Femme Fatale (23 page)

“Yes,” Kylee answered, smiling. Before she could move, a shadow shifted to her left.

The guard raised his Uzi.

“Gun!” Kylee yelled, and on the heels of that she heard another weapon open up behind her, letting her know the guard hadn’t been the only one securing the cars.

She threw herself forward, hearing Mick’s MP5 silenced stutter. The guard pointed his weapon at her as she
kicked her feet out from under her like a baseball player stealing second.

Bullets cut the air over Kylee’s head, then her feet cut the gunman’s legs out from under him. He fell beside her, smacking face first against the stone floor. He shoved up and tried to bring his weapon up. Kylee met him with a right cross, putting all her weight and strength behind it.

His head turned and he dropped.

Pushing herself to her feet, she glanced up and saw that Mick was still standing, though he was bleeding profusely from a thigh wound. He’d never once moved, standing guard over her back.

“Let’s go,” he growled, staggering toward her.

Kylee slid out of the backpack, dropped it between the seats, then took out a Swiss Army knife. Reaching under the dash, she pulled out the ignition wires, bared them with the knife blade and touched them together.

Sparks jumped and the engine caught. The powerful V-8 rumbled like an impatient lion in the garage, filling the structure with its sound.

“Scoot over,” Mick suggested, limping toward her.

Kylee looked at him. “Why don’t you leave the driving to the professionals? That’s where I’m leaving the shooting.”

He grinned at her. “Okay then.” He limped to the other side of the car and dropped into the seat.

Kylee pushed in the clutch, shoved the car into first and let the clutch out. The tires scalded the pavement as the Cobra leaped forward. She managed the tight turn and sped toward the garage door.

“Door’s not open,” Mick yelled above the engine roar.

“It will be,” Kylee said.

Mick swore and took cover in the bucket seat.

Kylee reached to the sun visor and tripped the remote
control she’d spotted. The garage door opened smoothly just before they reached it. If the Cobra had been taller, the vehicle would never have cleared the door. She grinned as they slid through.

Two jeeps with armed men rocketed across the courtyard. Assault rifles spat muzzle flashes.

Foot heavy on the accelerator, Kylee sped toward both of them. Bullets screamed from the Cobra’s rounded hood and trunk, punched a hole in the windshield.

Both jeep drivers pulled away from her, not wanting to follow through on the deadly game of chicken. Mick emptied the MP5 into one of the vehicles and it ran into the fountain only a short distance farther on, flipping over onto its side.

“The helicopter,” Barbara warned over the earpiece.

From the corner of her eye, Kylee saw the helicopter lifting from the rooftop helipad. Everything in her screamed to get away.

The other jeep came around in a tight turn, staying in hot pursuit.

Kylee steered for the castle entrance, noticing at once that the big modern security gate was closed.

“I don’t suppose the garage door widget works on that,” Mick said as he reloaded the MP5.

Kylee tried. The gate remained in place. She brought the Cobra to a halt in front of the gate.

“I’ve got a garage door opener,” she said. She shoved one of the remote detonators into a C-4 packet in the backpack, then threw the backpack at the bottom of the gate. Looking over her shoulder, she shoved the transmission into reverse and floored the accelerator.

The Cobra jumped backward, narrowly missing the on-coming jeep. The gunmen took cover, obviously fearing
a collision. The jeep was at the gate when Kylee detonated the C-4 with the remote control

With the jeep parked nearly on top of it, the explosion lifted the jeep and the gunmen and threw them away, taking down the gate at the same time.

Kylee put the Cobra into forward gear and shot forward just as machine gunners in the helicopter opened fire into the ground where they’d been. She sped through the gate, but the helicopter pursued relentlessly.

The road twisted and turned like a broken-backed snake. Kylee pushed the envelope keeping the Cobra hurtling down the grade and clinging to the road without plunging over the side of the cliff. The mountain also provided partial cover at times.

“You can’t outrun them,” Mick shouted.

“I’ve got to,” Kylee said.

He looked at her. “You can’t get away from this one, Kylee.”

“I can.”

“Let me do this,” he said. “I can do this.”

“So can I.”

“Maybe you can, darlin’, but maybe you’re going to be one turn shy before we reach bottom. I trusted you when I got into this car. Now I need you to trust me.” Mick paused. “Stop the car.”

Get away. Get away.
Kylee heard the familiar voice chanting in the back of her mind.

The helicopter appeared over the mountain again, guns blazing. She turned quickly and it disappeared.

“Please, darlin’.”

Reluctantly Kylee brought the Cobra to a stop, slewing around in a one-eighty that had brought them facing in the direction they had come.

Mick perched up on the seat, resting both arms over the windshield. The helicopter appeared an instant later.

Get away. Get away.

The helicopter gunners opened fire.

Coolly Mick waited.

Get away. Get away.

