Countdown to Zero Hour Read online

  He set the bottle down. “Not yet. He’s not proud or at rest. Not until the job’s done.”

  “I don’t think you can know that.” This was a darkness she hadn’t seen in him. A deeper tension, and it frustrated her that she didn’t understand how to soothe it.

  “I do know. I’m the only one.” Somber, serious eyes turned to her. “Those fucking mobsters have no idea I’m part of Automatik. That’ll shock them good.” He took a breath. “And they have no idea why I’m perfect for this job...”

  She felt him searching, trying to find a way to say something.

  His gaze remained on her face. “This mob. They killed my father. When they were establishing themselves in San Diego.”

  “Oh my God.” That was how deep this ran. Straight through Art’s heart and far into the past. She pulled herself closer to him.

  “And when they find out that...” He seethed through a clenched jaw, “It’ll scare them straight to hell.”

  She placed her hand on his fist and felt it loosen a trace. “Does this work?” she ventured, tentative. “Can you do this job if it’s personal?”

  A sly smile spread across his face. “I do it because it’s personal. For my dad.” His fist opened and enveloped her hand. “For you.”

  “But you barely know me.” Not that she was trying to convince him to abandon his fight for her. She had to test their connection. Was it just the sex? The danger? Was it a meal that would be forgotten after dessert?

  “And you barely know me,” he countered. “But you still understand I’m not going to quit until you’re safe. I’m not going to lose you, too.”

  “I’d never doubt you.” The man before her was a constant, with a motor that never stopped turning.

  “And I’ll never doubt that you’ll always be in the fight.” He picked up her hand, looked at it, kissed it. “You were kicking ass long before you met me.”

  He didn’t judge her or try to put her in her place. From the light in his eyes as he stared at her, her determination had a positive effect on him.

  She leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were sweet from the sticky soda. “We kick ass together.” If they could just stay in the hotel room, leaving only to eat at the restaurant on the corner, fueling themselves for days and nights of sex on the creaking bed.

  “Hell yeah.” The hollow darkness in his voice told her that he wished for the same time and space.

  The sound of power tools blasted up from the street outside the hotel. Concrete was broken by a jackhammer, and saws cut what sounded like miles of wood. The peace and calm between her and Art was shattered.

  She laughed at the real world chiseling into their moment. Art’s face, though, drew down to a serious expression. He stood and started collecting his clothes with quick urgency. She didn’t wait for him to urge her to do the same and covered her naked body.

  Tension chilled her. The power tools continued, rattling the window glass.

  She stepped close to Art and asked under the din, “What’s up?”

  He had dressed and assembled all his weapons onto him, hiding them under his jacket. “I didn’t see any work crews out there when we found the hotel.”

  For a second they sat next to each other on the bed again, tying their shoes. Was it all gone? All the comfort and security? She clutched the passion and the calm she’d shared with him deep, close to her heart.

  He stood and took up some of the produce bags. She picked up the rest and joined him at the door. After listening through the wood to the hallway, he removed the chair under the knob and opened the door.

  The hall looked empty. Art led, and she crept behind him, trying to expand her awareness to every possible angle of the closed doors, torn carpeting and rattling light fixtures. The construction continued and seemed to grow louder.

  She and Art moved cautiously toward the stairway at the end of the hall. The sound of her rustling produce bags was enveloped by the shrieking saws and hammers outside. She struggled to keep her thoughts together as the chaos pounded in her ears.

  A shadow knifed across the hallway, just where it joined with the stair landing. She froze. It was only ten feet away.

  Art dropped his bag of produce. Instead of running away from whatever was out there, he sprinted toward it.

  Two men rushed around the corner. Their hard, mean faces gaped with surprise when they saw how close Art was. Both men had pistols in their rough hands, one silver and the other black.

  What should she do? Fleeing up the hall, back where she’d come from, seemed like a death trap. That would leave her exposed to the bullets. But could she run toward the men the way Art had? Then what?

  Art didn’t break stride. He attacked the closest man, chopping at his wrist and making the gun spin to the ground. The next man, who wore a crisp gray sweatshirt, swung his black pistol to aim at Art’s chest.

  She shouted, “No!” but the man didn’t pay her any attention.

  Before he could pull the trigger, Art had leaped away from the first man and was entangled with the man in the sweatshirt. Art locked his arm up under his, keeping the barrel of the gun away from him. But it swung across the hallway toward her.

  Art glanced back at where she was and shifted his weight to slam the man into the wall. The gun stayed in his hand, but he grimaced in pain. With his free fist, the man punched Art in the ribs over and over.

  She dropped her bags and started to run toward him. But the first man blocked her path. His squinting eyes glanced from her to his silver gun resting on the floor.

  Behind him, Art smashed the other killer into the wall again, cracking the plaster. Releasing his grip on the man’s arm a bit, Art took a step back and swung a wicked elbow into the man’s temple. Blood immediately poured down the side of his head.

  The man in the sweatshirt tried to yank his arm free and fired his pistol. The bullet dug a long gash down the hallway wall.

