Читать книгу Warrior Without Rules - Nancy Gideon - Страница 8

Alone figure moved down the hallway, slipping instinctively from shadow to shadow. He made no sound. It was late. Those in the old building slept contentedly, unaware of his passing. He might well have been a cloud drifting across the cool gleam of the moon.

He paused, glancing behind him. He would have to retrace his steps to make sure he hadn’t left a blood trail. Later. For the moment he had only one goal, one destination, and it consumed him.

The key turned smoothly in the lock, admitting him into the darkened room. The scent of furniture wax and fresh herbs almost disguised the overall impression of emptiness. No one was home. No one had been home for a long while.

He crossed the spacious living room without the benefit of light, heading with purpose toward the back of the large third floor apartment. He moved like smoke, like predawn fog, light, almost without substance, even as the toll of the past few months caught at him, threatening to drag him down. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. Not yet.

He turned on one small light. It illuminated the mirror over a pedestal sink and the ghastly reflection it held, of hard features garishly detailed with traces of black and olive green paint. And smears of crimson. He wasted no time reacquainting himself with that grim mask. His attention turned to his right hand and the hasty wrap he’d bound about it. Slowly, he undid the saturated cloth and let it drop into the basin where it rapidly discolored the delicate porcelain. He moved his fingers, allowing a grimace. He’d need stitches.

Moving more gingerly now, with obvious difficulty, he undressed, letting his stale and stained garments remain where they hit the marble tiles. He’d pick them up later. Right now only one thing interested him. He reached to turn the water on full blast. When steam started to billow behind the circling curtain, he stepped over the high lip of the claw footed tub and into the merciless spray. A sigh escaped him.

He stood for countless seconds, letting the heat and force of the water beat the tension and achiness of abuse from his body as it washed the remaining face paint and blood—some of it his, some of it not—down the drain. Finally, because he knew if he didn’t move, he’d be sleeping on his feet, he reached for the fine milled French soap and began to scrub away the layers of jungle soil and sweat. The pleasure was indescribable. At last, when he felt close to human again, he rinsed off in an icy sluice.

Even though he was physically ready to collapse on his wonderfully forgiving Egyptian cotton sheets, he wasn’t finished yet. He had calls to make, a report to write. Mental miles to go before he could sleep. And then he would sleep for days.

Standing naked in the kind glow of the bathroom light, he carefully attended his wounded hand. After the biting sting of antiseptic, he stuck on a couple of butterfly adhesives to hold the edges of the gash together, applied a sterile pad and mummified the damage with gauze. Tomorrow it would hurt as if the teeth of hell were chewing on it but he was philosophical about the pain. Better his palm than his throat. He dry swallowed several pain killers, purposefully not meeting the eyes in the mirror.

It had been a bad past few months. He’d almost forgotten the delights of becoming civilized once again. He pulled on his silk pajama bottoms, enjoying the feel of them against his skin after wearing the same rough, filthy fatigues until they obtained enough personality of their own to demand a seat next to him on the aircraft home. Home, where civilization and the finer things of life awaited him. Where he would decompress and forget the past weeks as if they never happened. No one really wanted the details anyway, just the results. His success rate was nearly untarnished. Which was why his phone wouldn’t remain silent for long. He’d soak up as many pampering luxuries as he could before the next call would send him who knows where, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant or remotely civilized. Terrorists were bloody inconvenient that way.

Switching off the light, he padded barefooted back toward his front room via the kitchen, hauling his weariness behind him like Jacob Marley’s chains. Scrooge that he was, he’d managed to miss Christmas again. One of the calls he had to make was to his mother, who knew better than to expect him but did, anyway. She wouldn’t complain. She’d tell him he could make it up to her. She already held more markers than a loan shark. But she wouldn’t complain. She knew why he did what he did. Sometimes that made her graciousness all the harder to bear.

