Countdown to Zero Hour (19 page)

Art checked the tray’s balance. “If they did, I’d smash them.”

“Oh, Art,” she swooned, continuing to move chicken from baking trays to plates, “you’re everything a girl could ever want.”

He smiled, and his chest and shoulders moved with a silent laugh.

A burst of quick pops exploded outside.

Fireworks?

Art had his gun out, and she hadn’t even seen him draw it. It was the assault. His team was firing at the house.

“Is this...?” She stared at him, wondering what to do as she fought the panic back.

He shook his head and pointed at the ground. “Get down.”

She huddled at the base of the island and heard the men’s thundering footsteps throughout the house. Shots crackled outside. Glass broke upstairs. Angry shouts could be heard between the bullets. Two cars revved high and ripped through the dirt somewhere on the other side of the wall.

“Over here.” Art crouched down and helped her to the face of the island farthest from the gunfire. Then he sprang up and hit the switches, killing the lights in the kitchen.

Other guns joined in the deadly chorus outside, these higher-pitched. The exchange lasted for a few of her rapid heartbeats, then the bigger guns fell silent and the cars tore away.

Now it was the Russians’ turn to shout. They argued something, many of the men bunched in the front foyer.

Art informed her, “They want to go after them, but it’s a bad idea.”

“Who them?” If it wasn’t his team, then why would anyone else be attacking the house?

“Stay here. Stay down.” He was immediately up on his feet and hurrying away.

A few lights remained on in the house, and she saw him sprinting up the stairs. She was exposed and vulnerable without him next to her, and crouched tighter to the base of the island. Was this how the fight started? Was this the start of the war she’d been thrown into?

* * *

The first shot made Art think his team had started the assault without him. Now that communication was cut off, things could escalate very quickly. The second bullet in the spray told him Automatik wasn’t launching the attack. They wouldn’t fire until they’d made it within the walls, when the targets were close and identified.

Whoever was out there was just trying to send a message. Luckily, Hayley had been insulated in the kitchen on the ground floor. Though that didn’t make it particularly easy for him to leave her there to investigate what the hell was going on.

He made it to the third floor, killing the lights along the way, in time to see the cars bouncing west along the desert. Broken glass crunched under his boots when he stepped closer to the windows. This was their only damage. No one had been up on this floor during the attack. If any of the bosses had been tagged, his strategy, and the entire operation could’ve been wrecked. The whole meeting might’ve been called off.

Downstairs, the men made the right decision to not pursue the attackers. Outside the walls was the other men’s territory. The Russians would be wiped out. Classic guerilla tactic. A brief assault to draw out the enemy, then pick them off at your leisure.

He didn’t think the men in the cars even knew who they were shooting at. They must’ve been tied to the hit men at the hotel. Mary and Harper would’ve made those bodies disappear, but that didn’t mean the guys weren’t missed. And if two killers from an organization went missing, any gang would definitely suspect the mysterious new compound out in the middle of the desert.

But the gang didn’t trade bodies for bodies. Word was relayed through the house that the guards at the gate and wall weren’t hit. The locals would have to be satisfied with rattling the nerves of the house.

“Who?” Rolan came up the stairs, in a crouch, his pistol out.

Art holstered his own. The cars disappeared into the darkness of the desert. “Looks like a gang from town.”

The boss moved closer to the window, then stepped back when his shoes hit the chips of glass. “What did you do out there?”

“Nothing they’d care about.” Fucking Garin was bringing this all on, but Art couldn’t prove anything and needed to keep things tight for now. “We were there for privacy.” And the world would be a better place if everyone left him and Hayley alone.

“So what would provoke this?” Rolan put his gun away and traced the trajectory of the bullets from the holes in the windows to the ones in the ceiling.

“This is their territory.” He wondered if Rolan or anyone in the Orel Group remembered when they’d killed his father off on his own street. “You know how it is.”

“I do.” The light from downstairs illuminated a cryptic look in his eyes. “It’s a good thing, when the bullets started, that you didn’t have to choose between her and me.”

There was no choice at all. Hayley was worth saving.

He blew off Rolan’s concern. “Nothing to worry about like that out here.”

The boss took a long, pointed gaze at a trench dug by a bullet into the drywall above their heads.

Art shrugged. “Stay off the ceilings.”

Rolan cracked a smile, laughed once as a concession. But he held something back, unsaid and reserved until it would have maximum impact. “Now let’s see if we can pick the bullets out of our dinner.”

