The Hard Target, page 4
part #1 of Men of Delta Series
Something’s wrong here. Keeping up the pressure on his neck, I glance sideways. The river is to my left. But to my right, I detect movement. A black shadow separates itself from the corner of a building about fifty yards away.
“You got a big problem,” Viktor says. The sick grin is back on his face.
I don’t hesitate. I pull him toward me as two men start running toward us. One of them is about to fire, but he stops when he sees me using Viktor as a shield.
“Let me go,” Viktor shouts.
“Negative, asshole,” I growl. “You’re coming with me.”
I punch him in the guts, twice, hard. He bends over. I lift him onto my back and run for the river. I know the men won’t shoot. There’s too much risk of them hitting their boss.
Viktor is screaming something in Russian. Some of them are swear words, but the rest I don’t get. They’re probably instructions to his men. Which means I need to haul ass.
I have an escape route prepared. There’s an RIB—a rigid inflatable boat—bobbing on the water, moored to a small jetty. It’s right across the building, and I run to it. I’m slow due to the snow. Luckily, the heavy snow means there are fewer cars on the road. My boots sink in the white mush as I cross the road and onto the broad pavement. There’s a gate then stairs that lead down to the dark waters of the Moskva, where my rental RIB is moored.
I can hear shouts behind me. I ignore them.
I jump down the last two stairs and land on the wooden jetty. Viktor is still on my back. I lose balance and fall to my knees. It hurts like hell, but there’s no time to waste. I can still stand on my two feet. Viktor is shouting in my ears. I ignore him and stand up, ready to run the last few yards to my boat.
I come to an abrupt halt. A figure materializes out of the darkness. He’s as tall and wide as me. I’m in combat mode now. If I had a gun, I would shoot him. Especially since he’s pointing one at me.
“Put him down,” the man shouts in English. The gun is pointed at my legs. He won’t hit Viktor if he shoots me there. And he’s close enough to take my knees out.
“Do it now!” he shouts.
I hear men scrambling down the stone steps behind me.
Shit. I’m cornered.
I need to survive this. Come back for this asshole later. At least I got a confession out of him.
“I’ll be back, Viktor,” I whisper in his ear. “Remember that as long as you live.”
I grab him around the waist, lift him in the air with both hands, then throw Viktor as hard as I can toward the man pointing the gun at me. I bellow with the effort, feeling my chest and shoulder muscles contract powerfully.
Viktor flies into the man like a missile. They crash together then fall into the river.
I dive into the water myself. Gunshots ring around the jetty. Bullets hit the woodwork then splash into the water. I take a deep breath and dive under the freezing waters as bullets streak past me.
There’s a loud humming sound. It gets louder. I can’t see anything in the murk. My lungs are bursting, so I kick up to the surface. I lift my mouth and take a grateful suck of the cold night air. I hear the sound again, and I look to see a boat heading toward me.
I duck back down, but the people on deck have clocked me already. I swim underwater, but I’m on my last breath. I have to breathe again. It’s that or pass out underwater.
I swim for as long as I can then lift my face. This time, a strong light shines on me. With it comes a voice I recognize. I can’t believe it.
“Richter! Richter! It’s me, Cal!”
I must be dreaming, but I know this ain’t no dream. A rope is thrown down to me, and I grab it gratefully, pulling myself into the boat.
*****
A thermal blanket is wrapped around me, and someone hands me a steaming mug. I sip from it, grimacing.
The boat is chugging downriver, headed for safety. A bulb hangs overhead, casting a yellow light over fishing nets and an old anchor. And my brother, Caleb Blane, sits opposite me.
Caleb’s my height but slimmer and clean shaven. He’s looking at me with calm, steady eyes.
“How did you get here?” I ask, incredulous. I wipe a hand over my beard, squeezing water out of it.
“Who do you think sent you the intel?” he counters.
