Читать книгу Hit Hard - Amy J. Fetzer - Страница 9

“I can’t watch.” Yet Viva peeled one eye open.

“Just what I wished for,” Max said, then winked at her. “The cavalry.”

Sam instantly recognized the helicopter. It was his.

Landing gear unfolded as the black chopper lowered to the ground, a longhaired man standing in the doorway, armed and ready to fire. Sam scowled. Who was this guy?

“You Wyatt?” the man shouted.

“Hell, yeah.” Sam pushed Viva ahead of him to the side of the chopper, helping her in before Max threw himself onto the deck. The chopper lifted off and Sam sagged against the jump seat. Before Sam could ask what he was doing here, the longhaired man handed them headsets, then pointed to the pilot.

Sebastian twisted long enough to flash a smile. “Thought you could use a ride out of the hot zone.”

“You’re a sight, Coonass, thanks. How’d you find us?”

“GPS marker, made it myself,” Max said, tapping his belt buckle. Sam examined his buckle, then eyed Max. “You didn’t think we’d let you go all commando without something, did you?”

“You two are damn lucky. You know what it took to get this chopper in the air over Thai air space?”

Sam looked up at the other man. “Lying through your teeth?”

“Shit-can it, Beech, you love breaking the rules,” Sebastian said.

“Nigel Beecham, British intelligence,” he introduced, and no one noticed Viva looking between the men, completely confused.

MI6, Sam thought, shaking his hand. Beecham had a crushing grip to go with his big shoulders in the flowered shirt. In shorts and sandals, he looked right at home, tanned enough to say he’d been here a while. Sam didn’t want to know what he did for MI6. The British counterpart to the CIA were a deadly bunch, just like their own. And Sam didn’t trust any of them, ground support or not.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Viva demanded.

“When you Yanks shag the wrong people,” Nigel said right over her words, “you don’t even stop for a smoke, do you?” Nigel stood inside the chopper, his hands gripping the straps lacing the ceiling. The headset pushed on his face, making him look chubby.

“Not unless it’s a Cuban cigar.” Sam opened an ammo can and loaded his pistol. The rifle took custom-made shots. “Riley?” Sam said into the mike.

“Alive. And still in Never Never Land. Logan’s on his way here and Killian and Alexa should be in Sri Lanka in a few days. But there’s a hot-looking nurse who’s sitting vigil over him. Too bad he doesn’t know it.”

Sam shook his head. Even in a coma Riley’s Irish charm worked on the women, he thought, hunting through gear for a rag.

Viva grabbed his forearm. “Hello? Remember me? Clueless.” She gestured to the men around her.

He looked at her as if just realizing she was there, then grasped that she’d heard too much.

“Yeah, who’s the babe, Outlaw?”

Viva twisted to the pilot, poking her head between the seats. “Viva Fiori, hello. Thanks for the compliment, considering I know I don’t look my best, and do you have a real name? Coonass is terribly unattractive.”

He grinned, his attention on flying. “Sebastian Fontenot, chéri, and how did you get mixed up in this?”

“Because she’s damn stubborn and has no idea when to keep her yap shut,” Sam said.

She sent Sam a bitter look. “I brought you backup and you’re complaining?”

“I wouldn’t have needed backup if you didn’t fight the Thai mafia.”

“Well, sure, but we won. We’re alive.”

For how long? Sam knew one thing for sure. You could count on bad guys to hold a grudge. They’d given them several good reasons today. The diamond cut into his thigh and Sam pulled it from his pocket, handing it to Max. Then, finding the rag, he used it to pull the thin stick from the padded neck of his boot.

“Good Lord, Sam, and you call me certifiable?” Viva said, staring at the tiny dart.

“That’s too close to the skin for my comfort,” Max added.

Sam explained where it came from. “Someone was shooting these off like wildfire. I pulled this one out of my hat before I went in the river.” Beecham reached for it. “Don’t touch the end. Poison. We need to find out what it is and who has this poison.”

Beecham sniffed the tip. “That’s easy.”

Sam frowned.

