“The Piper is a good man. But even good men do bad things to get an end result,” Vivi said as she stepped back. “Let my husband go, Jude.”
Jude pushed away from Rook. “I’m sor—”
Rook threw him a look from narrowed eyes. “Don’t apologize. I wouldn’t. But I mean it. After this, no more. You leave Vivi out of this shit. Consider Ukraine my debt, you feel me?”
Jude nodded. “Yeah.” He turned to Vivi. “Where?”
“Start with Svetlana Markov. I’ll send you an encrypted file on her and her husband, both known associates of our good friend, buddy, old pal Horace Dresden. Word on the street, a.k.a. my hack of an FSB database, indicates there is a meet and greet between Yevgeny Markov, Anton Segorski, and the Russian prime minister in two days—and rumors are being tossed around about Crimea and oil. Lots and lots of oil. Oh, and money. Lots and lots of that too. Read the file, Dagan. You’ll find it interesting how they all intersect with Dresden.”
“You’ll have a twelve-hour head start. She’s got to give this information to King,” Rook warned. “If we can get Dresden…”
“I know,” Jude replied. “I’ll set up shop. I’ll give King everything I have once I arrive. Chances are that Dresden won’t show but his players will.” And by players, he meant Ella.
Rook and Vivi both nodded. “I don’t know who King will send, but I’ll be volunteering,” Rook said. “You might want to consider letting your team leader in on this, Jude. Otherwise, he’ll bench your ass, maybe even kick you off the team. You do remember you have a team, right, Dagan?”
Jude hung his head. Shame speared him. “I never forget my team.” He raised his head and stared at Rook, letting everything he’d felt over the past year infiltrate his gaze. “She was my soul. I have to know. But I won’t compromise my team. Ever.”
Rook took a step toward Jude and held out his hand. “Brother. I’ll see you in Moscow.”
Jude grasped Rook’s forearm in the way all warriors had, inclined his head, and stepped around his teammate to Vivi. He placed his hand on her cheek and bent his forehead to hers. “Thank you. I’m sorry King’s going to rip you a new ass over this.”
“Big, bad CIA operative here. I can handle King.” She smiled, and Jude knew shame again. “Find her. Bring her home. She’s been gone too long, Jude,” Vivi whispered.
Jude headed to his room, grabbed a go bag, and walked out of the Civil War–era mansion they’d taken over as their headquarters in Port Royal. And he kept walking—to his car where he got in, gunned the engine, and screeched out of the driveway.
Time was ticking down. He had to get to Moscow and set up shop, do recon, and figure out what the hell was going on.
He had to find Ella. Before she did something neither of them could come back from.
Chapter 6
Ella strapped the sleek, black matte-finished H&K VP9 in the holster at her back and slipped her combat knife into its special scabbard at her side. She put her fawn-colored leather coat over them both, thinking about the meeting she had with Svetlana Markov in around thirty minutes.
She had researched Markov ad nauseam over the last two days, and what she’d discovered could fit in a thimble. The woman had supposedly been born in Moscow, raised in Moscow, and if she moved the wrong way with Ella today, she’d die in Moscow. Other than that, Ella had no idea what to expect.
Dresden had told her nothing other than that Yevgeny Markov’s wife was in his pocket and Ella was to meet with the woman.
A brief knock sounded on the door, and Ella reached for her weapon. She was expecting no one.
“Obsluzhivaniye nomerov,” a disembodied voice called out.
“I don’t speak Russian,” Ella answered. It was a lie. She knew Russian as well as she knew Lebanese, but today she was a corn-fed, straight-out-of-Nebraska tourist. She wouldn’t tip anyone off by speaking fluent Russian.
No one knew this, but Harrison Black had kept her supplied in identities for the last year. She didn’t trust Dresden, so she’d reached out to Black through Brody, and he’d reluctantly—okay, had his arm twisted by the Piper—agreed to supply her.
Nobody did fake identities like Harrison Black. The surly former SAS agent knew his stuff, and though he grumbled every time she contacted him, he still called her Ella-Bella. Team. King was going to be so pissed off when he discovered Black had helped her. Hopefully, she’d get a chance to run interference for Black before King took his head off in anger.
“Message,” came the stilted reply, pulling her from her musing. “For you.”
Ella cautiously opened the door, prepared for anything. A slight man dressed in the accoutrements of a bellhop was holding a single sheaf of paper, which he handed to her before turning on his heel and leaving.
Ella took the paper, unfolded it, and read.
Meet me in Saint Basil’s.
Ella’s mind whirred. She’d love to have Brody around to bounce things off. He’d served as her friend, teammate, and handler for the last year. He’d couriered information for her to the Piper, and he’d been her sounding board when shit got bad.
Right now, she’d love to have him at her back.
Ella had been told to meet the woman in the State Historical Museum. She didn’t care for the change in venue, but it wasn’t tourist season and there were ongoing renovations at Saint Basil’s. Perhaps that’s why Svetlana had chosen it—less line of sight, more barriers to hide behind. Still, Ella was prepared for anything at this point, and it was too late to turn around.
How many times would she have to tell herself that?
Instead of continuing to beat herself up, she made her way to Saint
