Operation Zulu Redemption: Hazardous Duty - Part 3 (2 page)

There was something strangely beautiful about this man. Of course, mostly because he lay unconscious at her knees. But with his dark hair and stubble lining what looked to be a strong jaw—not to mention the curious star-crescent inked on his left cheekbone. . .

He moaned and shifted, his brows knotting.

Téya pressed her hand to his side, eyeing the puddle forming beneath him.
I am so dead. I shot The Turk.

Nuala’s gasp drew Téya’s gaze up. The girl’s pale wide eyes echoed the panic banging through Téya’s chest. “We have to get out of here.”

Swallowing hard, Téya glanced down at the assassin. It didn’t make sense. He stood out in the open. “I can’t leave him here to die.”

“Yes, you can. He would’ve left you. In fact, he almost did.” Nuala squatted and caught Téya’s arm. “C’mon. If his people come. . .”

“How many assassins do you know who work with people in the field? They have a mission. They take care of it.” Téya couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop staring at the man who’d plastered her face all over the underworld to get her killed. And here, she’d taken him out. “I can’t leave him here, Noodle.” Her words hardened her resolve. “Help me get him up.”

“What? No!” Nuala knelt opposite her. “Are you insane? We leave him.
Now.
”

“No.”

Nuala tugged her back. “John. We have to find John. Remember? And we have to get out of here. It’s almost dark.”

“If he dies, his life is on my conscience. His blood on my hands.” Téya flashed her eyes at her friend. “You realize what that means? How many people will be after me
now
if he dies?”

“We have no car, no way to get him out of here.” The voice of reason, Nuala only told the truth, but it angered Téya that her friend wanted her to walk away. “And think about it—Trace will kill you himself if you take him back to the hotel.”

Right. So not back to their hotel. That shortened the distance necessary to transport him. She had combat medic skills, so. . . . Téya scanned the buildings beyond the ten-foot fence. Barely visible was a store of some kind. Next to it loomed an office building. Behind it, another building peeked out, its brick darker, older. Fire escapes. A blinking sign hung on the corner, flashing a price and T
he
A
egean
H
otel
.

Perfect.

“Help me get him up.” Téya moved to his head.

“Are you
insane
?”

“Yes,” Téya said. “I just shot the assassin who tried to have me killed, and now I want to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“So he can finish the job he started in Paris?”

Téya cradled his head against her shoulder as she slid her arms under his. “So I can find out what I did to make his hit list.”

“Right,” Nuala said, moving toward his legs. “Because he’s just going to tell you that. There’s no chance he’ll wake up after you save his life and put a bullet in that pretty, stupid head of yours.”

Téya glowered.

“Fine. But I’m not bringing flowers to your funeral.”

“They’ll only die anyway.” Together, they carried him down the alley toward a section of broken-out fence. Backs aching, arms quaking, they hurried across the street. Almost to the curb, Téya spotted a police car coming toward them. Her heart hammered as they scurried into the shadows of the building.

The cruiser slowed and a bright beam of light exploded, shattering the darkness. Téya sucked in a breath as they pressed into a doorway.

“Ugh. His blood is sliding across my arms,” Nuala whispered with a tinge of disgust.

The cruiser moved on, but Téya’s arms were rubbery now. “Stay here. I’ll get a room then come back.”

Nuala’s eyes widened in the dark alley. “
What?
No way. I’m not staying with—”

But Téya sprinted off. As she rounded the front of the building, she checked her clothes to make sure she wasn’t covered in blood. A small smudge at the bottom of her shirt glared back at her. Quickly, she tied the corner in a knot, like some ’80s throwback, and stepped into the lobby.

Thank God Trace and Boone insisted they carry their passport and money. Contingencies. . .
Bet Trace wouldn’t see this coming.
Téya went to the barred window, having to press closer than she’d like as a couple tangled in each others’ arms and mouths stumbled past. Suppressing a shudder, Téya asked for a room. “First floor, please—if you can.”

The man eyed her. “What you doing on this side of town this late?”

