On The Rocks (9 page)

Or every chance he got.

Whatever.

Zlata should have been at work by now, and
it made Phil’s job pretty damned difficult when she didn’t turn up
where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there,
even if she never knew he was coming. Even if, when he did show up,
he never said a single word to her.

Any number of things could have happened.
She could have been sick. Or she could have stayed late to discuss
her Statistics homework with her professor. Except he’d checked
there and she didn’t show for class.

So how long had that been going on? How long
had she been ditching school and missing her shift at the
restaurant?

Two weeks back he’d come to the Markt,
different bar, same objective, and he’d found her. Actually had a
near miss with Zlata as she left her job headed to class.

Or had she been going someplace else?

A tic started in his cheek and he dragged a
slow breath through his nose. Kept staring out the window, people
watching.

Zlata skipping class shouldn’t have annoyed
him, but it did. They had a deal.

After Sacha’s, going back to her family
wasn’t an option. The reasons behind that seriously pissed him off,
and a pissed off Phil made nukes look like puppy dog kisses so best
he didn’t think about it. At any rate, Zlata couldn’t go back
“home,” and she sure as hell couldn’t gallivant around the world
with a couple of guys who flirted with death like they were begging
to go steady.

The kid needed an out.

He gave her one.

She’d go to school, get her degree in
underwater basket weaving if that’s what she wanted, and go on to
become a happy, healthy, basket-making member of society. In
return, Phil would pay for everything. Tuition, books, food,
housing, clothes, car. The waitressing gig was unnecessary.
Whatever she needed —monetarily— Phil provided. Dumped money into
her bank account each month. No questions asked.

So she
should
have been in class.

And he had every right to be annoyed…
Right?

Fingers drumming on the scarred wooden
table, Phil zeroed in on the restaurant across the way. Three
different women with red aprons around their hips flitted between
the packed tables in outside seating. All three were brunettes,
early twenties, fresh-faced and optimistic.

None of them were Zlata.

Another glance at his watch and he shifted
his shoulders. He couldn’t very well sit here all evening. He had
things to do.

Half an hour and a fresh beer later, a soft
buzz started in his coat pocket. With a tap to a button on the side
of his sunglasses, the dark lenses went opaque. A text message
scrolled up the display on the left hand side:
You’re
late
.

Yep. Very late.

Responding was pointless. If he’d wanted to
explain he’d have told Xander he was leaving in the first place.
But one minute he was going through the pre-flight equipment check,
the next he was in a rental burning through the four-hour drive to
Bruges in half the time.

Got here for the start of that class she
hadn’t bothered to show up for.

A second vibration in his pocket culminated
with more text on the lens:
I’m parting out your
Chevelle…

Phil’s head jerked back on his neck. Lifting
his shades, he ripped out his phone and furiously stabbed a
response onto the screen:
Touch my ride and die.

Never threaten a man’s car. Clearly his
brother from another had a death wish. He could almost hear Xander
laughing from here:
Damn, you’re not dead. Paris in 24. Monaco
in 48. Up to you.

No Where are you? No What the hell happened?
No What’s going on?

Thank goodness, ‘cause he didn’t feel like
making up a lie. Xander would have seen through it anyway.

Decisions, decisions…

Even thinking it over was unusual. Phil made
snap decisions every day of his life. He had to. Being decisive
—and
right
— kept Xander breathing from one job to the
next.

Except this time, it wasn’t just the
next
job. It was
the
job.

The closest they’d come to Metis.

So, he should be getting the plane ready,
not chasing behind a co-ed who could damn well decide if she wanted
to skip a day of school or not.

A month or not.

The answer was obvious then: Paris. In less
than twenty-four hours.

Pushing to his feet, Phil dropped a couple
of bills on the table and left. He zipped his coat against the
slight chill in the evening air as a woman walking by did a double
take. Their eyes met. She picked up the pace, hurrying away.

