SLEEPER (Crossfire Series) (7 page)

She could get room service at the hotel. She stopped. No, she couldn’t. She would have to use the damn phone. Shit.

Maybe she’d come down to the café later. Reaching her hotel, she looked up at the lit sign, which she hadn’t noticed before. Welcome to Pristina, it said.

“Welcome to hell,” she muttered, then walked quickly through the foyer into the lobby. She smiled at the proprietor-cum-desk clerk. “
Dobro
veèer
.”

Let’s hope she still had some charm in her to persuade the nice gentleman to help her make a very special call.

CHAPTER 4

Hey man, there’s got to be more than just loving to ride the waves, you know. For me, it’s a quest. I go out there practically naked, just me and my board. The ocean hides everything, son. Sharks. Undertows. You’re out there paddling and then, just like that, it can get you. You can’t be a surfer and be afraid of what the ocean can do. You’re alone and you catch a wave and ride your board like a magic carpet all the way back home. I love that feeling, man! Especially when I see that little curl of a wave on the horizon and I know it’s going to grow for me as I paddle hard toward it and that if I time it right, it’s going to rise up and challenge me. Wooooohoooo! You know what I mean? Son, there’s nothing like that perfect wave crashing all over you. And that’s what the right woman can do for you, too. Now get out there and get laid.

The corner of Reed’s lips quirked at the memory of that particular conversation. He’d been fifteen and horny. Arch had been a rather unconventional father figure, if nothing else. He’d taken Reed to a rather wild surfing party and…Reed looked at his surroundings at the moment. Yeah, this place had a lot of Arch in it.

The right woman in a place called The Beijing Bombshell in Pristina, Kosovo. It couldn’t get any more surreal than this. The Beijing Bombshell was the hottest underground place in town right now, catering to a very exclusive clientele. One needed to pull strings to get into the club—money, influence, illegal trading, or in his case, veza, the Croatian version of returning a favor from the past.

T had told him his identity—an ex-peacekeeper, MIA, now in the arms-dealing business. “You’re still American, darling, so just be yourself,” she’d said. “You know your weapons, so there should be no problem with discussions about types and quality. We’ve set up your MO for months now, so they’ve heard of you.”

Reed remembered the expression in T’s honey-colored eyes only too well. The woman could speak volumes with just one look. “So do they call me R.C. or Reed?” he’d asked.

“Whatever you like.” She’d shrugged. “It’s your identity now. Make it personal.”

That was the first thing they’d told him at the training workshops. He had to make it personal or it wouldn’t look real. “Okay. Reed to my friends, R.C. for business,” he’d said.

But the Joker never joked. Not in public, anyway. Reed leaned back against the bar lit up with neon lights, which shot colorful electronic pulses to the beat of the music. He soaked in the strange atmosphere of blond Asian women strutting around in bustiers and fishnets, cavorting in and out of the arms of men that looked as if they had either come out of the theater district or a street fight, depending on the state of their clothing. T had told him that was one of the club specialties—all its women wore Marilyn Monroe blond wigs. It had become such a rage that even the women who came to party had begun to dress up that way. On the weekend they came by the hundreds, partying while making deals involving drugs, weapons, and other illegal activities. All to the beat of some kind of techno tango. The owner was a very eclectic man.

Reed was here to meet with him. He looked around again. Men were openly caressing lines of women, choosing their companions for the night. Some went for the petite Asians; others preferred the taller, more voluptuous, heavily made-up Caucasians. He was supposed to mingle with the crowd so the owner could see where he was, but he really didn’t have any desire to go over there and make a play for any of those girls.

There was a dance floor in the middle, lit up by disco lights and littered with dancing couples. The oddest thing about it all was the music. He’d noticed it the moment he’d walked into the club, but only now realized that it wasn’t just one song. Every song was pure old-fashioned South American music with a techno-beat. Right now everyone was
ole-
ing to a lone female in the middle stripping to the beat of “Kiss of Fire” sung in accented English. The moment she pulled down her bustier, she disappeared behind an excited group of three or four men. Reed looked away. That was when he caught sight of her.

Everything clicked into place. He’d studied Llallana’s photo many times in the last month and had felt drawn to her somehow, that he’d seen her somewhere before. But her short dark hair had thrown him off.

“She isn’t.” He didn’t say he’d seen her in that blond wig before. He straightened up. “She’s heading toward Johnny Chic’s office. Someone’s blocking her path, bothering her. Should I intervene?”

“Is she in trouble?” Nikki asked.

He didn’t think so, but he didn’t care for the way the man had one arm across Llallana’s shoulders while the other reached for a more intimate grope. Reed was about to head that way when suddenly the man was backing away from her, hands held up pacifyingly. The lighting wasn’t good enough to see, but he guessed that she was holding a small weapon against the man’s chest. She had quick hands, he noted.

“She’s knocking on Johnny’s door. Can we trust him to do exactly what we’ve told him?” Someone tucked her hand under Reed’s arm and he turned, finding himself eye to eye with T. His eyebrows lifted as he silently studied her before politely saying, “That’s a nice wig.”

T patted her platinum blond hair. “Darling, I have had better compliments than that tonight.”

He bet she had. Her costume left nothing to the imagination—some skintight, black lacy thing that molded to her gorgeous form. She wore see-through black lace stockings and high heels. Again he wondered at this woman who could put on disguises like outfits. He cocked his head. “Nice garters.”

Reed stiffened. “Why?” T flicked a lazy finger at his shoulder. “Because, darling, despite your cool and collected demeanor, a SEAL is ingrained with honor. You would rush your cute ass over there and save Lily if she got into trouble while negotiating with Johnny.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s he going to do to her?”

