Badass: Deadly Target (Complete): Military Romantic Suspense (2 page)

The other is Mia.

What can I do now that the end is here? But first, how can I protect the documents? They can’t fall into his hands. The devastation would be incalculable. If that happens, I deserve to be dead.

After all I’ve done, I deserve to burn in hell anyway.

There’s only one person I can trust, and I pray my enemies will leave her alone. For the briefest of moments, I believe she can finish the mission for me, simply because she appears too innocent to be considered dangerous. An office clerk wouldn’t be suspect. She knows nothing about the game I’ve played for years. She won’t stand out. She won’t be a suspect because they know I’d never put my child in danger.

My child.

My Mia.

No, I can’t do that to her. Put her in such incredible danger. But who else besides Stanislov? I rack my brain, but no other names will come. Is it really so completely over?

I take another long drink. Then another, then refill my glass, staring at the clear liquid swirling inside the tumbler. I’d give anything to see her one last time, but that is impossible now. Looking at my phone, I wonder if it’s selfish of me to want to hear her voice one last time?

Probably.

I take another steadying gulp of vodka and dial her number anyway.

Chapter 2 - Mia

“Honey, I just wanted to tell you that I love you so much.”

My fingers freeze on the keyboard and I sit back in my office chair, the phone clamped between my shoulder and ear. Mom has been different lately. Tense. Sad. I’ve been worried about her. I’m worried about her now.

“Mom, is something wrong?”

She laughs, but the sound is bitter, almost sour in my ear. “No, nothing at all. I was just thinking about you and wanted to make sure you knew that I love you and am so very proud of the woman you’ve become.”

Instead of being reassured, the hair prickles on the back of my neck.

“I love you too, Mom. Are you sure there isn’t anything wrong? Want me to come over after work?”

“No!”

The word is sharp, coming at me like a whip. I startle and listen to her heavy exhale.

“No, honey. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have called you like this.”

“Mom, you know you can call anytime, for any reason,” I lie, my voice dropping to a whisper. I glance around, wondering if one of my neighboring coworkers in the cubicle farm can hear me taking a personal call.

“I’ll let you go, honey. I’m sure you’re busy.”

Mom’s voice has grown thick. Is she crying?

“Mom, please tell me what’s wrong.”

She laughs. The sound is bitter again. “Goodbye, sweetheart. I love you. Always, always remember that.”

I jump to my feet. “Stop. Don’t hang up. I’m coming over there right now.”

“No! You mustn’t!” she shouts at me, then immediately lowers her voice. “Please don’t, sweetheart. Everything is fine, I promise. I’m just being a sentimental old woman.”

Sinking back into my chair, I stare at my laptop, uncertain what to do. “You’re far from old, Mom.” I relax a little more when she chuckles, a much more natural sound.

“I remember the day you were born. I remember it so clearly I sometimes look down, expecting your pink little body to be swaddled in my arms.”

I chuckle too, having heard this story a hundred times. “I know, I know. Sixteen hours of labor with no epidural. It’s a wonder you didn’t toss me against the wall for causing you so much pain.”

She sighs so long and deep, the air causes static on the phone. “I’d go through it a million times if you were the present at the end.”

My eyes prick with tears. “You’re the best mother in the history of mothers. You know that, right?”

The bitterness is back in her laugh. No, not a laugh. More like a bark of sound. “Far from it, my love. So many regrets. So many things I’d like to do over.”

“Like what, Mom?”

The silence stretches for so long that I wonder if we’ve been disconnected or she’d hung up. “I wish I hadn’t forced you to wear those silly bows you hated so much.”

I laugh at the memory. “Aw yes, the dreaded hair bows. I’ve often wondered how many of them I threw out of the car window.”

“I think all of them.” I close my eyes, grateful that the pure musical quality of Mom’s laugh is back. I haven’t heard her laugh in a long time.

The silence stretches again as I wonder what to say next. I don’t have to worry. She speaks up. “I’ll let you go now, sweetheart. Have a wonderful day. I love you.”

I press the phone hard against my ear. “I love you too. See you soon.”

“Yes.” Her voice is thick again, like the words are blocked inside her throat. “That would be lovely.”

