Dangerous Secrets (28 page)

The big black car disappeared from sight, but he could envision her getting out and walking up the big stone stairs.

A few minutes later, Nick heard a soft knock on the study door. They watched on the monitor as a servant spoke softly to Worontzoff, who said something back.

Nick’s blood ran cold when he heard Alexei’s translation in his headset.

“Bring her in here.”

It was strange walking into Vassily’s home, now that she understood who he really was. She’d been here often, mainly to his soirées, when the big beautiful mansion was filled with people. A few times for tea, with just the two of them, but what seemed like an army of servants hovering in the background.

Now, the big building seemed dark and deserted, a place of danger, not delight.

All winter, she’d loved visiting Vassily. Each time she entered the mansion, it was with a little frisson of excitement, not the shudder of fear and horror pervading her body right now.

Now she knew what he was and what he saw in her. All those long, soulful conversations, the heartfelt talks about books and music—it had all been false. Vassily hadn’t been conversing with
her
, Charity, but with his long-lost love.

And now that she understood where the money came from, the sumptuousness of Vassily’s home made her queasy. Perhaps it was because she was so depleted, had been through such wringing emotions over the past couple of days, but it seemed to her that Vassily’s home gave off evil vibrations.

She’d never come alone after dark before, without it being a social event. The other times, the mansion and the grounds had been lit up like a Christmas tree, with servants everywhere. Now the mansion was dark, the only outside lights over the porch, leaving the big lawn and the grounds in darkness.

The big black car slid to a stop at the big stairs leading up to the porch. The driver got out and opened the back door. He hadn’t said a word coming here and he didn’t say a word now. He simply held the door open, staring into the far distance.

With each step up the big staircase, the sense of dread increased. She could feel her heartbeat, slow, thudding. It took an effort to move her feet, which felt as heavy as lead. The very air felt dead.

The temptation to look around, to see whether Nick and John Di Stefano were around, was almost irresistible. It would make her feel so much better walking into the dark, forbidding mansion to know that two federal agents were close by, one of them Nick. Whatever would happen to them once this was over, Charity didn’t doubt for a second that Nick would defend her with everything he had.

She also knew that there was a SWAT team somewhere out there, in hiding.

They were good at their job, because she had no sense of protectors being out there at all. She felt alone and small and defenseless, climbing those stairs, palms slick with sweat.

Before she could even ring the chime, the big front door opened. There was almost total darkness beyond, unlike all the other times she’d walked through this door, lit to daylight brightness by the huge chandelier in the foyer.

It wasn’t on now. The only light came from a few lamps on in the big living room at the other end of the foyer, where she and Vassily had spent hours chatting. Her heart squeezed in pain at the thought.

She automatically headed for the living room, when the servant who’d opened the door touched her arm briefly.

“This way, ma’am,” he said, and indicated the study door.

Charity frowned. She’d never been in Vassily’s study. Why did he want her in there now? She approached the study door slowly, heart pounding. The microphone felt like a hundred pound weight between her breasts and she was certain the microcamera was as visible as a red flare.

The servant opened the door and Charity walked in slowly, feeling as if she were going to the guillotine. She wished she’d worn her black turtleneck sweater because she was absolutely certain her trip-hammering heartbeat was visible in her neck.

There was utter silence in the room, five male faces turned to her. Her boot heels sounded loud in the hush of the room.

Vassily’s study was much larger than she’d imagined, almost the size of a ballroom. This being Vassily, it was lined with books, floor to ceiling and, being Vassily, he’d probably
read them all. As usual, a fire burned in a hearth even larger than the one in the living room. The huge room was luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen, with priceless Persian rugs on the flagstone floor, an enormous mahogany desk polished to a high sheen, large pieces of antique furniture barely visible in the gloom. Crystal and brass and silk.

All the light was concentrated around the desk. And on that desk was an open suitcase. It took her a second to recognize what was in the suitcase, it seemed so outlandish.

Money. Money was in the suitcase, brick after brick, tightly packed, overflowing. It must have been millions of dollars. More money than she would ever imagine could be in one place at one time.

