Countdown to Zero Hour (14 page)

She nodded. “I get it.”

He dressed, collecting his gun and knives and reattaching them to all their hiding places. She put her sleep clothes on, not wanting the night to be over and knowing it was.

The rain had receded so much that she could hear the drips of water from the roof. Even the metallic rasp of her door’s lock echoed in the room. Too damn loud.

Art kept his hand on the door, face dark.

She moved to him, and he kissed her.

His voice was thick with emotion. “I’m still right here with you.”

They kissed again until he eased the door open. They parted. He slipped out the door, and she closed and locked it behind him.

Quiet chilled the room. She turned out the light and got into bed, trying to preserve the warmth she and Art had created. It faded, but she wouldn’t let it go. The house full of criminals had become her world. And Art was the only good she’d found. Those few minutes of pleasure might be the last she would ever feel.

Chapter Twelve

Instead of sleeping with Hayley’s arm draped over him, Art had spent the night in his windowless room with his pistol in his hand. Light sleep had taken him to morning. His mind had swirled with the tactical details of the house. Every time the floor plan emerged in his imagination, the map moved to Hayley’s room.

Instead of satisfying the built-up need between them, he was left wanting to know every inch of her. His body ached from how they’d thrown themselves together. It wasn’t enough. The image of her naked and writhing on the mattress on the floor haunted him.

Art rose from the bed, knowing he was done with sleep, and pulled his supplies together for a shower. Sunlight already blasted through the second-floor windows. Yesterday’s clouds had been erased by the bright blue. Traces of moisture remained outside in the long morning shadows.

He was the first one in the bathroom. There were three shower stalls, and he took the one farthest from the door. If someone was coming, he would have a second of extra time to know. He had his soap, towel, change of clothes and his push dagger. It was stainless steel and held up fine in the water. Because of the T-handle grip, he didn’t need to worry about soapy hands mishandling the knife.

This morning, he showered in peace. Though his mind churned with thoughts of Hayley. She trusted him. She’d let him into her room. She’d let herself go with him.

And he’d let himself go with her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that honest with someone.

Never.

He finished his shower and dressed, wondering if trust was a mistake that would get him killed. The stakes of the mission rose every second he was with Hayley. His judgment, his aim, needed to remain clear.

After kitting himself back up with his pistol and knives in his room, he emerged while the others were waking up. There was the usual dirty look from Garin, and Vasily was stone-faced. If anyone knew Art had been with Hayley the night before, they didn’t indicate it. And he knew they wouldn’t have been able to keep from making lewd comments or gestures. The secret was secure.

So was Hayley. He watched from the first-floor living room as she exited her own bathroom, dressed after her shower and headed straight for the kitchen. Her chef’s coat was already buttoned over her, like a flak jacket. But he knew how she was curved beneath it. How silky and responsive she was.

Before she immersed herself with work, she looked up to where Art leaned on a pillar in the open living room. Her smile for him was private, knowing, and it built a warm glow in his chest. He gave her a small wave back but couldn’t approach. That floor of the house was too quiet. He wouldn’t be able to keep his hand from her hand, his mouth from hers.

She hurried together the walking breakfast, then prepped other things, presumably for lunch. The men started filtering into the kitchen, collecting their coffee and rolls, while looking a bit weary of the guard detail in the compound. How crisp would they be when he called in Automatik’s strike?

Rolan approached Art in the living room, interrupting a count of which guards carried extra submachine gun magazines. The boss revealed in Russian, “Krylov is delayed.”

He ran the northeast territory of the Orel Group. Art didn’t know the arrival times of the bosses, which was one of the complicating variables to the mission.

Rolan went on, “We might push the meeting longer once he arrives. But be ready with all of your information.”

He nodded back and gave a small thumbs-up.

The clock for the assault changed. All the springs stretched tighter. They could break any second.

He glanced to Hayley, who maintained the supplies while the men continued to gather their breakfasts. She didn’t betray her secrets and remained in control of the kitchen. But for how much longer? He’d put some of the pressure of the operation on her, a civilian.

And he was balanced with just enough tension on the trigger to get the shot off before anyone else.

Time wasn’t his. But he wanted more. Extra seconds and minutes and hours with Hayley. Before the explosions. Because after that, it was all unknown. His mother had lost his father in an instant. What would he or Hayley lose?

