A Love For Always (12 page)

Sylvie sighed happily and remembered their time this morning. Nate said his heart always belonged to her. He had not said he loved her. She wasn’t sure he was the type who would say the words, because she had never heard him say it to her or anybody. Words were not as important as actions. Both of them had to start somewhere. She was opening herself up to a future with him, and she would give him a chance to be the man she could trust her whole heart with.

Her eyes fell again on the padded manila envelope. It looked like it was delivered via local courier. She tore it open and pulled pictures out of the pouch. A cell phone also fell out.
 

“What the crap is this?”
 

They were pictures of her from a few days ago from inside the restaurant! But how? The walls suddenly closed in on her, and her pulse pounded in her ears. Sylvie looked suspiciously at the surveillance cams. Sam Harper had updated their system and these pictures didn’t look like they were from the video feed. There was a note wrapped around the phone.
 

“These pictures were sent to your father. Call him. He should know our threat is real, and we can get to you any time we want. Press 1.”

She flipped the phone open, her thumb hovering over the number. Indecision froze her fingers and she snapped it closed. She pushed back against her chair and left the room, heading to the back exit. Before she could yank the door open, Nate’s warning to her this morning echoed in her ears. What was she doing? Nate was going to flip if she stepped outside alone.
 

The phone vibrated in her hand and a name flashed on the screen.
Daichi Yoshida?

Confused, Sylvie answered. “Dad?”

“Sylvie, are you all right?” her father’s heavily accented voice came on the line.

“Yes. I received some pictures and a package I don’t—”

“Listen, destroy—”

The line crackled and a high pitched sound sent her into a disoriented state.
 

“Ahhh!” She dropped to her knees as the phone clattered to the floor.

A booming sound.

The building shaking.

A rain of debris.

Blackness.

*****

“Earth to Reece.”

Admiral Benjamin Porter’s amused voice broke through Nate’s passing fantasy of getting Sylvie home and naked.
 

Nate cleared his throat and glanced in irritation at Beatrice’s father. The admiral was deeply involved with the clandestine operations of the CIA and had been a long-time mentor of Travis. He was also a frequent ally of BSI whenever they found themselves in sticky situations with other government agencies, needing the admiral to make things go away. His help wasn’t always without a hidden agenda, but Nate noted it was unwaveringly for the greater good.

In other words, if there were a true patriot in the room, it would be the admiral. The man had given up a lot, even sacrificing his family to get things done for the homeland. It was only recently that he had mended his relationship with his daughter.

“He’s been slacking for the past week,” Beatrice piped in, ignoring the glare from Nate. She smiled sweetly. “About time, I say.”

“Thank God, Ed’s picking up the reins,” the admiral added, glancing at Ed Shephard who’d moved into the role of managing partner seamlessly. “Judging from the track record that’s been happening lately,” Porter stared pointedly at Beatrice, “we’re looking at a few months of upheaval for Reece.”

There were four people in the meeting late Saturday evening. Nate, Ed, Beatrice, and the admiral. Slight adjustments needed to be made in their security detail for a medical delegation to Jordan. New intel of an ISIS threat appeared online and the team was scrambling to address possible loopholes in its security. Porter, as usual, provided inside information.

“We’ll need to do additional security sweeps at the convention and double-check the list of employees who have access to the hotel room floor against the new ISIS watch list,” Ed said. “Make sure nothing has changed.”

“The threat to the medical delegation is low,” Beatrice said. “We just don’t want what happened to Black Brig Security to happen to us.”

“If they listened to our warning, those aid workers would still be alive,” Nate muttered in disgust.
 

The mood of the room turned somber as they remembered the headline from a month ago when five U.S. aid workers, whose sole purpose in Syria was to help the nation’s starving refugees, were executed for the world to see.

“You did all you could, Reece,” Porter said. “Black Brig chose not to listen.”

“Are we done here?” Nate said, suddenly feeling the need to get out of the office.

“Yes,” Ed said. “I’ll work up the changes and email it to Travis to look over.”

Beatrice stood up. “And I’m going home. Gabe’s working over the weekend as well.”

