The Spy Wore Red

Polax climbed out of his chair and puffed out his chest. “As I said before, my job is to match the mission with the best possible agent. For this one you need an all-around sexy ball-buster who chews ice cubes in place of gum, and that would be Lenova. Quest is still working on earning its stripes in the spy world. This agency can only survive if money changes hands. For that to happen, my femmes need to shine on every mission. With Pasha Lenova at your side in Austria, a win is inevitable for both of us.”

“What you’re forgetting is, it’s not your choice,” Bjorn reminded. “It’s my call.”

He glanced back at the monitor. The elevator had stopped and Q’s skirt was no longer hiked clean to her amazing ass. He watched the doors open, watched her greet the two men waiting for her. She handed her red cape to the shorter man. Then, like a resilient cat who had just landed on her feet, she started down the corridor. Her briefcase in one hand, and her jacket draped over the other so that the missing button and the wrinkle across her thigh were hidden from view.

The only evidence that something was amiss was one lone silk stocking left on the elevator floor.

Chapter 2

Bjorn was left alone in the office with his choice of water or gin to keep him company while Merrick followed Polax out into the hall to take a walk. When the door closed, he reached for the gin, ignoring the early hour.

He hitched his ass back on the desk, sipped the gin and spent the next twenty minutes cooling his heels, watching and waiting, and keeping his ears on what was being said inside the sterile boardroom between the curvy femmes.

He was conscious of his eyes going back to Nadja more often than the others. That was understandable—he liked natural blondes with long legs and cleavage.

Quest’s bedroom assassin had the winning three. There was no reason to argue that point, nor would he. Q’s body type, her voice and the way she moved had already been logged into his subconscious.

A profiler’s best friend was his database memory, and he had one. Onyxx had, however, refined his talent. They had polished his telephoto memory and added instant-recall capabilities.

Like Q, he was at the top of his game, although he was willing to bet she was enjoying her work far more than he was his.

It was a god-given gift, Merrick had told him—Bjorn’s so-called database genius. But there were times when it didn’t feel that way. With his talent came the price of remembering everything—good or bad—and never forgetting any of it. Not his youth, his first mission, every man he’d killed, or every woman he’d slept with. It was all there, every bit of it crystal clear.

As clear as the past five minutes.

His greatest challenge at Onyxx had been keeping all the data organized so he could remain focused. And right now he needed to do just that. He didn’t want any old memories messing up this assignment, or his goal. And that goal was to put a bullet through Holic Reznik’s black heart—after he recovered the kill-file, of course.

So the question was, which femme did he choose to assist him? Based on the facts, the task should be simple.

Polax was right, an endurance mission required an endurance player. But not when they were going after a man with a fetish for beautiful women. And it was a known fact that Holic was partial to cleavage and tangle-me-up-in-a-knot long legs.

When Merrick and Polax returned, it was Bjorn who took a walk with Merrick. They rode the elevator up to the main level, and as they stepped out and headed for the art gallery, Merrick said, “You want the bedroom beauty, yes?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The look on your face when she stepped into the elevator.”

“I like blondes.”

“Casmir Balasi is a blonde.”

“Then I should have said I like blondes and cleavage,” Bjorn amended. “Balasi is too petite for my taste.”

“I got the feeling there was more to it than that. For a moment I thought you recognized Stefn.”

“Every man recognizes the woman in his dreams. She’s got looks, a helluva body and a mind.”

“And she’s good in bed,” Merrick added. “So what’s the problem? If Polax’s candy queen appeals to you, then pick her. The nights in Austria are going to be damn chilly and I know how you hate cold weather.”

Bjorn glanced at his boss. “Advocating I use a Quest agent as a bed warmer, Merrick?”

“If that’s the only way you can keep an eye on her every move, yes. The goal is to get our hands on Holic’s kill-file. Whatever you have to do to achieve that goal is acceptable.”

“What’s Quest’s interest in Reznik?”

“The same as ours. They’re worried that some of their agents have been sanctioned. That’s why it’s so damn urgent that we get that file. Who knows who’s all on it?”

“If this is so urgent, my first thought is we’re two days off the pace. We know Holic flew to Austria, so stopping off in Prague to pick up—”

“—your partner—”

“—only puts me further behind.”

“I know that, but the Agency—”

“Is kissing Quest’s ass for some reason,” Bjorn said. “I sure would like to know why that is.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. They just feel this will be advantageous for a future mission.”

The “they” Merrick was referring to were the top brass in the upstairs office at Onyxx. The big boys who made the final decisions—right or wrong, smart or stupid.

“These spy games are never black and white, Bjorn. The Agency is still upset that the Chameleon’s death hasn’t slowed down the anarchy, and they’re feeling pressured to turn things around quickly.”

“Will we ever get rid of the Chameleon?” Bjorn mused out loud. “He’s dead, and yet he lives.”

“It’s certainly the truth. We have the son of a bitch’s corpse under lock and key in the Agency morgue and still we don’t know shit about who he is…was.”

“No confirmation yet?”

“No. And I’m told it’s going to be a while. We know the body underwent multiple plastic surgeries. His goal was to clone Paavo Creon. Our experts have even timelined those surgeries. But some things still don’t add up. We just have to be patient.”

Bjorn glanced at Merrick, noting the conviction in his commander’s voice. If anyone deserved peace of mind where the Chameleon was concerned, it was Adolf Merrick. The Chameleon had killed Merrick’s wife years ago. He’d strapped C-4 to her curvy body and sent her to hell while Merrick had watched it unfold on the computer screen in his office.

Bjorn suspected his commander still blamed himself for his wife’s death, and it was that blame that continued to drive him where the Chameleon was concerned. Even though his longtime enemy had been killed weeks ago, he wanted the man’s entire international operation wiped out.

“Then you believe everything Eva Creon said?” Bjorn asked.

“Yes, I do. She said the Chameleon admitted to her that he had purposely stolen her father’s face. He admitted to cloning Paavo Creon’s likeness surgically, and slipping into his life for the sole purpose of revenge.”

“A lot of trouble to go through for a little revenge.”

“My question is, who is he and why? There are days when I think he’s laughing at me from the grave,” Merrick admitted. “It’s not over yet. Hell, maybe it’ll never be over.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Something Sly McEwen said before he took off to go fishing.” Merrick stopped and looked at Bjorn. “McEwen said I shouldn’t put off my surgery. I should have the operation because I was going to need to be a hundred percent soon. I think he was hinting that when we get the identity on that body, all hell is going to break loose.”

“You think he knows who it is?”