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Standing at the bank of windows, looking out at the dreary day beyond, Bo thought he could still smell her. A warm, female scent that reminded him of mountain columbine and rain. Wild and fragile and recklessly beautiful. Just like her.
“Bo.”
Cutter’s voice drilled into his thoughts. Bo spun to find the agency head and Rachael standing a few feet away. “Did you file the flight plan?” Cutter asked.
Bo nodded. “We take off in forty-five minutes.”
“Good.” Cutter turned to Rachael, assessed her the way a coach might assess an injured high school athlete. One that was good, but had to quit the season due to an injury. “I’m the only person who knows where you’re going. No one at the agency has a clue. Keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir.” But she didn’t look happy about any of what was happening. Bo wasn’t happy about it, either. But for the first time since he’d walked away from the agency, he was duty-bound to do the right thing.
“I don’t expect anything to go wrong,” Cutter said. “If it does, initiate a code ninety-nine.”
“Roger that,” Bo said, falling easily into the old jargon.
“I’d like you to keep me posted on Karas,” Rachael said.
Cutter shook his head. “You will have no communication with the agency, unless, of course, you’re in danger or need help. He’s pretty much declared war on the agency. You know how sophisticated Karas’s organization is. Last we heard he had access to a satellite.”
She uttered an unladylike curse that left no room for doubt with regard to how she felt about all of this. Had the circumstances been different, Bo might have smiled. Rachael Armitage was a woman to be reckoned with. But she was also Michael’s widow. A woman whose life he himself had played a role in devastating. A woman who would have every right to hate him if she knew the truth.
It was up to him to make sure she never did.
“WHY IS RACHAEL Armitage still alive?”
Viktor Karas’s cultured voice reverberated through the elegant confines of his study. In his prime at the age of fifty, he was distinguished-looking with tastefully coifed salt-and-pepper hair and eyes the color of a Siberian lake.
Those cold gray eyes landed on one of the two men sitting in tapestry wingback chairs adjacent his desk. Vladimir Novak was young and cocky. But his eyes were ancient. They were the eyes of a killer. And it was precisely the reason Karas had hired him.
Vladimir squirmed. “She escaped.”
“Escaped?”
“We tracked her to Chicago. Caught up with her on a back road. We forced her off the road.”
“And she got away,” Karas finished.
“H-her car rolled down an embankment. By the time we reached it, she’d fled on foot. We pursued her, but it was dark. The terrain was difficult.”
Despite his hatred for the woman—the federal agent who’d murdered his beloved Nikolai—Karas felt a fleeting moment of respect for her. Only the most talented and brutal men worked for him. It would take daring, resourcefulness and a good bit of luck to elude them. Rachael Armitage appeared to possess generous amounts of all three traits.
“Twice you have attempted to kill her,” Karas said. “Twice you have failed.”
“I am sorry,” Vladimir said. “But she appears to be well-trained.”
Crossing to the wet bar adjacent to a row of windows that offered a stunning view of Moscow’s Teatralnaya Square, Karas snagged three crystal tumblers and poured two fingers of vodka into each. He handed tumblers to the two men.
“My son has been dead for a month now and you are no closer to completing your mission than when you started.”
“We have listening devices in place.” The second man spoke for the first time. “We’re working on finding a weak point at the MIDNIGHT Agency.”
Karas turned his attention to Ivan Petrov and smiled inwardly. He was also young—not yet twenty-five—and sported a goatee and ponytail that reached halfway down his back. He might look like some pampered New York model, but in the two years he’d been with the organization, Ivan had exterminated more men than the sum of his years.
Karas refocused his attention on the first man. After all, it was Vladimir who had been in charge of both missions. It was Vladimir who had failed. Failure was the one thing Viktor Karas would not tolerate.
“How do you plan to rectify the situation?” Karas asked.
Made nervous by his superior’s scrutiny, Vladimir lifted the tumbler and drank, his eyes looking anywhere but into the cold depths of his employer’s gaze. “I am flying to the United States first thing in the morning. I’m meeting my contact in New York. I’m hoping he will have information for me with regard to the woman’s location.”
