Читать книгу Extreme Danger - Shannon McKenna - Страница 11

Nick had noticed this phenomenon before. Momentous events that had been dreaded for years and had taken on colossal importance in his head—when they finally arrived, he found himself cool to them. As if he were watching an old movie that did not particularly interest or engage him. His father’s death had been like that. A series of details to attend to, a long look at the body in the coffin. The sharp-boned face so like his own, but wasted, sunken. Etched with the lines of sour disappointment that he’d worn ever since Nick’s mother had died.

The look he had then turned upon his son.

Nick had looked inside himself, searching for some emotion he could put a name to. He’d found nothing.

So it was with the arrival of Vadim Zhoglo.

The boat appeared with no warning. It was chance that he’d been monitoring the camera that watched the cove at 10:42 A.M. He’d had just enough time to scramble into some decent clothes, yank his hair back, splash his face. Then the superficial adrenaline rush had drained out of him, and he’d settled into this weird, sedated calm.

Too calm. Any man greeting Zhoglo who knew what he was capable of would be justified in losing his shit. Arkady Solokov, professional arms broker and general scumbag, should be terrified of fucking up in front of the Great Vor, and excited about advancing his criminal career.

Nothing twitched inside him as the man got out of the boat. He would have been able to pick Zhoglo out of his group of minions, even if he hadn’t seen the overly pixel’d long-distance photographs which were all that the combined police agencies on the planet had managed to glean.

The word for Zhoglo was blunt. Fingers like sausages, the heavy paunch of a gourmand. His silvering hair was buzzed short. His face was jowled, with heavy, pendulous lips. His iron-gray eyes were deepset in purplish, puffy bags. He exuded concentrated menace.

Nick studied him, figuring that his calm came from having nothing to lose. No wife, no kids. No unfinished business, other than finding Sveti. And avenging Sergei.

Sergei had still been alive when Nick had found him. Spread-eagled to the hotel bed, mouth duct-taped shut. Slit open, his guts pulled out and heaped onto his chest. Conscious.

Whoa. He usually managed to block that memory from slicing into him unawares. He averted his eyes as the men filed past. The only one he knew personally was Pavel. The man looked like shit, grayish and thin. He’d aged ten years since Nick had seen him.

Zhoglo went by. He didn’t appear to see Nick at all.

He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and fell into step behind the last man, an obedient dog who knew his place.

“Welcome, Vor,” he said, in Ukrainian. “I hope the voyage went well—”

“Shut up, cretin,” barked the last man in the line, a big, hulking blond. “You’re not here to make noise.”

Nick shut up and followed them up the walkway. The buzzer at his belt vibrated.

His stomach tightened with a chill premonition.

It could be an animal, blundering past one of the sensors. The men were ahead of him, spread out widely, almost to the house.

“The Vor’s hungry,” the last guy said over his shoulder. “Prepare a meal for him. And don’t fuck it up. Bad food makes him irritable.”

Nick froze for a second, letting the distance between them lengthen. Prepare a meal? Him? Pavel hadn’t said anything about cooking.

“What does he want to eat?” he asked.

The blond guy shot a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. “Ask him, asshole,” he said. “Your problem, not mine.”

What did he have in the kitchen, anyhow? His appetite was for shit these days. He choked down the occasional frozen dinner when the feeling of emptiness inside him became physically debilitating. He couldn’t cook worth a damn. He could barely use the microwave.

Maybe this was it. The stupid detail that would get his throat slit.

There was a chorus of rough, barking exclamations. Several guns jerked up simultaneously. Clickity-click, rounds were chambered.

“Who the fuck is she?” one of the guys snarled.

She? Oh, fuck. No, no, no. His artificial calm evaporated in an instant. He lunged through the clot of men to see…

Yes. Becca. Fuck.

Clothed this time, but she might as well have been naked, for all the diaphanous blue peasant blouse and the skintight jeans revealed.

Dead silence. The men stared at her, hungry-eyed.

She looked even prettier than last night. Her hair, dried, was a mass of brown curls. The color of the blouse made her skin look luminous. Her full, gleaming pink lips trembled. Unlike last night, she had good reason to be scared now.

Transfixed with dismay, he didn’t track the movement of the guy next to him before a hard clout to his face with the man’s pistol knocked him back. “What the fuck is she doing here?” the guy hissed.

Zhoglo turned to Nick, a smile curving his mouth. “Nice touch,” he said. “I appreciate initiative in an employee. A welcome gift? How kind.”

The bottom fell out of his gut, and tumbled down, down. He scrolled through the possible responses he could make, calculating how quickly—or, worse, how slowly, they would get her killed.

He swabbed the blood streaming out of his nose with his hand.

