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.
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
