Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (25 page)

With growing unease, H.L. listened as M.C. provided information about the strength of Black Raven, the growth of its cyber-capabilities after the company rescued and hired Barrows, and his well-founded suspicion that the government now used Black Raven as a resource. After what seemed like an eternity, M.C. fell silent.

“So you’re saying we should assume that Black Raven is integrated with data from U.S. Intelligence agencies?” H.L. asked.

“I’m saying that my most trusted sources indicate that the government has contracts with Black Raven that are classified. We have to assume that DHS, NSA, and other agencies now outsource collection and assimilation of cyber data, and the most likely outfit that is getting the contracts is Black Raven. Because of Richard Barrows.”

“It was a yes or no question.” H.L. waved away some of J.R.’s smoke.

“No one I know seems to know the agencies that have outsourced or the scope of the contracts.” M.C. leaned forward, his gaze bouncing from H.L. to J.R. “So we should assume the worst. Assume yes. And for now, the problem isn’t simply Black Raven’s access to God knows what kind of data. The problem is that Fairfax, Hernandez, and Barrows are very likely working as a unit. Fairfax has access to the Black Raven body of knowledge, and she can use the ITT proceeding to gather data for Black Raven. Her motion to interview Stollen is, no doubt, a joint effort. She, Hernandez, and Barrows are likely the impetus behind the French motion for expansion of the record. It is only a matter of time before the ITT, Barrows, and Black Raven are all breathing down our necks.”

M.C. shifted in his chair. “Stopping the ITT proceedings was and is a great goal for our continuing enterprise. However, stopping anyone who might start looking at us, with the capability of finding us, is a fundamental prerequisite to our self-preservation,” M.C. said. “We must stop Fairfax, Hernandez, and Black Raven.”

“Agreed.” H.L.’s earlier hesitation at targeting individuals who threatened them, rather than simply targeting the proceedings, dwindled away to nothing. He glanced at M.C., then focused on J.R. “Come up with a plan, Mr. Brilliance.”

J.R. lit another cigarette, leaned back on the couch, and gave H.L. a slow smile as smoke oozed out of his lips. “Knew you’d come around.”

“And Stollen?” M.C. said. “Nothing he’ll say will help our cause. As a matter of fact, he can damn well hurt us.”

“We’ll know this afternoon if the court is granting Fairfax’s request,” H.L. said.

“Just to be clear here.” M.C., normally cool and controlled, was toying with his glasses and fidgeting with his laptop. His nervousness was infectious. The yellow caution flags that had been hoisted in H.L.’s mind became red flags of danger as M.C. continued. “I’m as worried about Hernandez as I am about Fairfax. Hernandez’s company is on the bounty hunt for Maximov. If Hernandez lifts his nose and starts sniffing in our direction, with the resources he has at his fingertips, he and his company will quickly escalate to the biggest threat we’ve encountered to date.”

“Understood.” J.R. settled into quiet contemplation by taking a deep drag on his cigarette, relaxing his shoulders, and crossing his right ankle to his left knee. His gentle dark eyes were focused on M.C.’s laptop screen, with its news footage of the video feed of Zeus Hernandez holding Samantha Fairfax.

“What do we know about the Black Raven safe house where the Amicus team is staying?” H.L. asked.

“Heavily armed agents guard the perimeter and roof. At least fifteen are inside constantly,” M.C. said. “An assault there would be too risky.”

J.R., eyes still on the video, said, “Yesterday they exited Ile de la Cite on the Pont au Change.”

“What are you proposing?” H.L. asked.

“Assuming they take that route again, we could meet them on the Quais des Grand Augustins. Attack while they’re in transport,” J.R. said.

“Won’t work. The Black Raven vehicles are bulletproof,” M.C. said, turning his laptop screen, bending forward as he typed.

“Tires aren’t,” J.R. answered with a shrug and a deep drag of his cigarette. “Bulletproof only goes so far. I can work around it.”

“Using four cars, we could isolate the vehicle with Hernandez and Fairfax, and go in for the kill,” H.L. said.

“A possibility. However, that kind of attack would require ground power by serious talent. We’d need at least,” J.R. paused, narrowing his eyes for a moment, “ten men. We’ve got the capability. However, I’m thinking no. Hernandez has teams all around him. We’d be quickly outnumbered. Our men would be captured, if not killed. Too risky. Not that I give a damn about men getting killed, but I do care if they can be traced back to us. If men get captured, there is always the risk they’ll start talking.”

“Absolutely,” M.C. answered.

