The Bodyguard Contract

For the first time she noticed the burning across her abdomen. After placing her helmet on a nearby console, Lara unzipped her suit and stepped out of it, revealing her white sport bra and fitted racing briefs that rode low on her hips. Above her waistband were dozens of welts, the intensity already fading into dull red splotches. Lara resisted the urge to soothe the sting and her stomach beneath.

“You’ve only yourself to blame if you’re sore, Ian.” Lara’s gaze cut back. “You should have left me to take care of the bad guys. I was dead anyway.”

“I don’t leave anyone behind.”

“That’s right, I forgot,” Lara said, knowing that Ian had resigned his naval commission only months before contracting his talents to Labyrinth. “It’s the Navy SEAL way. So is integrity. Honor.” She inclined her head, letting him see that she remembered the day he’d held no such honor. “Huah.” Her blatant sarcasm couldn’t be missed when she uttered the Navy SEALs’ signature expression.

“It’s my way,” he answered, this time all traces of humor gone.

“Just stay out of my way,” Lara insisted, noting his deepened displeasure and not caring. Caring would show that he meant something to her. Had the means to hurt her again.

The fury was there, rigid but contained. She tossed her suit over the back of the chair and started toward the double steel doors. “And stay out of my training sessions. I don’t need a partner. And if I did, it wouldn’t be you.”

Ian’s frown deepened, his eyes slanted into blue slits—sharp enough to slice the air between them. “Wanna bet?”

Slowly, she swung around, her own eyes narrowing. And because her temper broke free, she snarled. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Face it, Red, just the fact that right now I’m sharing the same air pretty much puts you into tilt.” He rubbed the towel over his face, now seemingly indifferent to her fury.

“I’m done with the games, Ian.” She didn’t argue with his first statement. The truth was the truth.

“So am I.” Cain MacAlister, the new director of Labyrinth and Ian’s older brother, stepped into the blue room. His gaze slid to Lara. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“I have time,” Lara answered. Both brothers moved with predatory ease, but whether it was because of their warrior heritage or occupations, Lara couldn’t be sure—the ability seemed so innate. Where Ian was muscle and meat, Cain was leaner, almost lanky, with pitch-black hair, smoky gray eyes and features sharp enough to be called aristocratic.

Still their jawlines were the same, Lara noted.

And Lord knew, so was the slant of their frowns.

Cain glanced from Lara to Ian. “Are you two done playing?”

“We’re done all right,” Lara answered easily.

But Ian saw the proud line of her jaw lift. Lara didn’t like Cain’s question, but Ian knew she wouldn’t address the issue with Cain in Ian’s presence. Too bad, he decided, because he would have really liked to see her take on his brother.

“For now,” Ian commented, while his gaze remained on Lara, unblinking. He rested a hip on the nearby console. “It was Lara’s doing,” he said, deliberately taunting the Irish in her. “The woman can’t leave me alone,” he added, pleased when temper whipped color into the delicate line of her cheeks and her eyes sharpened into jaded glass. And a little disappointed, he mused, when stubbornness had her biting back words that threatened to get past the generous curve of her mouth.

“Ian.” Those same lips thinned over her teeth into a vicious smile. “Drop dead.”

She slapped her hand against the door panel, then paused long enough to wait for the door to slide open.

“Lara,” Cain called. “Stop by Kate’s office. She has a few…devices…that might come in handy for your meeting.”

Kate D’Amato was Ian’s younger sister and the head of Labyrinth’s technology division. “I will.” With one nod, Lara left.

Cain shook his head after the door slid shut. “A little early in the morning for a taste of sadomasochism, isn’t it?”

Ian sheathed the razor-sharp need that swiped at his gut. Some would describe Lara as slender, willowy—the more romantic, maybe—with long, tangled curls of fire-red hair and eyes the color of the Emerald City itself.

But Lara was far from romantic. Her body, kept lean and strong from a stringent physical regime, was no more than another weapon to use when necessary.

“Beats a strong cup of coffee,” Ian growled, and because it was only his brother, letting his frustration show. “God save me from stubborn women. She deliberately set herself up to fail. It’s as if she has to keep proving to herself she’s competent. You and I both know she’s one of the best operatives here.”