  The sound was muffled by the construction sounds, but Hayley’s killer jumped, startled, when the shot went off behind him. He hurried for his pistol, and Hayley dove toward it.

  The man was faster. She was still on the ground when he snatched up his pistol and started turning it toward her. But he was close. She kicked up as hard as she could, catching him in the crotch with her shin.

  He doubled over, dry heaving and clutching his groin. Before he could stand up, two shots blasted through the hallway and tore through his chest.

  When he fell, Hayley could see Art behind him. He was locked up with the man in the sweatshirt, but had turned so he and the man both held his gun. The barrel smoked. Rage creased the man’s face. Art’s expression remained that of stone.

  The man fought harder, and Art moved easily, letting the force carry the man off balance. As soon as Art had the advantage, he twisted the gun from the man’s hand, turned it around and fired point-blank into his heart.

  Art let the man’s body drop to the ground then hurried to her, the gun in his grip.

  She scurried backward in the hall, finding her footing and struggling not to peer at the twisted bodies that had just been living men. All she saw was Art kicking the gun away from her attacker’s hand before she turned to stare at the pale yellow wall.

  “Are you okay?” His voice was close. His body was close.

  “You...” Her jaw shook and she didn’t know if she could make words. “We have to stop...being in situations...where you ask me that.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She trembled as she tore her eyes from the wall and tried to look at him. But his back was to her, his focus down the hallway where the men had come from. Fear gripped her again. It wasn’t over.

  New shadows moved like black vultures at the stairway landing. How many more killers were coming? Art had his pistol aimed in their direction.


  A man’s voice called out over the construction noise. “Detroit! Detroit!”

  Art sighed relief and lowered his gun. A blond man hurried into the hallway, carrying a gun of his own. Behind him was Mary from the farmer’s market. They both scanned quickly over the dead assassins and came to her and Art.

  The man clarified in a quick burst to Art, “We were too many steps behind. Couldn’t catch up without breaking our cover.”

  “I get it, Harper. I get it.” Art handed over the pistol, then rubbed at his ribs, wincing.

  Mary stepped between Hayley and the sight of the bodies. “You good?”

  Hayley shook her head.

  “But you’re not hurt?” Mary gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

  “No.” Though if she was, she didn’t think she’d know it for a long time because of all the fear and adrenaline jamming her senses.

  Art still stood next to her, giving her a body to lean on. “The master chef is a warrior. Engaged her target. Took him out at the balls.”

  Mary smiled. “I knew I liked this girl for a reason.” She put out her fist, and Hayley bumped it with her trembling hand.

  Harper was thick with muscles but balanced like an athlete. He gave Art a pat on the chest. “You cooked, we’ll clean.”

  “Thanks.” Art remained remarkably steady.

  Mary nodded to Hayley. “Get gone.”

  Art didn’t move until Hayley did. She took a tentative step, testing her legs. She managed to stay upright and move in a somewhat straight line. Art was right with her but stopped to pick up a few of the produce bags.

  “Are you kidding?” How could anything normal like cooking and eating ever happen again?

  “We’ve got to make it look like nothing happened.” He hefted the bags. “We came to town, we shopped, we ate, spent a little time, then left.”

  Her legs remained unsteady and she had no choice but to walk with him as he progressed up the hall. When she tried to lean down to pick up a bag, he stopped her.

  “Leave that one.” His hand was gentle on her forearm.

  Then she saw the spattering of blood on the plastic and the green leaves. Her stomach turned. She fought back retching.

  Art had her moving again, walking down the hall and not looking back at the bodies or Mary and Harper. The sound of construction stopped. Her ears rang.

  As they walked down the creaking stairs, Art explained quietly. “It was Garin. He hired them.”

  “Who were they?” The men were dark and tanned, not like the Russian guards at the house.

  “Local bad guys.” Art was careful at each landing of the stairs, checking up and down. “He must’ve booked them when he was in town, told them to look out for us.”

  They reached the ground floor. The front desk was empty. There was no one in the lobby or in the street she could see through the glass doors.

  “But Garin can’t know how it played out. It’ll just make it worse.” Art got them to the doors and checked up and down the street. “And it’ll make him think a little too hard about me, about who’s helping me out here.”

  He pushed the door open and scanned the area. She could smell the concrete dust from the construction but didn’t see any sign of them. Even the soda vendor was gone.

  It was two blocks to the car. The longest two blocks in the world.

  “I don’t know...” She didn’t trust anything. No car that passed or cloud in the sky. She and Art walked closer to the square. The people paid little attention to them, but she felt menace in everyone’s eyes. “I don’t know how I can pretend...”

  His steady presence at her side kept her moving. Without pushing, he maintained a hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the car. His touch was the only thing that grounded her. If she lost him, she would spin off into the grinding teeth of the carnivorous world all around her.

  “Deep breath.” How did he sound so steady?

  “There’s no air.” Her lungs felt half the size as usual.

  “Panic is the enemy now.” Though he appeared calm, his gaze moved about the area, taking in all the angles.