Didn’t faze him. He dropped the shades into
place, which detracted from the scar that crossed his eye and ended
deep in his cheek. Mostly detracted…

He adjusted the opacity of the lenses on his
way to the car, searching faces with hope in his heart. That just
wasn’t healthy. Hoping and wishing and praying for things to be
what they weren’t was exactly how people went mad.

Actively ignoring faces now, Phil did a
cursory scan for threats and double-timed it to his destination
five blocks away. The sky was a mess of shadowed bruises as he
approached the SUV in the center of the block.

In three hours or less, he’d be in Paris,
focused on the job, and back on track with his life. No more
foolish decisions. Zlata was a big girl who could care for herself
without his constant watch.

At the corner, Phil stopped on a dime.
Frowned. Looked left. Right.

Where the hell was…?

He turned and looked behind him, spotting
the black Citroën he’d cruised right on by.

Half a block would have him at his ride.

Six would have him at Zlata’s house.

Decisions, decisions…

Phil clenched his jaw at the weakness and
put the SUV in his rearview. He’d see that she was okay. Prove to
himself she was adjusting and be done with it.

Minutes later, the three-story brick house
came into view. The outside of the place looked beat to shit. Given
it was built in the 1850s that was to be expected. But old-school
build didn’t mean old-school price. Well outside of what a college
student working a waitressing gig could afford —by, like, a
million… or two— but nothing compared to the peace of mind that
came with knowing she slept soundly each night, even if he
didn’t.

Phil recalled Zlata’s face when he’d helped
her move in. Eyes wide, a slight smile on her mouth as she went
from room to room. Unlike the outside, everything inside was modern
and upgraded, from the floors to the ceiling fixtures. She couldn’t
believe he’d rented her such a nice place.

So he left out the fact that her name was on
the deed.

Avoiding the main street, Phil went to the
back and peeked into the garage. Empty. Then through the garden and
to the back door. He pressed his ear to the wood. Pulled a key he
shouldn’t have from his jacket pocket and let himself in, quietly
closing the door behind him.

Standing stock still, he let his senses
adjust.

Silence.

Darkness.

Faintest little chill in the air.

She wasn’t here.

If something had happened to her, if someone
had—

Heat raced up the back of his neck,
splashing red behind his eyes. Phil forced down a deep breath to
pull away from that violent spiral. Because if something happened
to Zlata, someone was gonna get dead.

And Phil was gonna enjoy it.

Monaco in forty-eight then.

Good thing Xander gave him that wiggle room.
He had no choice but to stick around to make sure he didn’t end up
with a murder rap.

On light feet he moved through the darkness,
striding across the wood floors of the kitchen. Cold coffee in the
carafe on the counter. One mug in the sink. From this morning or
weeks ago? No way to tell.

The informal dining table looked like it was
staged for
Home and Garden,
with plates on chargers and a
vase filled with flowers that were starting to go limp. A few more
paces put him in the living room. He skirted the leather couch set
and glanced at the magazines resting neatly on the coffee table:
CODE
,
Hacker’s Monthly, PC Gamer
. At the
entertainment center, he splayed his palm on the back of the
flatscreen and got frigid plastic and icy metal for his
trouble.

Second story was more of the nobody’s home.
Both bedrooms here were empty, apart from a printer box in one of
the closets. Same as the day he’d moved her in. He’d thought she’d
get a roommate by now but she was still flying solo. That shouldn’t
have been a comfort.

So he wouldn’t let it be.

Top floor: master bedroom and bath. He
started with the latter and got more pristine cleanliness. Only a
hair tie and her brush on the edge of the basin. A dark towel hung
behind the door. Bone dry. Shower stall didn’t have a drop in
it.

He came to her bedroom and hesitated.
Instead of going in, he observed from the doorway. The window was
slightly cracked, and the blinds were open. The ambient glow from a
streetlight filtered through the slats, slathering everything in a
pale blue tint. Her bed was made, the top edge of the sheets
flipped back over the dark comforter. Pillows canted against the
wall-mounted leather headboard.

