KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (73 page)

“I want to speak with my agent,” Marshall said.

“I’ve done nothing to block communications with you. She’s sent regular updates.”

“Which you’ve monitored,” Marshall pointed out. “Is she a prisoner?”

Dante didn’t hide his surprise. “Absolutely not. She’s working hard, though with frustrating results,” Dante said, privately noting the double entendre. What he and Macy had shared over the past two days had given new depth to the word
frustrating.
“You may see her immediately, of course.”

“Good,” Marshall acknowledged, with a gleam in his eye that told Dante that at this point, he’d see Macy if he wanted to, with or without Dante’s permission. “And I will. But first, I have a private matter to discuss.”

Dante shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable with the Marshall’s tone. He sounded less like the head of an international spy agency and more like a concerned father.

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do. You probably think this old black man has come here to make sure Macy’s heart doesn’t get broken through your deal, whatever it is. I don’t give a damn about her heart.” He leaned forward, his large, long-fingered hands braced on his knees. “For all I know, Macy doesn’t have a heart. And if she didn’t, I wouldn’t give a damn because she’d probably be a better agent for it, not that she’s lacking in any way. But this mission is critical, and I won’t allow one of my agents to have her will broken as a consequence of working with the Arm.”

Dante frowned. Under Dante’s direction, the Arm had not used the type of tactics Marshall spoke of—at least, never with someone like Macy. He had created a scenario where she’d been forced to comply because he’d had no other option. And only he had known that he planned to give Macy access to the house, even if she refused their deal.

Though he’d like to think that deep down, Macy understood. His entire career, he’d put national security above everything else—including her. That’s how he’d lost her—though she didn’t know this yet.

“I assure you, sir,” Dante said, clearing his throat before continuing, “I’d never authorize any type of mind control with Macy. She means a great deal to me. You must know about our past.”

Marshall’s gaze didn’t waver. “Vaguely. She’s never volunteered specifics. I know you were once lovers. I know that you did something that royally pissed her off.”

To say the least.

“In her eyes, I betrayed her.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

Marshall sat back into the chair, his hands casually draped on the armrests. “So you’ve used your position as head of the Arm to manipulate a mission and win her back?”

Dante winced. Sounded so much worse when spoken by someone else. “It’s because of my loyalty to the Arm that I lost her in the first place. I want her back.”

Marshall’s eyes narrowed. “As an agent?”

“I couldn’t care less about what organization Macy gives her allegiance to.”

“She can’t work for T-45 and be personally involved with you. I respect Macy and I trust her with my life, but that’s a conflict of interest no organization can ignore. Understand one thing, Mr. Burke. If Macy returns to you emotionally, you’ll be asking her to give up her career. She’s poised to take a leadership role within T-45, a job she’s deserved for a long time. Are you promising her something in return that is worth her giving up her life’s dream for?”

Little by little, the air deflated out of Dante’s chest. What exactly was he offering Macy, other than a slow roll in the hay as opposed to the fast ones they’d shared in the past? He’d attempted to show her how much he’d changed, how much he wanted to pamper her, pay attention to her, concentrate on her and her needs. But she’d need much more than a couple of nights of great sex before she’d chose him over her career.

And he wasn’t entirely sure he had anything that valuable to give.

“Your point is well-taken, Mr. Marshall.”

“Good,” Marshall said before his face dissolved into a mask of dire seriousness. “Now, on to the real reason I’m here.”

* * *

Macy stretched, waiting until every disk in her spine had popped before she released a guttural, frustrated groan and threw down her gloves in defeat. She’d had such high hopes for the billiards room. Though the housekeeper had reported that Bogdanov hardly used the room while he’d lived in the house, the nature of the room invited images of numbers, patterns and shapes, all of which could be used to successfully hide a counter-code. With dark, hand-carved paneling and numerous photographs of homes from all around New Orleans from the French Quarter to the Garden District on the walls, she’d had a thousand sound possibilities about where the scientist might have hidden the sought-after sequence.

