Warrior Without Rules

It was always good to see Jack. They’d been best mates since his early days in British Intelligence. Jack was a straight shooter in their knife-in-the-back, cloak and dagger world. He’d secretly cheered when he heard of his friend’s retirement. Not many of them actually got the chance to walk away from what they did, from what they were. Jack had a marvelous little wife back in the Midwest, a toughly independent lawyer he’d met while protecting her life, and together they were reforging a future that, frankly, Zach envied. Together, they’d started their own business, an elite bodyguard training center called Personal Protection Professionals. Jack had presented a card to him with a flourish and an open invitation. Any time he wanted to pick up some freelance work. Zach had the card tacked up on his board and smiled whenever he looked at it. Good for you, Jacky Boy.

As good as it was to see Jack Chaney, he didn’t think for a moment that it was a social call. Jack wouldn’t have come across an ocean just to say he’d been in the neighborhood and thought he’d drop by. And after the brutal toll his last mission had taken, he wasn’t sure he was up for whatever Jack had in mind.

He carried the cups into the living room, knowing he’d soon find out.

“Coffee. Black and simple.”

“There’s nothing simple about anything you do, Russ.”

Taking that as a compliment, he settled into one of the lavishly padded chairs he preferred over the strictly Old World continental theme he retained for the rest of his rooms. This was where he came to relax, where he came to sink down deep and rest for a long, healing while. But Jack was here this time to disturb that process.

“What happened to your hand?”

“Occupational hazard. Perhaps I could impose on you to do some needlework for me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’d do it meself but I’m vain about having the seams even. It’s a bugger to do left handed.”

Jack nodded. “Whose blood were you wearing when you came in?”

“No one you know or would want to know.”

“You look like twenty miles of extremely bad road.”

“Forty, and I feel every kilometer.”

“Ready to retire and start that restaurant?”

“Giving it serious thought.” He grimaced, shifting his cup to his uninjured hand. “So, to what do I owe this visit?”

Bless him, Chaney was always one to cut to the chase.

“Victor Castillo.”

Zach straightened, all vestiges of weariness erased by that bit of the past he preferred not to dwell upon. Victor Castillo was his one professional blemish.

Castillo. A man one didn’t mess with. A harsh, uncompromising figure in the global marketplace. Born in a small, poverty-ridden Mexican village, he’d parlayed street smarts into a personal dynasty worth millions in the States where they tended to ignore the gray areas of his business dealings. He’d repaid the debt by passing sensitive information to whatever agency would benefit…and would pay the most. He had no allegiance, no conscience, no scruples. And he’d collected a rogue’s gallery of enemies who wanted revenge in the nastiest ways possible.

“And how is Victor?” He worked to keep his voice neutral but Jack saw right through him. His expression was half empathy, half regret.

“He sent me to call in a favor.”

Instead of slumbering in his own bed, Zach spent the early-morning hours napping on an international flight. It was first class but it wasn’t Egyptian cotton.

Chicago O’Hare was the expected press of humanity. Weary travelers shuffled from one terminal to the next, jumping out of the way for the beeping transport carts and nervously listening to warnings not to leave bags unattended. To Zach, it could have been any international airport in any city in any country. He’d spent so much time in the majority of them, he felt he’d earned a VIP spot at the baggage carousel.

As he stood scowling at the new scuff in the leather of his always packed bag, a hand reached down to take the handle.

“I’ll get that for you, Mr. Russell.”

He straightened, allowing the young Hispanic man to hoist his suitcase and garment bag.

“My name is Tomas. If you’ll follow me, sir, transportation is waiting.”

If the young man hadn’t turned away so quickly, Zach would have been warned by his small smile.

The Chicago chill cut to the bone as he stepped outside the terminal. But there was no cushy limo waiting in the passenger pick up area to carry him in style to the Castillo estate on Lake Shore Drive.

A late-model sedan sat parked on the far side of the multiple traffic lanes. The trunk lifted expectantly in answer to Tomas’s signal. As his driver started across the road ahead of him, the deep throated roar of a high-performance engine distracted Zach. He dodged back for the safety of the sidewalk as a motorcycle cut between him and Tomas. The young man never looked back, flinging the luggage into the trunk before starting around toward the driver’s door. Only then did he grin, a brief flash of brilliant amusement, before ducking into the vehicle.

The rev of the bike’s motor drew Zach’s attention from his rapidly disappearing wardrobe. He hadn’t even gotten the plate number. Swallowing down the indignity of falling such easy prey to an airport scam, he glared at the leather-clad rider who stood balancing the big growling machine between the spraddle of long, long legs.

Unforgettably gorgeous long legs skinned in black, tapering down to silver-tipped boots with three-inch heels.

The dark full-face visor was pushed up. Bold blue eyes regarded him with a challenging fierceness.

Ten years ago she’d been a vivaciously pretty seventeen-year-old and already modeling for her mother’s athletic wear company. Now Antonia Castillo was heart-stopping. The recent picture in the dossier he’d studied on the plane was from the latest running shoe campaign, depicting Antonia crouching low as she exploded from starting blocks on a cinder track. Her body was an inspiration to would-be wearers of the shoes, long, lean, strong and bronze. The skimpy swatches of silk she wore left sleek legs bare and clung to her stupendous breasts. The photographer caught the essence of competition in her intensely focused expression. Thick dark hair was twisted back in a heavy braid revealing the bold angles of her face glorified in a sheen of healthy sweat. Those startling blue eyes against a deep skin tone gleamed with the spirit of personal challenge. Full, lusty lips peeled back from white teeth bared in a high-energy smile. Hell, it made him want to buy shoes.

And then he’d remembered how she’d looked the last time he’d seen her. Stripped of power, bereft of pride.

That was the face that haunted his nights.

Promise me. Promise me you won’t say anything.

There was no trace of that vulnerable girl in the assessing gaze that swept over him now.

“You’re looking well, Russell.”

“A sight for sore eyes?”

Those dazzling eyes narrowed. Her tone chilled. “Once, perhaps.”

Still, that greedy detailing had already told him.

Things were going to get complicated.

“Your father sent you alone to pick me up?”

The chin guard on the helmet hoisted an arrogant notch. “I pick up whom I please these days.”

“To the delight of the tabloids, I might add.”

“You’ve been keeping track of me.” It was hard to tell by her voice if that notion annoyed or flattered her.

“You’re hard to miss. Safaris, mountain climbing, sky diving, bunji jumping, a true media darling. A poster child for daredevils.”

And she made fine posters. He didn’t have a lot of time to keep up with current events, let alone the social swirl, but Antonia Castillo was news. She wasn’t found on the society pages at glittering events but rather in the pits at a race track, hanging with bikers or fight promoters, tossing back brews with the boys. One would never guess there were shadows hidden behind that brilliant smile. A courageous woman or one with something desperate to prove? It didn’t matter. Both were dangerous and made him nervous because of their unpredictability.