Читать книгу The Bodyguard Contract - Donna Young - Страница 10

“Damn it, MacAlister!” Lara sat up, pulled her hands out of the computer cuffs and tugged off her Virtual Imaging helmet. A cascade of red hair tumbled free. With fast, jerky movements, she disconnected the sensor wires from her training suit. An instant later, lights flashed on and the VI program shut down—leaving all four walls of the lab room an iridescent blue and the air silent. Anger whipped through her. “You sabotaged my operation, didn’t you?”

Ian removed his helmet, tossed it into the leather seat next to him. He ran a casual hand through his chestnut hair, now sweat darkened to a charred brown. Cropped military short, his hairstyle complemented the broad sweep of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and a nose that was a touch off center and, she suspected, had been broken more than once.

“Answer me, MacAlister,” she demanded. Born from a French mother and an Irish father, Lara had more than her fair share of temper. Most times, she kept a tight rein of control over it. Other times…

“I can’t. I’m dead, remember?”

“Funny,” she bit out the word. “Did you or did you not sabotage my operation?”

“Now why would I do that?” His mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m the one who developed the program.”

No one would call Ian MacAlister handsome in a pretty boy sense. But with the strong, striking features of his Celtic ancestors and his laser-blue eyes, no woman could walk past him without a second glance.

“Who better to change it?” she snapped, finding her own eyes lingering, her heartbeat accelerating. Annoyed, she shoved her hair behind her ear and slid from the leather seat.

“All the programs have failure sequences in them,” he responded with equanimity. He disconnected his suit and stood in one long, fluid movement—a jungle cat satisfied after a night on the prowl. “No mission goes smoothly.”

“Usually, it’s a random process,” she argued, cursing herself for letting her guard down. “This time you decided what was going to happen and when. That’s why you made the bet with me. Isn’t it?”

“You decided the challenge, not me. Besides, I didn’t need to reprogram anything to win. The fact that you went in by yourself told me you hadn’t thought the mission through.” He slid the zipper on his training suit down to his waist. He wore no shirt. Lara’s gaze flickered over him, settling on the ripple of movement across his chest as he jerked his arms free. He left the top portion of the suit dangling off his hips.

Her eyes dipped, following each carved muscle that flexed with power under his sun-bronzed skin—remembering from months before how the bare skin gave way to a small, sexy line of sable hair just below his navel. Too damn sexy for her own good, she understood now. Still, the heat danced through her, lighting little fires along her nerves.

His gaze caught hers, and in an instant the planes of his face sharpened, his jaw tightened with awareness.

With effort, she drew one deep steadying breath.

Then just that quick Ian’s features smoothed, the passion sliding under a relaxed, easy smile—an undeniable arrogance.

He turned to retrieve a white towel from the console beside his chair and Lara let out a long hiss.

Ian glanced over his shoulder in understanding. “How’s the damage?”

Welts, raised and vivid, striped his back. “Not too bad for a tough guy like you.” Lara waved a careless hand, not pleased with the chaotic emotions that squeezed her chest like an accordion.

“You had the sensors set too high.”

“I wanted the pain to be realistic,” she stated. “We both know the results are only superficial. Harmless.”

For the first time she noticed the burning across her abdomen. After placing her helmet on a nearby console, Lara unzipped her suit and stepped out of it, revealing her white sport bra and fitted racing briefs that rode low on her hips. Above her waistband were dozens of welts, the intensity already fading into dull red splotches. Lara resisted the urge to soothe the sting and her stomach beneath.

“You’ve only yourself to blame if you’re sore, Ian.” Lara’s gaze cut back. “You should have left me to take care of the bad guys. I was dead anyway.”

“I don’t leave anyone behind.”

“That’s right, I forgot,” Lara said, knowing that Ian had resigned his naval commission only months before contracting his talents to Labyrinth. “It’s the Navy SEAL way. So is integrity. Honor.” She inclined her head, letting him see that she remembered the day he’d held no such honor. “Huah.” Her blatant sarcasm couldn’t be missed when she uttered the Navy SEALs’ signature expression.

“It’s my way,” he answered, this time all traces of humor gone.

“Just stay out of my way,” Lara insisted, noting his deepened displeasure and not caring. Caring would show that he meant something to her. Had the means to hurt her again.

The fury was there, rigid but contained. She tossed her suit over the back of the chair and started toward the double steel doors. “And stay out of my training sessions. I don’t need a partner. And if I did, it wouldn’t be you.”