Lights from the surrounding city created a soft pallet of colors upon his parquet floor. He loved the view at night, when mankind slept and the solid, unchanging history of the place seemed to come alive. Maybe he’d just sit awhile and soak up the peaceful ambiance. Maybe—

His gaze narrowed and flashed about the dark front room even as he deftly snagged a thin-bladed boning knife. Without breaking his stride, he continued toward the living room, his step light and now lethal, his body becoming a coil of deadly force.

“Tough night?”

Recognizing the voice from the shadows, Zachary Russell let the air rush from his lungs in a puff of relief. “Tough decade.” He set the knife on the counter. “You took a chance popping up unexpected. How did you know I’d be here?”

“I know people who know people.”

Zach advanced into the cavernous room. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out the figure of his friend, Jack Chaney, seated in the deepest shadows near the window. That Jack had been inside his rooms without him sensing it was a testimony to his exhaustion. Of course, he could count the number of men on one hand with skills of his friend’s caliber. He was one of them.

“Come all the way from the States for some of my coffee, did you?” Zach asked.

“If you were making some. Just black. None of that steamed milk or fancy flavored stuff, Russ.”

“You Yanks are so plebeian in your tastes,” he said, quirking his lip at Jack’s nickname.

“We’re just simple folks.”

Zach switched on the light in his huge gourmet kitchen. It was the reason he kept the massively overpriced rooms he so seldom saw. He replaced the knife in the block and set about brewing a fresh grind of beans. The routine gestures and familiar smells were a salve to his battered soul.

It was always good to see Jack. They’d been best mates since his early days in British Intelligence. Jack was a straight shooter in their knife-in-the-back, cloak and dagger world. He’d secretly cheered when he heard of his friend’s retirement. Not many of them actually got the chance to walk away from what they did, from what they were. Jack had a marvelous little wife back in the Midwest, a toughly independent lawyer he’d met while protecting her life, and together they were reforging a future that, frankly, Zach envied. Together, they’d started their own business, an elite bodyguard training center called Personal Protection Professionals. Jack had presented a card to him with a flourish and an open invitation. Any time he wanted to pick up some freelance work. Zach had the card tacked up on his board and smiled whenever he looked at it. Good for you, Jacky Boy.

As good as it was to see Jack Chaney, he didn’t think for a moment that it was a social call. Jack wouldn’t have come across an ocean just to say he’d been in the neighborhood and thought he’d drop by. And after the brutal toll his last mission had taken, he wasn’t sure he was up for whatever Jack had in mind.

He carried the cups into the living room, knowing he’d soon find out.

“Coffee. Black and simple.”

“There’s nothing simple about anything you do, Russ.”

Taking that as a compliment, he settled into one of the lavishly padded chairs he preferred over the strictly Old World continental theme he retained for the rest of his rooms. This was where he came to relax, where he came to sink down deep and rest for a long, healing while. But Jack was here this time to disturb that process.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Occupational hazard. Perhaps I could impose on you to do some needlework for me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’d do it meself but I’m vain about having the seams even. It’s a bugger to do left handed.”

Jack nodded. “Whose blood were you wearing when you came in?”

“No one you know or would want to know.”

“You look like twenty miles of extremely bad road.”

“Forty, and I feel every kilometer.”

“Ready to retire and start that restaurant?”

“Giving it serious thought.” He grimaced, shifting his cup to his uninjured hand. “So, to what do I owe this visit?”

Bless him, Chaney was always one to cut to the chase.

“Victor Castillo.”

Zach straightened, all vestiges of weariness erased by that bit of the past he preferred not to dwell upon. Victor Castillo was his one professional blemish.

Castillo. A man one didn’t mess with. A harsh, uncompromising figure in the global marketplace. Born in a small, poverty-ridden Mexican village, he’d parlayed street smarts into a personal dynasty worth millions in the States where they tended to ignore the gray areas of his business dealings. He’d repaid the debt by passing sensitive information to whatever agency would benefit…and would pay the most. He had no allegiance, no conscience, no scruples. And he’d collected a rogue’s gallery of enemies who wanted revenge in the nastiest ways possible.

“And how is Victor?” He worked to keep his voice neutral but Jack saw right through him. His expression was half empathy, half regret.

