Countdown to Zero Hour Page 14

  Ilyin brought Art’s focus back while he boasted for a bit about his interactions with the Mexicans and Central Americans who bordered his territory in Chicago. Art faked interest and respect. Just because the Russian could order off a Mexican menu didn’t mean he knew anything about the people. The boss thought he had a handle on them, their “traditional” ways and the “honor” that came from the gang lifestyle.

  But Art wasn’t going to set him straight. He could’ve told him about how the street gangs had formed alliances in order to consolidate their power, and these were now the big rivals. That information would’ve been too valuable to the Orel Group. So he gave up vague details about the gang colors, or the symbols of their tattoos.

  The bosses appeared to like the intel. Even Dernov raised his eyebrows in consideration.

  Art’s stomach churned. Handing them bullshit felt like a betrayal. It shouldn’t have worried him. If the operation was successful, then all these men would end up behind bars. He could deliver them the best intelligence and it would be for nothing. But he knew better than to assume the op would be perfect. There were always contingencies to plan for. If one of these men slipped through Automatik’s noose and used Art’s data to hurt others, then the crime would be on Art. As the Orel Group grew in power, it sank deeper into the community. They weren’t just interested in taking over a pusher’s territory. If the mob got the kids hooked in the first place, they’d have their own loyal customers.

  Rolan tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. He explained that this was the kind of thing they needed from Art. It was to make Art feel good and useful, but it was also a gold star for Rolan, who was responsible for bringing Art in. Rolan told Art to create a list of the gangs he knew about, especially ones with national memberships. The list should be illustrated with all the reliable identifiers, so anyone in the Orel Group could pick them out.

  Art nodded, said he had a notebook in his room and would take care of it. He wouldn’t. Ever.

  It was probably in a meeting just like this one where the men who came before these bosses made the decision to kill Art’s dad. It could’ve been as casual and offhand as Ilyin saying he wanted to take care of the Mexican gangs on his territory, but without shutting down the restaurants. He had a thing for quesadillas.

  Art hoped the perfectly dressed boss would choke on one.

  And he couldn’t wait to have these men on the fire-breathing end of his gun, with the other Automatik operators behind him, and to tell Rolan and the bosses that the son of Tony Diaz had come to take them in. Tony Diaz didn’t die quiet.

  If Art was a cowboy, he’d draw his pistol right then in the room and take out all three of these assholes. Three out of five was a good average. Then he could die fighting his way out of the house. And that would get Hayley killed, too.

  Unacceptable.

  Rolan continued to explain what he wanted in Art’s notes. How the Orel Group could reach out to threaten gang members’ families in order to influence them. Border crossings, coyote routes. Ways to get into the US and out if they needed to. Art said he could work on what he knew, California and most of Arizona, but didn’t have much insight on Texas.

  The boss accepted Art’s shortcoming with benevolence. The white-haired man thought himself a father figure to his men.

  Art was all smiles and his stomach knotted tighter. Even when Rolan dismissed him, saying he knew that Art was eager to get to the kitchen to sample what was for dinner. Ilyin chuckled, and Dernov showed yellow teeth in his leering smile.

  Art absorbed their attention and nodded back, smug, without apology. He left the room and closed the door behind him. The bosses didn’t know it, but they were already sitting in their cells. Or their tombs.

  * * *

  Hayley sliced a head of cabbage into fine ribbons using the knife that had clashed against Art’s blade. He’d repaired the edge to near perfection. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed the minute catch in the cutting rhythm created by the small notch.

  She and Art were the only ones who really understood what was happening in the house. She didn’t regret having the information. Knowing Art and his team would sweep into the house and clean up the dangerous situation gave her a little reassurance. Though she realized that the guards and bosses wouldn’t happily lie down once attacked. That inevitable conflict dug a sense of dread deep into her belly.

