Countdown to Zero Hour Page 23

  She prepared, trying to take on the ease she’d seen in Art when he battled. His movements had been fluid, adapting to what was happening around him. But he was trained for it.

  Seconds stretched like steel cables. Garin hesitated, as if running through scenarios while his body waited for orders. She kept the knife high, in view. Just like throwing a punch, she thought. She was ready to slash out, again and again, and prayed that no pain would come her way.

  Maybe Garin sensed her determination. Bullying a woman was easy when she couldn’t fight back. Hitting him with the spoon in the kitchen had only fueled his rage. This time she had an edge.

  The large man muttered again, sentences dripping with bitterness and disappointment. He shook his fist slowly and turned his scowl from her as if he couldn’t stand to see her face.

  The air felt less combustible when he stepped around her, not bothering to even glance back and continuing to mutter. She knew better than to let her guard down. If he didn’t come rushing back then, he would tomorrow, or the next night.

  She hurried to her room, and Art was by her side by the time she was throwing the door open. He closed and locked it behind them.

  Tremors shook her legs and she paced to release the energy.

  “The knife.” Art held up his own fist as an example.

  It took effort to line up her shaking hand with the sheath, then she pushed the blade in and hid its deadly edge. She tossed her roll of clothes onto the bed and continued to walk in the narrow space between the wall and the door.

  “You handled it,” Art whispered, even and soft.

  “It helped seeing you there.” Every step through this ordeal, Art had been close.

  His carnivorous grin flashed. “It’s good to have friends in dark places.”

  She flexed her hand. It wanted to grip a tight fist, even though the knife was put away. “I’m in there now, in the darkness.” Her pace slowed, legs growing steady.

  “Not completely.” He stayed by the small table in the corner, allowing her room to walk. “We’re going to keep you out.”

  “By giving me a knife?” She stopped, facing him. Yes, he’d been there all along. Because he was the reason she was among the killers.

  “I...” He rubbed his shaved head, frustrated. “I can’t just leave you defenseless. But there’s more. There’s so much worse...”

  She knew he’d seen it.

  He remained on his side of the room. “I would’ve finished Garin if he’d come a step closer. I can do that. I’ve done it. You don’t have to.”

  “I might.” Garin had been a heartbeat away from her, his eyes wild.

  “Not while I’m alive.”

  He’d made that promise before. The death she’d seen, at his hands, revealed what it meant. How far he’d go. How dark. Into the shadows that she could never see into.

  And then she might lose him forever.

  Art left her room quietly, the door clicked in a whisper behind him. She locked it and watched the shadows of his steps under the door as he disappeared.

  * * *

  The gun was in his hand. He’d unloaded it, checked the action, loaded it and now waited. Art perched at the edge of his bed, feeling like he was about to leap into the void. Usually, on this mission, this was where he’d be relaying the day’s intel to Jackson. But contact was dead. Only Garin and Dernov had the combination to the safe. Art had a pretty good idea that Mary, with her shady training, could spring the lock, but that wasn’t even close to a possibility.

  It might be satisfying to get the combination out of Garin. Especially after the way he’d cornered Hayley in the hallway. The psycho had been babbling about how her family would benefit from a pure-blood like him, and Art’s bad lineage would just pollute her. Maybe his hired killers were only supposed to off Art at the hotel. He didn’t want to think about what plans they had for her. Snapping Garin’s neck while he was focused on Hayley outside her door would’ve been easy, but his disappearance would’ve made a lot of waves.

  As soon as the fifth boss arrived, all safeties would be clicked off. The house would be a free-fire zone, and if Garin got in the way of the mission, so be it.

  But there was no way to know when that would happen. He still hadn’t worked out a signal. Simple gunfire wouldn’t bring in Automatik. The situation was so volatile that the crack of bullets would be as normal as the crack of eggs. The bursts of AK fire from the local heavies didn’t trigger the assault. Art needed something big.

  The largest bang he could make was the propane tank. Without the phone as an electronic trigger, he’d have to do it the blue-collar way: a well-placed bullet on the charge around the pipe. Which positioned him somewhere in the basement, not the safest place during the blast. And it meant he wouldn’t have eyes on Hayley, unless she was down there in danger of getting blown up with him.

  She’d have to be somewhere other than the kitchen. At least half of it would go up with the tank. That was her safest zone, though. Taking her to another part of the compound put her in greater danger.

  His mind spun and his grip tightened on the pistol. All the moving pieces of this speeding clock had sharp edges. It didn’t seem like there was any way to time them so blood wasn’t spilled.

  * * *

  Burton didn’t play tennis, but in her dream he stood holding a racket and wearing all-white gear on a green-painted court. He complained that she was late and fucked up their chances of taking the cup. His face was red and distorted as he shouted, spitting. The bright sunlight made her head spin. She tried to shade her eyes but couldn’t move her hands.

  A gunshot blasted, loud, and a bullet snapped Burton’s racket in half. He didn’t stop shouting. Art stalked onto the court, shirtless, his scars and tattoos vivid. The push dagger glinted in his fist.

