Mission: Out of Control (7 page)

“I don't know. Maybe. But Brody the Boy Scout
hauled me out of the party before I could put it back and get the cell phone.”

Leah raised an eyebrow. “Hauled you out?”

“Over his shoulder. Like a fireman. Stop smiling.”

Leah picked up a pillow and sank her face into it.

Ronie shook her head. “Perfect. And you'll be overjoyed to know that the paparazzi got a picture of it. Probably a nice shot of my backside.”

“It's not such a bad backside, you know.”

“Please stop.”

“Well, it's nice to know that if you needed him, Brody would appear.”

“Oh, there's not a doubt in my mind he'd break down doors for me. Like some sort of knight in shining armor. Except, well, I'm not sure if you noticed but I'm not a girl who needs heroes. I can rescue myself, thank you very much. Have, in fact, too many times to count.”

Like that moment in D.C., when she'd been cowering behind the speaker, hurt and very, very afraid? She'd needed a hero then, hadn't she?

And, yes, every time she dangled from the trapeze swing, she nearly got rope burns, her hands growing slick. Seeing Brody staring up at her made her feel, oddly, safe.

Even tonight, when she'd opened the door and seen him standing there, a dark wall of power, okay, she'd gone a little weak.

She'd wanted to throw herself into his arms.

She actually saw herself doing it, too. Because for a week now, she'd wondered what it might feel like to have his arms close around her for real. To breathe in that spicy, male smell.

To know what was behind those intense dark eyes. To get beyond the strange game they were playing to the real Brody. She wanted to hear his secrets and make him feel everything she felt with him.

Safe.

Understood.

Friends, or…more.

Apparently you don't know the meaning of the word.

Oh, no, she'd have to get back into the shower.

“You like him, don't you?”

Ronie lifted a shoulder.

“You know, you're not dishonoring your sister by falling in love, Rons. I think Savannah would approve.”

Ronie winced. “I'm not, it's not, I mean—”

“Stop. You've been dodging romance for as long as I've known you, and I can only believe it's because you think you don't deserve it.”

Maybe she should just live in the shower. “I…deserve it.”

“Say it again like you actually mean it.” Leah threw the pillow at her.

Ronie caught it. “I just don't have time. I'm busy.”

“Saving the children of the world. Sure. But here's the strange part. I have this feeling that if Brody knew what you were doing, he might actually be on your side.”

“I doubt that, Leah.”

“You could try telling him.”

“Right. He'd never leave my side.”

“And that's a bad thing because…?”

Ronie threw back the pillow. “Listen. Brody isn't interested in me, I can guarantee it. Especially after
tonight. If he was disgusted with me before, I promise you, he can't stand me now.”

“He's outside in the living room. Is that the mark of a man repulsed?”

“It's the mark of a man well paid. The thing is, I can do this. I know it. I just need some wiggle room. And now Brody won't let me go ten feet away from him.”

Leah nodded at her words. “And again, why is that a bad thing?”

“Whose side are you on here, Leah?”

Leah slid off the bed, came over and took Ronie's hands. “Yours, friend. Always yours.” She gave Ronie a hug. “Get some sleep.”

“I'm hungry, actually.”

“I think there's some food in the fridge. But that would require you to, you know, confront the Beast by the Castle Door.” She winked as she slipped out.

I think Savannah would approve.

Yes, she probably would. He did look a lot like the heroes of their daydreams.

Stop. She didn't have room in her life for daydreams. Not when Kafara lived in his own private nightmare.

It had nothing to do with deserving anything.

She wiped her eyes, padded over to the door and opened it.

Brody sat with his back to the hallway door, eyes closed. He opened them, though, when he heard her and raised an eyebrow. “Where's Vonya?”

“Funny.”

She padded out and opened the fridge in the suite. Yes, thank you, someone had put the fruit bowl in the fridge. She pulled out an orange.

“You're not planning on throwing that at me, are you?”

She looked at the orange. “I probably deserved that.”

His eyes gentled and it worked a lump into her throat. “You know, I'm just trying to do my job here.”