“Ah, actually…no,” he forced out, voice froggy.

Zhoglo’s smile froze. “No?”

Nick swallowed. Hot blood trickled down his throat. “She’s the, ah, cook.”

Becca stared at the guns. Feeling faint, she stared at the blood streaming from Mr. Big’s nose.

One of the men stepped forward. A short, fat man, in expensive clothes. He spoke, his voice low and cultured, in a language she didn’t know. Mr. Big replied in the same tongue. The fat man’s smile disappeared. He had not liked the response.

The temperature dropped. So did her stomach.

These were people from another world, a world she did not want to visit. Oh, was this ever a mistake, and oh, was she sorry. Forget keys, glasses, pride, self-esteem. All she wanted was to curl up on her couch, pig out on Oreos and watch Jane Austen movies on DVD.

Her eyes focused on Mr. Big. He looked unconcerned by the blood coursing down his chin, but he stared at her with a burning intensity.

She didn’t dare look away from him, with those guns pointing at her, those men staring at her body. He was her only point of reference.

It had taken her that whole night to work up the nerve to come back, and the whole morning to get ready. She hadn’t had much to choose from, just what she found in Marla’s closet, and the cosmetics rattling around in her purse. Her houndstooth power suit and stale white silk blouse and heels weren’t an option. Marla’s clothes were snug, though, and Becca hadn’t wanted to seem like she was looking for masculine attention. The jeans were tight, and she had to cover up the chubby bit of belly that hung over the waistband with something loose. The blue peasant blouse was the only thing that fit the bill. The low-cut neck was sort of provocative, but she figured he had seen everything she had last night anyway, so what the hell.

These men stared at her. As if she were stark naked all over again.

The fat man stepped closer to her. She shrank back, opened her mouth to say, excuse me, gentlemen, but I see that this is a very bad time, sorry to have intruded, now I’ll just disappear, OK? Bye!

Her mouth worked. A papery squeak came out. Not a word, or even part of one.

The fat man approaching her did not carry a gun. He was shorter, heavier and older than all the rest of them, but when his light gray eyes fixed on her, she shrank away. His lips curved into a nasty smile.

She stared back, a fuzzy little animal hypnotized by a snake.

His eyes were strange. Opaque, like tinted windows on a car. He laid his damp, heavy hand on her shoulder. Ran it up underneath her hair, and gripped the back of her neck. His long nails cut into her skin.

Goose bumps popped out over her body. He said something incomprehensible, in a questioning tone. Tilted up her chin. She felt horribly vulnerable, with her throat exposed, as if he were going to bite her. She sucked in air, tried to speak. Tried again. “I’m, ah, sorry?”

“You are American?”

Uh, what else? She nodded as best she could with her neck hyper-extended.

Mr. Big spoke up, from the back of the room. “I was just telling him how I hired you to cook for him.”

Her eyes flicked toward his. Mr. Big’s face was expressionless, but she caught the urgent flash in his eyes. She tried to nod again. “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “Cook. Yes. Of course. I’m a very good cook.”

“Really?” the fat man purred, petting the bump of her larynx with his forefinger, then pressing it. He settled his finger over her fluttering pulse point. “What is your name, my dear?”

“B-becca,” she stammered.

“Becca,” he repeated. “And what, exactly, do you cook?”

Her throat hurt under the pressure of his finger. She barely heard her own voice, her ears roared so loudly. Booming echoes, black spots dancing, she was going to yark, or faint—

“Crepes a l’orange,” she said, seizing at random on the recipe at the top of her head. Her brunch favorite when she wasn’t counting calories. “Or if you’d prefer savory instead of sweet, a soufflé laced with a creamy blend of f-four Italian cheeses. Accompanied by sourdough loaf, grilled ham, and a refreshing cocktail of fruit nectar and prosecco.”

The silver-haired man’s eyebrows twitched up in surprise.

“Mouthwatering,” he said. “I will sample both.”

“If you w-wish,” she quavered. “No problem at all.”

“But look at you.” He spun her around until she faced him, ran his finger along the loose neckline of the blouse. “Explain this. To me, this shirt, this hair, these breasts, so beautifully displayed…” His fingers closed around one of them, squeezing until she gasped. “You are not dressed to cook. I think that you are here…to fuck.”

“We didn’t know you were coming this morning,” Mr. Big broke in. “She didn’t know that—”

“Shut up.” The man’s hands tightened on her breasts. “I am tired of listening to you bark like a dog. What is your name, dog?”

Mr. Big’s eyes looked like a caged predator’s. “Solokov.”

“If you speak again out of turn, Solokov, I will have you clubbed unconscious,” Silver Hair said. His breath was hot against Becca’s neck, scented with licorice. She shrank from the smell as if it were poison gas. Felt the nasty lump of his erection pressing her bottom.

