Deep Rising (An Outside the Lines Novel) (Entangled Select) (6 page)

“This remains our top priority,” General Greene assured him.

“Contact me if there’s anything else you need.”

Gordon returned the phone to its base.

A knock sounded at his door, and Christopher Parkins entered the room.

“I ran the guy Caldwell specified,” Christopher said.

Gordon extended his hand indicating that Christopher should sit. “A file will come through to your account from General Greene. Navy intelligence can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Christopher assured him.

“Good. Now, what can you contribute?”

Christopher added another file to the growing mound atop Gordon’s desk. “Sergei Aleksandr. Birth certificates aren’t uploaded. Orskya is listed as the father, but only according to the archives from a Russian Orthodox church in Nerekhta. Sergei didn’t take his father’s name.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” Christopher said, tugging at the lapels of his tailored suit.

Watching his movements, Gordon barely refrained from smirking. Christopher was smack-dab in the midst of a midlife crisis, replete with steroid use, used sports car, and expensive tailored clothes. It posed a far stretch from what a divorced man on a government salary could afford. He made a mental note to file a formal inquiry with the inspector general.

“It began in 1988,” Christopher revealed, “when Mother Russia withdrew from Afghanistan. Sergei and his then-wife, dancer Masia Lunkoya, lived and worked in Chelyabinsk. She was three months’ pregnant when it all went to hell.”

“Why?”

“US-supported insurgents bombed their neighborhood. IEPs blasted six city blocks. Sergei’s mother and wife were home. They found Masia’s foot halfway down the street.”

“Well, there’s a motive,” Gordon mumbled.

“It gets better. Sergei moved around after that. For the last twenty years, he’s been all over Europe. He holds a degree in history and one in theology.” Christopher sat back, shaking his head. “Those Old Testament personalities are dangerous.”

“I take it you’re referring to
lex talionis
.” At Christopher’s quizzical expression, Gordon explained, “An eye for an eye.”

“It coincides with our current profile.”

Gordon shook his head. “I’m more concerned with New Testament. Namely Revelations. A lot of people believe the world will end in fire and water. Catalyzing ocean-wide tsunamis would be a leg up on the Apocalypse.”

Christopher’s eyes widened and he tugged at his designer tie. “Shit.”

“That hit the fan weeks ago.”

Chapter Seven

September 9 - 8:46 am

Over the Pacific Ocean

Lana awakened.

Two upholstered recliners lined the narrow cabin of the plane. She vaguely recalled having selected the seat beside the window. She was on a flight to Hawaii and a far cry from her cabin. A far cry from the relative peace that had been her life until a CIA agent broke into her home.

From the sunlight streaming into the plane windows, she assumed they were approaching the end of the six-hour flight.

She took a moment to steady herself. She tightened her hands against the seat belt as the plane lurched to the right. Turbulence.

The bumps and jostling of the plane were the proverbial “pinch.” No, she wasn’t dreaming. This nightmare of events was all too real. She glanced around for Agent Hawthorne. He wasn’t in the main cabin of the plane. His absence created equal feelings of unease and relief, which wasn’t surprising since the man’s attitude toward her seemed to vacillate just as dramatically. In one instant, it seemed as if he would protect her, then in the next he would threaten her. The man was too…much. Too strong, too intelligent, too calculating.

Too attractive
…

She’d do better to overlook that. And the chemistry. And the spark of awareness she felt every time they were within ten feet of each other.

You’re stressed, off-kilter
.

Yes, that was the only explanation for her misplaced attraction to a man who was essentially her judge, jury, and executioner.

He’s here to help
…

Right. Problem was, he didn’t quite see her as an ally. No matter how much she proclaimed her innocence.

The plane lurched again, jarring her from her thoughts. The taupe carpet lining the floor was plush and padded. A wet bar ran along one side of the fuselage. Beside it, a beige leather couch spanned the length of the cabin. The bathroom opened to a bedroom, equipped with a king-size, sinfully upholstered, black satin bed.

So now she knew how the government spent her hard-earned tax dollars—on luxury jets for high-ranking covert government officials. And—thankfully—the high-ranking covert government official of her infatuation was nowhere in sight.

Shaking her head, she unfastened her seat belt and concentrated on the problems plaguing her here and now, in a world where revenge drove men to madness, and millions of innocent people might die because of the hypotheses that had tumbled from her head and onto paper. God, why hadn’t she studied dolphins or daffodils instead?

“Sergei,” she whispered, “what have you done?” She wrapped her arms around her waist and rocked back and forth. “What have
I
done?”

She’d never been especially close to Sergei, even though she had spent the summer with him when she was nine. Her half brother had spoiled her with gifts as a child, but the gap between their ages had prevented any sustainable friendships from developing. Something about her brother reminded her of Agent Hawthorne. She recalled the way Sergei moved, the slow concise movements that hinted at laxity, the calculating, sweeping gazes that saw everything and revealed nothing. The men shared these traits, but had she never laid eyes on Agent Hawthorne she would not have distinguished these characteristics in Sergei.