“It’s local, ya pit. A mix of poisonous plants and the bones of the hao fai, fire cobra. Some venom. Jungle magic,” he added, carefully handing it back. “Formulas are secret, passed down through women. Sorta warns you not to piss off a Thai woman, eh? It’s usually ingested through food. Takes a couple hours, though.”

Viva shook her head. “This was instant.”

“Unusual.” Beecham fanned his fingers under the day’s growth of beard. “Refining it to kill on contact, well, that’s an art.”

Sam met Beecham’s gaze. “Who’s capable of that?”

He shrugged. “It’s tribal magic. Nothing a farang can find.” Gripping the straps, Beecham moved to Sebastian. “Set it down here, mate, I don’t want to be seen with you guys.”

Sebastian laughed and lowered the chopper in a field. Beecham tossed off the headset and jumped out, walking away as if he’d just left a taxi. Sebastian removed the helmet and slid into the copilot’s seat.

“Who’s going to fly this now?” she asked.

Sam gave her a lazy smile, then climbed effortlessly into the cockpit. Helmeted and hooked to the console, he took the stick and lifted off.

Viva leaned forward, poking her head between the seats again. “So what other talents are you hiding, Sam Wyatt?” He glanced, his expression driving a bolt of heat through her body. “Can I expect a demonstration?”

Sam made a frustrated sound, and looked at the sky.

“Sam can fly anything,” Max said, oblivious. “Fast.”

To prove it, he made a sharp glide to the left, heading toward Bangkok. Beneath, the land grew dense with homes, spreading to high-rise buildings that defied physics. He gunned it, climbing higher, and glanced to the side. Viva was enthralled, smiling brightly.

“This is so cool!” she said, rising up slightly for a better look.

Then Sam dove, curling to the right and Sebastian grabbed on to a handle. “Jesus, Sam, you trying to kill us?”

“Wuss,” Viva said, grinning.

Sam lowered the chopper to a pad and she barely felt it touch down. He was good.

“This is where you get off, Viva.”

She blinked, looking hurt, and Sam pulled off the helmet and climbed out, then opened the side door, offering his hand. Viva glanced, then handed Max the headset.

“Thrown out of another party,” she said tiredly. “Nice to meet you, Sebastian,” she said, then kissed Max’s cheek. “It’s been real.” She took Sam’s hand and hopped out.

“That was my first chopper ride,” she said. “It’s a real turn-on.”

He arched a brow.

“Almost like foreplay.”

Sam’s body instantly clenched. He didn’t say a word, talking would just get him in trouble with this woman.

“You aren’t a criminal, are you?”

Sam didn’t answer. But then, Viva didn’t expect a confession. He barely knew her and whatever he was doing here involved all the wrong people. The British intelligence guy was a real eye-opener.

“We have to get off this pad.”

“I won’t see you again, will I?” The words stuck in her throat.

Sam stared down at her, memorizing her wild red hair, her lit-from-her-soul smile, and deep inside his chest he felt a tight, hard pain. Damn. “It’s for your own safety.”

“I’m thinking it’s more for yours.”

His lips quirked. He adored her honesty.

Men in jumpsuits rushed out of the small building alongside the helo pad, shouting. Viva frowned at them, then Sam. “You weren’t supposed to land here.”

“I wasn’t supposed to do a lot of things.”

Viva wondered what it meant when he kissed her, and suddenly she wanted those incredible feelings again. Let’s be frank, she thought, he’s dark and dangerous, and you want to know this man inside out, slowly, in the most biblical sense. The thought made her insides lock while her heart slowly broke.

“We gotta go.”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“You.”

Her gaze ripped over him, hiding nothing of her emotions, and it felt like a claw raking his soul. She backed away a few steps, the chopper blades slowing.

Viva drank him in one last time. The beat-up cowboy hat, the whip lashed at his waist. The pistol and big bowie knife—his long legs in worn jeans. She was going to have some really great fantasies about him, she thought. “Bye, Outlaw.”