Startled, Charity’s gaze flew to Vassily’s. He was watching her carefully, that burning light in his eyes. Charity had no idea how to react. Clearly, Vassily wanted her to see all this money, but why?

It was dangerous, to him and to her.

If she’d harbored the slightest little doubt that Vassily was a criminal, this suitcase shattered that doubt. No one but a criminal could possibly need to handle so much cash.

Vassily was watching her feverishly, expectantly. He knew she’d seen the money. What was she supposed to say? Charity felt the danger in the room, so acutely she felt faint.

She looked around at the other four men. Vassily might look at her with affection—at least until he finally realized that she wasn’t Katya—but the other male faces were watching her with hostility.

Particularly one man, dark with silver-gray hair and harsh-set features. When she met his gaze, her heart jolted at the black, fathomless hatred she read there. It came off him in sickening, dark waves.

The terrorist. Oh God.

Nick had said that the mike wouldn’t pick up her heartbeat, but it seemed impossible to her that it wasn’t. Her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.

“My dearest Katya,” Vassily said softly. He was standing to one side of the desk, leaning on his cane and staring at her, as if the open suitcase packed with money weren’t there. “Come to me, my dushka. Give me a kiss and then go wait for me outside. We have much to discuss.”

Charity was rooted to the spot, throat too tight for words. There was something terrible in the air, some evil presence just ready to reach out with claws and rake her. The very molecules in the air were screaming
danger
. Her skin prickled with it.

Vassily wasn’t moving. He simply watched her with glittering eyes. “Come, my dear,” he said again, and held out his arms, elegant black cane dangling from one ruined hand.

She had to do this. Simply had to. And then she was going to plead a headache and never come back here again.

She wasn’t built for undercover work. It felt like her entire body was signaling that she was lying as she slowly walked forward, knowing that Vassily was going to embrace her, knowing that she couldn’t flinch, knowing that she would.

The dark man watched her progress with ice-cold eyes, then turned to Vassily. “Is this necessary?” His voice was harsh, guttural, with a strong Middle Eastern accent. “She is an outsider. She has no business being here.”

Vassily didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at the man. He simply watched as Charity approached, arms wide to receive her. Vassily murmured something in Russian, which she didn’t understand, but she saw two of the men in the room open their eyes wide in surprise.

The dark man made a sound of disgust, swivelling his head to follow her.

“Katya,” Vassily murmured. Her skin broke out in goose bumps. He was all worked up, eyes shiny, red spots on his cheeks, hands trembling. The cane swayed with his excitement.

The dark man slapped his hand down on the desk in frustration, and she jumped. He was watching her with such hatred she was frightened he’d attack her as she walked by him. If she could, she’d have skirted him, but she couldn’t. He was right in her path

Charity actually heard his teeth grind as she drew even with his chair.

A sudden keening whine started, so loud it hurt her ears, a huge whistling noise that seemed to rise up out of the ground. Everyone froze, except the dark man, the terrorist.

“Spy!” he screamed, jumping up, pulling out a gun. “She’s a spy! She dies!”

“Katya!” Vassily shouted, throwing himself at her. There was the sound of a shot, and she slammed against the wall, her back erupting in pain. Another shot and then all sounds were drowned in the huge explosion that knocked her off her feet and blinded and deafened her.

Christ.

Nick watched, sweating, as Charity entered Worontzoff’s study. This wasn’t in the program. She was supposed to stay far away from everyone except Worontzoff and plead a blinding headache as soon as possible.

Walking into a room with Worontzoff, al-Banna, his bodyguard, and a man who’d smuggled in radioactive material wasn’t what they’d bargained for.

His eyes were glued to the screen, jaws clenched so tightly his temples hurt. Charity was completely alone in a room full of criminals and terrorists. Not just Charity. Charity and his child.

Nick could barely breathe as she entered the room.

Worontzoff, the fuckhead, looked at her as if she had become his personal possession. Al-Banna was coldly furious.