“He sent me to call in a favor.”

Instead of slumbering in his own bed, Zach spent the early-morning hours napping on an international flight. It was first class but it wasn’t Egyptian cotton.

Chicago O’Hare was the expected press of humanity. Weary travelers shuffled from one terminal to the next, jumping out of the way for the beeping transport carts and nervously listening to warnings not to leave bags unattended. To Zach, it could have been any international airport in any city in any country. He’d spent so much time in the majority of them, he felt he’d earned a VIP spot at the baggage carousel.

As he stood scowling at the new scuff in the leather of his always packed bag, a hand reached down to take the handle.

“I’ll get that for you, Mr. Russell.”

He straightened, allowing the young Hispanic man to hoist his suitcase and garment bag.

“My name is Tomas. If you’ll follow me, sir, transportation is waiting.”

If the young man hadn’t turned away so quickly, Zach would have been warned by his small smile.

The Chicago chill cut to the bone as he stepped outside the terminal. But there was no cushy limo waiting in the passenger pick up area to carry him in style to the Castillo estate on Lake Shore Drive.

A late-model sedan sat parked on the far side of the multiple traffic lanes. The trunk lifted expectantly in answer to Tomas’s signal. As his driver started across the road ahead of him, the deep throated roar of a high-performance engine distracted Zach. He dodged back for the safety of the sidewalk as a motorcycle cut between him and Tomas. The young man never looked back, flinging the luggage into the trunk before starting around toward the driver’s door. Only then did he grin, a brief flash of brilliant amusement, before ducking into the vehicle.

The rev of the bike’s motor drew Zach’s attention from his rapidly disappearing wardrobe. He hadn’t even gotten the plate number. Swallowing down the indignity of falling such easy prey to an airport scam, he glared at the leather-clad rider who stood balancing the big growling machine between the spraddle of long, long legs.

Unforgettably gorgeous long legs skinned in black, tapering down to silver-tipped boots with three-inch heels.

The dark full-face visor was pushed up. Bold blue eyes regarded him with a challenging fierceness.

Ten years ago she’d been a vivaciously pretty seventeen-year-old and already modeling for her mother’s athletic wear company. Now Antonia Castillo was heart-stopping. The recent picture in the dossier he’d studied on the plane was from the latest running shoe campaign, depicting Antonia crouching low as she exploded from starting blocks on a cinder track. Her body was an inspiration to would-be wearers of the shoes, long, lean, strong and bronze. The skimpy swatches of silk she wore left sleek legs bare and clung to her stupendous breasts. The photographer caught the essence of competition in her intensely focused expression. Thick dark hair was twisted back in a heavy braid revealing the bold angles of her face glorified in a sheen of healthy sweat. Those startling blue eyes against a deep skin tone gleamed with the spirit of personal challenge. Full, lusty lips peeled back from white teeth bared in a high-energy smile. Hell, it made him want to buy shoes.

And then he’d remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her. Stripped of power, bereft of pride.

That was the face that haunted his nights.

Promise me. Promise me you won’t say anything.

There was no trace of that vulnerable girl in the assessing gaze that swept over him now.

“You’re looking well, Russell.”

“A sight for sore eyes?”

Those dazzling eyes narrowed. Her tone chilled. “Once, perhaps.”

Still, that greedy detailing had already told him.

Things were going to get complicated.

“Your father sent you alone to pick me up?”

The chin guard on the helmet hoisted an arrogant notch. “I pick up whom I please these days.”

“To the delight of the tabloids, I might add.”

“You’ve been keeping track of me.” It was hard to tell by her voice if that notion annoyed or flattered her.

“You’re hard to miss. Safaris, mountain climbing, sky diving, bunji jumping, a true media darling. A poster child for daredevils.”

