Retribution: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (Secrets & Lies Book 3) (8 page)

“And if I just want to cuddle and talk about the future?” I tease, causing her to frown. I chuckle and sit up, stroking her perfect face. “You'll just seduce me some other way so that my tongue is buried deep inside your pussy instead, most likely, and I'll just end up with a set of blue balls for the night.”

“Sounds fair. Come, let us get ready for work.”

We put on clothes, a robe for her, and a man's full suit with head scarf for me. It's nothing at all like what we would normally wear, but I know that underneath her long, loose robe, she's wearing tactical gear, including boots identical to mine. Also underneath her robe is the rifle we're using today, while underneath my left armpit is my Colt 1911 in a shoulder rig I've been practicing with for a week. It still feels strange though, I wish I had it on my thigh like I did in the Berets.

“Let's go, lover,” Isis says with a kiss on my lips at the door, her jasmine scent stiffening my cock again. “Time to strike back.”

We make our way through the streets of Kirkuk, approaching the headquarters of the Army base that's on the edge of town. Things are going well for Saddam's troops recently, Clinton's letting him bring in new 'humanitarian supplies,' while up in Russia the politicos are in Gazprom's pocket so much that they're letting him smuggle out even more oil on a regular basis. Who knows how much they're paying him for it, but it gives Saddam enough money that his oil fields are working pretty much all the time.

We find our spot, the fifth floor of an office building that overlooks the base. It's a long shot, over eight hundred meters, but after being with Isis as her mercenary partner and lover for the past six months, I know she's also a very, very good sniper.

Reaching the room we've picked out, she strips off her robe, revealing her lithe body in a tight olive colored cotton t-shirt and British desert camo military pants. Her ass looks amazing in them, but it's time to work, and I keep my attention on the door while she assembles her rifle. “Sure you don't need my help with a spotter's scope?”

“No way. Colonel Masri always follows the same pattern. After morning formations, he tours the motor pool for an hour before heading indoors. And with that garish fucking uniform of his, he's easy to see.”

I nod and take out my binoculars anyway, scanning the base. The motor pool is one of the most open areas on the base, although I know it's mostly for show. Of the forty vehicles on the line, only ten of them are currently operational. The relaxed rules on humanitarian aid and black market parts might be getting Saddam lots of caviar and a Mercedes back in Baghdad, but in Kirkuk it's not doing too damn much to help his troops.

I see the battalion of the Republican Guard lined up, and I have to give them credit, they at least look like professional soldiers. Some of the other units look raggedy, and not in the relaxed way I was in the Green Berets, but in the 'I don't want to fucking be here, fuck this, fuck that, fuck you and fuck this place,' sort of way.

“You ready to take the shot?” I ask, listening as Isis tightens the stock on her rifle. It's the only piece of American equipment she uses.

“Two minutes,” Isis says, clicking in her scope and checking her attachments. She slides a magazine into the receiver and chambers a round. “Ready.”

The morning sun gives us plenty of shade to hide what we're doing, and she sets the rifle's bipod on the top of the table we've positioned under the window, giving us even more security. There's not going to be any muzzle flash or wink of light off the scope for the Iraqis to see.

I put all my attention on the door to the room while Isis settles in, her right leg stretched out to give her body as stable a position as she can get with the space we're in. The seconds tick by, and I hear her flick off the safety on her rifle. Four seconds later, two shots ring out, one right after another, and she's up, clearing her rifle and breaking it down. Ten seconds after that, it's all on her back again, and I'm helping her with her robe. Thirty seconds after the shots, we're slipping out the back door of the building, where the streets are busy, but very few people are reacting. We're far enough from the base, people don't quite recognize yet that the sounds weren't just a car backfiring.

As we make our way back to our hotel, she slips her hand into mine, a move possible only because the Iraqi government is not as strict in their interpretation of Islamic law as their neighbors to the south. “Good job, lover,” she says in French, one of a half-dozen languages she speaks, and one we're sure nobody around Kirkuk speaks. “Let's go fuck. Then we can collect our money.”

Katrina sits back, giving me an evaluating look. I sigh and look down. “For eight months, it was like that on nearly a daily basis. We would wake up, fuck like rabbits, train, eat, fuck, and kill when we had a job. I was numb by the end of it.”