He saw her realize what the open suitcase held and watched her swallow heavily. Charity was no fool, thank God. She knew the danger she was in. He trusted her to remain alert.

“Prepare for dynamic entry,” he said quietly into his mike. Clicks sounded in response. Nick knew the men were moving, though he couldn’t see them and he couldn’t hear them.

He slanted a hard glance at Di Stefano, ready to take him down if he objected. But Di Stefano was readying his breaching weapon, ready to blow the French windows open if necessary.

It was going to be a fucking miracle if she got out of there alive. Nick started pulling material out of his rucksack. Flashbangs, extra magazines.

They were taking everyone down, no question. That canister was not leaving the building, unless it was in the hands of Homeland Security biohazard experts. Only the takedown had to happen after Charity left. Just the thought of her caught in a crossfire made him nearly insane with fear.

This was a clusterfuck just waiting to happen.

Sweating heavily, he stared at the screen, willing everyone on the screen to simply tell her to go away. She’d go into another room, wait, plead a headache, and would be driven home. Once he’d ascertained she was home safely,
then
they’d go in.

Not going to happen.

Nick’s blood ran cold at Worontzoff’s expression. He was getting off on Charity understanding what was going on, totally gone in some alternate universe with his dead love, Katya, dead all those years ago and now come back to life.

“Come, dushka,” he said, and held out his arms.

Nick could practically feel Charity’s hesitation and fear.
Don’t do it
. He sent the thought to her, though he understood she had to. Right now, her life rested on a knife’s edge. It depended on keeping Worontzoff’s illusion that she was Katya alive.

She moved forward slowly toward him. Nick had to fight tunnel vision, that anomaly of battle where you could only see what was right in front of you. It was dangerous, in battle and now. He had to be aware of everything, all senses fired for signs of imminent danger. He deliberately spread his senses wider and caught al-Banna’s expression.

Every hair on his body stood on end. Al-Banna watched Charity with cold hatred. He would look for an excuse to bring her down. She was an extraneous presence, one unplanned for. A danger to him.

Nick gripped the stock of his gun more tightly.

Charity passed al-Banna and suddenly a piercing whistle sounded incredibly loud in his headset, so loud he could also hear it through the walls of the mansion.

Busted! A countersurveillance device! Al-Banna had hidden a countersurveillance device on his person and knew that Charity was wired.

A gunshot sounded. Two.

“Go, go, go!” Nick shouted into the headset, moving fast. The preternatural calm of battle took over now, time stretched, and he was able to calculate every move.

Di Stefano’s breaching weapon blew open the doors and he lobbed in an M84 flashbang. He and Di Stefano flattened themselves against the wall. He signaled with his hands to Di Stefano.
Me left, you right.

Di Stefano nodded.

A blinding and deafening blast exploded in the room: 8 million candela, 180 decibels. Guaranteed to stun anyone within a twenty-foot radius. Everyone in the room would be blinded for at least five seconds until the photosensitive cells in the retina could return to normal, and the fluid in the semicircular canals of the ear would be so disturbed, it would be as if everyone in the room had received a roundhouse punch.

He was protected from the worst of the blast by the mansion’s wall, but he’d trained over and over again to withstand the shock. A second after the flashbang had gone off, he was in through the door, tracking left, knowing Di Stefano was tracking right. Between them, they covered almost 180 degrees.

He moved fast, disarming the two stunned men, slapping PlastiCuffs on them. Al-Banna was down, blood pooling under his back, Di Stefano putting a pack over his chest wound.

Nick scanned the room, then scanned again. Where was Charity? Where the fuck
was
she?

He heard a soft cry, whirled, and his heart stopped. Simply stopped.

Charity was lying on her back against the wall behind the desk as if a giant fist had carelessly punched her there. Half of her was covered by Worontzoff, and all of her was covered with blood.

Someone was crying, a sound of raw animal pain that dug deep into the bone, that hurt the heart. Charity was aware of it, but only dimly. Her head swam and every inch of her hurt. Where was she? She looked around without moving her head, though she still had huge spots in front of her eyes from the massive explosion that had gone off in the room.