Dangerous Passion

Thirteen

I have news…

The message came over Rutskoi’s BlackBerry, which he’d parked in full sight. He ground his teeth together. When this was all over, he was going to comb Drake’s personnel files and find the fucker who was fucking with him.

Whatever the news was, the man, or woman—nothing like a woman for betrayal, in his experience—wasn’t talking until the next installment was transferred. And Rutskoi had to take it on faith that the news was going to be worth a hundred thousand dollars.

Rutskoi took his eye off the scope and texted his Caribbean bank. His Caribbean bank lived for this. The transfer was made immediately. A quarter of an hour later, his informant texted:

Target will be in living room at noon. Living room is five rooms from southern end, tenth and eleventh windows. He ordered food and might stay in the room for a while.

Yes! Drake finally in the living room, in a straight line from his Barrett, staying there for a while—if Rutskoi didn’t make this shot, he might as well hang up his rifle.

All of a sudden, Rutskoi could feel a huge surge of power running through his body. He had only catnapped over the past days, but suddenly the fatigue disappeared as if it had never been. He felt alert, refreshed. Ready. This would work, he could feel it in his bones. He was going to get Drake, and become rich and, in the right circles, famous.

He settled back over his rifle, feeling a preternatural clarity. His destiny was awaiting him.

Drake would go down and he would go up.

It was the way of the world.

They had a leisurely breakfast, left outside the door by the phalanx of good fairies that apparently ran Drake’s household. The fairies were excellent at what they did. Strong Indian tea, homemade yogurt, homemade croissants, fresh blueberries.

Drake said he would offer a light lunch to the mystery man coming at noon, so she ate sparingly.

The atmosphere between them had changed, sharpened. Grace no longer felt any shyness at all around Drake. They spoke naturally, as a couple, making their plans. He asked her where she wanted to end up and she said far away, in a place with palm trees.

He’d been quiet for a long moment, then nodded.

“It will take a few steps, duschka,” he said, “but so be it.”

Grace caught his hand and brought it to her face. “Together, though.” She kissed his hand lightly. “We will do it together.”

He turned his hand to run the back of his forefinger down her cheek. “Oh yes, my love, we will do it together. It will be difficult and even dangerous. You will have to learn to inhabit a new life in a new place, and possibly learn a new language. Nothing will be easy and nothing will be familiar, but I will be with you every step of the way.”

Drake stood, keeping his hand on her face. “We have much to do today, my love, so it would be a good idea for you to get ready. I’ll let you shower and prepare yourself and we will meet in the living room at noon.”

He was out of the room quickly. Odd how so large a man could move so quickly and so quietly. He was there and then…not there.

Grace stood and walked to the windows, placing both hands against the cold glass. The snow had intensified, swirling spirals of white in the updrafts between buildings. The clouds had lowered, turned darker. It was entirely possible that a big snowstorm was coming.

Would it be the last snowstorm she’d ever see?

How odd, to think of it. How odd to think that her life was turning such a sharp corner into something else. She might never see snow again. And she would certainly never see New York again.

Grace positioned her hands so that they formed a frame and moved her hands over the huge window, capturing scenes of New York and committing them to memory. They would be stored in her subconscious, processed, and would come out at some unexpected moment.

She went into Drake’s insanely luxurious bathroom, trying to choose between the whirlpool and the perfumed shower—finally opting for the shower—and dressed in one of the outrageously expensive and beautiful outfits he’d bought her.

She knew, instinctively, that it pleased him to buy her expensive things. She didn’t much care. She’d done without all her life and would have happily dressed from Gap and Target for the rest of her days. But the clothes were beautiful and she appreciated beauty, so she washed and dressed with care.

Today, she and Drake had united their lives. It felt so strange, not to be alone. They would disappear together, spend the rest of their lives together.

It was such a delicious thought, one she’d never thought to have.

A clock on the huge mantelpiece chimed. Eleven o’clock. As in all the rooms, there was a huge fire going. Drake must have suffered greatly from the cold growing up, he made such a point of being warm. Maybe a sunny place, with no bad memories, would be good for him, too.

Walking across the enormous room, Grace smiled as she thought of the new life they would start planning in the living room.

Three rooms down, a woman lingered at the window, hands up against the glass. She stayed there for a time, in the same position, as if drinking in the view of the snow. The snow didn’t make any difference to Rutskoi; he was seeing a clear green and red outline, with no interference.

Rutskoi’s trigger finger tightened. The angle was such that a kill was a real possibility. It was Drake’s woman. Rutskoi would bet everything he owned on it.

The crosshairs were right on her heart.

One pull and she would be dead.

Oh, what a temptation. Losing his woman would make Drake insane. Poetic justice.

But Drake had to be his first target. If Rutskoi let his emotions rule, he would be useless in his future profession. Drake, then the woman. That was the way it had to be.

Rutskoi watched the woman through the thermal imager as she gazed down at the snowy scene below and then moved away.

His finger eased off the trigger.

Not yet. But soon.

He glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Another hour to go.

In the study, Drake shuffled some of his passports together. He would need a couple of identities that tallied with those that would be created for Grace.

Design mavens were wrong. Less wasn’t more. More was more.

He had seven deeply embedded identities from five different nations, with credit cards and birth certificates and data going back years. And a couple of shallow identities, to be used in emergencies, as one-offs.

He wasn’t going to have time to establish deep identities for Grace, so what they did create was going to have to be perfect. Luckily, he had the perfect man for the job.

A large trolley suitcase containing two million dollars in hundred dollar bills was waiting in the living room for that man, together with lunch and two bottles of wine.

