[BAD 07] - Silent Truth (13 page)

Hunter landed on Gwen’s patio and kicked over the stained glass wall of candles, killing the closest light. He dove for Gwen, who had fallen on top of a screeching Abbie. Wrapping up both women, he rolled, his momentum taking them with him.

All three bodies hit the tile-covered patio. Hard.

Abbie’s next scream died in a pained
umph.

No more shots rang out. Darkness fell over him with the comfort of a safety blanket.

But security would be everywhere within minutes if they recognized that noise as a gunshot.

His BAD teammates would.

The smell of fresh blood soaked the air. Hunter lifted up on an elbow and turned Gwen over onto her back, gauging her wound through his night vision. A dark stain spread across one shoulder of her designer dress. He checked her pulse. Steady. Reaching for the closest chair cushion, he unzipped the cover and folded the soft material into a thick pad he shoved beneath her gown.

Would that stop the blood flow long enough for medical care to reach her?

He pressed the heel of his hand on the padding. Seconds were disintegrating quicker than his chance of walking away from this mess clean.

What had Abbie gotten into?

She lay facedown on the cold tile. Not moving.

Hunter used his free hand to ease her over on her back.

She’d landed with her fist between the ground and her diaphragm, which had probably knocked the wind out of her.

Emotional stress interfered with her resuming normal breathing again. Abbie might be unconscious, but even her subconscious would be in a state of terror.

“Breathe, Abbie,” he whispered, gently rubbing her shoulder. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe.”

Footsteps pounded toward the pool from the grounds.

The shooter?

Hunter couldn’t leave these women unprotected, even for the mission. He pulled Gwen’s dress strap over the wound padding to hold it in place and shoved to his feet. He wheeled to face the figure coming fast, ready to attack, but pulled up short at the sound of a familiar, “Fuck,” as Carlos jumped across the wall.

“What the hell’s going on?” Carlos was seconds ahead of everyone else only because the rest of the security hadn’t thought to head the way Hunter had gone.

His jolt of relief at Carlos showing up first vanished with impending discovery of Hunter’s presence. “Shooter in the second tallest tree at eleven o’clock, seventy yards from the outer wall of the patio, took out Gwen. Shoulder’s bleeding.”

Carlos dropped down next to Gwen, took one look, and pressed on the folded material to staunch the blood flow. He tucked his chin to his lapel and spoke low into a button that transmitted only to other BAD agents.

Hunter removed his monocular, his eyes now adjusted to the dim light filtering out from a lamp in the sunroom.

Abbie started wheezing like a squeak toy sucking air. Her chest heaved with strangled breaths. She struggled,
jerking with spasms.

Fear would make every breath harder to draw.

He lowered his face close to her and whispered, “You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you.”

She gasped once, then again, eyes opening wild with panic. She raised her arms to attack.

He grabbed her wrists, gently pushing her hands to her chest and shushing her. “Take it easy. Just breathe.”

“They’re coming,” Carlos warned. “You gotta go.”

Hunter moved his mouth next to Abbie’s ear so only she could hear. “Don’t tell anyone I was here. I saved you from that second shot. We’re even.”

He needed ten minutes alone with her to find out what she knew about how the Fras, Eliot’s sniper, and the attack on Gwen were related.

And how Abbie fit into all this.

“She conscious?” Carlos asked, indicating Abbie.

Hunter stared into her eyes. Answering “yes” would pull her into BAD’s network, where she might not surface again any time soon, or at all, and way out of Hunter’s reach.

Decisions, decisions.

“Not yet.” Hunter held his breath. His fingers gripped her arms gently, thumbs caressing her cold skin.

Her eyes flared, then her chest expanded sharply. She finally drew a hard-earned breath and exhaled. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

Had she even been lucid when he spoke to her?

“I called Puzzle Queen,” Carlos told him, indicating
Rae, which meant he’d instituted an improvised backup plan. “She’s headed to the laundry room. Back through the sunroom and library—”

“I know the way.” Hunter took one last look at Abbie, wishing he could stay long enough to be sure she was safe, but the shooter had likely left and Carlos would protect her.

Security would pour into this private sanctuary in seconds.

Hunter shoved up and rushed into the library. Navigating by a memorized floor plan, he located a door hidden in one section of the mahogany paneled walls. The invisible doorway provided the household staff access without any need for them to travel through the mansion’s family areas.

Hopefully, the majority of the staff would be dealing with the party and not passing through this area. If anyone did, they’d wake up in here tomorrow morning with a headache.

He flipped the light switch off in every hallway he entered, wending his way to the central corridor that led to the kitchen, laundry, and service areas. After the third turn, a slice of light beamed into the dark from a door ajar at the end of the hall.

When he reached for the handle the door opened all the way into a laundry room.

Rae swept one look up and down him. “That’s going to be a bugger to get out.”

Hunter dropped his chin to take in the blood-smeared front of his tuxedo. “Shit.”

“No worries.” Rae stepped over to clothes hanging on an electric track. She flipped several dark outfits out of
the way, took a look at Hunter with an eye for sizing up a man, then selected a tuxedo she handed him. “If anyone looks closely, they’ll realize you’re not wearing Armani or whatever overpriced designer you patronize, but this will get you off the premises.”

He ignored the dig and started shedding clothes while she stepped over to peek through the door that exited into the public areas of the house.

Closing it quietly and turning the lock first, Rae returned with a laundry bag she stuffed his discarded clothes into, then tossed the bag aside and wet a towel at the sink.

He’d expected another slam over peeling down to his underwear. She proved him wrong by silently cleaning blood off his face and neck while he buttoned his fresh shirt and inserted cufflinks. He took the clean half of the towel to wipe his hands.

