The Blood Code (3 page)

Chapter Three

As Ryan dialed Conrad’s number on his encrypted cell phone, he wondered what it was like not to be the responsible one. To be the one making the mess, instead of cleaning it up. He was tired of putting out fires. Tired of fixing what was broken. Tired of pretending it never bothered him.

He’d been cleaning up other people’s messes since the age of eight. His father had left his mother with two kids, a fat mortgage, and an empty bank account, and Ryan, being the oldest, had stepped up to do the duties his old man left behind.

In high school when his younger brother decided his absentee father and alcoholic mother were good reasons to set the chem lab on fire, Ryan went to the principal and school board and talked them out of pressing criminal charges. The unruffled but impassioned negotiator was born.

When his mother lost yet another job, Ryan enrolled her in AA and gave up basketball to get a second after-school job. By college, he’d already earned a degree in Most Responsible with a double major in Peacekeeping and Troubleshooting.

Along with a foreign affairs and international law degree—all earned on scholarship—he’d attracted the attention of Susan Richmond at the CIA. Off the record, he negotiated a verbal agreement with her to help him with a few family matters before accepting her recruitment offer. Her word had been gold back then, and his mother had found a government job while his brother got into MIT and graduated, thanks to a special mentor Susan arranged. She took Ryan through the CIA’s training camp and put him on the fast track to management in the world of Central Intelligence.

It had been a hell of a ride on the spy train and, now, at thirty-three, the negotiator was burned out.

But when he glanced up and saw the Russian princess smiling at him with anticipation, he knew he’d meet the cops at the door, smooth talk them in his fluent Russian, and send them on their way all over again. In fact, if called for, he’d draw the gun from the small of his back and shoot to kill.

It’s what he did. He rooted for the underdog, cheered for the renegade, helped the damsel in distress. Never mind that his logical mind told him she wasn’t any of those. His gut said different.

Pushing the chair back, Ryan stood and walked away from those killer blue eyes and dazzling smile. The service was there, but even with his high-tech, encrypted phone, it took time to connect to the other end.

Conrad’s wife, Julia, answered. As young spies in Susan Richmond’s group, the three of them had been stationed together and spent many nights in different parts of the world listening to music, drinking wine, and coming up with new ways to recruit assets for the United States government. For code names to use with the assets, Julia had immediately designated her and Conrad as the ill-fated Biblical couple, Solomon and Sheba. Ryan had steered away from damnation and went with his favorite rock guitarist instead.

“Sheba, this is Eddie.” He made sure to emphasize the names, even though Julia was no longer a spy, but had defected to the FBI. While Ryan’s secure phone wouldn’t allow their conversation to be picked up by unwanted sources, he wouldn’t jeopardize Julia or Conrad by using their real identities in front of Anya.

He didn’t trust her and she already knew his first name—what the hell had he been thinking offering that up so easily?—as well as Truman’s,
the idiot
. “I need to talk to Solomon.”

Julia hesitated, then said, “Solomon’s not available. Is there something I can help you with?”

Conrad wasn’t available? A seed of unease opened in Ryan’s gut. Julia must have known Ryan was filling in for her husband, even if she didn’t know details of the op. “Sorry, Sheba. I need to talk to Solomon. Immediately.”

Julia lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s in the hospital and I can’t talk right now. Neither can he.”

The line went dead. Ryan held the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Had Julia just hung up on him?

She would never do that. She would never leave him hanging unless…

Unless something big was up with Conrad.

Was he
that
sick?

Shit, shit, and more shit
.

Conrad wouldn’t go to the doctor, much less enter the hospital, even if he was dying of bubonic plague. Like Ryan, he hated hospitals almost as much as he hated terrorists.

Ryan added a new worry to his ever-growing list.

“Is there problem?” Anya said.

“No,” Ryan lied. “Solomon’s going to call me—” The phone rang in his hands, caller ID labeling it “unknown number.” Ryan knew who it was. “Back.”

