knowing was that being managing partner, especially in recent months with the uptick in terrorist attacks, had been one hell of a wild ride. Guard duty for Sam now, with what had happened between them in the past? A different kind of ride. Not one for which there’d be a long line among his agents, or any other man who’d made a mistake with a woman that haunted his nights and days.

Rewind? Redo? Try again?

Fuck.

He’d learned the hard way that some moments in time were etched in stone and were meant to be carried every day, every step, every moment, with every breath. Fortunately, God had given him oversized shoulders to carry the burdens that had been thrown his way.

He stepped into the living room that divided his and Sam’s bedrooms. His bedroom with its private bathroom was on one side, hers on the other. Both bedroom doors were shut. The living room, a beige and impersonal space, smelled of jasmine and rose—the fragrance in her soaps, lotions, and perfumes. His pulse quickened. Dammit.

Embrace the suck.

Hell, enjoy this suck because—he inhaled deeply—she’s here. A hell of a lot closer than she had been for seven years and now, instead of dreaming remotely about what being with her had once been like, he could at least lay eyes on her in person. Through her closed bedroom door, the whir of a blow dryer confirmed his guess that she wouldn’t have fallen asleep so fast after the bad news that Eric Moss had died, which had come as they’d arrived at the safe house.

They were in the Sixth Arrondissement, in a large three-story residence on the Avenue Saint Lorraine. Black Raven had used the home before as a safe house. View? Irrelevant. Floor to ceiling drapes would remain closed for the duration of their stay in Paris. The living room, with soft light and neutral tones, was designed for work and relaxation. There was a desk, a comfortable couch and chairs, a television, a small dining table, and a wet bar. Strategically placed lamps cast pools of warm light on polished wood and soft furnishings.

He carried his iPad, a new phone for Sam, and a first aid kit. The kit and its contents would only be necessary if she decided to stay on the job.

Black Raven had stripped the Amicus team, Sam included, of their telecommunication devices. At least he had tried to take Sam’s phones. She’d given him one personal one and her business phone. He needed to have a conversation with her about the phone she hadn’t relinquished.

He’d now give her the new phone, which she’d use for personal and business calls. The phone was not smart, in the conventional sense of the word, but genius, in the Black Raven sense, designed for monitoring incoming and outgoing communications and scanning communications for interference. It was tailored to keep her, and her team, secure.

He turned on the TV to see what the media was feeding the public. News shows were focused on the scene at Café Cliquot, where yellow tape kept the public out and red and blue lights lit the night. As he punched passwords into his iPad, his ears stayed tuned to the muffled whir of the hair dryer. He’d give her a few more minutes.

Ragno’s team had re-routed the phone numbers that Sam used for business and personal phone calls through Denver headquarters, and he now had a list of callers for her. In addition to her father, others also had gotten the news of the Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing. The media immediately connected the dots between the ITT’s Colombian team of prosecutors and the bombing. Those in the know had received news of Eric’s poisoning, though that info hadn’t hit media outlets. Yet.

With prior knowledge coupled with the constant intel received in the last twenty-four hours, he recognized many of the names of callers on the list. Chief U.S. Judge Theodore O’Connor—the most powerful voice on the ITT’s panel of judges. Defense Counsel Robert Brier—a forceful advocate and formidable presence in every proceeding he appeared. A few lawyers from the firm of Morgan & Associates.

Also, on the phone Samantha pretended didn’t exist, the one that she hadn’t turned over to him, he knew she’d received calls from Senator Justin McDougall—her boyfriend. Soon to be fiancé, if media speculation was accurate.

McDougall was a blue-eyed, tall, first-term U.S. senator from Massachusetts. He was one of three brothers, part of an American dynasty that was built upon oil. Each brother routinely made headlines, always with a photograph. They were that good looking. Justin’s twin, Jared McDougall, was a star NFL quarterback. The older of the three brothers ran the oil company with their father and starred in the oil company’s feel-good television commercials, wearing a hard hat, a million-dollar smile, and shaking hands with brawny roughneck oilfield workers as he persuaded the American public that McDougall Oil was the next best thing to God and country.