She touched the earpiece wired to her clustered earrings, listening, then raised her chin to Hunter. “Korbin scoped the area around the tree while security’s scrambling to get medical help for Gwen and secure the patio. He saw a JC baby spoon stabbed in the trunk by the pointed Chameleon’s horns on the spoon handle. Couldn’t retrieve it. The space fifty feet inside the wall is covered in cameras. Security will find the spoon when they sweep, but we know who took the shot.”

Hunter nodded. “You packing?”

In answer, she leaned down and fished a Browning BDA .380 from her boot that she then handed to him.

He started to ask if that was her only weapon out of instinctive need to ensure he didn’t leave a woman unprotected.

Rae was
not
defenseless and would
not
appreciate his concern. Questioning her on anything right now would be taken as yet another attack on her ability as an agent.

Her slim weapon wouldn’t fit inside the snug boots he wore. He shoved it inside the back of his pants. The poorly cut tuxedo jacket would cover the weapon.

“Thanks.” He started for the door and paused, owing her something more for tonight. “You’re an exceptional agent, Rae.”

“I know.”

He swung around to find a burning glare teamed up with her sharp tone. “I— Never mind.”

Her face shifted from tense to curious.

That was as close to an apology as she’d get from him. He opened the door and checked the hallway leading back to the main ballroom before striding confidently toward the mayhem that was gathering volume. Everyone he passed literally frothed with macabre excitement over the shooting, ignoring him as just another forgotten guest or Wentworth staff.

He needed them all to forget him.

What about Abbie?

Had she been coherent when he told her not to identify him? If she admitted to seeing him on the patio with Gwen the media would go crazy searching out pictures of his face to plaster in every news report.

The last pictures of him had been taken before he became an adult and stopped allowing photos. He was of no use to BAD if the media exposed Hunter Wesley Thornton-Payne III as anything more than a worthless playboy. He’d be yanked out of the field. Maybe forever.

And Abbie? She’d disappear from her world.

Last to exit the elevator car that had descended forty feet below the Wentworth complex, Vestavia girded himself for the upcoming battle.

Ahead of him, Fra Ostrovsky from Russia and Fra Bardaric from the UK followed Linette Tassone’s clicking steps through a corridor of travertine walls lit by blown-glass sconces shaped like tulips. When she reached the end of the hall, Linette opened a door and stepped inside a carpeted reception area that was empty save for a plush gray sofa-and-chair combo.

She crossed the room and opened another door, then stepped aside.

Vestavia followed the other two Fras, who passed Linette into the windowless room, where more wall sconces provided understated lighting. With that and the hand-buffed cherry paneling, the room offered a hospitable feel to the uninformed.

Those who had been inside this soundproof room, as Vestavia had, knew better than to be taken in by the inviting feel.

Vestavia turned to Linette. “Don’t let anyone disturb us.”

“Of course, Fra Vestavia.” She had the demure voice of a sophisticated angel. More black hair than a man could hold in two fists and sex spilling out of every pore.

But she wasn’t Josephine.

His gut still twisted in a knot when he thought of the
woman with waist-length blond hair and an erotic body created for loving. Josephine Silversteen had worshipped him and made his world a place worth saving.

His bed a welcome place worth visiting.

But her cold body would never warm his bed again. She slept in a coffin and he blamed a mole in Fratelli de il Sovrano for her death.

When he found the mole, death would be a blessing compared to what he had in mind for betraying him.

“This room secure?” Fra Ostrovsky’s wild gray and brown eyebrows dropped low over withered eyes that inspected the walls and ceiling as though the subterranean structure could hear and see. Short of stature and hardly filling out the black tuxedo, the Russian Fratelli representative suspected anything and everything.

Vestavia couldn’t really fault him since Ostrovsky probably didn’t have to deal with moles in the Russian Fratelli division.

“Gwen would not risk sending us to a location that wasn’t secure.” Vestavia closed the door on Linette, who had seated herself at the farthest point from the room.

She’d been with him since he lost Josephine and needed a personal assistant. He’d first seen Linette in the possession of Fra Bacchus, a sixty-two-year-old Fratelli who departed this world not long after. She’d been given to the old buzzard eleven years earlier at the age of sixteen because of her beauty and superior intelligence. If not for one small glitch in her family ancestry, she’d have been handed over to the Kore Women’s Center for breeding. Her concise moves, quiet manners, and carefully thought-out answers were all a product of the old Fra’s method of breaking and disciplining.

Linette had proven to be a model assistant, but she hadn’t truly been tested. Not by Vestavia’s standards.

He placed his briefcase at the base of a twelve-foot-long oval glass conference table that provided a clear view of the base, where a pair of snarling lions had been carved from burled wood. “And I am as much at risk of being exposed as you are.”

Ostrovsky grunted acknowledgment.

Bardaric said nothing right away. The UK representative hummed with impatience. Bardaric had changed significantly since his youth and was now built surprisingly sturdier than he’d been in his late teens. Unlike most pale and slight Brits Vestavia dealt with, Bardaric’s body structure hinted of Viking genetics. Wavy sandy-brown hair fell to the collar of his tux. The rough-cut locks complemented the aggression shining in his chilling gray eyes.

“Please have a seat, gentlemen.” Before taking his, Vestavia strode over to the bar integrated into the wall of built-in bookcases. He pressed a panel and the doors opened to reveal anything they required for drinks. He filled a crystal glass two fingers deep with forty-year-old Macallan whisky, inhaling the sweet toffee and woodsy scent of the rare blend. He poured Bardaric a glass as well only to show Ostrovsky he came ready to bury the proverbial hatchet… preferably in Bardaric’s neck.

A shame to waste fine whisky on that British bastard.