Sam motioned for her to keep moving. The officials of the pad were yelling and Viva spun, chewing them out. Sam wasn’t sure what she said, but they backed off.

She looked at Sam, shrugged. “People need to just get over themselves sometimes.”

“Take care of yourself, Xaviera.”

Her heart slammed in her chest.

Sam turned to the door, one hand gripping the frame. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting more and knowing it would put her life in terrible danger. It already had. He started to climb in.

A tap on his shoulder made him turn, and she was there, against him, her hand sliding up his chest, her fingers at his nape and pulling him down to her.

“You’re not getting off that easy, cowboy.”

Her mouth covered his and Sam trapped her against him, his entire body igniting like a warhead as his mouth rolled over hers. His fists bunched in her clothes, pushed her into him, and he felt it, that crackling current between them, the heat peeling off her in waves. Intoxicating, leaving him useless and hungering for more.

Then, abruptly, she pulled back and moved out of his arms. Sam felt suddenly stripped, empty. Then she walked across the cement pad toward the building, never once looking back. Sam watched her go.

Behind him, Sebastian whistled softly, then Max said, “Let her go, buddy. She’s a civilian and we have a job to do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” For the first time, Sam hated his job. He climbed in the chopper, powering it up, refusing to look in her direction. “Contact Logan, we need some satellite photos to find that jet.” The diamonds were out there, with the weapons. And Rohki.

Kashir pulled a swiftly made traverse bearing Najho’s body. The dart was still in his neck. No one dared touch it or the body for fear of poisoning, and the belief that evil spirits were at work. Kashir had no such fear and led the procession.

Men flanked them, aiming toward the jungle as they followed the long path to the village. The American had done enough damage that they carried four dead. A half dozen others chose to continue the hunt. Kashir knew they would not survive.

Dragon One’s reputation predicted as much.

Yet the men blamed the woman, and were determined to learn her identity. Kashir could do nothing to stop them. She was inconsequential to his objectives. The lines blurred often, and Najho had been his friend, of sorts. But Najho’s death was not the American’s doing, and Kashir’s gaze flicked to the jungle, expecting another dart.

Watching his own back meant more to him than the assignment. But then, he was not a lifelong professional agent. He’d fallen into his career choice by accident. Lebanese born, he had connections that interested MI6, CIA, and Interpol. Recruiting him wasn’t difficult. He was young and already inside when Interpol had come to him. Threatened him. It was best to be on the strong side of the law, though there were days he doubted who had control. He knew he was inconsequential, a voice from the inside. Only a few levels above Phan, he thought, and the image of Phan’s mutilated body burst in his mind.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen such a massacre.

Ten years ago, several businessmen in Kuala Lumpur were found in just such a manner. Their testicles and toes taken, and some with their eyes removed. The flat in the high-rise had been a whorehouse, but that all the men were in the living room, positioned like an audience, had authorities scrambling to smother the murders from the news and find the killer. There was no trace. Phan, he thought, had met the same fate. From the same person.

That it could be a woman—there had been boys in the same whorehouse—twisted his stomach. It was punishment, a vile retribution. Yet as Kashir shifted the stretcher made of fronds and thin trees, he knew she was selective. None of their dead had been touched.

At the camp, he set down the travois and flexed his fingers. In his pockets were the uncut stones their leader had had on him. Just a few, he thought. For his own future. Kashir wasn’t giving away information without a price. Finding Rohki for Dragon One was low on his list. Survival was first.

He moved into the village, the women rushing to the bodies of their beloved. Kashir stopped at his hut, removed his weapons, and sat on the low porch. A woman brought him water and a banana leaf filled with spicy chicken. Three men approached him. He simply stared up at them, then he knew. He’d been chosen.

He tossed aside the chicken bone. “Prepare the dead.” Grooming, shrouding, and preparing the meal for the ancestor would take a day. The rituals of stories, and calling the spirits of the dead to take up residence on the ancestral altar, another two. “When their families are satisfied, then you may do as you wish.”

And seek revenge.

