Bound to Danger: A Deadly Ops Novel (4 page)

“Take your time. I’ll get some food.”

Once he was gone she stood on shaky legs, as if she’d just run a marathon. It was hard to wrap her mind around the fact that Cade O’Reilly had just walked back into her life. She rubbed a hand over her face. This was too much to deal with.

Her cell phone vibrated against the bed, the sound amplified in the suddenly quiet room, making her jump. In between the hospital’s tests and talking to her father almost every hour, she’d been fielding calls pretty much ever since she’d woken.

When she saw the familiar name on the caller ID, she almost rejected the call. But he’d contacted her so many times today she felt she owed it to him. “Andre, hi.”

“Honey, I’m so relieved you’re okay, but I’m so sorry about your mom.” Andre Moran was a family friend, someone she’d made the mistake of going on a couple of dates with.

She cringed at the use of the endearment but kept her voice civil. She knew he was just being kind. “Thanks for calling, but I can’t talk long. A bunch of different government agencies need to talk to me and I can’t keep them waiting any longer.”

“About what? Where’s your father? Why isn’t he—”

“He’s not back in town yet. And I can’t talk about
anything else.” Sort of the truth. “Listen, I’ve got to go, but someone will let you know about . . .” She cleared her throat, forcing the words out. “. . . the funeral arrangements.”

After another few seconds of talking, she managed to get off the phone and it rang again. This time it was Wayne Gregory, an ICE agent she was friends with thanks to her work at the community center. Though she was tempted to answer, she set the phone back on the bed and headed for the attached bathroom. She needed to wash her face and try to get herself under control. After she talked to Cade and was discharged, she had too many things to take care of, including contacting the community center and figuring out who was going to be covering for her while she handled her mother’s funeral.

At that thought, more tears sprang up, so she splashed cold water on her face. Just a little bit longer and she’d be out of there.

•   •   •

Cade leaned against the wall outside Maria’s room and tried to steady his out-of-control heartbeat. Eight years wasn’t enough time to make him forget her. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been twenty-one and he’d been twenty-six. He hadn’t been good enough for her then and he sure as hell wasn’t now.

Volunteering to take such a small role in the NSA’s mission to track down the terrorists had surprised Cade’s boss. But when Cade had seen Maria’s name on their intel file, he knew there was no way in hell he couldn’t
not
talk to her.

Maria was petite with luscious curves and unique amber eyes he’d been captivated by from the moment he’d met her. Everything about her features should be too big
to be attractive—her eyes, her full bottom lip. The combination, however, was . . . stunning.

He felt like an asshole even noticing her right now. On the job he was always in control. Always. He did his duty well and, while he’d worked with attractive women before, he never mixed sex and work. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex. Which probably explained his intense reaction to Maria. He inwardly snorted as he tried to lie to himself. That attraction had always simmered for her, and she was the last woman on the planet he should be noticing. Not after he’d cut ties with her. Not after . . . He abruptly shut down his train of thought and forced himself to focus on the present. He’d nearly drowned in guilt over what he’d done eight years ago. Thinking about it now wouldn’t help him any.

Some caterers, hired drivers, and other entertainers not in the mansion when the double explosion went off had survived, but she was the only partygoer who was alive. The NSA wanted to know why.

His gut told him she wasn’t involved—not with her own mother being dead. He’d stake his entire fucking career that Maria would never be involved in something so horrific. The raw grief rolling off her had been real. The kind even the best actor in the world couldn’t fake.

Out of habit, Cade rubbed a hand over his skull trim. For some jobs he’d grown it out, but this was his preferred cut. Now he wished he hadn’t recently buzzed it, because he knew what he looked like. A thug with tattoos and so far below Maria’s league it was embarrassing. He’d gotten most of the tattoos after her brother died as a way to channel his pain. Cade’s appearance was something he’d always used to his advantage. He was large and scary
looking, which was often a plus when he wanted information. When he threatened people they just assumed he could back it up with violence if necessary. Which he could. Of course he’d never threaten Maria.

He’d read the file the NSA analysts had compiled on her from front to back, and the woman was like a freaking saint. She came from wealth but worked at a community center where she donated most of her time and energy. Hell, she even helped out with the accounting department for free when they needed her. Most of that he’d already known, though. He didn’t want to grill her for more answers when she might not have them, but he had no choice. And he’d rather be the one talking to her, not some random agent who wouldn’t care about making her comfortable.

The city of Miami was in a state of shock over the deaths of so many of its elite. Politicians and some well-known movie stars had been buried in the rubble of the mansion, so it was a media feeding frenzy. Since Maria was the only person to survive, he’d been assigned—well, volunteered—as her shadow until his boss was absolutely positive she knew nothing.

If she was suffering from shock—the doctors seemed to think so since she had no brain injuries—memories of the night could come back later. Probably in the form of nightmares. Or at least that was Cade’s personal experience. He didn’t know one man who’d been to war who didn’t suffer from nightmares or at least vivid dreams.