He punched the connect button. “Hey, man.”

“What’cha got?” Conrad’s voice wavered ever so slightly.

The unease in Ryan’s gut expanded. For a second, he forgot about Anya, the cops who were probably still watching the place, and the ICBM launch key in his pocket. A dozen different questions and smart-ass comments ran through his head, all intended to get a rise out of Conrad so he’d know just how sick his friend was.

But the moment wasn’t right for any kind of personal exchange. The facts, the full story, would have to wait. “An unexpected package arrived here today for you,
Solomon
, apparently with some information you requested?”

There was a slight pause. “Where did the package come from?”

“The Kremlin.”

On the other end, Conrad did the math. “Attractive package? High end?”

Ryan stole a glance at Anya. In the bare room, she stood out like a neon sign. A beautiful, sexy-as-hell neon sign with legs that could…

Black hole alert
. He cleared his throat and looked at the cracked and peeling paint on the far wall. His brain started working again. “Affirmative.”

“Huh. Glad she found you. I meant to call you about this, but I got waylaid by this stupid food…” Conrad’s voice wavered again, like he was straining against some ugly pain. He coughed. “Does the package have something of interest for us?”

That was an understatement of Russian-size proportion. “Package won’t share with anyone but you.”

“Ah.” Ryan heard him shift in the bed. “You near the package?”

“Yeah.” He hit the speakerphone button and held the phone between him and Anya.

Conrad cleared his throat. “This is Solomon. I can’t help you right now, but my friend there can. Tell him what you know. Don’t be afraid.”

Anya bit her lower lip, eyes scanning Ryan’s for duplicity. Her voice came out strong but strained, as if she were at war with herself and pissed as hell at Conrad, and trying not to show it. “What we talked about, it’s bigger than I expected. Ivanov…” She stopped herself, drew a steadying breath. “I brought proof that I’ve been inside his quarters, but he has my grandmother. I tell the wrong person what I know, and she dies.”

She started to say something else, but Ryan drew the phone away and held a finger to her lips to shush her.

Was that true?

Even though no one should have been listening to the conversation, he wasn’t taking chances. Anya had stolen a Russian nuclear missile launch key, and assuming it was to a working ICBM, she was probably being hunted all over Russia at that point. Didn’t matter that Russia had gone high-tech years ago, or that, like the US, they’d upgraded all their weapons to computerized systems. Or the fact, also like the US, they claimed to have reduced their stockpiles extensively and were not pursuing the new “bunker-busting nukes” as rumored by various sources.

Yeah, right.

The current president was over-the-top paranoid about security and boasted he owned the largest and most expensive weapon museum “arsenal” in the world. At this point, a speeding ticket was the least of Anya’s worries.

Or his. “Solomon, do I have your permission to extract the information from the package?”

No hesitation on Conrad’s end. They’d played this game many times before. “Absolutely. Whatever information the package contains should be given to you.”

Ryan raised a brow to see if Anya understood. Her face was inscrutable, but her body language wasn’t. Pissed was putting it mildly.

“I have information that can bring down the president.” Her voice was loud. Too loud. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes and she took another fortifying breath, drawing it, Ryan was sure, all the way from her toes. The tears disappeared and her lips firmed. “If the US won’t help me destroy Ivanov, and find my grandmother” —her gaze shifted from Ryan to Truman— “then I’ll find another country that will.”

Wait. What? Ryan jerked the phone back and pressed the speaker against his chest, doing a little mental cursing, and then something clicked in his brain.

He looked at Anya again, gripping the phone hard and using every ounce of control he had to keep from launching it at the far wall.

Conrad had recruited a Russian princess who’d been hiding in America. Russian spy or American asset, it didn’t matter. What he’d gotten was a bombshell of an international incident.

Chapter Four

Even though Ryan’s face was unreadable, his eyes were hard as steel. A chill ran over Anya’s skin that had nothing to do with the cold room.

Tough. She straightened her already straight back and returned his glare.