Kylee held steady as the helicopter closed on them. Twin rows of dust leaped up from the ground as the bullets slapped into the mountain.

Then Mick opened fire. Bullets tracked across the Plexiglas nose where the pilot was. Even at the distance, Kylee saw the man jerk back, saw Krystof Scherba scream in horror.

The helicopter fell over the side of the cliff and turned into a whirling orange and black ball of flame and smoke as it rushed like a fiery avalanche down the side of the mountain.

Mick sat back down in the seat. Pain racked his handsome face, but he smiled at her.

“Are you all right?” Barbara asked over the headset.

“We’re fine,” Kylee said, sitting in the moonlight as the castle streamed smoke above them. “Mission accomplished?”

“Mission accomplished,” Barbara agreed. “Looks like you made one more get-away.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Kylee promised.

Mick smiled at her. “You’re a hero,” he said.

She smiled again as if it was no big thing. “Again. If I can pull off the hang glider stunt they want for this movie, and chill my mom out about the whole spy business, I’m golden.”

“You’re already golden.” Mick leaned in close and she knew he was going to kiss her.

Get away. Get away!

But she didn’t move a muscle. The kiss was long and deep, satisfying in a way she had never felt before.

Mick pulled back after a time and looked surprised. “Not going to be the get-away girl?”

“We’ll see,” she replied, and ducked back in for another kiss. “We’ll see.”

Virginia Kantra

Dear Reader,

One of the best parts of being a writer is the chance to immerse yourself in your characters, to get under their skins and into their hearts and minds. To be somebody else. To play pretend, with the certainty and enjoyment of a child.

While I was writing “End Game,” I got to be beautiful, brainy, flamboyant agent Tory Grayson. It was quite a kick feeling like one of Charlie’s Angels on a hot streak or a particularly intelligent Bond girl. And as if that wasn’t reward enough, during the course of Tory’s adventure, I also got to fall in love with Bishop Tyler, a man up to every challenge…including Tory.

I hope you have fun playing spies and lovers with me.

Virginia Kantra

O
f all the covert ops in all the towns in all the world, he had to walk into hers.

Victoria Grayson squinted across the sun-drenched courtyard. The pristine blue water was edged with exotic flowers and even more exotic guests. Light flashed from the men’s watches and chains, gleamed from the oiled bodies of the women, sparkled on the waterfall—it was a fake, but it was a good fake—that anchored one end of the pool.

Her heartbeat quickened. She strolled to the lounge chair that held her sarong, trying to get a better look at the tall, lean man in the shadow of the palms.

DEA agent Bishop Tyler was the last man she’d expect to see as a guest at a drug lord’s pool party.

The last man she wanted to see.

Which meant, the way her luck was running lately, that Mr. Shadow over there had to be him.

She knotted her orange sarong at her hip, her mind
racing. Maybe he wouldn’t identify her? She had a different name, a different look, different hair color from the woman Bishop had known two years ago.

Yeah, and he hadn’t missed a trick then, either, she thought gloomily.

Ducking her head, she watched him as she rubbed tanning oil on her chest, careful to avoid the heavy makeup under her jaw. She recognized the man’s lean grace, his predatory profile, his utter stillness. It was definitely Bishop. She stroked oil on her upper arms, annoyed to notice her hands trembling.

Okay. This was not a disaster. She’d been undercover two years ago, too. Even if Bishop did connect spoiled socialite Tory Grayson with bad girl Angel Perez, her true identity, her real mission, weren’t in danger.

Probably.

Yet.

But there was no denying Bishop’s presence complicated a game that was hopelessly complicated already.

If he was a guest of Primo’s, he was either dirty or he was undercover. She didn’t think he was dirty. The man she remembered was as uncompromising as the desert and as solid as the mesas of his native New Mexico. He must be undercover.

This was her game, Tory reminded herself. Her move.

On the other side of the pool, Bishop slipped deeper into the cover of lush foliage. Her breath hissed in. If she didn’t act quickly, she would lose him. Primo’s Cayman Island estate was riddled with romantic, wandering paths designed for those guests who preferred to indulge their tastes for sex or drugs in semiprivacy.

She flipped the bottle of lotion onto the lounger and sauntered around the pool.
Queen to Bishop’s four.

“Querida.”
A man’s smooth, accented voice re
proached her. “You are not running away so soon. The party is barely begun.”

Check.

The voice, like everything else around her, belonged to Colombian financier Primo Valcazar.

Tory turned and flashed him her best gosh-I’m-glad-to-see-you-you-big-ol’-hunk-of-man smile. “I’ll be right back,” she said. She hoped. “I just have this one little thing to take care of first.”

But Primo wasn’t used to taking no for an answer. The man was confident. Maybe it was his looks and old-world charm. Maybe it was his money. Maybe it was the armed guards he’d posted around his estate.

