Enemy in the Dark Page 2

  Aragona paused, a troubled look momentarily passing over his face. Katarina smiled. “Of course . . .” he finally said. “If you will excuse me, I shall have a suite prepared at once.”

  He smiled and stood up, walking toward one of the stewards standing nearby. “Go and tell the manager I want the royal suite prepared at once. Flowers, candles, bowls of burning jasmina. And I am in a hurry, so I want it ready in ten minutes.”

  “Yes, Lord Aragona.”

  “And I want another bottle of the Black Château in the suite. Lightly chilled.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Katarina was sitting quietly, listening to Aragona’s seduction preparations. No doubt, he thinks I cannot hear him. Katarina’s hearing was quite acute, though, and her mental discipline allowed her to tune out background distractions. She couldn’t match Blackhawk’s uncanny senses, but she was the closest of the crew to matching the Claw’s enigmatic captain.

  Katarina had also heard the fear in the steward’s voice. It was another reminder not to underestimate this man. She’d seen terrified servants before, and she’d met a hundred variations of the brutal masters who had instilled them with that fear. She hadn’t killed them all, but she’d wanted to. She was a cold-blooded killer herself, but she directed her attentions toward the powerful and dangerous, not the poor and weak, and she despised bullies who brutalized those who couldn’t fight back.

  No doubt, for all his arts of seduction, he’d kill a lover too. Because she displeased him. Or simply because he felt the urge.

  Aragona walked back, smiling. “I am having them open the royal suite for us, my beautiful Irina. It will be ready in ten minutes.” He smiled, but she could see through it, to the monster below the surface. “Just enough time to finish our drinks.”

  Katarina reached for her glass and returned the smile. “I look forward to a memorable evening.” She took a sip of her wine and set it down, still smiling sweetly. But inside she was regretting that this was a snatch-and-grab job.

  She suspected she would have enjoyed killing the son of a bitch.

  Lucas Lancaster sat in his usual place, the pilot’s chair on the Claw’s bridge. The Claw was quiet, too quiet. It was just him and the Twins. He was in charge of the ship, as usual, and the Twins were in reserve, in case anyone got into trouble. Everybody else was out on the op, even Sam.

  The brothers were monsters, gargantuan human beings well over two meters tall and weighing at least 150 kilos. They were great in a fight, but a bit too noticeable for undercover work—and a little too stupid, too. For all their blind loyalty and astonishing strength in a fight, Tarq and Tarnan were what Ace liked to call dull blades.

  Lucas was monitoring the operation, and as far as he could see, everything was going according to plan. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see much, because Blackhawk had mandated near-total communications silence.

  But Lucas wasn’t without resources. He’d managed to hack into the Castillan Orbital Command before the op and commandeer one of its surveillance satellites. He was scanning the entire area, looking for anything out of the ordinary, any kind of problem that might interfere with the operation. Things had been quiet so far, but if his experiences on Wolf’s Claw had taught him anything, it was that the situation could go to crap in a heartbeat.

  Like now.

  His eyes caught something on the scanner, movement around the Aragona villa. “What the fuck?” he muttered to himself. He stared at the screen closely, trying to discern what it was he saw. He thought about sending an instruction to the commandeered satellite, retasking it slightly to give a closer view, but that would require a high-energy communications burst, and Blackhawk had forbidden him from taking that kind of risk—unless the situation was dire. Lucas wasn’t shy about massaging the meaning of a word, but he couldn’t stretch all the way to “dire.” Not yet.

  His eye caught a flashing red light on the board. A signal from Blackhawk—and a step closer to dire. The mission was compromised, and they were moving to the backup plan.

  Lucas let out a long sigh. That was bad news. The backup plan sucked. Trying to snatch a paranoid psychotic from his villa in the countryside was bad enough, but grabbing him from his own hotel in the center of one of Castilla’s biggest cities—that was downright suicidal.

  And yet, just another day’s work on the Claw.