Still holding the phone, he walked to the door and reached for the knob, every muscle taught with anger. Truman moved out of his way and Anya jumped from the bed, yanking the blanket with her. “Ryan, wait.”

She expected him to slam the door behind him. Instead he closed it with a soft, deliberate click.

Hope drained out of her. She was trying to do the right thing, and yet it seemed the harder she tried, the worse she screwed up. How was she going to get Grams away from Ivanov,
the bastard
, now?

A prickly awareness made goose flesh rise on her skin. Across the room, Truman watched her, examining and appraising her blanket-wrapped body from head to foot. Not ogling, just interested, as if he were examining a new sports car.

On the other side of the door, Ryan raised his voice at Solomon. He was still on the phone, and even though she couldn’t make out everything he was saying, it was obvious he was upset.

Damn it. She didn’t want to care that he was angry. Didn’t want to care about him, period. But he’d stitched up her wound, saved her from the police.
Don’t trust until verified
rang in her brain, but it was hard not to trust such a decent guy. “What did I do to make him so angry?”

Truman leaned a shoulder against the wall. “Let’s see. Might have been talking when he told you not to, or—over a phone line—threatening to destroy the Russian president. Or maybe it was when you threatened to give Queen and country your top secret information instead of him.”

“It wasn’t an idle threat. If the CIA won’t make good on their promises to my grandmother, then I’ll give the information to someone who will.”

Truman stuck one hand in his pocket, ever so casual. “What’s up with your nan?”

Anya plopped down, ignoring the pain in her side and mentally searching for some way to still save the day. She gotten his attention with the key, but she couldn’t tell him everything. Not yet. And the secret about her true identity and her past was already out.

The only card she had left to play was the truth about Grams. “Ivanov kidnapped her from a hotel in Geneva two days ago. She was visiting a friend there. I came home from work to a cryptic message on my voice mail instructing to me to come to Moscow if I ever wanted to see her again. This all has to do, I think, with Ivanov’s obsession with royalty. If I refuse to attend the nuclear summit by his side, or refuse to go along with whatever charade he’s playing, he’ll kill her.”

“And what happens if you
do
go along with it?”

She wasn’t sure. All she could do was hope for the best. “He’ll let her go.”

“I’m sorry.” Truman grew appropriately solemn. “I’m sure there’s a lot more to this story, but how exactly did you expect the CIA to help?”

In the beginning, Anya had been looking through a microscope, examining her grandmother’s kidnapping from every angle and trying to figure out a way to get her safely back to America. After the initial meeting at the Kremlin with President Ivanov her perspective had changed. He’d paraded Anya around like a trophy, showed her the new lab he’d built for genetics, and made it clear he had some kind of plan for her. A plan for the next generation of Russians. Her microscope had morphed into a telescope.

While Ivanov had avoided answering her endless questions, she’d kept her eyes and ears open. She’d overheard him talking with his prime minister behind closed doors. Heard him acknowledge his plans for the future of Russia. That’s when her focus had broadened. The rescue Anya had been planning could no longer be only about saving her grandmother. Now the safety and well-being of millions of people depended on her. Ivanov not only planned to build an arsenal of superior weapons to use against the world, but a race of superior Russians as well.

Still, it was the thought of her grandmother dying that made Anya sick to her stomach. Her grandmother was all she had left. The two of them had been on their own for so long…

Blinking back tears, she picked at a lint ball on the blanket. “She knows Solomon. Told me I could trust him if I ever had problems with the Russian government. As soon as she was kidnapped, I contacted him, and he told me to follow Ivanov’s orders, and get in touch with him when I figured out where Ivanov had stashed Grams. But I can’t find her. I’d hoped I could handle this on my own, but unfortunately, I have no idea how to take on a Russian president and get Grams back in one piece.”

Without warning, Ryan burst through the door. All business as usual but with a slight strain in his voice. “Cops.”

Truman straightened, his earlier casualness gone. “Ah, yes. We expected them to return.” He motioned at Anya in the blanket. “Where do you want her?”