  And all of her joints ached with the new tension her knowledge brought. If anyone other than Art had told her that there were undercover, secret soldiers, she wouldn’t have believed it. But it all made sense, all the links he’d explained. And she’d seen what it had taken for him to tell her. He’d been carrying a secret burden. Now the weight burdened her shoulders, too. What if she slipped up and said something? Or gave it away without knowing, without a word? The criminals could be looking for signs she didn’t know to hide.

  She figured if she just kept cooking, no one would know. These motions were practiced, second nature. She could control the kitchen and had to trust that Art could take care of the rest.

  He certainly seemed capable of running a team of soldiers. His precise violence finally made sense. And that extra depth in his eyes. Protecting her had been part of his job, but the connection, the attraction, had that been faked?

  Her knife now moved through a tart green apple. It would add just the right brightness to the warm cabbage salad she was serving for lunch. Her attention glanced off the routine action of peeling and slicing.

  Two kisses took over her mind. Two different Arts. Before he’d told her the truth, and after. Which Art was real?

  The answer didn’t arrive. Instead, Gogol came into her kitchen, shaking his head and waving his finger in denial. “Syrniki?” he said with concerned disbelief. “Syrniki? Nyet.”

  “Da. Syrniki.” She put the knife down and raised her hands to calm him. The guards had started the habit of asking what she was cooking for the day at breakfast, then spreading the word. Obviously Gogol had an issue with the farmer’s cheese pancakes she was planning for lunch.

  He rattled off a quick burst of Russian she didn’t understand. Imploring, insisting. He even put his hands together in prayer for a moment, gazing at the heavens.

  She said in English, “I don’t understand.”

  So he explained slower, the same Russian sentences, forming his mouth around each word, in an attempt to get the point across. The one word that she picked up, over and over, was mat. Mother.

  From the way he kept saying “nyet” and the worried look in his eyes, like she was doing black magic in a holy place, she guessed he had a problem with someone other than his mother making syrniki.

  “It’s okay,” she told him over and over.

  But he remained unconvinced and started to move deeper into the kitchen, toward the plates and bowls she’d laid out.

  She blocked his path, and he pulled up. “Don’t fuck with my ingredients.” Maintaining her calm, she glared at him with all her authority.

  He may not have understood all her words, but he got her meaning. Now that Gogol had cooled to a simmer, she tried a gentler approach.

  “Odin.” She held up one finger. “Odin.” If she could make one she might convince him.

  His lips twitched and he gazed skyward again. She imagined his dearly departed mother somewhere up there, scolding and clicking her tongue.

  Hayley moved slowly so she wouldn’t startle him. He watched, wide-eyed and nervous, as if she was assembling a bomb. Instead of massing explosives, she mixed farmer’s cheese and eggs with measured doses of flour and sugar.

  Firing up a skillet, she cautioned Gogol, “Zhdat.” Wait.

  He barely held himself together, one hand gripping the edge of the granite countertop.

  The olive oil was just shimmering in the pan when Art stalked into the kitchen. He must’ve seen Gogo
l hovering close to Hayley and thought there was trouble. His focus was laser sharp on Gogol. One hand curled into a fist; the other was open and ready.

  Gogol saw him coming and grunted with a sudden shock. Worrying about his dead mother’s recipe was one thing, but Art approaching like that surely made him wonder if he’d live to see lunch.

  “We’re good.” Hayley tried to diffuse Art before he blew up and wrecked the kitchen with Gogol’s body. “It’s all good.”

  Art slowed and his intensity lowered, though she knew it never went away. “No trouble?” he double-checked.

  She shook her head to reassure him, wondering if they needed some kind of secret signal. “We’re just cooking syrniki.”

  For proof, she took a scoop of the batter, dredged it in flour and put it, sizzling, in the pan. The smell brought both men closer to the stove. She held the scoop out for Gogol. He shook his head, no, and looked like he wanted to cross himself.

  Art took the scoop when she offered it. He was hesitant at first but picked up on her direction and soon had a pancake browning next to hers. Gogol still wasn’t willing, so she made a third and set it to cooking.