Her gorge rose. She’d never been so afraid.

“So. If you did not bring her here for my enjoyment, Solokov, I can only conclude that you brought her here for your own,” the fat man said. “That was selfish.” The last word was like a snake’s hiss. He nuzzled her throat again. “Pretty,” he went on, his fingers drifting lower, between her breasts, over her belly. “Very pretty.”

Becca shook. The man’s hand moved slowly, every eye following its path. It clamped over her crotch. Her eyes locked onto Mr. Big’s.

Don’t scream.

She understood his unspoken command. Screaming would escalate the situation. But she had to do something to stop this downward slide into the pits of hell.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Her voice came out of her, almost brisk.

The fat man looked annoyed. “Excuse me?”

She flapped her jaw for a few seconds, failing to remember what Mr. Big had called himself right away. “I’m sorry you don’t approve of my outfit. I will be happy to put on something more appropriate as soon as possible. Solokov brought me here to cook for you. May I get to it?”

The horrible pressure of his finger against her crotch eased. She almost wilted to the ground in relief.

“Cook, then,” he said. “I am tired of the swill from the boat.”

She scurried across the boardwalk, and made for Mr. Big as if he were a lodestone. She grabbed his sinewy arm, nails digging deep.

She forced false assertiveness into her voice. “I need help, if you want me to do both crepes and a soufflé,” she informed the fat guy. “It’ll cut my prep time in half. If you’re hungry.”

The man let out a dry chuckle. “Go with her, by all means,” he said to Mr. Big. “We will discuss the disposition of your fascinating, succulent little cook after I have been mellowed by brunch.”

She bolted for the house, dragging Mr. Big along behind her.

Nick reeled in her wake, towed along by Becca’s fingernails, which were sunk into the meat of his forearms. As soon as they were into the foyer, she whirled on him, winding up to demand explanations that he didn’t dare give.

He clapped his bloody hand over her mouth, and dragged her along in his turn, down the corridor towards the kitchen.

She tried to tug his hand away, mumbling and squeaking. He shoved her against the wall, bumping air out of her lungs. Just to give him a second’s advantage before she started jabbering again.

He leaned forward, trapping her with his body weight.

“Listen to me, and listen good,” he hissed into her ear. “You are in deep shit. If you want to live through this, shut up and do exactly what I say, and I mean exactly. If you don’t, you’ll die. Soon. And badly.”

She started to shake. Damn. He was overdoing it. He didn’t want her to panic and fall apart on him.

“There are cameras and mikes everywhere in this fucking place, he went on. “This is the story. I hired you to cook for that guy. I offered you two thousand bucks for the weekend. You don’t know me. You don’t know who he is, and you don’t care. I haven’t told you any details, and you’re not interested in them. You’re just here to cook. I’m going to lean back. Nod and smile if we understand each other.”

He stepped back, slowly lifted his hand.

Her face was daubed with his blood, her eyes glittering with tears. She dragged a jerky breath of air into her lungs, and nodded.

Smile, he mouthed.

She tried, lips quivering, tugging at the corners. She couldn’t quite make it, but it was good enough for him. She tried to speak.

He covered her mouth again. Leaned in close. “Whisper.”

“Can’t I just run away?” she squeaked. “I’ll never say anything. I never saw anyone. I’ll just disappear. I promise.”

He considered it. Yeah, maybe she could. And then they would rip his guts out for the security breach, like they’d done to Sergei. “Do you have your own boat?”

She shook her head. “I have to call the taxicat at Shepherd’s Bay.”

It would take the catamaran a minimum of forty minutes to get to Frakes Island from Shepherd’s Bay, assuming it had no other jobs lined up. More like an hour, realistically. He couldn’t cover her for that long.

He shook his head. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Won’t work.”

She reached out, and gently prodded his sore nose. “Are you going to be OK?” she whispered. “Is it broken?”

He was taken aback. “No,” he said, almost flustered. “No big deal.”

“It looks terrible,” she said. “All that blood. He hit you so hard.”

God, she was innocent. He’d taken worse from his dad for letting the coffee boil over. “Nah. Guy hits like a girl.” He shoved her ahead of him, herding her into the huge kitchen. “Well?” he said. “Cook, then. Impress me.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “First, wash off that blood,” she said. “It’s unhygienic, and unappetizing. Are you still leaking?”

He dabbed at his nose gingerly as he turned on the faucet, and glugged dish soap into his hand. “It’s stopped,” he said, leaning to splash and rub, splattering pink drops all over the sink. Becca joined him, scrubbing at her own blood-smeared hands and face.