Given the considerable wealth and business holdings of the McDougalls, and Sam’s vast wealth as her grandfather’s only heir, high society gossips and people in the know painted their likely engagement as a pending power merger, not a marriage.

He didn’t blame Sam for holding a grudge against him, but Zeus admitted that Senator McDougall was an impediment to Sam being receptive to him. To an apology or any attempt by him to make amends for what he’d done to her. To anything. Which reinforced exactly what she’d told him in the stairwell—maybe their past really was irrelevant to today.

Beautiful. Fucking beautiful. I’ve spent seven years thinking of her, while she forgot me the moment the door shut.

The list of Sam’s callers was growing. It was time for her to have a phone, otherwise he’d end up being her goddamn personal secretary. The blow dryer was still going full steam, though, so Zeus sat on the couch, placed the first aid kit on the coffee table, and put his feet up beside it. He’d give her a few more minutes of privacy to pull herself together. Sam didn’t like anyone knowing she was vulnerable. Eric Moss’s dramatic death had clearly shaken her to the core, and if Zeus hadn’t slung her over his shoulder and gotten her out of the room, it would have been worse for her.

Cyanide.

Holy fucking hell.

Right now he could be struggling to deal with Sam’s death. It had been that fast, and that goddamn easy for someone to get to her team.

Everything on the room service cart had been contaminated with lethal doses of poison. At least Eric’s death hadn’t been bloody. If there had been blood involved, Sam would have been out for the count. Tough as she was, the sight of blood was her Achilles’ heel.

When he’d received confirmation of Moss’s death, he’d relayed the news to Sam and her team. They’d been on the first floor of the safe house, having an orientation to the reality of Black Raven-style protective detail. For a second, on hearing the grim news, Sam’s crystal-clear green eyes had shown unfiltered fear and grief. If they’d been alone, he doubted he’d have cared one goddamn bit about the steels walls that past decisions and time had erected around them. Consoling her would have come naturally and he fucking-well touched people when he consoled them.

Fortunately, she didn’t need or want his consolation. Didn’t need him for a thing that mattered, which had been–and always would be–their reality. She’d composed herself fast, turned away from him and to Abe and Charles, and comforted them with a hand on their arms and gentle words. She had braced herself for a phone call to Eric’s wife. Zeus handed her his phone for the call, stepped discreetly away, yet listened as she handled the difficult task with compassion, grace, and dry-eyed dignity.

By twelve forty-five, she’d retreated to her own room. She hadn’t looked like she was about to break down as she climbed up the stairs. He’d left her at the doorway of her bedroom. He’d asked her whether she was okay, and her one-word reply had been, “Fine.”

On the emotional side of things, she was a mirror image of him. It was damn plain unsettling to watch her in action.

“Ragno?” he asked as he scanned secure intel on his iPad. The Boulevard Saint-Germain bomber had blown up with the bomb. Shrapnel had flown for a city block. Bomb mechanism disintegrated. Eighteen confirmed deaths. Many others injured.

“Yes?” Her crisp, steady voice in his ear greeted him.

As long as Zeus worked the Dixon-ITT job, Ragno was his. She and the team of Denver-based analysts working on security for the Amicus team would operate in real time with him. Their time zone would be the time zone where he and the team were located. They would process and analyze a steady stream of information deemed necessary to keep Sam and the Amicus team safe. They’d discard the clutter, organize the need-to-know data, and pass it to Zeus. “Can’t fucking believe we started this job by losing one.”

“If you hadn’t followed your hunch and gotten there earlier than planned, you’d have lost four,” Ragno answered. “One went down, but you saved three.”

Two minutes later and they’d all have been dead. Ragno was right. He pushed his frustration aside, parking it far away. Personal frustration would only get in the way. “Tomorrow’s proceedings are still a go?”