yet you’re kidnapping her, said the mocking voice in his head.
Deacon didn’t allow himself to dwell on the sliver of guilt that pricked his skin. This was business. He might have messed up and screwed the target, but he wasn’t about to screw himself. His work as a mercenary was all he had. He’d been forced to fend for himself since he was fifteen years old, making money by whatever means necessary. And he hadn’t gotten to this point by distracting himself with foolish human emotions like guilt. Emotions, frankly, were a waste of time, and he forced himself to remember that as he led the group toward the exit of the station.
Behind him, Charlie and Tango were practically dragging Lana, urging her in hard tones to keep walking. Deacon had never worked with the two men before. Didn’t even know their real names. Le Clair assigned each team member names from the military alphabet, corresponding to the letters of their first name. So Charlie and Tango could be Carl and Tom, or Chris and Tim, for all Deacon knew. But they were pros, that much was evident. They’d handled Lana Kelley with supreme efficiency back on that train.
Deacon might even have been impressed by their professionalism, if he hadn’t been battling the ridiculous urge to take Lana into his arms and carry her off the train to safety.
What the hell was the matter with him?
Focus. You’re on a job.
Deacon drew in a calming breath. Okay. He had to quit remembering the way Lana Kelley looked naked—as mind-blowing as the image was—and treat her as he did any other target. Faceless. Nameless. A means to an end. And in this case, the end was a staggering amount of money. Whoever had hired Le Clair was obviously rolling in dough.
“Please, don’t do this.”
Lana’s agonized whisper made his shoulders stiffen. He refused to turn around. Didn’t want to see the fear and horror and disappointment on her pretty face.
“Shut up,” Charlie muttered.
She ignored the order. “Please,” she said again. “I’ll give you anything you want, just let me go. I have money. Lots and lots of it. My father is—”
“We know exactly who your father is,” Tango cut in, sounding amused. “So shut your trap and walk.”
Lana made a startled noise, as if Tango had shoved her, and Deacon fought back a wave of rage. If Tango touched her one more time, Deacon would… do nothing.
Get a hold of yourself, for Chrissake.
He curled his hands into fists and looked straight ahead. This strange bout of protectiveness he felt toward Lana was unacceptable. If Le Clair got even the slightest whiff of it, Deacon would be sent packing. And he could kiss all that cash goodbye.
The foursome stepped outside. It was six in the morning, but the front of the station was bustling with people. A man walked by, talking loudly into his cell phone in a string of Italian phrases that Deacon understood perfectly. He’d been fluent in Italian for years. French, too, and Russian, Greek, Spanish, Latin… His parents had made certain he had the best education a boy could have.
That is, before his father had shot his mother in the head and proceeded to turn the gun on himself.
Deacon experienced a burst of shock as the memory crept into his consciousness. Shit. What was he doing, thinking about all that old garbage? It was over, done with. His parents were dead, but he was very much alive. And at the moment, he had a job to do.
“Echo should be waiting right over… There he is,” Deacon said brusquely as a black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulled up behind one of the taxis out front.
He turned, getting another dose of the sheer betrayal sizzling in Lana’s eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she pleaded softly. “How could you, after—”
A sharp shake of his head shut her up, and he had to give her credit. The gorgeous blonde stopped abruptly without finishing the sentence that would have undoubtedly revealed their carnal connection.
“Get in the car,” he cut in coldly, opening the door for her.
Lana stared into the dark interior of the SUV, her reluctance creasing her delicate forehead. Deacon couldn’t help but notice how beautiful and put-together she looked, despite her obvious turmoil. Her red T-shirt was wrinkle-free, her pale blond hair smoothed back in a neat ponytail. Only the trepidation in her ocean-blue eyes betrayed her composed appearance.
“Please,” she whispered again.
She yelped as Charlie jammed his gun into her tail-bone, practically pushing her into the vehicle. “Inside, now,” Charlie snapped.
As Tango slid into the front seat next to Echo, Deacon and Charlie sandwiched Lana in the back. As soon as the doors closed, Charlie removed a long scrap of black cotton and proceeded to blindfold Lana, who protested wildly.
“No,” she burst out. “Please, just let me go! I promise I won’t tell anyone about this! I’ll—”
“Shut up,” Tango grumbled from the front seat.
Pure agony boiled in Deacon’s stomach as Echo drove away from the Milan station. Lana was trembling uncontrollably beside him. Her firm thigh was pressed against his, and each tremor that rocked her body shook his, as well. His fingers tingled with the need to touch her face, offer a reassuring caress. But he’d be a dead man if he did it. The others would immediately report the transgression to Le Clair.
“Is the plane ready?” Tango was asking Echo.
Echo, a bulky man with shoulder-length black hair tied back in a low ponytail, nodded briskly. “The others are already at the airstrip. All the arrangements have been made.”
Next to him, Lana let out a tiny sob. He glanced over, wincing when he noticed the tears streaming down from beneath her blindfold.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked, and he knew the question was directed at him.
He also knew she must have a dozen more questions, also for him. Fortunately, she didn’t voice any of them. When Charlie ordered her to shut up again, she finally obeyed, growing silent. The trembling continued, though. And he noticed her small hands were clasped together over her abdomen, in an almost protective gesture.
The sun was just beginning to rise when the SUV arrived at the private airstrip on the outskirts of the city. A shiny white Learjet sat majestically on the narrow, paved runway, making Deacon raise a dark brow. Le Clair’s bosses really were loaded, weren’t they? Most of Deacon’s gigs involved rusty old Cessnas that barely got him from point A to B, not expensive private jets that probably cost millions.
Le Clair was already marching over to the vehicle before it even came to a complete stop, his thick black eyebrows creased together in distaste. The man’s angular features displayed an expression of perpetual annoyance. Le Clair always seemed to be irritated by something, and patience wasn’t really his strong suit. He also had a vicious temper, often triggered by the most innocuous things. But Deacon wasn’t foolish enough to challenge Le Clair or point out his weaknesses. Not unless he wanted a bullet between his eyes, which Paul Le Clair was quite capable of delivering.
This was the first time Deacon had worked with the other man, but he’d been well aware of Le Clair’s reputation. Vicious, greedy, dangerous as hell. A former
