So much for a heavy sleep.
Not that he would have gotten a lot of sleep with the creaking mattress in the other room. The paper-thin walls gave away each time Sasha rolled over, each time she twisted, each tiny little whisper of a murmur that slipped off her lips.
Still, he liked to believe he could tune her out for a couple hours. Long enough to recharge his depleted batteries.
Grigoriy opened the bathroom door and came out, dangling Sasha’s bag of clothing on his index finger, her loaner pair of sneakers in his opposite hand. “Where should I put these?”
Alexei gestured at the partially closed bedroom door. Trying his damndest to get comfortable, he rolled onto his side and shoved his feet through the opening between the arm and seat. Ahh. His boots might be dangling in midair, but this was better.
“You grabbing some shut-eye?” Grigoriy asked as he returned from setting Sasha’s belongings inside the bedroom door.
“Yeah. Trying.” Alexei yawned. Maybe he was more tired than he’d thought.
“Okay. I’ll crash this afternoon. I think I’m going to go look around, see what time the trains run north.” He inclined his head toward Sasha. “She wear you out, old man?”
Alexei grunted.
Old man.
He might have five years on Grigoriy, but he’d wager his soul he’d been with more women than Grigoriy would in the next five.
“Aren’t you dragging ass?” Alexei squinted at his partner.
“Nah. I drank the whole coffeepot.” Grigoriy’s smirk deepened into a youthful grin. “I’m good to go all day.
Maybe he
was
getting old. Alexei couldn’t remember the last time one pot of coffee could get him through a whole day. Twelve hours maybe. Twenty-four? Hardly. He shut his eyes, tuning out his younger partner. More and more he began to really consider retirement. He loved the job…
No. He’d loved the job
at one time.
Legitimate crime that came with the Black Opals had been an acceptable alternative to the three years he spent on San Francisco’s street doing shit that made his fellow criminals shudder. Now he’d done too much, seen too much, lied one too many times. The job had become part of him, not something he could wear at will.
Like all the other things he couldn’t dispose of, he accepted what he couldn’t change.
The front door closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the sounds of Sasha in fitful slumber. He tossed an arm over his eyes to block her out physically, but her voice drifted to his ears.
I’ve missed you.
A strange warmth churned through his gut. He wished it were true. The lie had been pretty. Exactly what he needed to hear in some deep, untapped portion of his soul. But it was nothing more. She couldn’t miss a man who had doomed her to slavery.
He still couldn’t grasp why she didn’t hate him, and the only answer she’d given made him want to hate her. His face. It shouldn’t surprise him. His face had haunted him all his life. Too pretty to ever be taken seriously in sports, pretty enough to be branded as a fag, it
had made him an outcast as a kid. Then, when life had mattered most, it became his curse. While girls his age shied away, older women paid dearly for it.
To the point Alexei could no longer stomach looking at his reflection. He no longer saw anything but sin and the lives he’d taken in the name of the Black Opals.
Sasha…Damn it all, in a secret place he rarely acknowledged, he had wanted Sasha to be different. But now her lack of hatred, her over-willingness to spread her legs, made sense. And it sickened Alexei more that he couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t stop the thoughts of fucking her until he burned out the need, no matter how he tried.
I
saak waited on the line, listening to the tones, muttering beneath his breath. Time was precious, and his collaborator was wasting valuable minutes. The man seemed to think Isaak had nothing better to do.
Thick, guttural Russian barked into the phone. “You are interrupting my supper. What do you want, Isaak?”
Despite the years that had passed since he’d spoken directly to Symon, Isaak’s assumed name sounded as comforting as a lullaby. He shook his head with a placating smile. “Now, now, Symon, I don’t believe that tone is deserved when I hold your fate in my hands.” He moved across his apartment to the window and looked down at the busy street. Buses, cars, and motorcycles sped past on the thoroughfare below, everyone oblivious to the threat that was buried right beneath their precious road. In a handful of days, they’d wonder what they had done to deserve such an agonizing death.
A pity Sasha wouldn’t suffer the same. “What is the status, Symon?”
“I told you I would handle the matter.” A warning edge crept into Symon’s voice, reminding Isaak he was no mere pawn Isaak could move at will.
