“I know the baby is mine.”

Ian tugged Lara toward him until she sat on his lap. Gently he eased her head onto his shoulder, then settled back into the couch.

“Is this all necessary?” she whispered.

“If we’re going to do this, I want to be comfortable,” he murmured, massaging the back of her neck.

The exhaustion crept up on her, taking advantage of her relaxing muscles. “We should be downstairs, tailing Novak,” she grumbled halfheartedly.

“Not for a while. They’ll become suspicious if we keep disappearing on them.”

“Ian?” She yawned against his neck. “You never once asked me to prove the baby is yours.”

“Because I know it’s mine.” Ian paused. “Because what happened between us wasn’t ordinary, Red. It’s our baby.”

And come hell or Irish temper, he would protect his family.

The Bodyguard Contract
Donna Young

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Donald Prager, I love you, Dad

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Donna Young, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Lara Mercer—A government operative determined to stop a biochemical weapon from destroying hundreds of Americans, whatever the price—until she realizes the price might be her child’s life.

Ian MacAlister—An ex-Navy SEAL with a reputation for making the tough calls. But when a mission forces him to choose between saving the world and saving his family—can he walk away from love?

Father Xavier Varvarinski—A Russian double agent with a strong faith but a stronger desire to play God.

Anton Novak—An international arms dealer who controls a biochemical weapon powerful enough to wipe out an entire city—in addition to a government operative or two.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Electricity charged the air, preparing the night for the incoming storm. Black clouds swirled and thundered—a tempest in the midnight sky. From its center, spiraled a pair of sleek, nylon wings.

Lara Mercer ignored the storm and focused on her target—the crest of a concrete roof seventy stories above Central Park West. The wind burst beneath her, shoving her slightly off course. Immediately, she pulled the steering toggle, compensating.

One hundred feet…sixty…twenty. Another quick adjustment. After Lara’s feet hit concrete, her thumb punched the small laser mechanism on her harness. The para wings fluttered, once…twice, then vanished into ash, allowing the brush of the wind to scatter the remains across the concrete and tar. While she had expected the result, her eyes widened in admiration. She crouched, gun in hand. Damn. Doctor Kate D’Amato was getting downright scary with her gadgets.

Lara checked the corners of the rooftop through infrared goggles. The light bounced against, then behind the walls and the air-conditioning units, telling her no one hid in wait.

The storm picked up, torrent gusts of air spitting rain and snow. Lara judged the distance between the Manhattan skyscrapers to be approximately fifty meters.

After moving to the three-foot concrete barrier surrounding the roof, she pointed her cable gun down and squeezed the eject trigger. The steel anchor shot into the cement floor with a loud, clipped chink. After testing the secure anchor, she hooked the loose end—a pulley—to her harness.

Quickly, she holstered her gun and jumped, feet-first. One…two. She eased the brake on the pulley, preventing the cable from jerking. Any movement against the windows triggered a vibration sensor imbedded in its tempered glass.

She braced her feet against the steel of the building, her knees relaxed. The targeting system on her infrared goggles locked on the building across the street—number two in the triad of buildings. Lara aimed the cable gun, pleased when the red stream of its laserscope cut through the falling snow.

Swiftly, she shot another cable, her lips tilting into a wicked grin when she saw she’d nailed her mark—six inches of steel separating twin panes of smoked glass.

Behind the window stood huge cooling units and boilers. The rumble from the machinery made it impossible for the vibration sensors to function properly, so none had been installed. Mechanical floors were located every eighteen stories. This particular window was the closest to her objective—illegal arms dealing information on the hard drive of the corporate computer.

Glancing at her watch, she couldn’t stop a rise of satisfaction. The mission, although difficult, had not proven impossible.

Suddenly, the whir of cable sliced through the wind. Within seconds, Lara’s Glock was in her hand.

“Holster your weapon, Red.” The voice rumbled low through the transmitter in her ear.

Lara pushed her goggles down, leaving them dangling around her neck. A figure, male, dressed in a black Lycra bodysuit identical to hers, slid into position beside her. Even with his face hooded, Lara recognized the wide shoulders, the lean waist and hips. She took a deep breath, resisted the flutter in her stomach.

“Damn it, Ian. You almost got yourself shot.” Lara snapped the infrared specs back into place and shoved her pistol into her side holster.

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see me.” Like Lara, Ian MacAlister braced himself against the building, feet spread.

“Get the hell out of here. This is my operation.” Dismissing him, she linked her anchor cable to the one she’d just shot across to the second building. “I don’t need you hovering like I’m some new trainee.”

“You’re acting like one. This is a level four mission,” Ian said. His tone remained light, but his stance tightened. “Requires a minimum of two operatives.”

