More Than Life (2 page)

Rea confirmed his suspicion and wrinkled her nose. “You need a bath,” she said softly. “And did you smoke? You smell of tobacco.”

Only Rea could detect three day old cigarette smoke, and Mik was too tired to lie. He reached out and ruffled the hair that set her apart from the rest of their family. “Needs must.”

Rea’s impish grin faded. “It took you longer than last time. Are the roads worse?”

He nodded. At sixteen, Rea was four years younger than him, but she was far from a child. War had seen to that. “I avoided most of them, but I saw roadblocks and tanks twenty miles outside the city. In a few weeks, they’ll be impassable. It’s only a matter of time before the fighting reaches us.”

Rea was silent for a moment, her eyes somber. The war had raged for months, but in recent weeks it had plateaued in its intensity. For a brief time, they’d allowed themselves to hope an end was in sight. Now though, unspoken fears of how long they could survive the brutal onslaught from the Serbian army haunted them all.

Rea seemed to shake the weight of fear from her young shoulders and forced a grin. “But your meeting went well?”

Mik shrugged. “I’m not dead, so I suppose it did.”

“Papa said you met with an American spy. What was he like? Did he look like a movie star?”

A wave of heat flushed Mik’s cheeks as he remembered the captivating stranger. Embarrassment and his sister’s all-seeing gaze forced a lie out of him before he could stop it. “I didn’t really notice.”

His tone was innocent, too innocent, and in a gesture that belied her age, Rea offered a cynical roll of her eyes in return. “He’s CIA, Mik, so be careful. You know the Americans are only out for themselves. We can’t trust them.”

He snorted, but even as the information sank in, he wasn’t altogether shocked. The stranger had disguised himself as a Russian-born oil worker, but his cover was flawed. His hair was dyed, and by the startling shade of his eyes, Mik suspected it was blond. He was American, and an American who was miles from home in a war ravaged country was there for one thing—espionage. The jump to the CIA wasn’t that hard to make.

Still, Mik felt curiosity and a desire to know everything about the handsome stranger creep over him. “What else do you know about him?”

Rea smirked. It probably wasn’t the first time her ability to eavesdrop had come in useful. “I know he was a soldier before he became a spy. A ranger…Special Forces. By all accounts, he’s quite the action man. There’s talk of mercenary work in Africa too, but Papa wasn’t sure.”

That stirred Mik’s interest even more. It seemed the mysterious American had the potential to back the underdog after all. “So he could be sympathetic to our cause?”

“Perhaps,” Rea said. “But his loyalty will lie with the US agenda. Be careful if you meet with him again.”

Mik brushed aside her concern. He was always careful, he had to be. If the underground lost him, they’d be cut off from their link to the outside world. Vladimir, his contact in Serbia, had made it clear he would only deal with him. Besides, there was no one left to fill his role. Every boy old enough already had their own, vital jobs to do.

“I think he could be useful,” Mik said after a while. “With American technology, he must have access to all kinds of intelligence—munitions, logistics—and he’s already proved he’s willing to share it.”

“For now,” Rea said darkly. “If he’s caught by the Serbs it will mean trouble for all of us. The Americans will betray us in a heartbeat. We have nothing they want…they have no reason to protect us.”

Distracted by the pang in his chest, Mik shook his head. “If he’s caught, he won’t be harmed. He’s American, he’ll be okay.”

Rea blinked, confusion and surprise clear on her face, and Mik realized his mistake. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t care about the American any more than he cares about us, and neither should you.”

She didn’t persue it further, and the two siblings fell into a companionable silence as Mik allowed himself to consider the stranger’s motives for passing vital information to the underground resistance. He knew his own reasons for fighting—defending his family, his home, his right to exist…to live free of persecution in his own land—but he couldn’t figure what the Americans had to gain. Another man’s freedom meant nothing to them once they stepped off their own shores. “Do we know why they’re helping us?”

Rea shook her head, apparently not perturbed when her brother’s abrupt question disturbed the peaceful quiet. “They never said. Probably something to do with Russian money. It normally is, although I heard it had something to do with sex this time, a president and a secretary. Not that it matters. We need that intelligence. Who cares why they are giving it to us?”