“You’re certain this contact has information for you?”
“This contact—a former agent with the American CIA—has always come through for me in the past. I have information that would destroy him if it were to get back to his superiors.”
“I see.” Viktor ran his finger around the rim of the glass. “And then?”
“I will find her and kill her.” Looking pleased with himself, Vladimir cleared his throat.
Karas contemplated him coldly. “This is your great plan?”
Vladimir put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He sipped the vodka as if to clear his throat, but the coughing worsened. His face reddened. Noticeably uncomfortable, he shifted in the chair. The coughing turned into choking. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Placing both hands to his throat, he made a strangled sound and twisted in the chair.
Please, help.
Karas sipped his vodka, unmoving.
Vladimir’s coughing turned violent. White foam spewed from his lips. Eyes bulging, he reached for Karas, but the older man stepped back, out of reach. “You,” he croaked.
Karas smiled at him dispassionately. “Yes,” he said. “Me. Have a nice trip to hell.”
Vladimir clawed at his throat. Throwing his head back, he twisted and fell from the chair. He writhed on the Persian carpet, clutching his throat and gurgling unintelligibly in Russian. After a few minutes, his eyes rolled back white. A final gasp and he lay still.
For several seconds the only sound came from the traffic along the boulevard two stories down. Then Karas walked to the bar and refilled his tumbler. “A new poison my chemist developed,” he said. “Most expeditious, don’t you agree?”
Ivan Petrov’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice in quick succession. “Yes,” he said, looking down at his own glass of vodka.
Karas threw his head back and laughed. “Go ahead. Enjoy your vodka. You needn’t worry that I’ve poisoned you.”
But the younger man’s hand trembled when he raised the glass to his lips. “Wh-why did you poison Vladimir?”
“Because he failed. It is the one thing I will not tolerate.” Crossing to the young man in the chair, Karas put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, Mr. Karas.”
“You will find the American agent. You will leave Moscow today. My private jet is waiting. When you find her, you will contact me immediately. I will take it from there. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” the young man replied and downed his remaining vodka in a single gulp.
Chapter Two
The Dripping Springs Ranch was exactly the kind of place where Rachael would never venture. A born-and-bred city girl, she much preferred the excitement of city lights. The ranch was about as far away from city lights as a person could get without leaving the planet.
But as the SUV bounced down a dirt road on a ridge overlooking a valley, she had to admit the high plains and mountains of northwestern Wyoming possessed a stark beauty she would never find in New York. Of course that wasn’t going to make sitting on the sidelines any easier.
The thought of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere while another team worked her case filled her with frustration—and a terrible sense of being out of the loop. Rachael had wanted to be the one to nail Viktor Karas. As far as she was concerned Sean Cutter owed her that. After all, Karas was indirectly responsible for her late husband’s death. She’d spent the last two years working to nab him; she’d worked hard and built a strong case. It rankled that she’d been forced to turn months of effort over to someone else.
“You ever been to a working ranch before?” Bo Ruskin’s slow drawl tugged her from her reverie.
Rachael frowned at him, annoyed because he wasn’t as miserable as she was. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a denim jacket. He looked comfortable behind the wheel of the truck. As if he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Never had a desire to,” she replied in a clipped tone.
“Not enough bad guys for you?”
“Something like that.”
He sighed. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here any more than I want you here, but since Cutter is evidently holding all the cards, we’re going to have to get through this.”
It was the understatement of the year, especially the part about her not wanting to be there. But Rachael couldn’t think of how to change the situation. Without losing her job, anyway.
Raising her hand, she displayed a small gap between her thumb and forefinger. “I was this close to nailing Karas.”
“From what I hear, Karas came that close to killing you.”
“I got into a scrape,” she conceded. “But what agent hasn’t over the years? Cutter overreacted.”
Bo Ruskin looked away from his driving, his expression telling her he wasn’t impressed by her wrath—and that he didn’t necessarily agree with her.