And she made fine posters. He didn’t have a lot of time to keep up with current events, let alone the social swirl, but Antonia Castillo was news. She wasn’t found on the society pages at glittering events but rather in the pits at a race track, hanging with bikers or fight promoters, tossing back brews with the boys. One would never guess there were shadows hidden behind that brilliant smile. A courageous woman or one with something desperate to prove? It didn’t matter. Both were dangerous and made him nervous because of their unpredictability.

“I take on each day as if it was my last, Russell. You disapprove?”

“It’s your life.”

“Yes, it is, and I live it as I choose.” She flung that at him like a challenge, but he wouldn’t take it. He didn’t dare.

“Good for you, Ms. Castillo,” was his cool, distancing reply.

He couldn’t see her face, just those expressive eyes. They blazed hotly. With passionate feeling. Those kind of emotions, whether anger or insult or something more, were the last things he meant to inspire in either of them. But they were there, simmering now as they had then, just below the surface. Dangerous and unpredictable.

He’d been naive to think this would be just another job.

“Your father’s waiting for me. Should I start walking?”

His dismissing prompt dashed the heat from her stare. Her reply was equal in its disinterest. “Climb on. Or take a cab if you’re afraid the ride might be too much for you.”

He snagged the spare helmet off the sissy bar and drawled, “I can handle anything with wheels or estrogen.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled. He could imagine her sassy smile. “Ummm. We’ll see.” She snapped down her visor and goosed the throttle impatiently.

Slipping on his sunglasses and the open fronted helmet, Zach swung a leg over the seat. Even as he touched the saddle, the bike lunged forward, forcing him to grab on or get thrown. With one hand clenched in the back of her jacket and the other working the helmet strap, Zach managed to find the foot pegs as Antonia Castillo slalomed between slower vehicles, leaning and weaving like a downhill racer.

He wasn’t dressed for a winter ride. His wool pea coat didn’t shed the cut of the wind the way her leathers did. His bare hands and face burned as they headed out into the open air of the freeway southbound toward the lakeshore. Behind dark glasses, his eyes watered and blurred. But even as he grimaced into the brunt of the elements, a part of him enjoyed the fierce whip of the February air and the freedom of flying down the road unencumbered by convictions. Antonia’s laughter filtered back to him as if she felt his exhilaration and mocked him because of it. With hands resting firm and wide spread atop the curve of her hips, Zach leaned back to appreciate the irony of the trip.

What was he doing here, on his way to meet with a man who’d tried to destroy him, with his hands enjoying the feel of a woman who, even when little more than a child, had turned him inside out?

His simple intentions were about to go straight to a chaotic hell.

Once they left the open highway for more sheltered suburban streets, neighborhoods went from large homes crowding the manicured boulevards to massive family compounds hidden behind high walls. He observed, not as a casual visitor, but as a potential protector, noting side streets, surveillance opportunities, and possible danger spots until they reached the Castillo’s residence.

The walls and iron gates were a newer addition, as were the video cameras. Nothing like being proven vulnerable to encourage an escalation in security. They idled outside the gates for less than eight seconds before the way parted, so obviously someone was on the job.

The house wasn’t visible from the street. A long drive made of brick and cobblestone wound through a thick stand of oaks and firs shielding the residence from view. Not a good scenario. It provided too many places for an undesirable to conceal himself. Zach liked wide open spaces. He liked to see an enemy coming.

And that’s how he felt as they took the final turn and he saw Victor Castillo, himself, standing on the front steps of his palatial kingdom.

The house was magnificent. Set on a bluff overlooking the slated waters of Lake Michigan, the sprawling three story stone and timber structure with its turrets, leaded glass and steeply pitched tiled roof reminded him of the estates that dotted the English North country. Though quaint in comparison to the true palaces of Europe, it made a statement of comfortable wealth and American arrogance. Much like its owner.

The last and only time he’d been here, he’d arrived in an unmarked panel truck with a cluster of other highly trained, highly motivated fellows. He went unnoticed, like the invisible working class meant to serve without intrusion. His job was to not garner individual attention from those in residence. This time, he’d been invited. So why was he wishing for that anonymity again?