“Bunker.” In one swift movement, Ryan shucked his sweater and tossed it to Anya. “Put this on. Follow Truman. Stay quiet.”

Ryan’s upper body was a beautiful sculpture…muscles moving with fluid grace as he shoved the chair into the corner. Anya hugged the sweater, breathing in the scent of male mixed with sweat and deodorant. She should have been scared and yet Ryan’s simple presence calmed her. Even under the circumstances, he appeared calm, cool, and in control. He’d helped her before. He was about to do it again.

Maybe she owed him a little more trust. Maybe he could handle one or two of her secrets.

Unless the cops arrested her before she could share them.

He sent a glance her way before giving more instructions to Truman. “Blindfold her once she’s down there. Tell the others, including Del, to stay quiet and be ready to move on my signal.”

With that, he was gone.

Truman turned his back while Anya dropped the blanket and slid the sweater over her head. The soft cotton fisherman’s weave engulfed her, as did Ryan’s scent. The bottom edge of the sweater hung down over her butt and for that she was grateful.

Truman tossed the blanket on the bed, snatched up Anya’s passport, and motioned for her to follow. They moved quickly through a living room outfitted with worn upholstered chairs, an old TV with rabbit ears, and a wood-burning stove that looked like it had been around since the last World War. The other man she’d seen when she arrived stood with his side pressed against the wall, a large, black handgun pointed up as he drew back the curtains a fraction. He gave her one slight tip of his chin in acknowledgement.

A left turn took them into the kitchen. Outside the windows, the bleak Russian night was dark and foreboding. A weak fluorescent light over the sink threw shadows on dirty dishes, scarred cabinets, and a table with a card game in progress. Another man, also armed, stood at the back door watching the outside.

Ryan had put on a T-shirt and was leaning down by a trap door, talking to someone below. “How soon, Del?”

A sharp rap on the front door made Ryan’s head snap up.

“Um, like, now?” a voice, sounding young and scared, whom Anya presumed to be Del, answered.

Ryan rose, his gaze giving her a critical once-over as he handed a bandanna to Truman.

“Why do I need to be blind…”

One hand went over her mouth, the other behind her head. “One more word,” he whispered, his eyes pools of determination. “And I will throw you to the wolves at the door. Understand?”

Trapped in the vise of his hands, nose to nose and anger radiating off him, Anya’s heart thudded hard against her rib cage. Deep down, she wasn’t frightened. Okay, maybe a little. More than that, she was hypnotized by his commanding force.

She nodded her head—not easy to do, his grip on her so strong.

Ryan released her head, spun her around, and pushed her toward the opening, not intentionally rough, just hurried. A ladder extended into the bunker and four pairs of male eyes looked up at her. Four pairs of very curious eyes.

Bad enough Ryan had seen her naked. She was about to provide a peep show for the four men in the bunker. This day was just too much.

She turned to say so to Ryan, only to have him snap his fingers at the men below. The men’s gazes cut to him, all of them looking like they’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. He made a whirling motion with his finger and all four turned their backs on the ladder.

Anya started to say thank you, but the second she opened her mouth, he placed a hand over her mouth. Ignoring the way her heart thumped again at his touch, she sighed, gave him a nod of understanding, and started down the ladder.

Truman followed. At the bottom, Anya barely had a chance to make out the collection of screens, keyboards, and what were probably hard drives, before Truman blindfolded her with the bandanna. One hand on her upper arm guided her to a chair and pushed her into it.

With her sight gone, her other senses went into overdrive. Above her, the trapdoor closed with a suffocating thump. Footsteps, keeping time with her heartbeat, hurried overhead. The scrape of table legs against the linoleum floor made her grit her teeth.

Her nose picked up the smells of the dank basement, nervous men, and old plastic. Bone-chilling cold seeped into her bare feet and up her legs. She shivered.

Thank God for Ryan’s sweater.