Ian’s frown deepened, his eyes slanted into blue slits—sharp enough to slice the air between them. “Wanna bet?”

Slowly, she swung around, her own eyes narrowing. And because her temper broke free, she snarled. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Face it, Red, just the fact that right now I’m sharing the same air pretty much puts you into tilt.” He rubbed the towel over his face, now seemingly indifferent to her fury.

“I’m done with the games, Ian.” She didn’t argue with his first statement. The truth was the truth.

“So am I.” Cain MacAlister, the new director of Labyrinth and Ian’s older brother, stepped into the blue room. His gaze slid to Lara. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“I have time,” Lara answered. Both brothers moved with predatory ease, but whether it was because of their warrior heritage or occupations, Lara couldn’t be sure—the ability seemed so innate. Where Ian was muscle and meat, Cain was leaner, almost lanky, with pitch-black hair, smoky gray eyes and features sharp enough to be called aristocratic.

Still their jawlines were the same, Lara noted.

And Lord knew, so was the slant of their frowns.

Cain glanced from Lara to Ian. “Are you two done playing?”

“We’re done all right,” Lara answered easily.

But Ian saw the proud line of her jaw lift. Lara didn’t like Cain’s question, but Ian knew she wouldn’t address the issue with Cain in Ian’s presence. Too bad, he decided, because he would have really liked to see her take on his brother.

“For now,” Ian commented, while his gaze remained on Lara, unblinking. He rested a hip on the nearby console. “It was Lara’s doing,” he said, deliberately taunting the Irish in her. “The woman can’t leave me alone,” he added, pleased when temper whipped color into the delicate line of her cheeks and her eyes sharpened into jaded glass. And a little disappointed, he mused, when stubbornness had her biting back words that threatened to get past the generous curve of her mouth.

“Ian.” Those same lips thinned over her teeth into a vicious smile. “Drop dead.”

She slapped her hand against the door panel, then paused long enough to wait for the door to slide open.

“Lara,” Cain called. “Stop by Kate’s office. She has a few…devices…that might come in handy for your meeting.”

Kate D’Amato was Ian’s younger sister and the head of Labyrinth’s technology division. “I will.” With one nod, Lara left.

Cain shook his head after the door slid shut. “A little early in the morning for a taste of sadomasochism, isn’t it?”

Ian sheathed the razor-sharp need that swiped at his gut. Some would describe Lara as slender, willowy—the more romantic, maybe—with long, tangled curls of fire-red hair and eyes the color of the Emerald City itself.

But Lara was far from romantic. Her body, kept lean and strong from a stringent physical regime, was no more than another weapon to use when necessary.

“Beats a strong cup of coffee,” Ian growled, and because it was only his brother, letting his frustration show. “God save me from stubborn women. She deliberately set herself up to fail. It’s as if she has to keep proving to herself she’s competent. You and I both know she’s one of the best operatives here.”

“Funny thing is, we both might know it, but you continually come to her rescue.” Cain folded his arms. The sleek, tailored lines of his navy-blue suit emphasized the air of authority.

Something, Ian thought perversely, Cain was very much aware of and used to his advantage. “Up to today, I’ve done a damn good job avoiding her. Then I get your message ordering me here at 0600 hours.”

“You work for me. I can do that,” Cain reminded Ian.

“Still, you don’t have to get so much pleasure from it.”

“True,” Cain agreed before his tone grew serious. “Ian, if you need to talk, I’m all ears. Remember what I went through with Celeste?”

Ian smiled at the mention of his new sister-in-law, Celeste Pavenic-MacAlister. A tiny bit of a woman, she was the best damn profiler Labyrinth had.

A few months back she’d led Cain on a merry chase. She’d changed her identity and went into hiding to stop the President’s assassination. “You’re in love with Celeste. Big difference.”

Cain being in love was still a new concept for Ian. While Cain was the cool, collected one, their sister, Kate, was logical to a fault. As the middle sibling, Ian was the emotional one—quick to laugh, quicker to temper.

A challenging balance of personalities, their mother always said. But one that seemed to work. Because of this, Cain had been Ian’s sounding board since they were children. But for some reason, his problem with Lara was too intimate to even share with his brother. “I can handle it.” To take the bite out of his answer, Ian added, “But I appreciate the concern…and the offer. Enough to take a rain check.”

“You won’t have time for a rain check, not for the next few days anyway. You’re going on assignment. I need you to keep track of an operative.”

