Chapter 43
FORTY-THREE
Milan, Italy
Ice stumbled down the sidewalk, one hand across his abs. Mostly to hold his jacket over the wound so no one saw him and decided to call the police. He finally spotted the bar a quarter mile down this busy street.
Tourists. Locals. Folks going to work. He weaved through them all, clipped a stroller wheel with his boot and nearly fell, caught himself and stumbled on.
His entire shirt drenched was in sweat. But he was in better shape than the men he had left back in that warehouse.
The ones who had come in after Vesper hit him with a taser.
Shrugging off the aftereffects only left him angrier than he would’ve been otherwise over the fact that Earthnet sent a team of men to capture him and take him… wherever.
It wasn’t lost on him that he’d be with the rest of the team if he allowed himself to get captured.
But being recently tased didn’t exactly help a guy think straight.
Even now, angry Russian played like a litany in his head—some part of him that sounded an awful lot like his father, raging at the audacity that they even came at him to try.
He needed the fire of that anger to keep him upright for the moment, so he let it continue. Keeping pace with the rhythm of the words that played in his mind, and even spilled onto his lips so that he was stumbling toward the bar, muttering in Russian.
The guy on the door wore jeans and boots, a faded T-shirt, and a leather vest with plenty of emblems and pins. His hair had been shaved, and he had a scar above his left ear.
Ice shifted his arm from his front and used his other hand to raise his T-shirt between the sides of his jacket.
The guy got a look at the nasty wound on Ice’s abdomen spilling blood all over him. He was pretty sure the bleeding had slowed—yeah, he was gonna go with that. Bouncer Guy didn’t even blink.
Until Ice lifted the shirt high enough he got a look at the tattoo on Ice’s pectoral.
Then he blinked.
The bouncer unlocked his phone and held it to his mouth, barking an order to whoever was on the other end of the voice messaging app.
Ice’s head swam, and he started to sway.
The front door opened, and a guy came out.
The two of them slung his arms over their shoulders and walked him in so quick his feet dragged behind him on the floor.
No one turned to watch them, and there were plenty of men and women in the bar.
Music played from the corner, a song his sister had liked. Played so much he knew all the words.
They took him to an office, where a woman in a tiny denim skirt and a tank top swiped everything off the desk onto the floor.
Ice landed on his back on the desk, his knees at the end and his boots hanging down against the side. Air expelled from his lungs in a rush, and he groaned to disguise where his hand went—and what he found. The T-shirt was cut away, and someone started to drag his arms from the jacket. “Nyet!”
The jacket was left where it was. Ice tucked the items he’d lifted up into his sleeve.
His consciousness drifted in and out, leaving him only partially aware that someone was stitching up his abdomen. Making him think about Adam and the state he’d been in when Ice last saw him, in the lab on that boat. Then he’d tussled with Steph. Then her sister. Then those guys in that warehouse.
He only had limited options left for what to do next.
And unfortunately, none of them involved eating a T-bone steak and taking a nap.
Slender fingers traced their way across his tattoo.
Ice grabbed her wrist, and she flinched.
He stared at her and she met his gaze for a second before her chin dipped and she looked away.
He let her go then. Someone handed him a bottle with no label.
Ice figured he’d regret tasting whatever was inside, but took a heavy swig anyway and swallowed before his mouth could register the flavor.
He blew a breath out that tasted like fire.
A door shut, and he was finally left alone.
Ice glanced at the clock on the wall and noted the time.
He would have less than an hour before he had to be on the move again.
After that, family members would show up.
Angry ones, who would demand an explanation he didn’t want to give. Plus, he didn’t have time anyway.
Ice dug in his pocket and pulled out Steph’s necklace.
He forced his body up, not quite sitting upright and sort of rolling off the side of the desk at the same time. Trying not to groan so loud he drew attention. The computer and phone remained on the desk, behind his head.
He got his feet under him and sank into the chair. Someone had left a phone charger plugged into the computer. Ice checked the desk phone had a dial tone and fired up the computer, bypassing the password and going to the Bluetooth settings.
He pressed both ends of the vial on Steph’s necklace, and the signal popped up on the monitor.