The sun was bright in the sky when Viva took a cab to the Palace of Wang Na, the Bangkok museum. But her mind was locked on Sam and what he was really doing here in Bangkok. Best she didn’t know, she thought. Tiredly, she walked up the steps to the pagoda-shaped museum, not even admiring the beautiful tilework before she went to the guard at the desk. She asked for Dr. Wan Gai, the curator.

The guard inspected her, making a face at her muddy boots, and Viva didn’t want to see herself in a mirror. She felt bad, so she knew she looked worse. The guard made a phone call and she waited. Nearby were beautiful silk brocade chairs for visitors, but she was too filthy to sit. She heard crisp footsteps, and knew the moment Dr. Wan Gai saw her.

His steps slowed. “Miss Fiori?”

She nodded, primped her hair, and knew it was a disaster.

“I am Dr. Wan Gai.” He held out his hand and she grasped it.

“Sawatdee khrap.” Hello. “You’re not what I expected,” she blurted, then mentally kicked herself. “A pleasure.” Wan Gai was tall for a Thai man and handsome, his features angular, his eyebrows like black wings over piercing black eyes.

“Salih Nagada told me to expect you, and he was very worried when you had not yet arrived.” His gaze moved down her body.

Her clothing was ruined, her boots so muddy she left trails. “I had a rough time. Salih was right, though. I really should have taken the plane.”

Dr. Wan Gai frowned, coming closer.

She stepped back, eyeing his tailored black suit. “I wouldn’t get too close. I’ve been in the river.”

Regardless, he swept his arm around her, guiding her toward his offices. “Come, we will see to your comfort, have you a hotel room?”

She laughed to herself. “I don’t even have luggage anymore.”

He snapped his fingers, delivering orders in a soft voice. Food, coffee, water, and towels for Miss Fiori to clean, and Viva felt as if she’d found sanctuary after a prison of trouble.

“You’ll want this.” She pulled off the bracelet and handed it to him. Job done, she thought.

“Thank you.” He didn’t look at it, guiding her still, and inside his offices, he pushed her onto a plush sofa. She popped back up.

“It will be ruined. Look at me.”

“It can be cleaned.” He tsked and pushed her down again, then drew a chair in front of her and sat. “Tell me of your trip that put you in the river.”

She gave him a vague story, leaving out Sam and Max’s names, or that they were American. Her last image of Sam, a second before she kissed him, sent a burst of hot memory through her body. I’ll miss his stubborn, overbearing self, she thought.

Wan Gai listened, pouring her a cup of rich black coffee, then withdrew a pair of glasses with small lenses attached to the outer rims and examined the bracelet.

“It got wet when I went into the river.”

“It is unharmed.” He glanced up, bug-eyed through the glasses. “Rebels?”

She shrugged. “I guess. They wanted it.” But then, they wanted her underwear in her suitcases too.

“You are to be commended for keeping this from them.” He stared intently down at the gold cuff, making pleased noises.

“Dr. Nagada thought those were royal Thai markings and from the big painting in the lobby, I’d have to agree. But isn’t that Cambodian?” She pointed to the first marks near the closure.

He stilled for a moment. “I will make certain, be assured.”

A servant entered the room bearing a tray of miang kum, and a bowl of steaming water and cloths to wash. She set it down on the table nearby, then left without a word. Dr. Wan Gai slipped the bracelet into a velvet bag, then into his pocket.

“Sit and rest yourself, my car will take you to the Regent.”

She opened her mouth to protest. The Four Seasons?

He smiled patiently. “Salih insisted, and I do as well. It is the least we can do for saving such a prize. Order whatever you need.” His gaze fell briefly to her clothing. “The museum will, of course, take care of the bill.”

He stood, and exited the room. Viva watched him go, bewildered. The hotel was two hundred US dollars a night. But she wasn’t going to balk. Her body and heart felt abused and all she really wanted was a bath and to sleep.

Viva washed her face and arms. Kneeling on the floor, she took a spinach leaf from the platter, pinched it to make a cup, then studied the samples, adding shredded dry coconut, red onion, diced lime, peanuts, dried shrimp, and a dollop of sweet sauce.