The secret unnerved Art. The boss had some kind of ammunition, but what would its impact be?

With his fine hand, Rolan motioned for Art to take the stairs down. He followed the direction, aware that the back of his head would be a perfect target if Rolan wanted to take him out. Every creak of shoe on step was noted, the rustle of clothes as the silver-haired man descended behind him. Any variance in the patterns, and Art’s operation would take a quick turn.

But they made it to the bottom of the stairs, and to the kitchen, where the lights were just coming back on. Pale and shaken, Haley stood near her food, glancing at the massing guards warily.

Rolan glided into the dining room, and Art went to Hayley.

“Everything okay?” Her voice was tight.

“Yeah.” He went to the tray full of prepped plates. “Dinner still hot?”

“You can’t want to eat.” She blinked from him to the food, disbelieving.

“Getting shot at always makes me hungry.” He lifted the tray. “Can I take these?”

She checked them over quickly, testing temperature with her finger. “They’re not piping hot, but if I put them back in, they’ll dry out.”

“Extenuating circumstances. These goons’ll understand.” Many of the men remained edgy, but most of them followed him and the food into the dining room. The plates were dispersed onto the table, and Art returned to the kitchen with the empty tray.

Hayley was ready with additional plates.

They arranged them on the tray and he stood close and explained low, “AK-47 has a very distinctive sound. We don’t use them.”

She discreetly nodded her understanding. “How will I know?”

His appetite waned. The muscles between his shoulder blades knotted. “I have no idea yet.”

He carried the food to the dining room, knowing that any sense of security the guards had developed had been shattered by the brief attack. Fingers tensed, closer to triggers. His latitude to operate had been dialed down to a narrow trench, and his communication had been cut off. It might be him versus the world in order to get Hayley out of this house.

* * *

How could they want food? Her nerves jumped with every sound, waiting for another round of gunfire. But there they were, two tables full of men. All of them armed. Art sat with the guards, who all waited as she addressed the bosses.

Four of them. Only one more seat remained empty. The latest one to arrive was very tan, younger than the others. He wore a blazer over a T-shirt, and his hair was brushed forward into high, tight bangs. This man smiled politely, though somewhat bored, while she described the dinner and Art translated.

“Roast chicken with onions fresh from the market today.” Was that just today? The market. Mary. The hotel room. Art. The hotel hallway. The dead killers. “The tomatoes are from there, as well.”

“Very nice.” Rolan complimented, and Art translated. The other bosses, except Dernov, nodded. He just scowled as usual.

She started to leave but stopped. “I’m sorry if it’s gone a little cold. As you know, there were some...distractions.”

A few of the men snuffled laughs. Others looked like they wanted to pull their guns.

“If any of you would like, I’ll reheat your dish.” But she hoped that no one would take her up on that and she’d have a few minutes to herself in the kitchen. She hadn’t found a way to get her screaming blood pressure down.

The men all dug in and seemed happy enough with the temperature of their food. She and Art shared a quick glance, reassurance that their link continued, then she stepped quietly from the dining room.

Cleaning up calmed her hands. Taking greasy pans and bringing them back to the shining stainless steel gave her a sense of control. Uncomplicated. Distant from the guns and death.

After dinner, Art returned with a tray full of dirty dishes. He eyed the stack of clean pots and pans. “You didn’t leave anything for me.”

“You get the plates.” She took a step back from the sink, giving him room.

“And then dessert?” He attacked the dishes without hesitation.

“If you do a good job.” She wanted to touch him and feel his motion as he went about his task. But she didn’t think that she’d ever let go.

“You know I do.” He turned and winked, brash.

She rolled her eyes and went to the pantry in search of something for dessert. “I’ve discovered that as soon as you think you’ve got something under control, you lose it.”

The water ran. He turned to her. “I won’t make that mistake.”

“Good.”

Tacit promises for their future hung on a knife’s edge. She wanted to believe it could all be true. She knew bad things were coming.

He returned to the dishes, and she put together a simple dessert of chopped apples with honey and pistachios. Once the cleanup was complete, they turned off most of the lights in the kitchen and leaned on the counter to eat.

The main contingent of guards had cleared off the first floor, leaving a corner of peace for their silence and dessert.

But she couldn’t slip into any calm. The tension hummed in Art. She felt it as their bodies were close, eating, then collecting the last two bowls to clean. When things were good, they were tuned for pleasure. She understood how he moved, and he’d shown that he could find whatever she needed on her body. Now, though, he remained tense. A slight flex in his muscles. Not locked up, but cocked and ready.