He climbed off the back of the bike, moving cautiously until he was certain he had proper circulation in his legs. Antonia swung off and strode up and into the house without a word to him or her father. Why had she come to meet him herself if she was angry he was here? The number of questions piling up made him uneasy.

“Mr. Russell, you’re prompt.”

Unfastening the helmet straps with frozen fingers gave Zach an opportunity to observe his host. Castillo was a bit greyer at the temples, a bit thicker at the middle but he cut no less an impressive and inherently dangerous figure. He looked more like a drug lord thug than an international businessman. Or maybe that’s because Zach knew his history. Blunt workingman’s fingers tapped impatiently upon the weave of his Italian made slacks but Castillo was more than merely restless with the wait. Zach could sense his uncertainty and nervousness. Not much worried someone of Castillo’s stature, a man who had an entourage paid to fret over details for him. So that meant whatever reason he had for summoning someone for whom he had no respect was personal and threatening enough to want someone outside his organization. Why else would he be standing outside in the cold to greet the man he’d once tried to crush?

“I pride myself on punctuality. Shall we get to the point of your invitation?”

He saw it then, the intense dislike Castillo harbored for him. It passed briefly across his expression before he gestured to the front door.

Step into my parlor.

What was he up to?

The foyer of the Castillo estate was meant to impress with its massive scale. The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, revealing heavy beams and an impressive chandelier. The tiled floor, ornately carved woodwork and plastered walls all aspired to an Old World feel, but to Zach, who’d grown up steeped in that Old World tradition, the setting was like Castillo, an artificial facade of respectability imitating something it wasn’t.

What was impressive was the vista spread out before him. From the foyer, several steps led down into the living room and a wall of windows capped by fanciful stained glass designs. The breathtaking view of the lake was un-obstructed except for a sight even more amazing. The lithe, leather-clad figure of Antonia Castillo where she stood looking out upon that bleak winterscape. The four color photos hadn’t done her justice. As a connoisseur of fine things, he knew a masterpiece when he beheld one. And she was a work of art.

Her dark hair hung down in a heavy braid, leaving her chiseled profile unencumbered. Hers was a lush, savage beauty like the lake beyond, all strong facial angles, slanting cat’s eyes and those pillowy lips that pouted and provoked a man beyond reason. The leather glazed her long legs and fit her tight backside the way a man’s palms itched to. She’d taken off the jacket. Beneath it, she wore a snug white top with thin spaghetti straps. Atop her sleek, willowy build, the bold, gravity-defying fullness of her breasts within that thin stretch of cotton knit was another marvel to behold. When she turned toward him, her chin notched up and her shoulders back, thrusting out her chest with all the challenge of twin nuclear warheads. Fascinating yet deadly.

Of course, she meant for him to look. What man could help himself? So he did, staring at that awe-inspiring bounty with a cool detachment of someone in an art gallery.

“Antonia,” her father barked. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“I meant to, Father.”

At least she was honest in her intentions.

“Put on something decent.”

“Why?” she challenged with a higher tip of her chin. “Mr. Russell is hardly a guest. And it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

“Antonia!” Red-faced, Castillo turned to Zach. “I apologize for my daughter. She has no manners.”

Zach remained carefully stoic. It wasn’t his job to teach them to her.

Castillo glared at the defiant young woman. His tone was soft and furious. “Go make yourself presentable then join us in the study.”

Realizing she had taken her point as far as she dared, Antonia pivoted on those high, high heels and swiftly stalked from the room.

“She forgets herself,” came Castillo’s almost weary apology. “She’s had no one to control her since her mother died.”

Zach waited impassively. Castillo wasn’t interested in any comment he might make on his domestic situation. Finally, when the older man continued to gaze distractedly through the doorway his daughter had taken, Zach cleared his throat.

“Why am I here? Jack Chaney said you asked for me specifically. Why? I wasn’t aware you held any particular fondness for me or my talents.”

Castillo’s stare cut through him like a surgeon’s blade. “I don’t. But unfortunately, my daughter does. She’s the reason you’re here. She seems to think you’re the only one who can keep her alive.”