Behind his desk, a beautiful Chinese piece handcarved and embellished with gold leaf, was a TV. It was on a local station, and she found the remote and changed the channel to CNN. The reporter spoke in English, the Thai translation voicing over it. The camera panned the Kukule Ganga Dam, the destruction. My God. When did this happen? She focused on the dam, the people crawling over it like rock climbers. Viva moved closer to the screen, shoving a piece of miang into her mouth, then gasping at the spicy bite. Her gaze flicked over the camera shot, wishing they’d hold still, but the broadcast ended. She surfed the channels until she found it again, studying.

“That wasn’t a pressure crack,” she said to no one. She’d been working with the U.S. Geological Survey when that dam was constructed, mainly because there was a really hot-looking engineer on staff and she’d wanted him. He’d been a dud, in bed and out, reminding her looks weren’t everything, but she’d learned enough from him to know how and where pressure cracks would start.

The door opened and she turned, food halfway to her mouth.

“My car awaits.”

“Thank you so much, Dr. Wan Gai. Did you see this?” She gestured to the TV.

“The dam, yes, so tragic. All those innocent people.”

“When did it happen?”

He looked confused for a second.

“I’ve been on the dig for a couple months and the only news I had was a radio.” And her Thai translation skills weren’t that fast.

He smiled like a patient parent. “A few days ago. In the middle of the night, I believe.”

She nodded, frowning at the screen for another moment, then, after she washed her hands and sipped tea that was so sweet it’d give you diabetes, he led her out through the museum offices to the curb. Wan Gai’s assistant, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stood near the open car door.

The curator handed over a receipt for the bracelet for Dr. Nagada.

“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” She stuffed the receipt in her pocket before his assistant ushered her solicitously into his car.

Viva sat back in the leather seat, and let out a long, tired breath. Holy Grail delivered into safe hands, she thought. Now I can enjoy some me time in Bangkok before heading back to the dig. Her mind instantly went to Sam, and what he was really doing here that he needed British intelligence guys. Dangerous man stuff, she thought, and leaned toward the window, looking at the sky for the helicopter.

It was empty.

Tashfin Rohki sat in the luxurious room, feeding on grilled prawns and drinking strong Moroccan coffee. His favorite. It was placating. The generosity extended to the value of the stones and the people he represented. He procured weapons, handled finances and operations for the LTTE Tigers of Sri Lanka. A large portion of his organization’s money was riding on this deal. And he’d been late to this meeting, stalling for time to find enough stones to compensate for the one the Irishman had stolen. It was his largest, and alone worth millions. How the Irishman had slipped it from the sack still confused him. He died for it, Rohki thought as he remembered the flood.

He tossed down a shrimp tail, wincing at the gust of pain from his broken ribs, then cleaned his fingers as he rose and walked around the room. It was all familiar now—and tiresome.

“Mr. Rohki,” a voice said, and he turned sharply, his gaze shifting over the room, then centering on the speakers mounted near the ceiling. “Please be seated.”

Rohki frowned as he obeyed. Theatrics, he thought, then a large screen on the wall blinked on.

For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, then the silhouette of a shoulder told him there was someone in the shadows. “The stones are not as promised. You may leave, Mr. Rohki.”

Rohki scowled at the screen. “You have what you demanded.”

“You offered a large stone. One you failed to produce.”

Rohki frowned at the man’s concern. “It was lost in the flood.” He’d spent days since gathering more to compensate for the loss.

The figure in the darkness went rock still. “You tried to sell it.”

“They’re mine to do with as I see fit. What do you care? You have the fee? Go back on your deal now and my people will spread the word.”

A stretch of silence that was almost painful eased by. “You have met the requirements.”

“And?”

“While you like to believe you are an intrinsic part, you are not. You wanted to bargain, you have opened the door,” the man said succinctly. “Yours is not the only group that wants my product.”

“Then I want proof of this weapon.”

The man hesitated, then said, “In eight days”—the tone was ripe with arrogance—“the world will see its power. Now you may leave.”

