Risk of Exposure (Alpha Ops Book 6) (2 page)

She was just north of the “Russian-backed fighters” and the Ukrainians, who were having sporadic firefights in the towns and countryside. Thing was—no one knew if the fighters were really “Russian-backed” or if they were part of Russia’s legitimate army. If it was the latter and Abby could get proof, then the might of NATO’s combined armies would converge to get Ukraine’s back. It was probably the most important job she’d ever been given and she was going to effing ace it. Even if her hosts were less than impressed that she was there.

She switched off the water and stood staring at the shower wall for a second. For these six months, she’d only had contact with her landlord, Tanoff, and his disapproving wife, Brigda. Well, and the kids in the orphanage, but that didn’t really count since she was somewhat rusty on the hybrid Ukrainian/Russian that they spoke in the area.

Six long months on her own. She wanted to talk to someone. Just to see if she could smile still. If those muscles even worked. She wanted to touch someone. Even if it was an accidental brush of fingers.

As she dried her hair, she practiced smiling in the mirror. It was pitiful. Fake, and not to put too fine a point on it, it looked as if it pained her to smile.

Once, she’d worked from the US embassy in Moscow. She’d arrived in winter and the first thing she’d noticed was that no one smiled. Not in the street, not in the stores, not even in the embassy. It was as if an air of suppression rested on everyone in the country. An arctic freeze, she supposed. Only vodka brought smiles. And that was only if it was the good stuff. And those smiles only lasted until the bottle became empty. It was the same here. She blamed the proximity to the Russian border.

Maybe she’d go out tomorrow night. To that bar a few streets away that she passed on her way to the orphanage. She’d double-check the street name on her way to work tomorrow. Even if she only spoke to the bartender, it would be one more person on her scant list of contacts that she was supposed to fill out daily. She hated to think just how boring the analysts at Langley must think her. Or maybe she’d go to the restaurant she’d been to a couple of times when she’d had no food in the house. Whatever she did, she needed to socialize with someone. Anyone.

She suspected that her clumsiness, her off-center feeling, wasn’t coming from Russia but from her complete isolation.

Maybe she could pick a fight at the bar. If she had to punch someone to get skin-on-skin contact, she’d take that too. Fighting might be the closest contact she’d have had with another human being since— Crap, how long had it been? Maybe three years?

And that was nothing to sniff at.

M
al awoke to the familiar sound of a jackhammer outside his window. There were no noise ordinances in this town, and he’d basically started to use the noise as a morning alarm. Sometimes they started at six; sometimes it was closer to nine. He suspected it was down to the amount of vodka consumed the night before, and once or twice he’d considered dropping off a crate of booze for them when he needed a lie-in.

Abigail Baston didn’t usually leave until eight, so he still had—he looked at his cell phone—half an hour before he had to be in his car. A combat shower and a cup of instant coffee with hot tap water only set him back five minutes, so he stretched and thought about the previous night. He visualized her with the red stains on her shirt and tried to organize his initial gut reaction into something solid. What had changed?

He didn’t think it was the guy she worked with at the orphanage—he was married to a terrifyingly stern-looking woman. No one in his right mind would mess with her. And Abby hadn’t crossed paths with anyone else in the three weeks he’d been there.

Stretching on the thin mattress he’d bought and thrown on the floor when he rented the apartment, Mal went over her last day again. Nope. There had been nothing.

He closed his eyes and went through her routine again. So ordinary. So boring. Was it planned that way? Was she deliberately being routine-driven so as to lull anyone watching into a stupor? He sighed. If so, it had definitely worked. His mind shifted to her dancing around her apartment wafting smoke away with her blouse and skirt. He smiled. It was a different side to her, an appealing side.

He heaved himself up, and as estimated, in ten minutes he was showered, dressed, and working on being caffeinated.

His job was surveillance, but that didn’t mean he was following her every minute of the day. He basically checked in with her, making sure she was approximately where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there. Although from time to time he did follow her on her three-mile run, to the store, and to the orphanage, mostly he just sat back making sure no one else was watching her.

