Nowhere Safe Page 9

  “Bunko, hey!” Heidi charged toward the back.

  Trish ignored the damage and racket. She held another dove-gray envelope in her trembling hands. Fear was a lethal weapon when wielded properly, something the demented note writer understood very well.

  She struggled to open the flap and pulled out the note.

  I’ll see you tonight. I’ll be the one wearing the black lace panties from the top drawer of your oak lingerie chest. Watch for my next move.

  Chapter 8

  Chatton waited for the two international predators seated with her in the room to end their pissing contest and get around to what they wanted from her. They must need her MI6 skills or she wouldn’t have been included in this meeting. It wasn’t as though she’d been invited to join the three-member Czarion group.

  She’d wormed her way in by first discovering these two, and second, by dangling something they wanted in front of them, just out of their reach.

  A rare artifact that played into their fanatical beliefs.

  Upon casual observation, neither man would be considered physically threatening, but they were both deadly. They each held influential positions in powerful countries and were capable of sparking a conflict in the world theater.

  They often underestimated her, which she found amusing, but that was to her benefit, and she never underestimated an opponent.

  Wayan currently had the floor. Figuratively, since it wasn’t a particularly stable surface. He sat on her right, inside the main salon of a ninety-foot yacht floating in the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by black on a moonless night. Baby-faced and delicate in appearance for someone forty-four, Wayan easily disarmed those unaware of his position within the Chinese Party Chief’s inner circle.

  He reminded Chatton of the small saw-scaled viper from Asia.

  Inconspicuous and always poised for a deadly strike.

  Wayan massaged his chin, a subtle sign of irritation from a man who moved very little in these meetings. “This was not what we agreed on, General. You assured High Vision that we would create a US gateway in Florida. This presents a problem.”

  “No, it’s not a problem,” The General rumbled. He leaned his large body on the arm of the sofa, probably to ease his back pain. With that exception, he was still fit at forty-nine, sporting a military haircut and muscular forearms. Coffee-brown skin covered the rigid planes of his clean-shaven face.

  “You must enlighten me,” Wayan persisted.

  “We created a safe route for four High Vision shipments to show them how easy it can be to smuggle their designer drugs into the US. Now they know how quickly that safe zone can go away.”

  Actually, The General–who was not a general, but a high-ranking official in the US Pentagon–had told High Vision, an international pharmaceutical organization, that Czarion would secure an open path for moving contraband through south Florida. The Czarion group was comprised of Chatton, The General and Wayan.

  Wayan toyed with his thin mustache, not looking convinced. “Are you saying the loss of their last shipment was an intentional action?”

  “No. We lost an asset, plain and simple. He’s been dealt with. I had a team take out the armed transport they were using to move him.”

  Wayan used precise English for someone who spoke it as a second language. “Forgive me if I do not share your positive outlook, General. This sounds as though we have greater problems in Florida.” The little guy tapped his steepled hands. “High Vision’s agreement to assist with the shipment of our test unit was predicated on their product’s safe passage through Florida. Miami, to be specific.”

  That was as close as Wayan ever sounded to getting his knickers in a wad. Chatton had met with these two enough to know.

  She also knew that she could pull details out of a mute captive faster than The General got around to making a point. It didn’t seem to bother Wayan, who apparently had the patience to wait for each word to be carved by hand.

  The General growled something to himself. “High Vision will hold up their end. I still have a plant inside the task force. An Orion Hunter.”

  Wayan nodded, looking impressed that The General had a member of that ancient order inside a US law enforcement agency.

  He would be. Wayan believed in all that crap about the Orion Hunters to the point of obsession.

  The General continued with plenty of arrogance in his explanation. “I used the loss of their product to our advantage. High Vision now realizes our reach and power. That we can open up this channel and shut it down just as easily. Have no worries. I informed them that we possess evidence implicating their Paris laboratories and US holdings, and that said evidence can land in the wrong hands if they so much as hesitate in assisting with this shipment for us.” The General amended, “Shipment for you, Wayan.”

  Wayan’s thin black eyebrows drew together over his almond-shaped eyes. “Then you guarantee that my unit will have safe passage and will be tested?”

  Making a weary sound, the General said, “That’s where Chatton comes in.”

  Wayan nodded, appeased for the moment.

  Chatton was over allowing both of them to keep up their cryptic discussion of “the unit.” She told The General, “You speak as though it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll help with a project you won’t even discuss in front of me.”

  A wise man would take note of the challenge in her voice and cease his dancing around.

  The General was just such a man. “Wayan needs three boxes inserted into a High Vision shipment after materials from Paris are loaded. But there can be no link to China or the US on this shipment, only to High Vision. High Vision has been told when to have their loaded container at the shipyard and that no one in their company in Paris or the US can touch it again until we contact them.”

  Chatton cut in. “What’s in these three boxes?”

  Wayan answered her. “That is not to be discussed.”

  “With me?” She paused, then flicked a don’t-care look at Wayan. “In that case, good luck with your endeavor. I see no reason to get involved.”