She took a breath and pulled her bathrobe around her in a tight fist at her neck. “I'm sorry, Brody. I… It won't happen again.”

“You bet it won't, because as of right now, Mr. Nice Guy is gone.”

She nodded. “Good night.” She slipped back into her room and put the pillow over her head. Unfortunately, a big part of her had begun to really like Mr. Nice Guy. She would miss him—a lot.

T
he air bore the smell of rotten meat, a barrel fire, the decay of mud huts. She spotted Kafara even before the Jeep stopped and waved to him.

But he had his back to her, chopping soapstone with a machete. A giant pile of rough-hewn sandstone towered over him like a pyramid.

“Kafara!”

He didn't turn, just kept chopping.

Around him, other boys with their rusty machetes hacked the stone. She got out, her feet bare on the dry earth. It dusted her ankles and her legs. “Kafara!”

He turned then, smiling at her, his teeth white against his black face. “Miss Vonya!”

The woman appeared. She always seemed to come from nowhere, although deep in Ronie's subconscious she knew she must live in the village. She carried a burlap bag on her head, tied neatly, balanced on a coil of rope. As Kafara ran close, she dropped the burlap and let it open.

A pineapple rolled out.

Kafara picked it up. “You want one?” he asked Vonya.

She always said yes, even though she could practically hear herself moan,
No. No.

Kafara held the pineapple in his hand. He chopped off the top, then the bottom. Then, balancing it in his hands, he brought his machete down through the bulk of it.

Blood spurted out, spraying them, coating Vonya.

She screamed, shaking herself out of her dream, sweat coating her. “Stop! Stop!”

The door banged open and a beast roared into the room.

“What is it?”

She looked up and saw a man holding a spatula in one hand, a gun in the other. He looked rabid enough to shoot.

“I—I—” She struggled to catch her breath, then fell back into the pillows. She stared at the creamy white ceiling and listened to the traffic outside.

Berlin. She was in Berlin and—

“Are you okay?”

Brody. She pulled the sheet over her, having clearly wrestled and lost to the bed linens. He turned, checked the closet, the bathroom. Then he holstered his gun—how long had he had that?—and came back to the bed. He stood over her with a strange mix of horror and anger on his face.

“I thought you were being ripped apart limb from limb in here.”

“Are you okay, Rons?” Leah came into the room, wrapping her robe around her. “Another nightmare?” She sat down on the side of the bed and drew Ronie into her arms. “You're shaking.”

She wanted to close her eyes but then Kafara would be there again, wouldn't he? So she stared up at Brody. He blew out a long breath.

“I'm fine.” She drew away, meeting Leah's eyes. “I'll be fine, really. This is what happens when you eat an orange before going to bed. You dream about citrus fruits.”

Brody frowned. Leah shook her head. “Not funny.” She looked at Brody. “She has nightmares about a bleeding pineapple every once in a while.”

He didn't look convinced.
And thank you, Leah, for leaving out the part about Kafara. And the machete. And the fact that it wasn't about a pineapple at all, was it?

“Get up, and come eat. Turns out your bodyguard is also Chef Ramsey. He makes a mean omelet.” Leah shooed Brody out of the room and closed the door behind them.

Ronie lay back into her pillow. Kafara. She just knew he was in trouble—he had to be. Life expectancy in General Mubar's army was less than a year.

Kafara had been in for nearly six months already.

A beep made her throw back the covers and grab her cell phone. She'd missed three messages.

The first had been sent an hour after she went to bed:
Msg received. Finding help.

The next two arrived only five minutes ago. Maybe that was what triggered her dream.

Cmptr Hlp found. Prague.

And:

Next concert date?

She replied, then deleted the communication.

By the time she got out of the shower, a final message appeared.
Meet after concert, at Tyn Church. Old Towne Square.

Old Towne Square, home of the famous Gothic church with the two black-roofed towers that reminded her of some Disney movie. She'd been there before—her concert venue happened to be only a few blocks away. Yes.

See? This didn't have to be a disaster.