“A million in diamonds and I’m supposed to walk out with nothing?”

“You do not have a choice.”

Rohki stiffened when he felt the cold barrel at the back of his neck. He turned slowly, his gaze rising from the Sig Sauer to the man holding it. Zidane. The man who’d brought him onto the jet. Bloodthirsty bastard.

Zidane flicked the gun and Rohki stood, wiped his mouth, and followed. Zidane stopped at the door and produced a hood, saying nothing. Rohki put it on. More theatrics, he thought. He heard the door open, and felt a push. He held rigid, testing the ground before him. He wouldn’t be so shocked if he were being pushed out a window several stories up now that they had the stones. A ride in an elevator, they handed him into a car, the sound of engines telling him there were more participants. No one spoke and he was tired of this secrecy. The promise of a weapon beyond all weapons had a potential he wanted, yet each additional buyer bidding on it risked failure.

Eight days was a long time to wait for power over his enemies.

Zidane perspired in his dark suit, the concrete sweating against the cooler stone of the underground parking garage. He stood back as the hooded man was pushed into the car. The car pulled away.

“He has departed,” he said into the mike poised at his cheek.

“Bring in the next.”

Zidane signaled for the car, a smooth dance to keep the Pharaoh’s identity secret. It had been ongoing for three days. The buyers were contacted via e-mail, then picked up at a remote location, hooded, then driven in the maze of Bangkok streets before coming here.

Only Zidane and two of his men knew each of the buyers by face. They were expendable, Zidane was not. The Pharaoh trusted few, and he did not take it lightly. The men, and sometimes women, who dealt with him were warned. Breaking his strict guidelines would have dire consequences.

Zidane exacted them. Clean up. He kept secrets, buried them deep.

Like Noor. His mind instantly filled with the dark, exotic beauty. Appearances were deceiving, he thought bitterly. While she was sleek and feminine, there was nothing womanly about her; no nurturing spirit, no need for anyone, except the Pharaoh. The man used her to his utmost advantage, knowing that she was nearly obsessed with pleasing him. A father figure, perhaps—Zidane did not know or care.

Zidane shook himself, his unspoken attraction for her disturbing. She was a strange creature and considered sex a weapon of manipulation, torture, to be used to her advantage. Or misused. She had no concept that men would be grateful to find pleasure with her. To Noor, it was punishment, degrading to them. In that, she lost and didn’t know it. A weakness she hated and punished herself.

Two men helped the buyer out of the car. The man adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and tried for dignity. Blinded by the hood, it was impossible. Zidane grasped his arm, ushering him into the lift. He knew who stood beside him, the tattoos across his knuckles a calling card. Law enforcement of the free world would like to see this man tortured for his crimes. Yet Zidane would keep this, another secret, and escorted the man into the suite, a controlled environment where the Pharaoh had every advantage.

Above stairs, he pushed the candidate into a chair. As instructed, the man felt for, then removed the large pouch from inside his coat, and set it on the table. Zidane opened it, spilling the contents into a velvet-covered platter. The uncut stones looked like misshapen ice cubes. Worth more than a million. The fee to enter the bidding. He picked up one, and with a jeweler’s loupe, inspected it, then he lifted his gaze to the cameras and nodded once.

Zidane took a position behind the buyer, removed the hood, then retreated into the shadows. He mulled over the thousands of secrets entrusted to him, the names and faces, the value of the stones. Should he betray the trust, he would die.

He almost wished Noor would do it.

Outside the museum, Dr. Wan Gai fingered the small gold cuff in his pocket, his gaze on the black car moving down Na Phrathat Road—and the woman inside it.

His personal assistant moved to his right, close but not crowding.

“See that she vanishes.”

Behind him, the man stiffened, the only sign he’d heard correctly.

“She will sleep for several hours.” He had seen to it, and the waking would not be pleasant. “Delegate, Choan. Let someone else take care of her.” Wan Gai spun and walked back into the museum, his heels clicking.

With the bracelet in his possession, his king would never know his crown was threatened.