“Funny thing is, we both might know it, but you continually come to her rescue.” Cain folded his arms. The sleek, tailored lines of his navy-blue suit emphasized the air of authority.

Something, Ian thought perversely, Cain was very much aware of and used to his advantage. “Up to today, I’ve done a damn good job avoiding her. Then I get your message ordering me here at 0600 hours.”

“You work for me. I can do that,” Cain reminded Ian.

“Still, you don’t have to get so much pleasure from it.”

“True,” Cain agreed before his tone grew serious. “Ian, if you need to talk, I’m all ears. Remember what I went through with Celeste?”

Ian smiled at the mention of his new sister-in-law, Celeste Pavenic-MacAlister. A tiny bit of a woman, she was the best damn profiler Labyrinth had.

A few months back she’d led Cain on a merry chase. She’d changed her identity and went into hiding to stop the President’s assassination. “You’re in love with Celeste. Big difference.”

Cain being in love was still a new concept for Ian. While Cain was the cool, collected one, their sister, Kate, was logical to a fault. As the middle sibling, Ian was the emotional one—quick to laugh, quicker to temper.

A challenging balance of personalities, their mother always said. But one that seemed to work. Because of this, Cain had been Ian’s sounding board since they were children. But for some reason, his problem with Lara was too intimate to even share with his brother. “I can handle it.” To take the bite out of his answer, Ian added, “But I appreciate the concern…and the offer. Enough to take a rain check.”

“You won’t have time for a rain check, not for the next few days anyway. You’re going on assignment. I need you to keep track of an operative.”

“Anyone I know?” Ian asked before rubbing the towel over his head. Hell, tracking had long been Ian’s specialty, so the request didn’t surprise him. It would do him good, too, to take his mind off—

“Lara.”

Ian stopped midstroke, his eyes hardened. “No.”

“It’s not a suggestion, Ian, it’s an order. You’re under contract. Remember?”

“Only for a few more months.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that watching Lara’s back should only take the rest of today,” Cain drawled.

“Is she in danger?”

“No,” Cain answered, but the word rang with caution. “Not at the moment. But my little voice is working overtime on the possibility.”

Over the years, Cain, like Kate and Ian, had learned to accept the inner warnings, to trust them. A gift from their ancestors, their father said, passed down through strong Scots blood.

“So in other words, you need a babysitter.” Ian used the agency’s slang for bodyguard with derision. “I’ve been there, done that. No thank you.” He turned his back on Cain, using the few seconds of reprieve to push back a wave of concern. “Have Quamar do it. She likes him. And it’s just the right type of mission to get him back in the groove again.” An ex-Mossad agent, Quamar Bazan was one of the few Labyrinth operatives the MacAlister brothers would trust protecting their loved ones.

“Quamar might have his eyesight back, but he hasn’t been cleared by the doctors for duty.” A few months prior, their friend had taken a gunshot to the head while protecting the President’s mother. It was a miracle he had survived. “You’re the only one I can send at this point.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to ask me that after what I just saw?” Cain glanced at the Virtual Imaging equipment.

“What you just saw was none of your business,” Ian bit out. “Pull her from the mission or assign someone else.”

“She’s neck deep in it. Pulling her now would blow months of work.”

Lara had joined Labyrinth three years prior. Ever since, she’d been neck deep in one situation or another. “Lara’s at the top of her game when the pressure’s on.”

“But this time I’m not confident her mind is in the game.”

“We are talking about Lara Mercer? All business, no personality?” The words tumbled out like dry, bitter leaves. Ian rubbed his face with both hands, ignoring the whiskers that scraped his palm. God, he was tired. Of the espionage, the endless chasing after bad guys—dealing with his feelings for Lara. “Forget I said that.”

“Ian, you’re the logical choice.”

“Trust me, Cain, there’s nothing logical about Lara and I. You don’t want to send me.” Ian reached for his gym bag to snag a cigarette, then swore. He’d quit months before, but the craving still gnawed at him.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

Ian stared at his brother for a moment. It wasn’t in Cain’s nature to jump into decisions. If anything, he was too cautious. Most times, Cain made sure he’d always had a backup plan on any mission.

Obviously, Ian was that backup plan. “All right, boss,” he said, resigned. “Fill me in.”

Cain walked over to a nearby computer console and hit a few buttons. “Later today, Lara’s meeting with this man.”

