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  A trolley of folded tables a few feet from the door provided decent coverage. He could hear the person in the conference room running to the now closed door. The shooter behind the urn wasn’t letting up. Trying to lock the door between the rooms was out of the question. He’d have to bar it from opening.

  Duke shoved his gun between his back and the waistband of his jeans, the contact with the heated metal making his spine stiffen. Hands free, he grabbed the side of one table and pushed, taking the entire cart of folding tables with him for cover while more bullets zinged across the room. He angled one end of the trolley toward the door, providing just enough room for him to stay behind its relative safety. He barely had time roll it into position when the door opened and then stopped abruptly a foot in, hitting the stack of tables.

  A ham of a hand gripping a sidearm poked through the narrow slit. Duke squinted, just making out the black and gray human skull tattooed on it. The knuckles bared the skull’s teeth, which was inked into an eerie grin.

  Duke held on tight to the trolley, anticipating a strong push from the other side. He wasn’t disappointed. The force of the jolt jerked his arms and tested the strength of his legs, but he budged only a little. Before the next thrust, he pulled out his gun and fired at the hand, hitting the skull right between the eyes.

  A loud scream sounded from the conference room. The tattooed hand dropped the pistol and darted back behind the door. Taking advantage of the situation, Duke pushed the door shut, locked it then grabbed the gun on the floor. He took a moment to check the gun’s magazine. It was more than half full. He tucked the extra gun into his waistband. No need for double-fisted shooting—yet.

  He continued moving, along with the trolley, assessing the situation and trying to find a better angle to take out the person in black across the room. They were in a typical fancy banquet room. Long mirrors on the walls, large crystal-dripping chandeliers, alcoves for serving trays or beverage service, and tablecloth-covered round tables surrounded by chairs.

  More shots rang out from the urn, hitting the front table in Duke’s moving shield. Then quiet, or at least as quiet as one could expect with no shots fired and a moaning man kicking the door to the conference room.

  The law of averages pointed to the shooter reloading, unjamming his gun or contemplating his own exit strategy. That the guy would leave probably wasn’t a viable option. If he didn’t satisfactorily complete his mission or die trying, he’d be toast when he returned back to whoever sent him. Most likely his gun jammed or he was reloading.

  A narrow window of opportunity to play offense.

  Duke aimed at the base of a chandelier hanging near the urn. He fired off a burst of three shots. Then another burst of three. Sparks of electricity flashed as the last bullet separated the wiring from the ceiling. The massive light fixture plummeted to the floor between the urn and a table, followed by an ear-splitting crash.

  The man in black popped up from his hiding place. An easy target. One bullet to the chest brought him down. A second bullet ensured the job was done.

  A loud crack sounded as a combat boot punctured the door to the conference room. Long, jagged pieces of wood burst into the air. Another powerful kick caused the frame to splinter. The door flew open and a mountain of a man stepped through. His left hand was wrapped in what looked like a dark shirt, which explained the white undershirt he wore with his black utility pants. His bald head looked as big as a bowling ball and just as shiny.

  The man lumbered into the room. Duke raised his gun and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The giant grabbed a knife from his belt. His throw was lightning fast. The blade whizzed by not more than two inches from Duke’s face and embedded itself into the narrow side of one of the tables in the trolley. With amazing speed for someone so big and muscular, the man ran toward Duke, his beefy fists swinging like thrusters at his sides.

  Duke pulled again.

  Same result. Nothing.

  Duke tossed the POS firearm and then reached for the other gun tucked into his waistband. With a practiced movement, he raised his weapon, pointed the end of the barrel in the man’s direction and immediately heard the report of a gun.

  His gun hadn’t made the shot though. He had yet to squeeze the trigger.

  The man with the skull tattooed on his hand took on a mask of wide-eyed surprise. He fell forward, not making any attempt at keeping himself upright or breaking his fall. Then his chest hit the floor, followed by his head, which bounced back and whipped forward again.

