Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (5 page)

To her surprise a voice answered. “We no monsters.” The words were in English although clipped and heavily accented.

Talia cringed, terrified. They’d come to torture her again. She didn’t think she could survive even one more day of this.

“See. Food we bring.” A woman’s voice: husky, rough but not unkind. “Eat. Be quiet you know what good for you.”

Talia managed to open her eyes just a little but still could see nothing. No snakes. Thank God! No people. Not even bedding. The smell of sour milk wafted to her. She felt warmth radiating from a container that had been placed near her cheek. Her stomach growled in response.

Unable to use her shackled hands, she tipped what felt like a pottery bowl with her chin and tasted tepid buttermilk on her tongue. Something that felt like a glob of soggy bread floated against her lips. She sucked it into her mouth. It dissolved without chewing. This was the first solid food she could recall consuming since they’d taken her.

She felt as though she’d been a captive forever. But she’d have died without eating something, wouldn’t she? The question was, even if whatever meager nourishment they were giving her kept her alive, might it not eventually kill her? If the milk was from local cows or goats, it had one thing in common with everything else around here: the stuff was laced with radioactive isotopes.

Die quick from starvation…or slow from radiation poisoning. Some choice!

But she was so very, very hungry. Slurping from the bowl like a dog, Talia finished the gruel. Was it drugged? Probably that too, but what choice did she have?

Rolling onto her back she lay still and waited for the drugs to take her away again. Minutes later, something the size of a cat, warm and furry, sidled up to her, as if seeking the warmth of her body. She hadn’t the strength to shoo it away. She turned her head and stared into its tiny red eyes. A rat, she thought, has to be a rat. But she was too weak to roll away from it.

                                          5

Mercy woke from the nightmare with a shudder and involuntary gasp. She sat up in the bed, clutching bedclothes in front of her like a shield. As if percale and goose down might protect her from a maniac with a gun.

Real. Not a dream. It had actually happened. Dear God!

She sucked down three ragged breaths before she saw Margaret Storey sitting in the blue slip-covered chair beside her bedroom window. The woman gave her an ‘are-you-all-right?’ look, one eyebrow hitching up. Mercy just shook her head wearily and blinked into the sunshine streaming through the floor-length white lace curtains. The sun’s brilliance painted the ivory carpeting and walls with golden specks. She had no concept of how long she’d slept.

“The lock guy came and went,” Storey said, closing a black laptop balanced on her knees. The computer looked like a little tank. Mercy figured you could drive a tractor over it or toss it into the sea, and it probably would still run. “Coffee’s on in the kitchen if you want some.”

“Thanks for letting me sleep.” Mercy checked the bedside alarm clock. “At least for a few hours.” It wasn’t yet ten a.m. They’d left the police station and arrived at her house sometime after four that morning.

Mercy tossed off the Wedgewood-blue comforter. A thousand muscles came painfully alive. She limped barefoot, in a cotton nightshirt she couldn’t remember exchanging for the borrowed sweats, down the stairs and into her kitchen, drawn toward the elixir of life. Coffee!

Her escort, body guard, or whatever she was—Mercy hadn’t quite figured out Margaret Storey’s role yet—followed her and claimed a stool at the granite-topped kitchen counter. “Yegorov’s attack means we have to move fast.” Urgency undercoated the woman’s outwardly calm words. “I’m getting you out of DC today.”

Mercy stared at her in disbelief. “What do you mean, out of DC?”

Agent Storey just looked at her. “You don’t remember anything I said to you in the car on our way here?”

“No.”

“Okay then. I’d really only started to explain anyway. And you were half asleep before you hit the bed.”

Mercy shrugged.

“Right.” Storey poured a cup for Mercy and another for herself from the glass carafe on the hot plate. “I told you when we were still at the police station that I had a proposition for you.”

“I think I remember that much.”

“Good.” Storey left her coffee black and sipped for a moment before continuing. “First things first—you need protection. The best way to manage that is to get you away from the city, make it more difficult for the people who want you dead to find you.”

Mercy’s head throbbed. She loaded her cup with cream and sugar, drank down half her cupful without taking a breath, closed her eyes, waited for the caffeine to do its thing. “Listen. I have a business to run. I can’t just disappear.”

“You have a manager for your gallery, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course. Evelyn. But she—”

“So leave her in charge. Temporarily. She can manage for a few months, can’t she?”

“Months?” Mercy shook her head. “Surely within a week the police will have caught Yegorov.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. Besides, there’s the issue of your mother. You aren’t doing her any good hanging out in an art gallery.”

Irritation morphed into full-blown rage. “I’m not exactly twiddling my thumbs here.” Mercy slammed a hand down on the countertop. “I’ve rattled so many cages of DC potentates that my ears are ringing. No one will listen to me. No one with any amount of influence is willing to help. And I can’t get out of the country to look for my mother as long as the State Department has my passport flagged. What the hell do you expect me to—”

“Yes, yes, I know all of that.” Storey waved her to silence. “That’s why I’m here. I had planned to drop by your gallery tomorrow to explain how Red Sands can assist you. As it turned out, Yegorov’s attack expedited the situation.”

Mercy sighed. “I have no idea on God’s green earth what you’re talking about.”

“Then I’ll be as direct as I can.” Storey reached for the carafe and topped up Mercy’s cup.”

Mercy studied the other woman. “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to use my mother to get something from me?”

Storey pursed her lips. “Suspicious woman, aren’t you? Patience, Mercy, and a little trust. They will go a long ways. I think you’ll see that you have a lot to gain by working with us.”

It was all Mercy could do to not throw Margaret Storey out of her house that very moment. Months earlier, she had been tricked into spying on Mexican citizens in return for information about her mother’s whereabouts. And hadn’t that ended well? Not! Was this new proposition, as famous baseball star Yogi Berra once quipped, “Déjà vu all over again?” Mercy just looked at the woman.