She went to the window, watching traffic negotiate Friedrich Strasse. Yesterday's rain had turned the city sparkly and fresh. The oaks and maples were a crisp green, the geraniums deep red in their planters.

And the smell of eggs sizzling in butter nearly turned her inside out. She didn't bother with makeup—just pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt, took a breath, and forayed into the suite.

Indeed, Brody stood in the tiny makeshift kitchen cooking. He had little ramekins of onion, green pepper, mushrooms, cheese and bacon bits lined up on the counter, like some sort of short-order cook.

“What's this?”

Brody looked like he might smile, but he bit it back.

“There will be no more fancy eating in the main dining room, although I know how you love the kringle buffet. However you'll just have to settle for room service…or just ordinary me. Care for an omelet? I make a pretty mean one, even if it is only the basics.”

Of course he did. What didn't he do well? “The works, please.”

He raised an eyebrow but nodded. “As you wish.”
Then he poured the egg batter in the hot pan. The omelet sizzled as it cooked.

“I didn't know omelets came with your services. It's not in the brochure.”

He didn't look at her as he poured her a glass of juice, setting it before her. “There's a lot not listed in the brochure.” He then let half the smile free. “Including a listening ear. But I'm pretty good at that if you want to air out your thoughts.”

Oh, don't do this. Don't be nice.
She considered his tousled dark hair and the fact that, yes, he appeared to have slept by her door, the big bulldog.

She'd have to keep her wits about her if she hoped to sneak away again. She picked up the paper, pretending to read the front page. She couldn't be friendly—he'd only see through that, even if she meant it. And if she were belligerent, he'd only get more suspicious.

She'd have to get creative. Somehow.

“Sorry about the picture on page eight.”

She turned to it, and found her backside smack in the center of the page. Another shot featured her hand connecting with Brody's cheek. “I've seen the second one before.”

“It seems to be our trademark.”

She couldn't ignore the strange feeling that slipped through her at those words.

“Sorry about the other one, though,” he said, slipping her omelet onto a plate. “I guess there's no hiding out now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'd hoped to keep you—and me—out of the tab
loids.” He handed her the plate, along with a napkin roll, a fork and knife tucked inside.

“Why?”

“Because then whoever might hurt you knows what I look like. They know I'm looking out for you. Generally, bodyguards like to stay under the radar.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He turned back to the kitchen. “Vonya's not a real under-the-radar gal. I shouldn't have set my sights so high.”

She wasn't sure why, but his words felt delivered up with sharp objects embedded in them. “I'll…I'll try to stay out of trouble.”

He picked up an orange and tossed it in his hand. “Yep.” Then he began to peel it.

She wasn't sure why his smugness made her want to hurl something at him, but if she had fruit of any kind nearby, she'd be aiming for his head.

Instead she took the paper, folded it and dropped it onto the floor. “I despise the tabloids. If I never saw another one again, I'd rejoice with singing and tambourines.”

“And swinging,” he said, in a voice so quiet he may have thought she wouldn't catch it.

“What, you don't like the swinging song?”

He finished peeling the orange and broke off a section. “It gives me a coronary. I just know you're going to fly off that swing and I'm not going to be able to catch you.”

He would try to catch her?

“Is somebody making breakfast? I'm hungry.” Lyle
appeared at the door, wearing his Halo pajama pants and a Hollister T-shirt.

“Good morning, Lyle,” she said, picking up her fork to glare at Brody.

The twelve-year-old shuffled into the room, holding his Nintendo. He stopped at the table, his thumbs moving.

“Yes!” He looked up, grinning at Ronie. “I got to the next level.”

“Good job.” Oh, how she loved that smile. Just having him around, seeing him strong and healthy, made her want to cheer.

He walked up to Brody. “Hey, man, how you doing? Want to play a round of Mario Cart?”

She could have imagined it, but Brody stiffened, and then to her shock, a strange look crossed his face.

She'd almost call it fear.

“I don't play games, kid,” he said, and turned away.

It suddenly hit her that maybe that had been the problem all along. He hadn't been playing games. He had offered her his hand—and macchiatos and pastries and even pizza—in friendship.