With an impish smile, she shrugged. “You know. . .”

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be here. You want me to call you a taxi?”

“No,” Téya smiled. “I’m meeting someone.”

He clucked his tongue. “You are too good for him, if he makes you come here.”

Okay, dude. What’s with the lecture? Can I get a room or not?

He slid the check-in book across the eight-inch ledge. Téya used her left hand, which would be messier than her right and illegible, and signed. Handed over the money in exchange for the key, along with lectures on taking more pride in herself and not ruining her life on a loser who’d bring such a pretty girl to a place like this.

She hurried down the hall and slid the key into the door on the right. Inside, she rushed to the window. Though the window had locks, they weren’t
un
lockable. Well, not technically. Téya kicked the lock free of the jamb and slid open the window. She climbed out and ran down the alley.

She came around the corner and found herself staring down the business end of a weapon. Arms up, she met Nuala’s pale eyes at the other end. “Easy.”

“I could kill you myself for leaving me here.” Together, they hauled the assassin to the window and propped him against the wall. Téya climbed through. “He’s losing too much blood,” Nuala said as she crawled after them.

Laid out on the bed, The Turk hadn’t moved, blinked, or groaned.

Téya checked his pulse. It wasn’t thready yet, but the guy was out of it like a cement block. “Put the dresser in front of the door.” She headed for the bathroom. “I have to get some supplies.”

“What?” Nuala hiss-shrieked. “You are
not
leaving me with him again.”

“Tear the towel into strips and tie his hands.”

“There’s no bedpost, Téya!”

“Be creative,” she said as she once more slipped through the window.

“You’re covered in blood.”

Téya glanced down as she ran to the small convenience store she’d seen when they crossed the road with him earlier—right before the cops spotted her. Shoot. The red smudges over her shirt weren’t indicative of gross bleeding. She had to come up with an idea fast. She stepped into the store. The clerk immediately eyeballed her with a worried look.

Téya grabbed up alcohol, bandages, a pair of scissors, and a sewing kit—along with a few boxes of candy and drinks. When she dumped the items on the counter, the clerk didn’t move.

“What?” Téya asked, her gaze catching a tower of name-engraved multi-tools. She turned it as if looking for a particular name and picked the one that said David. She placed it on the counter, too.

“You need this much, maybe you should go to doctor.” The clerk’s English was enough for conversation but not for grammar Nazis.

Téya shrugged. “I can’t afford to take my eight-year-old to the doctor. Good thing I was once a nurse, huh?”

The clerk started ringing up the items. “You are young to have an eight-year-old.”

Téya grunted. “We all make mistakes. Not that he’s a mistake.”

“Right,” the clerk said, who couldn’t be more than eighteen himself.

Téya paid for the items and hurried back toward the hotel. As she rounded the corner, a glint slowed her pace. Cops.
Keep moving. Act normal.
She shifted the bag in front of her to hide the blood. If she went in the back, she’d really draw the attention of the cops. Going through the front. . .

The desk clerk eyed her. “I did not see you go out.”

She shrugged. “Guess you were busy.” She left him with his mouth hanging open and hurried down the hall, cursing herself when she remembered she’d told Nuala to put the dresser in front of the door. She rapped quietly. “Noodle, it’s me.”

A heavy scraping sound preceded the metallic
shink
of locks being released. The door opened. “What are you—”

Téya pushed in, cutting off her friend and the words. “Lock it back. I had no choice—the cops were on the streets still. Let’s hope my lies to the store clerk were believable enough.” She dumped the contents on the dresser once it was back in place in front of the door, then turned.

And froze.

“I know. . .” Nuala said with a grimace in her tone. “He came to. I had no choice.”

A bright red knot rose on his head. But what really caught her attention was the fact that while Téya was gone, Nuala tied The Turk’s hands out to the sides, connected to wall-mounted lamps. But she’d also torn his shirt and tugged it away from the wound near his quite-toned abs and pecs. A bloody towel sat on the wound.

“Tried to stem the flow,” Nuala said, “but answering the door. . .”

