Mission: Out of Control (11 page)

“He said he was with the CIA.”

“Yes.”

“And you believed him?”

“He seemed legit. And trustworthy. He wanted to help and I had no reason to suspect he was lying. He told me that if I helped them by carrying information, he'd help me by getting Kafara out of the camp and eventually to America, where I could adopt him.”

“So you agreed.”

“It was a digital file. They'd packaged it into a pair of earrings and I wore them home. Easy.”

He saw, for a second, the same girl who had picked up a roll and pitched it at his head, the same one who had grabbed the mike last night, a moment before
Why did it have to be you? To make me sing the blues…

Head in the game, Brody.

“And?”

“I thought, mission accomplished. Only, by the time Bishop went to the camp, Kafara had disappeared. He's spent the past two years trying to locate him.”

“While you've been acting as delivery girl.”

“Hey, what did they say after 9/11? We need to return to real intelligence, the kind on the ground? And that everyone needs to be a part of protecting America?”

“You could have gotten killed.”

“For a good cause.”

He held up his hands in surrender before he said something he shouldn't.

She reached for the water again, keeping her big eyes on him as she took another sip. “Kafara was ‘drafted' into Mubar's army.”

Brody stiffened, refusing the images that wanted to enter his head.

“Bishop found him, and sent me a text when he found out about my trip. He has long suspected that Damu is smuggling diamonds out of the country, a side gig for the Mubar family fortune. The problem is, the diamonds are showing up in America and no one knows how. Damu and I really do happen to be friends—well, if you call our mutual distrust friendship. Or, maybe Damu really does trust Vonya, I don't know. He often tracks me down when I'm in Europe, and I've attended his birthday party the past two years.”

“Does Leah know about your involvement with the CIA? Because she certainly didn't want to tell me you'd gone to his party.” She nodded.

“And Tommy?”

“No. He's like you. He doesn't like me hanging out with Damu. He'd—”

“Lay his body in front of a bus to stop you?” He said it straight out, angry and harsh.

She stared at him.

Okay, maybe that had been a little over the top.

“So, Bishop said he'd get Kafara out if you got close to Damu in hopes of finding the smuggler? How?”

When Brody found this Bishop fellow, he was going to get to him, teach him about what happens to people who used coercion techniques on civilians. Even willing ones.

“Damu and I often run into each other at parties. Bishop wanted me to use one of these opportunities to get Damu's cell phone, so he could get his contacts and
sent messages. He sent me a V-chip copier, and I was supposed to lift his cell, copy it and slip it back into his pocket. Only…”

She reached inside her pocket and pulled out what looked like an iPhone. “It's one of those mini personal computers. I picked the wrong pocket.”

“You took this off him?”

“While we were dancing.”

Really, she had the capacity to astound him. He turned it on. A password prompt flickered onto the screen.

“The man I met tonight…Bishop sent him to hack the computer. I was just going to pass it off and be done with the whole thing.”

She tried to put the cap on the bottle. It fell off and went spinning across the floor.

He sat back in the chair, staring at the computer. Keep her out of the tabloids, keep her out of trouble and bring her home in one piece. Maybe he'd get one out of three?

“So you see, now I need to find out who this smuggler is, or Kafara is going to die in Mubar's army.”

The door banged open behind them.

Ronie jumped to her feet. Brody had already moved in front of her.

“It's just us, Wick.” Luke stalked into the room followed by Artyom. And surprise, surprise, Vicktor Shubnikov, co-founder of Stryker International, came next in line, annoyance written on his dark Russian features.

And, behind him—oh, no.

“This is what you call R & R?”

Great. “Welcome home, Chet.”

“Y
ou mean to tell me she's been lying to you since you started this gig?”

Couldn't Chet just keep his voice down?

Brody had just given him all the details of the past few weeks, including Ronie's explanation of being involved in the CIA. Chet was clearly having a hard time grasping it all.

It sounded insane, even to Brody's ears. However, his tiny apartment wasn't exactly soundproof—he could practically hear Luke breathing on the other side of the bedroom wall. And thanks, he didn't want everyone on the Stryker team to know how Vonya had snowed him.

Brody drew a long breath before he made this conversation any louder. “Sort of. Yes.”

“And you had no clue about any of this?”

Thank you, oh so much, boss, for pointing that out. As if he couldn't feel worse. “Except a gut feeling that she hadn't shown all her cards, uh, no. I mean, really—you've seen her act. Would you suspect her of working for the CIA?”

How he wanted to go on, to point out the obvious,
that Vonya built her persona on the unexpected—which, now that he thought about it, probably pegged her as the perfect CIA cover. And, despite all that, he
had
located her tonight…well, okay, maybe he wouldn't bring that up.

He couldn't nail down one good excuse for the way she'd outwitted him. Except, of course, for the obvious.

He'd let a woman screw up his brain, again.

Chet narrowed his eyes at him, as if trying to read Brody's mind. And not in a nice way, either. Tanned, wearing loose jeans, flip-flops and a Hawaiian shirt, his dark hair cut wedding short, a growth of beard—his boss had the appearance of a man annoyed because he'd had his honeymoon derailed.