“The recommendation is two operatives,” she snapped, checking the lock on her harness, making sure it wouldn’t move down the cable until she was ready. “It’s not mandatory.”

“Still trying to prove something to Daddy, Red?” Ian aimed his cable pistol and fired. She didn’t have to look to know he’d placed the anchor close to hers.

Lara’s back teeth slammed together. For the last few months, she’d dealt with Ian. Ever since he’d been attached to Labyrinth—an elite black ops division of the CIA.

At seventy stories, they both knew she wasn’t in any position to stop him from joining her. And she wasn’t about to scrub the mission.

Irritation gnawed at the base of her neck. The man looked harmless enough—a white muted figure through her infrared goggles—but experience had taught her that Ian MacAlister was dangerous. And more importantly, her heart had taught her that he wasn’t to be trusted.

“I don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Ian.” It was no secret that Lara had to work harder than most Labyrinth operatives. Not because she was a woman, but because up until a few months ago, her father, Jonathon Mercer had been their boss. Now, he was the Vice President of the United States. “I don’t need you to pull this off.”

“Wanna bet?” Ian asked, hesitating, while he adjusted his own line, long enough to shoot her a sideways glance. “A small wager, just to make things interesting.”

“No wager. No nothing. Just get the hell away from me.” Haven’t you done enough? Her mind screamed the question.

“What’s the matter? Afraid?”

The taunt hit home, an arrow piercing the deepest part of her heart and feeding the rage at her own insecurities. Deftly, she attached a small portable winch to her cable and started tightening the gear. Within seconds, her line was taut. “First one in the building wins,” she said, her voice flat, businesslike. But the air between them crackled and this time it wasn’t the storm that created the electricity.

“Winner chooses the prize, Red?” His voice dipped into a slow, smoky burn that touched off a fire in her belly. Damn it. Only Ian MacAlister would consider seducing a woman dangling hundreds of feet above concrete.

“Yes,” she accepted, knowing she’d left herself no other option. It had been months since he’d last worked with her. In that time her skills had sharpened, her strength grown.

A sudden rush of adrenaline shimmied up her spine. Ian was in for the surprise. Lara replayed the mission points in her head. Already, her little interaction with him had cost her time.

It took a few seconds for Ian to secure his line. In those moments, she’d thought about taking a head start, but it wasn’t her way to cheat. She didn’t want to give him any reason to cry foul when she won.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

Lara’s nod was quick, decisive. “Go!”

Air blasted her face, hitting her with bits of ice and snow. Lara tuned it out along with the whine of Ian’s cable beside her. Instead, she focused on her point of contact a few yards ahead.

Without warning, his cable jerked then dropped. He grabbed for his harness lock, catching the mechanism a split second before he dived into a sudden free fall.

The line snapped. An insidious crack exploded against the steel and glass. In the back of her mind, she registered the fact that she had yelled his name into their transmitter. He slammed against the window, took the impact with his shoulder, absorbing the punch with a grunt.

“Damn it, Ian,” Lara bit out. “Hold on, I’m coming down.”

“Stay there. I’m okay.” A quick glance showed the end of his cable lashing through the air like a whip. “My line broke loose from the winch. If I use my suction cups, I should be able to minimize any more vibrations.”

“How hard did you hit the glass?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?” They both knew he could’ve already set off the silent alarm. “Check the perimeter.”

“I am.” Lara tugged her mini computer out of her utility belt and scanned its screen. “So far we’re secure,” she advised, her tone flat but not convinced. “No hostile movement toward our position.”

Ian grabbed the suction cups from his utility belt. A combination of rubber-rimmed steel and polyurethane, the suction cups locked over hands and knees allowing an individual to scale any smooth surface within minutes.

“Hurry up, Ian.”

“I am—”

Ian dropped another floor. But this time when he grabbed for the rope, the suction cups fell to the street below. “Lara, my anchor slipped. I’m guessing my fall broke it free of the cement. It must have caught on the roof’s railing. If I’m right, the anchor’s not going to hold for long.”

Lara swore. “Just hang tight. I’m repositioning myself, then I’m going to cut my cable.”

“No! I’ll climb my line. I think I can make it before—”

Time took the luxury of rapelling out of the equation. Ignoring him, she unlocked her cinch and plunged into a free fall.

Seconds later, Ian dangled only a few feet away. “Take my hand!” she yelled.

He reached, grabbed. His anchor gave way. Lara braced her legs and absorbed the jerk of his fall.

“You okay?”

“Yes.” She ignored the painful burn in her shoulder and reached for her knife. Quickly she cut him loose from the damaged cable.

His upper body flexed, then strained with the reach. He clipped his harness to her line. “I need to get above you for better traction. Slide onto my back.”