  Behind him, in the darkness of the alcove, Mila stood with her pistol clasped tightly in her grip. Even in the darkened distance, Duke could see her hands shake, as well as the fear in her eyes.

  “It’s okay, Mila. You got him. You can put your gun down.”

  He spoke calmly, his voice low and hopefully soothing.

  How many men she’d ever shot, he hadn’t a clue. From the look on her face, the man spread between the tables was her first.

  Her gaze traveled the distance from the fallen attacker to Duke. She took in a trembling breath, nodded once then slowly lowered her weapon to the ground.

  “Is he dead?”

  She asked the question with no emotion in her voice, only a slight waver.

  Duke needed only a few steps to reach the bald man. He bent over the still body, placed two fingers on the man’s neck and waited.

  Nothing. No pulse.

  Her shot to the back had been a kill shot, placed perfectly on the man’s left side just below his shoulder blade. Probably a direct hit to the heart. Bright red bloomed and spread on the man’s white t-shirt.

  “Yes. He’s dead.”

  “Good.”

  “You okay?”

  “Absolutely. Never better.”

  Though her reaction came as a bit of a surprise, Duke simply nodded and made his way to the other shooter. He knew the woman was brave and ballsy, but he hadn’t expected her to be so nonchalant about taking a life.

  When he reached the man in black, he checked for a pulse. There was none. Two clean kills. He turned the dead man’s head and removed the black stocking cap. Up close, he could see the man was young. Probably mid-twenties. Aside from the various shades of pink from healing zits, his acne-covered skin was as white as a crisp piece of paper. His nose, long and wide. Buzz cut high and tight, the man’s dark hair looked like a spiky Brillo Pad. Overall, a typical thuggish look for this part of the world.

  Movement pulled his attention from the young man. Mila walked to the bald attacker. She stood there for a moment, her mouth working in silent conversation. Then she kicked the dead man’s side, hard, and proceeded to kick him again.

  “Mila, what the hell are you doing? The man is dead. You can’t make him any more dead, I promise.”

  She looked to Duke as she drew back her leg for another kick.

  “I recognize this man from the club. He works for Alik Ivanov—the man who killed my mother.”

  Chapter Six

  Before Duke could respond, the door from the hallway burst open. Major Mazure and several armed men in dark suits tread carefully over the threshold, their weapons drawn and ready.

  Mazure’s gaze took in the scene. He stepped around the fallen chandelier to the young man on the floor.

  “Are there any others?” Mazure asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of. These two kept us plenty busy though.”

  “So I see. Are either of you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I spoke to Mr. Bartosh just a moment ago. He’s safe, as well.”

  Mazure made a call on a phone similar to the ones issued in their earlier meeting. Apparently satisfied with the conversation, he ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket. He walked over to the bald man, leaned down and spread the dead man’s left hand. “This man is known as Crusher. He’s associated with a Ukrainian mob boss.”

  “Alik Ivanov,” Duke responded. “I know.”

  “He
and Alik Ivanov are the same men who drugged Ms. Bartosh at the club.”

  “Yes. That’s right,” Mila said.

  For a moment, Duke anticipated Mila telling Mazure the same information she’d just told him about the dead bald man and her mother. She didn’t. Either the Major already knew or she didn’t care to share it with him. If the latter was true, how relevant was the information to the protection of Yure Bartosh? If Yure had left their meeting a few minutes later, he would have been caught in the gun battle as well.

  Were the dead men sent to kill Mila, her father or both? And how, if at all, did Mila’s mother’s death play into the attack?

  As much as he wanted to pose these questions, his gut told him to keep them to himself. If there were valid reasons for Mila holding back information from the Major, he wasn’t going to be the one to clue the man in. On the other hand, if he and Burton Laramie were going to do their jobs with any success, they’d need to know as much as possible. Any intel that should be shared with Mazure would be.

  “Very interesting,” Mazure continued. He turned to Mila. “I believed the situation between you and Ivanov was an isolated event, brought on by convenience. Apparently, it was not.”

  “Should the plans for staying the night here and leaving tomorrow for Budapest be reconsidered?”

