The Omega Team: Precious Cargo (Kindle Worlds Novella) (2 page)

As far as European hotels went, the Grand Lutsk Hotel was near the top of the marks with its classy decorations, spa and guest services. The air conditioning was a definite plus. The majority of places Duke had ever stayed in boasted “rustic” accommodations, which generally meant the hot air outside was cooler than one could expect inside. Having grown up in the swamps of Louisiana, and then soldiering most of his life, sleeping in AC and on anything but the ground or a stained, second-hand mattress felt fairly high-class.

He’d barely settled in and managed a quick shower before his first scheduled meeting with Yure Bartosh. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had time to get a haircut or do more than stuff a bag full of washed clothes before jetting off for Ukraine. Now, as Duke rubbed the stubble on his chin and stared at his reflection in his suite’s swanky bathroom—what self-respecting man used a bidet, for Christ’s sake?—he had to admit he looked a little rough around the edges.

His hair was long enough to brush his shoulders, and its dirty-blond coloring had lightened from his many days fishing and combing the beach. The nicest outfit he’d packed—and currently wore—was a Western shirt, a pair of faded jeans and his snakeskin boots. Had his brother returned the one and only suit Duke owned, he would have brought that along too. But one simply couldn’t pack what one didn’t possess or have time to buy.

All in all, he could easily be mistaken for an American bum.

The thought made him grin.

No harm in being considered a bum. People didn’t expect much from that lot, especially in Europe, which worked in his favor. Anyone seeing him around would think he was an easy target. The men he needed to watch for would come out of the woodwork and try to take him on. Then they’d be in for a big surprise. The same thing had happened when he was a kid, and again when he’d joined the Army. This side job wouldn’t be any different.

The rush out the door and onto a plane, plus three sleeping pills, had also meant he couldn’t dwell on the fact he’d be playing bodyguard to Mila Bartosh. Jesus. Having her pop back into his life felt a little like karma giving him a swift kick in the ass. Their coming together again would no doubt top the charts for awkward reunions. He’d be lucky if the feisty woman didn’t haul off and try to shoot him with his own gun. Well, the Ukrainian government’s gun. Europeans didn’t take too kindly to folks flying in with weapons.

Someone knocked on the door, followed by a muffled, “Mr. Gunnison, Mr. Bartosh will see you now.”

The words were spoken in Ukrainian with a notable Eastern dialect.

“Here goes nothing,” Duke said to his reflection. “It’s your first day on the job. Let’s try not to piss anyone off, get shot or blow anything up. What do ya say?”

A tall man in a dark suit led him to the top floor of the hotel. They passed several more men in matching dark suits flanking the hallway and stopped outside a set of wide double doors. Plenty of time to get his pulse in check before seeing Mila. He was former Special Ops and here to do a job, not some angsty teenager dealing with an angry date he’d left at the prom.

His escort gave him the onceover before knocking. Duke hadn’t missed the man’s disdainful smirk.

“We all look like this in the states. Part of our dress code. You’d look like an idiot there.” Duke spoke in English, not caring if the man understood. If this guy and the rest of the security detail were doing a bang-up job in the first place, he’d still be catching fish in the Gulf of Mexico rather than babysitting their boss’s daughter or facing his past.

Without any acknowledgement to what he’d said, the man opened the door then closed it after Duke walked into the room. There, an old but sizable gentleman with long gray hair and an equally gray beard and mustache sat at the end of a table. Based on the pics from files Grey Holden had e-mailed, the fella was Yure Bartosh, the diplomat. Mila’s father.

Also based on the pics, the stiff in the suit behind Bartosh was Burton Laramie. The other hired gun sent from The Omega Team. The way Laramie stood, ramrod straight with his hands clasped behind his back and feet spread slightly apart, were sure signs the guy had to be pure Boy Scout. Someone who always did the right thing and followed the rules down to the crossed T’s. Laramie was probably very good at his job, but he would definitely be no fun at parties.

Mila sat at the table as well, her attention focused on a pile of papers. She didn’t look pleased.