It had been years since she’d seen him, but during their last visit, when the family had met in Moscow, she’d noticed the changes in him. Her brother had no longer been the laughing, carefree man she remembered. The aloof posture, his inability to withstand being in a crowded room, the difficulty he experienced in conversing with his family. She’d failed to comprehend the reasons for his complete alteration in temperament, but she understood now. Would she be able to help him? To reach him? To somehow make him see that life and love and laughter existed in the world, if he could summon the courage to seek these gifts? Was it fair of her to try to? She sympathized with her brother’s pain. It must’ve been devastating to lose his wife and mother and unborn child, but his actions bespoke insanity.

Several newspaper articles were strewn across the low service table. Each featured the attack on Ischia and the tsunami that had razed the beautiful Isle of Capri. Photographs showed an American pop star who had disappeared in the aftermath. As one article revealed, the young diva had been recording her next album while vacationing on the coast.

“People reacted crazily, screaming and running, fighting to reach the stairs leading up the coast to the cliffs. A seventy-foot wave struck,” one eyewitness said. “It decimated everything.”

Experts estimated the death toll would surpass twenty-five hundred before they achieved an accurate account of the missing persons. One news reporter compared the dead bodies to “bloated buoys.”

Lana perused the French and Italian newspapers. She couldn’t understand the majority of the words, but the pictures sufficed. They tore at her conscience, ripping at her tenuous hold on sanity. Guilt jabbed at her. She could feel its presence, taunting, mocking. The word “responsible” swirled in her mind.

Researchers had been studying areas prone to earthquakes and landslides for decades. Volcanoes were constantly monitored by the USGS, the NOAA, and a dozen other international organizations. Within the scientific community, her peers were all too aware of how precariously mankind clung to the surface of this ever-changing planet. She could rattle off three dozen cities that were built atop active volcano calderas, for heaven’s sake. But no, she had had to take it a step further. To focus on the most unstable and most lethal locales, to map out the stratovolcanoes where—with human help—a major tsunami could be triggered. She’d intended her work to prevent the type of scenario that her brother had supposedly orchestrated in Italy, when apparently, she’d handed him the blueprints for how to scale an attack.

This was her fault
.

The knowledge slammed into her. Rushing into the lavatory, she dropped to her knees. Her mouth watered and stomach heaved.

Strong arms banded her waist. A calloused hand brushed across her neck to her nape, holding back her hair. A moment later, she was lifted.

“I feel sick,” she protested.

“There isn’t anything in your stomach.” Jared dragged her upright, and she shoved at his arms. “Stay still for a second,” he argued. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She started shaking. Her entire body trembled so hard she could barely stand.

He pressed her head against his chest, his strength and warmth seeping into her.

“Let me go,” she demanded, but he didn’t budge.

“It’s the adrenaline,” he whispered. “The shock. Take it easy. I’m just gonna hold you ’til it passes.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not yet.” He tightened his arms. “But you will be. Just breathe. It will pass.”

“I d-don’t need you to hug me.”

“I’m not hugging you. I’m holding you. There’s a distinct difference.”

Lana didn’t think she could handle the distinction. He cradled her against the hard planes of his chest while one hand toyed with her hair. A crazy impulse made her want to twine her arms around his neck and pour herself into his embrace. To see if that little patch of skin where his neck met his shoulder smelled as intoxicating as she imagined. It had been so long since someone had comforted her, and never a man as handsome or powerful as him. But starved as she was for human contact, he was a far cry from a man to hold or trust.

God, she was pathetic. Desperate, really, to fantasize about a person who had been sent to interrogate her.

She strove to focus on anything other than the pervasive warmth of this man’s body, the coiled strength of the muscles holding her so tenderly. Good looks and consideration aside, he’d been sent to question her, to trail her, and if he deemed her guilty, he’d all but admitted he would torture her.

Breathe. Just breathe.

“You’d make a terrible adrenaline junkie,” he mumbled.

His offhand comment brought to mind her recent accident in Guatemala. Adrenaline had kicked her ass then too. Here was a neutral topic, a safe topic. She’d heard the term adrenaline junkie before, but with a reaction this violent, why would anyone want to chase that neurotransmitter? “Does epinephrine do this to everyone?”

“No. It would take a charging bull elephant to make my blood pressure spike.” He smoothed his hand over her head. “I was conditioned, Lana. What the training didn’t beat out of me, the fieldwork did. We can’t afford to make mistakes. When we screw up, people die.”

