Oxblood (8 page)

“Help me find my someone.”

Ian backed up and leaned against the wall, putting himself a good four feet away from me and my emotions. He studied me with contemplative eyes, then pulled out his phone and began typing and swiping away. Two minutes later, he shoved his phone back into his pocket.

“Let's go.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, confused at his sudden change of heart. I thought for sure I was in for some more arguing; I even began formulating my next rebuttal.

“You're going to meet the team,” he said.

The Ian who had connected with me on a personal level, the one who took me out to dinner and asked me if I was cold, was gone. In his place was the other Ian, the gun-wielding Englishman who killed bad guys and infiltrated Italian Mafia families. The transformation happened so quickly that my heart got whiplash. I quickly pushed those feelings down. I needed Ian the professional. I needed his training and his expertise. Now was not the time to linger over how handsome, charming, or even funny he was.
Vic, get it together
.

Determined, I grabbed my bag and said, “Great. Let's go then.”

I followed Ian around the corner of the building to a sporty, black unmarked car. I stood there for a moment at the back of the car, not sure which side I should be walking toward: left or right? I had been too tired when I plopped myself into the cab from the train station to the hotel to notice where the driver was.

“Get in. Italy drives on the right side of the street. Most of the world does, actually,” Ian said as he opened my car door and I stepped inside. He went to his side, jumped in, and drove quickly through the back lot and onto the street.

“I knew that. I just forgot for a second,” I declared in an embarrassed excuse. We drove for a few minutes before I spoke again. “If I ask you something, will you answer me honestly?” I said softly.

“It depends on what it is.” Ian didn't move his eyes from the road.

“Why was Damon at the restaurant tonight?”

“I've met many beautiful women who have played the innocent and then didn't hesitate to use me as a human shield,” he answered. “I had to be sure you weren't there to kill me.

“If I ask
you
a question, will you answer it honestly?”

“I have no reason not to answer you honestly,” I said.

“If he's a freeloader, why is he still your boyfriend?”

“What?”

“Inside the hotel, you said that you had your best friend and your freeloading boyfriend to go home to. If he's a freeloader, why is he still your boyfriend?” His tone was softer again.

“I don't know,” was all I could muster. I asked myself the same question all the time. Chad was not someone I'd ever imagined myself with, and certainly not someone my parents would have chosen. He was entitled and lazy and thoughtless. He left his family over a silly dispute about money, and I would give every cent for one more day with mine. “Why?”

“I told you. I have a thing about women being treated respectfully. Freeloading boyfriends do not treat women as they should.” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

“Well, I guess, sometimes a freeloading boyfriend is better than . . . I don't know what it's better than.”

We spent the next thirty minutes in silence. We had left the bright city streets of Bologna behind and now only small, dark buildings dotted the side of the road. Eventually, we stopped at what looked like an abandoned factory. It reminded me of the buildings near the diner, and I couldn't help but wonder how many people lost their jobs when this place shut down.

Ian pulled out his phone and got busy typing. I watched him, waiting to see if the softer Ian was going to show up again, the Ian that charmed me over bowls of pasta.

We sat in silence. A car passed by behind us, its headlights shining on Ian's face long enough to reveal a scowl that had replaced his crooked smile.

His phone beeped. He read it and nodded. “It's time to meet the team.”

Chapter 7

I followed Ian to the side of the building, where we entered through a rusted-out metal door that looked like tetanus waiting to happen. He pulled the door open, his biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt. He took the two flights of stairs two steps at a time, me scurrying after him. I did my best to keep up, but my breathing was labored and my chest was beginning to burn. Ian didn't wait; I guess the testing had begun.

We walked down a dark hallway and into an office area. It was empty, the only light coming from a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The desk in the corner was coated in what looked like thirty years' worth of dust. And there were cobwebs. Lots and lots of cobwebs. It looked more like a good place to hide a dead body than the secret hideout for an INTERPOL team.

Good, Vic. Because impetuously getting on a plane and flying to Italy wasn't enough, finding yourself in what could be a serial killer's lair is what is really going to make this trip memorable.

We arrived at another door, this one simple wood, and finally, Ian turned around to face me.

“Do I even need to ask if you've changed your mind?” he said with a hint of disappointment.

“Nope.” I answered him assuredly. From here on out, there was no way in hell I was going to show Ian I was anything but strong and confident.

He nodded with a straight face and opened the door. It was like Dorothy walking into Oz. The entry room had been one big dustbowl, but this room was clean. Really, really, clean. The air smelled different, too, like it was purified, and the temperature was perfect.

One wall was filled with six flat-screen televisions tuned into different news stations from around the world. A large table held several state-of-the-art computers and big, glowing monitors. On an opposite wall was a giant map covered in little red pins. I couldn't help but wonder what the pins represented: Dead agents or living targets?

The far end of the room looked shrunken. The wall was shorter than it should have been, and there was a misplaced seam on the ceiling. They were clearly hiding something behind a faux wall, and I made a mental note to find out what. You could still tell that the building used to be a factory, despite the high-tech retro fittings.

