Ice Cold (3 page)

“Yeah.” He went to the sidelight beside the massive front door and fingered aside the curtain. The Garbage detail’s unmarked white van was pulling up out front in the snowy yard. They were nothing if not efficient. If there were any clues to find, they’d find them. When they finished, no one would be able to tell a man died there. “Let’s go.”

She was pulling on her coat, a plain black number suitable for the frigid Montana weather. She zipped it then opened her large bag to fish around inside. For her keys, he presumed. “Thanks, but I have my car here, I’ll drive myself—”

A Lamborghini, if the rumor mill was correct. The woman had serious bank, which had little to do with the lucrative salary T-FLAC paid its operatives.

Shaking his head—she’d be going with him, not driving herself anywhere—Rafael held out his hand. “Keys.”

At his tone of command, she automatically started handing them over then curled her fingers around them. “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home. I see death every day.”

They all did. Didn’t have anything to do with his request. “I need a computer geek on this op. You’re the number two choice. Number one, now that Jack’s out of the picture. Let’s go.” He turned to the guys entering the house. “Get Winston’s vehicle back to HQ.”

“Sure.”

“No problem.” The two men’s eyes lit up at the prospect of driving her kick-ass car.

“Excuse me?” her tone was glacial. “I drive my own car.”

“What’s the point leaving it at the airport? I’ll just have it retrieved from there.”

Her opinion of his order was clear by the tightening of her lips and the annoyance in her cool eyes. She removed a key from the embossed leather holder and wordlessly handed it to the man closest to her. Nails manicured and buffed to a healthy sheen, hands smooth and slender. She looked and smelled expensive. Damned expensive, and if he were interested—which Rafael wasn’t—she’d be about a thousand miles, and several million dollars, out of his league. He was just fine with that. It annoyed him that he had to remind himself he wasn’t interested.

He glanced at the complex, multifunctional watch on his wrist. “Wheels up as soon as we get there. Call ahead and have your butler pack your Louis Vuitton, we’ll swing by your place and pick it up.”

“Pollack is my
houseman,
not my butler.” She slung the straps of her bag over one slender shoulder. “My go-bag’s in the car. I’ll get it.”

Of course it was. “You do that.”

Less than an hour after leaving Hansen’s house, the Bombardier Challenger taxied down T-FLAC’s private airstrip and smoothly lifted into the inky, star-studded sky over T-FLAC Montana headquarters.

The unmarked plane seated twelve comfortably. Bed in back. Two luxurious bathrooms. Plenty of room to move about. Rafael was quite content to sit and watch Winston ignoring him. No chitchat, he did like
that
about her.

She looked mildly irritated to find him watching her when she glanced up. “Like what you see?” he asked, just to see if he could get a rise out of her.

“On a purely cerebral level, yes,” she said without hesitation. “You’re strong, intelligent, and known to think on your feet. All assets in a partner.” She dropped her gaze to her open laptop and used one finger to scroll slowly.

“Hansen had enemies.” Hell, they all had enemies. They weren’t in the business to make friends.

“Probably fewer than most.” She paused what she was doing to look at him again. Her eyes were eerie pale. Compelling. Chilly no matter what her expression. She was hard to read. “Jack kept to himself, and he wasn’t exactly controversial. You say a woman called in the message that he wasn’t able to come with you?”

“Or a voice manipulated to
sound
female. Ops is doing an analysis. The call appeared to have originated from the house at eighteen hundred.”

Her eyes widened. “Precisely?”

“Yeah.”

“I was in the house at that time.”

“Could’ve been rerouted.”

“Ops will trace it.” She crossed her legs, and he wondered if she planned to walk through a bombsite in those damn boots. Her “go” bag was half the size of his and his was small and compact. He sure as hell wasn’t taking her shopping the moment they landed in Greece. Unfortunate she wasn’t prepared, but he wouldn’t require her services for more than twenty-four hours.

“Everyone knows Jack’s divorced,” she pointed out. “So, someone calling in and claiming to be his wife would raise a red flag immediately.”

“Obviously the plan.”

“The killer wanted you to come to the house.”

He offered a mild glance. “Or
you
on this op.”

“Yes, that thought’s crossed my mind as well. But there are less dramatic ways to switch operatives than a brutal, senseless murder.”

“Clearly, someone is trying to make a point.”

“
Someone’s
going to get their ass kicked before I kill them,” Honey told him in a non-dramatic, no-nonsense tone. “Jack had three beautiful daughters under the age of twelve who need their father, even if he was a long-distance father.”

“Don’t take this personally, Winston.”

She settled her laptop on the small table in front of her. “We have a job to do, let’s do it. I still need briefing. The flight will barely give me enough time to gather as much intel as possible before we lan—What’s that look for?”

She’d have to be human to take anything personally. “You weren’t close?”

The placid expression, or lack thereof, on her beautiful face didn’t change with his question; she merely said flatly, “He was my boss for five years. I respected him enormously.”

“That wasn’t the question.” He wanted to shake her to see if there was a drop of emotion in her. There must be. God only knew she didn’t show an atom of it on the outside.

No, wait. Yes.
There
. An almost imperceptible flinch around her eyes. There and then just as quickly wiped clean. She
had
cared for Hansen, had, Rafael suspected, cared for her supervisor more than she was willing to share.

“That’s the only answer I’m giving you.” She went back to her computer.