I blink in surprise. “You did? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
In response, my younger brother takes out something from his pocket and chucks it at me. It’s an ID card bearing his picture and job title fixed to a lanyard.
I gape at it. “CIA? Since when?”
“I joined two years ago. They wanted more special ops men. I fit the bill, plus you know I speak Arabic.”
I frown at him. “And you never told me? Why?”
“Because they wanted to form a group of operatives who were not employed by the CIA, Army, or any government institution. I was under a strict NDA.” He passes a hand over his face. “Until I found this shit. Someone sent me the intel about Viktor. I couldn’t act on it, given my current role. But I knew you would.”
I’m trying to process all of this, but my brain still feels numb. “Who sent you this?”
Cal shakes his head. “Darned if I know. But I got authority to follow this up. It’s a big deal. Dad’s death was always ruled an accident, right?”
We hold each other’s eyes. All our lives, we never believed the official version. Neither did our mother, God bless her departed soul.
Our father drowned in a boat carrying five other men—Russian and American. His body was never found. Before his death, he had sent the photos he took of the naval shipyard.
He was a careful man and an experienced agent. The CIA swallowed what the Russians told them, and the matter was never investigated.
But Cal and I never forgot.
“There’s got to be a reason someone’s sending me the intel now. It came to my personal email. No one in the CIA knows anything about it,” Cal says.
“Weird,” I say, frowning. “Files on Dad would be top secret, right? CIA property.”
Cal nods in silence. “To be honest, it’s one of the reasons I took the job when the CIA asked me.”
I feel a rush of warmth toward him. “You did the right thing. Plus,” I say drily, “you just saved my ass.”
His lips quirk. “I didn’t join the CIA to save your ass. But you’re welcome.” He becomes serious. “We need to get to Viktor.”
My jaws twitch. I feel the fire returning to my veins. “Don’t worry. I will.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DORA
❦❦❦❦
I sneak a look at his face, illuminated by the dashboard lights. His eyes are fixed on the road. We are still inside Dale City, going past blocks of one- and two-story townhouses. When he talks, he doesn’t look at me.
“Do you need to speak to anyone?”
“Yes, I do,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even. “But you destroyed my phone, remember?”
He sighs. “That was for your own good. Did you want those people to get hold of your phone?”
“I didn’t want any of this,” I snap. “All I want is to go home.” Anger simmers inside me. This whole... mess I’ve landed in is ridiculous. Why did I have to come to this godforsaken place? I don’t even know who I’m angry with—myself or this person sitting next to me.
“Don’t you want my address?” I ask. “I live in Alexandria.”
He doesn’t say anything. I frown. “Did you hear what I said?”
In reply, he sighs deeply. That admittedly large chest rises and falls like an ocean wave.
His next words throw me completely. “I’m not taking you home.”
“Excuse me?”
When he tells me, I stare at him, thunderstruck. After the shock of what I’ve been through, this is just too low a blow.
“What?!” I’m not aware I’m shouting. “You want me to live in this small town with you? Are you kidding me?”
“There are people looking to kill us.” His voice is unruffled, and he still hasn’t as much as turned to look at me. “They can easily find out where you live. When they find you, they’ll kill you.”
I sink back into my seat, hands pressed over my face. “Okay, that’s enough. Stop the car.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I said stop the damn car!”
He doesn’t reply. I can see his jaw tense. His large hands grip the steering wheel tightly.
I wind the window down and unbuckle my seat belt. I try to open the door, but he’s locked it.
“What are you doing?”
“If you’re not going to pull over, I’m going to jump out the window.”
“You’re in shock right now.” His voice is low, as if he’s speaking to a child. “Believe me, I’m doing this for you.”
“Don’t patronize me.” This guy might be good-looking—okay, smokin’ hot—but he’s also infuriating. I want answers, and he’s not giving me any.
“Who are you?” I say.
“I told you. My name is—”
“John, I know. If that’s your real name, then I’m the Queen of England.”