  “I’m not a soldier.” Admitting this pushed the fear deeper into her. Two men had just tried to kill her and Art. He was trained for it. She wasn’t.

  “But you dance with fire and steel every day.” When his eyes turned to her face, a kindness for her surfaced.

  “Not like...” Her throat might completely close up any second.

  “Deep breath.” This time he gave her an example, drawing long through his nose, then out through his mouth.

  Her attempt wheezed short.

  “I’ll bet—” with quick caution he checked around a corner, then led her up a street where she finally saw the SUV, “—you had to deal with some real monsters in the kitchen while you were coming up.”

  Her brain conjured the chef from her past, but could only nod her answer.

  “What was his name?” He angled them both to the passenger side of the car. The keys were noiseless in his hand.

  Struggling to relax enough to make her mouth and jaw work, she said, “Noonan.”

  Art opened the back hatch, and they piled the bags of produce in the SUV. He scanned over her shoulder, up to the roofs of the buildings, his awareness charged as he opened the passenger door for her. “I already hate him,” he growled with a smirk.

  Falling into the story helped find her breath. “I line-cooked for him when I was in LA for a couple of years.”

  “I didn’t know you hit that city.” He stepped aside so she could get in the seat, but stayed with her at the open door.

  “Not for long. I wasn’t a good fit. Too many assholes like Noonan.” The time in LA had been rough and lonely. Everyone had an agenda, cannibals who would do anything to get what they wanted. “He’d insult everything we did. Take the knife out of your hand and do it himself. Splash boiling water from the pots at you if he didn’t think you were moving fast enough.”

  “Son of a bitch.” The muscles in Art’s jaw twitched. “But you made it through that. You’re still cooking.”

  “I’m a better cook than him. On my last night, when I knew I was out, I took this stupid recipe he had for duck breast with cherries and flipped it up. Roasted apricots. Candied rosemary. This crazy penne pasta risotto with the duck cracklings.” She laughed, breath filling her again. “Just left it on the prep station and walked the fuck out.”

  “Badass.” Art’s grin was filled with admiration. His arms spanned from the open door to the car frame, blocking her from the world. “You’ve got this.”

  And a small part of herself had to believe him. She’d lived through Noonan. She’d lived through that hallway in the hotel. Her pulse slowed. The tunnel vision that had crowded, claustrophobic, around her widened.

  She told Art, “I’m still cooking.”

  * * *

  How fast? How far? He’d wanted to floor the SUV out of town. Tear up the desert and take Hayley as far away as possible. But the operation wasn’t over. They had to return and finish the Orel Group for good.

  The men in the hotel had probably never heard of the organization. They’d just taken the cash, listened to the descriptions of Art and Hayley and thought they had an easy gig. Now they were dead. He’d placed the bullets himself. But Art had the urge to double-check. Anyone who came after Hayley like that shouldn’t get a second chance.

  Harper and Mary would do a good job of the cleanup. Even if Harper was a Navy man. Mary’s time in the service remained sealed and encrypted. Art suspected she was Delta but never asked and understood he’d never get a straight answer from an operator with that kind of background.

  Hayley sat in the passenger seat with her knees drawn up to her chest. She’d shaken off some of the trauma of the assault, but he knew she’d be fe
eling it for quite a while. And there was no chance she’d ever forget.

  After a few turns on the streets, they were out of town and back into the desert. Past the trucks. Past the power lines. They would be alone until they reached the house.

  “Is there anything you won’t cook?” He feared she’d wind herself into a ball and never be able to stretch out into the fierce, determined Hayley he knew.

  “Octopus.” Her answer came immediately. “They’re too smart. Too cool.” She stared out the window, still distant.

  “But a lamb?” It was a risk to needle her too much.

  That brought out a smile and a shake of her head. Slowly, she lowered her legs to the foot well. “They taste too damn good.”

  “How would you cook it for me?” He watched her come back, eyes focusing, mind turning.

  “Sear it hard, roast it good. Garlic. A few sage leaves. Simple. Primal.” She was breathing again, loosening. But a deep red shadow lurked in her. “Do you remember the first person you killed?”

  “Of course.” He’d warned her earlier that the car might be bugged. No part of these Russians could be trusted. But this information wouldn’t give them anything they could use against him or Hayley. “In Afghanistan. On patrol in the mountains. Checking out what we thought might be a backdoor route for moving munitions. We got hit with an ambush and fought back. Man in my unit had his thigh torn up by four rounds. I got the guy who got him.” It sounded simple, but she didn’t need all the details of panic and shouting and blood. Or the sickening feeling deep in his guts and mind after the noise had quieted and he’d seen the body.

  The first of a few. Two added that day.

  He hadn’t realized how cold he’d felt until her hand rested on his thigh. A mile or three sped by. Distance had helped memory. Her touch healed deeper. He placed his hand on hers, completing the charged loop between them. The world had just twisted before her eyes, showing new pits of darkness. Words had done what they could. Art gave her everything else he could with his skin on hers.

  The bruises from the brief fight started to throb. His ribs tightened up. He welcomed the pain. It meant he was still alive and she was, too.