  “Tarq, Tarnan, I need you guys to suit up. We might have some work to do.” He wasn’t going to rush in and blow everyone’s covers. Not yet, at least. But he was damned well going to be ready, because the shit was sure as hell going to hit the fan . . . it always did. And when that happened, he wanted the Twins ready to go.

  Ace looked at his cards again. It was one of the false tells he’d invented, a way he’d been controlling the game, allowing Cordoba to win often enough to feel he was getting the better of his adversary, despite the fact that the money had remained fairly even. Ace had left Cordoba feeling he’d outplayed his opponent, and that his own losses had been due to dumb luck. It was the perfect enticement to keep the Castillan at the table. Every gambler knew luck could only last so long.

  “Lord Suvarov, I am sorry to interrupt.”

  Ace turned abruptly, an angry look on his face.

  Shira stood behind him, clad in a sleekly tailored white suit. Her short hair was combed straight back, and she was wearing heels that made her already significant height even more impressive. She held a small tablet in her hands.

  “What is it, Felice? What was so important it compelled you to interrupt my recreation?” His voice was haughty, dripping with arrogance. Sure, he was playing a part for the mission, but nothing said he couldn’t enjoy it, too.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Lord Suvarov,” she apologized again, “but we just received news about the shipment. The initial freighter has had to cancel the contract due to mechanical problems. We need to utilize our secondary alternative.”

  Ace stared at her with a sour expression on his face. “Well, if there is no alternative, then proceed. And don’t disturb me again unless it is important.” It was bad news. Shira was relaying Blackhawk’s order to go to Plan B. Beyond the problems that the captain would encounter, Ace’s whole purpose had been to keep Cordoba occupied and in town while the abduction went down in the villa. Now, though, all that had achieved was to keep the psychopathic son of a bitch in the same building where they were going to snatch Aragona. Ace wasn’t the prime mover in this plan, but he hated being counterproductive.

  I’m not a big fan of the plan going straight to shit immediately, either.

  Although I should be used to it by now . . .

  “A problem, Lord Suvarov?” Cordoba glanced across the table, a hint of concern in his voice, but no real suspicion Ace could detect.

  “Nothing a better staff wouldn’t solve, Lord Cordoba.” He glared up at Shira. “Go. See to it, now.”

  She looked back down at him and nodded respectfully. “As you command, my lord.”

  Ace watched her hurry from the room, and he noticed Cordoba doing the same. He had to admit she looked good in the form-fitting suit, but he felt like he was watching his sister. He knew Shira preferred women, at least when she defrosted enough to want anyone, but she had no difficulty attracting attention from either sex. No one could match Katarina for raw seductiveness, but Ace suspected Shira could have done the job, too.

  He held back a sigh. Things were going to hell, and the next few hours were likely to be extremely dangerous. Still, he enjoyed treating Shira like a servant, a small perk of the op. He suspected he’d pay for it later, assuming they all made it out, but it was still worth it.

  “Indeed, Lord Suvarov. It is a constant challenge to find competent servants.” Cordoba paused a few seconds before asking the question Ace knew was coming. “Pardon my curiosity, but perhaps I can assist you with whatever business you are conducting.”

  Ace reached over and grabbed his glass, taking a sip before answering. “As you know, many of my brethren from Sar
agossa were dispossessed these last eight years by the revolution there. However, recent news suggests that our cause has taken a turn for the better, and the revolutionary armies are on the retreat. Let us just say I have been safeguarding some . . . special holdings for some of my fellow nobles, items they wanted to keep out of the hands of the rebels.” He paused for a few seconds, glancing through the arches separating the VIP area from the main casino. “It is a delicate matter, Lord Cordoba, perhaps one best discussed elsewhere.” He gestured toward the table. “Besides, the cards await us now, do they not?”

  “Indeed they do, Lord Suvarov. Indeed they do.”

  Ace watched the pudgy Castillan deal slowly. Now there’s something else for you to think about: how you will manage to cheat me out of a ship full of Saragossan treasures. He smiled. There was nothing Ace liked better than dealing with greedy men. And he could see by the look in Cordoba’s eyes, his reputation was well deserved. That was good, because Ace expected he was going to need every distraction possible if he was going to get back to the Claw.