  In a couple of minutes, they all had a single syrniki on their plate. Art ate first, nodding as he chewed slowly. She tried hers and was happy with the result. Creamy center, but cooked through, and a nice brown edge.

  Gogol hesitantly used his fork to separate out a bite. He chewed, then smiled, then guilt brought his gaze to the ground. But the secretive smile persisted. And he took another bite of his pancake.

  She asked cautiously, “Priyatnyy?” Meaning, good?

  He was ready to tear up. “Da.”

  Art agreed, saying, “They’re fantastic.”

  “Tell him,” she said to Art, “that I wish I could’ve tasted his mother’s syrniki.”

  She watched Gogol while Art translated. Emotion welled deeper in the guard’s eyes.

  He set his cleaned plate down and said with an appreciative smile, “Spacibo.” With an appreciative bow, he left the kitchen. She heard him clearing his throat as he moved down the secluded service hallway.

  To her surprise, the shadows of emotion moved across Art’s face, too.

  The dangerous situation in the house, her new knowledge of what Art’s true purpose was, as well as the charged blasts of attraction that kept her coming back to him, all took her down to a raw edge. Fear or hopelessness could take her over. She didn’t deny her emotions, but she wouldn’t let them dull her focus.

  Now that she was alone with Art in the kitchen, she placed her hand on his forearm. “I miss my mom, too,” she confessed. “This feels a hell of a lot longer than a few days. It’s hard not to worry that I’ll never see her again.”

  Art put his hand over hers. “You will.” His palm was warm. “Keep cooking. Keep sharp.”

  He gave her a small squeeze, then released her hand so he could finish his syrniki. Hayley joined him. Once they were done, he took the plates to the sink. As he washed them, he gazed out the window. Now she understood what was out on the other side of the compound wall. His soldiers.

  Art’s words were nearly swallowed by the sound of the running water. “I was missing my dad. Don’t remember much, but there was always the kitchen. My mom cooking for him and the rest of the family.” His face remained stoic. “He always had a bottle of beer, shining gold, like he was some kind of wizard with a mustache.”

  He laughed with nostalgia, and she saw a bit of tension shimmer away from his shoulders. It pulled her worry away, too, at least for now. She put her hands under the running water for a moment, then dried them.

  Art could still surprise her. He wasn’t a criminal, he was a soldier. But he was always looking out for her. That was evidenced by the way he’d charged into the kitchen when he’d thought Gogol was giving her trouble. Now she knew more about him. A fragment of his past and family. Closer to his heart. He’d already revealed so much dangerous information to her. He trusted her.

  Once the dishes were done and the water off, they heard a car pulling up to the house. Art gave her a reassuring nod and eased out of the kitchen. She busied herself with the syrniki-making supplies, making sure everything was in its place for the lunch rush.

  Art returned with an eye roll and a scowl on his mouth. “Garin’s back.”

  The goon strutted a few paces behind Art, with a collection of guards around him like groupies. The bandages on his face didn’t restrict his huge grin. He boasted in Russian, making sure to toss sticky-sounding words and a smarmy wink into the kitchen as he passed. Thankfully he disappeared into one of the living rooms, where he held court with the other guards.

  Art stayed behind, dark and angry. She knew he was waiting for a specific moment to spring his operation. But he appeared to be barely restrained for the moment.

  He kept glaring into the living room and told her, “Garin had a good ol’ time in town. That should calm him down for a bit.” His expression brightened when he looked at her. “Thanks for the syrniki. Looking forward to lunch.”

  He left, but was back before long. Gogol was the first guard to arrive in the kitchen, ready to help plate the food and carry it to the dining room. Art pitched in, and soon the house was fed.

  She did her job, cooking for the criminals. And she had to trust that when Art’s real job as undercover soldier started, she would survive the fight.