“Sorry I got blood on you,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about it, though. I’m HIV negative, last I checked. Which was recently.”

He turned away before she could snag him in those big green eyes. He grasped a roll of paper towels, ripped off a wad to sponge off.

“Me, too,” she whispered.

He jerked his head around. “Huh? You’re what?”

Her face was hot red. “HIV negative. Just so you, um, know. Guess we should have had this conversation last night, but we didn’t.”

His hand tingled with sense memory, the slick heat of her pussy tight around his finger as she came. His hands clenched.

Great. Now he could walk this tightrope over the flames of hell with a hard-on, too. Just to make things a little more interesting.

“That’s great news, baby,” he growled. “Can we get to work?”

She scooped her hair back, twisted into a rope, and knotted it at the nape of her neck in a loose bun. Swirly brown bits came loose, swinging under her chin.

He dragged his eyes away. “What did you say you’d cook?”

“Soufflé, and crepes a l’orange,” she said. “I need eggs. Milk. A lot of butter. A pinch of flour, for the bechamel. Some grated nutmeg, and an assortment of good cheeses. Peccorino, parmesan, asiago, gruyère, anything flavorful. Fresh fruit to purée, prosecco to mix with it, ham to grill, and some bread, to complete the menu I proposed. For the crepes, more eggs, more flour, more butter, some sugar, orange-flower water, kirsch, Cointreau and a dash of cognac. And coffee, of course.”

Nick stared at her. “You really can cook.”

“I can do a lot of things, Mr. Big,” she said acidly. “Face down killers and whip up a tasty brunch? No problem. I do it all the time. So, what don’t you have? I can fudge some ingredients…but only some.”

Mr. Big? Right. He had never told her his name. “Ah…” He shrugged, lamely. “I’m not sure.”

She flung the fridge open. The inventory didn’t take long.

Eggs he had, because they were the type of food that he could prepare. Even scorched, they were edible. And when he was in one of his moods, he just cracked one over his open mouth and gulped down the cold, mucusy glob like a protein pill. He figured it would be a funny joke if he croaked from salmonella poisoning one day.

Butter he had, because toast was another one of those foolproof food items. Milk he had, being as how cold cereal was a third quick-n-dirty survival edible. A few more odds and ends…and that was it.

Becca made a disgusted noise, and flung open cabinets, rifling through the contents and plucking things out. There was flour but not much else. She whirled, eyes sharp. “Is this a sick joke? I cannot make a gourmet breakfast for that guy out of stale bagel chips, instant oatmeal and pimiento Cheez Whiz!”

“Don’t play diva on me, babe,” he said testily. “I didn’t come up with that fancy menu, you did. Look in the other fridge or the freezer—”

“Diva, my ass! I’ve got some decent food over at the A-frame. I’ll just, ah…go get it.”

Yeah. And try to disappear, writing both of their death warrants in one smooth move. “You can’t walk out of here,” he told her. “They’re covering the approach. I’ll go get the stuff. You just get started.”

“Here? Alone? With…them?” Her eyes widened.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised rashly. “You’ll be fine.”

She swallowed hard and he saw her back straighten up as she snapped into drill sergeant mode. “The small white boxes have specialty cakes in them,” she said briskly. “Get as many as you can. The cheese plate, the ham roast and the fruit are all in the two big white boxes in the fridge. Get both. There’s beef and vegetables. And condiments. Don’t forget the prosecco. It’s chilling in the door of the fridge. Get as many bottles of wine as you can carry. I think we’ll need all the help we can get.”

Nick pounded up the back staircase and vaulted off the deck which curved around the huge outcropping of granite that the house had been built around. Clambering down that way put him at a thirty-yard uphill slog to the Sloane house, which he covered in seconds.

Once inside, he assembled the stuff Becca had asked for, tossing it helter-skelter into the boxes, packing wine bottles into plastic bags.

A thought occurred to him. He left the kitchen, and searched through the house until he found it. A little black purse. He dumped the contents, pawed through them. House keys, lipstick, tissue, comb.

He put the lipstick in his pocket for no very good reason.

Cell phone. Wallet. He thumbed through it, plucking out the plastic, the driver’s license, everything with her name and address printed on it. The wallet he tossed into an empty drawer by the bed. The credit cards and cell phone he shoved in his pocket, to bury under a rock outside.

He loaded himself up like a donkey, and took off. Sliding and scrambling through clinging vines and thorny bushes, all to make the perfect three-cheese soufflé for the evilest scum-sucking motherfucker in the known universe. It was surreal.

A sound jerked out of his chest, so rusty, he almost didn’t recognize it. Laughter.

Mr Big? How the fuck had she come up with that?

Better not to speculate.