  CHAPTER 2

  “LET’S GO, BOYS. WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME.”

  Really, we don’t have any fucking time. Blackhawk knew Katarina couldn’t stall Aragona all night. Sooner or later, she’d end up in one of the hotel suites with him. He knew she didn’t need help subduing him, but she was damned sure going to need backup getting him the hell out of there and back to the Claw.

  “Right behind you, Captain.”

  Blackhawk could hear the exhaustion in Sarge’s voice, and a quick glance over his shoulder told him the rest of the crew was in even worse shape. Blackhawk knew his lung capacity was at least half again theirs, and probably more. He’d been driven by urgency, though, and his concern for Katarina and Ace and the rest of his people in Madrassa. But the others just couldn’t maintain his pace. He was going to have to make a choice: go on ahead by himself or slow down enough for them to keep up. He hated the idea of splitting up, but the thought of leaving Katarina on her own was worse.

  He stopped and spun around, his eyes focusing briefly on each of them. “Sarge, I’m going to go on ahead. You guys follow as quickly as you can.” He stared at the hulking soldier. “You remember the layout of the city, right?” He hadn’t expected Sarge’s people to get anywhere near Madrassa, but they’d gone over the backup plan anyway.

  Once.

  “Yes, sir. I remember.” Blackhawk wasn’t sure he believed the grizzled warrior, but he figured they would manage. Sarge was staring back, a troubled expression on his face. “Captain, we can run faster. We can keep up with you.”

  “No, Sarge. You can’t.” It was a little harder than he usually put things for the crew, but he didn’t have time to waste. And there was no point in explaining that he’d been holding back so they could keep up. “I need you guys in shape to fight . . . assuming we end up in a battle.” And when the hell don’t we? “Stay as close behind as you can.” He gave them all a quick wave, then took off, practically sprinting toward the looming buildings of the city.

  He figured they were still ten klicks out, but alone he could cover that in thirty minutes. “Half an hour, Kat,” he whispered as he raced down the darkened street, his keen eyes making do with the dim moonlight.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Just hang on.”

  Katarina looked around the room. The suite was palatial, with an antique grand piano and a sweeping view of the city and the shoreline beyond. The walls were covered with hand-carved wainscoting, and she suspected the art on the walls was among the best on Castilla.

  Though that isn’t saying much.

  Logs were crackling in the fireplace, and the room was full of flowers. There were candles on the tables flanking the bed, and small bowls of fiery liquid. Jasmina was a plant from the Castillan tropics, the fragrant vapors from its burning extract another supposed local aphrodisiac. Katarina suppressed her amusement. She was astonished at the cheap theatrics that worked for men like Aragona. Though she expected his wealth was more of a factor in his success with women, or, when that failed, coercion.

  She wondered how much a high roller had to gamble in the Grand Palais’s casino to see the inside of this place. Five hundred thousand florins? A million? So much simpler just to flash a little leg . . .

  “Here you are, my dear.” Aragona stepped up with two crystal goblets in his hand. He stood close behind, handing her one of the glasses. “It is quite a view, isn’t it?”

  Katarina felt the warmth of his breath on her neck. She was sure she could disable him at will, but she was wondering if she should wait—to give Blackhawk and the others a little more time to get in position.

  She’d managed to get him up to the suite without any of his guards in tow. Her pleas for discretion and privacy might have aroused some suspicion if Aragona wasn’t already so focused on getting her into bed. But even alone—and that assumed there were no active surveillance devices in the suite—she knew once she disabled him they were on a rigid time clock. They had to get him out before he came to, or she’d have to kill him and make a break for it. She figured she had a decent chance of getting away if she had to, but the mission would be a disaster. And Katarina hated failure.