“Anyone I know?” Ian asked before rubbing the towel over his head. Hell, tracking had long been Ian’s specialty, so the request didn’t surprise him. It would do him good, too, to take his mind off—

“Lara.”

Ian stopped midstroke, his eyes hardened. “No.”

“It’s not a suggestion, Ian, it’s an order. You’re under contract. Remember?”

“Only for a few more months.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that watching Lara’s back should only take the rest of today,” Cain drawled.

“Is she in danger?”

“No,” Cain answered, but the word rang with caution. “Not at the moment. But my little voice is working overtime on the possibility.”

Over the years, Cain, like Kate and Ian, had learned to accept the inner warnings, to trust them. A gift from their ancestors, their father said, passed down through strong Scots blood.

“So in other words, you need a babysitter.” Ian used the agency’s slang for bodyguard with derision. “I’ve been there, done that. No thank you.” He turned his back on Cain, using the few seconds of reprieve to push back a wave of concern. “Have Quamar do it. She likes him. And it’s just the right type of mission to get him back in the groove again.” An ex-Mossad agent, Quamar Bazan was one of the few Labyrinth operatives the MacAlister brothers would trust protecting their loved ones.

“Quamar might have his eyesight back, but he hasn’t been cleared by the doctors for duty.” A few months prior, their friend had taken a gunshot to the head while protecting the President’s mother. It was a miracle he had survived. “You’re the only one I can send at this point.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to ask me that after what I just saw?” Cain glanced at the Virtual Imaging equipment.

“What you just saw was none of your business,” Ian bit out. “Pull her from the mission or assign someone else.”

“She’s neck deep in it. Pulling her now would blow months of work.”

Lara had joined Labyrinth three years prior. Ever since, she’d been neck deep in one situation or another. “Lara’s at the top of her game when the pressure’s on.”

“But this time I’m not confident her mind is in the game.”

“We are talking about Lara Mercer? All business, no personality?” The words tumbled out like dry, bitter leaves. Ian rubbed his face with both hands, ignoring the whiskers that scraped his palm. God, he was tired. Of the espionage, the endless chasing after bad guys—dealing with his feelings for Lara. “Forget I said that.”

“Ian, you’re the logical choice.”

“Trust me, Cain, there’s nothing logical about Lara and I. You don’t want to send me.” Ian reached for his gym bag to snag a cigarette, then swore. He’d quit months before, but the craving still gnawed at him.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

Ian stared at his brother for a moment. It wasn’t in Cain’s nature to jump into decisions. If anything, he was too cautious. Most times, Cain made sure he’d always had a backup plan on any mission.

Obviously, Ian was that backup plan. “All right, boss,” he said, resigned. “Fill me in.”

Cain walked over to a nearby computer console and hit a few buttons. “Later today, Lara’s meeting with this man.”

A picture flashed against the back wall. A priest, posed in a professional portrait. An older man with strands of hair smoothed over a slightly shiny head. A hint of a smile added mischief to an otherwise plain face. “Father Xavier Varvarinski. Retired. St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church, Las Vegas.”

“I’m listening,” Ian growled. Only Lara could be at risk dealing with a priest.

“Father Xavier,” Cain repeated, “is Russian intelligence. A double agent for Labyrinth operations. Been in the business longer than you and I put together,” he explained. “As a priest, he’s had access to most of the Russian terrorist leaders and Russian Mafia members.” His gaze shifted to Ian. “I’ve never dealt with him directly, but he’s good. Very good.”

Ian studied the picture, noted the worn creases, the laugh lines. Evidence the priest spent most of his time enjoying life. But the weariness that dulled the blue of the man’s eyes caused a jab of trepidation deep in Ian’s belly. “When was this picture taken?”

“Six months ago.”

A lot can happen in six months. “Is he a real priest?” Ian wondered aloud. They’d all used different aliases at one time or another. Impersonating a priest was no different than pretending to be a cop, or a doctor.

“Yes. Served in Vietnam in his early thirties. Studied for the priesthood after his discharge. Seems he got his calling somewhere in the midst of that mess.”

“Interesting way to combine two careers,” Ian commented, then hung his towel loosely around the back of his neck. Only his white-knuckle grip on each end gave away his edginess. “I assume this priest has information regarding the biochemical.”

“Actually, it’s in his possession….” Cain paused. “It being Substance 39.”