Their vehicle passed beneath a steel pipe arch bearing a sign that read Dripping Springs Ranch. Beyond, a white clapboard house and several outbuildings stood prettily against an endless blue sky. Within the confines of a neat pipe fence, several spotted horses looked up from their grazing.
“So what do you do out here?” Rachael asked, taking in the barns and fenced corrals.
One side of his mouth curved. “You mean out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I train and breed horses, mostly.” He parked in front of the garage and killed the engine. “Run fences. Repair the outbuildings when the wind kicks up.”
“Seems…quiet.”
“It is.”
“Do you ever miss being an agent?”
His eyes darkened for a fraction of a second. “Nope.”
A man of few words, she thought. Probably a good thing at this point because she didn’t feel much like talking. She wasn’t sure she’d like what he had to say, anyway. Maybe they’d get along after all.
Or maybe not.
He hefted her single suitcase from the back and carried it to the front door of the house. Rachael had never been a fan of anything country, but the house made a lovely picture against the backdrop of crisp blue sky and purple-hued mountains. A railed porch wrapped around the front of the house. Geraniums grew in profusion from an old wooden barrel that had been split in half and filled with soil. A dinner bell dangled from a hook just outside the door. Beyond, an old-fashioned porch swing rocked in the breeze.
The screen door squeaked when he opened it. Rachael stepped into a large, open living room adorned with rustic furniture and lots of rough-hewn wood beams. A Native American rug graced a pine floor. Beyond was a small but well-appointed kitchen and a window that offered a stunning view of the mountains.
“That’s Bareback Mountain.”
“It’s lovely.”
“You’ve got the guestroom upstairs.”
Rachael followed him up the staircase to a narrow hall with five doors. They passed three bedrooms and a large bathroom equipped with an antique claw-footed tub.
The fourth bedroom was small but comfortable with terra-cotta paint, fresh white wainscoting and an intricately made quilt on the twin-size bed. A feminine touch graced the room and she found herself wondering about his decorator. “This is nice,” she said.
“Pauline cooks and cleans a couple of times a week. I let her furnish the room about a year ago.”
“She did a good job.” She wondered about his relationship with Pauline.
He looked large and out of place in the small room, like a wild animal that was trapped indoors.
“I make tortillas and tamales for dinner, Señor Ruskin,” came a female voice from the hall.
Rachael spun to find a small, dark-eyed woman at the door. She wore a full skirt, denim vest—and cowboy boots. Her eyes widened when they landed on Rachael. “Hello.”
Bo cleared his throat. “Pauline, this is Rachael Armitage.” His gaze flicked to Rachael. “Pauline Ortegon runs the house and just about everything else here at Dripping Springs.”
“Nice to meet you,” Rachael said.
The woman was fiftyish with long black hair shot with silver and pulled into a ponytail that reached all the way to the waistband of her skirt. Turquoise earrings in the shape of horses dangled from her lobes. The only thing missing, Rachael thought, was the gun belt and six-shooter.
“Welcome to Dripping Springs Ranch,” Pauline said with a strong Spanish accent.
“Rachael’s going to be staying with us a few days,” Bo said.
“Oh.” The woman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Questions flitted in her eyes, but she did not voice them. “In that case, I will bring clean linens and soaps.” She started toward the door, but turned before going through it. “I make tamales and tortillas for tonight for supper.”
“Thank you,” Bo said.
Nodding, she left the room.
Rachael looked down at the small bed, wishing she was anywhere but here. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful about staying here,” she said. “I appreciate your putting me up.”
“I owe Cutter a favor.” His smile looked more like a grimace. “This ought to even things up.”
A shadow passed over his eyes at the mention of the favor. Rachael wondered what the debt was. “You must owe him big time, since you’re no longer an agent.”
“Cutter and I go way back. He wouldn’t have asked if he wasn’t seriously worried about your safety.” He motioned toward the window and the ranch spread out beyond. “He knew the ranch would be the perfect place for you to lay low.”
“Laying low isn’t my style,” she muttered.
