Countdown to Zero Hour (6 page)

Did he control Art that way? It didn’t seem as if anyone could tell that man what to do, yet he followed the orders of his boss.

Art had been curiously absent during lunch. Part of her had been glad to be free from the dizzying spin he always produced around her. She’d focused on the work and less on the insane circumstances around her. But she also missed his presence and that sense that he was watching out for her, even though he was the one who got her into this.

Once Rolan’s plate was complete, he moved out of the kitchen, and the steady flow of the guards resumed. It wasn’t until the last one had built his meal that Art showed up. Relief and trepidation mixed through her, charged by the electric rush that Art always brought.

She stood by the counter while he assembled a sandwich. “The code of the lunch room?” she asked. “Art eats last.”

He barely shrugged. “Some of them love to hate me. Some don’t care. I keep to my business.”

But she didn’t understand that business. He wasn’t just a ruthless bodyguard. Not like the others. She’d seen his brutality, but also his care. Was he as trapped as she was?

With a whisper, she ventured, “What are you doing here?”

His answer was in his eyes. On the surface, his look said,
“Don’t ask,”
but beyond it there was a history of pain and determination. Battles fought and won, and deeper battles still ongoing.

“I’m here for lunch.” He piled additional food on his plate and carried it out of the kitchen.

Instead of being shut down, though, she needed to know more. That was the real danger. If she continued to push, to seek, what truth about Art would she find? And what would he do if she discovered him?

Pulling away from the electrified chain that bound her to Art, she focused her attention back on the kitchen. Lunch was over, and dinner prep had to begin.

The new pots and pans were organized as they dried. She collected the ingredients for an adaptation of a stuffed carp recipe she’d learned from her aunt. But instead of carp, she was using fresh salmon steak she’d brought.

A few guards returned from lunch with piles of paper plates and other trash. Art wasn’t with them. She pointed to where it should go and continued organizing the foreign kitchen.

Dried mushrooms were submerged in hot water. They’d come out two hours later. Meanwhile, she could work on the side salad of carrots and cucumbers. It was uninspired labor, but she was happy to have a familiar task she could throw herself into. Cooking had defined her for so long. She relied on that amid the questions and danger.

But her concentration was broken by a man entering her kitchen.

He smiled, but didn’t look happy. His blue eyes were chilling. Broad and muscled, he seemed to block out the rest of the house from the kitchen. He put his hand out slowly, palm up. His forearm was drawn all over in tattoos. Rough skulls amid what looked like oil paintings. He glanced at her hand, then his, trying to direct her.

The last thing she wanted to do was touch him. His fingers would close like a trap.

“There’s more lunch in the fridge.” She busied herself measuring out cups of dry buckwheat.

Did he understand? The blond man didn’t seem to care. “Dessert.” His Russian accent was thick. He licked his lips. His hand remained outstretched and he flicked his gaze there, as if enticing her.

She picked up the large metal spoon she’d used to submerge the dried mushrooms and pointed with it to a large bowl of apples. “
Sladkoye
.”

His smile shrank to a thin line. He lowered his hand and took a step toward her.

Goddamn it. The son of a bitch wasn’t going to quit. He’d played his power game, but had to take it further. But how far?

Another step closer, and she tried to blockade him with a stern, “No.”

But this only made the smile reappear. His game. His rules, and he was loving it too much. Acid filled her stomach.

He came closer. She remained on the other side of the wide island. With a wiggle of his hips, he laughed, testing to see which way she would run.

“No.” She repeated. Tremors of alarm ran up and down her arms.

He circled around one side of the island, and she moved away.

“Nyet. Nyet.”

The man bared his teeth in a broader smile, like he was feasting on her anger, and the fear that pitched into her voice.

He lunged to one side of the island, and she scrambled to counter opposite. But he was too fast and swung back around to meet her.

His firm fingers slid over her hip. He tugged her forward, reaching with his other hand.

Words hadn’t stopped him. Anger nearly blinded her. She refused to be one centimeter closer to this man. She swung the metal spoon, catching him across the back of his extended hand.

The impact echoed off the hard surfaces of the kitchen.

The man recoiled slightly, wincing and shocked. But he still held her.

“Nyet!”
Rage overtook the fear. She attacked with the spoon again, hitting him on the knuckles and aiming for his face.

The expert fighter turned, taking the blow on his shoulder. She felt how solid he was and knew the odds of her finishing this struggle were against her.