“You could take care of me,” he said.

“Oh, and I would love to,” Tory cooed. Was she laying it on too thick? But no, Primo was nodding, apparently convinced that he was irresistible and she was dumb as a rock. “Only this is one of those things that really can’t wait.”

Primo looked blank.

“It’s a girl thing.” Tory couldn’t quite manage a blush, but she lowered her eyes and her voice. “You know.”

And Primo, bless his Latin American macho horror of feminine complaints, stepped back at once. “Of course,” he said formally. “I will see you later,
querida.
”

“Later,” she promised, and bolted after Bishop in her three-inch, gold-tone pool sandals.

But the DEA agent had disappeared.

The graveled walk didn’t even yield a footprint, she thought in disgust. That shot of color was only a hibiscus, trailing scarlet blooms across the path. That flash of movement was only a bird with a long brown tail and yellow eyes, darting from branch to branch. The tinkle of water
and trickle of conversation floating from the pool behind her masked all sound.

Tory stopped, her three-inch spikes sinking into the gravel, and eyed the deep green foliage all around in frustration.

“Damn it,” she muttered.

“I see your taste in boyfriends hasn’t improved any,” drawled a deep male voice behind her.

Her heart hurtled into her throat. She knew that voice. At one time, she thought she knew that man. Enough to give him her trust. Enough to give him her heart.

Now, of course, she knew better.

She turned slowly, cocked her hip, angled her chin and prayed he wouldn’t notice the betraying beat of her pulse in her throat. Or the tightening of her nipples under her skimpy bronze bikini top. Or any of the other stupid physical reactions she couldn’t control in his presence.

Bishop Tyler. He overwhelmed her. Still. Some of it was sheer size. He was six feet four—a disadvantage, he’d confessed to her once, when he was working undercover and trying to blend in. He was undercover now in a dark suit and a matching T-shirt, kind of a
Miami Vice
noire look. His hair was black. His skin was bronze, a legacy of his Native American grandmother. His eyes were black as anthracite. He stepped out of the green shadows by the side of the path like a Navajo warrior emerging from the mists of time or the pages of a romance novel and made her little heart go pitter-pat.

She smiled politely. “Excuse me. Do we know each other?”

His eyes glittered with black humor. “Nice try, Angel.”

“The name’s Victoria Grayson.” That much, at least, was true. “Tory to my friends.”

“I’m not a friend,” he said flatly.

That hurt. She was surprised how much.

“No,” she agreed coolly. “You’re not.”

“You remember, then.”

“I remember some things.”

“I remember.” His dark gaze met hers. “Everything.”

Oh, my. Her stomach jolted.

She tossed her head. “I suppose being left handcuffed to the flagpole in front of your department’s regional headquarters would be memorable.”

“Oh, yeah. And if I forget,” he added wryly, “I have plenty of colleagues who still salute when they see me.”

A bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She swallowed hastily. She could not afford to laugh. She could not afford to like him.

“Why did you do it, Angel?” Bishop asked.

All laughter died.

“You were going to arrest me for killing Guerrero.” The heroin trafficker they had both been after when they’d met.

Bishop looked down his blade of a nose at her. “I hadn’t decided yet what to do about Guerrero’s murder.”

“Oh, and I was supposed to stick around while you made up your mind?”

“You shouldn’t have jumped into action without thinking things through.”

She would have died before admitting his criticism hurt. “Funny, that wasn’t an issue when Guerrero had his gun to your head.”

“Which brings us back to your lousy taste in boyfriends.”

She set one hand on her hip. “Are we talking about Guerrero now? Or you?”

“I’m talking about Valcazar. He’s a dangerous man, Angel.”

“It’s Tory. And I can handle Primo.”

“The way you handled Guerrero?”

She shivered. Despite her line of work, she was not a killer. She’d been recruited for her skills as a hacker, not her facility with guns.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Bishop said. “Go home, Angel. Or Tory. Or whatever the hell your name is. You don’t have any business messing with a man like Valcazar.”

She did, actually. Because Valcazar’s name had turned up recently in files recovered by Tory’s fellow operative Kylee Swain. In addition to laundering money for the Colombian drug cartels, Primo Valcazar was now managing the fortune of dying arms smuggler and international terrorist Kopach Egorov. When Egorov croaked, his illegal millions could go to fund other terrorist groups. Unless Tory could access Valcazar’s accounts and find and freeze Egorov’s legacy.

None of which she was about to explain to Mr. Self-Righteous from the DEA.

She tilted her head. “What are you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

“I’d like to,” Bishop growled. “But the Caymans belong to the U.K. I don’t have jurisdiction here.”

She knew that. It was one of the reasons her team had been called in. The agents for Stony Man Farm operated without respect for jurisdiction. It was a good thing, she sometimes thought, they were the good guys. But she wasn’t sure Bishop would see it that way.

