Seal of Surrender (2 page)

Xander swiveled in his direction and approached. “Chay. You heard about Archon?”

“Si
.
I'm on my way to Dallas now.”

“The second Seal's identity may have been jeopardized.” Divinity walked to where the two men stood. “Until Archon's captured, we can't take any chances. Since Chago's the only one with direct experience against him, he's agreed to provide protection.”

The Scion commander regarded her for a moment before giving a curt nod and returning his attention to Chago. “You prepared?”

“Of course. Look at me. I'm a regular Titan of Industry.” He plucked at the large horse and rider emblazoned across the upper left side of his chest.

“Well, you're a titan of something, all right.” Xander ran a critical eye over his subordinate. “Not sure about industry. You look damn uncomfortable.”

Chago tugged at the collar of the polo shirt like a tightening noose, shot Xander a murderous glare, and strode to the exit. “I'm fine. Divinity, can you do the honors since I don't know the location of Luther's apartment?”

She nodded. “Good luck.”

He closed his eyes as wind swirled around him and the world disappeared. His last thoughts before disappearing into the wormhole's kaleidoscope lightshow were of his beloved ranch and the fear that things would not be the same again.

Moments later, Chago stepped from the vortex into a room full of bright sunshine.

“Hey, brother. I've been waiting for you.”

Luther stood in the open-view kitchen of the high-rise apartment, a large butcher knife twirling between his fingers like a majorette's baton. Behind him the delectable smells of roasted onions and garlic rose from the sizzling contents of a pan on the stove. Chago's stomach rumbled loudly and his younger Scion sibling smiled. “Omelets.”

The modern décor of his new surroundings was a complete reversal from the style of his ranch. This museum looked like it might shatter if he bumped his massive body too hard against one of the so-called pieces of sculpture. His own home was filled with rustic but comfortable furnishings that would last several lifetimes. More Sundance and less Architectural Digest.

“You've met with Divinity?” Luther asked. He flipped an omelet into the air with a flourished twist of his hand then caught it back in the pan with practiced precision. His younger brother's rat-pack style had changed little in the decades since Chago had last seen him. With his tailored pinstripe pants and bowling shirt accentuating his lithe frame, Luther would have made Sinatra proud.

“Si. Archon's escaped and I'm to protect the second Seal. Miss Irena Soldan.” Chago grabbed Luther's discarded fedora from atop a side table and tried it on, doing his best gangster impersonation in the mirror. Luther carried off the hipster persona way better than he ever could. After a quick double-check into the kitchen to make sure his antics had gone unsupervised, Chago replaced the hat and got back to business. “I'll need to access the girl's bio.”

“My laptop is on the coffee table. Feel free to use it.” Luther glanced at him over his shoulder as he grabbed two plates from the cupboard. “You might want to check the e-mail too. I believe Barron sent you some things.”

Chago wandered through the apartment and made note of all the possible exits. Once he familiarized himself with the layout, he returned to the living room and logged into the computer then his own personal e-mail account.

Five alerts demanded his immediate attention, all from Barron, the team's newest warrior and interim technology guru while Wyck was on another assignment. He clicked on the first, marked “Top Priority.” A naked woman appeared, her enormous boobs jutted provocatively toward the camera while her legs spread wide over the hood of a Ferrari. Leave it to Barron to have the maturity of a two-year-old. Dammit. Chago deleted the first e-mail in record time.

Still wary, he clicked the next message and was relieved to find something he could actually use — his new target's bio. He scanned the details of Irena Soldan's life like the pages of a textbook. She was born June 4, 1981 in the Croatian capital of Dubrovnik. Her father had been imprisoned for speaking out about the atrocities during the civil conflict with the Serbs. Though he'd been released at the end of the war, the damage had been done. In the year's following, Irena had spent her life dedicated to the cause of human rights. A single black-and-white photo of his subject accompanied the bio. Ms. Soldan's pale hair and icy gaze bespoke a hard life with too little kindness.

