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  She nodded, and he was off again. Maybe it would be safer if she ran off into the desert. She could eat the plant in her hand, but others were poisonous. Spiders, snakes and scorpions hid in the sand. The smallest thorn or fang could kill her.

  The desert was just as deadly as the house.

  Art was her guide. Only with him could she navigate the worlds of violence and danger. He was part of them, and as she drew closer to him, she became part of them, too.

  Chapter Eight

  The gate in the surrounding wall opened and closed and the whole complement of guards around the house tensed. Fingers crept closer to triggers. The men coiled, ready to shoot and run. Art knew the guards might not be formally trained, but they were all experienced. Automatik’s attack would have to take full advantage of the element of surprise.

  Rolan and Dernov were already on the front porch, watching the cream-colored SUV arrive. Garin stood to Dernov’s left, sneering at Art. Then his face drained of emotion when the SUV pulled up in front of the house.

  The engine stopped, then ticked and settled from the long hot drive. Ilyin was the boss of the central wing of the Orel Group. He’d come in from Chicago or St. Louis or whatever big town he called the shots from up there. Art wasn’t deep enough in the organization to get all the details, which made this operation so important. Automatik didn’t have to go looking for all these criminals. The bad guys were coming to them.

  Ilyin’s driver/bodyguard got out of the SUV and strode around to open one of the back doors. The man was stone and concrete. Sunglasses hid his eyes, but Art knew he’d find nothing there. The guard’s expressionless mouth told it all. And his veiny hands, fighter’s hands, that showed from below his basic black suit.

  The jacket bulged a bit. A submachine gun, or a sawed-off shotgun, hung under his left arm.

  The man opened the SUV door, and Ilyin stepped out. His blue-gray suit remained perfectly pressed, despite what must’ve been hours in the car. This man was older than Rolan and didn’t carry the same light as in that boss’s eyes. Ilyin was a butcher. Art felt it. The man got his hands dirty.

  With a subtle shift of his shoulders, Rolan caught Art’s eye. A brief nod from Rolan toward the car told Art what he needed to do. Bellboy.

  Ilyin approached the front steps of the house and Art moved opposite, into the parking area. Ilyin’s guard eyed him for a moment, then dismissed him, pointing at the trunk of the SUV. After popping the latch, Art hauled out two suitcases, one heavier than the other.

  The guard’s luggage was probably filled with bullets. Ilyin’s clean clothes had to be surrounding straight razors and bone-cutting cleavers.

  After exchanging greetings and quieter words Art couldn’t catch, Rolan, Dernov and Ilyin walked into the house. Ilyin’s man was behind them. Then Garin. Then a couple of guards who Rolan had supplied as host. Art trailed the procession up the stairs, carrying the luggage.

  Attacking up was a good possibility. Between each flight of stairs was an open landing with solid cover. It would take a little while, but anyone caught up top would have nowhere to go as long as the service stairs were covered.

  He itched to communicate the information to his team. Three bosses were in the house. Two more to go. Every firing lane and back exit had to be accounted for by then. And he still hadn’t figured out the safest place for Hayley during the assault.

  The group reached the top floor, and Ilyin eased into his room. The fourth down the hall. His guard went with him, checked everything out, then motioned Art forward.

  He left the larger suitcase by the foot of the bed and considered lingering for a tip, but knew the joke wouldn’t be appreciated. He wasn’t full-blooded Russian. He was the second-class citizen in the house.

  Like his dad had been. Easy for them to kill without a thought. But Art wasn’t easy to kill.

  Rolan kept him on the payroll for a reason. They needed him. And soon, they’d fear him.

  But for now he was the denga, half-breed with unique information to share and a back strong enough to lift the luggage.

  Once Ilyin was squared away with Rolan and Dernov, his guard and a few others broke away. Art followed with the guard’s bag, returning to the second floor. Now that they were apart from the bosses, the conversations started flowing. The men knew Ilyin’s guard, who they called Vasily. Their reverence for him was clear. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, everyone fell silent to hear the raspy words.