Everyone knew better than to ask Beatrice about her fiancé’s work. Gabriel Sullivan worked for a private security firm whose services were frequently contracted by U.S. Intelligence agencies for covert and clandestine operations.
 

“I’m out of here as well,” the admiral rose from his chair.

“I have something I want to run by you,” Nate told Porter. “You parked in the basement or street?”

“Basement.”

“Great, I’ll walk with you.”

After Nate and the admiral walked Beatrice to her car, which was parked on the street, they rounded the building and headed down to the basement parking.
 

“I’ll see what I can dig up on Daichi Yoshida’s organization,” Porter said.
 

“Also, have you ever heard of Drake Lassiter?” Nate asked. “He’s a DEA special agent who nearly busted Sylvie earlier this week.”

“You boys never do things simple with your women, do you?” Porter chuckled. “First Travis, and then Gabe. No, I haven’t heard of him, which is surprising since I’ve dealt with the DEA in Colombia. I’ll admit the Asian Crime Syndicate isn’t high on the CIA’s priority right now. They’re too complicated to take down with not much benefit in terms of National Security.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Their affairs don’t even rate on the President’s agenda.”

“I imagine ISIS and Al Qaeda are still the administration’s biggest headache?”

“And North Korea.”

Both men fell into a protracted silence, lost in their own thoughts. Nate shoved his hands in his pockets as he mulled Lassiter’s exact interest in Sylvie. He didn’t like her being a target one bit. The underground parking lot’s pallid fluorescent lighting flickered overhead, illuminating the cold grey concrete. Nate’s Ferrari was parked near the bank of elevators.

They got to Porter’s SUV first.
 

“I’ll call you Monday with details. I’m heading to Richmond tom—” Nate’s voice faded when he noticed a line of four men, all dressed in black, walking toward them. “Fuck.”

Porter turned solid beside him. “Trouble find you, son?”

“Go!” Nate ordered the admiral.

The admiral looked at him incredulously. “And let you have all the fun?” He lowered his voice. “They’ll underestimate the old guy. They always do.”
 

He didn’t doubt the admiral. The man had been in as many dicey situations as Nate had.

“Too warm tonight for trench coats. They’re packing all right,” Nate observed grimly. “Let’s hope they’re not uzis or we’re screwed.”

Porter only grunted, but opened his car and grabbed something, presumably a weapon. Nate’s eyes were busy assessing the situation. Four men. All Asian, most likely Japanese. The parking lot’s concrete columns should provide ample cover in case of gunfire. Normally, when he had a jacket on, he had a side arm. Right now his Beretta 9mm was in his car.
 

Porter nudged him and tucked something behind his waistband. A gun.

Thank God for Porter.

The line of men in black stopped in front of them.
 

“Are we auditioning for a Tarantino movie?” Nate asked, deadpan.

Porter cursed behind him, muttering something about being a “smartass.”
 

The second man from the left stepped forward. “We’re here to deliver a message.” Heavy accent. Japanese. This guy had longish hair in a man bun much like a samurai’s ponytail.
 

Nate raised a brow. “And the message?”

“Stay away from Sylvie Yoshida.”

“No can do.” Nate chuckled mockingly. “What are you going to do about it?”

Man Bun gestured to the two goons on either side of him and drew his gun, pointing it at Porter. “Don’t interfere, old man.”

One of the guys pulled out a switchblade, while the second bigger guy stalked forward and drove a jab at Nate. Wrong move.
 

He dodged the blow and grabbed Big Guy’s wrist using it to twist the man’s arm while hauling him forward as he drove the heel of his other hand up against the man’s nose.
 

Simultaneous with the sound of a gunshot, Man Bun howled in pain as he dropped the firearm in his hand. Guess Porter took care of that threat. Nate’s peripheral vision clocked the fourth goon moving in. Pushing Big Guy, who was still stunned and sporting a bloody nose, into the man holding the switchblade, Nate used the momentum of the push to drop kick the fourth goon before he could draw his weapon.

Nate rolled to one knee, cocking his other leg in front of him and drawing the gun behind his waistband to level it at the men on the ground. Porter was holding Man Bun at gunpoint.

