Ice Cold (6 page)

Her computer
dinged
. “Dresden Fernsehen had the first news alert less than an hour ago. Let’s say the call came in ten to fifteen minutes before it went on the air.” She typed.

“We already know this…” He heard the irritation in his voice. The last thing he needed was someone questioning his every move. He was a team player; he just didn’t want her in his team.

“I want to know where the call originated.”

“The Städtische Hoffnung are based in—”

“Give me a minute… The call was computer generated. The IP of the computer used
appears
to have originated in Mersin, Turkey. However, the address was rerouted from Panama City, and to Panama City from Paris, and to Paris from…” She paused her fast-moving fingers for a second. “Are you getting the picture?”

“You’re saying not the SH.” It hadn’t felt right to him either, but it annoy—
Shit
. It annoyed him that a fellow member of his team reached the same conclusion. He should be pleased they were on the same page.

“This looks more complex than a local terror cell. Unless you’d
rather
work with someone other than the best, you need me, Navarro. Like it or not.” She gave him an assessing look when he didn’t dispute it. “I’ll give you points—
small
points—for not asking me if I’m sure. Just an FYI—I don’t offer an opinion if I’m not.
Ever
.”

Jack Hansen was known for being the best at what he did. She was now best but only by default. She had to prove to everyone that she hadn’t just gotten that title because Jack was dead and both of them knew it.

Rafe raised a single brow. “You’re aware we’re on the same side, right, Winston?”

“I’m not trying to send
you
home in the middle of an op—” As she looked at the monitor, her eyes widened slightly, and her body stiffened. She continued speaking without changing her dulcet tone.

“I’m an
asset,
Navarro. Don’t forget it.” She went from razor sharp to absent, keying in whatever the hell she was so busy keying in, and watching the screen.

Jesus, when they said Winston had no interpersonal skills, they weren’t kidding. “I’m sitting right here,” Rafael told her, annoyed by how fucking annoyed he sounded.

“I can look into your fathomless black eyes, or I can do my job. Can’t do both. You choose,” she said without even looking at him. While he digested that, she continued with barely a pause, “Consider me the first woman immune to your dubious charms.” Her eyes flickered up to meet his. “I do not say that as a come-on or encouragement for you to try to change my mind. It’s a simple fact. I don’t find you particularly attractive, and I will not sleep with you. Ever.”

“What a relief. I thought the unprovoked kiss you planted on me was the prelude to a slow and laborious seduction.”

Her pupils flared. For a moment, Rafael thought she was heating up from their exchange, but hell no, he should’ve known better. Glued to the screen she was barely aware of his presence.

“Excellent,” Oblivious to his mental masturbation, she talked right over him. “He/she/they are showing us just how smart they are, and they want us to know it. They
want
us to follow our tails as they lead us on a merry chase. Another hour, and I’ll tell you exactly where that call really originated.
That,
coupled with the physical evidence you found, should lead us right to their front door.”

All the points in that little skirmish went to Frosty. Rafael got to his feet, throwing his shadow over her. “I’ll grab a coffee while you do that. Tea?”

She didn’t look up. “Please—”

“Green. Weak. Got it.”

Rafe watched her as he waited for his order at the counter. She was strikingly beautiful in a stay-the-fuck-away-from-me way that was as intriguing as it was maddening. She must’ve had a lover or two, at her age. He could probably ID them in the locker room by their frozen dicks.

She was typing away as if her life depended on it. Manic, her fingers frantic. Interesting, because while she’d been decidedly distracted when he’d been sitting with her, she hadn’t been quite as intent. Perhaps she was sending an e-mail to her popsicle lover. Nah. Rafael bit back a thin smile. Frosty didn’t have a lover. She’d have to thaw to freezing to allow that to happen. “You aren’t exactly inconspicuous, you know,” he told her as he came back, setting the two paper cups on the Formica tabletop as he resumed his seat.

Her pale eyes didn’t so much as flick away from the laptop to glance around at the other patrons. “I’m wearing exactly what every other woman in here is wearing.”

“Wearing the same clothes but not in the same way. Believe me, your demeanor screams ‘Look at me, I’m loaded’ in red neon. Drawing attention is not a good thing for an operative. Didn’t you read the handbook?”

“Of course. I have it memorized—I can become invisible if necessary.”

He snorted his disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

She gave him a cold glance as she snapped the lid of her small computer shut and shoved it into the voluminous tote hanging over her chair back with her coat. “I don’t much care what you think.” She swung the straps over her slender shoulder and got to her feet. Her legs were a mile long. “Excuse me. I have to use the restroom.”

“Have at it. You don’t need my permission.”

She didn’t cuss him out or even mutter under her breath, as most women would do. Kudos. He gave himself points for not turning to watch her ass as she walked way.

Rafe sipped the strong, black coffee, observing the ebb and flow of people—mostly students—passing outside the large window beside him. The sun had come out and it glinted on the slushy piles of snow on the sidewalks. Winter afternoon and everyone was enjoying a rare few hours of sunshine.

Before he’d gotten the call about the bomb in Athens, he and his team had just tied up an op in Colombia, and he’d been on his way to London to meet an old flame he’d kept simmering for a while. Neither of them was serious, but he liked Monica, and she knew the score. He needed the release after a hellish op.

Except he’d had to detour to Montana to grab Jack because he’d been rerouted to Greece. Now, here he was, in Germany with a woman who intrigued him far more than he wanted. With no release valve, apart from his right fist.

He reminded himself that he was immune.

Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.

“Mag ich mit Ihnen sitzen?”
a light, sultry voice asked.

