Chapter 3

MATT WRENCHED THE wheel a hard right sped down the exit ramp. He hugged the arc of the exit curve. His best chance here was that he knew the tangled streets, and it was likely their pursuers did not.

This early in the morning, traffic on Old Georgetown Road bustled with more delivery trucks than cars. Before the dickwads could catch up or figure out where the limo had gone, he had to get invisible. He scooted around a semi backing into Dunkin Donuts, then careened right onto a side street.

No sign of the Escalade.

More random twists and turns took them through a neighborhood of older Colonials, and then he swung into a school parking lot. He stopped behind the second row of vehicles. Nobody followed them. The women were safe. He rotated his shoulders and drew a breath, flexed his aching fingers. His heart rate began to ease up.

Stefan heaved a giant sigh. “You lost them. In my day, I could have done that.” Beaming a wide and gap-toothed smile, the chauffeur clapped Matt on the back.

Nadia sank to the limo floor and drew deep breaths. She folded her arms and pressed them against her stomach, a vain attempt to ease the emotions rocking her. Her pulse still fluttered.

She glanced at her friend. Pale blond strands of Sari’s always perfect hair had come loose from her chignon, and she’d chewed off her lipstick. About like Nadia must look. Maybe more shaken. Sari hadn’t wanted to believe the rebels would really attack her. Her chest rose and fell with shudder, and she sent Nadia a wobbly smile. What the hell was going on? Rebels ramming them, shooting at them to kill the princess? The world had gone crazy.

The motor was still running, but the front doors clicked. Stefan opened the passenger-side door. Clucking his tongue, he aided the princess to exit. When Matt opened the door beside Nadia and held out a hand, she hesitated. Not letting him help her would be petty, especially after he probably saved all their lives, not just Sari’s. The touch of his fingers as he supported her shot electric vibrations up her arm, and the berry scent of his chewing gum tickled memories she’d suppressed.

“You okay?”

She pulled away her hand and nodded, not trusting her vocal cords for speech.

“Take your time.” He reached inside the limo to the mini-fridge, then handed her a bottle of water. “Then we’ll head for the embassy.”

“Police?”

His brows drew together, the expression rendered fierce because of the scar bisecting the left one. A muscle twitched in his strong jaw. “I’d rather not call in the cops, but it’ll look fishy if we don’t. The limo’s rear end took a few hits, remember?”

On a shudder, she said, “How could I forget?”

“Better if Sarika makes the call, but after we make it to the embassy.”

Nadia dragged in giant gulps of the fresh air before letting the cold liquid soothe her sandy throat. Her knees quivered like saplings in a storm. She leaned against the car door and pressed the bottle to her forehead.

Matt left with a water bottle for the princess, his stride unhurried but somehow predatory.

She never thought she’d say it but thank God for him. He’d climbed into the front seat, the fastest she’d ever seen the man move. His normal speed was slo-mo. Men had been shooting at them, but he never flinched. His outrageous driving brought them to safety. She shivered to dispel her unwanted admiration.

Having him pop up like a discarded video file renewed all her anger from five years ago. Seeing him lounging beside Sarika, of all people, had pulled her back in time. Into the old resentment. And the old attraction.

An attraction she could control, even with him in the embassy. She’d be too busy with the filming to run into him.

Rebels. Undercover work. Anxiety sifted through her belly.

She drank water. All was quiet. No one had apparently noticed the strange vehicle amid the other cars. The sight of paper jack-o’-lanterns decorating the windows of the redbrick building comforted her. Ordinary. Sane.

Nadia was a mass of fractured nerve endings. Not the others. The diminutive chauffeur stood at attention as always. Sarika was talking to Matt on the other side of the limo. She looked serene in her now-wrinkled, silk ecru suit as if nothing unusual had happened, her hair back in place. She was Nadia’s age of thirty, a few years younger than Matt. An exotic beauty with bold features in an oval face.

Other than the sweat stains marring Matt’s dress shirt and a few finger-track lines in his short black hair, he looked as if today’s bullet-riddled chase was par for the course. And maybe it was. For him. Blue jeans, no tie, of course. Signature Leoni. His solid, muscular build had made her feel protected.

Thin red scars slashed his left eyebrow and the cheekbone below the black eye patch. Shrapnel from a bomb? Or a terrorist’s knife? She shuddered. Whatever happened in that incident might explain the new edge she sensed in him. Harshness, a guarded tension. He was a more dangerous man than she’d realized before.