She sheathed her knife. Using her free hand, she grabbed his shoulder and levered herself onto his back. Her fingers dug into his flesh, the firm muscles beneath soothing her fear.

In the distance, thunder rumbled and Lara froze recognizing the sound for what it was. “Chopper.”

“Get in front of me, Red.”

“No.” She was literally covering his back, and from his tightened muscles against her chest, he wasn’t pleased about it.

Ian swore. “That aerial’s coming in fast. You can bet that any ammo it shoots will be armor piercing and kill us both, whether you’re on my back or not. These bulletproof suits won’t protect us one bit.” Ian shifted, using one free hand to hike her higher on his hips. The whop, whop of a helicopter rose behind them. “On my shoulders! Now!”

Quickly, she hoisted herself up his back, knowing with each move, she left bruises. Sitting on his shoulders, she slid her harness up her rope, locked it in place above his harness, then braced her feet against the glass.

“Run!” Ian ordered before bumping her off her perch. Both sprinted using the rope tension to keep them perpendicular to the building.

Bullets strafed behind them, blowing out windows in their path.

“Jump!” he yelled.

The couple leaped in unison, the momentum creating a pendulum out of the rope, swinging them back behind the line of fire. Lara threw out one of her suction cups and anchored it above one of the blown-out windows.

Without words, he caught the edge of the sill. Muscles straining, he pulled himself up and in.

“He’s coming around again,” Lara shouted.

Ian hoisted her in next to him. She flopped, belly first to the floor.

Neither spoke. Shards of glass bit her hands. Ignoring it, she dived with Ian behind a huge oak desk. Bullets peppered the ground around them.

“Get ready.” Lara palmed her gun and waited. Soon the helicopter hovered in front of the blown-out window.

Ian grabbed a miniature rocket from his utility belt, attached it to his cable pistol and fired. The whine of the missile pierced the air, hanging only a brief moment before it hit.

The helicopter exploded in a rush of flame and heat. Fireworks of metal and sparks rocketed through the room.

“So much for the silent approach,” Ian yelled over the din, ignoring the spew of smoke already receding from the shattered window. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Lara answered. Alarms sounded—huge foghorns that blasted through, shaking the floor beneath them.

She scanned the room, ignoring the howling gusts of wind from the missing windows. Like most executive offices, the decor was no more than sterile layers of chrome, leather and glass. Double doors in front. Single door at the side, just beyond a fully stocked bar. Probably to the private bathroom. She tugged off her goggles and pulled out a miniature, palm-sized computer again.

“How are we looking so far?” Ian asked, yanking off his own night goggles. The office was semidark but the hallways would be lit.

Lara glanced up from the green display. “We’ve got a minute max. I show six goons coming up the stairs. One in the elevator. Two more just outside the front doors.”

In theory, they still had a mission to complete. The question was, could they succeed and still save their skin? Ian gestured toward the entrance, indicating he’d take point. Lara covered.

Within seconds, two men burst through the double doors. Their Uzi semiautomatics strafed the room, ripping through paintings and leather upholstery. The bar’s mirror exploded. Glass shards sprayed across their heads.

Lara dropped, rolled, came up on her knees, catching the farthest gunman off guard. When he swung back, she fired. But she’d misjudged the quickness of his reflexes. Pain exploded in her stomach, the impact knocking her back. She gasped as white-hot fire spiked her from belly to chest.

Ian jerked when she fell but didn’t turn until the two men dropped, dead, on the ground. Quickly, he grabbed their guns. “How bad?”

She clutched her stomach, covering the bullet wound. Fear rose, coating her tongue with acid and bile. “It’s nothing.” She moved, using the desk to stand. Lara fought off the wave of nausea and weakness. “Let’s finish this,” she whispered. Blood soaked her suit. She could feel the warm stickiness against her skin. She shifted her weapon to her left hand and braced her legs apart to keep them from shaking. “Options?”

“Stairs.” Ian snagged her computer and glanced at the screen. “I’ve got four more closing in.”

Lara nodded, only to stop when the room tilted. The loss of blood was already making her light-headed. “Let’s go.”

She staggered a few steps, then recovered long enough to reach the wall next to the double doors. Light from the hallway spewed into the office, its glare almost painful to Lara’s blurring vision. Taking short shallow breaths, she waited for Ian to give the go-ahead.

“Get ready, Red.”

“I’m ready.” She gripped the weapon tight to cover her trembling. With a jerk, she slid closer to the door.

Ian glanced back at her and swore.

Lara followed his gaze. Blood streaked the wall behind her.

The bullet had gone completely through and out her back.

Angry with herself for not realizing, she said, “There’s nothing you can do, Ian, except get us the hell out of here.”