Mik cared. He’d been part of the Kosovan resistance long enough to know that as far as intelligence went,
everything
mattered. “Do you know how old he is? He seemed young to be an operative with much status.”

“Don’t be fooled,” Rea said. “He is not much past thirty, but Isa has made quite a name for himself. Papa thinks he could be the key to keeping the Americans on our side…covertly, at least.”

“Isa?” Mik turned the name over in his head.

Rea shot him an amused glance. “Yes. Did our CIA ally not cordially introduce himself?”

Mik frowned, ignoring her sardonic tone. “That can’t be his real name.”

“Perhaps it’s not,” Rea conceded with a shrug that proved she cared little. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

“Has Papa met him?”

Rea nodded. “Mama asked the same thing. Papa has seen him, but not spoken with him. Says he’s as charming as a snake.”

Mik toyed with the dirty cuff of his shirt. He could attest to the American’s charisma. He’d never met anyone so compelling. The thought of his voice, his touch…in the blink of an eye Mik was transported back to the Serbian bar. Heat flooded his cheeks again and he was grateful for the dying flickers of the lone candle. “A snake in the grass? Nice. Perhaps we shouldn’t trust him after all.”

His forced nonchalance was good enough for the CIA, but not, it seemed, for his sister. Rea laughed and ruffled his hair, toying with the messy, dark tufts. “Oh dear. James Bond has gotten under your skin, hasn’t he?”

“James Bond is English, you idiot.”

Rea laughed again. Mik glared at her, but to no avail. Rea continued to giggle and evade his attempts to subdue her until Artan sought them out, clutching the scrap of paper from the Belgrade meet in his hand, his face grave.

Mik froze, his mirth forgotten. “What is it?”

Artan’s solemn eyes held his in the dying candlelight. “We have a Serbian unit coming our way, snipers and raiders first, but they have tanks that aren’t far behind. We need to act on this now. We don’t have much time to throw them off course.”

He didn’t need to say any more. Mik was in motion before the words had left Artan’s lips and he moved fast to send the information on to the next link in the underground. The Kosovan resistance was made up of an impoverished band of those too stubborn to flee their city. With land telephones and cell phones bugged by the Serbs and lacking the technology of secure satellite phones, the only way to share information was the old fashioned way. Mik was one of few left in the city with young enough legs to do it.

It was hours before he made it home again, broken by exhaustion. He fell onto his bed, asleep before his head touched his pillow, but that night, instead of dreams of a contented life he could barely remember, his mind was filled with images of the handsome American—the strong contours of his body, his icy eyes and devilish grin. His warm hands and the tingling current that had briefly connected them.

The dream left Mik breathless and wanting more, and when he awoke to a bleak Kosovan morning, sweating, his heart racing, he knew it was true.

He wanted more.

Over the next few months, Mik met the mysterious American on a regular basis, and with each encounter, his consuming attraction to the other man grew stronger. In between their clandestine meetings, Mik tried to convince himself that the electricity he felt was all in his imagination—that such an effect was impossible—and yet every time he encountered Isa, the persistent, hypnotizing warmth only got hotter. The blood in his veins sizzled with Isa’s every touch, and when their eyes locked, he was trapped by the entrancing spell of his gaze.

Mik began to wonder if it was all in his head, if he’d been so long without a man’s affection he succumbed to his own imagination. But then the heat between them became more charged, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Isa felt it, too.

Not that it mattered. Despite the persistent stirrings between them, neither man could put aside the circumstances that had brought them together in the first place. The war and the resistance went on. As the fighting got closer and closer to Mik’s home, his role in the underground became even more important. No longer a simple courier, he became a smuggler. Not of guns, maps or gold, but something far more valuable, precious and fragile.

Artan and Mik had fought over Mik’s dangerous role over and over.

“A scrap of paper can be destroyed in a moment, torn, burned or swallowed. This, Mikail, this…for this I am truly afraid for you.”

It was the first time Mik had ever seen his father scared, but it wasn’t enough to dissuade him, and beneath Artan’s angered fear, Mik knew it was a task his father would undertake himself if his aging body could make the treacherous trip through the mountains.

“This is the last thing we can do to protect our people. It must be done, Papa.”