The assignment to shadow her was considered more or less a babysitting gig, something that most agents didn’t want to deal with. He didn’t consider guarding her a problem, though. The only thing he worried about was
staying objective. Just being in her presence again was already messing with his head.

Sighing, he radioed the Miami PD officer to tell him he could return to guarding Maria’s room. Cade knew the pseudo-bodyguard, Nash Larson, would be there too, and while the guy rubbed Cade the wrong way, he wanted Maria to have extra security. Until she was cleared of everything, and they figured out why she’d survived, he wanted her under constant surveillance. If it was temporarily provided by someone Maria trusted, it would make Cade’s job that much easier.

Once the cop and other man rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, Cade stepped away from the door and headed for the elevators. First food, and then he’d hopefully get Maria to talk.

•   •   •

Date: September 25, 2006

To: Cade O’Reilly

From: Maria Cervantes

Subject: Care package

Hey, jarhead (ha!), be on the lookout for a care package. It’s big so you won’t miss it. Sent you guys a Christmas tree since you can’t come home this year and wanted to make sure it got there early. I thought the shipping was going to cost a small fortune, but it wasn’t too bad. My mom wanted to send ornaments too, but I wasn’t sure if they’d make the trip to A-stan, so I skipped them. But I included string and popcorn baggies. Figured you guys could string popcorn together like Riel and I did when we were kids.

I know e-mail access is hard for you, but if you get a chance, let me know you’re okay. I’ve been worried about you the past couple weeks. BTW, I got the silk shamma you sent me. I think that’s the right spelling. Anyway, it’s
beautiful and so thoughtful, thank you. I’m wearing it everywhere this “winter,” but as a scarf, not around my head. It’s been in the fifties the past couple weeks, so I’ve had an excuse to.

I know e-mail access is temperamental over there, but I hope you can write back soon and that you’re doing well. I miss you. I’m going to e-mail Riel right after you, but tell my brother I miss him too.

xo,
Maria

Terrorist act: the calculated use of violence against civilians in order to achieve goals that are political, religious, or ideological in nature.

A
s he drove down a quiet Miami street, Mihails Balodis glanced over at his friend Oto when the other man’s cell phone buzzed once with an incoming message. Perhaps the word “friend” did not accurately describe their relationship. They’d been imprisoned together, had been through hell together after Latvia had gained independence from the U.S.S.R. decades ago and the Baltic States had been plunged into abject poverty. Oto was his comrade, his brother in arms. He trusted no one more than him. Not true, he trusted no one
but
Oto.

Not even the men in the vehicle with them right now. Yes, they followed the same cause and had similar ideals because of their unified hatred of the United States. Many had sworn they would die for Mihails and their beliefs but . . . he still did not completely trust them.

“What is it?” he asked in their native tongue as he pulled up to a stoplight. The Miami sun was close to setting, taking the wretched heat and humidity of the day with it. He hated this city with its flashy people, beaches, and whorish lifestyle. Just like the rest of the country.

Oto frowned at his phone, then pulled out his iPad.
“Our contact says there was a survivor from the party. A guest, not a worker. It’s on the news. She was found alive—near our exit point.”

That could mean nothing, but he wanted to know everything about the woman. No one should have survived that blast. Instead of asking questions he knew Oto wouldn’t have answers for yet, he continued driving, following the speed limit exactly as his friend pulled up a news site. They were still getting used to having so much technology right at their fingertips. The younger generations of Latvia had embraced technology, getting their hands on anything they could, often through the black market.

But Mihails was from a different time, and though two of his men were geniuses when it came to hacking, neither Mihails nor Oto had the understanding of it, or the desire, to become too embroiled with its use. Technology had its purposes, however, including being able to look up anything at any time. Oto likely could have looked up the story on his cell phone, but the screens were so small Mihails didn’t understand how anyone watched videos on the things.

As he steered the nondescript white SUV into a grocery store parking lot and parked far away from other vehicles, Oto handed the flat-screened device over to him. In the rearview mirror Mihails saw two of his men lean forward. The two in the very back remained where they were, silent but listening.

A tanned blond woman came on the screen, talking
about a lone female survivor of the horrific act of terror at the Westwood mansion. Americans knew very little of terror firsthand. But that was about to change. No longer would they live in their protective bubbles where the problems of the world were something they simply watched on the television screen.

“What is she saying?” Janis, one of the men from the back, asked in Latvian. “She is speaking too fast.” The man understood some English, but he wasn’t as fluent as Mihails and Oto were.

“There’s a survivor from last night. She comes from a well-known, wealthy Miami family. She is . . . uh, the reporter is saying she works with poor children. She’s being questioned by the authorities and not speaking to reporters.” Oto stopped then, watching the screen as a picture of the survivor was displayed.

Mihails stilled at the sight of the traffic-stopping beautiful dark-haired Hispanic woman. Her eyes were a unique amber color, just like his dead sister Alise’s. The similarities in their features ended there, as his sister had been tall, lean, and blond, but the eye color was jarring to his senses. He felt such a visceral reaction to those eyes, as if he were looking at Alise.

“Our contact and the news say she is talking to the police. She should die,” Oto said in his usual clipped tone. The man believed in killing first and worrying about consequences later.