* * *

Without the protection of the night or the rain, Hayley had to hide her secrets on her own. Art was with her, always watchful, but he wasn’t in complete control of this world. She’d seen how he’d had to adapt to things changing all around them.

The biggest change had happened last night. Was it just the delirium of the situation that made it okay to let him in? Was she just seeking safety? God, no. Art was not safe. Not with the way he stole her breath, heated her body. Not with the way he allowed her to see the man beneath the knives, inspiring her to reveal herself, too.

Hayley laughed to herself, probably making the guards in the kitchen think she was crazy.
Good, they’ll keep their distance
.

Art, though, approached. He plated his breakfast, stealing glances at her and not afraid to show her that light in his eyes. And the swagger in his hips. She tested her response. Her body warmed in the spots he’d touched. But she was able to keep cool, too, and not let everyone in the house know what had happened the night before.

Luckily, Art didn’t get too brash. Rolan was with him, and the two of them were chatting in Russian. Garin had already finished his breakfast but stood to the side of the kitchen, sneering as he listened in. The stone-faced Vasily also gathered up the conversation.

When Art and Rolan had moved to the end of the breakfast counter, Art waved her over.

He explained, “There’s a delay with someone’s arrival, so the trip might be extended. How are you for food?”

She did a quick tally of how much she’d gone through and what else was planned. “I could always use extra. We want everyone to be happy, right, and not just getting by?”

Art translated to Rolan, who nodded sagely. The conversation continued in Russian without her. But it had something to do with her. The nearby guards were curious, glancing between her and Art. One man started to complain to a nearby guard, who tried to calm him, gesturing subtly toward Rolan. The upset guard left, but his darkness remained. Garin gathered the ill will like a dark coat over his shoulders.

After a minute, Rolan patted Art’s shoulder with paternal approval, nodded at Hayley and left the kitchen.

Art leaned toward the center of the island, and she moved to meet him there, creating a sliver of privacy. “We’re going into town,” he said. “I need to get supplies to fix the propane line.”

“Thanks for getting me out of the house.” Any time away might relieve the pressing sense of suffocation. And it would be with Art, with the possibilities...

“You’ll be working, too.” His finger found a drop of coffee on the island and drew it out into a long, curved knife. “Extra days means extra food. Do up as much of a new meal plan as you can. You’re going to market.” He wiped away the image of the knife with the side of his hand.

Leaning back from the island, Art’s awareness swept back through the area, including Garin’s dark stare.

Art brought his attention back to her. “In about an hour, if that works, Master Chef.”

“Affirmative.”

A small wink from Art was like striking a lighter in a room full of explosives. She savored the burn.

He left the kitchen, and she immediately started taking stock of what ingredients she had remaining and what she needed to stretch the menu out a few extra days. Talk about her circulated through the guards. She understood what they were saying, even without the vocabulary. Tilted heads, knowing sneers.

Fuck them. They judged out of jealousy. She had a job to do in the kitchen and outside of that, her life was her own.

For now. Until the real danger started.

She dove back into the meal planning, trying to ignore the bigger trouble that lay in the unknown territory ahead. Maybe going to town would be an opportunity for escape. Or at least to take an unguarded breath with Art.

But until she was outside the walls of the compound, she remained on alert. She made her wish list for ingredients, knowing that local markets would yield only what they wanted to.

A sudden sense of missing something slivered under her skin. Trouble shook through the house, though she couldn’t see anything from inside the kitchen. Something bad was happening. Footsteps hurried. She didn’t know where Art was.

Leaving her arena was dangerous, but she ventured out, past the dining area and deeper into the living room.

Before her were the backs of men. The guards all focused on a corner of the room that had been hidden from the kitchen.

Hayley choked back a shout.

Art had death in his eyes. He stood coiled, black knife in his hand, facing off with Garin. The other guard had a brutal chisel-looking blade in his grip. The two men had obviously hated each other since the fight in the kitchen, but what had set this off?

They were next to a tall window, with nowhere to run. The other guards blocked any exits. Vasily watched, interest on his stony face, thirsty for blood. His hand rested on the handle of a knife in a sheath on his belt. Hayley knew that he wasn’t getting ready to step in and help Art.