“And I have trusted your ability to do so. I simply wish to know what your next move is.” Isaak yanked the lightweight curtains closed
and dropped into a black leather armchair. He ran his hand down the finely tanned, supple hide. “Our bargain was clear. You take care of Sasha. I carve a path for your men. I have done my duty. I will go no further until I hold proof of her death.”
“Do not threaten me, Isaak. I assure you, you will regret it.” The sound of chair legs scraping against wood drifted through the line. “I do not
require
your aid. It merely makes my job easier.”
True. Isaak needed to play his cards carefully. Symon had no use for Sasha. He could easily wash his hands of the matter and fail to uphold his end of the arrangement. If that happened, Isaak would have to return to square one and begin his hunt again. Not easy when she was entrusted to the care of the Black Opals.
He drummed his knuckles on the chair’s smooth arm. “I could make it very difficult for you, Symon. But let’s not reduce ourselves to this petty level of conversation. Please tell me your plan so I know when to honor the rest of my portion of our agreement.”
Several long moments of silence drifted through the phone. Isaak understood his hesitation—reveal too much, and operations become compromised. He also knew, however, if left to choose his own disclosures, Symon would say enough to satisfy Isaak’s need for a modicum of proof.
Symon sighed. “Very well. She is in Italy—”
Patience wearing thin, Isaak snapped, “I know where she is. What do you intend to
do
?”
“Kill her. As you requested.” The answer was clear…and said as if Symon spoke to a simpleton.
Isaak shot forward in his seat, his temper boiling over. He’d been hunting Sasha for years. Now that he had her, he wasn’t about to let Symon destroy his hard work. “I am not the imbecile you seem to think I am, nor will I be treated as such. I haven’t gone to the trouble to lure her out of Dubai to have you ruin my retribution. I am fully informed on her position. We have an
agreement,
Symon. I have upheld my portion of it. I expect you to uphold yours.”
“Do calm down, Isaak. This is not the first go-round for either one of us. As I was saying, my men are in position. They have tracked her from her initial departure. An Arab pursues her as well.”
That gave Isaak pause. He hadn’t anticipated anyone would present a difficulty. It was a simple task really—convince the Americans to bring her home with tales of grief and despondency, experience the reunion, and then exact justice.
“Who follows her?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. It is not my business to know. She will be dead before he can intervene. This is all that concerns me.”
Isaak ground his teeth together. On a simple level, Symon was right. He didn’t have the power or the connections to dig into who else might be tailing Sasha. And frankly, Isaak had to agree he didn’t care, so long as Symon’s men put a bullet in her traitorous heart. Still, the inability to control the plan he had enacted made him want to snarl.
“And what of your end of the bargain, Isaak? Where do we stand on this? May I move forward with the implantation?”
He thought the matter over, quickly tracing through the men he had placed, the diversions he had created to keep abnormal behaviors from being noticed. The stories had been told, the false restoration team put in place within the bowels of Central Hall Westminster. Slowly, Isaak nodded. “Yes. Yes, you may. Access is available through the southwest cargo door. I have stationed a man in receiving. If you inform him your delivery is for Isaak, you will be ushered to the underbelly.”
“Ah, this news warms my heart.” The hard edge vanished from Symon’s voice, replaced by a cordial friendliness, as if they had been lifelong comrades, not one-time accomplices reunited for mutual self-means. “One step closer,
moy droog.
”
Friends they would never be. Isaak disconnected from the call and laid his cell phone in his lap. His gaze moved to the thick brown curtains that veiled the mid-afternoon sunlight. Outside, a horn blared.
He was reminded once again of the lives that would be lost to this
venture. A tiny, nearly insignificant part of him almost sympathized. But their fate was not his concern. They were a small sacrifice compared to the wrongs Sasha had committed.
You will pay the price, my dear. You cannot run forever.
A father understood, no matter how difficult for him, that sometimes punishing a child was necessary. That sometimes he must let go and allow the child to learn from mistakes. She would learn the hard way.
Tough love,
he thought with a wry smile.