Unfortunately, none of her theories had held together. Her best shot had been a combination of the addresses and street names of the houses pictured on the wall, but no matter how many times the computer ran the data, a successful match to the characteristics of known counter-codes would not emerge.

The clues had been so promising, she’d nearly questioned the accuracy of the software—until she reminded herself that Bogdanov had written the program himself long before his mind had started to wither away.

So she’d worked from sunrise to sundown exclusively in this room, skipping her nap and putting off her search of the library until tomorrow. Now hungry, tired and teetering on the edge of surrender, she flopped onto the overstuffed couch, threw her head back against the cushions and allowed herself to think about Dante for the first time today.

She slipped back to the moment, shortly before dawn, when she’d heard the lock click open on the bedroom door. Awakened by the sound, she’d kept still beneath the covers, regulating her breathing so she appeared asleep. Luckily, she was on her side so he couldn’t see how her nipples had hardened at the mere possibility that he’d enter the room and finish what he’d started last night.

Several silent, still moments later, she’d finally realized he wasn’t coming in, no matter how much her body ached for him.

The disappointment had rolled with her out of bed in a rush, causing her to jam her arms back into the robe with more force than necessary. She had to give the man his props—he’d succeeded in getting under her skin.

For the first time in years, she wanted to know why he’d betrayed her. Up until now, the fact that he’d ruined her career to further his own had been enough to keep her from ruminating about the past. What was done was done.

But maybe she’d done them both a disservice by taking off without asking for his side of the story. The promises T-45 had made to lure her away from the Arm had been an irresistible salve for her personal pain. With her choice of assignments, she could travel the world, pocket impressive financial rewards and gain access to the world’s most advanced technology—all without the red tape and old-boy network so prevalent in the CIA.

In her anger, she’d blamed Dante for her lack of advancement in the Arm, when, in truth, he couldn’t have stonewalled her on his own. And why would he have? The powers-that-be would never have tapped her for a leadership role over him.

She was good, but he was better—so much better that he’d managed to force himself back into her life and make her face the truths about their past through eyes unclouded by raw emotions, righteous indignation or rage.

She loved her new life. She had no regrets. In many ways, her leaving Dante—and the Arm—had been best for both of them. Nine years ago, neither she nor Dante had been ready for a real relationship. They’d been too young. Too ambitious. The man she’d known then couldn’t have been able to be patient or gentle. The woman she’d been then wouldn’t have known what to do with a man who could orchestrate a seduction with the same precise detail as a covert operation.

He’d changed. And so had she.

Damn him. Damn them both.

She hadn’t wanted change. She’d found peace in her new life—or at least, she’d found a niche she could fit snugly inside of—a niche that left little room for a real relationship. She wasn’t even sure she knew what that was anymore. The nature of her job would keep her from ever having a normal marriage like her parents had. Her dad owned a car repair shop and her mother took care of the books. Their love might have been tested over the years, but never by forces who were trying to save the world.

Slapping her hands on her thighs, Macy sat up. Lack of sleep and frustration over the elusive code had addled her brains. Why was she thinking of the words “Dante” and “relationship” in the same context? If nothing else, they worked for rival organizations. Except for a brief affair to burn away the ghosts of the past, they couldn’t be anything more to each other than former lovers.

But the time had come to lay their cards on the table. All of them. The new ones, the old ones and all the cards in between. Maybe she’d end up with a winning hand, but if nothing else, the terminable game would be over.

She dashed to her tiny bedroom in the back of the house, showered, changed and returned to the billiards room. She grabbed some fruit from the kitchen and munched while she arranged the furniture to her liking.

Night had fallen. Where was Dante?

In the floor-to-ceiling mirror, she’d checked her bold, red lipstick and tore her hands through her hair so that her auburn waves flashed around her face in wild disarray. A touch of black eyeliner around her eyes and she’d recreated the woman Dante once hadn’t been able to resist. In skinny black jeans and tank top that zipped up the front, she looked casual, but sexy. She loosened the clasp so that her breasts nearly spilled from the material. Now she looked
sexier
.

