Out of Plans (The Mercenaries #2) (4 page)

Lily crouched behind a shiny black car. She gritted her teeth as she slapped her hand against a small satellite dish. Kingsley's Long Range Listening device. It was shorting out, she'd damaged it at some point in time. Besides that, it wasn't exactly a great tool for what she was using it for – there were too many people, too many voices. Still. She gave it another good smack, then put it back on top of the car's hood, next to the antenna. After a couple twitches, she more or less had it pointed towards the front door, a good five hundred feet away.

She gently put the headphones on, careful not to mess up her hair. Then she went back to what she'd been doing before the LRL had cut out. Staying hunched down, she wiggled into a pair of wide legged black slacks. She was also wearing a tight black tank top – it had Kevlar panels attached to the inside of the fabric, arranged around her torso. Another insistence of Kingsley's. Lily had her own tailor made bullet proof vest, but she couldn't wear it to a public evening event, where she had to dress up. So the panels would have to do.

While she listened to the guards ask names and the guests chatter, she shrugged into a sheer black blouse. After she buttoned it up, she moved onto her knees and tucked the ends into her pants. She knew she wasn't quite as dressy as most of the other women, but she wasn't sloppy either, and her makeup and hair were on point. She'd do.

As she was slipping on a pair of heeled boots, she finally heard what she'd been waiting for all night. The sound was choppy, full of static and pop and hiss, but she could hear most of what was being said. A guest had arrived, but not with his wife, who had been on the list with him. Apparently, the wife had made other plans for the evening. The man was let into the party and Lily smirked to herself.

In about half an hour, his wife was going to miraculously forgo her other plans and show up at the party.

“Carl Smith,” Marc introduced himself, shaking hands with a security guard. The guard looked at him warily, obviously not trusting him. He smiled bigger and the man looked down at a clipboard.

While waiting to be let in, Marc let his gaze wander over the house. It was massive, and completely out of place. It was Georgian architecture and looked like it had been uprooted from Massachusetts and randomly dropped into the jungle in Colombia. Damiano must have spent a fortune on it. The grounds were also massive, with a mile long paved drive up to the house, outlying guesthouses, and a separate standing garage that was surrounded by several large black vehicles.

Yes, Damiano did very well for himself, indeed.

“Mr. … Smith … yes, I have you here, and a plus one?” the guard asked. Marc's gaze snapped back to the man.

“She couldn't make it. She got tied up this evening.”

Specifically, Mrs. Smith was tied up in the trunk of a Cadillac, right alongside Mr. Smith.

“Enjoy, sir.”

The guard stepped to the side and Marc nodded once before brushing past him. He walked through a large set of doors and into a grand hall. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and a set of double staircases that swooped up either side of the room. To his left, a set of double doors had been shut. Behind the stairs on the left, caterers were going back and forth, obviously from the kitchen. And directly to his right, another set of double doors were open, revealing a large room. Possibly a ballroom, or maybe just a large sitting room. Either way, it's where a party was under full swing, so he headed in that direction.

Everyone was dressed to the nines, Marc was glad he'd had the foresight to steal a tuxedo while he'd been in Bogotá. Women vastly outnumbered men, and a large group of them was gathered around the host, Damiano. Normally, Marc would have done some recon on the other man, but he wanted to find Stankovski as soon as possible; he wasn't going to let this opportunity pass him by.

Marc circled the room, but didn't find the one person he wanted to see, so he left. Swiped a glass of champagne off a tray, then wandered back into the foyer. He peeked through the double doors and found a darkened sitting room. So he headed back into the kitchen, but everything looked normal in there. It was still a little early in the night, he didn't want to start interrogating staff yet. He'd wait till the guests had a chance to get properly liquored up, make things a little easier. He moved on and looked through the remaining rooms on the bottom floor, only finding empty guest rooms.

Roughly an hour after he'd entered the house, Marc found himself back in the party. He wanted to search the upper floors as well, but figured another circuit around the ballroom would be smart, just in case Stankovski had put in an appearance.