A
lexei jolted out of sleep, his hand automatically going to his side for his gun. He jerked upright, Sig half out of its holster. His sharp eyes found Grigoriy in the dim light of an outside streetlamp, two feet away, retracting his hand from Alexei’s shoulder. Alexei pulled in a deep breath. Damn. He’d been
out.
The last thing he remembered was morning sunlight filling the room.
Grigoriy motioned for Alexei to stay silent and backed into the deeper shadows against the wall. Alexei tracked his movements, his sixth senses immediately on alert. Something was wrong. Out of place. The air hung heavy with danger, a thickness he recognized in a heartbeat. He looked to Grigoriy, expectant and waiting. His gaze fell to the pistol Grigoriy held at his hip.
But his partner didn’t look at him. Didn’t offer a single whisper or signal except to shift his gaze to Sasha’s door then back to the mini kitchen.
Alexei followed the path of Grigoriy’s stare, and his pulse ratcheted up three notches. A tiny red light moved across the kitchen cabinets. Against the pale wood, the hulking shadow of a tree moved, and the light jerked to the motion.
Sights.
Shit.
Infinitesimally, he moved his head to glance out the window behind him. But the thin sheers blocked any ability to follow the laser light. He couldn’t stand up without drawing immediate fire, nor could he sit. Son of a bitch—who the hell was out there?
Why
was the bigger question, although he didn’t have to look much further than the answer still sleeping behind the closed bedroom door. They’d been followed, and she was the only obvious reason.
Fucking Kadir.
Alexei choked down the betrayal and rolled carefully off the couch, onto the floor. He lay flat on his belly, his stare riveted on the unmoving red dot. They were waiting. Watching for someone to traipse through the room in the middle of the night. That or—
His thoughts came to an immediate halt as a muffled voice filtered through the glass from the ground below. Not waiting. The gun was cover. Oh, holy shit, he did
not
need this tonight.
He glanced at Grigoriy, who gave him a nod, signaling he too heard the approaching intruder. Alexei inched himself forward, crawling on knees and elbows to the wall in the gunman’s blind spot. There, he eased to his feet and withdrew his gun. “You make anything out?” he whispered.
Grigoriy shook his head. “Heard a car door.”
“Any idea how many?”
As another voice rumbled outside, closer now, Grigoriy held up three fingers. Kadir, the bastard, would pay. Alexei would see to it personally if he got out of here alive. He was the only person who could have known about this safe house, and Alexei had been positive they hadn’t been followed.
Yet the carelessness going on outside didn’t match Black Opal tactics. Kadir, and the men he hired, would be flawless.
“This one, 117.”
The thick Arabic voice announcing Alexei’s flat number erased his momentary doubt. His gaze locked with Grigoriy’s, and he found the same pissed off recognition there. There was only one other way out of here. Alexei hoped like hell Kadir hadn’t informed his buffoons it existed.
Jerking his head toward Sasha’s room, Alexei worked his way down the wall, inching toward the door, back flat against the peeling paper.
Grigoriy followed at his shoulder. Using one flattened palm, Alexei pushed on her door. When it opened onto dark stillness and the soft fall of Sasha’s breathing, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. At least she wasn’t awake. He’d half expected her to come darting out of the room…walking straight into that laser sight.
Though more likely, the bullets were meant for them, not her.
He ducked through the doorframe into the deep shadows, bending to pick up her sandals in the same fluid motion. From the corner of his eye, he caught Grigoriy give a forceful shake of his head and peered at his partner in confusion.
Grigoriy gestured at the sneakers Kadir’s maid had given Sasha. Next to the shoes, the shopping bag drooped on one side, revealing something folded and red.
He’d take the shoes, but the clothes she’d have to do without.
As Grigoriy moved to the closet, Alexei holstered his gun, snatched the sneakers up, and hurried to the bed. He didn’t waste time with trying to wake her. Instead, he slipped his arms beneath her supple body and hefted her off the mattress. Her eyes flew open. Her lips parted.
“Not now,” he whispered.
Confusion settled into her delicate brow, but as if she sensed the urgency, she relaxed against him and tucked one arm around his waist. In the heavy silence, Alexei heard the front door rattle.