Slowly rising, Nate kept his gun trained on their assailants. “Who sent you?” Obvious answer would be Hiroshi Mori, but he wouldn’t put it past Sylvie’s dad to give the direct order.

Silence and baleful glares met his question.

“I repeat . . . who—”

A screeching of tires and revving of an engine sent a frisson of alarm through Nate’s system. A black sedan barreled straight for him, for everyone actually. A gun appeared at the driver’s side and fired.

A burn on Nate’s side sent him spinning, but he found the strength to jump on top of the hood before the car plowed him down. He bounced off the vehicle and crashed on cold concrete.

Motherfucker.
The wind knocked out of him, his body seized as unbelievable agony rattled his bones. He willed himself to roll to his front, and for the second time that evening, picked himself off the floor.
 
He fought against blacking out, pulling on the adrenalin rush to keep going. Two of their assailants had been run over, the other two were running after the black sedan, which braked right at the turn to the garage exit.

“Are you all right?” Porter asked, hurrying over to Nate.
Sylvie
. His one thought was of Sylvie. He had to get to her.

“Reece!” Ed Shephard jogged toward them, building security right behind him. “What the fuck happened, man?”

“Sylvie,” Nate growled, pulling out his phone. It was smashed. “Dammit. Ed. Phone.”

Shephard took out his phone, unlocked it, and handed it to Nate.

He tapped in the number, which he had memorized by heart, but her phone only kept on ringing.
 

“Come on. Come on,” Nate muttered, already striding toward his car. Voice mail. “Fuck!”

“Reece, calm down,” Porter said. “She’s fine. I don’t think these guys will hurt her.”

“No, but they may simply grab her,” Nate snapped. “Ed, can you handle the perps?”

Shephard nodded. “I got this. Go get your girl.”

Porter grabbed the keys from Nate. “I’m driving.”

“I’ll be damned before I let you drive my car,” Nate growled.

“You’ve been shot,” Porter stated calmly. “You probably have a concussion. Tell me why I shouldn’t drive you straight to the hospital.”

“We’re wasting time,” Nate snarled, too focused on getting to Sylvie to care about his Ferrari. He strode to the passenger side, but he had to add, “Not a scratch, Admiral.”

*****

Her ears were ringing.

It was dark, save for some sparks and emergency lights. Her cheeks were damp. Dazedly, Sylvie looked above her. Sprinklers.

What happened?

She could see a gaping hole punched through to her office all the way through the other wall to the kitchen. There was a glow flickering in the dark. A fire?

“Kato!” she croaked, pushing to her feet. She wobbled a bit and staggered down the hallway littered with debris. “Rick?”

Oh, God!
 

Ceiling boards had come loose as well as wires and light fixtures. She turned into the room that used to be her kitchen. The sprinkler was battling the fire valiantly.
 

The door was partially open, but something was wedged behind it. Sylvie crouched and saw the shelving had fallen across. She also saw Kato lying on the floor, unconscious.

“Oh, my God! Kato!”

“Sylvie, thank Christ! You need to get out of here.” Rick moved unsteadily toward her. “Taylor and I were on our way to punch out when your office exploded.”

Sylvie’s ears were still ringing, but she caught the gist of what Rick was shouting at her. His head was bleeding. “Is Taylor all right?”

“Banged up—”

“We need to get Kato.” Sylvie eyed the fires warily. Seeing it dying out gave her some relief, but not until she knew if her kitchen assistant was fine.

“I shut the gas valve off, but we’re not sure if there are secondary devices. You need to get out.” The urgency of Rick’s voice came through the buzzing in her head. Why did he think there were secondary devices? What exactly caused the explosion? The package?

“I’m not leaving Kato—”

“I’ll get him.”

Sylvie ignored Rick and pushed at the door. Her sous chef cursed behind her and helped her push.
 

“It’s not budging,” she said morosely.

“You think?” Rick shot back.

“My office. The fires are down; I’m small enough to get through the hole.”

“I don’t think—”

“We’re wasting time arguing.” Sylvie was already heading toward her blown out office. “You’ll need to hoist me up.” They needed to see how badly Kato was hurt.
 

“This is a bad idea,” Rick muttered, lifting her through the jagged opening.