He hissed,
“Suka,”
through bared teeth and lunged, knocking her backward into a counter with his chest.

Pain blazed across her back. She struggled for breath. The man was too big, too strong.

But she was cornered and wasn’t going to make it easy on him. She was ready to gouge and kick at anything soft on the hard man.

The fighter puffed up to lunge again. Then he groaned, curling to one side. Art was behind him and had punched the man just below the ribs, in the kidney.

The larger man wasn’t down, though. He spun, leading with an elbow that Art ducked. But it pushed Art back enough for the blond man to launch another attack. He jabbed out with fists, swung more elbows. Art absorbed what sounded like painful blows. Hayley struggled to regain herself. Was Art going to lose this fight? His face remained deadly calm, like when he’d taken on the men outside the nightclub.

Hayley saw something different in Art’s eyes, though. A flash of rage.

He finally unleashed his own attack. The edge of his open hand caught the larger man in the throat. As he sputtered, Art slammed his elbow into the man’s temple, knocking him into the island.

Off balance, the man kicked into Art’s shin, slowing the next onslaught. Art stumbled into the blond fighter and locked up his arm, twisting it to an agonizing angle.

A strained snort shot out into the house. The open edge of the kitchen was already starting to fill with the other guards. None of them moved forward to break up the fight. She knew some of it was bloodthirsty curiosity. But there was also the danger that anyone who got too close would become a victim of the struggle.

She was frozen. Art had leaped in to defend her, but she had no means of helping him. Her anger at the blond man doubled.

The large man gathered his legs and threw himself and Art hard backward into the corner of the island. Art bared his teeth and twisted harder on his arm. With his free hand, the other man reached for his ankle, where Hayley saw he had a small handgun in a holster.

Fear tightened in her throat. Art could be killed. The bullets could fly into her.

Art saw the man’s gun, too, and quickly released his hold, sliding up and back and putting his hand on the handle of his own pistol.

“Stop!” an authoritative voice barked out.

The guards parted for Rolan and another dark-haired man to approach. From the way he carried himself, he was just as much a boss as Rolan.

Art and the other fighter were frozen, guns holstered, but so close to drawing them.

Rolan repeated, “Stop.” This time softer, chiding. He shook his head, disheartened, then clipped out curt Russian sentences she didn’t understand.

The words drained most of the tension from the room. Art and the other man moved their hands from their guns. The other guards dispersed, shuffling and disappointed there wasn’t any bloodshed or murder.

Rolan and the other boss remained. The blond guard slowly stood up, his mouth twisted in a scowl as he eyed Art.

She still held the spoon. It would never be enough. Even if they didn’t have guns, the way they fought was brutal and painful and to the death. Both this man and Art were experts in violence.

But they couldn’t cook.

“Do you want to starve?” She broke the silence and didn’t care who understood. The fear of the conflict trembled through her, but she continued to all the men in the kitchen, “Or cook for yourselves?”

With a curt tip of his head, the shorter boss commanded the blond guard to join him at the edge of the kitchen. The fighter didn’t hesitate and was soon leaning down to listen to low words from his boss. The two of them left the area without looking back.

Rolan released a long sigh and glided out of the kitchen.

Art turned to her, the tension remaining in his body but a softer look was in his eyes. “You okay?”

She nodded and tested the bruise on her lower back from where the guard shoved her into the counter. “You?”

He rolled his broad shoulders. “Yeah.”

“Thanks.” Her legs wobbled as she moved back to her prep station on the island.

“Yeah.” Art adjusted his jacket, covering his pistol. “That motherfucker is Garin. Dernov’s man.”

“Dernov was the guy with the dark hair?”

Art cracked his knuckles and twisted his neck until there was a small pop. “Another boss. Stay away from either one of them.”

“I’d love to,” she said, laced with sarcasm. “Keep them out of my kitchen.”

“I’ll do what I can, but things are going to get tighter from here out.” His piercing gaze assessed the space again, lingering in the direction where Garin disappeared with Dernov.

“It’s day one.” She could hardly believe so much had happened already.

“Don’t I know it.” His piercing eyes turned back to her. “You sure you’re alright?”

Needles of fear and anger pierced through her at the memory of Garin’s hand on her hip. But there was also an electric hum, inspired by seeing Art stop the larger man’s aggression and take him down. This surge urged her toward Art, with an ache to release all the energy pounding through her.