Before I can ask her again if she’s alright, the phone goes dead in my hand. I lower it to the desk and stare at it a few moments, the goose bumps that had been prickling the back of my neck spreading to my arms.

Something isn’t right. Not at all. Mom has raised me to follow my instincts, trust in my gut. I reach for the phone, intending to call her back. I stand instead, close my laptop, and grab my purse.

I don’t know why I feel it so strongly, but I know without question that Mom needs me right now. Not bothering to check in with my boss, I leave. He wouldn’t give permission for me to go anyway, so what’s the point? My mother will always be more important to me than a job.

Behind the wheel of my little VW Bug, I drive the familiar route, going faster than I normally do. Mom and I might not live together anymore, but we’re still close. I normally visit at least twice a week, and we sometimes talk on the phone for hours.

But I never feel like I’m getting through to her, like I really ever
know
her. Maybe that’s why I always look for new ways to spend time together. When my friends are out on dates, going to clubs and parties, I usually spend the night with Mom. Strange, but true. I know she loves me, and that she’d do anything to protect me. She raised me on her own, filling the roles of both mother and father. But there’s a part of her I could never reach. I’d sensed it from the time I was a small child.

Over the last few months, her behavior has become jumpy, paranoid, she’s always looking over her shoulder. One night I took her to dinner, and she got up and left in the middle of her meal, simply walked out the door and got into a cab. I found her at her house later. She couldn’t explain her sudden departure, only that she “suddenly hadn’t felt well.”

As I slow in front of her house, no spots are available out front. Her car is sitting in the driveway, in the little spot between the place I still call home and the one next door. I circle around and park farther back, walking nearly the length of her block. More people are on the street today than usual and I wonder if there is some sort of festival or market going on nearby. Rather than trying to move through them, I cut between two of the houses and head to her back door.

“Mom?” I knock on the door while I search for the key I keep on a separate key ring in my bag. I unlock the doorknob and the bolt above it, and nearly jam my face into the wood when the door doesn’t budge. She’s thrown the extra deadbolt, to which there is no key.

My heart picks up its pace. This suddenly feels more serious, but I don’t want to make a scene by threatening to break the door down or pounding on it with both fists.

“Mom, please, let me in,” I beg, my mouth close to the door so my voice will carry through. “Please. I’m worried about you. Talk to me, Mom.” What sounds like a sigh comes from the other side of the door, and I realize she’s been standing there all along. “Mom, I hear you,” I whisper. “Let me in.”

The bolt clicks and the door swings open. “Quickly, inside,” she says, her eyes flicking nervously up and down the back yards. “They’ve probably already spotted you. I told you not to come!”

“Who?” I ask as she pulls me into the kitchen and slams the door, locking it again. “Who spotted me? Mom, you’re really starting to scare me.”

“It’s a scary day, Mia,” she murmurs, peering out of the glass at the top of the heavy door. “I don’t see him out there. Maybe he missed you.” She takes my arm. “Quick, upstairs.”

I follow her up the stairs to her bedroom, the sound of our running feet loud against the wood of each tread.

In her room, she closes the door behind us and walks to the small desk in the corner. She pulls out a notepad and begins to write frantically. Then, to my astonishment, she opens a drawer and reaches inside and up. Whatever she does causes a panel in the wall to open. She rushes to the entrance that appears to be a small closet and rifles through a file cabinet, pulling out a few slips of paper and what looks like a book. The door slides closed again when she steps out, the wallpaper completely concealing the entrance.

Back at her desk, she stuffs the note and paper into an envelope. She tucks in the flap and turns back to me. Her gray eyes are swollen, the dark circles beneath them more pronounced. As she looks at me, a tear slides from one and then the other. “Take this,” she says, holding the envelope and book out to me. The envelope is plain, letter-sized, an address scrawled on the back. Up close, the book looks more like a journal. “Here.” She shoves it toward me when I hesitate, then tucks it into the open shoulder bag I carry.

“Mom, you have to explain what this is all about,” I beg, really scared now. I’d never before seen my mother cry. But here she is, the normally loving but stoic woman I’d known for twenty-six years. Shaking. Crying. Her eyes wild with fear. “Please, let’s sit down.”