The night had quieted, velvet thick. Voices and footsteps drifted down from the second and third floors. Art tilted his head, listening, and scanned the immediate area around the kitchen.

“I want you to have this.” He reached to his back pocket and retrieved a short knife in a sheath.

“I’m surrounded by knives.” Could she use any of them to hurt someone?

The stout black blade slipped silently from the sheath. The handle formed a T behind it, and Art gripped it into his fist so the blade extended from near his knuckles.

“It’s called a push dagger.” The weapon and the man were deadly. “You hold it like this, and it’ll never slip.”

He sheathed it and handed it to her. The knife felt like a heavy, poisonous scorpion that he’d somehow soothed to sleep.

“Keep it with you,” he said. “Under your chef’s coat. Under your pillow.”

She didn’t have to ask if he was serious. She knew his world now.

“That way—” his voice was deep and held back emotion, “—I can be with you even when I’m not with you.”

He started tenderly unbuttoning her coat. Her breath slowed, and heat blazed up from deep in her. Running his hands along the lapels of the coat, he peeled it open. She arched forward, seeking a touch, a kiss, anything that proved there was life beyond the violence. Art was alive. Holding her coat, he pulled her to him. One kiss told her how much he wanted, how much more there was for them to discover. Then he had to step away, resuming his ready diligence.

“If only,” she whispered.

“If only,” he answered, then helped her clip the knife sheath to her belt.

Chapter Sixteen

Hayley dressed for bed after her shower while still in the steamy, locked bathroom. Half a hallway down was her door. One lock to another. It had to be quick. Wearing sweatpants made her feel too vulnerable, even if she had the new knife tucked in the roll of her dirty clothes.

Dry air prickled on her skin as she stepped into the hallway. The heat from the shower mixed with exhaustion, urging her toward her bed. Any other time she’d savor the heavy pull of sleep and relaxation. In the house, she couldn’t let down her guard.

And there was one of the biggest reasons, leaning on the wall next to her bedroom door. Garin had his large arms folded across his chest and a disappointed frown on his face.

As she came closer, any traces of calm from the shower were lost in the tightening of her nerves. She reached into her bundle of clothes and coiled her fist around the handle of the knife Art had given her.

Garin straightened himself with her approach, stepping away from the wall and lowering his hands to his sides. She tried to keep track of all his moving pieces. If he attacked, where would it come from?

He started with words. She could pick out the meaning in only a few of the hissed-out statements, but she understood the angry and disappointed tone.

“...high...low...bad...” His eyes were in constant motion, looking at her, up the hallway, the ceiling and floor. He kept his voice down, obviously concerned about being detected.

She didn’t think he’d care about Art knowing. It seemed like the kind of conflict he’d invite. But the bosses could come down on him very hard.

His words hit a desperate pitch and he took a step toward her, hands out and palms up. She moved back, ready to draw the knife. The leering monster had the audacity to look hurt as she pulled away.

He implored and explained in long Russian sentences she didn’t understand.

She replied calmly.
“Nyet.”
It hadn’t worked with him in the past, but it was all she had.
“Nyet.”
And she tried to remain steady and keep things from escalating by even adding “please.”

“
Nyet, pozhaluysta.”

But it only made him press his case harder. And his anger started to show through, brighter than the dim lights at the ends of the hallway. His chest swelled and his hands curled.

They moved in unison, him forward and her back. She shook her head, leaving no room for discussion.

He wasn’t convinced and pleaded more rapidly, almost letting his voice get loud enough to escape the hallway. One hand made a fist.

He took another step and she drew the knife. The large man gaped, shocked. His gaze snapped between the knife and her face, unable to put the two together. She knew he carried a knife, had seen it open when he fought Art. But where did he carry it, and how quickly would he draw it? She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. He had cornered her, and she was ready to fight like hell if she had to. The balance in the hallway shifted and buckled. If Garin pressed, things would get bloody.

It was then that she saw the shadowy figure over Garin’s shoulder at the far end of the hallway. Art was coiled, half crouched and ready to attack. His eyes shone like a predator.

Any closer and he’d be in the light, easy to detect. But she’d seen these fights start in the blink of an eye. He wouldn’t reach Garin in time to prevent her from having to defend herself.

She prepared, trying to take on the ease she’d seen in Art when he battled. His movements had been fluid, adapting to what was happening around him. But he was trained for it.

Seconds stretched like steel cables. Garin hesitated, as if running through scenarios while his body waited for orders. She kept the knife high, in view. Just like throwing a punch, she thought. She was ready to slash out, again and again, and prayed that no pain would come her way.