And she'd all but spit on it.

She stared at her omelet, spilling out vegetables, and took a bite. Simple, but delicious.

Maybe that was the key. She shouldn't have played games with him, either. She'd landed them in this mess, and now she'd have to be the one to sort it out. No, she didn't have to tell him everything, but what if she simply…was herself? While she'd blown any chance of Brody trusting her again, maybe they could be civil to each other. Maybe even become real friends.

She was just so tired of pretending, tired of the masks.

Of Vonya.

She took another bite. Yes, delicious. And simple.

No more games. At least not until Prague.

 

The woman just might drive him back over the ocean and straight into the loony bin.

Or at least, now that he was back in Prague, with his apartment only two blocks away, back to his own digs where he could get a decent night's sleep and perhaps figure out where he'd left his marbles.

“Who is this woman?” Brody said into his lapel mike. Luke stood on the other side of the room, watching the entrances and Brody's back.

“What, you've never seen a pop diva tie balloon animals before?”

“I just didn't know you could make so many different animals with balloons. Is that a monkey?”

He hadn't expected the woman the world knew as Vonya to sit in the middle of an orphanage in the Czech Republic and tie balloon animals for a group of four-year-olds.

And, wouldn't you know it, she was good at it, too. Dogs and elephants and birds and even hats. She laughed with the children and spoke to them in what sounded like half German and half Russian.

“What's that language she's speaking?” Luke asked.

“She calls it Czech-ish. Although, let's be clear here, it's not one of the four languages she speaks fluently. They happen to be German, Dutch, Russian and English.
And a smattering of Spanish, Italian and, well, Czech, apparently.”

From across the room, Luke raised an eyebrow.

“You know what she told me this morning?” Brody continued. “That German, Russian and Czech are so similar, she can almost speak to half of eastern Europe. Which of course, she does.”

“Sounds like you're learning a lot there, over on her sofa, pal. I don't suppose you want to switch places.”

Brody glared at him.

No. Only he wasn't sure why, because clearly the woman was up to her games again. He just couldn't figure out the rules.

“Did you know she plays the guitar?” Acoustic, and she hummed as she did it. It stirred him in a way he couldn't voice, thrumming a place inside.

And she sang in the shower—not that he'd ever mention that. But her voice drifted out, as if she had no idea the walls seemed to be constructed of papier-mâché. And it was a husky, bluesy voice, too—not a hint of the pop diva when she was sudsing up, apparently.

She also liked apples with peanut butter on them. He'd found her sneaking little tubs of peanut butter as they passed the restaurant buffet, even though they were all eating in their rooms these days.

“I'll get you your own jar.”

“No. This is more fun.” She winked at him. “Besides, you'll be hard-pressed to find peanut butter in a European grocery store. It's an American thing.”

And then there was the Nutella fascination. She ate it with a spoon. And on bread and crackers. And apples, of course. And even on her oatmeal.

How she fit into those little outfits was beyond him, except for the fact that she rehearsed like a maniac. All week she'd drummed the new cues into her band in anticipation of the weekend shows—two of them, at a venue not far from his apartment. She dropped into an exhausted heap on the sofa, or went to bed early, every night.

She'd turned into no-fun Ronie. Just what game did she have them playing now?

At least this Vonya seemed to be cooperating, which worked in their favor, because he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on him as he followed her around Prague. As if, indeed, someone were watching them. “You sure you vetted everyone at the club? Because I can't shake a feeling that something is going to go south,” Brody said to his team.

Artyom's voice came over the communication system. “Stop freaking out, Wick. Everything's fine.”

Maybe it was the tabloid picture—it had of course circulated around the web, until finally it came back to him in the form of an untitled email with just a question mark from his boss, Chet.

Who, apparently, got online just fine from whatever Mediterranean beach he happened to be lounging on.

“I'd appreciate it if you'd pass that a-okay along to Chet,” Brody said.

“Thanks, boss, but you're the chief when the boss is away. You get all the fun.”

“What did you find out about Damu?”