Savage Beauty (The Arrow Tactical Series Book 5)

Chapter 1

Doctors and nurses pass in the manila hallway with stern expressions and swift steps.

“Have you been to the Petronas Twin Towers?” Mom asks.

I’m speaking to my mom through my earpieces, and she doesn’t hear me as well when I do that, so I’ve got the phone held up to my mouth like it’s a microphone. None of the physicians or nurses spare me and my mumbling a second glance.

“Riva, he’s not there for a joyride,” Dad pipes in. He’s on the line, too, because yes, my folks still have a landline and one phone in the den and one in the bedroom, specifically so when I call they can each easily join in on the call.

“But surely he has some free time. You have some free time, don’t you? There’s also the Batu cave, and you liked Chinatown in New York City when we took you. You might like it there too.”

Mom continues reading through a list she must’ve prepared specifically for this call when a dark-haired, middle-aged man about six-foot-one and wearing a money suit, slows near Sloane Watson’s hospital room. My buddy Knox approaches him.

The guy’s hands aren’t near his waist, but from this angle, I can’t tell if he’s packing.

“Mom, Dad, I’m gonna need to go. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“When’s your flight?—”

“Riva, you know he can’t share that.”

“Love you guys.”

I end the call but remain on the bench, wary of the suit. I increase the volume on the earpieces, using the devices like a hearing aid.

“Can we go outside? My car’s in the parking lot.” The suit’s question to my friend has me wondering who the hell he is. We’re in Kuala Lumpur, for fuck’s sake. Lawyer? Unlikely. High-end hired assassin? Conceivable.

“Why would I go outside with you?” Knox asks nicer than I would’ve.

Knox and I served on the teams together. Not the same team, but we know each other, and when we left the military for the private sector, we joined the same outfit.

“So we can speak. Without being overheard.” Who does moneybags think, besides me, is listening?

“And you are?” Knox asks.

“Tristan Viognier. We met once on a business call. You might remember me as Nomad.”

Ah, that makes sense. He’s Interpol. They provided us with the intel that led us to Sloane Watson, the woman we extracted from a hostage situation. We’re still piecing together all the whys.

Sloane is the sister of Knox’s girlfriend, Sage. She’s also the sister of Sam Watson, a former SEAL who died in combat two years ago. That’s probably a big reason Arrow, the black ops security firm we work for, took Sloane’s case pro bono. The interest from the CIA in the eleventh hour was an unanticipated bonus for our private security firm. The CIA is just one of the government agencies on Arrow Tactical’s client roster.

Knox and Sage haven’t left the hospital since Sage arrived fifty-two hours ago. Each night, I’ve gone back to the hotel alone, and their room has remained unused.

“She’s groggy. She’s been in and out of sleep all day. We haven’t questioned her yet. I don’t have anything to share with you.”

Knox speaks the truth. The escape plan the CIA concocted for us to rescue Sloane from a Cambodian compound entailed unanticipated complications. Therefore, here we sit in a hospital on foreign soil.

“Let’s go see if she’s ready to talk,” Knox says. Together, Knox and the Interpol officer enter Sloane’s hospital suite.

I remove my earpieces. This guy isn’t here to hurt anyone. Knox must’ve come to the same conclusion, or he would’ve never led him into the suite with the Watson sisters.

I edge my way into the doorway behind them.

Sloane rests on a stack of pillows in her inclined hospital bed.

The family resemblance between Sloane and her sister, Sage, is undeniable. But there are distinct differences too. Sloane’s tall and lean, for one, whereas Sage is petite and curvy. Sloane’s a darker brunette, and her straight hair, in the right light, has a lustrous black sheen. Sage’s hair is wavy, full of body, a lighter, semi-chocolate brown, and she almost always wears it pulled back.

Knox fell hard for Sage, claiming she possesses that mythical heart of gold. I’ll admit, when I first met her, I was slow to warm to her. She had one wild story, and Knox fell too fast. Way too trusting. My man put his heart on the line within days of her showing up on his front stoop. But with time, I’ve come around. Knox called it right. She’s a sweetheart. And she loves my buddy. She’ll be good for him. I hope.

Sloane, however, is her sister’s opposite. By all accounts, she’s sharp like a knife. Cutthroat. We’re still gathering information, but we all suspect she’s not entirely innocent and her poor choices played into her abduction. We fully expect she willingly broke the law. But they’ve got her hopped up on meds that keep her floating in and out of consciousness, so we have yet to press her.

They lowered the dosage of whatever’s been keeping her sedated. We should get answers soon.

We aren’t law officers. If she broke any laws, she did so outside of US territory. If anyone will investigate the matter, it will be Interpol or the Cayman Islands police. And the Cayman Islands aren’t going to send investigators to Kuala Lumpur.

