THE PERFECT TARGET (18 page)

He ripped open the shower curtain and grabbed his gun, his pants. The locked door barely slowed him. He tore it open and ran down the hall. "Miranda!"

Nothing. No more screams, only a silence as cold and still as a graveyard.
Cristo,
he thought savagely. It was starting already. They'd come for her.

The reality of events he himself had set into motion caught him grossly unprepared. He hadn't had a chance to take that one last precaution, the one that would protect her from the brunt of the ugliness.

"Miranda!"

She could be gone already, he knew. Special ops worked quietly and efficiently.

"Stop struggling," growled a guttural voice in broken English, and Sandro's blood ran cold. The broken English wasn't right. He spun toward the kitchen, where he heard something loud crash to the floor.

Nothing prepared him for the sight awaiting him. The cavalry had not arrived.

The general's lieutenant had.

Chapter 9

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"
E
xpecting someone else?" Petros Racca asked mildly.

Sandro thumbed off the safety and lifted his semiautomatic toward the man who held Miranda pressed to his filthy body. She thrashed against him, her eyes wild, her struggles bringing the oversize T-shirt high on her thighs.

"Take your hands off her," he commanded in the deadly quiet voice he'd used when he'd pressed his hand to a cold tombstone and vowed to bring down the man who'd murdered his friends, his ideals. "You know how itchy my trigger finger can be."

The wiry man with a long dark ponytail flashed a rotted-tooth grin. "I see you came dressed for the occasion."

Gun steady in one hand, Sandro fought viciously to pull the camouflage pants over still-wet legs. Inevitability slashed in from all directions. He'd known Miranda's illusions about him would shatter tonight, but not like this.

Sweet Mary, not like this.

He had no choice, however. Around General Zhukov's former go-to man, a dangerous criminal who'd been trying for months to reclaim Viktor's favor, Sandro could be no other than the merciless killer they thought him to be.

Even if doing so destroyed the light in Miranda's eyes.

"Let her go," he growled, yanking up his zipper, despite his commando state. For one of the few times in his life, he hated the ruthless efficiency his work required. "The girl is
mine."

"You had your chance," Petros smirked, snaking a hand along Miranda's stomach and sending a black rage drilling through Sandro. She winced, but no fear shone in her gaze, just the silent determination he'd come to treasure.

"What is it they say in America?" Petros went on. "Something about possession being nine-tenths of the law?" He backed around the small wooden table and toward the door which hung open, letting splatters of rain blow into the kitchen. "I am afraid your time has expired,
amigo.
The general grows impatient to get his hands on the prize. If you cannot deliver, I will."

Sandro saw Miranda's eyes go wide, dark. Her face go pale.

Saw the blurry moment of confusion.

Saw the truth dawn with all the vivid finality of a mushroom cloud signifying the transformation of oasis to wasteland.

Saw illusions shatter.

Saw the horror, the pain. The betrayal.

Saw, and bled, but just like with Roger and Gus, could do nothing to prevent. Or protect.

* * *

Everything inside of Miranda went very still. Deadly still. Even her heart.

The prize?

She stared wildly at Sandro, the man who looked like an edgy rock star but carried a statue of his boyhood dog in his pocket, the chameleon who transformed from Casanova to commando in the blink of an eye, who spoke like a poet but wielded a briefcase that turned into a submachine gun, and deep inside, felt something real and vital and irreplaceable go stone-cold. Because in that instant, she knew.

God help her, she knew.

For a moment, everything went white. Glaring, blinding white. Then color exploded, stark shades of red and black, exposing the sharp edge of every lie Sandro had told her.

And that she'd naively believed.

Shock and horror twisted viciously, paralyzing her with the sting of the truth. What she'd thought to be real and powerful had been an act. He'd been playing her, pushing her buttons with skillful precision. He didn't work for her father, but for the general he told her about, the man who wanted to use her as a bargaining chip in a game of cat and mouse.

She came to life, ripped viciously and irrevocably from a dangerous dream.