  Things were tightening up for Ilyin and the central wing. Asian gangs were crowding them. There had already been blood spilled, and Vasily had a taste for more.

  The room he was given was on the opposite side of the guard hallway from Art, closest to the stairs. Art deposited the man’s suitcase and extracted himself from the group. But not before hearing Garin speaking to Vasily, hissing something nasty about Art and throwing around “denga” again.

  It was when Garin glanced downstairs, toward the kitchen, that Art’s anger rose. If the high-level guards ganged up to make a play at Hayley, there’d be nothing short of bloodshed that could stop them. But Vasily didn’t seem to care and remained stony in Garin’s face.

  The footing in the house continually shifted, always tipping toward disaster. Art was reminded of a helicopter pilot he knew. She said that flying one of those birds was like balancing a bowling ball on a marble. It was a matter of developing a touch for the equilibrium.

  Going after Garin right then would’ve sent them all to hell. Art made no waves, walking down the hall to his room.

  Once inside, with the door locked and the pistol on his lap, he sent the latest intel. The basement retaining wall was detailed, along with the stairway assault possibilities. He explained that Ilyin was there, as well as pertinent info on Vasily. Art consumed the house and the people in it, breaking them down to the smallest atom, then figuring out how to destroy it all.

  Three bosses. Two to go. The countdown sped faster.

  * * *

  New faces gazed blankly at her while she described the lunch to the men at the dining table. Art, in the seat closest to the kitchen, translated. “Salmon baked in vegetables, zucchini cakes and a cucumber salad.”

  Art gave a secret wink, just for her, as he translated the zucchini cakes.

  The men were already eating. Forks rang on the plates with quick rhythms. The food was going over well. She’d added the broader, peppery leaves of the shepherd’s purse to the zucchini.

  One of the new men was definitely a boss. Ilyin, Art had called him. He sat upright in his suit, eating with perfect manners. He looked like the kind of guy who wore an overcoat draped over his shoulders when it was cold.

  His guard ate steadily, almost mechanically. She couldn’t tell if he tasted any of the food or just fueled his ropy, menacing body.

  And Garin was his usual slimy self. Taking his time, turning the plate and inspecting it. Then watching her as he ate.

  She ignored him and turned to leave with a last glance to Art, her one friend in the place. And her biggest temptation. He smiled back gently, as if wrapping his arm around her shoulder and letting her lean on him.

  The last thing she saw when she exited the dining room was a simple gold band on Ilyin’s ring finger. He was married. These men had wives. Families.

  She cleaned the pots and pans from lunch and tried to imagine these mob bosses with their wives. Or sisters. Children? Even as benevolent as Rolan pretended to be, she detected a cruel and manipulative interior. He always appeared calmly poised to lash out at someone if the person disappointed him. These men didn’t seem human enough for family. They were killers and manipulators, destroyers.

  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t do that to the people closest to them. What would their children become?

  Art had talked about his family a bit. A mother, sisters. Did they know wh
o he worked for? He hadn’t completely lost his humanity. Maybe it was a matter of time among this organized crime. Perhaps for her, as well.

  Then she wouldn’t feel anything. The prickling anxiety that drew her shoulder blades together might go away. The cruelty of the guards and bosses would be normal. Emotions would seem like a weakness.

  No, she couldn’t live that way. And maybe Art wouldn’t disappear into that world.

  The food would save her.

  After recovering the kitchen after lunch, she started on dinner. She needed to rest, but slowing down would only speed up her mind. The fear and sickening sense of dread would overwhelm her.

  Carrots, jalapeños and red onions were chopped and bathed in a vinegar, sugar and water mixture to quickly pickle them. Once they were in the refrigerator to develop their flavor, she prepped the other elements for her kotlety-inspired meatloaf.