A picture flashed against the back wall. A priest, posed in a professional portrait. An older man with strands of hair smoothed over a slightly shiny head. A hint of a smile added mischief to an otherwise plain face. “Father Xavier Varvarinski. Retired. St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church, Las Vegas.”

“I’m listening,” Ian growled. Only Lara could be at risk dealing with a priest.

“Father Xavier,” Cain repeated, “is Russian intelligence. A double agent for Labyrinth operations. Been in the business longer than you and I put together,” he explained. “As a priest, he’s had access to most of the Russian terrorist leaders and Russian Mafia members.” His gaze shifted to Ian. “I’ve never dealt with him directly, but he’s good. Very good.”

Ian studied the picture, noted the worn creases, the laugh lines. Evidence the priest spent most of his time enjoying life. But the weariness that dulled the blue of the man’s eyes caused a jab of trepidation deep in Ian’s belly. “When was this picture taken?”

“Six months ago.”

A lot can happen in six months. “Is he a real priest?” Ian wondered aloud. They’d all used different aliases at one time or another. Impersonating a priest was no different than pretending to be a cop, or a doctor.

“Yes. Served in Vietnam in his early thirties. Studied for the priesthood after his discharge. Seems he got his calling somewhere in the midst of that mess.”

“Interesting way to combine two careers,” Ian commented, then hung his towel loosely around the back of his neck. Only his white-knuckle grip on each end gave away his edginess. “I assume this priest has information regarding the biochemical.”

“Actually, it’s in his possession….” Cain paused. “It being Substance 39.”

Ian let out a slow whistle. “So the rumors are true then. We have a new biochemical warfare weapon to worry about.”

“While the Russians have tagged it with their usual substance number, on the streets it’s called Katts Smeart. The English translation…Silent Death.”

Cain moved on to the next slide. This time it was a newspaper photo of a man behind a podium—average height, slight in build, with properly trimmed brown hair, peppered with gray. His style was just short of slick. Not too Hollywood. But close.

“Katts Smeart is a synthetically enhanced poison allegedly financed and created by this man, Mikhail Davidenko, leader of the Russian terrorist sect—The Maxim. A fact the Russian government has conveniently overlooked. And the Russian Mafia has embraced.”

“Davidenko.” Ian recalled the name, acknowledging the punch of caution that jarred his spine. “Involved mostly with gambling, drug and human trafficking, arms and nuclear material dealings—even the sale of body organs. I’m not surprised about the biochemical warfare. Only that it took him so long.”

The next picture appeared on the wall—an aerial view of Davidenko on his yacht, entertaining. “Bottom line with Davidenko is profit. Biochemical manufacturing is big business these days,” Cain said.

Ian noted a few politicians, European and American—all dressed designer casual and surrounded by topless, thong-clad beauties. “Amazing what dirty money can buy.”

Cain grunted in agreement.

Ian considered the photograph again. “And Lara?”

“She’s been tracking Davidenko, gathering information through Father Xavier. We’ve always suspected Davidenko’s involvement in illegal activities within our borders. But never had proof.”

“The Maxim has a pretty long reach.” Lara’s involvement didn’t surprise him. The woman could find trouble going to the Laundromat. “How in the hell did the priest get a hold of the poison in the first place?”

Cain flashed another picture. This one was a woman. A brunette with classical features that complemented her upswept hair, wearing a strapless, black Versace gown.

In this photo, Davidenko stood to her right whispering in her ear. The curve of her mouth showed her amusement, but it was the softness in the deep brown eyes that confirmed much more.

“She’s amused, but not in love,” Ian murmured, his opinion instinctive.

“Her name is Sophia Franco,” Cain continued. But the slight raise of his brow acknowledged Ian’s comment.

“The actress?” Ian remembered Sophia Franco. Late thirties. Never headlined. Her forte was horror movies. Got a lot of press over her blood-chilling screams.

“Davidenko’s mistress,” Cain stated. “A few months back, Father Xavier managed an introduction. She’s a Roman Catholic and has become quite attached to the old man.”

“Are you saying Sophia Franco managed to get the poison to the priest?”

“It fits,” Cain responded. “We have proof that Father Xavier controls her. It’s no secret Russian terrorism is a small step from the Russian Mafia.”

