Authors: Camille Taylor
I’m safe. For now.
Ten minutes later Carey was pulling onto Dolley Madison Boulevard, headed for the nondescript grey building housing the CIA Virginia Headquarters.
After explaining it was personal business twice, first with the receptionist then with her supervisor, and after having her identity verified, she found herself in Elena’s office. She examined the room. The desk was neat and tidy and situated in front of the large window overlooking the lush green lawn. On top of the dark wood desk was a photo of a man with blond hair. Two plants stood behind the desk beside the filing cabinets adding life to the somewhat drab government office.
Elena had done well for herself. Carey shifted on her feet, feeling a blister developing and longed to remove the ballet flat. Her fingers picked at the hem of her shirt where a thread had come undone. She nervously tucked her hair behind her ears and two seconds later repeated the action, never once seeing the futility of the exercise since her hair was already pulled back behind her ear and secured.
Her stomach growled, reminding her it had been some time since she had last eaten. As she stood there, she thought of Moscow. The office had been the same, but a different photo sat on the desk, the temperature low and chilly. She’d been a wreck then, just as she was now. Innocent, determined to do the right thing, a young woman of twenty-four, alone in a foreign country. Her husband had been unreachable in another part of Russia at the time she’d made the discovery.
The artifacts inside the Kremlin Armory had been forgeries. She had never been surer of anything in her entire life. She may have only been fresh out of college but she’d always had a good eye. At the time, she hadn’t understood the implications of what she doing when she walked out of the Yasenevo office of SVR. She had never realized how it would affect her life and the lives of those around her. But it had and she had learned a life lesson the hard way and at a great cost.
Being American hadn’t helped, because no one wanted to listen to her. She had mentioned such to a confidant at the Kremlin and he had pointed her to Elena, whose last name had been Nagregor at the time. The door to Elena’s office had opened and a woman with light brown hair and grey eyes had introduced herself. She had been genuinely interested in what she’d had to say and Carey had left feeling better about the whole thing. Until a week later when she assumed a leak within SVR had informed the Russian Mafiya of her report.
She’d had no idea that Alan had been threatened into passing off the forgeries as real and he had been tortured and murdered before her eyes. The two goons sent by Iosif Simonov—Moscow’s Solntsevskaya neighborhood Bratva’s
highest mob leader—had never known she was there. The Bratva—the brotherhood—had a notorious reputation, dabbling in almost every illegal act from arms trafficking and child pornography to larceny, murder, prostitution, and everything in between.
Alan had been mad at her when she’d told him she’d met with Elena. He had explained briefly that his
and
her lives had been threatened if he didn’t comply. She had felt horrible the moment he’d told her that. They didn’t have much time before the Bratva came knocking. She nearly wept as she recalled how Alan had pushed her into a nearby storage cupboard just seconds before the two bulky enforcers entered their apartment.
Alan had to endure hours of torture, crying out in pain while she could do nothing but watch through the slits in the vents of the storage cupboard as the men carried out unspeakable acts. She’d had to bite her hand from making any sounds.
She had grown up a lot that night. She knew just as well as Alan did what they might do to her should they find her. That was the first time in her life that she had truly been afraid. Never before had she ever thought that her life would be prematurely ended and the reality had hit her hard.
Finally the two men had tired of torturing Alan and ended his life. Tears had silently rolled down her face as they’d left and she’d found herself still sitting in the cupboard unable to move for hours. She was found later when a colleague showed up and discovered the body and called the police.
Shuddering at the memory, she focused on her current predicament. Once she spoke with Elena she could get things straightened out in her head.
The door to Elena’s office opened and a tall good-looking man with dark hair, grey eyes and Slavic cheekbones stood in the doorway, dressed in a grey suit and red tie. While neither were particularly expensive, she could see the careful cut of the fabric by a tailor, accentuating the man’s narrow hips and hard, well-toned body. While she hadn’t thought about men much over the past few years, she could still appreciate the deliciousness of the opposite sex. Even through the panic muddling her brain, she could feel her body reacting to him. Her gaze assessed the attraction she felt before her brain had even caught up.
