The Perfect Target

A hard sound broke from Javier’s throat. “I thought you might feel that way.”

“Get word to Omega,” Sandro said, thinking quickly. With international security on the line, arrangements needed to be made carefully. Discreetly. He could afford neither the risk to his cover nor the time of making plans himself. Calls could be traced, tapped, overheard. Any of those would be akin to signing his death warrant. There were appropriate channels and protocols, well-rehearsed methods designed to minimize risk.

Sandro’s job was to keep straddling that line. If the general caught so much as a whiff that Sandro was working to turn his prize over to the United States government, he was a dead man. This time for real.

And the carefully engineered plan to avenge eight operatives and bring the general to justice would be set back immeasurably.

“Tell Omega what’s going on,” he instructed. “Have him notify Ambassador Carrington.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“And I’ll await your call.”

Javier muttered something under his breath. “I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

Sandro frowned. “So do I.”

Javier Fernandez thumbed off his phone and threw a wad of cash on the small round table, quickly exiting the Stockholm café where he’d been grabbing a late lunch before Sandro’s call. He had to get back to his hotel room, make those calls and figure out how the hell he was going to extract his comrade from a potentially explosive debacle. And he had to do it fast.

“What’s the hurry, Fernandez?”

Javier glanced over his shoulder, realizing his mistake too late. Three men circled him. Three guns were trained on various parts of his body.

“I don’t think you’ll be taking care of anything, after all,” one of them said in broken English. “The girl is ours.”

“It’s me. Open up.”

Shuffling came from the other side of the door. “Sandro?”

“Expecting someone else?”

“How do I know you’re alone?”

He heard something in her voice, a fear and uncertainty that hadn’t been there before. Obviously, the time alone had allowed her imagination to kick into high gear.

“Sweetheart, I appreciate your caution, but you need to know something about me. I’m a trained professional. I’d die before I’d let someone follow me back here. Now open up.”

Nothing. Sandro put his hand to the door, wondering if he’d made a serious mistake by trusting her. But he’d had no choice. Giving trust was the best way to receive it in return.

More than anything, he needed her trust.

He waited, silently, patiently, until the lock clicked and the door opened. The ambassador’s gypsy daughter stood there, blond hair smoothed behind her ears, those fascinating green eyes darker than before, her expression somewhere between relief and alarm.

The sight damn near knocked the breath from his lungs.

Ignoring the reaction, trying to ignore her, Sandro strode into the small room and secured the door behind him. That morning, when he’d awakened in the old sleeping bag, the cramped quarters had seemed stale and dank, but after only a few hours of Miranda Carrington’s presence, everything seemed brighter, fresher, more welcoming. Like sunshine.