Rafe let his gaze travel up a pair of long, silky, pale legs, past a short floral skirt, skimmed the young woman’s rather flat chest, and rose to meet heavily made-up, inquiring brown eyes. Probably a student. She was cute but very young. Barely eighteen. Her short, choppy, dark brown hair spiked on her poppy red painted cheeks. Bright purple lipstick accentuated lime-green braces, and an enormous, garishly patterned fabric bag slung over one shoulder.

Even if he’d been tempted, which Rafael wasn’t–he didn’t rob cradles. He smiled and shot a quick glance behind her. “Sorry,
schatz,
” he murmured. “My girlfriend will be back any minute.”

With a coy bat of her fake lashes, the girl slid into Winston’s seat, resting her folded arms on the table. The lurid tattoo on her forearm showed she had a fondness for bats. “Then I will only sit for a few seconds,
ja
?”

Rafe grinned at the kid’s cojones. “You don’t know my girlfriend. Do you go to school here, at the college?”

She pouted. “Don’t you want my name and comm number before we make small talk?”

He glanced toward the bathroom sign, feeling slightly uncomfortable. What on earth was taking Winston so damned long? Maybe if he took the girl’s number she’d leave. “Sure.”

She leaned over her arms and said in a stage whisper, “Is this what you do when you’re out with a ‘girlfriend’?” Her heavy German accent was gone, and the hard, cold tones of Honey Winston sounded incongruous coming from the perky young student’s glossy purple lips. “Pick up girls young enough to be your daughter?”

Rafe’s mind caught up… “Holy
shit
!”

FIVE

 T 
he things our personnel dossiers leave out. I had no idea you had a thing for bats, Winston.”

Navarro took up far too much damned space in the rear of the cab, his booted foot propped on his knee, an arm slung across the back of the vinyl seat. His height, his bulky coat, and his odd need to chat furthered her irritation.

He’d wanted to take the Company car offered to them. She’d given him the percentage of time they’d waste driving around, plus the cost, plus finding parking wherever they went. He’d held up his hands, and said, “
Fine
. Find us a damned cab.”

She did.

Honey looked out her window. An elderly woman, net bag of groceries in one gloved hand, dragging a shrieking child by the other, hurried along the sidewalk to the bus stop as the snow fell. Honey calculated the gap. Unless the bus driver slowed down, the grandmother and the screaming kid were destined to wait a while in the cold. Granny was pretty spry; she might make it.

“My alter ego, Gretchen Malik, likes bats,” she told Navarro. As Granny reached her goal with seconds to spare.
Good for you, lady. Well done.
People should be rewarded for trying. For working hard. For living a good life. They rarely were but it was a worthy goal.

“She also likes heavy metal and Thomas Burleigh, who has a thing for old cars.” Honey didn’t look at Navarro, instead watching the towheaded child scamper into a seat and peer down at her from the bus, his face twisted into howls of rage. She resisted the urge to return the gesture. She wasn’t any better with small humans than with the adult size. The cab kept pace with the bus, and she changed her depth perception as the kid, red-faced and crying pressed his face to the glass.

She needed a few minutes to figure out exactly what happened back at the café minutes after Navarro had walked in. She’d been minding her own business, following the bank numbers, when a message popped up on the screen.

Dear God. A text from
Catherine Seymour!

Her friend and mentor, Catherine Seymour, code name Savage, was in prison for treason. Honey had done a double take when the message had come through. Thank God, she’d been able to school her expression so Navarro hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

TRUST NO ONE. THINGS NOT AS THEY APPEAR. WAIT FOR WORD
.

“Who the hell is Gretchen Malik?”

Whose word? What
wasn’t what it appeared? The bombing of the bank? Catherine’s arrest? “The local girl you picked up at the café.” Honey stared sightlessly out the window as they crossed town at a snail’s pace. They should’ve taken the Company car. Maybe a helicopter.

This wasn’t the time for Navarro to suddenly become chatty.
THINGS NOT AS THEY APPEAR.
She hid her expression behind dark glasses and maintained a calm demeanor. Her heart raced, and yes, she was more than a little freaked out.

Great. Now the cab was stuck behind the bus on the narrow street. Honey resisted tapping her toe, or better yet, getting out and walking to Kurtz Straße. Nielson had given her the address while she’d waited at the café, she’d set the GPS on her comm back while sipping tea she didn’t want, while waiting for a man she didn’t want to be with.

“That was you.”

What?
Oh, he was still shaking the disguise tree. “No, that was
Gretchen
.” Getting that message, across secure channels, out of the blue, was like hearing a voice from the grave.

“So you
don’t
like bats?” Amusement laced Navarro’s words.

Honey’s back teeth scraped together. Why did Navarro even give a damn? They had an assignment to concentrate on. That’s where he ought to be putting his brainpower. “It was a temporary tattoo. Tell me about Bäcker.” She finally gave him her full attention.

“Erik Bäcker has run our tech lab here in Germany for the last twenty years,” he said obediently. “Convenient of the bomber to bomb the bank in Dresden where the lab is located. Who’s Thomas Burleigh? An old boyfriend?”

“
Gretchen
’s boyfriend, they’ve been dating for a month, but he’s two-timing her with Valerie. I don’t believe in coincidence,” Honey finished; sick of talking about a fictional character she’d made up to prove a point. Navarro was like a terrier with a bone. Her thoughts were on Savage, so she was only half listening to him, ergo only half irritated that he refused to drop it.

Okay, no need to overdramatize this. The snow flurries increased, the gloom descending over the city streets like a threadbare, gray mohair blanket. The bus moved a few feet. Hurrah.

Savage
couldn’t
have texted her from a maximum-security prison. There were two possible conclusions: Either Savage wasn’t
in
a maximum-security prison, or someone else was using Savage’s personal,
secure
, e-mail account. Either way, why contact
her
?