Duke’s mouth went dry and his heart began to thump fast and loud in his ears. Damn if the woman wasn’t even more beautiful than the last time he’d seen her, and he’d seen a lot of her back then.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone.

I want to be with you.

I…I love you.

She finally looked up and her gaze met his. She tilted her head and pursed her lips, confused. Then her chest rose and fell as though breathing had suddenly become an effort. Her eyes widened. Color sprang up her neck and raced to her face. In an instant she was on her feet, smoke pouring from her ears.

“You! What the hell are you doing here?” she growled in her native tongue.

Four seconds later, she stood before him, followed by a first-rate slap to his face.

Mila angled toward her father. “What the hell is he doing here?”

Duke ignored the stinging heat spreading over his cheek, as well as the lust coiling in his gut.

Oh, darlin’. I can tell already, this is going to be one hell of a mission if we don’t kill each other before it’s over.

Laramie put his hands down by his side. His fingers twitched. Though hidden by his suit jacket, there was likely a gun of some sort either tucked into the waistband of his pants or in a shoulder holster. The Boy Scout had to know Duke was sent from The Omega Team, but the reflex happened all the same. He was on the ball and ready for action.

Bully for you, Laramie. Bully for you.

“You know this man?” Yure asked. He too was on his feet, and making his way around the table.

“Yes.” Mila turned back and pointed. “This is Yakov Smirnoff. The man I—” she paused and shot Duke a death glare. “The man I nursed when I volunteered to help in Crimea two years ago. I told you about him.”

Yakov Smirnoff…

Duke held in a chuckle at the reminder.

What in the world had possessed him to use the name of a Russian-born comedian back then? Possibly lack of sleep. Possibly just being the wise-ass he always was. Probably the unbelievable pain from having his head split and his lower leg cracked by an iron crowbar wielded by a lucky pro-Russian rebel. Whichever the case, the joke was now on him.

Yure’s bushy brows knitted together. “You must be mistaken. This is Duke Gunnison from the United States. Your American bodyguard. He is a former member of the U.S. Army and is highly recommended by The Omega Team.”

Mila drew in a breath. Her big brown eyes grew even rounder.

“No.” The word dragged from her mouth on a raspy exhale.

Duke offered Mila a lopsided grin before stepping to her side and holding out his hand for Yure.

“How do you do, sir? I’m Duke Gunnison, retired Army Master Sergeant. Happy to be of service to you.”

They shook for only a moment before Mila grabbed Duke’s shoulder and attempted to spin him around in her direction. Despite being such a little thing, she had impressive strength. Even still, she succeeded only in pushing Duke slightly to the side.

“You tell him the truth,” she ground out. “You’re Ukrainian. You were injured during the fighting in Crimea against the Russians. I nursed you back to health before you fled back to wherever you came from.”

“Mila! What has gotten into you?” Shock tainted Yure’s voice. “My apologies, Mr. Gunnison. Since the incident a few days ago, she has not been herself.”

“No apologies needed, sir.” Duke plastered on his meet-the-daddy smile. Although he’d done his best to be a gentleman back when Mila had helped him with his injuries, nature had had its rambunctious way. Bodies had collided, feelings had been shared, and things were said. Now it was time for him to pay the price for opening up to the possibilities of caring for someone, even though their brief time together had happened over two years ago.

“But, with all due respect, Ms. Bartosh here is correct. When I met her, I was involved in a situation that I’m still not at liberty to discuss. At the time, I had to use a false name and false identity. I’m sure you understand.”

Duke regarded Mila with an apologetic shrug. “Long time, no see, darlin’,” he said in English.

Patience.

Aside from learning how to keep someone alive, if nursing school had taught Mila anything, it was patience. Breathing in through the nose, waiting a count of two, then letting the air out through the mouth. Again and again, over and over, while focusing on what the patient said and what had to be done. Not a particularly easy lesson to learn in her case. Patience was not a dominant gene in her DNA. And what little she had was currently wearing dangerously thin.