  Duke made his way to stand by Mila, contemplating the answer to his own question, as well as the questions pinging in his head. If he were in charge of Yure’s overall security, moving the important man to a more secure location and adding more armed guards would be the order of business. The city of Lutsk was an administrative center for the region and had over two-hundred thousand residents, as well as a damn castle. Surely there was a better place other than a luxury hotel to protect a diplomat for the night. At least a location that Ivanov wouldn’t already know about.

  “No. Ivanov’s men failed. Ivanov may only be a gangster, but even he is smart enough to know that security here will be tighter now, and it will be. I’ll have more men brought in this evening. Everyone will be placed on high alert. I assure you, no one will get within a hundred meters of Diplomat Bartosh or Ms. Bartosh.”

  Not if I have anything to do about it, they won’t.

  “You two,” Mazure pointed to two guards holding AK-74 assault rifles, “escort Mr. Gunnison and Ms. Bartosh to their quarters. I want additional men sent to the Bartosh’s suite of rooms to guard in the hallway. There are to be no less than two guards at the elevator, two at the stairwell, and four outside their doors. We’ll need more men downstairs at all entrances.”

  “With all due respect, Major,” Duke interjected, “I’ve been hired by Mr. Bartosh. Unless I get a different set of marching orders from him personally, I plan on staying at Ms. Bartosh’s side. If you take issue with that, you’re absolutely welcome to discuss it with Mr. Bartosh.”

  “Agreed. Her side is exactly where I’m paying you to be.”

  The voice of Yure Bartosh sounded from the doorway.

  The old man strode into the room, Laramie by his side. Bartosh evidently held considerable clout. From the corner of Duke’s eye, he saw Major Mazure’s back straighten and all of the surrounding men adjusted their footing to stand at attention.

  “I want to know more about what has happened here. Mila, you are alright?”

  A thorough debriefing ensued after the guards had been asked to leave, followed by comments from Yure to the Major that stretched between disappointment and an old-fashioned tongue-lashing.

  Three of Mazure’s men had been killed in the hallway. Bartosh’s beloved daughter had been in extreme danger. And the man responsible for the attack was still at large. Considering the severity of the situation, the Major had gotten off relatively easy in Duke’s estimation. Had the day’s events gone down during one of his Black Ops missions, heads would have rolled.

  But in the end, Bartosh agreed with the Major’s recommendation to stay the night at the hotel and beef up security. When they finally left Mazure in the room to handle the mess there and arrived inside Bartosh’s suite of rooms, Yure pulled Duke aside.

  “You saved my daughter. I am forever in your debt.”

  “I was only doing my job, sir, and Mila saved my hide as well. I’d say we’re pretty much square.”

  Yure regarded his daughter, who spoke with Laramie across the suite’s sitting room.

  “She is an amazing woman, is she not?”

  There was more than a little pride in Yure’s voice.

  “Without a doubt. I’ve never met anyone like her.”

  “You probably never will, nor she you. I’m quite impressed with how you handled yourself this evening. I was dubious about bringing in people from outside Europe. Although The Omega Team was highly recommended by a respected colleague of mine, I didn’t know how well Americans would do here. You and Mr. Laramie have exceeded my expectations. I’m fortunate as well as grateful I hired you both.” Yure cleared his throat and looked over the rim of his glasses. “You know, she’s very fond of you. Or she was.”

  Duke felt an eyebrow rise. “Is that so?”

  “I may be an old man, Mr. Gunnison,” Yure said, pushing the spectacles up his nose, “but my eyes are still capable of seeing the look of love on a woman’s face. In this case, the woman happens to be my daughter. I saw it many times after she returned from Crimea. I had no doubt she had met someone while working there.”

  Unsure how to respond, Duke remained silent but stood taller and straightened his shoulders while he waited for Yure to continue. He hadn’t expected this talk with Mila’s father, especially now, but here it was. Time had come to face the music. He intended to do it like a man.