  * * *

  Lunch was fantastic, as usual. Art had wished for all afternoon to savor it, eating syrniki after syrniki and drinking cold beers while talking to Hayley about cooking or guns or music or whatever the hell they wanted to.

  But he was back in his room. Was this what it was like to fall for someone? He’d jumped out of helicopters, swum through freezing rivers, been shot at, but had no experience with something like these consuming thoughts and sensations. Relationships had lasted a few dates, a few hookups. Special ops in the Marines didn’t make for a very stable lifestyle. He’d never gotten to know a woman beyond her most superficial compatibility. And they hadn’t tried to pry too deep into him, either.

  Hayley pierced right through him.

  He considered texting Jackson for the finer details of getting caught up with a woman. That SEAL had a track record but might not know much about the profound issues. He was a quick strike man.

  And it wasn’t the best use of resources during an op to ask personal questions when there remained tactical planning to do. Art sat at the edge of his bed, pistol out, phone in hand. His notebook was also open, pen on top, as if he was working on the details Rolan wanted.

  Somewhere out in the dirt, Jackson received his messages. Hayley, the one regular civilian in the compound, had been informed of his mission.

  Jackson responded, wondering if that was best.

  Too late, Art wrote back. She won’t compromise op.

  She compromise you? The message faded away, but Jackson’s burn didn’t.

  Affirmative.

  Art was glad to have the distraction of genial shouting coming from outside the house.

  He texted, Over and out, shut down the app and holstered his pistol.

  Without a window in his room, he had to venture out to the second-floor common room to peer down. A group of about eight guards kicked a soccer ball back and forth on a pitch crudely marked out with lines scratched in the dirt. Two larger rocks on each side indicated the goals.

  Heading downstairs, he made a mental note to tell Jackson that the guards had fallen into a sense of security. Diligence would tighten up when additional bosses arrived, but the shooters were already inclined to think themselves safe.

  The day remained bright and hot outside, but a new breeze lightened the air enough to breathe. It tasted damp and woody, like the distant mountains.

  Art hung out on the sidelines with a couple of other gua
rds, watching. The guys kicking the ball were pretty good and had probably been going at each other since being kids in some old country apartment block.

  The catcalls started when they saw Art. They mocked being afraid of him, saying that the Mexican in him would dominate the pitch.

  He moved into the field to intercept a pass and kept a foot on the ball. “If you’re too embarrassed to lose to a Mexican, you can pretend my Russian half is beating you.”

  Without waiting for them to set themselves, he was off, dribbling through the dirt toward a goal. After all the pent-up tension, it felt great to go at these guys, taking their contact, avoiding their attempts to strip the ball. Everyone played fair enough. The goalie’s eyes were wide when Art reached shooting distance. He put everything into the kick, and the goalie didn’t have a chance.

  One person clapped. Hayley stood on the sidelines, nodding her approval. She wore her chef’s jacket but stood relaxed. He backpedaled for defense, giving her a flex.

  She laughed and stepped onto the pitch. Shouts of surprise and encouragement came from the other guards. One of the opposing team deliberately passed her the ball so she could go against Art.

  The rest of the men cleared back for the one-on-one. Art bodied up to Hayley, slowing her attack on his goal. Because of his size advantage, he could’ve knocked her to the ground and taken the ball. But fouling would’ve been bad play. And it felt good to run alongside her, feeling her quick, nimble muscles. Her body on his during the kiss had set him on fire. Now his pace raced faster, getting this taste of what she was like full speed.

  He did try to steal the ball with his feet, though, not making it easy on her. She dribbled well, avoiding his attempts while continuing to press forward. Attacking and defending kept them clashing on each other. Her leg along his. His arm around her lower back. These impacts woke up his hunger for all of her, naked and stretched out with him.

  “You’ve got skills, Baskov.” He blocked her path. She tried to sidestep, but he was there again.

  “And elbows.” She proved it with a sharp jab in his side, just below the ribs.