  When she arrived at the salad, the process faltered. She needed something unexpected. Just parsley wouldn’t transform the cut greens. The thicker, sweeter leaves of the shepherd’s purse remained from the plant she’d pulled, but there weren’t enough.

  Stepping into the bright sun, she waited for her eyes to adjust before venturing onto the desert dirt. As soon as the kitchen door closed behind her, a guard came around the corner of the house, his shining machine gun tight in his hands.

  He relaxed a bit when he saw her but maintained his poise. She stepped away from the house, searching for plants, and his gaze remained on her.

  Any shade would’ve been welcome. Or a breeze. Instead, the heated air sat on her back and shoulders. The sun burned into the exposed skin of her neck. It felt like the whole sky above the desert was trying to crush her.

  A shallow crack in the earth led to one shepherd’s purse plant, then another. She tugged them up, feeling what kind of determination it took to survive in that environment.

  Deliberate footsteps crunched toward her, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the chugging generators. She knew the rhythm of the walk. It was disquieting how anticipation pumped her blood faster. She barely knew him, and he was able to change her heart rate with just a few steps. But she couldn’t shut it down, or shut him out, and tested the temptation like a quick lick of a salt.

  Art strode, his back to the sun. “Hottest time of day.”

  “I don’t siesta.” She searched out another plant and pulled it.

  “At least find some shade.” His shadow gathered around her feet.

  She shook the plants, letting dirt fall from the roots. “I’m done now.”

  Art walked back to the house with her. The guard leaned on the wall and lit a cigarette, squinting into the sun.

  As he strode, Art asked her, “What about dessert?”

  “It wasn’t requested. And I found plenty of candy in the pantry. Someone was thinking ahead.”

  “But do you make dessert?”

  “I can handle a couple of things.”

  He opened the door to the kitchen. “I’m sure you can.”

  His surprising, deliberate sleaze and the cooler air in the house made a brief giggle bubble up through her. He closed and locked the door behind her, then glided out of the kitchen without looking back, leaving her alone. Wanting more. This taste of him wasn’t quite enough.

  She washed the plants off and rolled them in paper towels to dry. A siesta sounded pretty nice. A quiet room with a book, or just a window to stare out of for a while. With Art close by.

  The excitement with Burton had always been about the future. Growing their skills and their careers. Cooking, analyzing.

  Art was immediate. He lived and survived and inspired her to open her eyes to the moment. And they could share so many moments. Loud nights or quiet days. Together on a sunlit bed. His chest pressed against her back. His arm around her belly. Mouth on her neck, just below the ear. Her skin heated with the thought, and she shivered with the tease.

  The fantasy shattered. Ilyin’s guard entered her kitchen, his face emotionless, dark eyes remote. She didn’t have a metal spoon in her hand this time, and a chill threatened to freeze her to the floor. Her knives were on the island, closer to the man than to her.

  He extended his thumb and tapped it to his chest. “Vasily.”

  Okay, that was his name. What did he want?

  The same thumb pointed at her.

  She nodded understanding, the fear ebbing slightly. “Chef Hayley. Hayley.”

  He shook his head and turned his hand, wanting other information. There didn’t seem to be a lot of patience in Vasily, and she didn’t want to know what the coiled springs of his body would release when it ran out.

  “Baskov.” She hoped he was trying for her last name.

  “Da.” He tilted his head back and forth, considering.

  Hopefully her family hadn’t left behind too many skeletons in the old country closets.

  Again, he tapped himself with his thumb. “Moskva.”

  The smallest of small talk. He was from Moscow.

  She told him her family had come from Ufa.

  With the narrowing of his eyes, her fear came back. She’d told him the truth, but it still might damn her. What were the consequences of not passing this test? Vasily didn’t appear to enjoy toying with his victims the way Garin did. Even if she called for help, he could definitely do unthinkable damage before Art showed up.

  She was ready to lunge for her knives.

  Vasily nodded and repeated, “Ufa,” back, seeming satisfied. Wired like a killing machine, Vasily walked out of her kitchen, leaving the air colder in his wake.