“I bet. She sounds like she liked you at least. What happened?”

I laugh harshly and lean back, rubbing at my temples. “Isis Bardot may have liked the way she and I killed together, but Isis Bardot has never loved anyone or anything in her entire life except for two things. She loves money, and a good fuck. I was apparently a very good fuck, since it took a million dollars for her to betray me. When I got identified on one of our ops in Eastern Europe, the word was put out, my head was worth a million dollars, dead or alive. The very next op, she... well, let's just say my face and my ass still carry reminders of what happens to people who trust Isis Bardot.”

“So why is she doing this?” Katrina asks, referring to the picture and message. “Why not just come after you?”

I shrug. “Who knows? I know she has stayed active, she is one of the best in the world over the past twenty years. She started so young, so she’s still not too old for it yet. Maybe she's just bored.”

Katrina sighs, and leans back. “Okay. I guess I can understand now why you'd go to work for a human snake like Peter. He was a step up from Isis it seems.”

“At the time I thought he was,” I admit. “Now do you understand why even though I love Melissa, I can never let myself be with her?”

Katrina shakes her head. “I can understand why you hate yourself, I can understand your guilt. But no, I can't understand that. I'll try my damnedest though to try and explain it to her when she and Andrea come back.”

“Thanks, Katrina. And if you want, when you want to have that sparring match with me to see who's really better... I’ll be waiting.”

I get up, and head for the door, thinking maybe I can help the guys out. Just as I reach it, Katrina answers.

“I may just take you up on that.”

“
S
o that's why
,” I say, still calm from the hour-long walk I took with Andrea.

“Yeah,” Katrina says, the two of us taking a rest on a rock overlooking a dramatic stretch of valley below us. Even though it's still the middle of winter, and we're both wearing heavy clothes, I'm comfortable out here with Katrina. I don't spend as much time with her as I do with Andrea, but she's still like a sister to me. “What do you think?”

“I... I can understand,” I reply, picking up a maple leaf between my fingers and twirling it. There aren't many left, most of them have fallen and crumbled, but this one still is bright reddish-orange, and looks dramatic against the slate gray of the winter sky. Before Katrina and I left, Jackson said he picked up on the radio we might get some snow overnight. I'm worried about that, but also looking forward to it. I wonder if you can catch snow on your tongue like they show in cartoons.

“How do you feel about it?” Katrina asks, squatting down. She's beautiful, her eyes a different blue from Jackson's or Andrea's, but also in the way she carries herself, moving with unconscious grace. In the way she blends strength into her movements, even in the way she's being protective of me now, she's beautiful, the only thing jarring the scene the black pistol on her hip. Nobody leaves the main compound area unarmed, not after Isis' e-mail to Nathan.

“I'm sad, of course. I feel like a bad joke, really. The thirty-year-old virgin, in love with the one man who can't give her what she needs most in life. It's unfair.”

“Damned unfair,” Katrina agrees. “So, do you want me to kick his ass or not?”

I look over surprised, thinking Katrina is joking, but she's looking back at me her face totally serious. “Why? What would that accomplish?”

“For one, it might knock some sense into that stubborn head of his, show him that he needs us just as much as we need him,” Katrina says, sitting down next to me. “And to be honest, it'd let me work off a lot of anger at him for his stupidity on all this.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, curious. After she'd told everyone else, Carson and Jackson took it in stride, while Andrea went into the chapel, saying she was going to do some exercise while Katrina and I took a walk. Katrina though seems genuinely upset over the news, and I don't understand why. “Why are you so angry?”

Katrina picks up a pebble and throws it into the valley below us, watching as it bounces off an oak tree about ten yards away. “Because I can understand it, maybe more than anyone else. I was totally devoted to nothing except destroying Peter DeLaCoeur two years ago. My reasons for not opening my heart were different and so similar to Nathan's. I was angry, and he's angry, too. He's angry at himself, he hates who he used to be. I hated Peter, I still do I guess, but it's different. And if it hadn't been for Jackson, I probably would have kept my heart guarded. I look back and I think about how close I was to swirling out of control, to destroying everything I've found in the past two years. It hurts, scares me, and pisses me off, too. Because I know you and Nathan deserve your chance to actually find some real happiness in this fucked up world. All his talk about you being too pure, him being too dirty... fuck that. Guess what, 'Lissa?”