She’d been right. He was a good man. Even though he didn’t know or trust her, he’d given her protection and the sweater off his back. While her CIA contact, Solomon, had promised help, Ryan had actually provided it.

An image of him going to the front door to confront the cops flashed on the backs of her eyelids. Her heart squeezed. He was right; she was putting them all in danger.

Especially him.

Around her, the other men moved like ghosts, packing up equipment, she supposed. Equipment Ryan didn’t want her to see. Or the police to find.

She had to go back. Soon. She was supposed to be at a spa, having a full body treatment to make up for Ivanov’s abuse. Ivanov had given her the afternoon and evening off from his constant presence to allow her to shop and have a massage before tomorrow’s big shindig at the Kremlin began in earnest. Two goons had followed her around, but she’d been able to give them the slip once inside the spa. She’d climbed out a window, hot-wired a car, and found the cabin. She’d reopened the wound while squeezing through the window, but she’d been so focused on escaping, she’d barely noticed the blood. If she wasn’t back in her room before Ivanov came for his nightly visit, she—and Grams—would be doomed.

Footsteps sounded again above them, different this time. Heavier. Shuffling.

Clipped, razor-sharp voices echoed off the floorboards. Around her in the bunker, all motion, even breathing, stopped.

Anya stopped breathing, too. Seconds ticked by as Ryan answered questions. Was he speaking Russian? There were crashing noises and more discussions, Ryan’s voice remaining unflustered and cool as the officers combed the house searching for her.

A flashback of the previous night’s terrifying incident played like a movie in her brain. She tried to shut out the memory of Ivanov’s hands on her arms, her waist. Tried to shut out the memory of his voice in her ear. The memory of what she’d seen in the second set of presidential quarters, hidden under the Kremlin in a bunker that was supposed to be abandoned but was adorned like Stalin was still in residence.

The cutting-edge lab that made GenLife look like a high school chem lab. The high-tech command center filled with computers, satellite uplinks, and floor-to-ceiling flat screens. The military weapons room and full-scale army headquarters. Displays of launch keys, antique guns, and other Soviet weapons everywhere she’d looked. All under Moscow, spread out like a post-apocalyptic sci-fi city.

Her mouth went dry, her teeth chattered. The memories consumed her, and she could no longer hear the sounds above, ears ringing as if she were inside a bell. Her lungs burned. She couldn’t breathe.

Ripping the blindfold off, she bent forward, gasping as quietly as she could. Even with the blindfold gone, she couldn’t see anything but darkness. Heavy as a wool blanket, it closed around her, pushing down, suffocating her. She was going to have a heart attack and die right there.

After all the trouble she’d caused, Ryan would probably go off and leave her body there to rot. Grams would die never knowing what happened. She’d die thinking Anya had abandoned her.

Vertigo hit and the chair seemed to roll sideways. Anya went down on hands and knees, the cement floor tearing her skin. Blood roared in her ears and she felt light-headed, as if the room were now spinning.

On the brink of passing out, someone touched her back. Said her name.

They seemed too far away. Could they hear her reply? Her tongue was so thick in her mouth, she wasn’t sure she could make one.

She slapped a hand across her lips.
No talking
.

If she talked, Ryan would hand her over to the cops. If Ivanov had figured out she’d stolen the key and taken it to the CIA, the cops would turn her over to the Federal Security Agency, Ivanov’s modern-day KGB. She would disappear, like so many before her, never to be seen again.

Strong hands gripped her shoulders and dragged Anya up off the floor. She heard her name being said over and over as the hands shook her ever so slightly.

She knew the feel of those hands.

Her eyes were closed and she forced them open. The room was lit once more. The men were packing up the equipment. Ryan held her and her knees buckled with relief.

His eyes searched hers for something she couldn’t discern. She tried to open herself up and let him see how grateful she was.

“You’re safe, princess,” he said. His gaze dropped to her lips, down to his sweater, and back up to stare into her eyes. “At least from the Russians.”