Funny, he didn’t remember the bed being so
big when he’d bought it. Zlata probably looked tiny in the thing,
drowning in those sheets.

Plenty of space for one more…

Phil zipped his eyes to the floor and back
on task.

No clothes scattered about. The place barely
looked lived in let alone like a college kid’s house. No pictures
on the walls. No posters. No knick-knacks.

No clue as to how much time had passed since
she’d last been here. If not for the pinpoint of light flashing
from the desk, there’d be no activity in the place at all.

He stepped into her room, and the oddest
sensation crashed over him. He didn’t belong here. In her personal
space. But he needed to know she was okay. He went to her desk
where a notepad was beside her laptop. Using his phone’s display,
he read the name written there. Bartel. A number followed.

He snapped a picture.

Just as he reached for the laptop, voices
sounded from outside. Phil darted to the window. Two people were
coming up the sidewalk, but he couldn’t make out anything
distinctive.

Forgetting about noise, he hauled ass down
the first flight of stairs. Practically skipped the second
altogether.

He hit the back door just as the front came
open, and dove back to tuck himself into a ball on the far side of
the kitchen island.

“You win all the time at this game,” Zlata
said in her stilted English.

Phil grinned. It was getting better.

And then, a male’s deep timbre.

His grin faded.

The conversation went back and forth. Zlata
laughed. She laughed again. The stairs creaked and the words
tapered off.

Phil peered around the edge of the
island.

They were gone.

Upstairs.

Okay. Good.

Good for her.

Zlata had blown off class to hang with this
guy. She was adjusting to college life. To life after abuse. To
life, period.

Good.

That’s all Phil wanted.

Honest.

When the footsteps sounded overhead, he
slipped out the back and quietly closed the door behind him. As he
covered the distance to the car he made the most important decision
in his life: This would be his last time in Bruges.

4

Harlem, New York

FIDDLING WITH THE adapter to the tablet,
Rachel shot a glare at the wall across from the circular table in
the center of the room. An endless expanse of cobalt blue showed on
the huge screen mounted there instead of the operation specs she’d
tirelessly compiled over the last forty-eight hours.

At the control hub built into the center of
the circular table, she disconnected the adapter once more and
studied the end. No bends or kinks in the plug, and she turned the
same scrutiny on the port of the tablet. No bent or broken prongs.
So why wasn’t the thing working?

“Just… one more sec…” she offered
lamely.

No one responded. Not that she expected them
to. They hadn’t said a thing since she started almost ten minutes
before. Rachel felt their stares, knew they had to be wondering how
she could head an op if she couldn’t even work a projector screen.
How could they walk into the lion’s den and trust
her
to get
them out alive?

That silent judgment made sweat bead on her
upper lip. Her hands started to tremble and she cleared her throat;
took a breath and reconnected the plug.

Another check of the screen.

Still blue.

Or plum, ‘cause, yeah, those sunglasses were
still in place.

In her periphery, Bill pushed his chair back
from the table. Actually, he was the only one sitting at the table.
Kizzie still perched on the arm of the couch and Lennox still held
up the wall beside her. Leaning heavily on the cane, Bill shuffled
away.

Rachel refocused on the tablet and frowned.
That something so simple gave her such a hard time might be an
indicator the folks who thought she could do Fletcher’s job were
flat out wrong.

Conceding, she let out a harsh breath.
“Okay, well, I’d hoped to show you all this in one go, but I guess
we can just pass around—”

“You’re all set, Hayford.” Bill reclaimed
his seat and motioned toward the wall display.

The first page of her report had replaced
that annoying stretch of blue/plum, and she didn’t know whether to
kiss the man or shake her head at her inadequacy. She was just
connecting a tablet to a monitor, for goodness’ sake. Something
she’d done a million times before but couldn’t seem to handle when
it mattered most.