“I’m still cooking.” She sifted barley through her fingers, bringing her back toward her usual world.

“You’re amazing that way.” He was dead serious.

The electric rush shocked harder up her legs and around her chest.

Neither of them moved. The charge could easily draw them together. Her blood rushed and she imagined his did, too. He was close, shielding her from the rest of the house. Long breaths rose and fell in his chest. His active gaze slowed when he stared at her. Their bodies were primed to clash.

But all the circumstances around them were twisted and jagged, making her feel very far away from this man who she knew only in fragments. He’d fought for her. Protected her. But he’d been the one who’d brought her into this world of violence.

He must’ve sensed her distance and took a step away. “Can’t wait for dinner.”

When he left, it wasn’t with the usual swagger or roll to his walk. He was steady, grounded.

She missed him. His protection. She feared his violence. She didn’t trust him. For the first time with Art, she didn’t trust herself.

Chapter Six

The only good to come from the fight was that Art now knew where Garin kept his gun. Other than that, everything was a mess. At least Hayley hadn’t been hurt badly. When he’d heard her calling out,
“Nyet,”
a dead chill had exploded in him. He’d been far, in his room. How many times had she called out before the furious and scared shout had hit him?

By the time he’d reached the kitchen, her conflict with Garin had blown open. She’d swung her weapon into his hand and tried for his head. Then the son of a bitch had shoved her. Art was armed and had almost put two rounds through Garin’s center mass. The reaction would’ve been seen as too extreme by the others in the house. And Garin was Dernov’s man. Art would’ve been killed before he’d gotten out of the kitchen. And Hayley...after she’d seen something like that, they’d never let her leave alive.

So he’d kept it to fists and elbows until Garin had escalated the fight to the pistols. Luckily they’d been stopped before the lead had started flying. But he would’ve liked extra time to make Garin’s face uglier with the point of his elbow or the edge of the granite counter.

Things had diffused quickly once the bosses had arrived. Art knew the trouble wasn’t over. The fallout was radioactive and would fester the whole time he and Garin were in the house.

Yet another complication for Art’s operation with Automatik. He was back in his room, sitting on the bed, facing the door. His pistol was unholstered, resting on his thigh. He typed on his phone, while the app encrypted the information and sent it via the Wi-Fi connection between him and Jackson burrowed somewhere out in the desert.

He detailed the number of known combatants and the weapons they carried. As he relayed the layout of the house, he highlighted the blind spots behind the doors, the killing alley of the hallway on the second floor and the potential dead end in the conference room.

There remained three bosses left to show up, but the assault should be planned for when the maid wasn’t at the house. Art reiterated that Hayley was not a combatant and needed to be treated as an asset to be protected. The wording felt too basic. It got the meaning across to Jackson and the others he’d bounce the information to, but Art’s intent went beyond just strategy planning. He’d been damn close to killing for her, and it was only day one.

Jackson’s simple reply, Received, disappeared on the screen shortly after Art read it. In case someone else got a hold of Art’s phone, there would be no trace of this conversation. The app itself, unless a passcode was entered, looked like a simple number puzzle game.

Before ending the intelligence breakdown, Art sent a final request. Find out what the Russian word ‘denga’ means.

The message faded out quickly, and Art closed the app.

He’d been deep in country before, where resources grew thin behind him. The icy hills of Afghanistan had taxed him beyond his training and made him find new voices of inspiration. His dead father, who existed mostly for him in old, bent snapshots, had reached out of the past as a ghostly dream to tell him to keep enduring. His father had been a street-level hustler and had no business in the Middle Eastern mountains. But there he was, when Art was shivering and hungry and watching a specific rocky pass with his finger on his trigger. He’d spoken in Spanish, but the words had been muffled in the wind. Art had known the meaning, though. His father had died. Art had to keep going.

That man was talking again now, in the desert closer to where he’d been born. Art didn’t need the words this time either. His father demanded revenge.

Instead of being cold, Art was consumed by fire. The organization responsible for his father’s death surrounded him. The house could blow up any second. But he would dance through the flames, carrying Hayley to safety with him. And he’d let everyone else burn.

* * *

Hayley’s hands still trembled as she chopped the rehydrated mushrooms. The barley simmered in the former mushroom water, and dinner was progressing. She’d cooked this food before but couldn’t grasp a sense of normalcy. After finishing the mushrooms and adding them to a bowl with thinly sliced shallots, she turned her attention to the salmon.