“Sloane, this is Tristan Viognier. He’s part of the team that helped us find you. If you feel up for it, he’d like to ask you some questions.” Knox steps away after making the introduction.

“The nurse said they may discharge me in the morning,” Sloane says to the room with no noticeable acknowledgement of the stranger.

Mr. Interpol drags a chair up beside Sloane’s hospital bed. He removes his sportscoat, revealing a close-fitting, lavender dress shirt with gold cufflinks. He’s positioned himself at a lower height than Sloane, presumably to set her at ease. The effort seems lost on Sloane, who maintains a listless stare out the window.

“Do you feel up to answering some questions?”

Knox fumbles with his phone, and I’d bet he’s setting it to record. Smart. Our team back home has questions. One of our own died protecting Sage. Our best guess is whoever abducted Sloane came after Sage to use her as a tool for coercion.

“What do you want to know?” Sloane jabs her temple with her index and middle fingers. “My head hurts.”

“I shall strive for expediency.” Tristan leans back in the seat and crosses an ankle over his knee, exposing purple paisley dress socks. The guy has a British lilt to his words that matches his odd fashion sense.

Sloane closes her eyes. She’s clearly not too concerned about the Brit. I’m not sure she’s even looked at him.

“Fine. Let’s get it over with,” she snaps.

“Very well. I’ll be as brief as possible.” The officer’s posture strikes a classically friendly interrogation position. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Sage’s head dips, then jerks. She’s struggling to remain awake. I tried to send her and Knox home countless times, only to be rebuffed.

Sloane had a bad allergic reaction to the pill we slipped her in Cambodia, and her dehydrated state intensified the reaction. The pill was supposed to make her lose consciousness so no one would question her being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. Unfortunately, the reaction was so severe we had to fly her to Kuala Lumpur to save her life. Sloane didn’t wake up from her medically-induced coma until early this morning, so I can’t blame Sage for insisting on remaining by her only living relative’s side.

“It’s my understanding you were taken against your will,” he prompts. He reminds me of a lawyer. Or maybe a politician. This is my first interaction with Interpol, but this guy isn’t what I expected. “Do you know why they took you? There was no ransom, which is typical in an international incident. We’re quite curious, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“He took me on a boat. I told him I get seasick.”

“Does this man have a name?”

“Anton. That’s how he introduced himself. I overheard others address him as Solonov. I assume his name was Anton Solonov.”

Tristan turns slightly in the chair, meeting Knox’s gaze. I don’t recognize the name. But maybe I should. “How did you know Mr. Solonov?”

“I didn’t know him,” she snaps. Tristan appears unfazed by her attitude. Sage comes to stand beside her sister, physically blocking her view of the window. She brushes her sister’s hair behind one ear and leans closer, setting her face near Sloane’s.

“Sloane. Do you think you could tell us what happened? Just start from the beginning.” From this angle, it’s difficult to read the exchange between the sisters. “Where did you meet this…Anton?”

“The man is a psychopath. Possibly a sociopath.”

Sage picks up her sister’s hand and rubs her thumb back and forth over the back of it. “Let’s start from the beginning. Where did you meet him?”

“The lab. It was a Sunday. An hour and thirty-three minutes before our Sunday video chat. He asked me to go for a ride.”

“Had you seen him before?” Sage asks.

“No.”

Sage looks distraught. “You got in a car with a man you don’t know?”

Sloane says something to Sage I can’t hear. Knox smirks. Intriguing. Sloane’s voice grows louder. “I’m not stupid. I agreed to meet him. I had my bike. He showed up after I finished a report. I needed a break before I double-checked the numbers in my analysis.”

“You met him in your lab?” Tristan asks for clarification.

“I thought he was an investor. They were there earlier in the week, and I overheard them. They were referencing incorrect financial projections. I didn’t want them to cut funding, so I dug deeper into the data.”

“What data?” Tristan asks.

Sloane’s lips purse as she presses her temple.

Sage leans closer. “Sloane?”

“Transplant survival rates. I overheard people talking in the Bodden building. And the numbers cited were significantly off. Yet familiar. It bothered me. I went back and checked peer reviewed research. I was right.”

“About what?” Sage combs her fingers through Sloane’s hair, the movement as soft and comforting as her tone of voice.

“It doesn’t matter.” Sloane’s gaze settles on the top right corner of the room. “You won’t understand.”

Sage smiles and continues combing her sister’s hair with her fingers. “You’re right. I probably won’t. Can you still tell me? Simplify it. Tell me like I’m a third grader.”

The Interpol suit leans forward, losing his patience with the sister talk, and asks, “Sloane, the Bodden building. Is that part of Origins Laboratories?”