T considered him for a long moment. “Suppose he asks for sexual favors from Lily? Are you going in there to stop this whole thing because of your sense of outrage?”

“
Lily would kick Johnny’s bloody ass first.”

It was hard to have a conversation with so many women in his head. “Amber said—”

“I’m wired, too,” T said with a smile. “I can hear what Amber says.”

She leaned over, way too close. He suddenly realized she had covered the button mic with her thumb. “We don’t know how desperate Lily is,” T said quietly into his ear, “and whatever choices she’s making now isn’t any of your business. Johnny Chic will do what he’s agreed to do, but don’t expect sleaze like him to help us out by the book.”

Reed covered T’s hand, and she didn’t resist him as he slid it off the button. “I understood the idea was to get her desperate enough to come to me,” he said, with emphasis, “not to get her so desperate that she would actually sell herself.”

T smiled again, her red lips pouty and totally at odds with her words. “My assignment doesn’t include evaluating the target’s mind-set, darling. Yours does. So you keep what she does in mind as you decide whether to cancel her or not.”

His hand tightened. “You’re playing with my head again. Stop putting suggestions in there.”

“I think he’s onto your NOPAIN, T,” Nikki chimed in.

“Just doing my job, darling,” T mocked. “Now, I just know that a Vincenzio dances very well. Did you know that the tango was a dance started in the brothels, signifying the intimacies of a whore and her pimp? Johnny Chic knows how to make fun of everyone in his own way. Shall we?”

Reed let her lead him toward the dance floor. How much did she know about him? He couldn’t ask her anything while these damn recording pieces were on them.

* * *

It was much easier for Lily to come here than she’d anticipated. She didn’t think she would have been able to do it if she’d just been herself. The old Lily wouldn’t have walked through here without hurting someone. She really hated these places.

However, tonight she was here for another reason. She tried not to look at the huge two-way mirror that filled up half the wall. Instead she concentrated on Johnny Chic.

She had imagined Johnny to be some tall, fat slob sitting in some brothel, making his oily living doing illegal trading. Instead, a trim man with a small mustache greeted her from the desk. She couldn’t place a finger on his nationality. He looked very exotic, almost Asian, but not quite. When he stood up, he wasn’t very tall at all, maybe about five-three at the most.

His eyes were too bold, as if he was imagining her naked, and she wanted to reach across the desk and grab him by his snazzy tie. Biting back a rude comment, she instead tried her best to smile.

“You aren’t what I expected, Ambrosia,” Johnny said, his accent tinged with an Italian or South American flavor.

Another thing for which to apologize to Amber. She’d used her friend’s code name to get Johnny’s attention. “Yeah well, vice versa,” Lily said.

“Are you blond under that beautiful wig?” he asked.

She chose not to give him an answer. She smiled again. “I’ve brought the cash for the passports.”

“Oh yes, the transaction.” Johnny’s attention seemed to be fixed on the two-way mirror. He swayed to the muted music piped through the speakers. “Oh, but we have great dancers tonight. Look.”

Lily gave the mirror an impatient glance. She wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible, but this was a different world than her usual transportation of kids over borders, and she had to play by the rules. It was a strange place, with too many weird people in here.

There was a half circle around a couple who seemed to be in a world of their own as they danced to the rhythmic sway of whatever this music was. They were well matched—the man was holding the woman close enough to be obscene, yet the woman seemed to be able to turn and swirl without bumping into him.

“The tango is so beautiful to watch, isn’t it?” Johnny murmured. “Especially if it’s done right. Look at that. He holds her like he owns her, and he does because he’s the master and she’s his slave. Yet he gives her a little room and she’s a spitfire, following his steps.”

Lily didn’t want to hear about masters and slaves. “You’ve just made me dislike this dance,” she told Johnny, unable to hide the wry tone of her voice. “Shall we get back to business?”

Johnny Chic shook his head, his eyes still on the couple out there. “You can’t dislike the tango till you actually dance it, Ambrosia, my dear. Ah, look, look! He’s definitely a good dancer. He controls his lady so well.”

He gave a long sigh of pleasure and, squeezing the fingers of his hand together, he kissed the tips loudly, while his hips moved suggestively to the music. “Tell me, Ambrosia,” he added, “why are you here in person? Usually we deal through our couriers. You give me the information and I supply what you need, so this is indeed a surprise.”

He stopped and turned toward her suddenly. Lily met his gaze squarely.

“I’m passing through,” she said smoothly, “and needed this done as quickly as possible. Besides, I’ve heard about The Beijing Bombshell for a long time and wanted to check it out. It’s everything I’ve imagined.”

He beamed at what he thought was a compliment. “It’s all about me,” he said.

“Is that right,” Lily murmured rhetorically.

“Oh, yes. Surely you already know, with your excellent sources, that my mother was imported from China by my Argentinian father?” His gaze narrowed a little as he questioned softly, “Don’t you?”

She had to be very careful. She plopped down on the sofa and crossed her legs. His gaze slid down, following the movement of her hands as she smoothed the silk stocking. “Johnny,” she chided, “are you trying to test me? I don’t share information unless there’s a bargain, you know that. Now, I want my passports.”

“And what is this hot information you will give me in return, besides the cash?” He took a few steps toward her. “You always give me some information to seal the deal, Ambrosia.”

Her mind was careening wildly as she looked up calmly. She didn’t know that. She’d thought Amber had gotten the passports with just cash. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Amber dealt with information. Of course she would have used it as a means to get other illegal things, such as passports to help the girls.