Even though Winston’s back was stick-up-her-ass-straight, she gave a focused, frowning impression as she hunched over the keyboard. As soon as they reached cruising altitude, she glanced up, shutting the laptop. She lifted her lashes, frowning slightly as she noticed he was still watching her.

“I’ll be right back.” She uncurled her long legs and rose to stroll past him toward the aft cabin, leaving a drift of expensive Carolina Herrera perfume in her wake, another reminder she was unprepared for an op. If she were prepared, there’d be no fragrance. Still, from now on when he saw her, he’d smell her.

Damn it to hell.

A minute later, he heard the shower turn on.

Now he had the image of her sleek, wet, naked body to get out of his head. He got up to pour himself a cup of coffee and stood drinking it, glaring at the closed door.

Bombs
were his thing, but Rafael hoped to hell he could neutralize the European threat
fast
so he could move on to a less incendiary partner—
op
. Less incendiary
op
. Dammit. He turned away from the door and returned to his seat, where he set about wrestling with his usually disciplined mind.

He didn’t notice the time pass and was surprised to find his coffee mug cold and empty; he placed it on the side table and stretched his legs. Even though he knew her skin and hair would no longer have any kind of fragrance after her shower, he still had the scent of her on his clothing.

Winston had been fully made-up back at the house, but she returned ten minutes later, fresh-faced, hair wet and slicked off her forehead.

Even without the expertly applied makeup, her lashes were dark—dyed, he suspected—and her cheeks a healthy pink. Stunningly, heart stoppingly beautiful. Rafael was a guy who liked pretty things. He liked bombs as well. Both could be equally dangerous if not handled correctly.

Winston looked—and was—wealthy
.
As in well groomed, well fed, and pampered. With her pale, shoulder-length hair, clear, smooth skin, and gray-blue eyes, she could appear in any fashion magazine. Medium height, she had the lithe body of a model or athlete, and the mouth of a hooker.

She’d exchanged the cashmere sweater for a long-sleeved, black T-shirt. Her feet—damn her for not playing fair—were currently bare. She sat, tucked her legs under her shapely butt, and pulled her laptop back in front of her, opening it and tapping the keyboard. “Give me a synopsis of what we’re dealing with.”

“Bad people want to wreak havoc.”

“That goes for everyone we deal with,” she said dryly. “Do we have new intel as to why Luz Roja is in Europe?”

“Intel from our people there indicates the bomb has their signature. I don’t buy it. It’s rare for them to venture outside Colombia—maybe they have a point to make elsewhere in South or Central America, but Greece? Bombings? Yeah, they like their bombs to make big points. Consulates. Government buildings. Military insulations. A bank? Doesn’t feel right.”

T-FLAC’s huge intelligence apparatus looked at the whole terrorist network; recruiters, fund raisers, facilitators, as well as the bomb-makers themselves. They kept on top of emerging technologies-always asking; Can this be turned into a bomb? There was
always
something new to learn. “We’ve drilled into the details, looked at components and elements.” He shrugged.

“Jack didn’t mention why he was accompanying you to Greece. What exactly will my role be once we’re there?”

He could think of several and not all of them required her to be naked. “I need the Cyber Security team to go into the bank’s records to see what, if anything, has been manipulated. They might be moving money to blur a new trail.”

The Colombian tango group had their fingers in a lot of pies. Drugs, prostitution, and weapons. The Americas—all of them—were a nice big playground for them. Athens was a long way from Bogotá.

A red light pulsed in the bulkhead nearby, indicating an incoming call. Rafael plucked the receiver off the wall base nearby. “Navarro.”

“Brengard. Close to a thousand people hospitalized from the blast,” she said in Greek. “Two hundred plus people have been sent home with minor injuries. Death toll just reached three hundred and eleven. Estimated to be well over four hundred by tonight or tomorrow. Revolutionary Strength officially claimed ownership of the bomb, called it in to the local CNN five minutes ago,” Julie Brengard told him succinctly.

“With all the political and financial shit going on here, RS makes more sense than Luz Roja.”

Rafe could pretty much have guaranteed there was no Colombian connection, but the far left, revolutionary Marxist organization known for bombing political rallies didn’t quite fit either. “Something you can handle, or do you want me in Athens?” he asked in fluent Greek. The RS was a local tango cell. Small and contained. Financial institutions might not be right up their alley, but the enormous death toll guaranteed a loud and clear statement. They were branching out. Still, the local team could handle it.

“Thanks. I’ll yell if we need your expertise. We’ve got it covered. Sorry to haul your ass over here for nothing.”

“I’m very fond of Mykonos, might take a vacation since I’ll be there in a few hours.”

Brengard made a rude noise. “Known you for how long? Twelve years? Far as I know, you’ve never taken a—”

“Another call. Gotta go,” Rafael cut her off as the comm beeped, indicating a second call. “Navarro.”

“The PLJ Savings Bank in Dresden took a massive hit ten minutes ago.” Nielson, Control on the op, sounded her usual cool, calm, and collected self. “Waiting for more intel, it was early enough that not many people had reported for work. The early birds bucking for promotions had their hopes and dreams nipped in the bud. Took out an entire city block in the heart of the financial district and scrambled six more on the blast’s outer perimeter. Go find out who and why. You and Winston have been rerouted and are en route directly to DRS. Call when you have something.”