“So you can’t make me leave.”

He crossed his arms against his broad chest. “Maybe
I’ll warn Valcazar your boyfriends have a tendency to wind up dead.”

“Or handcuffed.”

But she’d underestimated her man.

“I’d be willing to try the handcuff thing again,” Bishop said. “At a more appropriate time and in a less public place.”

Oh, wowee.

The garden wheeled and righted itself like a spinning telescope with Bishop at its center. She was intensely, unbearably, focused on him. The details of his face were sharpened and magnified: the harsh cast of his cheekbones and the tiny white lines at the corners of his eyes, the suggestion of roughness at the edge of his jaw and the smooth brown skin of his throat. Her heart drummed. His eyes darkened.

He took a step toward her. “Angel—”

“You have to leave,” they both said at the same time.

Her mouth dropped open.

Bishop glared. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got things to do here.”

“So do I.”

“What? Score a few lines? Notch a few bedposts? You can do better than that.”

She couldn’t blame him for supposing she was here to trade sex for drugs. She’d worked very hard to create that impression. The last time they’d met she’d been posing as Guerrero’s girlfriend. Given her cover, she should be touched that Bishop even cared what happened to her. But his patronizing attitude pissed her off.

And his presence still compromised her mission. What if his activities aroused Primo’s suspicions? What if his attempts to protect or reform her got her kicked out before she hacked her way into Primo’s computers? Why hadn’t
Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, warned her the DEA was conducting an operation in the Caymans?

“You have no idea what I can do,” Tory said, and pivoted on her three-inch heels and stalked away.

“Angel. Tory!” Bishop called softly after her.

She didn’t look back. She quickened her stride until she was almost running, stumbling down the gravel path. Heart pounding, chest heaving—she glanced down to check the effect—face attractively flushed, she burst onto the sun-drenched patio around the pool.

“A man!” she cried. “In the bushes! Help!”

There were men around the pool: guests in silk shirts and gold chains who smelled like musk and money, and bodyguards with thick necks and thicker arms who wore jackets despite the heat. Her cry shattered the scene like a stone. The guests scattered like carp. The guards drew guns and sprinted up stairs, dashed down paths and muscled into the shrubbery.

Jeez. She didn’t want Bishop shot. She just wanted him gone. She screamed again, to warn him.

One of the male guests, a big blonde with a square red face, patted her arm comfortingly. “Do not worry. Primo has excellent security. They will catch your man in the bushes.”

Tory smiled wanly. She hoped not.

“Did you perhaps see his face?” persisted her comforter. He had a slight European accent. German, maybe, or Austrian. “Did you recognize him?”

Tory shook her head. If Bishop was identified as DEA, Primo’s men wouldn’t just rough him up and toss him out. They’d kill him.

The possibility froze her deep inside.

“You are distressed,” the German said.

Well, yeah. She strained to hear shouts or gunshots, for some clue that Bishop had either been captured or had gotten away.

“Is there anything I can do? Anyone, perhaps, whom I can get for you? A special…friend staying with you?”

Oh, oops. His slight hesitation tripped her alarms. The friendly German wanted to know who she was sleeping with.

Adrenaline thawed her brain, warmed it into working again. It was like a game. A chess game, with the ending dependent on the opening moves. She had to find an opportunity, an in, a weakness in her opponents’ position, to win.

She didn’t trade sex for drugs. She didn’t trade sex for anything. But she desperately needed access to Primo’s computers and for that she needed an entrée to his house. Playing a beautiful, bored, rich young woman with a drug habit had gotten her invited to his party. But was it enough to let her stay?

“Miss Grayson is here as my guest,” Primo interrupted. “And I am desolate that her visit has been disturbed.”

Tory brightened. Desolate was good. She could work with guilt.

“Oh, Primo,” she sighed, and turned to him in not-entirely-feigned relief. “I was so scared.”

Primo put his arm around her, a possessive move that didn’t escape the German. “Don’t be,
querida.
This intruder will not trouble you again.”

“You caught him?” She didn’t have to fake the tremor in her voice.

Primo frowned. “No. But my men assure me he has left the grounds. One of them saw him go over the wall.”

So Bishop was safe. Gone.

Good.

She tried to feel happy about that, but the truth was it was no easier now than it had been two years ago.

Get your head in the game.

“Thank you, Primo.” She rested her forehead on his shoulder—a bit of a feat, since she was five feet eleven and wearing three-inch heels, but she managed it. “I feel so safe here. Not like at the hotel.”

Way to be obvious, Tory.

He stroked her back. “You are not comfortable at the Meridian?”

The Meridian was a millionaires-only resort on prime island real estate. Barbara Price had booked Tory’s room to support her pose as a wealthy good-time girl. It had been nice for the day or so it lasted. But now Tory waved all that luxury away with a flutter of her manicured nails.