She had to.

One step forward. She was ten feet from the first line of guards. Would she be able to get through them? And then what?

Another step.

Art’s intense eyes quickly flicked to her, then back at Garin. The brief glance told her everything. “Not another step. Stay away.”

But she couldn’t.

Now she was only about five feet from the line of guards.

Garin flinched a fake attack, then chuckled when Art recoiled, balanced and ready to strike back. They didn’t have much space for this dance. The next lunge with a knife would be deadly.

Hayley was just behind the guards and tried to figure out the best way to press through them. Whatever she did would have to be as far away from Vasily as possible. He poised like he’d love the opportunity to unsheathe his knife.

Garin hissed something in Russian. Art didn’t answer, but remained ready. Blood was about to be spilled.

She had to act.

A gunshot exploded behind her. She ducked on instinct, and the guards in front of her spun, drawing their own weapons. When they saw who’d fired, they immediately lowered their barrels to aim at the ground.

Rolan stood in the living room. His face was calm, but the small black pistol in his hand represented his dangerous rage.

Hayley’s heart pounded in her chest. She couldn’t hear her speeding pulse because the ringing of the shot continued in her ears. Standing, she searched for Art. He remained ready, with his knife in hand, though the tension of the fight had been drained.

Garin was a few paces back, nervous and glancing from Art to Rolan. A precise bullet hole marked the wall above the window where the two men had faced off.

Rolan’s steady commands were lost on her, but the guards cleared out of the room in an instant. The acrid gunpowder smoke swirled. The boss still held the gun out when Dernov and Ilyin arrived.

Art fixed her with his look again, adamant. When she hesitated, he nodded, trying to reassure her.

Rolan didn’t spare her any attention as she backed out of the living room. But she stopped at the edge, watching and not willing to leave Art.

Russian commands and conversations flew about the room. Art sheathed his knife, and Garin put his away. Rolan lowered his gun and holstered it so he could gesture with his hands to the other bosses. For a moment, Art and Garin were forgotten. They glared at each other, and she wondered if the fight was about to start over. Rolan’s next shot wouldn’t be a warning.

Before things got messy, Rolan clipped short sentences to Art, pointing him toward the front of the house.

“Da, da,”
Art replied, striding that way. He caught her eye and motioned her in his direction with a quick tilt of the head.

Garin watched, scowling like he had a mouthful of acid, as Art met up with Hayley and the two of them made their way to the front door.

“What the fuck happened?” She wanted to put her hand on Art’s arm, but he radiated so much malice from the fight she thought he might explode.

He growled, “Garin said things about you I didn’t agree with.”

“Like what?” Though hot anger was already brewing in her and she didn’t know if she needed more fuel.

“Things he should bleed for.” He slammed out the front door and continued toward the SUV that had brought her there, keys jingling in his hand.

The sun washed him out for a moment. She adjusted, coming down the stairs, and saw him waiting by the side of the car.

Care emerged in his eyes. “That shot was close. You handle it okay?”

“Scared the hell out of me...but yeah.” A tremble in her hands reminded her. “Are you hurt? Cut?”

“It’s all good.”

Tension hummed through him while he stroked the side of her neck and pulled her toward him. They rested for a moment, forehead to forehead. She felt his breathing slow.

He kissed her cheek and whispered, “The car might be bugged.”

She answered with a slight nod.

Their mouths met. The connection overrode the fear from the fight. But the danger remained, and she knew people were watching.

Art clearly knew it, too. He glared at the house, stepped away from her and opened the back door of the SUV.

“I have to ride there?” Her stomach dropped at the memory of the black isolation in the back of the SUV.

“Safer that way.” He put out a hand and helped her in. “And it makes you look like a VIP.”

“But you’re not my chauffeur.” The intense darkness of the interior already worked on her nerves.

“Personal security.” He closed the door and moved around the car to the driver’s side. Climbing in, he continued, “With benefits.”

The car started with a hum. Air-conditioning knocked the desert back a bit.

Art turned in his seat to glance back at her. “It’s just for a minute.” The dark partition glass rose, taking Art away. Taking everything away.

The SUV moved, and she was lost in disorientation. Backward, forward. Slow and fast. She was finally out of that house but didn’t feel free.