Dangerous Desire

35

If only I hadn’t failed to protect her, none of this would’ve happened.

When we touch down in a field in an industrial part of town, a car is waiting for us in a nearby parking lot, the keys in the glove box. Courtesy of Tabby, a woman for whom the word impossible doesn’t exist. Connor drives while I sit in the back seat and hold Eva’s head in my lap, stroking her damp forehead and tormented by thoughts of what she went through on that ship.

What she put herself through because she thought it would save me. Not to mention all the other horrors awaiting her if she’d made it back to Dimitri.

I hate to admit it, but Killian isn’t the only one unconvinced I deserve her.

The safe house is in a modern condominium complex, one of those swanky high-rise security buildings that caters to rich childless couples and businessmen who travel internationally so no one knows or cares who their neighbors are. We drive into an underground parking garage and take a private elevator to the eighteenth floor. The view of the ocean from the floor-to-ceiling windows is stunning.

“Nice place,” I tell Connor as I carry Eva inside.

He chuckles. “Can’t take the Saudi princess you just extracted from six weeks in a kidnapper’s basement to a Motel 6.”

I find the master bedroom and, as carefully as I can manage, settle Eva onto the bed. She rolls to her back with a drowsy sigh as I pull up the blankets around her.

“Where are we?”

I lean over and kiss her forehead. “Somewhere safe. The doctor will be here soon. How do you feel? What can I get you?”

She turns her head and blinks up at me, her eyes hazy. “Killian told Dimitri I was with him.”

My heart skips a beat. “What?”

She moistens her lips, appearing to have to concentrate on her words when she speaks. “Dimitri knows Killian took me, so he won’t be coming after you.” Her eyes drift closed. “Killian took care of it.”

Killian took care of it. Those words sounded . . . grateful.

I’m motionless, except for my heart, which pounds wildly.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I murmur, ignoring the tremor in my hands as I tuck the blanket in around her shoulders and smooth her hair off her face. I close the door quietly behind me as I leave the master bedroom and return to the great room to look for Connor.

I find him rummaging through the big stainless steel refrigerator for food.

“I gotta get on my supplier about stocking better snacks,” he says sourly, holding up a plastic container. “Why’s there always so much fuckin’ fruit? Who wants to eat sliced apples after a job, for f**k’s sake? Not a goddamn cookie or scoop of ice cream in sight.”

I fold my arms over my chest, lean against the kitchen counter, and blow out a hard breath.

Connor glances at me. “Here.” He holds out a bottle of beer. “You look like you need it.”

I take it from him but just stand there without opening it, staring out the windows. The setting sun is turning the sky over the sea to fire.

Connor swings the fridge door closed, twists the cap off his own bottle of beer, and takes a long swig. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can spot a mindfuck in progress from a mile away, brother. Talk to me.”

After a long moment of mulling, I say, “Killian.”

Connor takes another drink of his beer, letting me work it over in my head.

“He commandeers a ship. Takes a hostage. Kills the captain and crew, except for one. That he left one of the crew alive is important, but I don’t know how. He beats the hostage and sets sail across the North Atlantic, but halfway through the journey gets picked up by the US Navy. He and his hostage are dropped off on an island near Portugal days later by the same frigate. He has a safe house. In his note, he mentions ‘intel’ and a ‘source.’”

I meet Connor’s eyes. “He’s a spook.”

Connor nods. “Probably a NOC, because Tabby can’t find anything in the CIA or NSA databases on any assets fitting his name or description.”

Operatives working under nonofficial cover, or NOCs, are off-the-books consultants to government agencies, working outside the prescribed channels on covert missions. They’re highly trained in espionage and intelligence gathering and are tasked with everything from political assassinations to throwing foreign elections, and anything in between.

They’re also extraordinarily dangerous.

They have a case manager who assigns ops, but they answer to no one. They have only one goal: complete the mission. No matter how, no matter the cost. If they’re caught, they have no safety net, because the government that hired them will deny all knowledge of their existence, so they go to extremes to avoid detection because capture by hostile foreign governments inevitably equals imprisonment or execution.

Sophisticated in the ways of clandestine operations and unconventional warfare, they’re the lone wolves of the spy world.

They’re the guys who get the really bad s**t done.

I know all this because my own father was one.

I say, “So he has a job. Something he thinks kidnapping Eva will help him with.”

“Something to do with Dimitri,” says Connor, nodding.

“But he decides for some reason to drop her off at his safe house instead.”

“Maybe he got what he wanted from Dimitri. Gave him proof of life, cut a deal, cut her loose.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Eva just told me Killian told Dimitri she was with him. I bet Dimitri assumes she still is.”

“So what’s the advantage to Killian in this scenario?”