Every footstep at the perimeter of her open kitchen snapped her attention away from the food. Guards milled about, looking out windows in the dining area and double-checking doors in the wide living room beyond it. None of them ventured into her kitchen, yet she couldn’t focus completely on her cooking.

Garin had come on so fast, there’d been hardly any time to defend herself. Even his fight with Art must’ve taken just a few seconds, though it had felt like she’d watched each blow over the course of hours. If anything bad was going to happen in this house, it would erupt in an instant, and Art wasn’t always going to be there to protect her.

He’d been absent for hours while she’d finished organizing the kitchen and continued prepping for dinner. What if something had happened to him? Punishment for his fight with Garin. Maybe that was why she was jumpy at every sound around her. She had to know he was okay.

But she couldn’t go out into the house looking for him. That would’ve been asking for way too much trouble.

So she continued to work on dinner, distracted. Sectioning the salmon to individual steaks, she reserved the trimmings for a baked and layered fish-and-vegetable dish for tomorrow’s lunch. If she was alive to cook it.

The bright yellow sky outside the window thickened to orange. Evening approached. They would want their dinner soon. She’d been rattled off her game and now worried she wouldn’t be done in time. Usually she’d be able to call out to her assistant without looking up from her task. But she was alone.

A figure moved into the light of the window as it spilled into the dining area around the corner from the kitchen. Art flashed brighter than she’d ever seen him. Beyond even when he was in the stark day of the farmers’ market. She saw the firm set of his jaw, the sleek shape of his shaved head. His eyes were more unguarded than ever, drawing her into their depths. A long breath escaped her as she discovered he was safe.

Suddenly, she was very exposed. He’d broken through the caution she’d built, and she didn’t know where her defenses were anymore.

He’d regained his swagger and easily stepped through the invisible border of the kitchen into her prep area. “Need a hand?”

“Five big tomatoes from the bowl on the counter. Seven cucumbers from the fridge.” Just having him in the kitchen seemed to balance the floor beneath her feet. And that worried her.

After a moment, he arrived at her counter with the produce she requested.

She kept her attention on the salmon steaks, laying them out on baking sheets. “You take orders well.”

“I used to.” He arranged the tomatoes and cucumbers on a cutting board. “It’s getting difficult.”

“Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work.” Was she pushing it too far, talking to him this freely?

“Maybe.” The word resonated darkly through him.

“You could be my sous-chef.” She pushed it too far, threading thicker intimacy between them.

He laughed, raspy. “I already am.” Then he bumped the side of his fist on the counter. “What’s next?”

“Fish goes in the oven.” She pointed at the trays of salmon. “I’m sautéing the buckwheat and mushrooms. Then on to the salad.”

Art moved quickly, sweeping the trays off the counter and into the oven. He turned back to her after closing the door. “No timer?”

She paused while selecting a sauté pan. “When you were fighting those two guys outside the club, did you ever forget where one of them was?”

“Never.” He rolled one of his shoulders as if getting ready for another round. “And I knew where you were the whole time, too.”

She didn’t doubt that anymore. “I’m trained, too.” She tapped her temple.

He saluted back. “Yes, ma’am, Master Chef.”

For a moment she forgot where she was and who she was preparing dinner for.

Reality slammed back when a guard moved through the living room in the distance. She centered herself again and took the buckwheat and mushrooms to the stove.

The aromas of earth and body came alive as the ingredients hit hot butter in a pan. Sometimes cooking was work. The pleasure of the food could get lost in the math of portion sizes and the timing of getting everything done so it all hit the plate hot. But she wasn’t simply a robot with spatulas for hands. The sensuality of food still lit her up. The edge of sautéed onions. Or even the orgy of boiling water.

Art’s own energy near her in the kitchen fueled a different heat than came from the oven. But her aim had to be all about the dinner. Her body, those needs and the possibilities with this man would have to wait.

Wait until what?
It could never be.

She continued to cook. Art stood by at the ready for the next task.

She poured the warmed buckwheat mixture into a baking pan and kept her voice low, just for the two of them. “I hope you helping me out with Garin didn’t get you in any trouble.”

He shrugged it off. “Nothing major from up top. He said he was just playing, but they knew he fucked up.” Once she was done with the sauté pan, he took it from her and placed it beside the sink. “And that son of a bitch already didn’t like me, so no love lost.”