“Sniper?” H.L. asked. “That blonde-haired American princess would make a great dramatic exit from the world.”

J.R. nodded. “That could work. I’ll assess. Options may develop.”

“Meanwhile,” H.L. said with a smile that was meant to reassure M.C., “let’s not forget that in my public life, Fairfax knows me. She trusts me. I’ll see what I can learn from her.”

“I’ll continue to explore ways to exploit their weaknesses. Remember the family angle we’re pursuing among participants in the ITT proceeding?” With a smile, M.C. turned his computer screen to them.

Three images appeared on the screen. H.L. recognized two of the three by sight. The first, Samuel Dixon—the eccentric, brash billionaire who was Samantha Fairfax’s grandfather. The second, U.S. Senator Justin McDougall—Fairfax’s boyfriend. The third photo was an image of a man’s back, broad shoulders, and dark hair. The man’s head was slightly turned to his left. The photographer had captured a partial profile of his strong jaw, solid, straight nose, and high cheekbones.

Hernandez. He was holding a young girl.

“Daughter?” J.R. asked, the uncharacteristic joy in his voice unmistakable.

M.C. nodded. “She’s six now. In this image she was five. Name’s Ana.”

The child had her chin resting comfortably on Hernandez’s right shoulder, while her arms dangled over his back. She clutched a teddy bear in her left hand. In the safety of Hernandez’s protective arms, she stared absently behind him, in the direction of the camera. Eyes slightly heavy with fatigue, she looked like a sweet young girl, too young to know to avert her face from a photographer who had no business taking her photo.

“I know which target I’m choosing first,” H.L. said, his eyes riveted on Hernandez and his daughter. “That’s an Achilles’ heel if ever there was one.”

Blowing out a plume of smoke, J.R. leaned forward, eyes narrowed as he stared at the image of the little girl and her father. “Give me a few moments to think about how we can maximize impact. We need to hit that one hard. So hard it cripples Fairfax, Hernandez, and Black Raven’s bounty hunt.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The blustering shitstorm that was Zeus’s Thursday had started the minute he called Sam a coward, made the asinine comment about what she might feel when she masturbated, and drizzled darkness down from there.

After the ominously quiet slam of his bedroom door 0445, he turned off the lamp, but couldn’t sleep. That was a problem, because he damn well needed sleep. At least three or four hours when on a high stress job, and every few nights he needed more.

She’s only having sex with me because I’m good at it?

Could be both a compliment and an insult, but given the tone and words she’d used, he knew her intent, and it pissed him off to no end. Hence his ill-advised masturbation comment.

At 0545, he turned over one last time, face down in a too soft pillow that still held faint traces of her sweet perfume, and gave up. A quick shower, and he was walking into the library at 0610.

Sam was already there.

Good.

He was perversely grateful she hadn’t slept either. He hoped she was as unsettled as he by the parting after-sex fire volleys they’d thrown at each other.

He studied her face.
Nope. Ice queen doesn’t seem fazed at all.

She was in the library for work and focused on it. Hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, glasses on, and wearing socks, exercise leggings, and an oversized sweatshirt, she sat at a table with Abe and Charles, immersed in an early morning meeting. She barely acknowledged that he’d walked into the library.

A fire crackled in the fireplace. Agents glanced up briefly to acknowledge his presence, then went back to working quietly on their laptops.

Zeus opened his own laptop and started clicking through email, answering those he could and forwarding some to Sebastian for his attention. For the next couple of hours, he and Sam acted as professionals, as though nothing but the Amicus Team/Black Raven job existed between them. Everyone worked in complete silence. Only the sound of padded footsteps crossing the plush carpet to pour more coffee, the
click click click
of fingers at keyboards, and the occasional rustle of papers broke the snap, crackle, and pop of the fire.

When he was on his third cup of black coffee, Zeus couldn’t resist sending her a private instant message
. We should talk at some point this morning. Without verbal cheap shots.

Her reply came quick, without even a glance in his direction, as she worked at the other table.
No.

He zinged another message to her.
Won’t stop asking.

Answer won’t change.

If he were the type to get irritated, he’d be pissed off. Officially. And, truth be told, he was getting pissed off. Irrationally, he was pissed off at her, at the world, at Maximov. At Samuel Dixon for hiring him to do the job. At whichever politician—even President Cameron—had dreamed up the idea of this clusterfuck of ITT proceedings in the first place. Most of all, and not irrationally, he was pissed off at himself, for being in this situation.

Should have said no to the hiring call.