She’d fallen for him, first for his dark eyes, square-jawed solidity and deep voice, then for his wry humor and sexy, sleepy demeanor that hid a sharp brain.

But then he’d used her to trap her father. She could never forgive him. His betrayal twisted through her stomach.

Neither could she abandon her friend. Or her film. Her company needed the gig, the money. She needed to complete the film with no hitches. She’d already spent most of the Today’s World Network advance.

Matt couldn’t prevent himself from flinching as Nadia whirled on him.

“You as part of my film crew? You may be a top-notch Fed but you know zip about films or filming. Sari must be so scared she’s not thinking straight.” She paced the tan wall-to-wall carpet. “Look, I’m sorry about your eye injury. My feelings about all this—” she gestured at the room assigned to Monte Cristo Productions “—are obvious, but I don’t wish you harm. I hope your vision will be fine.”

He nodded but couldn’t manage a smile. “I appreciate that. Fifty-fifty chance, but I’m hopeful.” The knot just below his sternum wound tight as ever. Hell, fifty percent was damned good odds. He’d heal. Like the doc said, not a problem. Temporary. Wouldn’t affect his work. He wouldn’t let it.

She stomped to the door. “I have to check on something. I don’t need to tell you to make yourself at home. You will anyway. Be back in ten, fifteen minutes.” She slammed out, except the door closed itself silently, which probably pissed her off even more.

Matt got why she was still steaming after Sarika had explained his undercover role. She probably needed some time to adjust. Let her yell at me. As long as she agrees to the arrangement.

And as long as she didn’t blow his cover. During the police interview she’d held tough. A good sign.

The detective had written down their narration of the attack. Crime techs photographed the limo’s damage and extracted the bullets. Before the detective left, he berated them all for driving to the embassy before calling. In his film-crew persona, Matt had replied that everybody was too scared to do anything else.

He strolled around the room, rotating his shoulders to appear to be getting out the kinks as he scanned for cameras. The jacket was tight. Must be the work-outs due to his frustration at being confined to a desk.

The film company’s HQ was in the basement, a disused clerical office, judging from the carpet imprints of cubicles and the electrical connections. A stack of metal chairs jammed up a corner of the space, which was little bigger than his one-bed condo.

Two metal tables were pushed together in an L. A take-out food container with a lingering teriyaki smell, printouts and a tablet littered the surface beside a red leather tote. She always carried purses big enough to be overnight bags. His gaze lit on earbuds beside a granola bar. Did she still listen to Bruno Mars?

No cameras. He took out his bug detector, a miniature unit in ballpoint-pen form designed by one of the DARK techs, and cruised the office again. No listening devices. Either Sarika had ordered the filming headquarters sacrosanct or else neither Modena Embassy Security nor the rebels’ man saw Nadia as a threat.

He sank onto a folding chair at one of the tables. He slid the eye patch off and tossed it on the table. Damn thing was hot, itched something fierce. Propping his feet on a box of copy paper, he pondered the possibilities. The uniformed branch of the U.S. Secret Service provided external protection for larger countries’ embassies, not for small countries like Modena. And not wanting to alienate those Modenans sympathetic to their cause, the rebels weren’t plotting against the entire embassy, only against the princess, so their attack would be personal. The reason they needed insider intel.

He took out his phone, tapped the coded number for his DARK contact.

“Leoni, what took you so long to check in? You just wake up from a nap?”

Matt grinned. Like Cole Stratton didn’t know what was going on. The straight-arrow ex-Marine never missed a detail or a nuance, always had up-to-date intel. “Very funny. Chilling helps me process. You should try it sometime, Jarhead.”

“Oo-rah.” Stratton could stand to chill. He never stopped working except when the two of them put their Harleys through their paces. “How’s Hollywood East? Can’t be too bad if Nadia Parker hasn’t bumped you off.”

He might as well launch into his report. “It wasn’t her doing the shooting. Surveillance get a good view of the limo when we pulled in?”

“Like you don’t know. Smashed taillight, some bullet holes in the chassis.”

Matt described in detail the chase, the thugs, the gunshots and their route. He omitted Nadia’s part in helping navigate his escape maneuvers. Might catch flak for that, but he didn’t want to deal with that now. It shouldn’t matter after this gig ended in success. A knot tightened in his gut, to compete with the one in his chest.

“And the women?”

“Shaken up but fine. Can’t say the cops were pleased we waited so long to report the attack. I wanted the princess and Nadia away from Bethesda in case the scumbags were still hanging around.”