When I finally broke my gaze and turned to face the room again, I was greeted by two new faces, along with Damon, who seemed to have melted out of the corners of the room.

“What are you? Ninjas?” I said sarcastically.

“I like this one,” the guy who wasn't Damon said. He was a little taller than me. At first glance, one may have thought he was just stocky, but I could see he was deceptively strong. There was something about the way he carried himself: back straight and shoulders squared. “Adam McKenzie,” he said as he extended his hand.

“Vic,” I replied.

“Everyone, this is
Victoria
,” Ian told them. “She's going to begin training with us tonight for her
brief
stay. She is also Gil's sister.” Bug eyes and shocked expressions came from everyone.

“Whaaaat?” the girl standing between Damon and Adam said. She looked at me for a minute with a cocked head and then shook my hand. “Oh yeah. I can see that.”

“Those darn genetics.” I laughed nervously.

“I'm Claudia Kho and I cannot tell you how great it is to have another pair of boobs around here!” She laughed, flipping her long black ponytail. Her big brown eyes seemed to glow when she smiled.

“Way to keep it classy, Claudia,” Ian said as he walked to the other side of the room. “If you can keep your crassness to a limit, please get Victoria started on Phase One.”

“You got it, boss,” she called across the room to him.

“Wait, Ian!” I called as I followed him across the room. “What is Phase One? I thought—”

“You thought what, Victoria?” Ian asked. He stopped in his tracks and turned to me. He looked at me with a hard face, and I could tell that it would be a long time before I saw the smiling, joking Ian I had been with earlier.

I swallowed hard, caught by Ian's challenging gaze. “I just thought I would be more of an extra pair of eyes. Phase One sounds like you're initiating training.”

“I am. And as long as you are here, you will follow my directives. If you don't like that, you are more than welcome to leave.”

If Ian was going to play tough, I would too. I lifted my chin, turned on my heels, and beelined over to Claudia. She was seated in front of a computer, her eyes glued to a slew of code. She typed something in then spun around to face me. I looked at her and then at Adam and Damon. Not a single one of them could have been more than twenty-five.

“You're all so . . . young,” I commented with astonishment.

“Yeah. We're like the
Jump Street
division of international secret organizations,” Claudia quipped. She reminded me of Tiffany and I could see us becoming friends, if we were allowed. “That would sound cooler
IF WE HAD A NAME
!” she yelled in Ian's direction.

“We are not an after-school club, Claudia,” Ian called back. Claudia and I raised our eyebrows and laughed. “And we have a name.”

“R-14 is not a real name!” she replied.

“Phase One, please.”

“So what's Phase One?” I asked curiously.

She held out her hand, palm side up. “I'm going to need all of your identification. Passport, driver's license, credit cards. Anything on you that would identify you or connect you to the outside world.”

“But how will I pay for anything? I mean, I haven't checked out of the hotel, and I still need to eat.” This was all moving a little fast. One day I was working at the diner, and the next I was in a top-secret clubhouse being asked to hand over everything that proved I was me.

“As long as you pass through training, you won't need any of those things while you're with us.” Claudia's delivery was straight and sure.

Training
, I thought to myself. All I wanted was to find my brother. How did I end up in the middle of Command Central for a secret division of
Jump Street:
INTERPOL Division
?

“So,” Claudia continued. She pulled something up on her computer as she spoke. “How'd you come to find yourself in the company of Mr. Congeniality over there?” She nodded toward Ian and smirked.

“Ian knocked on my hotel door and held a gun to my stomach,” I told her.

“Always the charmer,” she said flatly.

“He made up for it with dinner, though.”

“You went to dinner with Ian?” She raised her eyebrows like it was the craziest thing she had ever heard. I nodded in reply. “Well, this is going to be interesting,” she smirked.

“Interesting? Why is this going to be interesting?”

“Gather round, everyone,” Ian called to the group before I could get an answer from Claudia. “Victoria, have you given Claudia your identification?”

“Oh, um . . . no. But I'm a little concerned about—”

Ian cut me off. “What did I just say about my directives? Team, what happens if my directives aren't followed?”

Claudia, Damon, and Adam answered in unison. “You die.”

“Do you have any questions about that?”

“No. I've got it.” I pulled my wallet and my passport from my purse and handed them to Claudia. I told Ian I could do this, and by God, I was going to do it.

I kept Gil's journal hidden. That was one card I wasn't quite ready to put on the table.

“All right then. Damon is going to work with you on honing your observation skills and your intuition. You did well at the restaurant tonight but could have done better,” Ian said.

“You seemed pretty impressed,” I retorted.

“Maybe. But you have to be better.” He paused like he wanted to say something else, but then changed his mind. “Claudia will give you the rundown on some of our tech: Who we monitor. How we monitor. And what we do with what we find. And Adam will work with you on weapons training.”