For five and a half hours, she’d sat at the table in the hotel’s conference room and practiced patience. She listened while Major Petro Mazure, the head of her father’s security team, her father and the two American add-ons discussed the trip to Budapest, the accommodations there, and transportation to and from the location of the talks. Security. Vulnerability. “Course of Action” one. “Course of Action” two. Worst-case scenarios. Et cetera, et cetera.

As the retired Major, who now worked with a branch of the Ukrainian Secret Service, droned on, Mila had done her best to pay attention and remain quiet unless asked to participate. Keeping her thoughts to herself was another gene she’d not inherited and something she’d worked hard to master.

Most importantly during this security review, she had purposely avoided eye contact with the man sitting to her right. The man who had stolen her heart and then vanished into the night, never to be heard from again. The man who’d turned out to be nothing more than a liar. An American liar.

If she dared look at him for long, she knew she would pull the gun from her purse and shoot a bullet straight into his chest. He deserved nothing less than suffering through the same wrenching pain she had.

Killing him quickly was not a suitable punishment though. She’d lived with her ache for over two years. For months, she had clung to the belief that he would find his way back to her. That one day they would have the opportunity to live out the whirlwind romance they had started.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone.

I want to be with you.

I…I love you.

But hope eventually turned to apathy, and on some days, to anger. It was the only way she could carry on.

No. Only a slow, torturous infliction of pain would be appropriate for Yakov or Duke or whatever his real name was. When she had a moment alone with her father, she would insist Duke be removed from the security detail. Anyone, even a pro-Russian separatist, had to be better and more trustworthy. Once he was let go, she would personally tear the lying bastard apart. Piece by muscular piece.

Until then, she would continue breathing in through her nose, waiting a count of two, and exhaling out her mouth. It was only a matter of hours before he would be out of her life and her memories for good.

Her hand tightened into a fist.

Patience.

Patience.

Unfortunately, the downside to this plan happened to be the most important part of it—the deep breathing. For every breath she took, his smell, the scent of soap and his personal musk, wafted up her nostrils and teased her senses, bringing back memories of lying naked beside him, her face nuzzled against his neck. If she tried, she could almost feel the warmth of his skin on her lips and the slope of his chest beneath her fingertips. How she had melted each time he held her in his arms.

“Mila?”

Her father waved a silver flip phone before her.

She quickly glanced at the men sitting around the table. All eyes were on her. Expectant. Waiting.

Mila plucked the phone from Yure’s grasp, while forcing what she hoped passed as a look of interest.

“These are pre-programmed with each of our numbers,” Major Mazure said. He passed out the remaining phones. “All members of the security detail will be issued a phone like this. These are key to our communication plan. Under no circumstance will this phone leave your body.” He looked up from under his bushy eyebrows. “I assume everyone here knows how to work a cell phone.”

Silence.

“Good,” he continued. “We move out tomorrow morning at zero six-hundred hours. The drive is long, so sleep well this evening. Are there any questions?”

No one said a word.

Major Mazure gathered his papers, pushed back his chair and stood. “Until tomorrow.” After a brisk nod to Yure, he left the room.

Her father removed his glasses and rubbed the reddened skin on the sides of his nose. When he looked up, Mila saw her father with an unexpected clarity that both shook and saddened her. Had his hair always been so gray? His skin so pale and thin? When had his shoulders become less sturdy, less broad? He no longer appeared invincible and filled with endless energy. Instead, he looked old and exhausted. No doubt the long meeting and the unfathomable weight of his responsibilities were taking their toll.

She placed her fingers over her mouth, reminding herself to not speak these thoughts or anything else that might dismay her father. As much as she wanted to plead with Yure to have Duke removed from his post, she simply couldn’t set another burden on his shoulders. She was supposed to be there to help and support him, not add unnecessary trouble. Hadn’t she done enough of that already?

Duke was her problem. She would deal with him.

You took great efforts to make certain I know how to take care of myself, and I can.

“Major Mazure is right. Tomorrow will be a long day.” Mila patted her father’s hand. “Let’s retire to our rooms and rest.”

Yure replaced his glasses and nodded. “Ten hours in a car is, indeed, a long ride. I’m sorry I’m reluctant to fly.”

He stood, followed immediately by Burton Laramie, who walked to the door and held it open.