A tiny spark of … something indefinable burst to life in Chago's gut. Correction. He had a proper definition for the newborn flare of masculine interest, all right. He simply wasn't going there. Not now. Not again.

After he finished with the details of her life, Chago moved on to the fourth e-mail and scanned the intelligence Barron had gathered on the Omega Consortium's esteemed director, Drake Benedict. The guy was a real piece of PR work. His bio read like a who's who of celebrity and business. In all the attached photos, Drake was always spotlighted as he shook hands and hobnobbed with the best of them. Chago couldn't supress his disgust at the other man's blatant brownnosing. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was an ass-kisser.

The final message contained an invitation to the evening's fancy fundraiser for the Omega Consortium. Chago checked his watch and shut down the laptop. Great. Exactly what he didn't want — a full evening in tuxedo-clad hell. Talk about Mission Near-Impossible.

“Breakfast is served,” Luther said from the dining room. As he placed two heaping servings of omelets on the table, his light-green eyes betrayed a twinkle of amusement. “What's the matter? I haven't seen you this unhappy since our last mission together in the Balkans.”

Chago ignored the question and walked to the table. Delicious aromas wafted around him and his foul mood improved slightly. Luther always had been a great chef. His Ottoman heritage lended itself toward rich dishes ripe with exotic spices, similar to Chago's own Basque homeland. With his taste buds now fully engaged, he took a seat at the table and stuffed a napkin into the collar of his shirt to prevent messy spillage. There was no sense taking out his rotten mood on his host, so he forced a smile and tucked into his food. “Damn, I've missed your fine culinary skills.”

Luther shot him a wide grin and slid into the opposite seat. His pastel shirt contrasted with his mocha skin and looked right at home in the Dallas heat. “Well then, eat up. It's getting cold.”

Chago stuffed a large forkful of eggs into his mouth and grabbed the sports section of the newspaper from the center of the table. “What are you doing in Dallas?”

“Besides helping you? Xander's got me profiling several members of this Omega Consortium.” Luther's words were muffled by an enormous bite of toast. “Turns out they've got ties to all kinds of nefarious stuff. The whole mess stinks of corruption.”

No surprise there. Chago shook his head and devoured the rest of his eggs while refocusing on the basketball scores. “Barron sent me an invite to some fancy dinner tonight. Want to come along?”

“Sorry, I can't. I'm supposed to meet with Xan. I've got a special assignment.”

“Damn. I was hoping you'd keep me out of trouble.”

“Don't worry, you'll be fine. Just remember not to punch anyone and keep your knives sheathed.” Luther chuckled and jerked his head toward a black garment bag draped over the arm of a nearby chair. “And Xan had me pick that up for you. Said it should be just your size.”

“I refuse to make any promises regarding violence.” Chago glanced at the leather case embossed with the name Armani and slumped in his seat. Retirement couldn't come soon enough.

He stood, checked the time, and placed his dirty dishes in the sink. There were still several hours to waste before he had to put on the dreaded designer monkey suit and perform. With excess energy to burn and an overwhelming desire to escape his homesickness, Chago stalked into the living room and sat on the sofa. “What's there to do around here?”

“I'm glad you asked,” Luther said, joining him. He switched on a large flat screen TV and tossed Chago a game controller. “Care for a simulated battle?”

“Si
.
” Chago unbuttoned the neck of his polo shirt and reached for the remote with an air of supreme confidence, glad for the distraction. “Prepare for doom, brother. You're about to have your ass whooped.”

Chago handed his invitation to the attendant stationed at the door and entered a large ballroom. Before him lay a vast expanse of linen-adorned tables festooned with elaborate floral centerpieces and mismatched china patterns. Three humongous chandeliers hung down the middle of the room; their dangling crystals caught the light of scattered candelabra and sent an otherworldly sparkle over the mingled patrons. The rustle of expensive fabric and the odor of money mixed perfectly with the blank boredom of the idle rich.

After a quick adjustment to his crisp black bowtie and an unnecessary straighten of his already immaculate tuxedo, Chago stepped into the proverbial lion's den. A small group of people gathered around a fully stocked bar against the far wall of the ballroom and he headed in their general direction.