He stays silent. I fold my legs and put my feet on the seat. I grip the window edge and lift myself. If I hoped to get a reaction out of him, I’m disappointed. He barely moves a muscle.
Instead, in a resigned voice, he asks, “What are you doing?”
“Jumping out the window. What does it look like?”
Another sigh, then he signals and pulls over. He keeps the engine on, but the car is stationary.
I glare at him. “Right, John. Start talking.”
He actually lowers his head and grips his forehead as if he’s tired. That doesn’t work with me. If he’s going to take over my life, I need to know what the hell I’m getting myself into.
“I can’t tell you anything,” he says in a tired voice. “These are very bad people. They won’t hesitate to kill you.”
Staring at his face, I remember the moment when he looked at me with a gun pointed at his head and said the name—Jozdani. He’d pronounced it slowly, staring at me, as if he wanted me to memorize it. A shiver had passed through me. There had been a signal in his eyes, a silent communication, and we’d had a connection.
“Who is Jozdani?” I ask.
His shoulders slump, and he groans loudly. He raps his knuckles on the windowsill.
“You don’t need to know that.”
“I don’t even know your real name!”
That makes him pause. He lifts his head, and gray eyes stare at me. Then he nods. “My name is Richter.”
For some reason, the name fits his rugged, muscular build.
Before I can say anything more, Richter glances at his watch. He starts the engine. “I shouldn’t have stopped here.” He pulls out as he tells me, “We can talk while I drive. But there’s one thing I need you to remember.”
I’m in no mood to take orders from him. “Just the one thing?”
“Dora.” He says my name for the first time, and he utters it slowly, as if it settles on his tongue, snug and comfortable. “There can be no negotiation on this. Do you understand?”
“Okay,” I say.
“You have to follow my lead. If I say take cover, you do it without asking questions. Otherwise, I cannot protect you. Got that?”
“Crystal.”
I remember what just happened. How he bumped into me from behind then covered my body with his. He just saved my life. I close my eyes and huff in silence. I’m just angry I can’t go back home. I don’t know what sort of a mess I’ve landed in, but I sure as hell need his help to get out of it.
“When can I go back home?”
He ponders the question in silence. The ramp for the I-95 comes up, and he takes the southbound route.
“A few days. My colleagues should let me know soon.”
I cradle my head in my hands. I have a headache. I’m shattered, exhausted. I’ve had a sheltered life. Rich dad, prep school, good college, overbearing brother. No one’s ever shot at me except with words. And that’s mostly been my dad. But even his often cruel words come nowhere close to the real bullets flying around me today.
“You know, I have a life,” I mumble. “I need to get back to it.”
“I know. So do I. Trust me, I don’t want this any more than you do.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“Right.”
There doesn’t seem to be much to say after that. We drive on, delving deeper into the darkness of the highway. My head rests back in the seat. I can hear Dad’s voice in my head, scolding me as if I’m a little girl. What have you done this time?
His face morphs into Julia’s, sitting by the phone, a red-nailed finger twirling her strawberry blonde highlights. I need to call her and tell her what happened. Thoughts bump and slide into one another then fade into the darkness, where the beams of the headlights don’t reach.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DORA
❦❦❦❦
There’s a burning in my eyes. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just bright. So bright my eyes blink open. Daylight. I’m on a bed. It’s big and comfortable, with fluffy blankets. I sit up straight, heart pounding, confused. Where am I? In a flash, memories of last night come back like a thunderbolt. I must be at Richter’s place. We drove here, and I must’ve fallen asleep in the car.
Thank God, I’m still fully dressed. And alone in the bed. I put my feet on the solid wood floor. There’s a rug on it. I walk to the windows and part the curtains slightly. There’s an open field in front running for miles before reaching the mountains. The hills look close by, so massive they take me by surprise. Sunlight catches the rock formations as rays of light peek through the cracks, early-morning shadows playing hide-and-seek. Together with the mist rising like a curtain from the fields, melting in the sun, it’s a beautiful sight, and I can’t help but stare at it.
