Ice Cold (32 page)

She shoved herself away from the table. “I need the bathroom.”

Pissed, he grabbed her wrist to restrain her. “I’ll go with you.”

“I can go by myself.” She put more irritation in her voice and pried his fingers off her wrist. “Stay and enjoy your game.” Honey pushed through the bodyguards and headed into the crowds before he got up to follow her. He couldn’t leave, and she didn’t need a babysitter. He hadn’t
said
he intended to stick to her like some kind of QRIX virus, but he’d made it clear the moment they left the room that they’d be doing everything tonight
together
.

He’d also given her a direct order not to engage.

Well, too damn bad.

Contrary to appearances, she was not his sweet, suburban, pregnant housewife. She was a well-honed, counterterrorist operative, same as he was. Same skills. Same training. Same directive.

If there were even a small chance that Catherine spotted Navarro, it would all be over. Kobevko would change his MO and he’d be in the wind again. The moment she’d ID’d Savage, Honey should’ve insisted on doing the interception herself.

Weber didn’t know Savage like she did. The other woman should be talking—to her teammates or to Savage. Instead, there was an open mic but no sound. Honey sped up, both hands on her belly in case anyone noticed the speed-walking pregnant lady.

Even though the decibel level in the casino was off the charts, she didn’t want to risk Rafael having to ask her any questions, so she spoke quietly as she made her way through the throngs of people. “Weber’s been too quiet. I’m going to check on her. Be right back.”

Ignoring the
“Fuck!”
Rafe muttered under his breath, she scanned the crowds for helmet-blond hair and a blue dress.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she approached the steps leading from the casino up to the hotel lobby. She didn’t see any of the team. “Who has eyes on Weber?”

No response.

Not good. Not good at all.

Hand in her purse, Honey took the steps quickly, eyes scanning the vast lobby. There were a lot of people milling around, but she still didn’t have visual on any of the team. Two orderlies wheeled in a gurney. The manager came out as a conversation ensued. The people heading toward the casino floor blocked Honey’s view as she visually bisected the space, checking as many faces as she could.

No Weber. No team. No Savage.

Hyperaware of the movement of the people around her, Honey’s instincts kicked in, warning her that the shit already hit the fan and the happy public was seconds away from becoming collateral damage. “Navarro, we have a situation,” she said into the mic, her voice grim. “Stay with Kobevko, I’ll update you ASAP.”

Kobevko was his prime directive. Without the bomber, they couldn’t connect the dots.

Savage couldn’t have taken out a core team
and
a secondary team all by herself. Weber had brought twenty people in on this op. She tried the comm repeatedly as she skirted the perimeter of the lobby. Nobody responded. An elderly housekeeper was putting up a closed sign for the bathroom as Honey passed. She wasn’t Savage, Honey was sure. As good as Catherine was at disguises, the woman was too thin to fake. Fatter was easy; skeletal, impossible. It was odd to close a public restroom off the main lobby at a time when the public spaces were full of hotel and casino guests. She waited until the woman took her cleaning supplies and disappeared into a nearby, unmarked door.

Bathroom first.

Honey opened the door, slid inside, and dragged a heavy nearby marble trashcan to hold the door shut. She took out her SIG and called Weber’s name loudly, walking the length of the stalls, pushing doors open as she went.

Inside one, a plunger and wet towels on the floor indicated a blocked toilet. Could be the real deal, in which case the cleaner would be back for whatever she’d gone to find.

“Web—Shit!”

Weber was sprawled, half sitting, half lying under the row of sinks on the far wall, her face covered in blood. Honey dropped to her knees beside the woman, feeling for a pulse behind her ear. Faint, but she was relieved to find one at all. It looked as though Weber had been struck on the head. A cursory search didn’t find any bullet holes. With any luck, the worst aftereffect would be a headache.

“Weber’s been compromised,” she informed Navarro, as she reached up to pull down a pile of fluffy white towels from the table beside the sink. “I’ve g—”

Hearing a faint sound, Honey raised the SIG almost before she jerked her head up. A dark, shapeless form was on her before she could aim or get to her feet. A hard forearm caught her in the crook of a black-covered elbow, a gloved hand flashed before her eyes. Arching her back, kicking out, she used her free hand to dig her nails into his arm. She got off a shot but it went wild.

Grunting, she fought with everything she had. The man was strong, large, and determined, and she’d started at a disadvantage, half crouched beside Weber and already off balance when he grabbed her.

Black snow obliterated her vision as the arm across her throat tightened.

“Honey? What the fuck is going on?”

Gagging, she struggled to drag air in through her mouth.

“-oming to get you! Where. . .”

A sharp, agonizing prick of a hypodermic in the side of her hyperextended neck filled her veins with instant, liquid fire, and her body bucked in agony. Shit! Her SIG dropped to the marble floor with an oddly muffled click as her body went lax. The sound of Rafael’s cursing cut off as the room went black.

Honey wasn’t responding. Rafael found two of Weber’s people, both dead, in an employee stairwell. Another woman, throat slashed, in a service elevator. No one answered their comms. He presumed they’d all been taken out and proceeded accordingly.

