Killer Secrets (3 page)

strike?

Of course they would have, he thought cynically as he
stared at the bullet-ridden bodies laid out before

him.

"Secure the perimeter. Half of you take up sniper
position, the other half are with me."

He had a dozen men. He had come prepared. Survival
instinct, knowledge of his enemies, or just plain

paranoia had precipitated the cautionary attack on the
warehouse.

It wasn't the first time Sorrell had tried to take him out
in the past year. Ian had learned to be on guard.

Of course, that was the price of walking away from a life
of truth, justice, and the American way to take

over the reins of a drug cartel. That cynical thought had
something dark and bitter brewing in his gut.

As he turned and strode away from the dead bodies he knew
none of the regret at the loss of life that he

had often known during his years as a SEAL. The knowledge
that he'd had no choice, that he was

preserving the laws of his nation, didn't comfort him.

Because he didn't need comfort.

"What the hell happened in there?" Deke asked,
his voice low, as the others moved out to secure the

perimeter and to surround the heir of the Fuentes cartel.
They left Ian and Deke in the center as they

moved from the warehouse.

"Did you see Algeria?" Ian asked him carefully.

"Who could miss her," Deke breathed out roughly.
"Those Russian cheekbones and cool hazel eyes

would be a dead giveaway a mile away. Knock-dead gorgeous
and dangerous as hell. Have you ever

seen such a pretty package housing such a black
heart?"

Ian holstered his weapon as he stared at Josef and Martin
Missern across the warehouse lot, although

his attention was focused on Deke.

"You're sure it was her?" Couldn't anyone else
see beneath the package, the disguise?

"Man, no one could imitate Algeria." Deke
snorted, but his look as he stared back at Ian shifted. "Could

they?"

Ian shook his head. "It looked like Algeria; I just
didn't expect to see her here."

"Antoni was here," Deke pointed out.
"They're known associates."

"She doesn't usually work assassination squads,"
Ian reminded him.

It was clear Deke didn't have a clue who Algeria actually
was.

Ian rubbed at his jaw, pausing before stepping closer to
the Missern limo and staring around the

warehouse lot. The neat wood and metal buildings were
grouped close together, their contents awaiting

shipping or delivery. It was the perfect place for an
ambush. So why hadn't the Chameleon warned him

of it?

She had been the Chameleon tonight, partially. The disguise
had been perfect, as it always was. The

feature-altering latex appeared as natural as true flesh.
The contacts in her eyes hadn't given a hint of their

true color, and the wig, if it had been a wig, looked as
natural as real hair.

It better be a wig. God help her if she had cut that length
of silky black hair that had graced her head in

Atlanta.

She looked like a witch in her natural form. Gorgeous.
Wicked. Seductive. The persona of Algeria

Winters was as dangerous, as lethal, as any disguise the
Chameleon had ever taken though.

"We have another problem," Deke warned him then.

Ian glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "Just
one?"

Deke grimaced. "Word came in as we were suiting up to
attack the warehouse. Kira Porter sent a

message to the villa saying hello."

Ian froze. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. She had called
the villa? Which meant Diego knew, and that

scheming, matchmaking bastard would be all over that one
like white on rice. Nothing would please

Diego more than to believe Ian had managed to catch the interest
of a society princess such as Kira

Porter—her real life persona. But it had also been the
warning he wondered why he hadn't received.

He was going to wring her slender, graceful little neck.

"Ian, what the hell is going on here?" Josef
Missern snapped, as he and his brother and chauffer stood

with hands flat against the hood of the limo.

Black-clad Fuentes soldiers pointed lethal M-16s at their
backs, their eyes behind the black masks filled

with the anticipation of death.

He pushed Kira to the back of his mind. He would deal with
her later. But he would deal with her. And

when he did, he promised himself, she wouldn't enjoy it
nearly as much as she believed she was going to.

"Treachery, Josef." Ian strode across the
distance with lazy ease as he watched the weapons dealers

with a cold smile. "Treachery and death. Would you
like to join in? I can arrange it for you."

The Frenchman paled as his brother stared back at him in
horror.

Oh yeah, they had known what was going to happen here, and
they were the perfect messengers to

inform Sorrell that his highly paid assassins had failed.

As for the missing Algeria Winters, aka the Chameleon, aka
one satin-fleshed, gray-eyed, black-haired

Kira Porter? Well, he would take care of her on his own.
And whatever her agenda, she could fly right

back to Washington and let her handler know she had failed.

Ian had warned them when he left to stay the hell out of
his way. He would kill and ask questions later

before he would risk his own life, and his own plans. He
was here for vengeance, and by God,

vengeance would be his.

Two

"SO WHERE THE HELL ISKira Porter?" Ian slammed
the door to his office the next night and faced

the bodyguard who had stepped inside with him.

His orders to Deke that morning had been simple: Find Kira
Porter.

