they were smiling at him, he sensed the danger that lurked within them. He was wound up so tightly, any wrong move could set him into offensive action.
Caine stood very still. What if he was wrong about the entire setup and there was no meeting with a federal agent? Could the microphone he found in the planter be old equipment left over from the Cold War? The blue van nothing more than a bunch of kids smoking weed?
His normal MO was to catch the mouse, not when he was in his hole, but when he poked his head out of it. Not this time. Like a fisherman with his line, he had to know where to cast it and what bait to use.
He leaned over the unconscious girl. The aroma of this expensive catch dripping with her own juices greeted his nostrils and made him more desperate to satisfy his own needs. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him. He was trained to forgo sex when necessary. The last time he’d allowed a woman to get close to him nearly cost him his life.
He squinted through the black eye patch to get a better look at the girl. She ignited something in him dormant for a long time. And he had to put out the fire. Fast.
The Russian’s voice was flat like cardboard when he spoke, though his eyes blazed at Caine. “Why did Sharif send you?”
“After you left, he received information that the facilitator of the Italian cell is a suspected al-Qaeda operative and is under surveillance by British MI6 agents.”
The hint of a sneer played around the corners of his mouth as if he figured he’d catch Caine in a lie. “Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”
“I had to be sure you weren’t being tailed,” Caine said, choosing his words carefully. Sharif suspected the Russian was double-crossing him and he’d ordered Caine to tail him. “I’m here to escort you safely back to Paris.”
“Sharif told me there would be a car waiting to pick me up when I return.” The Russian knocked the empty bottle of vodka on the hardwood floor, breaking it. Caine jumped sideways to avoid glass shards scattering everywhere like chunks of ice.
“The plans have changed,” Caine said, gazing around the room with the eye of a man well schooled in the art of escape. No way could he allow the Russian to believe he’d let his guard down. All the while, he was gauging how to take him down, assessing his escape route.
“You’re lying!” the Russian yelled, then he swung at him, catching him on the jaw and sending him staggering backward. The man ripped off his eye patch as his knees sagged, but Caine didn’t lose his balance. Instead, he slammed a balled fist into the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood gushed, the Russian’s eyes shot upward, but he recovered and landed a punch on his shoulder.
Caine put his hand up to his face. His patch was gone. He became aware of a new threat. He couldn’t afford to have the Russian discover his identity.
He ignored the pain and used the heel of his hand to deliver a quick blow to the Russian just below the ear. Without so much as a grunt, he fell hard, hitting the polished wooden floor with a loud echo. While he was down, Caine calculated his next move. Instinct warned him to keep on the offensive, knowing the Russian was armed. He wasn’t worried about being disturbed by an angry hotel guest. The room was soundproof, a modern touch to combat the noise from the traffic and trams outside.
The Russian got up, holding his bleeding nose. “No German street thug has moves like that. You’re MI6 or American CIA. You bastard.” The Russian drew a heavy revolver out of his jacket pocket and aimed it at Caine’s chest.
Before he could fire, Caine kicked the gun out of his hand. The Russian attempted to grab him, but Caine executed an evasive side step then chopped down onto his forearm with the edge of his hand. Next, he delivered a blow to his throat. Before the Russian could recover, he shot a sharp low side kick to his knee, followed by a swivel punch to the heart. Finally he attacked the back of his neck with a chop on his spine with a hammer-fist blow.
The Russian slumped to the floor, his eyes dull with pain. Caine leaned down and slammed the man’s head and spine against the hardwood floor, then let him go. He didn’t move. Satisfied he was dead, he slipped his eye patch back on, then went through the man’s pockets. He was surprised to find a second gun, a Glock, along with a phony passport. Cash. Lots of it. Cell phone. And a plastic bag with—he looked closer—a microchip? More than likely, the Russian had intended to use it as a trade. Nausea made him recoil, then take a breath. So Ivan had extracted the federal agent and gotten the cash. He took another breath, a cleansing breath. He felt no remorse.
The asshole got what he deserved.
He searched his other pocket and his fingers wrapped around something small and smooth. He pulled it out and examined it. A tiny vial marked Narcan. The brand name for naloxone. The antidote. Also, a syringe.
He also found a train ticket to Paris, leaving tonight. And a train schedule with stops checked off with red ink. Scrawled across the top was a date. Two weeks from now. He grinned. This was it, the timetable for the delivery of the explosives.
He’d be on that train and surprise whoever was meeting the Russian in Paris with the news of the untimely demise of the ex-KGB agent. An MI6 agent dusted him, he’d tell Sharif, blaming it on the Brits. Only one thing didn’t add up: The girl.
If he left her here and the local Politzei found her, she’d be charged with the Russian’s murder, a perfect solution to avoid blowing his cover. But if she wasn’t dead when they found her, she could also identify him.
So, what am I going to do with her?
He inserted the needle in the rubber top of the vial and drew up the naloxone to the 1 cc mark, all the while thinking, Should I give it to her? Is that what he wanted? Think.
He sucked in air, forcing his agency training to take command of his senses. Something about the way her lips parted in a sigh, how she wrinkled her forehead as if in her dreamlike state she found no peace, made him insert the syringe into her upper butt and push down the plunger. Then he removed her tight choker, rings, bracelet and leather cuff on her forearm, along with her wig. He wasn’t surprised to see she was a blonde, having already enjoyed the sight of her pubic hair.
He put his hand under her neck, tipped her chin up, pinched off her nose, then sealed his mouth over hers and breathed into her. Long, deep breaths to rescue her from the damning void imprisoning her brain. The drug depressed her ability to breathe on her own so he had to breathe for her or she would die. Yet he couldn’t deny he enjoyed the honey-salt taste of her lips. Soft, full and so sweet. How he wished he could guide her fingers down to his groin and she could feel how hard he was.
But her hands were cold, her head thrown back, neck arched forward, breasts pointed and shoulders shaking. Pushing air into her lungs, Caine pressed his body against hers, his huge erection straining against the coarse fabric and round navy buttons binding it in his jeans. An urgency was building in him as little tremors ran up and down her body, and she started to vibrate like a windup doll with a new battery. He was breathing heavier now, holding back, though yearning to move his tongue in and out of her in a parallel rhythm with his penis, though it remained hard and unbending in his tight jeans.
“Oohh…” she moaned once, then twice.
Abruptly, he released his mouth from hers. He continued leaning over her, smelling the lemony-mint fragrance of her breath. She was breathing easier. No more heavy, short gasps. Her lips were stained a pleasing pink, not blue, her eyelids fluttering. She was going to make it.
He held her in his arms, not wanting to let her go. His breathing quickened and he groaned louder as his hands glided over her bare back, touching—
What was it?
Rough edges pricked his fingertips. Without hesitation, he turned her over onto her stomach. Shock, then a different emotion gripped him. Anger. Her back was covered with faint jagged lines. Scars. Surgically applied skin grafts had helped heal her ripped flesh, but they couldn’t completely erase what had been deep grooves in her