  She shouted, “Nyet!”

  Art punched Burton in the stomach, completely burying the knife. Blood covered his arm.

  He dragged his fist from the now-pale Burton and turned to her.

  Hayley woke up kicking the covers off her legs, ready to run.

  The high window was dark, hours before dawn. She tried to slow her pulse, taking long breaths and sitting up. Each time she blinked, she saw the bright green court and red blood.

  A splash of cold water on her face would help bring back the real world, but unlocking the door felt like a very bad idea. The real world wasn’t much better than the terrible dream.

  Art was better than that, and even though this version had been generated by her subconscious, she felt guilty at the way she’d depicted him. She did trust him and knew he wasn’t just a killer. The constant danger ground her down, confusing everything.

  She ran her fingers through her hair several times, trying to soothe herself. After a few strokes, she lay back in the bed and tried to find her way past the dream and back to sleep.

  Early light woke her. Sleep without rest. She dressed, clipping the knife to her belt just behind her right hip before putting on her chef’s coat.

  Unlocking the door, she let it fall open quietly. Most of the house except the night shift of guards remained asleep.

  Not Art. He sat on the bottom of the service stairs, where they’d had their first kiss. There were dark rings under his emotionless eyes.

  “I had a rough night, too.” He managed a wry smile.

  “I’ll make extra coffee.” First she hit the bathroom for her morning routine and finally splashed cold water on her face.

  Art was standing when she emerged, and the two of them walked into the kitchen. The first coffee was just for them. She couldn’t tell him the dream. He was reserved, as well. The discomfort edged into her. They’d found a connection and now it was strained thin as a champagne glass.

  “I want...” He searched. “I want to take you out to dinner. In San Diego
.”

  The meaning was clear. Once this was over. If they survived.

  She stepped closer to him. “I want that, too.”

  “Or would that be too much like work for you, being in a restaurant?” he asked with concern.

  “Depends on where I go. There are a few places that work good for me.” And it would be a pleasure to share them with him.

  “I’ll let you pick.” Some of the natural rhythmic sways returned to his movement.

  She nodded. “You drive. But I sit in the front.”

  He clinked his mug of coffee with hers. Weariness etched on his face, little lines dragging down the corners of his mouth and his eyes. Somehow he pushed through, maintaining his energy and awareness.

  “The goons will be coming in soon.” He refilled his mug, moving his focus from the back door to the open edge of the kitchen.

  Breakfast had been prepped the night before. She was ready. “This is the easy part.” Drawing on deep reserves of energy, and the caffeine, she tried to will herself awake.

  He looked her up and down. Bits of heat gathered across her skin, as if he was touching her with just the tips of his fingers. “You packin’?” he asked intimately.

  The heat waned. But enough remained to make her wish they were a thousand miles away from this house, alone in another hotel room. Maybe high in a city, with the curtains open so they could watch the people from a distance.

  She brushed her palm along her back where the knife was.

  “Don’t pat it,” he instructed gently. “Lets them know where you stashed it.” He swirled the coffee in his mug. “Give me a turn.”

  She hesitated. Fully clothed, and still she felt exposed. She hadn’t opened herself up to that kind of scrutiny from a man. But it was Art, and the trust remained. She lifted her arms slightly and took a slow turn.

  When she returned to her view of Art, he was nodding appreciatively. “Good.” He was all business. “I can’t see it.” Then a different light crept into his eyes. He murmured, “You do that for me again sometime? Maybe naked, or just in bra and panties.”

  The thrill of exposing herself to him like that shot through her. “Only if you’ll soap me up and shampoo me in a long shower.”

  A few days under pressure with Art had felt like years of peeling away his layers and revealing her own. He seemed like a man who could belong in her life. But was that just because of the danger? What about after? Would their bond continue?

  “Woman.” He tilted his head back slowly, reeling. “You’re the best.”

  They both snapped to attention when the first wave of guards started shuffling to the kitchen. The men gathered their breakfasts, and Hayley kept the coffeepots and food supplies full. Art helped silently. The guards talked to each other, but none of them engaged him. The attack last night highlighted the friction. Art was on the outside. She was neutral to them. The cook.

  The edge in the room suddenly hummed sharp. Men reached for their guns, resting their hands on the grips. Art remained poised, his attention toward the front of the house. A car arrived. The gate squeaked and tires crunched the dirt. Guards left their breakfasts half-eaten and strode out.

  After a moment, the men appeared to take a collective breath. Martha walked down the service hallway toward the kitchen and slowed when she saw all the attention on her. She stashed her purse in a cupboard in the kitchen and set about cleaning and organizing the counters.

  Hayley and Martha and Art exchanged a brief “Buenos días,” then fell back to silence.

  The bosses arrived for their breakfasts, Rolan leading the way. Dernov was rumpled and angry-looking, as usual. The young, tan boss was the kind of guy who was used to going to bed at this early hour and was bleary-eyed.

  Martha worked her way out of the crowded space, taking cleaning supplies into the other parts of the house. At least she could be where no one else was, partially separated from the ongoing stress in the house.