  He was silent for a long time then angled his head to one side. “We allowed you to join with us because you have one of the Orion artifacts, but you have yet to prove your use to The General and me.”

  What he meant was that she’d given them an ultimatum to either bring her into their tight little Czarion group or they’d never see the actual piece. She’d provided proof that she possessed one of five artifacts these two believed would reveal the Orion Legacy, details of a Final Conflict.

  Oh, sure. Five artifacts from different countries would bring about the end of the world.

  Wayan could spin a convincing yarn of prophecies that had come to fruition already over many centuries. He could also mesmerize a roomful of dignitaries when he spoke of peace and honor.

  Charismatic and fanatic. Scary combination.

  Chatton found their belief in intangible forces and supernatural conspiracy amusing, but would never let on. The way she saw it, the only way there could be a Final Conflict was if someone triggered that conflict. Something fanatics in powerful positions–like these two–could do.

  Someone had to keep an eye on the world’s future and protect her beloved UK.

  Wayan must have taken Chatton’s silence as still waiting for motivation. “Do you not realize that at some point you will need something and we will bring our resources to bear for you?”

  “Now that you mention it, there is something I want.” She added, “General.”

  The General stiffened. “This is Wayan’s deal.”

  “But he just explained how we all scratch each other’s backs at some point.”

  Wayan interjected, “Are you not the least bit curious as to what she wants, General?”

  The General grunted in her direction. “What is it?”

  She had him. “First, finish explaining what you need from me.”

  “There will be three sealed boxes, ranging in size from six inches square to as long
as your forearm. Don’t try any of your secret agent tricks to find out what’s in the boxes. A deadly toxin is released if anyone tries to open them out of sequence.”

  Lovely. “You don’t survive long in my business if you can’t keep your curiosity in check.”

  He nodded and shifted his bulk again, grimacing. “There is to be no connection to the US or Asia. The boxes will have labels and packing identical to the rest of the High Vision shipment. You’re to insert those three packages into their container after it has been secured on the ship.”

  Did he think she was Houdini or was this some ridiculous test to determine her use to the group?

  Wayan’s eye twitched. An almost smile touched his lips.

  Laughing at her? And here she’d given him credit for better survival instincts.

  “Now for what you have to do,” she said, letting them know by the way she said it that this was not negotiable. “I want the name of the person who killed a British subject while he was skiing in Aspen, Colorado on February eighteenth this year.”

  “Skiing accident?”

  “Shooting.”

  The General scrunched his black eyebrows together. “If the Colorado authorities haven’t found the killer, I’m not going to have a name either.”

  “I don’t care what they have. That’s my price.”

  “Who was this guy?”

  “A British diplomat. To protect his identity, he was in the States under pretense of being on vacation. He was actually there to negotiate terms with a US weapons manufacturer for setting up a plant in the UK.”

  The General’s eyebrows jumped at that. “What’s his name?”

  “Edward Abbot.” His real name had been Edward Abbot Macintosh. Her father’s cousin. She intended to use her association with these two to find out who had been systematically killing members of Clan Macintosh, her father’s family, since the fifteenth century.

  To find the person who murdered her parents.

  “What’s your interest in this diplomat or his killer?” The General asked.

  Chatton smiled sweetly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  The General exchanged a chilling expression with Wayan then looked at her.

  That’s right, hardass. She wasn’t sharing her secrets if Wayan and The General were going to stay tightlipped on Wayan’s “unit.”

  Leaning forward, The General pushed down against the sofa and stood up. He stretched his back. “Complete this mission successfully and I’ll hand you the name.”

  Wayan leaned forward to open his briefcase that sat on the floor next to his feet. Black shoes with a mirror polish. He retrieved a manila folder and handed it to her. “You will find all the information you need regarding the products High Vision is shipping, the designated cargo ship, a card with a coded message that you will use when you call to arrange a meet point to receive the three cartons. You are to call the phone number provided four hours prior to the ship’s departure.”

  You bloody bastard. A four-hour window to pick up and insert the boxes? She’d think this was a trap if she weren’t in possession of the artifact these two wanted. She’d made it very clear that no one she knew had any idea where each half of the artifact–a broken Celtic cross–was hidden.

  And that would be an issue only if they figured out her true identity. Not a bloody chance in hell of that.

  Wayan continued, “The shipment must arrive by–”

  “I can read.” She stood. “If the cargo ship arrives on time, your boxes will be on time, but I want that name the minute you have confirmation I’m no longer in the states...or I will find whatever is in those boxes.”

  A tiny muscle tensed near Wayan’s left eye. “If that ship does not arrive on schedule or those boxes are not received, the name you want from The General will never be available.”

  This was the dangerous side of Wayan who wanted her to know he had the power to prevent her from ever getting that name. Not because The General was a pushover. No, Wayan and The General would never have teamed up if they didn’t know each other’s secrets.

  But she was no pushover either and breathing the same air as these two was enough to bring out her deadly side as well. Time to go before she forgot why she put up with these two. “Wasting my time with all these ifs. I have your terms. You have mine. Anything else is superfluous.”