He was on his own.

He’d left Kobevko unattended at the roulette table. Aware of what was transpiring? Or not. At this point in the game, he didn’t give a fuck. And that was a piss-poor attitude for an operative to have. He should be on the bomber like stink on shit, not frantically searching for the woman he—For his partner.

Rafael’s heart raced as he systematically looked for any evidence Honey had been—anywhere. She’d disappeared like smoke. Standing in the middle of the lobby with the general public ebbing and flowing around him, he knew the only lead he had was Kobevko.

Two minutes past two A.M., Rafael scanned the lobby for signs of the bomber’s exit. Didn’t see him. Maybe he was having a good run and hadn’t wanted to leave—

Shoving through the crowds, Rafael raced back inside the smoke-filled casino. First thing he observed, while twenty feet away, was that the croupier at table three wasn’t there. He picked up speed, shoving people out of his way.

Ten feet away—Muscle. Gone.

Fuck.

The Ukrainian’s seat empty.

Triple fuck.

The op was FUBAR, Weber and her team were toast,
and
Honey was missing. About to turn and leave, Rafael noticed something unusual on the table and kept his forward momentum to see what nasty little surprise the Ukrainian left for him.

Beside Kobevko’s full glass of Chopin vodka was a large pile of blue chips neatly placed on top of an iPad-balanced on top: Honey’s commlink.

TWENTY-FIVE

 A 
gain
!” Male. Heavy accent. Vaguely familiar, if she could fight through the fog in her head sufficiently to ID it.

“If you want more answers, we must
warm
her. Hypothermia is starting to set in.” Male. Unfamiliar. Heavier accent.

“You are not here for your opinion,
Pan
Doktor
. What is the login for your main computer,
luba
? Tell us, there is a good girl.”

In the haze that filled Honey’s mind, the words made no sense.

“Repeat the codes for your security system—
Pishov na khujDo!
Do not roll your eyes at me,
dupek
! Her words were not distinct
.
I wish for clarification—
”
An ominous pause.
“
Kuroi Bara will
demand
clarification. Will you be the one to tell her you failed?”

Cold. Intense. Burning deep into her marrow. So piercing it made thought elusive and controlled movement impossible. Honey couldn’t comprehend if she was sitting or lying down.

She knew she was
alive
because everything hurt like hell.

As soon as she floated into consciousness, the lizard part of her brain, situated in the medial temporal lobes, lit a small spark. Though faint, the instinct for survival was primal enough for her to know she was in deep shit.

Move
.

Move to get blood flowing back into her extremities, move to get the hell away from whatever held her immobile. Away from the excruciating pain.

Move. Get. Away.

“We didn’t extract what she asked for.” The familiar voice sounded seriously pissed off. Mentally she frowned, trying to place him. “Try again.”

God. Don’t try anything again
.
Please.
Brain foggy and confused, Honey understood that much. She attempted to move her fingers but they just wouldn’t cooperate. Her fingers, her body were so cold and inflexible, she could have been embedded in a block of ice.

Who
she
? Savage?

The shuffle of booted feet on dirty cement. “
Nie!
You saw what happened when I gave her another dose. It took over an hour to rouse her. Another injection will kill her. Do you want to be the one to tell Kuroi Bara that
you
killed her key,
this
close to the end game, because you are too, what you say,
niecierpliwy
? Impatient? We need more time.”

Yes,
Honey thought fuzzily.
Please be patient and don’t administer any more drugs.
She shivered so hard her teeth sounded like castanets. That was a
good
thing. Nevertheless, her body felt dangerously weak and uncooperative, a bad thing. Hypothermia could kill. If the two men arguing over her didn’t do the job first.

Was she tied? She had no idea since her skin was too cold to feel if she was in restraints or not. They’d drugged her in the bathroom. They must know the capabilities of the drug. Possibly not tied. That gave her a fighting chance, if she could keep thinking coherently.

“We won’t
get
more,” the second man said flatly, clearly frustrated. From the sound of his voice, he stood several feet beyond the first man. “She’s a T-FLAC operative trained to resist interrogation. Pain and drugs, as you see, have little effect.”

Honey didn’t remember being tortured but her body sure did. She was briefly grateful that she was so cold; she wondered how much worse she’d feel if parts of her weren’t numb.

It took Herculean effort to open her eyes a slit. At first, her view tilted and blurred, but after several seconds of concerted effort, she was able to focus. The fact she appeared to be naked was of little importance. She was lying on her back, the snow-dusted, metal beams of the ceiling high enough above her for her to identify the place as some sort of a warehouse. A gaping hole in the roof exposed a jagged circle of black-white sky; the snow had come through and spread out in a faint circle on the floor.

Two men.
Kobevko
. She didn’t recognize the other man’s voice. Everything in her braced for Savage to appear. Pain was Savage’s weapon of choice. The more intense, the more subversive, the better. The woman was a sadist, among her other numerous psychoses.