style="font-size:15px;"> Recognizing the voice from the shadows, Zachary Russell let the air rush from his lungs in a puff of relief. “Tough decade.” He set the knife on the counter. “You took a chance popping up unexpected. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I know people who know people.”
Zach advanced into the cavernous room. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he could make out the figure of his friend, Jack Chaney, seated in the deepest shadows near the window. That Jack had been inside his rooms without him sensing it was a testimony to his exhaustion. Of course, he could count the number of men on one hand with skills of his friend’s caliber. He was one of them.
“Come all the way from the States for some of my coffee, did you?” Zach asked.
“If you were making some. Just black. None of that steamed milk or fancy flavored stuff, Russ.”
“You Yanks are so plebeian in your tastes,” he said, quirking his lip at Jack’s nickname.
“We’re just simple folks.”
Zach switched on the light in his huge gourmet kitchen. It was the reason he kept the massively overpriced rooms he so seldom saw. He replaced the knife in the block and set about brewing a fresh grind of beans. The routine gestures and familiar smells were a salve to his battered soul.
It was always good to see Jack. They’d been best mates since his early days in British Intelligence. Jack was a straight shooter in their knife-in-the-back, cloak and dagger world. He’d secretly cheered when he heard of his friend’s retirement. Not many of them actually got the chance to walk away from what they did, from what they were. Jack had a marvelous little wife back in the Midwest, a toughly independent lawyer he’d met while protecting her life, and together they were reforging a future that, frankly, Zach envied. Together, they’d started their own business, an elite bodyguard training center called Personal Protection Professionals. Jack had presented a card to him with a flourish and an open invitation. Any time he wanted to pick up some freelance work. Zach had the card tacked up on his board and smiled whenever he looked at it. Good for you, Jacky Boy.
As good as it was to see Jack Chaney, he didn’t think for a moment that it was a social call. Jack wouldn’t have come across an ocean just to say he’d been in the neighborhood and thought he’d drop by. And after the brutal toll his last mission had taken, he wasn’t sure he was up for whatever Jack had in mind.
He carried the cups into the living room, knowing he’d soon find out.
“Coffee. Black and simple.”
“There’s nothing simple about anything you do, Russ.”
Taking that as a compliment, he settled into one of the lavishly padded chairs he preferred over the strictly Old World continental theme he retained for the rest of his rooms. This was where he came to relax, where he came to sink down deep and rest for a long, healing while. But Jack was here this time to disturb that process.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Occupational hazard. Perhaps I could impose on you to do some needlework for me.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’d do it meself but I’m vain about having the seams even. It’s a bugger to do left handed.”
Jack nodded. “Whose blood were you wearing when you came in?”
“No one you know or would want to know.”
“You look like twenty miles of extremely bad road.”
“Forty, and I feel every kilometer.”
“Ready to retire and start that restaurant?”
“Giving it serious thought.” He grimaced, shifting his cup to his uninjured hand. “So, to what do I owe this visit?”
Bless him, Chaney was always one to cut to the chase.
“Victor Castillo.”
Zach straightened, all vestiges of weariness erased by that bit of the past he preferred not to dwell upon. Victor Castillo was his one professional blemish.
Castillo. A man one didn’t mess with. A harsh, uncompromising figure in the global marketplace. Born in a small, poverty-ridden Mexican village, he’d parlayed street smarts into a personal dynasty worth millions in the States where they tended to ignore the gray areas of his business dealings. He’d repaid the debt by passing sensitive information to whatever agency would benefit…and would pay the most. He had no allegiance, no conscience, no scruples. And he’d collected a rogue’s gallery of enemies who wanted revenge in the nastiest ways possible.
“And how is Victor?” He worked to keep his voice neutral but Jack saw right through him. His expression was half empathy, half regret.
“He sent me to call in a favor.”
Instead of slumbering in his own bed, Zach spent the early-morning hours napping on an international flight. It was first class but it wasn’t Egyptian cotton.
Chicago O’Hare was the expected press of humanity. Weary travelers shuffled from one terminal to the next, jumping out of the way for the beeping transport carts and nervously listening to warnings not to leave bags unattended. To Zach, it could have been any international airport in any city in any country. He’d spent so much time in the majority of them, he felt he’d earned a VIP spot at the baggage carousel.
As he stood scowling at the new scuff in the leather of his always packed bag, a hand reached down to take the handle.
“I’ll get that for you, Mr. Russell.”
He straightened, allowing the young Hispanic man to hoist his suitcase and garment bag.
“My name is Tomas. If you’ll follow me, sir, transportation is waiting.”
If the young man hadn’t turned away so quickly, Zach would have been warned by his small smile.
The Chicago chill cut to the bone as he stepped outside the terminal. But there was no cushy limo waiting in the passenger pick up area to carry him in style to the Castillo estate on Lake Shore Drive.
A late-model sedan sat parked on the far side of the multiple traffic lanes. The trunk lifted expectantly in answer to Tomas’s signal. As his driver started across the road ahead of him, the deep throated roar of a high-performance engine distracted Zach. He dodged back for the safety of the sidewalk as a motorcycle cut between him and Tomas. The young man never looked back, flinging the luggage into the trunk before starting around toward the driver’s door. Only then did he grin, a brief flash of brilliant amusement, before ducking into the vehicle.
The rev of the bike’s motor drew Zach’s attention from his rapidly disappearing wardrobe. He hadn’t even gotten the plate number. Swallowing down the indignity of falling such easy prey to an airport scam, he glared at the leather-clad rider who stood balancing the big growling machine between the spraddle of long, long legs.
Unforgettably gorgeous long legs skinned in black, tapering down to silver-tipped boots with three-inch heels.
The dark full-face visor was