Why did his boss think someone might be watching her? At first he thought it was a normal daddy paranoia—not having kids, or anyone that he felt close to, Mal had no frame of reference for that—but maybe it wasn’t? He shook his head at himself. He was going to meet with her and assess her that way. If nothing twanged his Spidey sense, then he was going to go hard with his campaign to get off this case. Or lack-of-case. But right now—it was back to following her.

In truth, most people could tell when they were being watched. Whether they consciously understood it or not, some little voice whispered unease to them. And that was definitely not his intention with Baston’s daughter. Uneasy people did stupid things, and he had no desire to push her into any trouble that he’d have to extricate her from.

He got in his 1986 maroon Škoda and made his way out of town, about one klick away from the orphanage, where he parallel parked outside a used car lot and sat there, watching for her own Škoda to pass.

It did, and Mal sighed. Half relief, half sadness that this woman was so predictable. He felt very sorry for her. But that wasn’t his problem. In fact, the more boring her life, the faster he could return to doing a proper job.

God, he hoped Baston didn’t keep him here indefinitely to look out for his daughter. If only she’d given him an opportunity to hit on her, this long wait to be reassigned would have been easy. And probably fun. Yup, even though she was Baston’s daughter, if he’d become her friend, maybe even kissed her, it would have lightened the job somewhat. As it was, it was probably going to be the death of him.

Fuck this. He’d been watching her for three weeks and had seen her smile exactly twice. Once through a zoom lens when one of the orphans broke out of the house to welcome her and once last night. He’d watched, squinting, as the little kid had run into her arms. She’d smiled, once, and that one smile had chipped a sliver of ice from his cold, black heart. Then last night. He’d seen her bra, goddammit. Fuck this all to hell. He was going to meet her, come hell or high water. Screw Baston. He wanted out of this crazy assignment.

It was going to happen today. He had eight hours to figure out how.

Abby played with Lana, the little three-year-old, brown-eyed girl, while World War III raged in the kitchen. Tanoff and Brigda were arguing
again
about harboring an American. Well, to be more precise, an American government employee. That’s as much as the CIA liaison had told them when he’d handed over enough cash to keep the orphanage, and the children, going for a few years.

Brigda wasn’t happy about the arrangement, wanted more money for the perceived danger or wanted Abby gone. Tanoff was pleading with her not to do anything stupid. Abby’s ears pricked up. She’d never told them that she understood their language. Enough people in this part of Ukraine spoke English. Right now she was happy she hadn’t let on. But if he was talking her out of doing something stupid, then they must have already discussed maybe turning her in to the authorities.

The couple’s older son was a member of the local police. More like a town sheriff. He was a good-looking young man whose eyes had lit up when he’d met the American aid worker who was volunteering at his parents’ orphanage. But she had no doubt he would arrest her if Brigda voiced any suspicions about her to him. The problem with that part of Ukraine was that you could never be sure about anyone’s allegiance. He could be a Russian sympathizer, wanting to reintegrate with the mother country, or he could be a fierce separatist. Either way, if Brigda broke the confidentiality clause in the contract, all their money would disappear, and the orphanage would effectively be shut down. Abby didn’t want that either.

She listened until the argument wore itself out. She had a hunch that Tanoff knew that Aide Internationale was a front for the CIA. Why else would he get paid for taking in a volunteer? But she also sensed that he didn’t mind.

She carefully put Lana into her high chair as the eleven other children came running in from different parts of the farmhouse.

“No, no, no. Wash your hands first,” she chided. She motioned hand washing and pointed to the sink in the corner of the room, and they all lined up, taking turns stepping on the upturned crate she’d placed there so they could reach the soap and faucet. One by one, they stepped down and held their hands out to Abby so she could dry their little fingers with a towel. Secretly she reveled in the feel of their tiny trusting hands in hers. Half of her wished she were only here to help at the orphanage, that she had no ulterior motive that kept her up at night. No reason for Brigda to be suspicious of her and no reason to fear being sent to prison for spying.

The children took their seats around the table, and she kissed the heads closest to her before she slipped into her North Face jacket. Tanoff barreled into the room with plates, shouting, “Who’s hungry?” with a broad smile across his face.

Hands went up and shouts of “Me!” filled the room along with loud giggles.