In half an hour it would start. Drake allowed himself a few minutes to contemplate the huge twist life had thrown at him. He was going to spend the rest of his life with a woman. They’d go to a remote island in the Pacific, a part of the world where he had never had business dealings, and he’d build or buy them a beautiful home open to the sun and air. Grace would paint and he would buy up the local airline company and shipping company. These were businesses he knew down to the ground, and that way he could keep track of everyone who came to the island and would have a good cover for his money.

His lips curved. Running a legitimate business. Could be interesting.

Most magical of all, Grace was coming with him. Grace was happy to come with him.

Grace loved him.

He’d never been loved. He’d been hated and feared and envied, even admired, but never loved.

Grace loved him.

He would never grow tired of that thought.

He could leave behind the wealth and the power because they had started to weigh heavily on him, like a huge burden he’d carried far too long. He’d never thought to put down his shield and sword, but life had handed him exactly that opportunity.

Not that he intended relaxing his vigilance, particularly with Grace to protect. But violence and power would no longer define his life. They would simply be the means to protect his life. His life with Grace.

He was so taken with the idea that he wasn’t even pursuing the traitor in his midst. Soon, they would be gone. Whoever had betrayed him would end up with ashes.

A light knock on the door and he smiled. His heart rate actually picked up. Drake’s heartbeat stayed as steady as his hands, no matter what. Cornered, under fire, surrounded by enemies, he kept his cool. Grace changed all that.

“Enter,” he called to his new love.

He would get over this stage. Probably. Maybe. But while he was in it, it was a delight. To be so attuned to another human being you could feel her thoughts, to be uppermost in her mind, to matter…these were all such rare joys, it was as if he’d been visited by a unicorn.

No, not a unicorn, even better.

Grace. That she loved him seemed like such a miracle. And yet he recognized in her the same deep loneliness that afflicted his own life. How men could stay away from such a gentle beauty was a stone-cold mystery to him, and yet no one knew better than Drake how irredeemably stupid and dull-witted most men were. Grace was indeed a rare beauty, but she seemed to have been born without the heavy armor most beautiful women are born with. She was open, vulnerable, incapable of playing games.

It was what endeared her to him, but he understood full well what it made her. Prey.

Well, she was no longer prey, and never would be again. She would be fiercely protected by him, for the rest of their lives.

A fall of shiny bronze hair, long white fingers clutching the edge of the door and half a face peeking in.

“Drake?” she said softly. “It’s early, I know. I thought I’d go wait in the living room for this man.” She walked over to his desk.

“Good idea,” he said. “While you’re there, open a bottle of wine and pour three glasses. I’ll be right there.”

She gave a slight smile. “So I guess we’re starting our new life right now, huh?”

God, that sounded good. “Yes, duschka,” he replied softly, reaching up to stroke her cheek. She rubbed her face into his hand. He loved the way she reacted every time he touched her, his touch pleasing to her. “It starts now. In the living room.”

Someone entered the living room.

Rutskoi had been in a constant state of alert, but now adrenaline rushed through his body, heightening his senses even more. He loved this. He was born for this.

It was time. He felt it in every cell of his body. It was happening now.

The fiery red, gold and green figure walking into the room was slender, narrow-shouldered, with shoulder length hair. The woman.

His trigger finger loosened slightly.

Rutskoi breathed evenly, in and out, letting the adrenaline settle throughout his body. Enough to sharpen him, not enough to make his hands tremble.

Perfect.

The woman walked to the center of the room and picked something up…it was hard to tell what she was doing as her back was turned. Ah. It looked like she had opened a bottle of wine and was pouring. Knowing Drake, the bottle was undoubtedly excellent, rare and expensive.

He’d never live to drink it.

The woman’s head turned and she walked to the door. Rutskoi tracked her through his thermal scope. A man walked into the room. Not overly tall but with immensely broad shoulders. Drake.

The woman was kissing him.

It made for a bad shot. A doable shot, of course. A.50 caliber bullet could go through the woman, through Drake and through the door behind them and the wall beyond that.

But he didn’t like the angle and the odds. He waited, patiently, observing them kissing, detached and cold.

Okay. The woman was backing away, holding Drake’s hand, leading him toward the center of the room, toward the large hearth. The intense heat from the fire distorted the picture. Drake’s body heat would be lost in the greater heat of the fire. Rutskoi had to shoot before Drake walked in front of it.

The woman’s heat signature disappeared as she moved in front of the fire, her hand outstretched, holding on to Drake’s. He was walking toward the fire, in profile.

Shit. The best shot would be frontal. Rutskoi had to make a split-second decision. To aim for a profile requiring millimeter precision, dealing with the distorting effect of the thermal signature through a dense glass that could deflect the bullet, or to wait for Drake to turn and present a full-frontal target.

Every ounce of training and experience said wait.

Rutskoi lay, alert but not tense, focused but not overwhelmed, right leg slightly bent for stability as was the Russian sniping style, and waited.

Drake had one hand on the mantelpiece. Rutskoi remembered that mantel—a huge monolith of white and gray marble—just as he remembered everything about the room. He remembered the luxurious sofas covered with cashmere throw rugs, the deep carpets, the antiques. Drake lived like a prince. Goddammit, Rutskoi wanted to live like a prince, too.

Ah! Drake was turning, the woman was walking back toward him carrying something. A glass. He was reaching out for it with one hand, the other still perched on the mantelpiece.

Turning, turning…

Yes!

Rutskoi took a breath, breathed half of it out, waited until he was between heartbeats, and pulled the trigger.