“So, Sophia Franco turns in the Katts Smeart hoping to save lives and her soul? Hell of a penance.” Ian frowned. “Where is she?”

“Dead, we suspect. But I haven’t been able to confirm it yet,” Cain said, then paused. “Lara’s the courier for the Katts Smeart. She’s headed for Las Vegas where Father Xavier is supposed to pass it to her later today.”

“So Lara gets the weapon, brings it in,” Ian said, relaxing somewhat. “One-two punch. She could handle this in her sleep. If you send me in to cover her and she finds out—it won’t be pretty.”

“Pretty is the least of my worries. After this assignment, I’m forcing Lara to take a leave of absence. For her benefit.” Another pause, this time longer. “And yours.”

“Mine? How in the hell do you figure that?” He followed Cain’s gaze to the VI equipment. “You’re not getting rid of her because the two of us can’t get along, are you? Because if that’s the case, I’ll step down. Lara’s hated my guts ever since the President fiasco two months ago.” And rightly so, Ian silently acknowledged. “If she loses her career because of me, you’re signing my death warrant.”

“A few days ago, I would’ve agreed with you,” Cain reasoned. “But now, circumstances have changed. If her mission goes wrong and you have to intervene…” Cain rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, let’s just say I’m betting she’ll accept your help. Past or no past.”

“And why is that?”

“Because whether I like it or not, in the last twenty-four hours this mission became personal,” Cain responded, the hard edge back in his tone. “Lara fainted during a workout here at the center. I ordered her to get a physical. At the time, our doctors suspected anemia and took some blood samples.”

“And?” Ian stiffened, not bothering to cover the thread of concern. To his knowledge, Lara had never been sick a day in her life. “Was it?”

“No,” Cain admitted slowly, studying his brother. “She’s two months pregnant.”

Chapter Three

Las Vegas, Nevada. Wednesday, 1400 hours

Father Xavier Varvarinski slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, placed them beside the Bible cradled in his lap, then eased back against his hard, pine chair. Instantly, a rush of relief flooded the ache between his shoulder blades.

Even so, Xavier held his sigh of pleasure in check, not wanting the soft sound to rupture the peace that surrounded him. It wasn’t the heavy silence of the faithful which dominated most Sunday masses. Instead, it was a comforting silence—a reassuring murmur so fluid, it slid easily past the miniscule gaps in the confessional’s aged maple walls.

With his joints aching from arthritis and his lungs frail from years of tobacco abuse, Xavier had little that comforted him physically.

A true sign of being old he supposed. Still, he found solace in the midweek confessions and had insisted on upholding St. Stanislaus’s tradition when the current, younger pastor would’ve forgone the routine.

The hinges of the confessional door creaked, interrupting his thoughts. The priest’s lips lifted into a small empathetic smile. There was nothing wrong with finding reassurance in the familiar.

After a few seconds, cloth rustled against the wooden kneeler, forcing Xavier to shift forward in his chair and put his glasses back on. Reverently, his palm slid over his Bible’s leather cover—his fingertips automatically settling into its aged creases. Another comfort. The most important.

“Good afternoon, Father.” The hushed feminine greeting penetrated the screen.

“Eos,” Xavier said, turning toward the familiar voice, wincing slightly at the sharp jab of pain deep in his chest.

The ceiling light cast a slim, feminine shadow against the confessional screen. The woman was young, not more than thirty, he assumed. Her temperament soft, serene.

Xavier reached in his pocket and withdrew his pills. “Once again, your promptness astounds me,” he answered in Russian, then swallowed two tablets, dry.

“I received your message this morning.” Her tone remained hushed, her dialect now Russian, also. “Do you have the package?”

“Yes,” Xavier responded quietly. “You’ve told no one?”

“No one,” Lara replied, the lie sliding easily off her tongue. “But time is not our friend right now, Father. I need that package.”

“First things first, my child.”

Lara’s lips tilted into a half smile, forgetting for a moment the priest inside the man. “Of course.”

Xavier made the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” Lara answered.

“May God keep you safe in his kingdom, Eos.”

“Thank you. And you, also,” she responded automatically, somewhat taken aback by the gesture. Something is wrong.” She noticed it in his tone—an underlying despair that Lara had heard many times during her career as a government operative. “What is it?”