Tanoff caught her eye. “You should go. Have some fun in town.” His eyes twinkled as she rolled her eyes.

“Sure thing!” She buttoned her jacket and grabbed her backpack.

“Drive with safety,” he said, placing plates in front of the rowdy children.

“I always do,” she replied as she did every day. “See you tomorrow.”

He smiled and nodded, directing his attention to little Leonid, who was tugging at his sleeve.

She felt an unusual tingle in her spine as she started the engine in her wreck of a car. She looked into the dusk and saw nothing. No movement in the farm, other than the animals. Nothing in the fields. Maybe she was just slightly unnerved by the fight she’d overheard.

Five minutes into her short drive home, she passed another old beater Škoda with its hood up. She slowed down. It was pointing the opposite way, so it wasn’t like she could really offer him a ride. She was about to pass it, when she caught sight of the man, or more specifically, his jacket. It was bright red and emblazoned with
MEDCIN SANS FRONTIERS
. She pulled over. She wasn’t going to strand a fellow aid worker in the countryside at night.

“Ca va?”
she asked.

“Eh. I’ve been better,” he replied in a deep voice with a distinct English accent.

“And you’re not French,” she said, slamming her door and striding over to him.

“Not even a little bit.” He straightened and blew out a sigh as he held his hand out to her. “Malone Garrett. Thanks for stopping.”

She shook his hand and looked into the engine. “Anything I can help with?”

He cocked his head and looked down at her.

A jolt of awareness flashed through her as he met her eyes. He was all man. Firm jaw, really blue eyes, way over six feet, and built to match. His jean-clad legs were long and clearly muscled. She suddenly wanted to see what was under his jacket and shirt…Her long-dormant libido kick-started in her stomach, sending unwelcome messages through her body.
Jesus, girl. Get a grip
.

“Are you good with cars?” he asked, a hint of a smile behind his words.

I can hot-wire them, siphon fuel from them, disable them, make them explode, and change a fan belt, but aside from that, not really.

“I’m good at giving stranded motorists rides back into town,” she said, as if she was admitting she knew nothing about cars.

“In which case, I’d be grateful to take advantage of that skill, if you don’t mind,” he said, closing the hood. He got back into his car, turned off the headlights, and grabbed a messenger bag from the backseat.

She got back in her car and watched him in her rearview mirror. His accent did strange things to her. Maybe it was just speaking to someone who actually spoke English as a first language. Maybe it was something different. Holy hell. Did God send him because she’d been determined to meet someone? Or at least touch someone?

He opened the door and peered in. “Are you sure? I promise I’m not an ax murderer.” He smiled disarmingly, and for a second she considered that that was precisely what an ax murderer would say. She shrugged to herself. Anything to relieve the boredom of her life.

“Sure. Maybe you should be asking if I’m the ax murderer?”

A frown flickered across his face for a second and she laughed. “I’m not, I promise.”

He got in and put his seat belt on. “Isn’t that exactly what an ax murderer would say, though?”

She laughed again. “You’re the one who brought up ax murderers. Maybe I kill with a spork. Maybe you’re making me feel inferior with all your talk about axes.” She pulled onto the road and headed toward the flickering lights of the town about thirteen miles away.

“Then let’s drop the subject. Although, clearly, axes are superior in that line of business.”

She sniffed. “You haven’t seen what I can do with a spork.”

He laughed, a low belly laugh. “So perhaps I can take you out to dinner, to thank you for your assistance this evening. That way, I can see firsthand how proficient you are with cutlery.”

“Perhaps you can.” She bit her lip from jumping on the offer but couldn’t stop a smile spreading across her face.

“So what is an American girl like you doing in the Ukrainian countryside?” he asked, pushing his messenger bag from his lap and onto the floor.

“There’s an orphanage about four miles away from where you broke down. I work there. What about you?”

“I do tech support for NGOs in this region. I must have got turned around.”

“You must have. There’s nothing at the end of that road except a couple of villages and Russia. I’m not sure you should venture so close to the border.”

“I’m not so worried about that. I can take care of myself.”

“Even against a strange aid worker wielding a spork?” she asked with a grin.

“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”