“What?”

Katrina laughs and picks up another rock, throwing it into the valley harder this time, the thunk of the rock off the tree louder, sharper. “We're all fucked up. I don't trust the regular world at all, and have brought my husband and daughter into a shady half-world because of it. Hell, I'm a recovering drug addict, really, thinking of the shit my herbalist worked up for me and I popped like candy when I had my own nightmares that remind me a lot of what you go through. Jackson's just as screwed up, Andrea and Carson, too. There's been only two pure, innocent members of this family. BA's too young to be screwed up just yet, and I'll tell you, I’m afraid of the day I wake up and realize I fucked up and she's just as screwed up as Jackson and me. The other... well, Maverick was one hell of a dog.”

“That's a pretty dark way to look at things,” I tell her. “Because when I see you, I don't see all those bad things. I see a warrior queen who loves her husband and her family, and if something happened right this second, she'd die to protect any of us. And I'd die to protect her too, even though I'm no good at that sort of thing.”

Katrina smiles and kisses me on the cheek. “And that, more than anything else, is why you and Nathan should have your chance at happiness. You're this family's light. I love you, 'Lissa.”

“I love you too, Katrina. But I'm getting a little cold. How about some cocoa back at the house?”

Katrina gets up, helping me to my feet and taking my hand as we start to walk. “Good idea. I'll cook, maybe we can get Andrea and just make it a girl thing.”

* * *

“
G
ood morning
, Robert.”

“Miss Sands, it's good to hear your voice,” Robert, the general manager at the MCS Gallery in the French Quarter says. I'm in town with Carson, Andrea and BA, the four of us on the second of the weekly trips we've set up for supplies and other things in the Asheville area. Nathan's at the clinic down the block getting the last of his treatments for his kidney problem, apparently another of the underground clinics that Katrina was able to set us up with. Unfortunately there's no underground pediatrician in the area, but Andrea's not due for a prenatal check for another two weeks. In the meantime, I'm sitting on a bench, using the cell phone coverage to check an e-mail Robert sent last night while Carson and Andrea go around the big warehouse shopping center, buying food. “I'm glad you replied so quickly. How is your vacation?”

I struggle for a second before it hits me. Ah yes, vacation. It was a quick excuse, but Carson told Robert I had a sudden urge for inspiration, so we were all going on a road trip, going wherever my artist's heart desires. So far it's holding up well, and it fits the stereotypical artist mentality. I could 'go' anywhere from California to Kalamazoo and still be 'finding inspiration'. Actually, maybe there is a kernel of truth to the idea, because hanging around the compound and seeing the breathtaking views of the mountains has my mind going places that make me feel like expressing myself. So my lie is easy, even if I feel a bit guilty about it. “Very well, thank you Robert. St. Louis is an amazing city.”

“That's great, Miss Sands. I hope it is doing well for your health. I assume you got my e-mail?” he says in his kind way. I've spoken with Robert probably more than most men, and while he's not a friend, he's a nice man, and very good for us in running the everyday operations of MCS.

“Yes, that's why I called. Something about a potential client?”

I can hear the eagerness in Robert's voice, and I can understand. My pieces go for big money, even the small paintings. A commissioned piece like
Ascension
can fetch us all upward of a million dollars easily, although since it was for a school I gave them a price break. “Yes, Miss Sands. Yesterday we had a woman come in, she looked over
Effort
and
Moon Dancer
and was very impressed. She said she'd never seen such dynamic work before.”

“It's always nice to have a fan,” I say, thinking instead of Vadim Orloff. He'd been enthusiastic as well. “Did she buy one of them?”

“Yes, in fact she put down a cash deposit for
Moon Dancer,
but more importantly, she wanted to discuss commissioning another piece.
Moon Dancer
she said is for her company, but she wants to get something for herself as well, a piece she said she's willing to pay over a million dollars for. From the way she dressed, she's not some window shopper either.”

I hum, worry winding its way through my brain. After Vadim Orloff, I feel warning bells in my head any time Robert mentions a fan. “Tell me about the woman please, Robert.”

Andrea, BA in her arms, comes up, seeing me talking. “Everything okay?”

“Maybe,” I whisper, relieved she's there, “but I've got it so far. Stick around?”