Yet he was used to repressing his feelings, and with a subtle roll of his shoulders and a deep inhalation, Zeus was able, for a moment, to send his emotions into the stratosphere, refocusing on his laptop and not the way her blood-red lacquered fingernails sounded as she clicked on her laptop keyboard. Type, type, type. Pause. Read. Type, type, type. Pause. Read. Type. Read.

Parking his emotions elsewhere was a technique he’d learned young, when self-preservation had depended on it. When Zeus was sixteen, the highest crime days had supposedly come and gone from Miami Beach. Tourists flocked there for the glistening water and newly refurbished art deco hotels, but despite the illusion of safety, a man who made a habit of carrying cash was still a lightning rod for crime.

Pressing his hands on the gaping, sucking hole in his father’s chest as he tried to stop the river of blood, Zeus watched the thugs who had shot his father run away. With his mother’s crippling anguish, there was no room for Zeus’s own grief and profound fear of living life without the father he adored.

His mother needed a crutch. Zeus became it. Gabe had been only ten years old. He needed a strong big brother and a father figure. Zeus, already one, became both. As Zeus made the burial arrangements for his father, as he made all the decisions that came with death, and the harder decisions that came with being the man of the family at the age of sixteen, he learned to work methodically through personal turmoil.

He became adept at ignoring his own feelings, because emotion got in the way of obligation, duties, and life. Pushing emotions to the side, parking them far away, was a technique that had served him well. The universe was now full of his unsaid words, feelings that weren’t allowed, emotions that were repressed. All mentally parked elsewhere, never to be retrieved. He’d been fine with that.

Until Sam.

Meeting Sam seven years earlier had taught him he wasn’t immune to strong emotion after all. From the first moment Sam’s clear green eyes glanced in his direction, he’d felt more emotion than he’d allowed himself to experience since his father’s murder. Any bliss that came with finding head-over-heels love came to a crashing halt when Theresa’s call yanked him back into his reality—a world full of personal duty and obligation. He’d thought that marrying Theresa was the right thing to do. His mother, who had died shortly after Ana’s fourth birthday, never would have understood how Zeus could consider not marrying the mother of his child.

Now, the woman who was inspiring his mental gymnastics seemed oblivious to his torment, and that pissed him off to hell and back. When he was around her, he felt too damn much.

Hell.

Feelings.
And the point to them was—what?

Nothing he was aware of.

Sitting in the library, clicking through endless emails related to the Black Raven insurance project he’d been neglecting while on this job, he hated that he was so aware each time Sam flicked back her long blonde hair, leaned towards her computer, pushed her dark-framed glasses up her nose, and stared intently at the screen.

As if he had a goddamn lifetime of cool repression to make up for, the devil was giving him his due by forcing him to contend with Sam, who inspired a clash of feelings inside of him with just a blink of her long-lashed eyes. Losing his cool over a woman was a high price, one that told him that payback for years of repression was a fucking bitch.

Embrace the suck, because this suck-ass job isn’t going to get better, and your feelings for this woman aren’t going to go away.

For now, he could only pray that when Sam looked at him, he wouldn’t feel a goddamn thing. That his racing heart wouldn’t steal his breath, that he’d feel as cool as he acted, and that his fucking acting was damn good.

By 0730, when he had a million Black Raven issues that needed his attention, he was wondering what the fuck was his problem.

Hell if I know.

If he could just turn back time…but he couldn’t. Not an hour. Not a minute. And certainly not seven years. And now that he’d gotten a major load of the present-day Sam, he was pretty damn certain that turning back the clock wasn’t the problem.

Fuck.
The niggling thought that perhaps he’d made the right move by walking away from her all those years ago was now more than a glimmer, more than a trace thought shimmering through his brain.

Fuckfuckfuck.

If only my heart had gotten the message when I put on my walking shoes and left her.

At 0745, she glanced at him. “We figured out what to do with the telecommunication data in OLIVER. I’ve drafted a motion for the French to use on that. We need to talk about Stollen before I file the motion for an interview with him that I’ve drafted.”

Her cool, calm tone reminded him, thank God, that first and foremost, Sam was a client, and his feelings—things he shouldn’t be having, anyway—shouldn’t interfere with work. Not only a client, the woman he had accused of being a coward was a damn smart client, with an important job to do.

For the next hour, he and Sam worked together, with input from Ragno and Abe, strategizing what argument to present to the court regarding the need to interview Stollen. The motions had been filed at 0900.

At 1100, he was in his closet, choosing a necktie, getting ready for the short drive to the ITT proceeding. He picked an emerald green and gray striped silk.