“Is he done ‘playing?’” She put the buckwheat in the oven with the fish, which was coming along nicely.

“No,” he growled. “But I’m watching.”

She turned back to him, saw the tenacity in his eyes. “Thank you.”

A smile glimmered on his face. “You’ve got to stop thanking me.”

“You’ve got to stop saving my ass.”

“Don’t count on it.”

She wanted to linger and find out just how determined he was, but instead slipped past him and back to the island, where the salad needed prepping. “It’s just because I can cook.”

“Damn right. Without you, I’d starve.” He said it with a lightness in his voice, but again, a deeper intensity lingered beneath the surface.

She deliberately kept her eyes on the vegetables she chopped for the salad. “Grab the plates. This’ll all be ready in a few minutes.”

He jumped to the task and called in the other guard, Gogol, to help arrange things so they could expedite them to the dining room. She finished the salad and pulled the fish and buckwheat mixture.

Art stood at the ready. She told him to let the others know dinner would be on the table soon, and he got the word out in fluid Russian to one guard, who passed it to another, and she imagined so on through the house.

As the men started taking their places at the large oval dining table, she began plating the food. Slow movement at the edge of her kitchen drew her attention. Garin walked with a deliberate pace, throwing mean looks at her and Art until he disappeared into the dining area.

She asked Art quietly, “Does he speak English?”

“Assume everyone does.” He took one of her completed plates and placed it on a large serving tray.

The other tray was already full, and Gogol started to lift it. Art interjected in Russian, making him pause. Then Art turned to her. “Are these good to go?”

She took one last check over the plate. Salmon, buckwheat mixture. Dressed tomato-and-cucumber salad. Chopped fresh parsley where it needed to be.

“Send it,” she replied.

That got a chuckle out of Art.

“What?”

He hefted the tray of food. “That’s what a sniper’s spotter says before the sniper pulls the trigger.” After speaking to Gogol, he and the other man exited the kitchen with the food.

She followed them out. This service would take care of the men at the table. The second shift’s food would stay warm for a while.

Once she entered the dining area, all attention turned to her. Garin smiled again without joy, showing teeth. His boss, Dernov, was there—dark and hunched in his seat, gazing disinterestedly at her. Rolan appeared satisfied, though he hadn’t even taken a bite of the food placed before him by Art. The other guards at the table either leered a bit or just looked hungry and happy to be off their feet.

She defined the meal, and Art translated for her. “Baked salmon with barley and mushrooms. Tomato-and-cucumber salad with a sour cream dressing.”

Dernov was eating before she’d finished. Rolan digested her explanation, then carefully dug into his food. The other guards ate unceremoniously.

Art sat and took his time getting into the food.

This part of her job was done.
“Priyatnogo appetita.”
Her accent wasn’t as good as Art’s, but they all got the meaning.

Art finished swallowing before complimenting, “Hell of a good job.”

Rolan smiled, equally pleased. Dernov made no expression but did hurry the food into his mouth. Garin was theatrically deliberate, glancing from the food to her. She brought her professional mask into place. He’d get nothing.

“Thanks for dinner.” Art gave her a nod. He’d seen the leer from Garin.

“Enjoy.” Art might’ve watched her on the way out. She didn’t check. The living room was empty. The kitchen was quiet.

For a moment, she didn’t have a pressing task to distract her. One dinner was done. Six to go. She thought she might use one of her paring knives to carve a notch in the wood of the cabinet next to the stove, marking her time like a prisoner.

She was getting paid, though she wasn’t free. The guards weren’t there to keep her in. But where would she go if she wanted to escape Garin and the other dangerous men? Endless desert surrounded the house.

If she fled, Art wouldn’t be there. That dangerous man seemed like the only one who could keep her safe. The little loop of communication continued between them. Did he expect anything in return for his protection? She knew how her body responded to him. All that heat was going to burn. The idea of going up in flames wrapped up with his body was starting to feel like too much of a necessity. He was her safety, but dangerous in so many ways.

* * *

God, her food was amazing. So simple, but layered with flavor. And it gave him the feeling of being home. Eating it was almost as incredible as watching her work in the kitchen. She hadn’t lied. She was trained and operated in her theater like a general in total control. He’d had to overcome the fog of war when he was overseas, but felt a bit of that disorientation in her kitchen, not knowing how she got everything done so expertly and on time.