Limbo Man (3 page)

He didn’t just cooperate with physical therapy. He attacked it. If they didn’t want to let him out, he’d fight his way out.

He read the newspaper every day, kept track of the time. Waiting, gaining strength. Ten days. Eleven. Twelve. Thirty-six whole hours since the last suit departed for whatever bat cave spawned him. The guard was still there, but he was nothing more than a local flatfoot. Another day or two and Nick could take him with ease. He’d been careful not to let the therapists, mental as well as physical, see how much stronger he was. The time was close. He was even thinking in English now. Completely assimilated, he’d have no trouble fitting in.

With no clothes, no money, no transportation, no ID . . . no gun.

Too bad. He was blowing this place, no matter what. And soon.

His favorite nurse, the youngest, prettiest one, poked her head through the door. “You have a visitor, Nick.” She flashed a big smile, gave him a wink. “Things are looking up.”

He almost laughed out loud when he saw his visitor. Man-trap. Sex on the hoof. The bastards had fired their whole arsenal, and now they’d come up with a whole new ballgame. Might as well lie back and enjoy it.

She was Hollywood gorgeous, but he suspected the polished veneer hid a core of steel. The suits wouldn’t let anyone short of a modern-day Mata Hari anywhere near him. As it was, her outfit stopped just short of hooker. Short black leather skirt over knee-high black boots, a silky blue knit top that revealed far more than it concealed. Golden blonde hair tumbled in perfect waves over her shoulders, skimming the tops of her breasts. Sky blue eyes examined him from an oval face that reminded him of a nineteenth century porcelain doll. Nick hid a surge of satisfaction. He’d just discovered another part of his anatomy was making a fast recovery.

She smiled. The challenge of the chess match, the thrill of a good game of cat and mouse, filled him. The bitch was dangerous, but he wasn’t fooled. Here was a challenge worthy of his skills.

What skills?
But she was holding out her hand, saying something . . .

“
Zdrastvityeh
, Nicolai
,” she said in Russian
.
“
I am Valentina Frost. Everyone calls me Vee.” They’d warned her, but it hadn’t been enough. She’d
stood there,
speechless
,
for a full
thirty seconds
, trying to find a human being beneath scars, bruises, and swollen flesh that made him look more like a gargoyle guarding a medieval cathedral than a twenty-first century man. Hard not to recoil. Hard not to feel sympathy.

Hard to remember he was a top gangster. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? She had to get close to him, so the sudden stab of empathy was good. Wasn’t it?

“Didn’t anyone tell you I speak English now?”

“They did, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to let you know I speak Russian. My grandmother was anxious to keep Mother Russia alive.

“Shrink, cop, or social worker?”

Fascinating. Even as his eyes drank her in, he sounded only mildly interested, like this was just another ho-hum visit from an endless parade of strangers. “Cop,” Vee admitted.

“Ah . . . the good cop. Too
k ’em long enough to find one.”

“Sorry. Evidently good cops are few and far between in Homeland Security.”

“Good-looking female cops who speak Russian and carry a gun.”

“Got it in one. They had to go all the way to the Sarasota office of the FBI.” Vee took her wallet badge out of her small, stylish shoulder bag and showed it to him.

Nick gave her the once over, not so lightly. His green eyes gleamed. “So where do you put a nine mil in a purse that size? It damn well isn’t on you.”

Vee gave him a slow, sexy smile. “Wanna bet?”

His all-too-shrewd eyes took on wicked depths as he pondered that one. “Can I take a peek?”

“Maybe later,” she told him, low and husky.

His swollen lips twitched into what might have been a smirk. “I take it I’m supposed to be so charmed by your . . . ah, assets that I’ll miraculously recover and tell all. So ask away,
dushenka
. I’m as anxious to know the answers as you are.”