“Champagne, sir?” A thin waiter stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“No, thanks.”

He pushed past the man and ignored the admiring stares of the women he passed. His height gave him advantage over most others and allowed him to spot the back of his target's pale blond head. A rotund partier blocked his sight of the rest of her.

At the bar, Chago ordered bourbon neat then turned to regard Ms. Soldan from beneath the shield of his lashes. From his vantage point, the long-sleeved, high-necked black dress she wore appeared almost matronly beside the garish carnival of bright silk and taffeta ball gowns. Then she pivoted away and stepped into full view.

Big improvement. The demure scrap of material morphed into a backless wonder, held together by only two small, jeweled buttons — one at the back of the turtleneck collar and one near her tailbone. The barest suggestion of a mark or tattoo peeked from below the draping material near her waist. Her showstopper frock left quite an array of creamy smooth skin on display. So much for conservative. He smiled and downed the contents of his glass in one gulp then ordered a second.

Another patron approached and shoved into position beside him. The new arrival barked his drink order to the bartender with the entitled tone possessed by only the super wealthy. “Two vodka martinis.”

Chago fought back the urge to run screaming from the building and away from pompous pricks like the one standing to his left. Instead, he picked up his drink and fidgeted with his tie for the umpteenth time, trying to avoid any contact with the person beside him.

“Not a formal dress aficionado, eh?” The man tugged at his own lapels while giving Chago a glance. “Drake Benedict, Omega's CEO.”

He stared at the man's extended hand and enjoyed the last moments of freedom before the mission got underway. “Chago.”

“What's your occupation, Mr. Chago?”

“Just Chago.” He shoved another twenty to the bartender, and faced the crowd again, hoping to end the conversation before it started. No such luck.

“You don't have to tip them. I'm paying for their services.”

“Good service always deserves a reward.” Chago decided to play nice, at least for now, and pointed to his bowtie. “You're to blame for this?”

Drake regarded him with an odd mix of boredom and challenge. “You never told me your line of work.”

“Consulting.”

“Oh? On what?”

“Military operations, weapons, those sorts of things.” He pivoted to check on his target's location, only to find her gone. Fuck.

“There you are.” A female voice, tinged with a vague hint of Eastern European flavor, carried through the air. “I wondered what happened to you.”

Chago glanced up to meet a pair of pale blue eyes, narrowed and assessing.

“Allow me to introduce Irena Soldan. She's one of my top researchers and fresh off the plane from the conflict in Syria. Irena, this is Chago.”

He eyed the proprietary hand Drake draped across her shoulders as he made the intro and her slight scowl as she brushed it off. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Soldan.”

She accepted his handshake. A thrum of electricity shot up his arm and, if her confused expression was any indication, hers too. “Likewise, Mr. Chago.”

“Only Chago. No mister.'”

“Please, call me Irena.”

His thumb stroked across the soft skin of her wrist when he released her hand. “Syria, huh? That's rough terrain. I bet you saw some heavy action.”

Her smile faded and a flicker of sadness crossed her features. Irena took an extended gulp of her martini. “You have no idea.”

“I've heard the civilian casualty reports are much higher than what's being reported.”

“It's one of the worst regions I've been to.” She placed her drink back on the bar and Chago noted the slight tremor in her movements as her fingers traced an absent pattern on the stem of her glass. “People are being slaughtered daily by the very government charged with protecting them.”

Chago hid his urge to comfort her behind a flippant question. “The spoils of war?”

Irena's answering tone held both sorrow and resignation. “Exactly.”

“C'mon, babe.” Drake nudged her in the side. The movement caused part of her martini to slosh onto the bar. “Let's not talk shop tonight, eh?”

The guy's condescending endearment grated on Chago's already raw nerves worse than a dull razor. Apparently he wasn't the only one. Drake kissed Irena on the cheek and slid his hand down her back to cup her butt. He didn't miss Irena's flinch or the heated glare she shot her boss.