He was able to spot Damiano immediately – the Brazilian was pretty tall, so he stood out. He was also an excellent dancer, it seemed. A live band was playing in a corner of the room, and he effortlessly moved his partner around in what looked like a slow sort of waltz. The woman moved with little effort as well, and not just because she had a good partner.

Marc stopped and watched them for a moment. There was something familiar about her, though he wasn't sure why. She had black hair, cut into a sharp bob with blunt bangs marching across her brow. He couldn't get a good look at her face, Damiano's shoulder was in the way, but she was tan, Marc could tell. She was tall, and had a lithe, slender frame. Very trim, with gentle sloping hips and breasts that were on the smaller side, though really, he couldn't be sure, since she was pressed against her partner from chest to knees.

She was probably gorgeous, if she'd gotten Damiano's attention enough to earn a dance, but it didn't matter. In six months, Marc hadn't looked twice at another woman. All he could see was red hair. Green eyes. Full breasts and a wide smile. A great wit and a filthy mouth. Something he would always want.

Something he could never have.

Getting in was easy enough – Mrs. Smith was on the list and her husband was already inside, after all. Too bad Lily had no idea what her “husband” looked like. Didn't matter, he wasn't important.

Lily moved through the crowd, which was getting louder and drunker with each passing moment. Most of the women were beyond dressed up. Lots of hair extensions and air brushed makeup, and all wearing gowns, though up close, most were sheer and had jewels strategically placed to hide certain body parts. Body parts that had clearly been enhanced by very good plastic surgeons.

Lily started with them, making “
girl talk
”, trying to find out what she could. Damiano was quite the sought after man, it seemed. Most of them had slept with him, at some point in time or another, and the ones who hadn't were still scheming to make it happen. But at that particular time, he was off limits.

“Why is that?” Lily asked one girl.

“Because, ever since she arrived, she's chased away all other women. She wants to be the only one in his bed.”

“Who's '
she
'?” Lily continued.

“
She
,” the girl pointed across the room.

Lily followed with her eyes and saw a tiny blonde woman standing near the wall. She was tiny, in height and in weight. She wore all white, including her heels, and her blonde hair was Texas beauty queen big. More interesting than all of that, though, was that she seemed to be glaring at Lily. No wait, not glaring at her. Glaring
past
her. At something behind her. Someone behind Lily had earned the wrath of a very tiny, scary looking lady.

“Who is she?” Lily asked.

“I don't know, some Russian woman,” the girl replied.

Everything stopped for a moment.
Russian
. And as if the magic word had been spoken, another Russian came into the picture. As tall as the woman was short, as imposing as the woman was tiny, the man who joined her was her opposite, except that he was also blonde, and he also wore all white. Lily stopped breathing.

Of course, she'd seen pictures of Anatoly Stankovski. Knew that he was a big man, easily six foot three or taller. Knew he had a neatly trimmed mustache and blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Knew he was married.

But seeing him, being in his presence … it was so different from what she'd expected. She wasn't filled with rage. Not cold, clinical hatred. No, she was
sad
. Sad, as she looked at the man who had changed her life. The man who had killed her sister. The man who had ripped Marc away from her. The man who had changed her life; changed who she was, at her core.

Kingsley's law: Pull the motherfucking trigger.

Hearing his voice in her head, Lily shook herself back to reality. She had to act, and fast. She had a gun strapped to her thigh. Maybe she could lure him away. He was still with his wife, was looking down at her while they spoke. But the small woman wasn't looking at her husband. She was still looking over Lily's shoulder, and her glare was getting more severe.

“Pardon me,” a deep voice said from behind her, and Lily slowly turned around to face the host of the party. “We haven't been introduced.”

Lily automatically smiled, all her work and training kicking in as she placed her hand into Damiano's outstretched one. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and go shoot Stankovski, but she knew her chance would come again. She knew where he was, knew where he was staying. She couldn't ruin it all now just because she was excitable.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she teased, shaking his hand.

“Then you have the advantage,” he smiled as well, and it was becoming increasingly obvious why women were falling all over themselves for the dangerous drug lord.

“Mr. Ledo, you have an amazing home, thank you so much for this extravagant party,” she gushed, keeping her eyes wide as she blinked up at him.