“No.” His immediate response surprised Oto as much as it surprised himself.

His friend’s only outward reaction was a slight raising of his blond eyebrows, but that was enough of a reaction from the other man for Mihails to know he’d startled him.

“We have more important targets. Our focus is on them. We should not divide our resources for someone who may not be important.” He detested explaining himself, but sometimes it was necessary.

Oto’s lips pulled into a thin line, his eyes growing hard as he subtly glanced behind them without moving his head. Mihails understood what his friend was communicating even though he hadn’t spoken aloud. Mihails could never show weakness.

Oto was right. He’d just had a momentary lapse, something that happened when he thought of either of his sisters too often. He turned in his seat to face Janis. “Contact Oskars. He’s to go to the hospital. See what he can find out. If she knows anything, eliminate the problem. If he can’t eliminate her at the hospital, track her until he can.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back around and watched as Oto pulled up the schematics for the home they were about to infiltrate.

They had reviewed this strategy what felt like a hundred times. Everything had to go according to plan, so even if the others didn’t like it, he believed in being prepared.

Last night had been a success, since he had eliminated twenty of the prominent men involved in the sexual slavery ring that had killed one of his sisters. It didn’t matter that his other sister still lived; she would always have to live with the shame of what had been done to her. If his sister Ieva had known what Mihails would do after she’d told him about her suffering, she might never have told him names. Luckily she had no idea that he and Oto would burn the world down to avenge them.

The collateral damage at the mansion had been worth it. A small part of him experienced remorse, as there had
surely been innocent lives taken, but to eliminate so many men who deserved it under one roof had been efficient and necessary.

It would also send a message that this reprehensible crime would not be tolerated. At first the world would not understand the reason for the destruction last night, but after today, it would start to become clearer. At least to some of the American authorities. For that, he was glad. He wanted them to know why so many of their people had been killed. If they had been doing their job in the first place, policing the slave trade and protecting the innocent, Alise might still be alive and Ieva would still be innocent.

The United States had pushed so hard for the fall of the Communist regime and the independence of the Baltic States, but once Latvia had been freed from the Iron Curtain, its economy had shriveled. And no one had stepped in to help his country find solid footing. Especially not those who had pushed to “free” them and inadvertently turned them into slaves. While he’d been working abroad in the U.K., trying to earn a living for his family, his sisters had come to America for work.

And found hell instead. Now he was going to rain hell down on those who had hurt them.

He blinked, pushing those thoughts away as Oto looked at him expectantly. His friend had asked him a question.
Focus,
he ordered himself. His friend’s words slowly trickled through the haze of his thoughts. “Yes, we go in right at dusk. Bastard won’t know what hit him.”

Oto smiled coldly, the look of a man who had killed before and would do so again with no compunction. And Mihails knew that Oto loved Ieva. His friend had never admitted it to anyone, but Mihails knew because of the
way his expression changed when he talked about her. It was so slight, the strange softening around the eyes of a man who had never smiled. It was another reason he trusted his friend. This job wasn’t just political; it was personal for Oto too. For men like them, there was no separation of the two, something Americans would understand soon.

Mihails looked at the clock on the dashboard of the SUV, then outside. He already knew exactly what time the sun would set. They had planned everything perfectly, synchronizing their watches. Only ten minutes left until they would leave the quiet parking lot.

“Oskars will be at the hospital in five minutes. He will leave a message with you if there is a problem,” Janis said quietly from the back.

The three others remained quiet as Mihails nodded and tried not to watch the clock or the setting sun. They had prepared for this, and compared to last night this would be an easier mission, but he had learned never to get cocky. His men were the same. They all had military training and had all been to a Russian prison at one time or another. They understood patience and planning.

As the parking lot lights flicked on, Mihails steered his team back out of the parking lot and onto another quiet side street. Tucked away in a quiet Miami neighborhood with high fences and a security guard, his target thought he was safe. Everyone who lived there thought they were.

The interior mood of the vehicle changed as he pulled up to the security gate. It was almost palpable, the focused readiness of his men.

Mihails had his Makarov in his right hand as Oto
rolled the window down using the controls on the center console.

The security man, wearing all-black fatigues, frowned as he looked through the interior of their SUV and started to speak, but Mihails lifted his weapon and shot him in the head. The man dropped like a stone, falling behind the half door of the small security building. A clean kill. One bullet right through his skull. Mihails’s suppressor covered what would have been a loud boom.

They had to move fast now. Mihails pulled forward until the passenger door was lined up with the half door. He watched in the rearview mirror as Kristaps slipped from the vehicle and entered the small gatehouse.

Seconds later, the security gate opened up and Mihails pulled through, leaving Kristaps behind to take the man’s uniform and act as security until they had completed their mission. It was why Mihails had gone with a head shot. They needed the security uniform as clean as possible. The wealthy people here likely wouldn’t look too closely at a uniform or a new guard.

No, the type of people who lived here were more concerned with their own pampered lives. With one act Mihails was going to remind them they were just like everyone else. Breakable.