Lara wasn’t a woman who relinquished control. She’d learned long ago that doing so would only bring pain. This time, ironically, pain was forcing her to do just that, leaving her no choice but to trust Ian to save them. “You’ve got about five minutes, hotshot. Then you’re going to have to carry me.”

“When this is over…” Gun raised, Ian used his foot to kick the double door open. The ding of the elevator ricocheted through the white hallway. “Get down!” he ordered, then grabbed a compact explosive, the size of a small metal hockey puck, from his belt. He tossed it directly into the path of the elevator and shoved Lara into a nearby doorway, shielding her body with his.

The explosion rocked the floor. A burst of heat surrounded them, rancid smoke of burned tile and plaster filled her lungs. Lara coughed, tasting the blood and bile.

Ian eased back, his eyes finding hers. “Can you make it?”

“I’m tougher than I look,” she whispered through the viselike pain that squeezed her chest, then prayed she was right.

Without help, Lara reached the stairway door first, but it was Ian who yanked it open.

Somewhere below the slap of running shoes echoed through the circular concrete stairway. Ian motioned her up the stairs.

Her legs grew weaker, shaking uncontrollably. She grabbed the railing to pull herself up the steps, but her hands, slick with sweat, slid. With a cry, she fell facefirst onto the concrete. Pain exploded in her chest, seared her belly.

“Lara.”

“Go,” she rasped. Blood bubbled up her throat, making each breath an effort.

Ian grabbed her by the shoulder, his arms braced to lift her.

“No!” The fire in her gut intensified. Weakly, she lifted her hand, showing him the steel puck clutched under her fingers. “Get out of here.”

Before she set the timer, Ian’s hand covered hers.

Too weak to tug free, she didn’t even try. “Let go, Ian. I’ll detonate it when they reach me. By the time their friends realize you’re not here, you’ll have the files and be long gone.”

“No.” He swung her up into his arms, pausing when she gasped with pain. “Not this time.”

A man yelled from the stairs. Lara heard the blast of gunfire, felt Ian shudder with each bullet’s impact. The warmth of his blood mingled with hers, its metallic scent suspended between them.

Slowly he pressed her back against the wall, his body now more deadweight than not. Still, he protected her.

“Ian,” she rasped, ignoring the movement behind them, the growing echo of feet as the bad guys closed in. Instead, she concentrated on the small flecks of silver in his blue irises, the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips—trying to absorb the strength behind each. “Game over.”

“No, Red, it’s just beginning.” Ian leaned in until his lips hovered only slightly above hers, his breath brushed warm, reassuring against her cheek. Anticipation—and maybe a little panic—rifled through her and came out in a shuddered breath. All she needed to do was lift her chin….

“I breached the building first.”

Chapter Two

“Damn it, MacAlister!” Lara sat up, pulled her hands out of the computer cuffs and tugged off her Virtual Imaging helmet. A cascade of red hair tumbled free. With fast, jerky movements, she disconnected the sensor wires from her training suit. An instant later, lights flashed on and the VI program shut down—leaving all four walls of the lab room an iridescent blue and the air silent. Anger whipped through her. “You sabotaged my operation, didn’t you?”

Ian removed his helmet, tossed it into the leather seat next to him. He ran a casual hand through his chestnut hair, now sweat darkened to a charred brown. Cropped military short, his hairstyle complemented the broad sweep of his cheekbones, the hard line of his jaw and a nose that was a touch off center and, she suspected, had been broken more than once.

“Answer me, MacAlister,” she demanded. Born from a French mother and an Irish father, Lara had more than her fair share of temper. Most times, she kept a tight rein of control over it. Other times…

“I can’t. I’m dead, remember?”

“Funny,” she bit out the word. “Did you or did you not sabotage my operation?”

“Now why would I do that?” His mouth twitched with amusement. “I’m the one who developed the program.”

No one would call Ian MacAlister handsome in a pretty boy sense. But with the strong, striking features of his Celtic ancestors and his laser-blue eyes, no woman could walk past him without a second glance.

“Who better to change it?” she snapped, finding her own eyes lingering, her heartbeat accelerating. Annoyed, she shoved her hair behind her ear and slid from the leather seat.

“All the programs have failure sequences in them,” he responded with equanimity. He disconnected his suit and stood in one long, fluid movement—a jungle cat satisfied after a night on the prowl. “No mission goes smoothly.”

“Usually, it’s a random process,” she argued, cursing herself for letting her guard down. “This time you decided what was going to happen and when. That’s why you made the bet with me. Isn’t it?”