Storey seemed unfazed by her distrust. “As I mentioned at the police station, Red Sands Consulting works with large companies, and sometimes even national governments, to provide data, surveillance, other types of services that might otherwise be difficult to obtain. We are often able to insert our people into delicate situations, foreign locations, organizations that aren’t easily accessed by local law enforcement or the better known covert government agencies.”

“Like the CIA, NSA, DEA?” Mercy said.

Storey dipped her head in silent acknowledgment. “We work entirely independently, which is an advantage to whoever hires us. If something goes wrong and one of our people blows their cover, there’s no traceable link to the contracting organization, which remains blameless.”

“And this has
what
to do with me?”

Storey blinked at her then peered down into her coffee. “It’s complicated. Let’s start with the short version: We can use someone like you, and we have the means to get you out of the country, if we feel motivated to do so.”

“You can help me get to Ukraine?” Maybe there was hope. Or was this another tease?

If Storey heard her question, she was ignoring it. “For the moment, your best option is to enlist the help of the Ukrainian government to search for your mother. Even though they’re still politically in crisis mode, what with the Russian-inspired separatist movement making life difficult for them, they’ll want to look good before the world. Helping locate a lost American buys them this country’s good will. So they’ll do it.” She took a breath. “However, it’s likely to take a while and the powers that be may have to be reminded that they need America. Red Sands has connections and can put pressure on the people with the most clout over there.”

“How?”

“That’s not something you need to know.”

“Then you believe my mother is alive, and she’s being held against her will?” This was what Mercy had hoped for all along—her mother unhurt, simply being detained somewhere until the right bargain was struck with her captors. But this was the first time anyone had agreed with her. Anyone she could possibly trust, that is.

“Yes, alive, though we can’t know her condition from the intelligence we’ve been able to gather. To learn more, we’ll need your help.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything,” Mercy whispered, tears threatening. But she wouldn’t let them come now. She had to make sure the rules governing her cooperation were absolutely clear. “Are you saying that if I do as you ask, you’ll give me a new identity and the means to get to Ukraine?” With an alert on her passport, this seemed the only way.

“Not exactly.” Storey leaned forward. “You won’t be flying to Eastern Europe. We need you for an assignment in the Caribbean.”

Mercy’s stomach pitched. Her patience with the intelligence organizations had been worn as threadbare as an old carpet by her experiences in Mexico. She’d very nearly died, and she’d done the unthinkable. She had actually taken the lives of two human beings—something she’d believed she was incapable of doing.

“Look,” she said, forcing words between gritted teeth, “I’ve been down this road before. I’m not stupid, Agent Storey. Don’t even think about asking me for favors without rock-solid guarantees that you’ll bring my mother home safely.”

Storey nodded. “We know all about the unfortunate incidents in Mexico. That man is now in Federal custody and will be tried on a dozen charges ranging from embezzlement of government funds to murder. His behavior toward you was totally inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” Mercy gasped. “I’d say that’s a bit of an understatement. He tried to kill me!”

“Yes. But he didn’t because you didn’t let him. And that’s the point. That is why I’m here.”

“Because I defended myself...and lucked out...and lived? You're here to congratulate me?” Mercy laughed. Outrageous!

“No. I’ve come to ask you to cooperate with us for one reason alone. You beat a trained assassin at his game.” Storey flashed a ‘you-go-girl’ smile.

Mercy glared at her. “I don’t understand. How does that episode—one I’d prefer to forget, by the way—have any impact on my mother’s situation?”

“You’re good, a natural.” The agent lifted her cup and sipped, eyeing her thoughtfully over the white porcelain rim. The smile had left, though, and Mercy had a feeling that whatever was said next would be all business. “Some of our recruits train for months but never develop your instincts.”

Mercy shook her head. “Survival is a pretty basic one.”

“You didn’t just stay alive during the time you were in Mexico,” Storey pointed out dryly. “You almost single handedly destroyed a thriving business run by one of the most powerful international crime syndicates. Surely you must realize that you saved many lives.”

Mercy tapped her fingers impatiently on the countertop. Of course she knew that she’d done at least some good. But there had also been a tragic downside. People had died, damn it! More than just the two men she’d shot. “I also nearly deep-sixed the Mexican government’s undercover program.” Not something she was proud of, but that had been the trade-off, as she'd pointed out to Sebastian at the time.

Mercy sipped her cooling coffee. Having now thought about Sebastian twice within ten hours—ten hours that were mostly eaten up by running for her life and sleep—she had trouble chasing his image from her mind. Those dark eyes that telegraphed lust. His strong, hard hands that made her quiver with remembered pleasure. Her body responded with a surge of heat.

A dismissive wave from Margaret Storey broke the delicious spell. “As far as the U.S. government is concerned,” Storey said, “you are a brave woman and a patriot.”

Mercy snorted. “And what do I get in return? The boys in charge force me to stay in this country while my mother—
my mother, God damn it!
—is held captive on foreign soil. As if that’s not bad enough, Interpol accuses her of smuggling. For all I know she’s being tortured, starved to death.”

The photographs! Those terrible pictures she’d seen. Now the tears came, unstoppable. She dashed them away with the backs of her hands. “So why are you here? To blackmail me into doing your dirty work? To use me, like before? No thanks.” Mercy dropped her head into her hands, drained of all strength. “I don’t trust any of you. Get the hell out of my house.”

Mercy listened for the sound of a chair pushing back, but there was nothing. She felt a touch on her arm. “Mercy, please hear me out. You’ve tried everything else. I know you have, and it must be heartbreaking. I understand your pain.”