Attentive and intelligent, Laramie had made an outstanding impression during his brief time there. Goodness knew the man was not hard to look at. Of the two hired guns, why oh why hadn’t
he
been assigned to her, instead of Duke? What had she done to make fate behave so cruelly?

Gesturing to Duke and then back to her, Yure added, “I assume you two have some catching up to do this evening. Just be mindful of the Major’s suggestion.”

“No worries, sir. We’ll get things squared away in no time.”

Duke’s voice sounded from behind, along with the scrape of his chair. Though some of his word choices were thoroughly American, his Ukrainian accent bordered on excellent. With a haircut and dressed differently, he could blend into a crowd with no one the wiser. A perfect phony. A perfect lying phony bastard.

Patience.

“I’ll see you in the morning, Poppa.” Mila escorted her father to the door and kissed him on the cheek. “All will be well. I promise.”

“Are you certain?” he asked, his voice low.

She dared not hesitate with her answer and give fuel to his worry. He might be tired, but Yure was no fool.

“Yes. Of course. Everything is fine.”

“I’ve heard you say that before, heart of my heart.” Yure placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “And we both know how that ended.”

His tone, both light and teasing, matched the mischief dancing in his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t as weary as she imagined.

“Mila,” Duke said when her father and Laramie were out of sight. “We need to talk.”

She raised a flattened palm. “Not here. I’m afraid too many people will hear you scream for mercy once I get my hands on you.”

“You want to get your hands on me? Darlin’, I’m touched. And here I thought you might be a tad upset.”

His arrogant response shot adrenaline into her already agitated blood, making her see red. If she shot him right here, right now, she could plead he’d attacked her. He was a crazed American and she was still in shock from her recent incident in the bar. No one would question the situation and no decent Ukrainian judge would convict her. Plus her father had connections. Loads of them.

“You are a disgusting pig,” she snarled, marching toward him.

“Yes. I know.” He patted his stomach. “I’ve gained a little weight. But just give me a few weeks. All this fat will melt off in no time.”

Her long, livid steps ate the distance between them.

“A filthy swine!”

“Hold on there, toots. I showered before I came down here. Even put on cologne and wore my best shirt.”

Mid-step, she grabbed a water goblet from the conference table then launched it at his head. He ducked. The glass flew past him and shattered on the floor. Water splashed in all directions. She picked up another, took aim at his crotch and hurled it. He responded quickly, lifting a knee in defense. The goblet ricocheted off his lower leg with a dull thud, bounced twice then came to rest near his booted foot.

“Hey,” he protested. “You’re going to hurt someone if you don’t settle down.”

“Only if I’m lucky, you slimy, bottom-feeding scum sucker.”

“Okay. Now you’re just being mean.”

When she reached him, she beat on his chest, his arms, his stomach with every ounce of anger and strength she could rouse.

“You’re nothing but a lying son of a bitch.”

Bam!

“A phony, repugnant asshole!”

Pow!

Blow following shuddering blow, she pounded and cursed him. He didn’t attempt to stop her. He simply stood, arms down at his sides, absorbing it all. All the rage. All the hurt.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he softly murmured. “Get it out. I deserve it. I know I do. Get it all out.”

The sincerity in his voice only infuriated her more.

“Don’t. Don’t say another word.” She stepped away and pointed backward toward the double doors. “I want you to leave. Go back to where you came from. You aren’t welcome or wanted here.”

“Your father might have a thing or two to say about that. Plus I owe you an explanation. A long-overdue explanation.”

Swinging her stretched arm back around, she switched her pointing index finger to her middle finger.

He took a step forward and held out his hand. “Ten minutes. That’s all that I ask for. If in ten minutes’ time you’re still pissed at me, I’ll leave. I’ll tell your father to find another guy to protect you.”

“After what you’ve done and the lies you told, why should I believe anything you have to say?”

“Because—” Duke started, but faltered.

After a few beats, he closed his eyes and bowed his head as though searching for some internal strength to continue. When he looked up, his usual confident features had contorted to the semblance of a man deeply conflicted.

“Because I still love you.”