She smiles and wipes at her eyes, taking a calming breath. Then she’s back, the mother I know, the one I recognize. Her cheeks are still wet, but her face is composed now. As if she has just calmly accepted her fate.

She tucks a stray brown curl behind my ear and places her hands on my shoulders. “Oh, my sweetheart,” she whispers. “I’m sorry to leave you.”

“You’re not going anywhere!” I nearly shout it, desperation cutting through my worries. But she doesn’t hear me at all, and the sense that I’m being ignored jangles my already tense nerves.

“Listen to me,” she says firmly, digging her fingers into my shoulders until her nails poke into my skin. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” I manage to squeak.

“I never wanted to involve you in any of this, but fate seems to think otherwise, because you’re here. You’re here in the hour of my greatest need. But what I ask of you will put you in great danger. Mia, I’m so sorry, but you are the only person I can trust with this. I shouldn’t, but I must.”

I nod, trying to understand. Trying to comprehend what she needs from me.

“In the freezer downstairs is a key to my safe deposit box. It’s frozen in ice, at the back. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I repeat, beyond confused.

“I need you to go to the bank today and remove the contents of that safe deposit box. Right away. Promise me.”

“I promise,” I breathe.

“The proxy to access the box and instructions on what you are to do once you secure it are in the envelope I just placed in your bag. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say again, confusion turning to horror. What sort of scenario does she think this is? How far off the rails has she gone? Is she delusional? Early onset dementia? And how had I not noticed her behavior deteriorating like this? Have I been so selfish and involved in my own life that I hadn’t seen the signs?

“You are to go now. Right away. And trust no one. Understand?
Do not trust anyone, Mia
.” She shakes me as she says this, her voice fierce.

I break free of her grasp, the red marks of her grip sure to turn blue later. “I understand,” I assure her, desperate to placate her, wondering if I should call the hospital when I leave.

“You will need your passport. Do you know its location?”

“Y-yes. Where will I be going?”

“Russia, my darling. Instructions are included. You’ll find money in the bank box. Use it.”

“Mom, why? Tell me.”

“There is no time. Remember, trust no one. Those who look to be your friend will be the one to distrust the most. I love you,” she murmurs, pulling me into a tight hug. “Now go!”

Just as I turn to walk away, a loud crash from downstairs startles us both. I open my mouth to gasp, but Mom’s hand covers it, silencing me.

“Under the bed,” she breathes into my ear, the words tumbling rapidly from her. “Do not make a sound. Remember the silent breathing I taught you. And do not come out until you’re absolutely certain there’s no one left in the house. Now.” She shoves me toward the bed and waits until I’ve scrambled underneath. She’s back a moment later, down on her knees, sliding a gun toward me. “It’s fully loaded and the safety is off. Shoot anyone who walks through that door that isn’t me. You remember how to use it, correct?”

I nod and her feet disappear as she dashes from the room. I strain to listen and only silence greets me for several minutes, then I jump when something crashes directly beneath me. I hold my hands over my mouth to hold in my screams of panic. What’s happening? Who’s here?

Were her rantings saner than I’d believed?

When everything goes quiet, I don’t know what’s worse. I jump when something overturns, another thump, the breaking of glass. Then the sound I’ve been dreading. Thump. Thump. Thump. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

Oh, my God
.
Is that the sound of my death?

A pair of men’s shoes, topped by a pair of black slacks appears. He enters the room and walks slowly around the bed. I focus on the shoes. Black. Ostrich. Cap toes. They look expensive, but what do I know. The dress pants have flecks of what looks like mud at the hem.

Go away. Please, go away.

I remembered the game I played with my mother when I was little. “The hiding game,” she called it. “Open your mouth, Mia, and breathe slowly in and out. Don’t hold your breath, my lovely. You need all the oxygen you can get.” I remember playing that game many times.

Slowly, very slowly, I breathe in, then breathe out.

He must have been satisfied, because he exits the room. That’s when I remember the gun still lying beside me. I grab for it, realizing I’d missed my opportunity to shoot him. Kill him? Can I kill a man in cold blood anyway?