"You son of a bitch!" she erupted, thrashing wildly against the man who'd sneaked up on her while she lay on the couch, listening to the water rattle through the pipes and trying not to think about Sandro standing naked under the spray. The man's arms were thin but strong, and he reeked of sweat and wine and danger.

Sandro was across the small kitchen in a heartbeat. She heard the low roar tear from his throat before she saw him kick out his leg, his foot landing hard against the other man's chest. Her captor released her, went sprawling.

Miranda broke for the freedom beyond the open door, but Sandro intercepted her, his hands closing around her arms like manacles.

"Take your hands off me!" she shouted, twisting violently.

He held steady. "That's not what you said last night,
anima mia."

The endearment burned.

"Your love like hell," she rasped. Betrayal slashed brutally, gave her strength. "You lied to me!"

"I never lied to you," he said. His eyes were flat and his tone mild, but he pulled her firmly against his body. "I just didn't correct you when you jumped to the wrong conclusions."

Hurt and betrayal welled like blood from a gut wound. She swung her elbows and slammed her foot against his shin, but his hold on her never wavered. He had her arms pressed against her sides with disgusting ease. Her fingers itched to close around the hilt of her knife, but like a fool, she'd left it in her purse, not figuring to need the weapon tonight.

She'd had other ways of passing time on her mind.

"Quite a little hellcat, ya?" the other man slurred, dragging himself off the dirty floor. "Is she always so … how is it you say? Energetic?"

Miranda didn't stop to think. She spat at the vile man.

He laughed.

Sandro swore. "Calm down," he ground out. "This isn't a schoolyard and you're not in the third grade."

If she could have slapped him, she would have.

"How the hell did you find us?" Sandro growled.

The wiry little man grinned. "You were smart to let Javier do legwork,
amigo,
but not smart enough. You cannot really believe I'd let you two have all glory, do you? Technology is both friend and bitch. All messages can be intercepted."

"Cristo,"
Sandro muttered, then bit out something low and savage, but not in a language Miranda recognized. Anger, however, needed no translation. He was coldly furious. She felt it in every rigid plane of his mostly naked body, saw it in the fierce glitter that had returned to his eyes.

The other man narrowed his gaze. "I track you for days," he said in heavily accented English. Miranda wondered why. "I am not coming away empty-handed this time."

Miranda felt Sandro tense. He spoke again, still in a language she didn't understand.

The other man, who Sandro referred to as Petros, laughed. "That is right," he said, still speaking in English. He obviously wanted her to realize fully what was going on, even though Sandro clearly wanted to protect as many of his secrets as he could. "If I had not been in Cascais to clean up your sloppiness, you would never have gotten your hands on her in the first place."

He was the other shooter, she realized sickly. This dirty little man with whom Sandro had some kind of affiliation was the man who'd killed Hawk.

"You won't get away with this," she hissed, jabbing an elbow into Sandro's stomach. She might as well have jabbed a brick wall. "My father will hunt you both down like the dogs you are. He'll find you, and he'll make you pay."

Petros was grinning again, but Sandro remained in soldier mode. "Your father won't find us unless I want him to," he said darkly. "And I can't really see that happening, can you?"

She glared at him, fought the hurt and rage scratching at her throat. She could do nothing about the jagged tearing deep inside. How could one man enter the bathroom, yet another emerge?

How had she not seen this coming? "You disgust me," she said through clenched teeth and shattered ideals.

The shadow crossed his dark gaze so quickly she wondered if she'd seen it at all. "That changes nothing,
anima mia.
I told you before. I'm doing what I have to do, whether you like it or not."

She lifted her chin, refused to let tears fall. "Go to hell."

His mouth curved cruelly. "Yes, I think I just might."

Petros started toward them, but Sandro lifted his gun and stopped him cold. "I told you," he said with deathly quietness. "She's mine."

"She's the general's," Petros corrected.

Sandro's hold on her tightened, one of his arms coiled around her waist. "Not until I turn her over."