The adrenaline jag gradually abated. Lana found she could breathe deeper, and ironically, she felt completely soporific, almost light-headed. Under different circumstances, she would’ve basked in this man’s strength, in his scent. Under different circumstances, she wouldn’t feel this way in the first place. And her fear, these latent stirrings of panic and despair, came from
him
, and his previous rough treatment of her.

She pushed against his chest. “You need to let me go.”

“I don’t mind holding you.”

“I do.”

His fingers slowly skimmed along her arms until he reached her hands. “What happened?” He crooned, noticing the scabs on her palms. With a gossamer touch, he traced the rope burns.

“I, uh,” she swallowed over the lump in her throat. “It happened in Guatemala. There was a mishap with my rigging.”

“You’ve been through a lot lately.” His voice softened. His touch changed.

An all-too-familiar heat pooled in her body. She didn’t hesitate to squelch it. “Instead of shivering like me, what do you do? Sleep with whichever willing female you can find?”

“I’ve had my share of one-night stands,” he admitted. “But I was a lot younger and dumber back then.” He smirked as though amused by her mercurial moods. “If you feel the need to relieve some stress, I can oblige…”

He lingered close enough for her to distinguish the individual shards of color in his irises. His eyes were hazel, with streaks of green and gold and chestnut combining to form the autumn hue. She followed his eyes. As they lowered, so did her gaze. She studied his high cheeks, his broad chin. His lips appeared surprisingly full.

No, no, no.

She wouldn’t cave to him or to her own weakness.

This man was well aware of his charms, and he’d pulled out all the stops with her. The fact that he could try to make a move when she was vulnerable pissed her off. “I’m having a moment,” she muttered, “but that doesn’t make me easy. If your next tactic is seduction, you’re way off base. I’m not about to act the Medea just because you hugged me. And I’m certainly not thinking about sex while I’m under suspicion of terrorism.”

“I held you because you were shaking, and contrary to what you think, I don’t like to see people suffer. I’d hoped a little lighthearted banter would put you at ease. But you’re right. I shouldn’t show you any compassion or humor. We have a terrorist to trap. He happens to be your brother. You’re likely an accomplice—”

“I’m not,” she insisted, but he talked right over her.

“—and you say ‘act the Medea’ like you have someone to betray.” His features hardened. “Protecting your brother, Lana?”

“There’s nothing to protect. I wouldn’t do this! I’d never hurt innocent people. There must be a mistake.”

“One way or another, we’ll find out.” His gaze raked her from head to heel. “As for the rest, don’t stand there and act like it’s all one-sided.”

She couldn’t argue. For a moment, she’d responded. Maybe the reaction stemmed from some jacked-up Stockholm syndrome reaction, or from her vulnerability and her need to connect with someone—
anyone
—no matter the consequences, but whatever the origin, she needed to quash the impulse. ASAP.

“Are you seeking to distract me?” he asked in a low, rumbling drawl. “A guilty woman in your position might utilize her feminine wiles…”

Feminine wiles? Like she had any. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m innocent.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Make no mistake, with or without intimacy I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“You would—”

He nodded, silently confirming his capability of killing if merited, so much as admitting he’d done so before. She could’ve done without the confirmation.

“For most people,” he continued, “there’s no justifiable reason to take another’s life. Once upon a time, I thought along those same lines.”

He didn’t appear inclined to elaborate so Lana asked, “What happened to change your beliefs?”

“People. I was exposed to monsters who would hurt children or slaughter an entire village in the name of freedom. Men and women who killed and tortured and wrought havoc on mankind simply because they could.” He shrugged. “The world is a better place without them in it.”

Lana would have agreed under certain circumstances, but she didn’t consider herself worthy—in any situation—of determining who deserved to live or die.

She had only known this man for a matter of hours, and aside from occasional glimpses of kindness, he had been rude, caustic, overbearing, and violent. Jared, whatever-his-real-last-name, remained a professional operative of the CIA. He delved into terrorism and violence. Accustomed to getting what he wanted no matter the cost, he fell far short of a compassionate shoulder to cry on. She was just a means to an end.

And the end was nowhere in sight.

He crossed his arms. “Before this conversation gets out of control, let me say I don’t want to fight with you. I want to believe you. I’m the good guy, and if you’re as innocent as you claim, then you and I are on the same team.”

His small concession sucked the hostility right out of her. “I know.”

“We’re under an exceptional amount of stress. It can…complicate things.”

She imagined how a different operative might treat her. Once the term “terrorist” surfaced, sympathy typically fell by the wayside. He could’ve been much crueler, far less understanding. Considering the evidence, he didn’t need to show her any gentleness at all.

“What set you off?”

“The pictures.” She inclined her head to the newspapers scattered along the table in the main cabin. “So many casualties. I know the devastation a tsunami or earthquake can cause. The aftermath is unimaginable. Months pass and there’s no reprieve. Famine and disease set in. The ones who survive are never the same.