Deke looked as damned tired as Ian felt. Waylaying
assassins and buying arms from gun smugglers at

midnight, trying to justify letting the scum of the earth
live another day, and doing it with only a few hours'

sleep in the past two days hadn't helped his mood.

Nearly being knocked on his ass by a pint-sized
black-haired witch with more guts than common sense

wasn't helping either. It didn't matter to Ian that she was
one of the most experienced and competent

contract agents that he knew. It sure as hell didn't help
that she likely knew exactly what she was doing.

The fact that she was there had the blood boiling in his
veins. Unfortunately, it wasn't all anger that was

causing it.

"Miss Porter checked into one of the hotels on the
beach," Deke reported as he frowned down at the

pocket PC he was tapping quickly into. "We tracked her
down pretty fast. We lost Algeria Winters

though. She was on a private flight off the island within
hours of the hit the other night. She's slick."

Ian grunted.

Deke was able, a master at strategy and a hell of a gutter
fighter.

"And we're just now finding out Kira's here?" he gritted
out, stalking to his desk and planting his hands

flat on the deep, glistening wood as he stared back at
Deke. "Where the hell are these informants I'm

paying good money for? Wasn't her name on the fucking
list?"

It was all he could do to keep his voice level, to rein in
the need to pull at every hair in his head. Kira

Porter had a habit of doing that to a man. She raised a
man's frustration level just by being in the same

room with him.

For a moment, one flashing second, he remembered more than
frustration though. He remembered

slipping into her Atlanta condo, trapping her in her bed,
and demanding to know just exactly what she

was doing there living next door to a senator's daughter
who had been kidnapped two years before by

Diego Fuentes.

He remembered waiting for an answer as his cock swelled
beneath his jeans and visions of fucking her

until she screamed his name had danced in his head. Those
dreams still danced in his head. He was just

smart enough to keep them under control. For now.

Damn it to hell. He didn't need her here.

"I'm not hearing any answers," he snarled.
"Did I or did I not put her name on the list of those that I

wanted to be notified if they arrived on the island?"

"You did." Deke nodded. "Someone must have
been sleeping on the job. She's been here a week now,

her and her bodyguard. Evidently her uncle owns some
interest in a few of the hotels on the island and

she's here checking those out. I got the information on our
way back from the buy. I don't know why her

name slipped past our informants."

"Then maybe you should wake someone's ass up," he
snapped, glaring at the other man furiously. "It's

your job to get this information and to make certain those
well-paid little snitches stay on the ball."

He dropped into the chair behind him, pushed his fingers
wearily through his long dark blond hair, and

glowered back at the other man.

Hell, this was just what he needed. He had a hard-on stiff
enough to hammer nails.

He rubbed his hand over his cheek, grimacing at the rough
day's growth of beard and wondered why the

hell he hadn't just killed those damned Missern brothers
rather than letting them go. Son of a bitch, he

had known those two were going to betray him the minute the
runner had arrived that afternoon changing

the location of the buy. Not that either of the Missern
twins had actually been there. Hell no. A highly

trained team of assassins had been there instead, and one
luscious little spy.

He should have put a bullet in both their heads and left
them lying there after he wiped out that

warehouse. He knew they had betrayed that buy to Sorrell,
knew they were behind the information

suddenly leaking to the French terrorist intent on taking
over the cartel that Diego Fuentes had built.

If it were anyone else but a terrorist, he would have
handed it to them on a silver platter rather than using

what he was learning was considerable skill in deceit,
treachery, and running drugs to keep the cartel

growing in blood money.

But he was running out of time as well. If he didn't have
Sorrell's identity soon, then there would be no

way to counter the terrorist strike Ian and DHS knew
Sorrell had planned against a major U.S.

installation. Which one, they didn't know. When and where,
no one was certain. All Ian knew was that

he had until the next month, because after that, it could
happen any day.

He shook his head wearily. "Get out of here," he
ordered. "Catch a few hours' sleep. We'll be heading

out tonight and we'll need to be on our toes to deal with
that one. She's hell on wheels and damned hard

to pin down."

"She's been hitting the clubs since she arrived as
well, pretty much nightly, several a night and never the

same one twice. Our guys at the clubs claim she watches the
door for a few hours, sips at a drink, then

leaves quietly. She's been watching for you," Deke
reported.

Tonight she was going to find him.

He nodded abruptly at the information and waved toward the
door, almost groaning at the need for

sleep as Deke closed it behind him.

He felt like a man with a hangover and he knew he hadn't
had that particular pleasure for too many

months now. And it was too early this morning to start
drinking.

He stared around the room instead. The wide windows that
caught the sun, shades partially drawn

across them and spilling slanting rays of light onto the
wood floors. The cream-colored walls, the heavy

wood furniture. It was a masculine room. Two heavy, dark
leather chairs sat in front of his desk; along

the side of the room an overstuffed couch and two chairs
were grouped around a coffee table. A bar at

the far end and a plasma television on the wall close to
his desk.