“You decided the challenge, not me. Besides, I didn’t need to reprogram anything to win. The fact that you went in by yourself told me you hadn’t thought the mission through.” He slid the zipper on his training suit down to his waist. He wore no shirt. Lara’s gaze flickered over him, settling on the ripple of movement across his chest as he jerked his arms free. He left the top portion of the suit dangling off his hips.

Her eyes dipped, following each carved muscle that flexed with power under his sun-bronzed skin—remembering from months before how the bare skin gave way to a small, sexy line of sable hair just below his navel. Too damn sexy for her own good, she understood now. Still, the heat danced through her, lighting little fires along her nerves.

His gaze caught hers, and in an instant the planes of his face sharpened, his jaw tightened with awareness.

With effort, she drew one deep steadying breath.

Then just that quick Ian’s features smoothed, the passion sliding under a relaxed, easy smile—an undeniable arrogance.

He turned to retrieve a white towel from the console beside his chair and Lara let out a long hiss.

Ian glanced over his shoulder in understanding. “How’s the damage?”

Welts, raised and vivid, striped his back. “Not too bad for a tough guy like you.” Lara waved a careless hand, not pleased with the chaotic emotions that squeezed her chest like an accordion.

“You had the sensors set too high.”

“I wanted the pain to be realistic,” she stated. “We both know the results are only superficial. Harmless.”

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.”

After raising his hand, he once again made the sign of the cross. “God be with you, my child.” With that, Father Xavier Varvarinski stepped out of the confessional.

Lara listened to the receding footsteps, understanding that it would be of no use to follow him. Not even to tell him he was wrong. Her uncontaminated hand slid to her stomach. Innocents were already involved.

Mojave Desert, North of Las Vegas

Wednesday, 2200 hours

PREGNANT. For the hundredth time, she pressed her fingers to her lids and swore. She’d never been one to cry before—not because of any sort of toughness or principle, but simply because she wasn’t capable—could never find the release mechanism within her.

Now she didn’t have eyes, she thought with disgust, she had two spigots. Both spurting water at the slightest emotional whim.

Lara glanced up at the stars, their shine all flash and sass against the shaded layers of the indigo sky. It seemed pregnancy, or more specifically her whacked-out hormones, had found that mechanism.

With a sigh, she turned toward the north, searching the sky, using the diversion to undermine the chaotic emotions churning within.

She saw the belt first, its stars winking—bright beacons that led her to the sword. Within moments, she’d outlined the whole constellation. Orion.

Jerk.

If only she hadn’t let her guard down, hadn’t allowed herself to find solace in his arms. Humiliation rose to her throat, but anger caused the muscles to constrict. If only…

Damn Ian. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She’d been taking the shots of progesterone for birth control and never had a problem—until now.

She’d been close to her goals. Goals she’d set long ago. Ones that didn’t include children or marriage.

Mercers weren’t meant for relationships, or families. So where did that leave her? “Getting through the next three days,” she promised, determined. Then what?

She concentrated on her surroundings. An ocean of sand stretched between her and the horizon—with nothing between except boulders, scrub bushes… and the occasional tumbleweeds the wind tossed about.

In the distance, a diesel engine rumbled and gravel crunched, shattering the desert’s tranquility. She crouched behind the boulder, peered through her infrared binoculars until she caught the shimmer of movement. Soon a semi appeared, its black cab blending easily in the darkness. The steel of its tractor trailer flashed—a mirror reflecting the moonlight. Lara’s thumb pushed the zoom on her binoculars for a closer look.

Flanking one side was a dark sedan. Automatically, Lara noted the license plate.

When both the big rig and car slowed down to a snails pace, she glanced at her wristwatch.

Half an hour early. How convenient.

Within minutes, the two vehicles stopped, but their headlights remained on, the engines running.

The driver of the diesel immediately jumped out of the cab, his potbelly heaving with the effort. With urgent, bowlegged strides he headed for the nearest bush.

Long trip, Lara mused. She kept the driver in her peripheral vision, heard his grunt of relief, while she scanned the perimeter.

The semi’s headlights glared through the sedan’s back window revealing two men. Almost immediately, the driver of the sedan got out. Dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, the guy resembled a walking bald, brick wall with enough bulked-up muscle to make her wonder if he’d been nursed on steroids.

Once, just once, she’d like to see a hired thug with limbs the size of twigs.

Steroid Boy chose to stay near the car. His eyes expertly took in the immediate area. In one hand, he held a deadly Uzi. Keeping beat to some unknown tune, he tapped the weapon against his thigh.

The other driver had finished his business. He returned to his perch in the big rig’s cab, then lit a cigarette.

Lara sat on the ground, her back against the boulder and considered her next move. Three men. Less than she expected from Novak.