Maybe Garin sensed her determination. Bullying a woman was easy when she couldn’t fight back. Hitting him with the spoon in the kitchen had only fueled his rage. This time she had an edge.

The large man muttered again, sentences dripping with bitterness and disappointment. He shook his fist slowly and turned his scowl from her as if he couldn’t stand to see her face.

The air felt less combustible when he stepped around her, not bothering to even glance back and continuing to mutter. She knew better than to let her guard down. If he didn’t come rushing back then, he would tomorrow, or the next night.

She hurried to her room, and Art was by her side by the time she was throwing the door open. He closed and locked it behind them.

Tremors shook her legs and she paced to release the energy.

“The knife.” Art held up his own fist as an example.

It took effort to line up her shaking hand with the sheath, then she pushed the blade in and hid its deadly edge. She tossed her roll of clothes onto the bed and continued to walk in the narrow space between the wall and the door.

“You handled it,” Art whispered, even and soft.

“It helped seeing you there.” Every step through this ordeal, Art had been close.

His carnivorous grin flashed. “It’s good to have friends in dark places.”

She flexed her hand. It wanted to grip a tight fist, even though the knife was put away. “I’m in there now, in the darkness.” Her pace slowed, legs growing steady.

“Not completely.” He stayed by the small table in the corner, allowing her room to walk. “We’re going to keep you out.”

“By giving me a knife?” She stopped, facing him. Yes, he’d been there all along. Because he was the reason she was among the killers.

“I...” He rubbed his shaved head, frustrated. “I can’t just leave you defenseless. But there’s more. There’s so much worse...”

She knew he’d seen it.

He remained on his side of the room. “I would’ve finished Garin if he’d come a step closer. I can do that. I’ve done it. You don’t have to.”

“I might.” Garin had been a heartbeat away from her, his eyes wild.

“Not while I’m alive.”

He’d made that promise before. The death she’d seen, at his hands, revealed what it meant. How far he’d go. How dark. Into the shadows that she could never see into.

And then she might lose him forever.

Art left her room quietly, the door clicked in a whisper behind him. She locked it and watched the shadows of his steps under the door as he disappeared.

* * *

The gun was in his hand. He’d unloaded it, checked the action, loaded it and now waited. Art perched at the edge of his bed, feeling like he was about to leap into the void. Usually, on this mission, this was where he’d be relaying the day’s intel to Jackson. But contact was dead. Only Garin and Dernov had the combination to the safe. Art had a pretty good idea that Mary, with her shady training, could spring the lock, but that wasn’t even close to a possibility.

It might be satisfying to get the combination out of Garin. Especially after the way he’d cornered Hayley in the hallway. The psycho had been babbling about how her family would benefit from a pure-blood like him, and Art’s bad lineage would just pollute her. Maybe his hired killers were only supposed to off Art at the hotel. He didn’t want to think about what plans they had for her. Snapping Garin’s neck while he was focused on Hayley outside her door would’ve been easy, but his disappearance would’ve made a lot of waves.

As soon as the fifth boss arrived, all safeties would be clicked off. The house would be a free-fire zone, and if Garin got in the way of the mission, so be it.

But there was no way to know when that would happen. He still hadn’t worked out a signal. Simple gunfire wouldn’t bring in Automatik. The situation was so volatile that the crack of bullets would be as normal as the crack of eggs. The bursts of AK fire from the local heavies didn’t trigger the assault. Art needed something big.

The largest bang he could make was the propane tank. Without the phone as an electronic trigger, he’d have to do it the blue-collar way: a well-placed bullet on the charge around the pipe. Which positioned him somewhere in the basement, not the safest place during the blast. And it meant he wouldn’t have eyes on Hayley, unless she was down there in danger of getting blown up with him.

She’d have to be somewhere other than the kitchen. At least half of it would go up with the tank. That was her safest zone, though. Taking her to another part of the compound put her in greater danger.

His mind spun and his grip tightened on the pistol. All the moving pieces of this speeding clock had sharp edges. It didn’t seem like there was any way to time them so blood wasn’t spilled.

* * *

Burton didn’t play tennis, but in her dream he stood holding a racket and wearing all-white gear on a green-painted court. He complained that she was late and fucked up their chances of taking the cup. His face was red and distorted as he shouted, spitting. The bright sunlight made her head spin. She tried to shade her eyes but couldn’t move her hands.