  The bank wanted a live captive, and the price Blackhawk negotiated reflected the increased difficulty over a simple assassination. A dead Aragona meant the crew wouldn’t get paid at all—this wasn’t a dead or alive contract—and they’d have wasted time and resources on a pointless excursion. And that assumed everyone else made it out. Katarina had lived most of her life embracing a coldly calculating mentality, to consider the people around her as assets, expendable if it helped the mission succeed. But she knew she’d lost some of that keen edge, the almost inhuman coldness that marked a Sebastiani assassin. Against all her training and discipline, she’d become quite fond of her shipmates, and the thought of any of them dying on a blown mission was not something she wanted to contemplate.

  Ace was in the worst danger. Despite her efforts at discretion, Aragona’s men knew she’d gone upstairs with their boss. They believed she was Ace’s wife, sneaking off behind her husband’s back. If they found their boss dead in the hotel suite . . .

  No, she had to get Aragona out of here, and do it quietly, so Ace had a chance to slip away. When she first bought passage on Wolf’s Claw, she couldn’t understand why someone as coldly competent as Blackhawk had such a loudmouth fool as his sidekick. Her first impressions of people were usually spot-on, but she eventually realized she’d misjudged Ace. Despite his loud—and often annoying—theatrics, she’d found him to be keenly intelligent and enormously reliable. And, if she was being totally objective, not completely unattractive . . .

  No—she couldn’t leave him at the mercy of Aragona’s enraged retainers. She wouldn’t. Whatever it took.

  “Why, Arra, are you trying to get me drunk?” she purred softly, turning and running her hand down his face. “Because, I assure you, that is not necessary.” She leaned back into him.

  “Your husband is a fool to neglect a woman like you.”

  She felt his hands on her shoulders, his fingers slipping under the thin straps of her dress. She moaned softly at his touch and leaned her head back, her silky hair pressed against his face.

  We’ll see who the fool is. It’s only a matter of when . . .

  Blackhawk slipped through the dark streets, moving as quickly as he could without attracting notice. It was late, but Madrassa was known for its nightlife, so the restaurants, casinos, and clubs would be crowded until dawn.

  He tried to stay in the shadows and on backstreets. He’d expected to be infiltrating the villa, and he was wearing combat fatigues and boots. He was filthy, too, his legs covered with half-dried mud from tramping around in the tidal estuaries. He’d managed to avoid any undue notice so far, but the minute he walked into the Grand Palais, every eye would be on him. The hotel was the finest establishment in Madrassa, and its patrons would be impeccably dressed.

 
He looked around, his eyes scanning the late-night revelers walking by. He needed clothes, and he could only think of one way to get them. He watched and waited, looking for an appropriately dressed partier . . . preferably one around his size.

  Finally, he saw a man approaching. He was alone, and he looked to be a good physical match. And he was swaying back and forth, clearly drunk. Even better.

  Blackhawk waited for the man to walk by, and then he struck. He lunged forward, striking the back of the man’s neck. His victim crumbled instantly, and Blackhawk caught him and slid his limp form into an alley.

  He put his fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. A look of relief slipped onto his face. He hadn’t used a killing strike, but he’d been worried he’d hit too hard. Blackhawk had fought an astonishing array of cutthroats and killers, but he wasn’t used to disabling drunk civilians.

  He stripped out of his fatigues and put on his victim’s suit. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do. He picked up his assault rifle, looking around the alley for a place to stash it. Once again, his equipment for the villa had no place on the floors of the Grand Palais, and there was no way he could conceal it with these clothes.

  He walked over and shoved the rifle into a trash bin, carefully pushing it down under the garbage. He paused for a minute and sighed, unbuckling his holster belt and tossing it in after the rifle. He wasn’t getting in with a pistol, either.

  He turned and took a last glimpse at the man lying on the ground. He pulled a ten-crown platinum coin and placed it in his victim’s hand. It was enough to buy a hundred suits, compensation enough, he hoped, for both the clothing and the headache he knew the man would have when he awoke. Arkarin Blackhawk was a lot of things, but a thief wasn’t one of them.