Téya nodded. “Had to go around front. Cops would’ve been suspicious.” Téya spread out the crude, limited supplies. “Sterilize the blades of the pocket knife.” She dumped three sleep aids into a bottle of water and lifted it to his lips. Though out of it, he still swallowed, a natural instinct. With that she went to work, cleaning the wound, probing it.

The knife wasn’t razor sharp, but it would do. She used it to gently dig out the bullet. The Turk moaned, arching his back. Sweat mottled his forehead, beads forming in and around the tattoo. She cleaned the wound, the alcohol sliding over his bloody injury.

He let out a howl, head coming off the bed. His eyes snapped to hers.

Her pulse ricocheted off her ribs as his wild brown-green eyes focused on her. Widened with a
You!
message.

Téya pressed her hand against his injury, nausea roiling through her, knowing how much it would hurt him.

He growled then his eyes rolled back into his head. They couldn’t risk that happening again, so she quickly went to work stitching then cleaning and bandaging the wound.

Exhaustion tugged at her limbs and mind as she scrubbed his blood from her hands—in more ways than one. By saving his life she kept her hands clean. Maybe she could buy her own life with this idiocy. She stared at herself in the mirror. This was stupid.
What were you thinking?

She hadn’t been. She’d reacted. Something. . .something stirred in her. Something she couldn’t explain. Didn’t want to explain—because it didn’t make sense. After scrubbing up, she stood in the doorway drying her hands.

Nuala stared at him. “It’s practically a résumé, don’t you think? All those scars. . .”

Impossible not to notice. Some were marred messes that reminded her of the film that covered warmed milk as it cooled. Those were probably bullet wounds. Other marks were clean strikes, like from knives. He had a wicked scar across his right abdomen that seemed like it could’ve been life threatening. And the one over his shoulder and up the back of his neck—she’d like to know that story.

No, she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to know anything more about this man. Despite the tug of curiosity and compulsion to know more about him, she had to sever this connection.

“What do we do now?” Nuala said. “Boone will be panicked that we didn’t come out of the slums.”

With a nod, Téya tossed down the towel. “I gave him something to help him sleep. We’ll leave him here and return in the morning.”

“Trace—”

“Will never know.” Because if he did, he’d kill her himself. Besides, this was between Téya and The Turk.

A hard jolt to her back sent Annie sprawling in the darkness. She hit pavement, scoring her hands and knees.

“Up, move!” someone behind her snarled.

From her position, she glanced forward, squinting against the lack of light. A long, dark tunnel stretched beneath the estate, leading—she had no idea where. They passed several doors, and at one in particular, a gust of air—
fresh air—
swept her hair across her face.

Her head still throbbed, and she had no delusion that they had drugged her, despite Trace’s attempts to protect her. Shouts and screams carried distantly as she floated out of consciousness, her mind crying out for Trace but knowing it was too late.

A strange thrum carried through the cement walls as they descended deeper into the belowground area. Like the constant hum of air-conditioning units. Large ones. Whatever enclosed this space—was it completely cement?—blocked sound. Which meant calling for help wouldn’t do any good.

She’d given up on that hope long ago. If the broken pieces of memory surrounding her capture were right, Trace probably fled the estate. Though her vision had ghosted quickly, it’d taken her mind a while longer. And in those precious seconds, she’d heard gunfire and shouts. If Stoffel and Batsakis were so thorough as to rout her true identity, they wouldn’t have left a stone unturned hunting down Trace. Now the question was—had Trace escaped or was he a prisoner, too?

“Find him!”
The fragment gave her hope that Trace’s black ops skills had gotten him to safety.

Now.
My turn.
Annie wandered through the storage room, eyeing the pieces. She lifted a hefty candlestick and tested its weight. Her stomach turned, knowing she could crack a skull, even kill a person with the right strike.

Him or me.