Matt heard another voice in the background. Then Stratton said, “Simon Byrne wants to know how you’re doing with the sexy producer.”

Matt shrugged. “Nadia’s resisting. We’ll see. You guys must be laughing your asses off at the irony of me working with her.”

“A few yuks, yeah. Just watch your back. Hey, can you do that with one eye?”

“With one eye and one hand if I had to.” Damn, he hoped didn’t sound too pissed off.

“Saw you on the firing range yesterday. Improving your percentage.”

As his friend’s statement registered, he jerked straightened. Stratton had been paying attention. For the big honchos? Or just as his friend? Matt was left handed and left eyed. Sighting with his right eye meant relearning and retraining muscles. Hell, retraining his brain. “I’ll be back up to regs soon. Just takes practice.” And the current problem took precedence. “Any clues who the rebel leader has sent?”

“Chatter on the Internet but nothing concrete,” Stratton said. “Could be the leader himself. Don’t know how Cardona could’ve gotten into the country. Could’ve slipped across the Canadian border.”

Sandor Cardona. Matt’s experience four years ago told him Cardona was a hands-on guy. He would coordinate assassinations in person, maybe even take part. “Modena has plenty of security. Their garda force is known to be damned sharp. So this op must be more than a favor to Director Nolan’s old friend the king. Modena’s a small island — wealthy, for damn sure. Its location halfway between Italy and North Africa makes it a plum grab for outside agitators. Even terrorists. Another reason for DARK’s involvement?”

“Affirmative. Cardona has ties to a terrorist group in Yamar with big ambitions,” Byrne said.

“Must be that bunch calling themselves New Dawn. If rumors are true that they get funding from Russia, no wonder the king’s worried.”

“According to our boss, His Majesty discounts the terrorist connection. Insists Modenans might want a change of ruler, but they’d never betray their country by turning it over to terrorists.”

“Naïve.” Matt turned over in his mind what else he knew about Modena. “During the Cold War, the U.S. established a naval base with an air field on the island’s eastern end. They turned it over to Modena years ago, but Special Forces land for supplies and our ships refuel there. A base like that would be a mighty big carrot. A rebel coup could drop that naval base into New Dawn’s hands — a tragedy for Modena and a disaster of incredible proportions for everyone.”

“You move slow but you think fast,” Stratton said. “So get off your ass and find that traitor in the embassy. And Princess Sarika may be optimistic about there being only one.”

“Copy that. Who knows how many others Cardona and company have gotten to? Anyone might be an assassin. Or a paid assassin.”

A rattle of paper. “Hold on.”

Another voice was quickly muffled by a hand over the receiver.

A binder lay on the table with “Monte Cristo Productions – Modena Embassy” on it. Nadia always did preferred printouts to scrolling down a screen. While he waited, he smiled and browsed through the contents. Location images — the embassy, personnel in the corridors, views of the street, the Capitol Building — all labeled. Other pages of the embassy’s website and news reports. The woman was thorough.

A sheet of paper slid out. Below the Monte Cristo heading was a scribbled list. Refugees/migrants — Modena & Greece. Mobile health care for the homeless — Dallas. Future film contracts? Or a wish list? If so, she still intended to make socially conscious documentaries, one of the things he admired about her. She was warmhearted, wanting to make documentaries that could lead to improvement in people’s lives.

A click and Stratton’s voice in his ear. “One more thing, Leoni. Stick close to Parker.”

The hairs stood up on his nape. He knew what stick close really meant. He slammed his feet to the floor. “I’m to fucking spy on her?” When the other man didn’t respond, he said, “That’s not part of the op. Nadia was never implicated in her father’s crimes. She’s clean. Never even suspected.” By most, by anybody who counted.

Again the voice in the background. This time Matt recognized the low tones of the DARK director, General Nolan.

His muscles tightened. “Work with me here.”

On a deep sigh, Stratton said, “The director just shared new data. Here’s the deal, Leoni. If Yamari terrorists are behind this and the Kremlin’s funding them, the rebels have big money. Parker needs bucks for another court appeal. She’s susceptible.”

His heart knocked several slow and painful thumps. “Nadia would never betray Princess Sarika. They’re friends.” He gripped the binder hard enough to pop knuckles.

“Green’s a powerful motivator. Keeping an eye on Parker is only a precaution.”

Pain drilled into his chest. How could he refuse? This op was his ticket back to field service. Back to the challenge, back to having this weight off his chest. Nadia would hate him even more if she found out he was spying on her. “Is that an order?”

“Affirmative.”