"We,
amigo.
We
will turn her over, or one of us will not leave here alive."

For the first time, Miranda realized Petros carried a gun, as well. It was a sleek little black outfit pointed directly at her heart.

Sandro shifted her behind his body and backed toward the hallway. His dark hair was damp, the warm skin of his shoulders smelled of honeysuckle and betrayal.

Thank God he'd pulled on pants.

"There's no need for that," he was saying in a voice so empty she hardly recognized it as his. "As long as I get what I want, I don't really give a damn what happens afterwards."

Miranda stiffened, felt her skin crawl. Her throat closed up on her. Surely Sandro didn't mean the words the way they sounded.

Petros's smile turned lewd, and his beady little eyes took on a fever. "Make sure she still has some … energy for me, that is all I ask."

Revulsion coursed through Miranda. She struggled against Sandro's hold, but he was like a robot, holding her securely and ignoring her heartbreak. Even with her pressed to his back, his strength far surpassed hers. Frustration had her sinking her teeth into the warm flesh of his shoulder.

A hard sound broke from Sandro's throat. "Hold your horses," he muttered darkly. "They'll be plenty of time for biting later." Then he nodded toward the chipped Formica counter. "Help yourself to the
vhino,
Petros. It should help pass the time."

The other man swaggered over, picked up the bottle, and swigged deeply. "Just don't take too long. I grow impatient."

"I'll take as long as I want to," Sandro said as if he hadn't a care in the world, then turned toward Miranda and hustled her from the kitchen and toward the darkened room at the end of the hall, where the only bed in the house awaited. She went willingly, knowing if she was to catch him off guard she had to make him think she'd given up.

"I know you're scared," he said as they entered the bedroom. He flicked on the light, closed and locked the door. "But—"

She spun around and jabbed two knuckles against his windpipe as hard as she could, then broke for the window she'd opened for fresh air.

Outside, the wind blew wildly, a few splatters of rain slashing into the room. She didn't care. She climbed through anyway, was halfway to freedom when his hands closed around her.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, but he didn't listen. Still coughing violently, he pulled her back into the room and, with one hand, slammed the window shut.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he asked in a voice even more hoarse than usual.

She refused to feel remorse. "Take your hands off me," she bit out.

Surprisingly, he did. "How many times do I have to tell you I'm not going to hurt you?"

"You expect me to believe
anything
you told me?" she asked, backing toward the dresser, where her purse waited. "You played me for a fool."

"Things aren't always what they seem," he said tightly. "I did what I had to do."

And she was going to do what she had to do, despite the jagged emotions tearing around inside her. Fear and betrayal barely scratched the surface. She'd trusted this man, not just with her life, but with that part of herself she kept tucked away from the rest of the world. She'd shared her dreams with him. Worse, she'd let him infiltrate those dreams. Shape them. Now she realized what a dangerous mistake she'd made.

With pretenses stripped away, with seduction no longer an option to earn her compliance, that left only force.

He stood there beside the bed in the glare of a single, unprotected lightbulb, his damp hair shoved back from his face to reveal the glitter in those black, black eyes, the hard lines of his face, the whiskers that darkened his jaw to the color of his soul. He wore only the camouflage pants he'd yanked on in the kitchen, not bothering to fasten the button. Nasty white lines streaked against the hard, tanned flesh of his chest and arms, a silent testimony to brute strength and a life of violence.

"Who are you?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes. Everything inside her was cold, but she refused to shiver. "Who are you
really?"

He watched her steadily, but never moved. "I've already told you that,
bella.
Nothing has changed since then."

"You've told me lies," she said as lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room. Thunder added the punctuation. "Is Sandro even your name, or is that some kind of alias?"

"I would think you of all people know names don't matter. They're just labels. It's what inside that counts."

She inched closer to the dresser, working to keep her face as blank and emotionless as his. But rage burned hot, defiance hotter. He was actually trying to use her quest to escape the Carrington name to explain his lies.