The man gave her a once over, taking in her jeans and rumpled shirt in what she thought for a second was approvingly. While Mikhail’s gaze had sickened her, this man’s expression warmed her body until she almost felt on fire. She shifted on her feet, uncomfortable being the bug under the microscope. She’d never been comfortable with male attention. Marrying Alan at a young age had tamed her quickly. After Alan, she had been in her own bubble and wouldn’t have known if a race of aliens had landed, but being under this man’s gaze was wreaking havoc on her already out of control body. Desire was curling low in her belly leaving her slightly breathless.
“You’re looking for Elena Gates?” he asked, his voice thick with a Russian accent. His eyes narrowed slightly as her body stiffened. The motion was minuscule, but he’d noticed the change in her demeanor immediately.
She nibbled on her bottom lip.
Another Russian.
Just how many immigrants were there in Virginia?
Her heart rate and blood pressure shot up into the stratosphere and this time not from sexual attraction. She felt at odds with herself, strongly attracted and fearful at the same time. She watched him like she expected him to pounce on her at any moment. Would the Bratva dare show their hand like that? To kill or extract her from CIA Headquarters? She doubted if much fazed the brotherhood and certainly wouldn’t put it past them. Of the members she had met, none seemed particularly interested in political agendas or having the cops show up at their door. In fact, it was more of an inconvenience to them than anything else. They preferred to fly beneath the radar. But that didn’t mean all that couldn’t change with the right set of circumstances.
Surveying the room, she desperately looked for an escape route. There was no other exit. She wasn’t about to go quietly if he decided to take her. How had they found her? Did they have people on the inside so that when she’d signed in they could immediately send in their man? Of course they had men inside the CIA. He was standing right before her. What if Mikhail had done a background search on her and discovered her link to Elena Gates? Had she put Elena into danger?
Her body had been through the wringer in the past five minutes and all because of this man. The look he had given her was certainly appreciative, and she had experienced something like a hot-flash only to be replaced with frost bite, her core temperature moving alternatively from hot to cold, and back to hot. He had seemed polite enough but maybe he was hoping to gain her trust before he made his move. Whatever his intentions, she had no desire to share her troubles with him.
The Russian community was close knit, even if this man didn’t work for the Bratva, someone he knew probably did and she couldn’t risk Mikhail knowing she knew Russian and had heard every word he’d said and understood it.
“Y-yes,” she said. “Where is she?”
Please don’t tell me she’s dead
, she thought as she fought to keep her sob contained.
***
Dmitry watched as the woman’s hands trembled before she shoved them in her jeans pockets, her gaze darting around the room before settling back on him. Her blue-green eyes were wide, watching him so closely that, had she not reminded him of a cornered animal, he would’ve been flattered. But at that moment, one good hiccup would probably cause her heart failure.
He moved forward into the room. She stepped back, away from him. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she was clearly tired and under a great deal of strain.
Her creamy skin was pale and while she looked like she came from Irish stock, the paleness worried him and imagined it was from whatever stress she was under. She was wearing flats so he could see she wasn’t overly tall but wasn’t short either. Her shirt was molded to her body like a second skin, detailing every curve and dip, the hem reaching past the band of her jeans, covering the zipper and button from view, and while he couldn’t see her ass from where he was standing he imagined it was well cradled within the deep blue denim.
Her red hair was a mass of riotous curls and hung haphazardly from her ponytail to fall gently over her shoulders ending at the top of her high, firm breasts. He made himself look back at her face before he made a fool of himself. He could already feel the effects of the woman’s presence on his body and chided himself. Now wasn’t the time or place for such imaginings. Besides, he shouldn’t be thinking of a woman especially one whom he didn’t even know. It just seemed wrong somehow. He made himself think about the matter at hand and answered her question.
“I’m afraid she’s unavailable at the moment, but maybe I can help?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he felt a chill in the air. “You’re Russian?”
He nodded, wondering where this was going. He hated stereotypes and was amazed at how many people coolly regarded him after learning his nationality. The Cold War was long over and the Russian Federation was now a friend of the United States—or at least as friendly as the two nations could be—but some grudges were hard to let go.
“Yes I am,” he said. She seemed to shudder at the tone of his voice.
“Then no, you can’t help me. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.”
She was polite enough, but he knew his nationality was the deciding factor in her decision. He wondered if she knew that Elena Gates, despite her Anglo surname, had been born and raised in Moscow. His gaze followed her as she moved towards him slowly and carefully, watching him like a rattle snake, expecting him to attack. He stepped aside so she could pass through the doorway. He noticed she kept one eye on him as she moved through the doorway, keeping as far away from him as possible, avoiding the slightest possible touch.