The knock on the door almost makes me yelp. After a gentle nudge, the door is pushed open.
It’s Richter. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that clings to his body and blue jeans that hug his hips. The T-shirt leaves little to the imagination. The corded muscles of his biceps strain the sleeves. There’s a tattoo on his right biceps and ink on his upper chest visible through the thin fabric. His forearms have thick veins traversing their length and coarse, chocolate-brown hair on top of the knotted muscles. The shirt molds to the slab of his pecs and the flat abs. His face is stunningly handsome, and his presence fills the room, head nearly touching the top of the doorframe. Last night, in the darkness, I didn’t get a proper look at him. He looks older than me by a few years at least. If I had to guess, I’d put him somewhere in his late thirties or early forties.
My gaze sweeps down to his legs, trying not to linger on his powerful hips, on that mildly arrogant, cocky posture he has as he stands with his arms hanging by his sides. The stance is open, direct, and begs my eyes to look at him again. I slap my brain and drag my eyes away. For no apparent reason, I suddenly envision him naked, the line of hair moving down from his belly button...Fuck! Stop it, Dora!
I’m looking out the window again, eyes fixed on the mist. I swallow, aware my lips are parted.
“Did you sleep well?” His voice is deep but gentle.
“Um, yes. Did you?” Okay, head smack, stupid question.
He says nothing, observing me silently. His strange, quiet gaze settles on my face as if he’s trying to memorize my features. It’s so unnerving I have to look away. The mist again. Swirling and diffuse, opaque. Like my brain right now.
Another question arrives silently in my mind. I decide to ask him. “How did you know I was awake?”
There’s a quirk to his lips, an almost smile. It vanishes quickly. “It’s very quiet around here. I heard the wood creak.”
So he was waiting for me to wake up.
“There’s coffee downstairs,” he says. “And a bathroom in here.” He jerks his head toward the end of the room. I’ve seen it already.
He stares at me silently for a little while longer, and an inscrutable look, like a shadow on the hills, passes across his face. Then he turns and goes down the stairs.
I gulp and breathe. His absence leaves a sudden vacuum in the room, and the space seems to expand back to its normal size. Richter is the type of man who can make a room look smaller just by being in it. He has to be six three or four and two hundred pounds plus. Hell, I felt that weight when he threw himself on top of me last night. Warmth touches my cheeks as I hurry into the bathroom.
I don’t need makeup really, but a touch of mascara would help. My eyes look pale. I leave my shoulder-length dark hair as it is. There’s nothing to change into, a problem that has to be rectified soon.
The smell of coffee invigorates me as I come downstairs. The place is surprisingly well decorated. Artwork hangs in small frames on the wall. Fluffy cushions are placed on the deep sofa set. The wooden fireplace, with logs burning, is a nice feature to one side. Stacks of logs are placed on either side of the fireplace, which takes up almost one side of the floor. There’s a massive flat-screen TV on the wall and a pool table to one side.
It’s large and cozy. The kitchen is next to this living area. I step inside to find Richter with his hands on the sink, staring out the window. He turns as I come in.
“Coffee?” he asks.
I nod, tuck a loose strand behind my ear, and sit at the table. He reaches for a cup from the shelf, and the hem of his shirt rides up. I catch a glimpse of toned abs and the enticing curve of a hip bone. The tattoo on his biceps catches my eyes again. It’s a black knife imprinted on what looks like a red clover leaf.
He pours the coffee from the machine and puts it in front of me. Then he picks up his own cup and leans against the counter. I sip, aware of his eyes on me.
The coffee’s good, but the silence is unnerving, for me anyway. I’m a city girl used to the background hum of invisible cars, millions of human beings shuffling, stepping around—the rhythm of urban life. Here, I can’t hear a thing. Only emptiness.
“So, you come here often?” I ask.
“Actually, it’s my home.”