Her plan was simple. She wanted to know why Dante betrayed her and why he wanted her back. If his words rang true, she’d make him an offer he couldn’t refuse.

It might not be what he thought he wanted—a real reconciliation—but it was all she could give.

And then they’d be through.

She was on the brink of tapping on the lens of the camera mounted above the fireplace to get Dante’s attention when the double doors swung open. Dante stepped in, his brow instantly arched over curious eyes. She stalked toward him with her sultriest strut, but stopped dead when Abercrombie Marshall came up behind him.

“Abe?”

Macy froze, trying not to guess what her boss thought about her seductive appearance. His stare was so hard, she immediately zipped up her blouse and stood ramrod straight.

“Macy, we have a situation.”

He gestured toward the couch, but Macy remained standing. She couldn’t imagine her boss would reprimand her for her liaison with Dante. He’d known, if not specifically then by inference, the price she’d had to pay for access to the house.

No, his expression denoted something more serious—something deadly.

“The terrorists have taken a silo?” she guessed.

Abe nodded.

Her eyes flashed to Dante, who confirmed Abe’s report with the stoic set of his jaw.

“Where?”

“Silo 887, in the Kun-Lun Mountains in Russian South Siberia. The area is incredibly remote and travel to the region is treacherous.”

“The Russian army?” she asked.

“Unable to reach the target area at this time,” he replied.

Dante stepped forward. “The Arm has sent in special ops, but initial reports from satellite photos indicate that the terrorists have booby-trapped the pass leading to the silo and have anti-aircraft capabilities. Chances are slim that we’ll reach the area before zero hour.”

The impact of her failure knocked her in the gut. Agents with more experience than her—even Abe—had warned her that a counter-code might not exist, but she hadn’t wanted to give up so easily.

She still didn’t.

“What are our options?” she asked, her voice surprisingly crisp.

“We don’t know if the terrorists really have the launch code or if they’re just trying to get attention,” Abe said. “So we still have some time. But not much.”

“Then I suggest we double our efforts to find Bogdanov’s failsafe,” Dante answered.

“I’ve sent extra specialists to every location you initially identified,” Abe said to Macy. “But your friend here and I both agree that this house would have been the most likely place for the code to be hidden.” Abe reached out and pressed his large hand on Macy’s shoulder, which she suddenly imagined had grown very unsteady. “The operation between T-45 and the Arm just became official. We have to find the code or millions of people could die.”

Eight

“All the books have been searched,”
Dante reported, tearing off his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. Time had run out. Once again, he’d been forced to choose the good of the mission over a future with Macy.

But this time, he’d find a way to control the outcome.

He had to.

Macy stepped to the center of the library, her gaze high as she turned around in a tight series of circles, her eyes lowering at every pass. Like a machine programmed to accurately assess the inner workings of some electronic device, Macy focused her finder’s instincts on the library with cool precision.

After consulting with Marshall, they’d decided against bringing in more agents. The Arm had already completed thorough and by-the-book searches. Only someone like Macy, an expert in pushing beyond the limits of protocol and procedure and who had studied Bogdanov’s life would be able to find the counter-code in time to avert a disaster.

She had, however, agreed to accept Dante’s help, just as he’d agreed to allow a squad of T-45 operatives who’d trained in the Himalayas to join the Arm special ops team in their quest to stop the terrorists at the source. The cooperative nature of this mission would have made history, if either agency ever allowed the pairing to go public, which they would not. T-45 subsisted on their reputation as a rogue operation. As soon as the mission was complete, all proof that they’d ever worked alongside the Arm would be erased.

Except for his work with Macy. He’d move heaven and earth to make sure their reunion was not forgotten.

“Not having to go through the books will save time,” Macy said. “Besides, Bogdanov didn’t read any of these books,” she said. “They’re all in English. They likely belonged to his wife.”