Ian let out a slow whistle. “So the rumors are true then. We have a new biochemical warfare weapon to worry about.”

“While the Russians have tagged it with their usual substance number, on the streets it’s called Katts Smeart. The English translation…Silent Death.”

Cain moved on to the next slide. This time it was a newspaper photo of a man behind a podium—average height, slight in build, with properly trimmed brown hair, peppered with gray. His style was just short of slick. Not too Hollywood. But close.

“Katts Smeart is a synthetically enhanced poison allegedly financed and created by this man, Mikhail Davidenko, leader of the Russian terrorist sect—The Maxim. A fact the Russian government has conveniently overlooked. And the Russian Mafia has embraced.”

“Davidenko.” Ian recalled the name, acknowledging the punch of caution that jarred his spine. “Involved mostly with gambling, drug and human trafficking, arms and nuclear material dealings—even the sale of body organs. I’m not surprised about the biochemical warfare. Only that it took him so long.”

The next picture appeared on the wall—an aerial view of Davidenko on his yacht, entertaining. “Bottom line with Davidenko is profit. Biochemical manufacturing is big business these days,” Cain said.

Ian noted a few politicians, European and American—all dressed designer casual and surrounded by topless, thong-clad beauties. “Amazing what dirty money can buy.”

Cain grunted in agreement.

Ian considered the photograph again. “And Lara?”

“She’s been tracking Davidenko, gathering information through Father Xavier. We’ve always suspected Davidenko’s involvement in illegal activities within our borders. But never had proof.”

“The Maxim has a pretty long reach.” Lara’s involvement didn’t surprise him. The woman could find trouble going to the Laundromat. “How in the hell did the priest get a hold of the poison in the first place?”

Cain flashed another picture. This one was a woman. A brunette with classical features that complemented her upswept hair, wearing a strapless, black Versace gown.

In this photo, Davidenko stood to her right whispering in her ear. The curve of her mouth showed her amusement, but it was the softness in the deep brown eyes that confirmed much more.

“She’s amused, but not in love,” Ian murmured, his opinion instinctive.

“Her name is Sophia Franco,” Cain continued. But the slight raise of his brow acknowledged Ian’s comment.

“The actress?” Ian remembered Sophia Franco. Late thirties. Never headlined. Her forte was horror movies. Got a lot of press over her blood-chilling screams.

“Davidenko’s mistress,” Cain stated. “A few months back, Father Xavier managed an introduction. She’s a Roman Catholic and has become quite attached to the old man.”

“Are you saying Sophia Franco managed to get the poison to the priest?”

“It fits,” Cain responded. “We have proof that Father Xavier controls her. It’s no secret Russian terrorism is a small step from the Russian Mafia.”

“So, Sophia Franco turns in the Katts Smeart hoping to save lives and her soul? Hell of a penance.” Ian frowned. “Where is she?”

“Dead, we suspect. But I haven’t been able to confirm it yet,” Cain said, then paused. “Lara’s the courier for the Katts Smeart. She’s headed for Las Vegas where Father Xavier is supposed to pass it to her later today.”

“So Lara gets the weapon, brings it in,” Ian said, relaxing somewhat. “One-two punch. She could handle this in her sleep. If you send me in to cover her and she finds out—it won’t be pretty.”

“Pretty is the least of my worries. After this assignment, I’m forcing Lara to take a leave of absence. For her benefit.” Another pause, this time longer. “And yours.”

“Mine? How in the hell do you figure that?” He followed Cain’s gaze to the VI equipment. “You’re not getting rid of her because the two of us can’t get along, are you? Because if that’s the case, I’ll step down. Lara’s hated my guts ever since the President fiasco two months ago.” And rightly so, Ian silently acknowledged. “If she loses her career because of me, you’re signing my death warrant.”

“A few days ago, I would’ve agreed with you,” Cain reasoned. “But now, circumstances have changed. If her mission goes wrong and you have to intervene…” Cain rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, let’s just say I’m betting she’ll accept your help. Past or no past.”

“And why is that?”

“Because whether I like it or not, in the last twenty-four hours this mission became personal,” Cain responded, the hard edge back in his tone. “Lara fainted during a workout here at the center. I ordered her to get a physical. At the time, our doctors suspected anemia and took some blood samples.”

“And?” Ian stiffened, not bothering to cover the thread of concern. To his knowledge, Lara had never been sick a day in her life. “Was it?”

“No,” Cain admitted slowly, studying his brother. “She’s two months pregnant.”