She knew that’s what it came down to, though keeping her a prisoner made her wonder what intentions they had. Nothing good, that’s for sure. And sticking around for them to dig information out of her brain, break her will so she’d betray her friends—

Not happening.
She’d memorized every detail as they’d pushed her into this room. Every door. Every access point. Cool and damp, the underground cellar served as the perfect place to lock Annie away. The ruse of her fake identity clearly hadn’t worked. But what, exactly, had Stoffel’s people discovered? Did they know her real identity or just that she wasn’t Natalia Policek?

She paced the cement floor, eyeing the pieces that lined the shelves. A door led into a deep cellar filled wall-to-wall with wine. Another held random accent pieces that were likely switched out during different seasons. As she took in the shelves, she couldn’t help but believe that they spirited her away because she wasn’t Policek.
They don’t know who
I am
.

If they had known, they wouldn’t leave her with so many options to take them out. The brass candlesticks were a prime weapon. Hefty enough to knock out even the most stout of men. Then again, Trace had taught her how to use a pen as a weapon. Straight into the carotid artery of any attacker, and she’d be free.

Then again, she didn’t need them dead. Just immobilized. Ignorance would be their saving grace. Having lost friends and watched those children die, Annie placed a high value on life and preserving it. Including her own.

Voices carried down the cavernous space.

Annie rushed to the door, candlestick in hand. Spine pressed to the chilled surface, she focused on controlling her body. Adrenaline could make her choke. Or mess up. She had one shot. At least two men were coming—she could tell by the chatter.

The heavy arched wood door swung inward. Annie sidled up alongside it, candlestick to the side.

A suited man stepped in.

Another grunted something.

Annie swung up and down, carrying the most momentum with her. The brass weapon cracked against the man’s head, a sickening vibration rushing up her arm at the impact. He dropped like a lead weight.

Behind her, she heard a gasp. Annie pivoted away from the noise but also into it, giving herself safety from a strike but enough room to make her own move. The man brandished a gun.

Again, she swung in and upward, dislodging the weapon from his hand.

His eyes went wide.

Holding it like a baseball bat, Annie swung a third time. Hit the guy in the temple, and immediately regretted it as blood spurted. Struck her face with its sticky warmth. Her stomach roiled.

No time to be sick. No time!

Dropping the candlestick, she grabbed the man’s gun. She bolted out the door, taking in the corner perches. Cameras. Just as she expected. That meant time was ticking down before she’d have a big mess on her hands.

She sprinted to the door where the air had pushed her hair into her face, and tugged. Locked. She glanced around. This was her only chance to get out into the open. She tried kicking it, but without her heavy boots, it was futile. She took aim at the lock and fired once. Twice. Again, she thrust her heel against the door.

It budged.

She kicked again and it flung open.

Annie rushed through the door and went right, grateful for the cement wall at her back. One less perspective to cover. Weapon down, she stuck to the shadows of the overhanging wall and eyed her surroundings. The three-story home towered over her on the left, interior lighting creating the effect of a floodlight over the entire patio area. A massive wall to her right. Dense forest beckoned to her, but it was at least thirty yards away. Though she wore the dress, she would just hike it up and sprint.

If it weren’t for the open courtyard. The
lit-up
open courtyard, where stately wrought-iron furniture huddled in groups amid shrubs, trees, and ornate flowers. An illuminated fountain tossed sprays of water in arcing directions beneath what looked like it might be a Grecian god. The quiet conversation of the water might possibly be enough to cover the slap of her feet against the pebbled terrace.

Home. Terrace. Wall.

Guess that leaves me one choice.

The terrace. Cheeks puffed, she blew out a breath. Okay. Here goes noth—

Laughter spilled from french doors on the first level of the home. Guests dressed in gowns and suits filtered out onto the terrace.

Seriously?

Wouldn’t the guests have gone home already? Who’d stay here after hearing shots and explosions? Annie wasn’t sure how long they’d held her, but it had to be nearing midnight. And of course, thanks to the excitement earlier when they’d taken her, guards took up positions around the terrace.

Annie remained in the shadows with her path to freedom blocked. To get out of here without being noticed, she’d need a distraction.