He sighed. “I had prayed that this day wouldn’t come, but it seems God’s will is stronger than my pleas.”

“What do you mean? Have you been discovered? Are you in danger?”

“Danger? No,” Xavier responded slowly, as if searching for the right words. “I’m too old, and no longer a threat to anyone.”

“Then why pray for—”

“Did you know that the true test of faith is when God doesn’t answer our prayers? Most always he has a higher purpose. One that may eventually come to light. Still it is hard for me to believe that he would not prevent this. No matter his purpose.”

“Surely, our purpose is the same, Father. To protect the innocent. You’ve done the government a huge favor by confiscating the substance. If there is anything I can do—”

“That’s exactly why I sent for you, Eos. I need help in saving a great deal of lives.” The priest hesitated, the uncertainty palpable. “I want to give you something. It’s under your kneeler.”

With deliberate movements, Lara reached under, her fingertips instantly touching small round beads. Slowly, she picked up the rosary. It was beautiful and old. “Is it yours?” A string of freshwater pearls looped a simple silver cross—on it, the image of Jesus suffering. The stark lines, the agonized expression were vivid in the dim light of the confessional.

“Yes. I’ve had it for many years.”

“It’s beautiful,” Lara murmured. She grasped the cross in her fingers, surprised over the chill of the metal against her skin. Somehow she’d expected it to be warm. “I can’t take this.”

“You must. It is the key to my situation.”

“I don’t understand.” Lara frowned, turning the cross over in her hand.

“You will.”

“Father, I don’t have time for cryptic puzzles. Tell me what you need.”

“I need you to bring Anton Novak to me.”

“The arms dealer?” She let out a low laugh. “I realize what you’ve provided to our government is beyond our expectations. But Novak?” She shook her head. “That’s impossible. He’s Mikhail Davidenko’s right-hand man.” Lara’s fingers tightened on the rosary. “Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I must see him within the next forty-eight hours.” He slid an envelope through a thin gap at the bottom of the screen. “He is meeting a client here. At midnight tonight.”

Lara glanced down at the information, saw an electronic key card with it. “And the key?”

“The key is to a room at the Château Bontecou. Room seven twenty one. I’m registered under the name Jim Brisbane. Bring Novak there and wait for me.”

“Father, maybe if you tell me what you’re involved in—”

“It’s personal, little one. Very personal.”

“A vendetta?”

“More like a contract,” he admitted. “With God.”

Trepidation slithered, coating her spine like slick oil. “I will keep your secrets. I always have. I promise. You have only to tell me—”

“I’ve told you what I need. And you can keep your promise by doing what I ask.” Impatience deepened his accent.

With his impatience, came hers. “I’m sorry, Father, even if I could figure a way, I would need a reason. And my superiors’ approval. Even then, I would require more than forty-eight hours. Anton Novak is a dangerous man.”

“Dangerous is a relative term,” he whispered. “Look, Eos, I have the biochemical your government wants. Enough to wipe out an entire city.”

Everything in Lara stilled. “And I told you, we are very grateful.”

“Then understand, I wouldn’t put you in this position except you’re my last hope. Bring me Novak. And tell no one.”

“Or?”

“Or I will be forced to release the poison on thousands of people.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, her words urgent. “We’ve known each other too long. You would not kill innocents.”

“It’s in your best interest to believe me. What’s at stake is worth far more than my immortal soul.” She heard the scrape of his chair, the grunt of effort it took him to stand. “You are my only option. And I’m sorry for it. Now that you’ve accepted my gift, you have no choice.”

His gift? Lara gripped the silver tight, understanding. “You poisoned the cross.” Her stomach pitched, then rolled. “How long do I have?”

“Long enough.” Behind the determination, she heard the sympathy. “Once you have Anton Novak in your custody, take him to Las Vegas. Wait at the Château Bontecou and I will contact you within the next twenty-four hours. You give me Anton Novak and I will give you Katts Smeart and its antidote.”

“There’s an antidote.” Lara shuddered with relief.

“Yes, there is.” Xavier sighed, as if his burden suddenly seemed too much. “I’m sorry, little one, but I couldn’t take the chance that you would not help me. Work quickly, any longer than forty-eight hours and the antidote will not save you.” He hesitated for a moment. “Please. No innocents need be involved. Not if you handle this problem for me.”