  Murmured talk toward the front of the house skipped back to the kitchen, perking up the bosses and drawing them away. The guards went with them.

  She shared a quick look with Art, asking what was going on.

  “Hang tight,” he told her through a tight mouth, then trailed after the group.

  Tight was the perfect word. What was coming next? She’d learned to mistrust innocent construction sounds. Every corner could hide someone who wanted to kill her. Anything could trigger an explosion.

  She resisted the urge to tap the knife on her belt. It was there. She’d clipped it on earlier, and nothing had changed that. And if she needed, there were other knives nearby. Once, they’d been only for cooking, but she saw their other potential and would use them to stay alive if she had to.

  The voices grew louder at the front of the house. She walked to the edge of the kitchen but couldn’t see. The tone was genial enough, but she knew better than to rely on that.

  Art stalked back toward the kitchen, his face unreadable. Other guards started to filter around in the space behind him, occupied with tasks.

  “The final boss,” he said as soon as he was close enough to murmur.

  “Five?” She tried to keep her voice down.

  He answered with a clipped nod.

  Here came the explosion. She expected every window in the house to crash in with black-clad commando while a roaring helicopter hovered overhead.

  Nothing.

  “What now?” The whole building was supposed to snap as soon as the last boss showed up.

  “You have another guest at the table.” Art’s grim face didn’t reveal everything he was thinking. “We do our jobs.”

  It didn’t make sense. He’d explained most of the mission, and she thought she understood. Why the delay? Was there a problem? Was it all called off? She couldn’t ask everything she wanted to know while vulnerable in the house.

  All she could hold on to was Art’s cryptic, “I’m doing my job,” spoken as he walked out of the kitchen and into the activity.

  * * *

  Bad timing. All the guards were awake. The night shift remained stationed around the house and front gate, waiting for their relief to finish their breakfasts. Everyone turned out for the fifth boss’s arrival.

  Art was once again drafted into bellboy duty. He hefted the bags while Rolan and the other top leaders greeted Krylov, the biggest man in the northeast. Krylov’s driver/bodyguard looked like he spent twenty-seven hours a day in the gym, lifting every weight at once. A fully zipped tracksuit struggled to surround his thick neck.

  The guard didn’t even peek at Art, but shook hands and gave back-thumping hugs to other guys while catching up on whatever bullshit was flying. It was good for Art to fly under the radar.

  Until he could pull the trigger.

  After the night shift was asleep. After Martha was out of the compound. He couldn’t track two noncombatants and assure their safety. It would be hours until he could set off the assault, hoping the other members of Automatik would show up to the shooting party.

  Art remained invisible throughout the trek to the third floor to deposit Krylov’s bags. The boss’s shoes were perfectly polished, just like his manicure. His hair was slicked back, dyed black. His dark mustache stretched out as wrinkles formed in the corners of his eyes. He was free with his smile for the men around him, as long as they brought the admiration.

  Krylov’s man, who Art heard someone call Stepan, asked about Art as he left Krylov’s room after placing the bags at the foot of the bed. Other guards filled him in. Of course Garin added, “Denga,” while slicing at Art with his eyes.

  Stepan nodded his understanding, squinting down his broken nose at Art.

  There was no sense in going at the gorilla. Even if he took him out, proved his strength, it would never rank him with the others. He was as close as he nee
ded to be.

  The procession headed back downstairs. Art spotted Martha moving into the voids left behind by the men, staying clear of the activity. She’d be almost impossible to track.

  If only there was a way to get Hayley out with her. But there was too much scrutiny now. The phones had been collected and security tightened since the brief assault from the locals. There was no room for variation in the routine.

  In the kitchen, where Krylov and Stepan dug into as much food as their paws could gather, the talk started up again. Hayley was explained as if she was a display behind glass. Art knew she didn’t understand all the Russian but would get the meaning. She kept her face politely neutral, not giving up her power as chef.

  Rolan even went out of his way to compliment her food. Art did translate that for her, and she gave the boss a small appreciative bow.

  Both Krylov and Stepan hammered Art with harder looks when he chimed in.

  “He speaks Russian?” Krylov asked in his native language.

  Art replied in Russian, “And Spanish and English when I need to.”

  Rolan explained Art’s assets to the new boss, while Garin stood in the back of the group, clenching his jaw. Krylov tipped his head back and forth, considering if he should be impressed. Stepan wasn’t and spent most of his time flexing his traps.

  As soon as Krylov continued his tour with the other bosses, the talk among the guards rose up. Art and Hayley’s relationship was poorly and sometimes lewdly summarized while Stepan’s expression dropped to disappointment. Garin’s anger rose, the veins on his forehead showing. Vasily remained stoic, though shifting his squinted eyes from person to person.

  Art was even further on the outside, and now Hayley was with him. They were both expendable after this week was done. Hopefully not sooner.

  The guards filtered out to follow the bosses or to take their positions throughout the house. He wasn’t alone with Hayley and wouldn’t be until the operation was over, but had to communicate how things were shaking down.