Precious Cargo Page 2

  “This is a precious cargo mission. The dignitary is involved in some high-level talks with Russia. His daughter was recently drugged at a nightclub and there was an attempt to remove her from the club while she was unconscious. Her bodyguard saw the situation unfolding after he’d parked and entered the building.”

  “Her bodyguard left her alone?” Duke struggled getting the snaps of his shorts to connect. Jesus, he’d gained some weight.

  No more chips and beer. Period.

  “She had ordered him to stay in the car while she did her thing inside. Fortunately for her, he obeyed her father’s orders of sticking close. After parking, he’d given her a few minutes then he went in. He said he’d stayed in the background and tried to blend into the crowd. Not an easy thing to do, I’m thinking. The guy is fifty-five years old.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No. He’s worked for the family for years. One of the only people they trust.”

  “I know the feeling. So what happened?”

  “He said she starting talking to a man at the bar. After a few hours of drinking and chatting, she started swaying and fell into his arms. Then another man came up and they tried taking her quietly out the back door. The guard stepped in, and it sounds like one hell of a fight broke out. In the end, he got the girl out safely, but ended up with two stab wounds, a broken jaw and cracked ribs. He’s currently in the hospital.”

  “Do they know who the guys were?”

  “Yes. She identified them both to the local police and the head of her father’s security team. One man, a big guy with a skull tattooed on his fist, is known locally as Crusher. He was the one who came in to help escort her out. The other guy, the one she was talking to, is Alik Ivanov.”

  “The mobster?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Yah. From some of my many missions in the area. He was a piss-ant wannabe thug when I was just starting out in the Army. I’ve heard over the years he’s made a name for himself. There’s a lot of unrest and unstable governments in that part of the world. Perfect opportunities for corruption and organized crime for those with the right connections.”

  “Ivanov now controls most of central and eastern Ukraine, as well as the Crimean Peninsula. He specializes in human trafficking, drug running and transporting illegal arms. He’s been busy fostering pro-Russia unrest and supplying pro-Russia separatists with guns and supplies. Apparently, he’s close to Kremlin officials looking to take back control of the area while making big money. The entire region is a hot mess. Although the local officials say they’re looking for both men, it’s a safe bet nothing will be done. Ivanov is one ruthless bastard with people in high places on his payroll.”

  “I know all about it.” Duke rummaged through a pile of clothes at the end of the bed. He found a relatively clean T-shirt and sniffed it. “So was the girl a specific target because of her father, or was this a random pick for trafficking?”

  “As of this time, no one seems to know for sure. But I can tell you, if Ivanov didn’t know who she was, he certainly does now. Most likely she’s pinging hard on his radar. She was a big fish who got away, which doesn’t look good if you’re supposed to be a smart, tough guy. I’m sure the Russians would love having her in their hip pocket.”

  “So the dignitary is Ukrainian.”

  “Yes. He’s been tasked with going to Budapest to negotiate with Russia to keep the Reds out of Ukraine. As far as many Russians are concerned, Ukraine is still theirs. Just recently, they regained control of Crimea.”

  “I heard about that too. The story was all over the news.” Duke jostled the phone between both hands while pulling the shirt over his head and poking his arms through the sleeves. The stretchy material molded to his biceps and chest a little tighter than when he’d bought it a year ago. Either he had to get back into shape or buy a damn new wardrobe.

  “There are so many Ukrainians who support rejoining Russia, the government is having a time of finding loyal Ukrainian military and local law enforcement. In the past five years, eight Ukrainian officials have been murdered. That’s why The Omega Team is involved. We’ve been contacted to provide a small but capable security detail for both the diplomat and his daughter during the talks, to bolster what protection they already have. Once the talks are finished, the job ends. I’ve hired former CIA agent Burton Laramie for twenty-four/seven eyes on the diplomat. He’s already on his way. I’d like to send you to shadow the daughter.”

  “Why not just move the girl to another country? France or Great Britain? I know Ivanov has influence locally, but surely not all the way across Europe.”

  “I asked that as well. She refuses to leave her father’s side. From what I’ve been told, she’s quite the ball of fire. Sounds like you’ll have your hands full if you agree to this mission.”

  “Why did you choose me to babysit the daughter instead of protecting the diplomat? Safeguarding him is a much better fit for me. I’m not cut out to be a glorified nursemaid.”

  “You have extensive precious cargo duty experience. There are few people out there with better records for extracting less-than-cooperative targets.”

  “We both know that’s not a good reason. Watching the diplomat is precious cargo duty too, but you’ve given that job to someone else. Try again.”

  “The diplomat’s name is Yure Bartosh.”

  Duke’s feet rooted to the ground.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Ukraine was a big country with plenty of Bartoshes running around. No way Yure Bartosh could be connected. No fucking way.

  “So?”

  “His daughter is Mila Bartosh.”

  He grimaced as though he’d taken a sucker punch to the gut.

  “My sources tell me you may already know her. Is that true?” Grey asked.

  Grey Holden had incredible sources if he knew about Mila Bartosh.

  Letting out a long sigh, Duke considered how best to answer the loaded question.

  “Yah,” he finally replied as he ran his hand through his hair. “You could say that’s true.”

  Chapter Three

  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.

  Chapter Four

  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 vanish
ed 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.