After checking her utility belt, she twisted the silencer onto her Glock and glanced once more over the top of the boulder. Assured no one had moved, she slid her ski mask into place and took a deep breath.

Using the shadows for cover, she maneuvered through the sparse cover of boulders and brush until she reached the back of the semi’s trailer. Easily thirteen feet in length, it could carry millions of dollars worth of illegal arms.

A cough echoed in the night air. Harmless. Still, she waited a scant few seconds before tugging the swing doors’ lever. Locked. Not surprised, she tucked her gun into her waistband, grabbed the hinge and boosted herself onto the bumper.

The top of the trailer was a good four feet above her own five-seven height. She took a deep breath and jumped. Her fingertips snagged the edge of the steel roof and she shimmied up to the top of the trailer.

Flat against the top, Lara’s quick scan told her no one had moved. She tugged a rope free from her belt—a long cable of solid, moldable acid. Quickly, she placed it in a tight circle on the steel roof then reached for a small plastic bottle with the activating solution. She attached a climbing suction cup in the middle and poured the solution over the rope.

Soon acid ate through steel. The smell, only slightly pungent, lost its fierceness in the desert wind.

With a quick tug on the suction cup, Lara broke the steel free.

A chopper sounded in the distance and Lara swore. Hastily, she slid down the side panel of the truck, then hung by her fingers on its edge and waited.

The helicopter landed a hundred feet from the front of the diesel engine. The blades kicked up sand and debris, forcing Lara to turn away.

Using her arms, she pulled herself back to the top, wincing when steel scraped against her belly.

The copter’s blades slowed. Two men jumped to the ground, both in suits, one carrying a briefcase—a large enough case to hold quite a bit of cash—while a younger man with black hair and a beard carried a machine gun. The pilot, she noticed, stayed in the helicopter.

A man, in his midthirties, stepped out from the sedan. With a cigarette hanging from thin lips and sporting short, blond tipped hair—spiked like a David Bowie wannabe—the man waved a casual hand in greeting. Novak.

Shifting for a better view, she slowly drew her miniature binoculars, trying to get a read on the faces, the movement of their lips. Her frown deepened. Nothing.

Suddenly, Novak slapped the buyer on the shoulder and nodded toward the big rig driver.

The trailer door banged, sending a shock wave rippling through the steel beneath her. Lara pulled out her silencer pistol.

She listened, heard the laughter, recognized the underlying tone of satisfaction. Novak and his buyer climbed into the trailer, leaving the two bodyguards outside.

Lara scowled, but didn’t waste time on the slight glitch. She grabbed the gas canister from her utility belt, pulled the release and dropped the cylinder through.

Swiftly, she covered the hole. Shouts of alarm penetrated the trailer walls. The Uzi guys came running, each taking a side. Lara aimed, fired, taking down the buyer’s man with a bullet in the throat. With a cry of pain, he grasped his neck, the blood already gurgling between his gasps of breath. Lara ignored him, knowing the man was already dead.

Steroid Boy was much smarter. He dropped, rolled, then came to his knees and fired.

A rapid spray of bullets hit the air, pinging the steel beneath her. Lara twisted, grabbed the trailer’s opposite edge and dropped. She scrambled under the rig. Exhaust and the scent of gasoline thickened the air beneath. Nausea roped through her belly. Ignoring it, she aimed at the booted feet and squeezed the trigger. An agonized scream tore through the air. The man dropped, both ankles shattered by bullets. One more to the chest took him out of the picture.

The copter pilot fired its machine gun. Bullets kicked up the dirt between the car and trailer, catching the semi’s driver in their path. He jerked once, then fell to his knees. With eyes frozen open, he landed facefirst on the ground.

“Nice aim, idiot,” Lara murmured, then rolled back into the open air and fired. The helicopter’s windshield exploded and on its heels came another agonizing scream of pain.

Lara dropped her clip and shoved in her spare. Using the tires for cover, she waited two slow minutes. Bit by bit she crept around the back, knowing one or more of the men could’ve made it out before the gas rendered them unconscious.

She levered herself up, checked the darkness for signs of movement, then maneuvered around the stacked crates.

Both Novak and his buyer lay slumped on the floor—the briefcase at their feet.

Lara grabbed the case and straightened. Almost instantly, a bullet punched her chest. She flew back, her shoulder slammed against the wall of the rig.

Pain exploded from chest to chin. It knocked her legs out from under her. One of the men tackled her, sending them both out of the trailer and onto the dirt.

Before she could stop him, Novak reared back and whipped off her mask.

“Well, look what we’ve got here.”

“Surprise.” She rammed her knee into his crotch. Novak went down gasping. Lara jumped up, grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Placing the gun just under his jaw.