He and Ragno were talking bounty-hunting issues. The ITT task force search in Turkey the night before hadn’t resulted in the capture of Maximov, just as Gabe had predicted. “Angel persuaded the team heading to Syria tonight that they need Black Raven assistance,” Ragno continued. “So your brother is on his way to them, with six of our agents.”

“Yeah. I saw those emails from Gabe.” He was damned if he’d call his devilish younger brother Angel. As he pulled the ends of the tie down, and tightened the knot at his collar, his eye caught the pile of silk ties on the floor of his closet. The ties that she’d used on him were wrinkled and destined for a trip to either the dry cleaners or a trashcan.

Muscle memory of the feel of her wet, hot slide onto his fully engorged dick, the intense feel of her flesh, her walls pulsing and gently coaxing the life out of him, had him instantly hard and on his way to throbbing. “Dammit. Fuck me to hell and—”

“Anytime you want to talk through this foul mood of yours,” Ragno said, “just let me know.”

“Thanks, Ragno. Sorry. Don’t want to make you a dumping ground for my frustration.”

“Reality check, Hernandez. Your tension is off the charts. Angel figured out most of it, you know—”

“How the hell?”

“He knew you were shot on the Dixon job. Said all he had to do was take one look at you carrying her through Paris in that news clip. He saw the way you looked at her in last night’s conference call. He knew the client you’re body guarding now is Dixon’s granddaughter. He did the math with the first Dixon job and the timing of Theresa’s pregnancy. Angel isn’t stupid. Your brother knows you better than you know yourself. I swear I gave him nothing but the barest details. He was instant messaging me last night the minute he laid eyes on the two of you. Now he’s worried that you’ve lost your heart for a female velociraptor.”

“A what?” Done with the tie, he smoothed his hair. He shifted his rock hard penis to the side where it belonged rather than dead center, aiming upwards on a hope and a prayer, neither of which were going to be answered anytime soon.

Fuck.

“Velociraptor. A carnivorous dinosaur that hunted—”

“I know that,” he muttered, “but Sam isn’t that.”

“I’m just reporting Angel’s take. Says she’s gorgeous. Compelling. Riveting. But wondering whether she has a heart. He’s worried you’ve fallen for a female version of you.”

“Beautiful. Fucking beautiful. Glad to hear that’s what Gabe thinks of me as well. And he knows all of this from seeing her in one video chat?”

Ragno was quiet for a second. “He got into the files we have on her. You know the type of information I’m compiling for you. Oh, and he had more than a few words when he learned that she’s almost engaged to Senator McDougall.”

“Son of a bitch, Ragno. Back up. You allowed Gabe to access your file on her? What the hell!”

“I’ve never been able to control your brother. No one has. That is partly why he’s so good.”

“Well, do me a favor and remind him about boundaries. Professional and goddamn personal ones. Seems like he isn’t getting the message from me, and I swear, I’ll hand him his ass on a platter, or better, fire him, if he doesn’t—”

“Angel is one of our best field agents, Zeus,” Ragno interrupted, her tone soothing. “Clients request him by name. He commands triple the normal fee in places most agents don’t want to go. You love your brother and respect him. You will not fire him, nor will you hand him his ass on a platter. Your partners would pitch a fit. Myself and Sebastian included. I will, however, discuss with Angel boundaries and decorum.”

He didn’t break the connection with Ragno; they’d be live the rest of the day. At 1115, Sam stepped into the living room as Zeus came out of his bedroom, ready for their 1125 departure.

It was their first private moment of the morning. Wearing a slim fitting winter-white suit with black leather piping accents, two-inch high, relatively practical pumps, with a light touch of blue eyeliner and dark mascara accenting her clear green eyes, and her lips matching her red nails, she could have been the star of the show in any fine Parisian restaurant. In the ITT courtroom, composed mostly of men wearing navy blue and gray suits, she’d be a knockout.

An ivory suit had never looked so good on anyone. Her apparel wasn’t just fitted, it seemed tailor-made for her body. A woman who loved beautiful clothes, she had enough money to afford the best. Chanel. Dior. Prada. Whatever.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what she wears. She’s so goddamn pretty she steals my breath every time I look at her. Always has. Always will.

“Are you wearing your vest?” It was custom fitted, but still. He couldn’t tell by looking whether she had it on.

“Yes,” she said, her tone cool, her one-word answer clipped.

Unfortunately, their private moment came just a couple of minutes after he’d tied his necktie. His erection wasn’t going away anytime soon, even though the look she was now giving him, with eyes that were both tired and irritated, didn’t suggest a happy ending.