heart slammed in her chest.
Sam turned to the door, one hand gripping the frame. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting more and knowing it would put her life in terrible danger. It already had. He started to climb in.
A tap on his shoulder made him turn, and she was there, against him, her hand sliding up his chest, her fingers at his nape and pulling him down to her.
“You’re not getting off that easy, cowboy.”
Her mouth covered his and Sam trapped her against him, his entire body igniting like a warhead as his mouth rolled over hers. His fists bunched in her clothes, pushed her into him, and he felt it, that crackling current between them, the heat peeling off her in waves. Intoxicating, leaving him useless and hungering for more.
Then, abruptly, she pulled back and moved out of his arms. Sam felt suddenly stripped, empty. Then she walked across the cement pad toward the building, never once looking back. Sam watched her go.
Behind him, Sebastian whistled softly, then Max said, “Let her go, buddy. She’s a civilian and we have a job to do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” For the first time, Sam hated his job. He climbed in the chopper, powering it up, refusing to look in her direction. “Contact Logan, we need some satellite photos to find that jet.” The diamonds were out there, with the weapons. And Rohki.
Kashir pulled a swiftly made traverse bearing Najho’s body. The dart was still in his neck. No one dared touch it or the body for fear of poisoning, and the belief that evil spirits were at work. Kashir had no such fear and led the procession.
Men flanked them, aiming toward the jungle as they followed the long path to the village. The American had done enough damage that they carried four dead. A half dozen others chose to continue the hunt. Kashir knew they would not survive.
Dragon One’s reputation predicted as much.
Yet the men blamed the woman, and were determined to learn her identity. Kashir could do nothing to stop them. She was inconsequential to his objectives. The lines blurred often, and Najho had been his friend, of sorts. But Najho’s death was not the American’s doing, and Kashir’s gaze flicked to the jungle, expecting another dart.
Watching his own back meant more to him than the assignment. But then, he was not a lifelong professional agent. He’d fallen into his career choice by accident. Lebanese born, he had connections that interested MI6, CIA, and Interpol. Recruiting him wasn’t difficult. He was young and already inside when Interpol had come to him. Threatened him. It was best to be on the strong side of the law, though there were days he doubted who had control. He knew he was inconsequential, a voice from the inside. Only a few levels above Phan, he thought, and the image of Phan’s mutilated body burst in his mind.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen such a massacre.
Ten years ago, several businessmen in Kuala Lumpur were found in just such a manner. Their testicles and toes taken, and some with their eyes removed. The flat in the high-rise had been a whorehouse, but that all the men were in the living room, positioned like an audience, had authorities scrambling to smother the murders from the news and find the killer. There was no trace. Phan, he thought, had met the same fate. From the same person.
That it could be a woman—there had been boys in the same whorehouse—twisted his stomach. It was punishment, a vile retribution. Yet as Kashir shifted the stretcher made of fronds and thin trees, he knew she was selective. None of their dead had been touched.
At the camp, he set down the travois and flexed his fingers. In his pockets were the uncut stones their leader had had on him. Just a few, he thought. For his own future. Kashir wasn’t giving away information without a price. Finding Rohki for Dragon One was low on his list. Survival was first.
He moved into the village, the women rushing to the bodies of their beloved. Kashir stopped at his hut, removed his weapons, and sat on the low porch. A woman brought him water and a banana leaf filled with spicy chicken. Three men approached him. He simply stared up at them, then he knew. He’d been chosen.
He tossed aside the chicken bone. “Prepare the dead.” Grooming, shrouding, and preparing the meal for the ancestor would take a day. The rituals of stories, and calling the spirits of the dead to take up residence on the ancestral altar, another two. “When their families are satisfied, then you may do as you wish.”
And seek revenge.
The sun was bright in the sky when Viva took a cab to the Palace of Wang Na, the Bangkok museum. But her mind was locked on Sam and what he was really doing here in Bangkok. Best she didn’t know, she thought. Tiredly, she walked up the steps to the pagoda-shaped museum, not even admiring the beautiful tilework before she went to the guard at the desk. She asked for Dr. Wan Gai, the curator.
The guard inspected her, making a face at her muddy boots, and Viva didn’t want to see herself in a mirror. She felt bad, so she knew she looked worse. The guard made a phone call and she waited. Nearby were beautiful silk brocade chairs for visitors, but she was too filthy to sit. She heard crisp footsteps, and knew the moment Dr. Wan Gai saw her.
His steps slowed. “Miss Fiori?”
She nodded, primped her hair, and knew it was a disaster.
“I am Dr. Wan Gai.” He held out his hand and she grasped it.
“Sawatdee khrap.” Hello. “You’re not what I expected,” she blurted, then mentally kicked herself. “A pleasure.” Wan Gai was tall for a Thai man and handsome, his features angular, his eyebrows like black wings over piercing black eyes.
“Salih Nagada told me to expect you, and he was very worried when you had not yet arrived.” His gaze moved down her body.
Her clothing was ruined, her boots so muddy she left trails. “I had a rough time. Salih was right, though. I really should have taken the plane.”
Dr. Wan Gai frowned, coming closer.
She stepped back, eyeing his tailored black suit. “I wouldn’t get too close. I’ve been in the river.”
Regardless, he swept his arm around her, guiding her toward his offices. “Come, we will see to your comfort, have you a hotel room?”
She laughed to herself. “I don’t even have luggage anymore.”
He snapped his fingers, delivering orders in a soft voice. Food, coffee, water, and towels for Miss Fiori to clean, and Viva felt as if she’d found sanctuary after a prison of trouble.
“You’ll want this.” She pulled off the bracelet and handed it to him. Job done, she thought.
“Thank you.” He didn’t look at it, guiding her still, and inside his offices, he pushed her onto a plush sofa. She popped back up.
“It will be ruined. Look at me.”
“It can be cleaned.” He tsked and pushed her down again, then drew a chair in front of her and sat. “Tell me of your trip that put you in the river.”
She gave him a vague story, leaving out Sam and Max’s names, or that they were American. Her last image of Sam, a second before she kissed him, sent a burst of hot memory through her body. I’ll miss his stubborn, overbearing self, she thought.
Wan