“Yes. We don’t do research in that building, but they hold meetings there. Investor meetings.”

Sage brings her sister back around to the questions we all have. “So, I’m a third grader. What were they wrong about?”

“The survival rates they were referencing were wrong. Five to ten percent off. More. The complications. Hepatitis C. Cancer. And they weren’t comparing live versus dead donors. They were just…wrong. I needed to show them they were wrong, because if they believed those numbers were right, they might not continue funding my research.”

“And exactly what research do you do?” Tristan interrupts.

“Organoid research. I’m working on growing organs from stem cells.”

“Past fourteen days?” Tristan asks. This is where we’d known she was breaking international law, but I don’t get the sense anyone really cares about that law.

“Yes, past fourteen days. We’re making progress, too. Growing organs in a lab is an ethical solution to the world organ shortage. But the survival rates the investors touted were off. And I figured it out.”

“What was wrong with their numbers?” Tristan prompts.

“They were quoting numbers from studies coming out of India and Taiwan. Both studies attempted to discern variations in results on black market organs. Gathering black market data is quite difficult. For obvious reasons. Anyway, I spent a week compiling a report on all black-market transplant surgeries versus both live and dead organ transplant surgeries in the United States and the United Kingdom and prepared a discourse on the variations and how lab-grown organs would not suffer the same results as those in alternative countries. I also located more recent data on our server from non-specified locations. The location field had been deleted, but I located the source file. The results were noteworthy and worth peer review. It appears survival rates on black market organs are trending downward in specific source regions. The cancer rates for three years post-surgery for recipients with organs sourced from specific regions in Asia were extraordinarily high. Twenty to thirty percent higher than standard norms. Obviously, it needs to be shared broadly. Peer review. I might have missed something. Tabulated something incorrectly.”

“Did you share this report with anyone?” Tristan asks.

“No. The psychopath arrived before I double-checked my analysis. I’d been working on it for days. I saved it to the network, but I wanted to review it again before sharing it with my boss.”

“Did you talk to Anton Solonov about your work?”

“No.”

“Did he inquire about your research?”

“No.”

“So, what happened? After you left the lab?” Sage asks. I’m not sold on the heart of gold, but she’s got the patience of Job.

“I woke up vomiting in the bottom of a boat. I thought I would die. When we made it to land, I told him I would do anything as long as he didn’t make me ride in a boat again.”

“I thought you said you didn’t get in the car?—”

“I didn’t. He gave me a water bottle. The last thing I remember is him driving alongside me while I walked my bike on the sidewalk. I could see the marina, but I was so tired. He must have drugged the water.”

“How did you end up in Cambodia?”

“We docked somewhere and boarded a small plane.”

“Did you…did he touch you? Hurt you?”

Sloane shakes her head slightly. “I couldn’t stop vomiting. Dry heaving.”

“What about the people in Cambodia?”

“Anton told them he’d be back to get me. He told a guard no one was to hurt me. Before you ask, I don’t know why. Whoever his boss is, they gave specific instructions I wasn’t to be hurt. I heard him instruct more than one person.”

“Were you ever held against your will in the Caymans?”

We’re all interested in hearing the answer to this question of Tristan’s. We’d originally suspected she was being held in the Caymans. But by the time Arrow got involved, she’d been missing a while. We didn’t have much to go on.

“No.” Sloane is curt. Dismissive, even. “How quickly can we arrange flights home? I need to get back to work.”

Sage places her sister’s hand, the one without an IV, on her thigh. She’s leaning on the bed, and she seems to be working to get her sister’s attention. “They believe you resigned.”

“I didn’t resign. I need to get back.”

“Not so fast, love,” Tristan says with quiet calm. “Anton Solonov is a known assassin. There’s what’s called a Red Notice placed on him. Which means he’s considered to be highly dangerous. We’ve been quite aware of him for years. Someone hired him. Someone with extensive means because he doesn’t work for just anyone. Can you think of any reason someone would hire him to abduct you?”

Sloane’s brow furrows, and it’s clear there’s a discussion going on in that head of hers. “I figured out why they had me doing blood tests.”

“Why?”

“Organ matches.” She licks her lips, and Sage gets up to get her water. “The people in the compound will be harvested for organs. Or at least, that’s my assumption based on the records they were keeping on them. But anyone could do those tests. Once I figured out what they were doing, which was on the first day when I saw the data they were collecting, I refused to be a part of it. But then they told me they’d hurt Sage.”

“And you don’t have any idea why they picked you?”

Sloane shakes her head, lips firm and tight, gaze downward.

“Could it be this report you created? Is there someone who wouldn’t want it shared? Data, perhaps, that someone might not want uncovered?”