Hey, who took month-long honeymoons anymore, anyway?

Thankfully, his new bride, Mae, had been kinder when she'd breezed in, delivering a change of clothes for Ronie, and when they didn't fit, calling Vicktor's wife, Gracie.

Gracie's jeans and black hoodie nearly swallowed the woman.

The three women now sat in a huddle on the sofa in the living room while Grace and Mae quizzed Vonya on her amazing life. Of course, both knew exactly who Vonya was. And, surprise, surprise, “Your Love Gives Me Wings” seemed to be a hit with the women on the team.

Chet cut his voice low. “Okay, let's sort this out.”

Brody sat on the bed, suddenly achingly tired. So bone tired he could probably dissolve into a puddle in the
middle of his double bed. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he just wanted to throw his arm over his eyes and pretend he hadn't just nearly seen Ronie killed.

That he'd nearly had his heart ripped from his chest.

Again.

Chet took the desk chair, turned it around and sat on it. “Why did you take this gig in the first place?”

Why? Boredom, maybe. Cash, definitely. “I don't know. At first, I thought it would be easy money. Then I met her. Did you know she's the daughter of a senator? And her only sister died after Ronie gave her a kidney. Talk about a blow. But she's different than anyone you've ever met. She plays the role of this pop star, but really, she's quiet and kind and she has this amazing voice…”

And the softest dark brown hair, and when she laughed, it had this power to clear every thought from his head. Not to mention the way she smiled at him, and listened to him, turning over his words like they mattered, and—

“Wick?”

Oh. He'd stopped talking. Chet had his mouth pressed in a tight line. “Do you have feelings for this woman?”

“What? No. Of course not. But she needs our help, and I want to give it.”

Chet ran his hands down his face. “Half of Prague is out there, searching for a woman who killed a kid in the middle of Old Town Square, and I come home to find out it's someone Stryker International is supposed to be protecting! What am I supposed to think here?”

“She didn't do it! Trust me, I was standing right there—”

“I don't want to even think about that. Wick, this is not your style. You're the guy who has all his
t
's crossed, his
i
's dotted. If there's anyone I can count on to get the job done without it getting personal, it's you. What's going on?”

So much for his team not hearing this.

Brody got up, turning to watch the dawn press away the night over the city. “I don't know. She just…” He took a breath, rounding on Chet. “Listen, you're one to talk. Who's the guy who snuck into a country in the middle of a civil war to rescue a woman he supposedly didn't love? Not to mention a country where he was a wanted man? Let me talk to
that
guy, because maybe he can help me figure this out.”

Chet considered him for a long moment, during which Brody wondered if he should start working on a new résumé. Finally, a wry smile escaped. “Fair enough. You don't have to figure this out. But we do have to get a grip on what Stryker International is going to do next. Because the last thing we can afford is our names on the front page, connected with a murder investigation. You know we're already struggling.”

Brody nodded. “I'm right there with you, boss.” He went to the door, cracking it open. Luke and Artyom had gone back to the venue to take Leah and Tommy to the hotel after Brody's decree that everyone stay at the concert until his return.

Whoops.

Vicktor stood at the stove, his shirtsleeves rolled up, cooking something Russian with too much garlic—maybe
fried potatoes and onions. His wife, Gracie, her blond hair long and pulled back into a ponytail, sat next to the open window. Mae had curled up with a pillow on one end of the sofa.

Ronie sat against the other end, her eyes on the door. She looked at him and he gave her the barest of smiles.
Hang in there.

She drew her knees in and hugged them to her chest, looking frail and breakable in the wan morning light. He didn't like this side of her one wee bit.

He closed the door, turning back to Chet. “I think we need to get into this computer, see what it tells us. Can't hurt. At least we'll have the lay of the land and some leverage over this Bishop fellow.” Whom he couldn't wait to get his hands on.

“I don't know, Wick. My gut says we should cancel this last concert, put Vonya—”

“Ronie. Her name is Ronie—”

“—on a plane and be glad we all got out of this alive, without our reputation being shot to bits.”

“Which brings me to another glaring question. Who was doing the shooting tonight? Her father thinks General Mubar is after her, and frankly I'm not so sure he isn't right. Damu could have followed her to Prague, hunted her down—”

“You said Damu went to Paris.”

“I think we need to check on that. I'm telling you, Chet, someone was shooting at her—someone was trying to
kill
her.”

He looked up. Ronie stood at the door, her eyes wide. “Uh…I didn't mean to barge in. Your friend made us some food.”

He grabbed the door before she could close it, pulling her inside. He put his hands on her shoulders, wishing he could pour into her everything he couldn't quite put into words. Like, the fact that if she'd been shot tonight—

Well, his voice probably did it for him. “Listen. Someone wanted to hurt you tonight, Ronie, and you
can't
ignore that. Chet thinks we need to pull the plug on the entire tour, and I'm not against that in the least.”

She stared at him as if he'd slapped her. “What? No. I'm not giving up on this tour.” She glared at Chet. “I don't know who you are, but you can just stay out of this.”

Chet's eyebrows went up. “I'm Chet Stryker. Brody's boss.”