Vee, suffering from an embarrassing rush of heat, turned away from him long enough to draw the tan vinyl armchair up close to the bed. When she sat down, Nick’s head was a foot above hers. Fine. Give him dominance. Let him think he was winning. Wasn’t that the name of the game? But what right did the arrogant s.o.b. have to call her
darling
. . .

Okay . . . the man might have had his body scrambled, but not his brains. Or his eyes. He knew a well-baited hook when he saw it.

“I’m not here to question you, Nick,” Vee assured him. “I’m your babysitter.”

“
Shto
?”

Vee did
n’t
care for the amusement that replaced the initial shock in those sinfully green eyes. Time for a wake-up call. Time for the invalid to take it on the chin. “You didn’t really think they were going to let you walk out of here, did you? The guy with no name, no money, no friends, no roof over your head? Or at least so you say. For one thing, social services would never allow it, even if the cops were willing to kick your sorry ass onto the street. Which they aren’t, because it’s obvious someone wants you dead. So you’re going to a safe house. With a babysitter. And that would be me.”

The last thing Vee expected were the chuckles that grew in volume until he threw his grostesquerie of a head back against the pillows and roared with laughter. She glared.

“You,” he hiccupped at last, pointing a finger at her. “
You
are my bodyguard.” He shook his head, which still sported a bandage on its shaved back and another along his right cheek. “Your Homeland Security is mad or very careless of its women.”

That did it. “I’m a Special Agent,” Vee snapped. “I take the same chances as everyone else, male or female.”

Nick nodded wisely. “Very special, I agree. “And while you are protecting me from the bad guys, who will protect you from me?”

Chapter 3

Nick was asleep when they came for him, hustling him into boxers, jeans, a Yankees T-shirt—someone had a sense of humor—and black leather jacket, all with the distinct smell of brand new. A male nurse rolled white socks over his bare feet, jammed a pair of name brand gym shoes over the socks. One of the agents fitted a floppy canvas hat on his head that completely covered one bandage and shadowed the other.

He could have done without his self-proclaimed keeper standing with her back against his door, watching ever
y move, but what the hell . . .

She’d changed into her action uniform—pantsuit with a jacket loose enough to hide her gun. Where she’d carried her gun when wearing the black leather skirt and skin-tight top was enough to get him hot just thinking about it. But tonight the good cop was gone. Ms Frosty was living up to her name. Cold, no-nonsense, ready for anything.

And why the hush-hush move in the middle of the night? People were beaten within an inch of their lives in this city every day. So what made him special?

Nick glared at the wheelchair the male nurse had just rolled up to his bed. No way. He was going out of this place on his own two feet. The two male agents and the nurse lifted him off the bed, plopped him none too gently into the chair.
Well, shit
.

Ten minutes later, however, Nick was given an opportunity to demonstrate how well he could move on his own, as they exited the hospital by a dark rear entrance and the agents shooed him into the back seat of an imposing black Suburban. Dumb asses. If this move was so dangerous it had to be done at three in the morning, couldn’t they have picked something that didn’t scream
government vehicle
? Something that looked like business executive or even soccer mom?

She was waiting for him in the back seat, his gift from Uncle Sam. The transplant from Florida whose eyes said she was pushing thirty while her face said she was fresh out of college. He glared at her
.
. “Bellvue?” he challenged. “You put me in
Bellvue
.”

“You don’t have a head problem?” she responded sweetly.

Nick ducked
, studying
his new sneakers with apparent fascination. Screw the lot of them. He’d recognized where he was, known the name Bellvue. That was progress. Like popping out of the womb and discovering he’d been re-born into a world he already knew.

So where were they taking him? Safe house, as Ms Frosty told him, or prison? Interrogation or torture? Drugs, waterboarding . . .
nichevo
. They couldn’t get any information when there was nothing to get. Only they didn’t know that, and they’d keep on trying . . . and keep on trying . . .