  “She never shared her feelings with me, mind you. She didn’t have to. Whenever she spoke of Yakov Smirnoff, she either glowed with an inner light or pain filled her eyes. I had never seen her so. Could anything but love cause emotions so extreme?”

  “No, sir,” he agreed. “I want you to know I didn’t mean to hurt Mila. When I met her, I had zero desire to get involved with anyone. But I did. I fell pretty hard for her. Hard not to. I’d never felt love for any woman in my life before I met her. When I left Crimea, I left my heart behind.”

  Yure nodded, stroking his beard. “And now you are here.”

  Duke held back a grin. Using only five little words, the old man managed to ask what Duke’s intentions were without having to construct a question. No wonder the man was such a successful diplomat.

  “Yes, now I’m here. And once I’ve finished this job, I intend to do everything in my power to make Mila mine.”

  “Is that so?” Yure asked, repeating Duke’s earlier statement.

  No need to wonder who Mila had inherited her ballsiness from. He had a feeling he was looking that particular DNA donor square in the eye.

  “Yes, sir. It is.”

  “Then I wish you good fortune.” Yure patted Duke’s back. “You may need it.”

  Great. Just the morale booster he needed to hear.

  “And may I assume your feelings for her mean you will also do everything in your power to keep her safe?” the old man added.

  “You have my word on it. While we’re talking about Mila’s safety, you need to know she may be in jeopardy if she stays here. Alik Ivanov appears to be after her. He might be after you as well. I don’t think it was a coincidence she ran afoul of him at the club.”

  “It wasn’t a coincidence.” Mila’s voice chimed in.

  Duke swiveled his head to see Mila and Laramie had concluded their conversation and were now within earshot of his with Yure.

  “Actually, I was there to find him,” she said.

  “What? You knew Ivanov was there?” her father asked.

  “I wasn’t positive, no. I’d only heard rumors he was in Lutsk, which is far from his normal territory.” Mila raised her chin. “I wanted to find him. When I did, I planned to kill him.”

  Laramie’s gaze flicked to Duke. Although he bore no other expression, his brief loo
k was enough to share his surprise at the revelation, which was exactly what Duke felt.

  Jesus. The woman had attempted to take on a monster.

  “For the love of God, Mila. What were you thinking?” The old man waved both hands in the air, his accent thickening. “You could have been hurt or worse, even killed! Ivanov is an evil man with ties to powerful people in Moscow. You’ve seen firsthand how ruthless he can be.”

  “You mean when he murdered my mother? Yes. I was there. I saw everything, from the women she tried to help escape from his sex trafficking ring to when he dragged her from our house and shot her in the head. I have a very vivid recollection of it all.”

  A second glance from Laramie suggested that particular tidbit was news too. They both had landed jobs with people who had more going on than either one of them could have ever dreamed.

  “I realize now just how foolhardy my plan was. Believe me, I do. But don’t you see, if Ivanov has come all the way to Lutsk, he’s here for a reason. Since he’s so deeply tied to Moscow, there’s a good chance that reason is to hurt you, Poppa.” Mila wiped away a tear before it rolled down her cheek. “The Russians only agreed to the negotiations with Ukraine as a way to look good in the world’s eyes. But they don’t want to leave the eastern border. No. They want to go farther. They want the entire country. With you hurt or dead by the hands of some out-of-control crime boss, the Russians can deny any responsibility. The talks would also have to be postponed for who knows how long. Time would pass before another diplomat can be assigned and even more would be needed to arrange for another negotiation. By then, the Russians would have found some way to overtake Ukraine and convince the world they had done so for some good cause, just as they did when they invaded the eastern border.”

  She grabbed her father’s hand and squeezed. “I couldn’t stand by and wait for Ivanov to make his move. Not now. Not ever. He’s done enough to our family. He’s done enough to our country.”

  Passion resonated in every word she spoke. Unlike so many people he’d met and had come to know, Mila’s commitment was genuine. She walked the talk, something he admired. She was also brutally honest. If he could place his trust in someone, it was her.