A gunshot blasted, loud, and a bullet snapped Burton’s racket in half. He didn’t stop shouting. Art stalked onto the court, shirtless, his scars and tattoos vivid. The push dagger glinted in his fist.

She shouted,
“Nyet!”

Art punched Burton in the stomach, completely burying the knife. Blood covered his arm.

He dragged his fist from the now-pale Burton and turned to her.

Hayley woke up kicking the covers off her legs, ready to run.

The high window was dark, hours before dawn. She tried to slow her pulse, taking long breaths and sitting up. Each time she blinked, she saw the bright green court and red blood.

A splash of cold water on her face would help bring back the real world, but unlocking the door felt like a very bad idea. The real world wasn’t much better than the terrible dream.

Art was better than that, and even though this version had been generated by her subconscious, she felt guilty at the way she’d depicted him. She did trust him and knew he wasn’t just a killer. The constant danger ground her down, confusing everything.

She ran her fingers through her hair several times, trying to soothe herself. After a few strokes, she lay back in the bed and tried to find her way past the dream and back to sleep.

Early light woke her. Sleep without rest. She dressed, clipping the knife to her belt just behind her right hip before putting on her chef’s coat.

Unlocking the door, she let it fall open quietly. Most of the house except the night shift of guards remained asleep.

Not Art. He sat on the bottom of the service stairs, where they’d had their first kiss. There were dark rings under his emotionless eyes.

“I had a rough night, too.” He managed a wry smile.

“I’ll make extra coffee.” First she hit the bathroom for her morning routine and finally splashed cold water on her face.

Art was standing when she emerged, and the two of them walked into the kitchen. The first coffee was just for them. She couldn’t tell him the dream. He was reserved, as well. The discomfort edged into her. They’d found a connection and now it was strained thin as a champagne glass.

“I want...” He searched. “I want to take you out to dinner. In San Diego.”

The meaning was clear. Once this was over. If they survived.

She stepped closer to him. “I want that, too.”

“Or would that be too much like work for you, being in a restaurant?” he asked with concern.

“Depends on where I go. There are a few places that work good for me.” And it would be a pleasure to share them with him.

“I’ll let you pick.” Some of the natural rhythmic sways returned to his movement.

She nodded. “You drive. But I sit in the front.”

He clinked his mug of coffee with hers. Weariness etched on his face, little lines dragging down the corners of his mouth and his eyes. Somehow he pushed through, maintaining his energy and awareness.

“The goons will be coming in soon.” He refilled his mug, moving his focus from the back door to the open edge of the kitchen.

Breakfast had been prepped the night before. She was ready. “This is the easy part.” Drawing on deep reserves of energy, and the caffeine, she tried to will herself awake.

He looked her up and down. Bits of heat gathered across her skin, as if he was touching her with just the tips of his fingers. “You packin’?” he asked intimately.

The heat waned. But enough remained to make her wish they were a thousand miles away from this house, alone in another hotel room. Maybe high in a city, with the curtains open so they could watch the people from a distance.

She brushed her palm along her back where the knife was.

“Don’t pat it,” he instructed gently. “Lets them know where you stashed it.” He swirled the coffee in his mug. “Give me a turn.”

She hesitated. Fully clothed, and still she felt exposed. She hadn’t opened herself up to that kind of scrutiny from a man. But it was Art, and the trust remained. She lifted her arms slightly and took a slow turn.

When she returned to her view of Art, he was nodding appreciatively. “Good.” He was all business. “I can’t see it.” Then a different light crept into his eyes. He murmured, “You do that for me again sometime? Maybe naked, or just in bra and panties.”

The thrill of exposing herself to him like that shot through her. “Only if you’ll soap me up and shampoo me in a long shower.”

A few days under pressure with Art had felt like years of peeling away his layers and revealing her own. He seemed like a man who could belong in her life. But was that just because of the danger? What about after? Would their bond continue?

“Woman.” He tilted his head back slowly, reeling. “You’re the best.”

They both snapped to attention when the first wave of guards started shuffling to the kitchen. The men gathered their breakfasts, and Hayley kept the coffeepots and food supplies full. Art helped silently. The guards talked to each other, but none of them engaged him. The attack last night highlighted the friction. Art was on the outside. She was neutral to them. The cook.

The edge in the room suddenly hummed sharp. Men reached for their guns, resting their hands on the grips. Art remained poised, his attention toward the front of the house. A car arrived. The gate squeaked and tires crunched the dirt. Guards left their breakfasts half-eaten and strode out.