So he needed to turn Ms Frosty, get her sympathy. Find a way to blow the Feebs, DHS, or whoever these guys were. Not such a tough proposition when getting close seemed to be part of Frosty’s job description. She wasn’t allowed to give him the cold shoulder.

I know that you know that I know . . . So they were playing each other. No one ends up in the FBI by chance, and he strongly suspected he hadn’t had a nine-to-five job either. Homeland Security wasn’t guarding him like Fort Knox because he was an insurance salesman or a schoolteacher. So, hell, when playing games, he might as well enjoy himself.

As long as they didn’t
guantanamo
him.

Nick peered out the window. They were traveling north on First Avenue, a one-way street. Heading for the airport? The quiet open space of New England?

Huh? Nick frowned as the driver turned left onto Thirty-fourth Street and started across the heart of Manhattan. “Taking the scenic route?” he murmured, giving Ms Frosty the eye.

“You don’t want to see the Empire State Building at three a. m.?”

“Jersey’s not my image of a great place for a safe house.”

“Not to worry. We’re headed for Teterboro. A less conspicuous way to fly.”

“And . . . ?”

“They didn’t tell me. We strap in and wait for Uncle Sam to wave his magic wand. We’ll know when we get there.”

One thing Nick was sure of, he didn’t like surprises. Waking up in a hospital with a wiped-out brain had been enough of a shock. But, okay, flying out of a small airport in New Jersey made sense. Not that he had any choice.

Weird. At this hour of the morning there were no briskly moving streams of New Yorkers, no meandering tourists; even the panhandlers had found a hole to crawl in. He could actually see the buildings in Herald Square, where Thirty-fourth crossed the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Broadway. Macy’s—the largest store in the world—loomed on the right.

The Suburban moved swiftly past the giant store, the journey along the long crosstown blocks, taking one-tenth the time it would at rush hour. At Seventh Avenue they passed Penn Station. Eighth . . . and suddenly they were in a different world. Dark, silent buildings, fewer streetlights, almost no cars. A part of Manhattan that didn’t see all that much foot traffic, even by day, just drivers intent on finding the Lincoln Tunnel. As they were.

“We may have a problem,” their driver said. “We’ve had a car behind us all the way from Bellvue. Not the same one, so I wasn’t worried, but they may be working tandem. Second time I’ve seen the car that’s back there now.”

The agent in the front seat swore. The one in the back drew his gun. Nick added fervent profanities of his own. What the hell had he done that someone wanted him dead badly enough to tackle him in an FBI transport in mid-town Manhattan?

“Shall I go for the tunnel, or see if I can lose them first?” the driver asked.

The agent-in-charge never had time to answer. A car pulled out of Ninth Avenue directly in front of them. The car behind them pulled alongside. “Out and down!” Frosty shouted, throwing open the door on the far side of their SUV. He scrambled after her, flattening himself on the pavement as automatic weapons fire raked the Suburban.

He groaned as Frosty rummaged through the huge black leather bag that had replaced the snappy designer purse she’d carried the first time he met her. Great. She’d lost her fucking gun. Above them, all three agents were returning fire, but they didn’t stand a chance against two carloads of Kalishnikovs. Neither did he. He was going to die without ever knowing why.

Frosty’s arm shot up. She tossed something hard against the road. Clouds of acrid smoke billowed up around them. She grabbed his hand. “Penn Station. Run!”

Bozhe moi
, but the girl carried smoke bombs!

They outran the smoke all too soon, but he had to give the agents credit. They seemed to be holding out, keeping the bad guys too busy to notice two figures running through the shadows close to the buildings on Eighth. Damn crosstown blocks, why did they have to be so long? His head hurt, his lungs burned, his legs were threatening to noodle. He’d been strong enough for a plane ride, but not for a dash through the streets of Manhattan.
Govnó!

Frosty, sensing he was flagging, slowed as they plunged down a long set of stairs. She shifted her grip to his upper arm. “Grab the rail. Now move it. You can’t collapse on me now.”