“Oh. Well, Brody's boss, you should know that none of this is Brody's fault. I'm the one who sneaked away from him—twice—”

“Twice?”

“He didn't know about Damu's party,” Brody said quietly. Perfect. Hopefully she'd keep quiet about the airport.

“Well, it's not like I'm easy to keep track of. I specialize in disguises—I mean, I even fooled him at the airport. He walked right past me.”

Nice. “You can stop talking now, please.”

She put her hand to Brody's chest, pushing him away. “But he found me tonight—I don't know how, maybe he's some sort of trained military tracker or something—”

No, he'd gotten lucky on that one, something that still filled him with a cold terror.

“And I probably would have died if he hadn't found me. I would have run right into that square and into the
shooter's sights and…” She closed her mouth, her head still moving as if trying to find her next words, but Chet stood, holding up his hands in surrender.

“You don't have to convince me of Wick's ability to protect you—
if you work with him.
But we simply don't have enough information to even start figuring out who might want to hurt you, and continuing on tour is simply too dangerous, especially if you keep trying to sneak off behind his back.”

“I'll start cooperating. I'll do
everything
Brody tells me to do. I won't go anywhere without him a foot away from me. I'll stay at home at night, knitting if he wants me to. But I am finishing my concert tour. And, thanks, but I'll take my computer back, too.”

Brody couldn't stop the harsh chuckle. “Nice, Ronie. Like I couldn't see through that.”

She actually looked hurt. “I'm serious.”

He narrowed his eyes, gave her a shake of his head. “Really, you are good.”

She sighed. “Okay, I guess I deserved that. But please, Brody, just give the computer back. I really will behave. But at the very least, I have to contact Bishop and have him set me up with another hacker. It's important to national security.”

“It's important to
you
. And…that's enough for me.”

It gave him some solace that he could surprise her, too. “But we're
not
contacting Bishop. For all we know, he's in on this. After all, he knew where your contact would be. He could have sent the shooter,” Chet said.

He saw the truth of it ripple across her face, even as
she shook her head. “No. Bishop has never steered me wrong.”

Brody saw Chet's expression out of the corner of his eye.

But what if she was right? What if it wasn't Bishop?

Chet lifted his phone from his pocket. “We just happen to have our own hacker right here on staff with Stryker International.” He met Brody's eyes as he spoke into the phone. “Privyet, Artyom. We need your mad skills.”

 

He was going to help her?

Really?

Ronie sat on the sofa in a tight ball and watched as Brody argued with his team about how to protect her in Amsterdam while they figured out just who might be trying to kill her. Kill. Her.

No. It had to be an accident. She stared at her clean hands, overly scrubbed, and clenched them tight, seeing that poor boy crumble in front of her. And worse, she might have blown her only chance to rescue Kafara. She pressed her hands to her mouth.

“Stop thinking about it.” Brody, who'd apparently had one eye on her—would he not, from now on?—came over and sat on the coffee table. He took her hands from her face and held them between his. She'd forgotten how warm they were. “It'll get easier. Right now, you'll think about it every five seconds. But in a week or two, it'll go down to once or twice an hour. The key is to take control of your thoughts. Think of happy moments to replace the horrific ones.”

Happy moments. Like the moment when he'd sung
I love you?
Even if it had been against his will?

She'd avoided that moment until now, but as he looked at her, compassion in his beautiful eyes, she let herself return to the club. Let herself hear the words come out of his mouth, almost like a question.

But he didn't love her. He'd loved another woman and lost her. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

“Is that what you did? You know, to forget…?”

He drew in a breath and looked at their hands. “I'll never forget.”

No. Probably he wouldn't.

“Listen.” He hooked a finger under her chin and tipped her face up to his. “Did you really mean you'd behave if we went to Amsterdam? Because I don't think I can take another night like tonight. Speaking of things I'll never forget, I'll always have imprinted in my head the visual of you diving to the pavement while glass rained down over you, believing in my heart I'd find you shredded and bleeding out.” He stared at her hands, rubbing his thumbs over them. “Please don't do that to me again.”

“I won't.” Really? Oh, she hoped so, at least. But what about Kafara?

“You don't always have to save the world,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. She opened her mouth to speak but he stopped her. “It's not your fault that your sister died, and it's not your responsibility to somehow make up for it, or try to take her place.”

She frowned at him.

“I saw pictures of Savannah. I know she liked to dress up, play a part. I have a feeling Vonya is more Sav—”

“Ronie, do you have a listing of your concert dates over the past year?” Artyom looked up from where he sat at the kitchen bar, the minicomputer connected to his laptop with a cable. He'd broken into the computer with a few keystrokes. Of course.

Brody kept his eyes glued to hers, but she broke away. No, her crazy life didn't have anything to do with Savannah's lost dreams.

“Why?”

“I'm tracking Damu's email correspondence. There are a number in his trash file, all to the same person. I can't read the actual text, but a couple of weeks ago, when I was looking for possible threats to you, I was matching ticket recipients to venues and dates, and it seems that a number of these email dates correspond to your concerts. Do you know anyone called SAM613?”