  A long breath didn’t release her tension. She hurried to her knife roll and pulled a paring knife and a chef’s knife, placing them on different parts of the long counter at the wall. No matter where someone tried to corner her, she’d have a knife close by.

  Her transformation continued. Kitchen knives were now for defense. She was accepted by some of the bad men. And she wanted one of them to be close to her. Not for protection, but so she could do bad things with him.

  * * *

  The window over the sink was black with night and reflected the lit kitchen back to Art. Hayley moved about the counters and the stove, erasing the work it had taken to create that night’s dinner while preparing for the next round.

  He knew Jackson was out in the dark, watching. The wall around the compound was too tall for the hidden man to see into the ground-floor windows, so he wouldn’t have firsthand knowledge of Art doing all these dishes.

  Art finished the last of the large pots and broke the silence. “Dinner was a hit. Reminded me of my momma’s kotlety.” In the reflection, he watched her pause and lean on the kitchen island. “Overheard a couple of the guys reminiscing about their mothers and grandmothers. You’ve definitely got the touch if you can reach these bastards’ dark little hearts.”

  She stepped away from the island. “What about yours?”

  He shut off the water and turned to her.

  Her eyes burned him.

  Secrets weighed him down like a loaded gun. Every step might have a trip wire in front of it. He wanted to risk it, to tell her what he was really doing in that house and let all the mines go off around them as he pulled her close.

  “No heart left,” he said, staying by the sink. “Maybe I lost it in basic training, or at a forward base in Afghanistan, or back in the city.”

  She moved to the refrigerator and opened it. The door blocked her expression. “I don’t believe you.” When she reappeared, she held two mugs. A sly smile drew him toward whatever mystery she was holding. He was close enough that her whisper reached him. “Dessert.”

  She put the mugs down and pulled a couple of teaspoons from a drawer. The food was much less interesting than the crafty woman before him.

  Their finge
rs touched as he took a spoon from her. They paused, and he soaked in the sensation of her skin. Smooth and strong. And charged with a quick spark, an electric thread that reached into him and drew him toward her. Then she eased away and dipped her spoon inside her mug.

  He picked up the mug; the warmth from her touch couldn’t be erased by the cold china. “Thought you didn’t have anything for dessert.”

  She took a bite, still with that sly smile. “I’m never lost in a kitchen.”

  He had to know what taste she’d created. He spooned the creamy pudding from the mug and slipped it onto his tongue.

  It was chilled, but the flavor was warm. Honey and vanilla. She would taste like that, if he kissed her. And she’d have something else, darker like smoke. The spark from her touch multiplied, gathering in his chest.

  He kept eating, mesmerized, watching her lips close over her spoon as she slowly dragged it out of her mouth. The wicked smile was in her eyes. His blood sped, moving the electricity all over his body.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “Never tasted anything better.” And if he had, the memory had been erased by this moment.

  “Honey custard.” She shrugged small. “Easy to make for two.”

  “Thank you.” He forced himself to take a breath and throttle back his pace so he could savor the custard.

  “Better than goat eyeballs.”

  “Much.”

  The two of them leaned with their backs to the counter and looked out across the clean kitchen. Parts of the house were dark. Things were quiet.

  Except in him. The thumping of his pulse marched quickly while he took in the taste of the dessert and the sight of Hayley in her element.

  “What was that desert like?” She licked her spoon then scraped the bottom of the mug with the sound of distant bells.

  “Cold. And hot. Different.” He tried to remember what it had felt like when he’d first been helicoptered in to one of the remote outposts, but he’d spent so much time out there that he couldn’t see it with fresh eyes. “We’d trained at Twentynine Palms. MWTC. It was desolate and helped get us ready. But it wasn’t the same. Where we were training, like here, it’s just desert for miles. There, it’s people’s homes.” He finished the custard and was already greedy for more. “People live in those hills. Like they’ve been doing for thousands of years.”