“If you change your mind, you can find me here,” he called out as she hurried down the hall. He was right; the jeans fit very well to her rear-end.
Carey returned home, having bought dinner at the local fast food drive-through. She was no longer hungry, her time at the CIA robbing her of the little appetite she had, but she knew she had to eat. She’d been running on empty all day and if she had to run, she needed something to keep her going. She was constantly surveying her surroundings, looking for the slightest tail or unknown person lurking about. She had been relieved to find Mikhail’s thugs had not returned to case her apartment and wait for her to come home.
She was jumpy, every noise startling her. She was scared, feeling useless and vulnerable, and she hated being so nervous.
Damn you, Brian, for bringing the mafiya back into my life
.
For years she’d been free of them. Had finally gotten her life back on track and now it was about to go down the drain again, only this time she didn’t think she would survive it. She was sick of crying, sick of worrying every second of the day that someone would jump out at her and drag her away. She knew her body couldn’t take much more until she completely cracked. Something had to be done soon, only she didn’t know what.
Taking a bite of her burger, she chewed, the knots in her stomach making it hard for her to swallow and keep it down. She washed it down with Coke, the caffeine probably not a wise choice. She was alone and hadn’t bothered turning on the television like she normally did. She wanted to hear anyone approaching her door so not to be caught off guard. For the first time in five years, she felt every bit the loneliness. There was no one she could share her worries with. No one to hug or comfort her. She missed that feeling the most…strong male arms wrapped around her, holding her tight against a hard, broad chest.
She had been young when she’d married Alan, barely had any time to find herself. She had gone from sharing her parents’ lives to co-signing a life with a husband. Even after Alan’s death she had never sat down and tried to find who she was.
Now isn’t the time either
.
She’d been content to remain the person she had become and forget the past, but it always caught up to her. She was tired, and it seemed like ages ago since she’d last awoken so full of energy, yet it had only been twelve hours ago—only this morning. Her muscles ached and if she’d dared to, she would’ve enjoyed a long hot bath. But in case the mafiya turned up, she didn’t want to be caught by surprise.
She swallowed the last bite of her tasteless burger and stood, for the first time noticing the small white rectangle resting on her hardwood floor by the door. She must’ve missed it when she’d come in. She bent over and picked it up, flipped it over, and heaved a resigned sigh as she read the name Detective Robert Harrington on the card.
Why was she not surprised? He was a persistent man, a trait she would have admired had he not seemed determined to pin the murder on her. The detective hadn’t stopped calling all day, leaving half a dozen voicemails that she’d ignored. She hadn’t bothered calling him back, knowing it would only do more harm than good. Sooner or later she would say something that would cast more suspicion on her and without any evidence, even she was inclined to disbelieve her story.
On her way to her bedroom, she dropped the card on her night table, and pulled out her knockoff Gucci tote bag. She had been raised in a frugal household, learning the value of a dollar at a young age, but that didn’t stop her from admiring pretty things. Even now, when she could easily afford such an item, she couldn’t see the point of buying a label when a knockoff looked just as good.
It was small. She usually used it for her laptop, but now she needed something light and maneuverable. Opening her bureau, she pulled out some clothes, deciding on how well the colors would blend into the throng of people moving around D.C., and then she had to check the durability and flexibility of the styles and pattern. If she was going to have to run, she wanted to be prepared. If her next stop was Timbuktu, then so be it. She packed her underwear and a few toiletries, her passport and museum I.D., along with the cash she had saved up for a rainy day.
Wrapping her arms around her body, she tried to drive away the constant cold. There was no worse feeling in the world than being vulnerable. Even in her own home, she was well aware just how unreliable the locks and wood were that were supposed to protect her. If someone wanted in, they would get in. All that stood between them and her was a little time and effort.
She wished she’d bought a gun, anything, even pepper spray, but she’d always believed that having those items was like supplying your attacker with arsenal. It was too easy for them to deprive you of them and use them against you. Her eyes closed slowly, feeling much too heavy.
That night, she went to sleep with one question on her mind that had been nagging her all day.
What have you gotten me into, Brian?