Phoenix.

Mendez knew that name. It was the name of a well-placed CIA agent—but one whose identity he didn’t know. If Ian knew the name, then he was definitely on the inside. And Phoenix was most likely his handler.

Son of a bitch, he hated these games. He’d gone into black ops because there was a mission and a goal. There were measurable results. Let the spies get the intel and parse it out. Let them play their games.

Now he was in the middle of the fucking game. He didn’t like it. But he had little choice except to play it out and see where it led.

“Let’s go,” he said, indicating that Kat should lead the way. He threw a few bucks on the table and followed her through the restaurant, checking his six as he did so. They passed through the shadowed corridor that led onto Royal Street. She stopped at the entrance and glanced around. So she wasn’t as green as she’d appeared to be when she’d walked into the Court of Two Sisters earlier.

He let his gaze slide over her ass encased in slim-fitting jeans and down to the heeled boots she wore before going back up to the sleek black hair that skimmed her shoulders. She was slim and gorgeous, and she set his pulse thumping in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. He could smell her scent, lilacs and vanilla, and he had a dark urge to dip his mouth to her neck and lick her skin. Would she taste like Valentina? Would he solve the mystery of who this woman was if he did so?

She looked and moved like Valentina. And yet he couldn’t discount her story about being Valentina’s sister. Russian politics had always been treacherous, and truth was not necessarily the safest option.

Besides, what was the alternative?

That she was Valentina, which meant she’d lied to him so long ago. That she’d deliberately walked away and let him think she was dead. It would be a monstrous betrayal if so. Anything was possible, but the woman he remembered wouldn’t have done that to him.

A year ago, Dmitri Leonov had taken great pleasure in telling him that Valentina was alive. Still didn’t make it true, no matter how much Mendez might wish it. Dmitri could have been fucking with him, knowing that Valentina had a twin out there somewhere.

Kat stepped out onto the sidewalk and he followed her, but not before sizing up the street in both directions. There were the usual tourists, the street performers, the gawkers, and a steady stream of cars. New Orleans was a feast for the senses at any time. It was also the kind of place that made it hard to notice anything out of the ordinary, precisely because nothing was ordinary.

Kat stepped to the side to wait for him. When he reached her, she gave him a smile that was so like Valentina’s it kicked him in the chest. She wore a black silk top that clung to her slim curves and made him tighten the reins of his self-control. When she curled her arm into the crook of his, he thought he might come unglued. Something electric zapped into his blood, his bones. His cock. Guilt speared into him at the reaction.

“We should look like tourists,” she said, her voice husky with her native Russian. It wasn’t as pronounced an accent as Valentina’s had been, but time and distance could have dulled his memory.

Not likely.

This woman had not spent the past twenty-one years in Russia. So where had she been? And why was he just now meeting her? If she’d known who he was, she could have found him. And if she really was Valentina, she had no excuse not to have done so.

They strolled with purpose through the streets, crossing blocks and making their way north. When they reached Bourbon Street after taking a circuitous route, she turned away from the direction of the bars and crowds and kept going until they were almost to the Marigny. He went along with it because he wanted to know where they were going and who she really was—and who she worked for—but the Sig Sauer at his back and the knife at his ankle were there if he needed them.

She ducked down an alley and inserted a key into a gate. They passed into a courtyard and she closed the gate firmly. Then she let out a breath.

“We’re here.”

The courtyard was small and surrounded by wrought iron galleries. Kat took the steps up to the second level and hurried down the length of a gallery before slipping through another door. This one led into a small apartment furnished with an antique rug, an oversized couch and chairs, and a galley kitchen that ran along one end of the room. There was no hallway, only a door that he assumed went to a bathroom. Which meant the couch was probably a bed and this was a studio.

It was old, with tall ceilings and ornate plaster and an exposed brick wall on one side of the apartment.

Kat went over to the kitchen and turned on a Keurig. She spent a good amount of time fussing with it before she turned around again. Nerves?

“Coffee?”

“No.” He stalked the confines of the apartment, looking for listening devices or cameras. Not that he’d find the good ones if they were here. Not without equipment. But any clunky attempts and he’d know it.

“We can talk here,” she said. “It’s safe.”

He snorted. “Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not going to take your word for it.”

She shrugged and pressed the button to make her coffee brew. He didn’t miss that her fingers trembled as she reached for it.

“Are you FSB or SVR?” In the old days, the KGB would have covered everything. Today, the Federal Security Service and the Foreign Intelligence Service were the main Russian organizations.

Her head whipped around, her eyes widening. “Why would you think that?”

“You said that Valentina was FSB. How would you have known unless you are too?”

She glanced away as the coffee maker gurgled. “She told me.” She waved a hand as if to stop him from asking another question. “It was a long time ago. Does it matter?”

“Right now everything matters.”

There was a bump outside on the gallery and Mendez whipped out the Sig, gliding over to press his back to the wall.

“It’s the neighbor,” Kat said. “He drinks.”

Mendez ignored her, listening for any movement that indicated someone was coming inside. He might be fascinated with Kat and her story, but he couldn’t let down his guard for a moment. There was too much at stake.

Nothing happened for a long while, so he holstered the weapon at his back and stalked over to look out the opposite window. The street was mostly quiet, though the occasional tourist wandered along the road, clutching a map and pointing at the buildings.

“How do you know Ian Black?” he asked. She hadn’t answered him earlier and he wanted to know. It was a safe enough topic if there were listeners. Not so much for her probably, but for him it was fine.

She hugged her coffee cup in both hands as if she needed the warmth. But she didn’t flinch or look afraid. In fact, she looked resigned. As if she’d made up her mind about something.

“I was FSB, you are correct. But that was a lifetime ago. I have worked with Ian on a few projects.”

“Why did you leave yourself in the open for so long at the restaurant?”

Her lips tightened. She didn’t like that he’d called her out on what she’d done.

“Because I wanted to put you at ease. I thought if I were not a professional, you might trust me more quickly.”

“I don’t trust you at all.”

She sank onto a chair and arched an eyebrow. “Yet here you are.”

“Curiosity.”

“You cannot do this alone. There are powerful people arrayed against you.”

He believed that was true. They’d gone to a lot of trouble to implicate a HOT team in the assassination, which took power and access. And where was Delta Squad? So far as he knew, Ghost hadn’t located them yet—and that was concerning. “Why do you care?”

Her lashes dipped for a moment. “You cared for my sister. I believe you made her happy.”

“And that’s enough to risk your life for me? A twenty-one-year-old romance with your sister?”

“She said you were a good man. She loved you.”

Those words were an arrow to his soul. He’d been in love exactly once in his life, and it hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped. He’d lost her, and now this woman with Valentina’s eyes stared at him like a ghost from the grave and reminded him of how long and lonely the years had been.

It was too much to bear.

He stalked over and slapped his hands on either side of her chair. She squeaked as he pushed it back until she was practically lying horizontal to the floor. The coffee cup dropped, hot liquid seeping into the floorboards. Her pulse beat like a moth’s wings in her throat, but she didn’t scream or try to get away.

“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t say those words to me.”

Her eyes were liquid sky. “I’m not your enemy, John Mendez. I swear it.”

“Then tell me the truth.”