“Whoa.
Weapons
training? Is that entirely necessary?” I asked nervously. “I've already got some pretty solid self-defense moves.” I wasn't there to be a soldier or a spy. I just wanted to get my brother back.

“We all have our specialties. But we all also have to be trained to defend ourselves and one another. And you're going to need a hell of a lot more than self-defense moves to do that.”

Ian's eyes locked on mine. He was challenging me to back down. His tone was strong and commanding, but his eyes told me so much more. They pierced through mine, screaming to let him take me out of this place. I would sooner die than back down and give up.

“Got it.”

“Good. Then let's get started,” he said.

“Wait. What exactly is
your
expertise, Ian Hale?” I asked, loud enough for all to hear. Claudia looked away embarrassed, like I had just called the teacher out for getting a question wrong.

Ian closed the distance between us so tightly that I could smell the faint scent of his cologne again. “My
expertise
is keeping this team alive. Is that okay with you, Miss Asher?”

My brazenness left me quickly and all I could do was nod. I closed my eyes as he walked away and chastised myself.
Get your head in the game, Vic. If you want to find Gil, you're going to need Ian's help. Stop being a smart-ass and start playing nice.

“C'mon. You look like you could let off some steam.” Adam tugged at my elbow and brought me to his side of the room. “Welcome to my sanctuary.” He smiled wide and sat on the corner of his desk, gripping the edge with his hands. “Hit me, baby, one more time,” he called. Before I could ask what Britney Spears had to do with weapons training, the faux wall I noticed earlier moved to the side, like a sophisticated sliding glass door. Soon, the wall was completely gone, revealing dozens of guns and knives of all shapes and sizes.

“Wow.”

“Impressive, right?” he said with glee.

“It's something,” I said.

“Don't stroke his ego!” Claudia called from behind her computer.

“What? No secret button under your desk?”

“That's so cliché,” he smirked.

“And Britney?”

“Who doesn't love Britney?”

I took in the wall of weapons, attempted to still my increasing heartbeat, and tried to mentally prepare myself for what I was about to do. After Ian's explanation of what his team did, I understood that the instruments before me would be the difference between keeping myself alive and Ian finding me in a pool of blood.

“How much experience do you have with guns?” he asked.

“Does hearing nightly gunfire on my street count as experience?”

Adam chuckled and shook his head. “Well then, pick one out and we'll go from there.” Adam opened his arm toward the wall of weapons in a showman's gesture of invitation.

“Shouldn't I start off training with something a little less intense?” I asked nervously.

“This is as low key as weapons training gets,” Adam said plainly.

“Then, in that case, I would feel much better if you applied your vast knowledge of guns and picked one out for me.”

“Okay. I'll select a few and we can see what feels right.” He picked several and laid them on the table in front of me, pointing to each one. “For you, because we're looking at defense, not marksmanship, any of these will be good.”

I looked at the guns lined up before me on the broad table. Adam could probably rattle off the differences between all of them the way I could with burgers and pie at Sam's. I wondered if I'd even be able to grasp them properly but then realized that that wouldn't be the issue—pulling the trigger would be. I was sure Ian wasn't planning on using me in tactical operations, but clearly I wouldn't be immune to having to make a fatal decision—especially if Gil was in the kind of danger we thought.

I watched Adam ready each gun, and was paralyzed by fear.

“Hey,” he said, laying a gun down and putting a hand on my shoulder. “It's going to be fine. You're not even going to touch one of my babies until we've sufficiently covered gun safety. It'll be so ingrained in you that Yosemite Sam will make you cringe.”

“Okay then. Where do we start?”

“We'll start with the basics. What is the first rule of gun safety?”

“Don't talk about gun safety?” I joked. Adam snickered and then raised his eyebrows, prompting me to take the question more seriously. “Try not to kill anyone?”

Adam didn't look amused. “The first rule of gun safety is that the gun is always loaded. Even if it isn't, it is. The second rule of gun safety is that you keep your finger out of the trigger guard until you're ready to shoot. Also, always keep the gun pointed down until you're ready to shoot. It's much better to be shot in the foot than the leg or crotch. Especially the crotch.

“Finally, the most difficult rule is that when you point your gun at something, be prepared for that thing to die. Whether it's the particleboard you're going to obliterate in training or a human being, when you pull that trigger, you will
end
whatever it is you're pointing at. Got it?”

“Sure.”

“There is no ‘sure.' Do you understand?”

“Yes. I understand,” I replied with as much courage as I could muster.

Adam nodded and then proceeded to go over everything from the difference between guns with a hammer and a striker to the proper tactical stance for shooting. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and I still hadn't fired a shot.

When he deemed me ready, Adam took me into the basement of the building, where a shooting range had been set up. Paper targets had been affixed to particleboard posts. Adam picked up the nine-millimeter Glock and showed me all its parts again. The barrel. The handle. Where the magazine clicked into place inside the handle. He showed me again how to properly wrap my fingers around the handle, but my palms were sweating and I was terrified that it would slip out of my grasp and explode on the floor.