“You are very welcome. Dance?”

She couldn't very well say no, but d
ancing with him was potentially a bad idea. He was a dangerous man. If he had any inkling of who she was, or why she was there, then it was a trap. But if he was just hitting on her, she didn't want to offend him. Maybe she could even use it against him. Use him to get close to Stankovski.

It was a slow song and he held her close, a strong leader moving her across the floor. She smiled and laughed, chatting and flirting with him, staring very boldy up into his eyes. He stared right back, his smile resembling the way a wolf looked before it was about to strike.

He was disgustingly handsome, she wouldn't deny it – she could now see why all the women had been gossiping about him. It just made his depravity worse, that something so beautiful could be so dangerous. He had big dark eyes, ringed in thick black lashes that had an effect like eyeliner, making his eyes look huge and pop out of his face. His skin was tan, and his black hair was wavy and mussed in a stylish way, the ends of it teasing the top of his collar. He had an almost lyrical accent that wrapped around his words and blanketed them, turning them into syrup. Sticky sweet and heavy. Almost any other woman would have been helpless under their weight.

“You're an incredible dancer,” she complimented him when the song came to an end. He didn't let her go, though. He kept an arm tight around her waist. Continued staring into her eyes.

“I had a wonderful partner. You know, the more I look at you, the more familiar you seem,” he commented.

Uh oh! Warning! Warning! Do something!

“Hmmm, do I?” she purred, pressing herself against him. “Maybe from one of your dreams?”

“If I dreamed about someone like you, I wouldn't get out of bed,” he assured her. She laughed low in her throat, a husky, breathy sound.

“Mmmm, if you dreamed about me, then I wouldn't get out of your bed, either,” she teased. He narrowed his eyes.

“I think you're going to be bad for my health,” he teased back.

“Sweetheart,” she chuckled, getting so close she could feel his breath against her lips, “you have
no idea.
”

“I would love to stand here all night with you, but unfortunately, I have other guests. One of whom is glaring poison darts at me,” he sighed, flicking his head to the side. She followed the motion and saw that Mrs. Stankovski was alone again. She was staring at them and looked like she was getting ready to kill Lily.

“Pity. I didn't plan on standing here all night,” she sighed, moving so her back was to the angry woman.

“Oh, really? You had something else in mind?” he questioned her.

“I had lots of things in mind. Tell you what,” she whispered, moving to stand on her toes. Even in heels, Damiano was still taller than her. “Forget the blonde. One night with me, and you won't even remember her name.”

Won't remember anything, because you'll be dead.

“That sounds incredibly tempting,” he whispered back, and his hands moved to grasp her by her hips. “It's an offer I'm sure I'll take you up on one day. But sadly, not tonight. I have things I need to tend to. But I promise, I'll be seeing you again.”

“Well then. Thanks for the dance, Mr. Ledo,” she breathed, then kissed him roughly on the side of his jaw. When she pulled back, her red lipstick left a stain behind. He chuckled and stepped away from her.

“You are more than welcome.”

As he walked off into the crowd, she watched as he pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped away the lipstick stain as he joined Mrs. Stankovski, who seemed to immediately launch a verbal attack on him. Hmmm. Interesting. Apparently, Damiano wasn't only interested in what Stankovski had to offer in a monetary or politcal sphere.

Stankovski himself was nowhere to be seen. Slipped away without a trace. From questioning people, Lily knew he was staying in the home. She had to get upstairs somehow. Had to search the rooms. Had to find him.

Have to move your ass!

She spun around and promptly rammed into a man who had come up behind her. She stumbled backwards and felt a pair of hands grip her arms. As she steadied herself, she heard him gasp sharply, then he cleared his throat. She began to lift her eyes to see who she had almost knocked over.

“
I thought I recognized you.
”

For the second time that night, Lily completely froze. She was staring into a pair of blue eyes. A pair of eyes that she had banished to the farthest part of her memory. A face that had no right to interrupt her evening. No right to disrupt the beat of her heart.

“Sweetheart,” Marcelle De Sant sighed as he looked down at her. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”