“Sure,” she says, taking a seat on the bench next to me. I give her a grateful smile and turn my attention back to the phone call.

“You there, Miss Sands?”

“Yes, sorry. Andrea was just asking if I wanted anything, we're doing some shopping. Please, go ahead.”

“Okay. Well, she was tall, with olive skin, with very long black hair. More than that though, I gave you a message because of what she was wearing. She certainly has money, Miss Sands.”

A cold knot builds in my stomach as I listen to Robert's description, and I lick my lips, trying to keep calm. Andrea sees my discomfort and takes my left hand, stroking my hand gently, helping immediately. “What do you mean what she was wearing, Robert?”

“She was wearing expensive designer labels, Miss Sands. I know you aren't into fashion, but I've learned a lot about this to help with judging customers.”

The cold ball in my stomach expands into a freezing cold wave that spreads through my body, and the only reason I don't break down crying in fear is Andrea and the loving look she's giving me. My sister, my family, my strength. Okay, I can deal with this. “Well Robert, did she leave any contact information?”

“Yes, she left a phone number and a name, a Miss Hayha. She said it was a Finnish name. I can e-mail it to you if you'd like.”

I shake my head. “No... you know I prefer to let you and Carson handle customer interactions. Actually Robert, I know it's disappointing to you, but if you could please tell Miss Hayha while I would like to find out more details, at the moment I'm not in a place where I can do serious artwork like this. It will have to at least wait until I get back to the farm. I can't really give a timeline on that, but it will be at least a month or more. You see, I've had a bit of an accident, and broke my left hand. It's nothing major, but I'm in a cast right now, and can't even begin to think about welding or anything like that.”

I can hear the disappointment in Robert's voice, but he's a professional, and he's worked with me long enough to know I can't be pushed into making any decisions. I've got more than enough money, and Robert doesn't understand that for me, my art is more than just money, it's a matter of life and spirit. “I understand, Miss Sands. Would you mind if I continued to speak with Miss Hayha to see if I can gather more information, maybe figure out what it is specifically she's looking for?”

“Of course, Robert. And e-mail me whenever you get more information. I can't call all the time, but I will be in touch. If you'll excuse me, I see Carson coming. Take care.”

“Take care, Miss Sands. And give my regards to Mr. Sands. Goodbye.”

Robert hangs up, and I take my hand from Andrea, nodding gratefully. “Thank you, Andrea. That helped a lot.”

Andrea smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well, I think Isis Bardot came by MCS yesterday,” I explain, Andrea's eyes widening slightly, but she handles it well. We expected this, after all. “Robert said he'll send an e-mail with more information, I was thinking Katrina can have some fun with what he tells us. Nathan should know as well.”

Andrea nods and takes my hand again to give it a squeeze. “That's why you're awesome, you know that? Scared silly, and still thinking about how to help us out. Come on, lets get the rest of our stuff, and tonight we can go all
Mission Impossible
on the data.”

Later that night, we gather in the big central room, Katrina dissecting my e-mail from Robert. “Well, he was nice enough to include her information, but I know for sure it's fake. Disturbing, but fake.”

“What do you mean disturbing?” Carson asks, holding Andrea on the couch, cuddled together. The fire is romantic, and I've noticed Katrina and Jackson are also using their free time to just cuddle in front of the fire as well.

“Her choice of alias can't have been a fluke,” Katrina says, tapping away. “Simo Hayha was a Finnish sniper during the war between Finland and the Soviet Union in 1939 and 1940. Nicknamed 'The White Death', in just about a hundred days he sniped over five hundred Soviet troops. Sending a message, you think?”

“She always did prefer long-range fighting,” Nathan says, sipping his tea. He's sitting next to me tonight. “She's not as good as I was at hand-to-hand fighting, and considered close quarters battle to be too messy for her tastes. She thinks herself a surgeon, not a butcher.”

“She doesn't sound as... bloodthirsty as Orloff at least,” Jackson says, and Nathan winces, shaking his head. “What?”

“That is what makes her even more dangerous, Jackson. She’s more controlled. More importantly though, there is no way we can sway her to drop the contract. If Peter is able to pay the prices on our heads, there is no way she is going to switch sides.”

“So what do we do?” I ask, and Nathan looks over, giving me a reassuring smile.

“We do our best to keep living. And hope she makes a mistake before we do.”