“Okay, Tony. I don’t have time for any guessing games. So for each correct answer you get to stay healthy. Each wrong answer, you get a bullet in a vital organ. Got me?”

“You realize who I am?” His eyes narrowed, but she noticed he still gasped out the words and took a great deal of pleasure in it.

“Well, after you get done being my bargaining chip, I’ll ask you for an autograph. How’s that?”

“Bargaining chip?”

“Later.” Lara took a quick glance around. “How many of your guys are watching from the sidelines?”

“None,” he denied, his tone artificially friendly. “Armand and I have been doing business for years. This was to be simple. In, out. No surprises.”

“Yeah, and I’m Moses looking for the right desert—”

A gun clicked behind Lara’s ear. “Drop your weapon, Moses. Or lose your head.”

Chapter Four

Armand’s pilot stepped from behind Lara, his shoulder blood soaked from a bullet wound, his pistol prodding the middle of her back.

Slowly, she released Novak and held her hands up, leaving her gun dangling from her fingertips. Novak jerked himself away and stood. He grabbed her gun, prodded her belly with its barrel.

On the second jab, a tiny wisp of fear circled her heart.

“Looks like I’m the one with the dilemma now.”

Before Lara could react, Novak backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling. Stars exploded behind her eyes, scraped the inside of her skull. With a deliberate pause, she spit the grit from her mouth, then sat up. Tasting the bite of metal, she wiped the blood from her lip.

“It’s my turn to ask the questions, Moses.”

“I don’t talk to dead people,” Lara taunted.

Anton Novak’s lips curled into a feral grin. “Oh, I can see this is going to be fun.” He turned to the pilot. “See to your boss. We still have a deal to finish.”

The pilot nodded and headed for the back of the trailer.

Novak crouched, this time his hand gripped Lara’s hair. “Don’t I know you?”

The shadows blurred Novak’s features, so Lara knew her own were no more distinguishable. “I haven’t been slumming lately.”

Swearing, Novak raised his closed fist.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” The order came from behind Novak, its tone clipped and menacing.

Lara’s gaze snapped around in time to see Ian.

“Are you okay?” he asked calmly, but the anger was there, seething under the surface of the man. Hot enough that she could almost feel the sand liquefy beneath her.

“Yes.” Lara jerked to her feet, using the momentum to place a well-aimed elbow to Novak’s gut. His breath whooshed and he dropped to his knees. A wicked smile curved her lips, despite the soreness. “Next time, be a gentleman.” She turned to Ian. “The pilot?”

“Dead.” The word was short, to the point. Ian studied her for a moment, ignoring Novak. “How long will the buyer be out?”

“Half hour, max.” Pain radiated through her ribs from where Novak had shot her. Grimly, Lara rubbed her chest, grateful for her body armor. She’d have a hell of a bruise but not much more.

“How—”

“Later.” Ian patted Novak down, discovering a pen-sized cylinder in his pocket.

“Look what I found.” He tossed the miniature oxygen canister to Lara. “It recycles a person’s carbon monoxide back into oxygen.”

Ian grabbed Novak by the collar. “You knew she was coming?”

“Not me.” Lara answered for Novak, then scanned the perimeter. “But someone.”

A high-pitched whine, faint but distinct cut through the night air.

“Hit the deck!” Ian yelled. The explosion swallowed his warning, spitting it back in a bursting ball of fire and white-hot debris.

Ian dropped Novak midstride and dived into Lara, catching her in a side tackle that sent her flying.

Blast on blast surged over them, raising dirt, shattering the air.

Lara waited for the ground to settle, then shook her head. The after-buzz faded from behind her ears.

“Get off me, hotshot.” Lara wiggled to emphasize her point. “I mean it—” She stopped, felt the slack in his muscles, the deadweight on her back.

“Ian! Oh, God, Ian.” Lara leveraged her shoulder against the ground, then shifted her hips. “Hold on.” Rocks scraped her back, bit into her scalp. But desperation had her ignoring the pain as she worked herself out from beneath him.

Please, don’t let him die. Not because of me. She stripped off his mask. “Come on, hotshot! Talk to me,” she yelled. She pushed at his shoulder and hip until he rolled over. “Come on.” She placed her ear to his heart, heard the steady rhythm beneath her cheek. Relieved, she glanced at his face, tapped it with gentle fingers. “Wake up!”

“I’m up, sweetheart,” he murmured. “So you can stop shouting at me. I’m stunned, not deaf.” Ian groaned, then rubbed the back of his head. “Must’ve caught some flying debris.” Slowly, he sat up, looked around. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”

Novak. An engine revved and Lara swore. The sedan, with Novak behind the wheel, sped off, gravel and dirt clouding the headlight beams.

As she turned back to Ian, she caught sight of the briefcase lying ten feet away.