  Chatton ignored Wayan for a moment and opened the folder. The boxes were in Paris. She was floating in the ocean a hundred miles away from the closest airport. They’d all arrived by powerboats protected by a flotilla of armed escorts.

  Even if she reached Paris in time and managed to insert those boxes on a container already on the ship, the shipping line carrying that container had a spotty track record for arriving on schedule. Pointing out that she had no control over the operation of a cargo ship would only underscore his arrogance right now.

  She closed the folder.

  Wayan lifted his chin. “Once the container clears customs in Miami, you must insure that the correct person takes possession of these three boxes.”

  “And if not?” She did like to tweak their noses.

  The shrug he made was so dainty. “Blood will flow either way.”

  Would she be aiding a terrorist plot?

  What was in those boxes?

  Sounded too small to be a weapon of mass destruction, but it could be components of one, or something else equally deadly. Perhaps a chemical agent or biochemical warfare. She believed Wayan’s threat.

  She didn’t have a plan for how to pull this off, yet, but she’d better get one–she glanced down at the shipping schedule–soon. Lifting her head, she looked out the window at the lights of a steady stream of gunboats circling the yacht like steel sharks, three of those boats filled with her people. She told Wayan and The General, “Alert your security details that I’m calling in my helicopter.”

  Chapter 9

  Josh parked on the side driveway of Trish Jackson’s modest frame home, a two-story structure in a quiet neighborhood that appeared to have been developed seventy years ago. A standout in South Florida where one-level concrete block structures from the fifties and sixties were so prevalent.

  At the back corner of the house, a stairway ran up the side to a porch, the entrance to a second living space. Trish’s file indicated that her friend Heidi lived here too, so that must be her place.

  Josh headed up the walkway, past blooming flowers, to the front door. He could imagine Trish down on her knees, digging in the dirt and planting. Enjoying herself. Maybe even smiling like she had in the file photo.

  Getting a woman to smile was step one in getting closer to her. An easy step any man could do if he understood women at all.

  But he hadn’t managed it yet with Trish….make that Patricia.

  He couldn’t be that out of practice, right? He reached the three steps leading to her front door, where two concrete urns overflowed with red geraniums. This didn’t look like the home of someone willing to unleash deadly drugs on the world, but plenty of dangerous criminals lived in quaint homes.

  He knocked on the door, expecting Trish to open it, polite, but rigid again.

  Not for the door to fly open with her hiding behind it and saying, “Hurry up and come in. My dress is falling off.”

  He took in her bare neck and shoulders covered in soft skin that sent his mind chasing the idea of her completely naked. His control slipped a notch until she hissed, “Jo-osh!”

  She had her hand pressed against the top of silvery material covering her breasts. Not naked.

  “Come on,” she urged. “I’m in a hurry.”

  Stepping inside, Josh waited as she shoved the door shut. The rest of her was covered in a shimmering silver gown...that would look great pooled at her feet.

  He silently shook himself out of horndog mode and said, “What’s wrong?”

  “The zipper is caught and I can’t fix it.” She turned around and backed up to him.

  Her entire back, down to h
er waist, was exposed.

  Heat swirled around the collar of his tux, which was ridiculous. It was just a back. A beautiful sweep of sleek, in-shape, sexy back.

  Her fingers clutched the zipper that had stopped just above a sweet pair of buns. She called over her shoulder, “Can you fix it or not?”

  Blowing out a breath, he reached for the two sides of her dress. “Let me have it so I can see what’s wrong.”

  There was only one way to fix it and that was to unzip from where the teeth had caught a piece of the material, then rezip. That required sliding one hand between the zipper and her back, just above her ass, so that he could hold the two halves together and work the zipper down with his other hand.

  His knuckles brushed skin that was warm and smooth as thick cream. He gave a tug and the zipper came loose, sliding down quickly to the lacy edge of pink panties.

  The spit dried up in his mouth

  She tensed and made a little shivery sound.

  Zero to hard in three seconds.

  “Can you, uh, get it up?” she asked, breathless.

  Is the Pope Catholic? If he got any more up at this point they’d both know how much he liked pink lingerie. He said, a little terse, “Be still.”

  “It’s hard not to move,” she muttered.

  And stop saying things that are making me harder. He hadn’t unzipped a woman’s dress in a long while and fought the battle not to finish this job and touch the rest of all that skin.

  He eased the zipper pull back up slowly to prevent snagging the material again.

  By the time he had the dress zipped at her lower back and the tiny hook clasp latched, Trish’s shoulders were moving up and down with quick breaths. Meaning she wasn’t as indifferent to him as she’d tried to appear at her shop today.

  For the first time all day, Josh smiled. This was more like it. He leaned down close to her ear and whispered, “Need help with anything else?”

  “No.” She practically jumped away and spun around, facing him. Her cheeks heated with two flags of red. Embarrassed. “Thanks for fixing that.” She seemed to finally notice him. “You look...nice.”