And so it was. With his oldest friend, Leka, in tow, Mik had already made several trips across the Albanian border, but it grew more dangerous each time. He wasn’t afraid of being caught, not for his own sake, but he knew the price his family would pay if he fell into Serbian hands. Artan was a known name—a nemesis of Serbian oppression for decades. In some international newspapers, he’d been called a terrorist. Mik was his only son, a prize catch. To be caught would mean certain death for all of them, to say nothing of the fate of his precious cargo.

It was with this in mind that he found himself reaching out to Isa. He needed something from him, something only the Americans truly had the means to facilitate. Papers. False Identities. They were hard to come by and very expensive. Isa was the only soul he had left to ask.

Just a few days after he sent word, Mik waited beneath a bridge in what remained of the Kosovan capital, Pristina. NATO resolutions had come too late to stop the enemy shelling the city. Still, he supposed he was lucky Isa could get to him at all. Mik was no longer able to reach Belgrade—the roads were too perilous, the risk too high.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned as Isa descended the embankment. The American was surefooted and graceful, and his predatory lope reminded Mik of a mountain cat. Isa had the same uncanny, all-seeing eyes and survival instinct. A breath of spicy smoke filled Mik’s lungs, and he mentally closed his eyes to the fact that he could’ve recognized Isa by his scent alone. He had a job to do. His yearning for the American would have to wait.

Isa was just yards away when he smiled. “You have a beard. It suits you.”

Mik stroked the dark stubble on his chin, a weak attempt to hide the pleasure Isa’s mere presence gave him. The beard had itched at first, but he’d gotten used to it. “Razors are hard to come by now fuel is so scarce. We save it for transporting weapons.”

Isa’s mirth faded. “Sorry. I forget sometimes that fighting is all you have. For me, this war is all about words.”

Mik ran his eyes over Isa. His disguise was as perfectly flawed as ever, his gaze too bright to blend in with the dark misery of Pristina, but he looked tired, too. “I don’t believe that,” Mik said. “You look as exhausted as I feel.”

“Maybe,” Isa said, “but you didn’t call me here to enquire after my health, right?”

“No,” Mik admitted reluctantly. He hated this part, when gentle flirtation gave way to reality. “I need a favor.”

Isa folded his arms over his chest. The sleeve of his overcoat shifted and Mik caught a glimpse of a strong arm covered in golden skin too healthy for the Balkan winter. “Go on,” Isa said. “I’m intrigued. You don’t seem the type to ask for help from an outsider.”

Oh, how well Isa already knew him. Mik stifled a sigh as he tore his eyes from Isa’s exposed skin. “I need something, and there’s no one else I can ask.”

“So ask me,” Isa said. “I’m listening.”

Mik took a deep breath, wondering if he’d imagined the flicker of worry in Isa’s inscrutable gaze. “I need some passports. We’re trapped here, and we need your help to get across the borders.”

Isa’s face was as unreadable as always, but Mik knew he was considering his request and speculating every possible consequence should he agree to help. He’d quickly learned that Isa was like that, that his methodical mind cast its net wide and missed nothing.

“Why?”

“There are many reasons in my neighborhood alone, and we’re running out of time to save them.”

Isa’s gaze hardened. “Explain.”

Mik fought the urge to grab Isa’s hands. “Last night, Serbian forces raided a village and massacred every young boy they found. There’s talk of genocide…ethnic cleansing, and it’s getting closer to my home. We need to get the children out, but I’ve already crossed the Albanian border twice this month. To do so again, I can’t be a Kosovan…I can’t be me. You know this.”

Isa nodded slowly. because it was true. Mik had little idea who Isa really was, but Isa knew everything about Mik. Had known before they even met. “There’s no one else who can take them? It’s gotta be you?”

“There’s no one else left.”

For a long moment, Mik truly feared Isa would refuse him. Not because he didn’t have the means to help, but because he lacked the will to try.

Mik clenched his fists. A no from Isa would mean death for the children that depended on Mik and Leka, but lurking behind his fear for their fate was the realization that Isa’s refusal would mean the American wasn’t the man Mik was growing to love. Wasn’t the man who asked after his father’s health and brought medicine for his mother’s bad heart. Or the man who gave Mik his last pair of dry socks. If that were true, Mik knew what little faith he had left would be trampled beneath Isa’s heavy boots.