Lara didn’t waste time on arguing. She grabbed the case, then boosted Ian up using her frame to support his and staggered to where darkness rimmed the site.

“Well,” Lara commented, as she stared at the burning inferno. “This sucks.”

“Who the hell fired that rocket?” Ian asked while he surveyed the fire. With the right coordinates, the launcher could be a mile away.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. Neither man would risk blowing up the rig. Not with one boss inside and the other owning the merchandise inside.” Lara shrugged herself out of his embrace and showed Ian the briefcase. “Maybe the answer is in here.”

“It wasn’t worth your life.” Ian half sat, half leaned against a small boulder. Lara curbed the urge to get close again. To feel the reassurance of his body next to hers.

“If you do something like this again, you’ll answer to me.”

“Is that a threat? Because if it is, you’ll have to do better to scare me.” Lara surveyed the area. Only the driver’s body hadn’t been destroyed by the fire. Lara walked over to him and went through his pockets. After a moment, she came up empty.

Ian sighed and shrugged off his gear. “I don’t think anything scares you. That’s most of your problem.” He snagged the infrared binoculars and scanned the perimeter to make sure their company had given up on them. “Our friend is long gone.”

“He’s not our anything.” Lara turned, grabbed the briefcase and stalked away. “He’s my problem.”

“Don’t you even want to know why I’m here?”

“Nope. I’m angry enough that you are,” she snapped, not breaking her stride. “Any time you try to help me with my problems, I end up with worse problems.” Like an unwanted pregnancy. “So do me a favor and just go away, before I kill you.”

“Frankly, Red, I’d thought you’d be more appreciative,” he said, not bothering to follow.

“Why? Because the infamous Orion—” Lara sneered Ian’s code name “—let my one lead go?” She looked over her shoulder. The flames from the fire cast him in an eerie light, making his features all angles, sharp and hollow. “Drop dead.” She turned back and continued walking.

“I let him go to save you.”

“Thank you.” Lara waved a careless hand in the air. “Don’t do me any more favors.” She glanced at the stars. Thought briefly about wishing on one for the first time in her life. Then automatically discarded the idea as nonsense. “Could my day get any worse?”

“If you’re heading for your SUV, you’re wasting time.”

Slowly, she swung back. “Why?”

“It has four flat tires.”

“Four flat—” Definitely worse.

“Good thing for you, I just happen to have a Hummer sitting about a quarter mile away. Interested?” he invited with a lazy arrogance.

“Of all the dirty—” She bit off the words, and for a moment stared into the darkness, forcing herself to draw in three long, deep breaths. Only after—when she’d calmed down a bit—did she answer. “Do I have a choice?”

“No, you don’t.”

Her nerve ends crackled while her mind ran through the complications Ian brought with his appearance. With reluctance, she started back toward him. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I followed you from the church. Then after, when you hightailed it out here.” He paused, considering. “And with no Katts Smeart, or am I mistaken?”

The fact that she hadn’t made his tail irked her more than the flat tires. If she hadn’t been distracted with the baby—his baby… “You’re not. There was a hiccup in the plan.”

“Some hiccup. The desert is a long way from Norfolk and headquarters, Red.”

He’d said headquarters. A muscle twitched in her jaw. “Cain told you about my operation?”

“That’s not all he told me.” The bonfire lit the area, giving Lara clear sight of Ian’s gaze, pausing deliberately on her stomach.

“Cain has a big mouth.” And she’d deal with it later, she vowed. “It’s not your baby.”

“Liar.”

Realizing her hand lay protectively over her belly, she jerked it away, balled it into a fist. “Damn it, Ian. This is exactly why I didn’t want you to know yet.”

“Then you were going to tell me.” Sarcasm saturated the air between them.

His attitude, his problem. She had her own to deal with. “Yes. But only after I had a chance to absorb it and figure out what I’m going to do.”

“You sound like you have a choice.” Two quick, masculine strides ate the distance between them. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip flexing with indecision on whether to shake her or not. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Lara snapped back. “Adoption maybe. Considering our lifestyles.”

“Let me tell you something,” he snarled. “I don’t like this pregnancy any better than you do. But never once did I consider walking away.” He brought her closer until only millimeters separated them. “And by God, neither will you.”

“What I do is my decision. I’ve had a little over twenty-four hours to deal with this. And it’s not like this baby was conceived in love.” She paused, absorbing the ache that slipped through her. “It was in anger, Ian.”

“Your anger, not mine.”

“Either way, this baby should’ve never happened.” Fear filled her—not the natural adrenaline rush that came with risk, but the instinct for survival. It was sheer terror that rose from her toes, poured out her skin in a cold, clammy sweat.