Sloane pushes the glass away when Sage approaches, refusing the water. She closes her eyes and rests her head against the pillow. “It wasn’t our research. I accessed a database we pay to access. Multiple parties contribute data. I was making the case to the investors that organ development will be profitable because I overheard one of them questioning the financial return. If anything, the risks inherent in trafficked organs will be absent from lab grown organs. And based on the data I was putting together, the risks of black-market organs are increasing. Significantly higher cancer rates. Like I said.”

“How closely does Origins Laboratories work with Lumina International?”

“They’re an investor.”

“So, you don’t work closely with them?”

“I never work with them. My old supervisor took a job with them in Geneva. The headquarters.” Her gaze drops to Sage’s hand over hers. “I was close to him.”

Reading between the lines, my guess is this old supervisor is an ex. But if the Interpol suit picks up on that, he doesn’t care.

“Has he remained in contact with your project?”

“No.”

Tristan fumbles with his coat like he’s done. That’s a shit interrogation.

“And your supervisor’s name?” He reaches in his coat pocket for his phone.

“William Salo.” He taps the name into his phone.

If he’s wrapping up, there’s no need for me to stand in the doorway like an outcast.

I rap my fist against the doorframe, and Knox waves me inside. “Tristan, this is Max Hawkins. He’s a colleague of mine.”

I assess Sloane as I approach. “How’s the sleeping beauty?”

“Grumpy,” Knox mumbles low enough the women can’t hear. I clap him on the shoulder. If we weren’t in the company of ladies, I’d give him some shit about the family he’s considering marrying into. Of course, I doubt my buddy’s thinking marriage quite yet. He fell hard, but he didn’t hit his head when he nosedived.

“Well, I think I’ve had the most pressing questions answered,” Tristan announces to the room. “Lovely to meet you all. My department would appreciate inclusion on any reports or summaries.”

Knox leaves the hospital suite with the Interpol goon, and I hang back, observing the two sisters.

Sloane’s objectively a beautiful woman. I’d describe her as elegant and refined. Porcelain skin, a straight nose, curved, perfectly shaped eyebrows that frame intelligent oval eyes, and rose-colored lips. Knox says she’s over-the-top brilliant. All she needs is a pair of black-framed glasses and a skintight, rear hugging pencil skirt and she’d make one helluva sexy librarian on Halloween. The kind who doles out punishments for speaking. Yeah, I can almost see the flush undertones on those high cheekbones in response to a little dirty talk. Those thick eyebrows would knit together, her dark eyes would narrow, and those pink lips would pucker.

And yeah, I need to blink that away.

“You hanging in there?” I’ve had minimal interaction with Sloane since giving her CPR in the back of an ambulance, so the question is directed at Sage.

It’s hard to believe it was only a couple of weeks ago that she showed up at our apartment building back in Santa Barbara, scared to death. Sloane was missing and someone broke into Sage’s home, trying to kill her.

Sage stretches her arms out before her. “I’m good.”

“Why don’t you go back to the hotel? I’ll stay here. I got this.”

We don’t expect anyone else to come for Sloane. But if they do, I’ll be here.

“Thanks, but you can go back. I’m fine staying here.”

“Come on. You’ve got to be jonesing for an actual bed. You guys have been camping out here for days. That sofa out there is comfortable, but it’s not all that.”

Sloane’s sharp tone cuts through the air, a quick reminder she’s no longer medicated. “Sage Watson. You need rest. You, of all people, need your sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Sage argues, but the sunlight streaming in through the window highlights her bloodshot eyes, undermining her statement. From what I understand from Knox, Sage had a heart transplant as a teen. He said she’s healthy now, but it’s a fair assumption that her sister hasn’t forgotten the past.

“Sage. You need to rest. Go.” Sloane barks the words out. She could stand to be a touch softer.

“You and Knox get out of here. I’ve got things covered,” I say, modeling appropriate behavior for the bedridden grump.

“What’s everyone up to in here?” Knox asks as he re-enters the room. “Ready for some dinner?”

“Max and Sloane are ganging up on me to get me to leave.”

Sloane closes her eyelids and rests her head against the stacked pillows. “Max says she hasn’t left the hospital room. Take her back to the hotel. Make her shower and rest.”

Sage stands tall, not having it. “You don’t get to tell me?—”

“Have you been taking your medication?”

Oh, boy. A sister war. I take a step back.

“Yes,” Sage insists. “You can’t kick me?—”

“Talk to the hand,” Sloane says, palm up, eyes still closed, chin thrust in a regal position. “You’re not getting sick or worn down on my watch. You need to be rested before boarding a transcontinental flight. Sagey bean, go. Get out of here.”