Visible but not accessible, until he worked his way through that password also.
That was when he knew for sure the CIA had created this thing.
There were always tells in the programming that let him know where the software had been written.
The vial vibrated on the desk between his wrists. Ice lifted it and put it to his ear.
“You have the book?”
Ice started typing on the computer, opening new windows online and running scans on the signal that the computer could see.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
Ice initiated a voice recognition scan and said, “How long will you keep up this subterfuge?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is not the point. It’s obvious Silas Ilman is dead.”
“Division Zero has Stephanie-Jo?” The caller paused. “You understand what that means for the future of your team.”
“That we’re harboring a burned spy? That’s all you’ve got to threaten us with?” Ice watched the scan do its thing on the computer monitor. “You kept her on the hook for years.”
Never mind that Ice had determined the first moment he saw her that she wasn’t built for this.
Why else drop her on that train? She didn’t need to get caught up in it.
He remembered well enough the sight of her in that pickup truck in Turkey, shivering.
Pretending she wasn’t in the throes of a panic attack.
Not that a person with anxiety couldn’t be a spy, but something about her made him want to do what it took to get her out of the deal. To free her and watch whatever was happening between her and Adam blossom into something real.
At least someone would be happy. And if anyone deserved it, that person was Adam.
“You think I’ve been lying to her,” the caller said. “As if she’s worth that much trouble.”
The monitor display flickered as the scan finished. Voice identified: Thomas Kraus. Some basic details about him were listed, but nothing related to the CIA position he held.
Ice jogged his knee up and down under the desk. “So why keep her on your books for years?”
“Burnable resources are easier to replace. Agents are a dime a dozen. Every upstart college graduate wants to save the world. I’ve got an army of young adults itching for me to put a gun in their hand and point them at a terrorist or some other kind of bad guy.”
“Like I said, why keep her?”
“You wanna make a deal?”
Ice’s stomach clenched, which didn’t feel good at all. But the idea of bargaining for someone’s life wouldn’t ever sit well with him. It hit far too close to home. “You think I need you?”
“I think there’s a reason you’re at that bar, Ivan.”
Not good. “So you know where I am. So what?”
“You wanna come in, the CIA will listen to what you have to say. Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement.”
“Tell me where to be.” He had to get out of here anyway. He’d identified the caller, and if he was given an address, he’d know more.
Ice heard snatches of people talking in the hall, passing by the door.
At the same time, Kraus rattled off a local address. “It’s a CIA safehouse. The agent in residence will be expecting you.”
“Peachy.”
Ice disconnected the call and closed all the windows he’d opened.
He pocketed everything he needed to take with him and headed for the door, trying to ignore the way his head swam and the world felt a bit woozy.
Whatever was in that bottle dulled the pain in his abdomen like a champ, but when he threw up later, it wasn’t going to feel good.
The hall was empty, so he ducked out. Went to the end and pushed out the exit door into a stretch of gravel where a guy slept on an old swinging bench that had been set on four gallon-sized buckets because the chains had rusted and broken a long time ago.
A deep snore came from the guy’s throat.
Ice snuck around the building, dragging his jacket closed over the wound. Commotion erupted inside as they realized he was gone. Ice pulled out the wallet he’d stolen and fished out the cash and credit cards, dropping the leather billfold on the ground by an overflowing trash can.
The yelling was outside now. They’d come out the back.
He ducked out the gate and raced along the sidewalk, keeping an even stride as he picked up his pace.
The stitches in his abdomen pulled, but he ignored the sensation and went left down a residential street, down the side of a random house.
Through their backyard, where he hopped a fence and came out a street over.
Couple more turns, and he was back on a busy street where he spotted a bus stop on the far side, and a bus approaching.
Ice jogged across the street, joined the crowd, and got on the bus, collapsing into a window seat close to the back.
When the bus turned past the bar, he watched them congregate outside, gesturing wildly while they tried to figure out where he’d gone. He opened the Maps app on his phone and figured out how to get to the CIA safehouse.
Almost half an hour later, Ice disembarked the bus and zipped up his jacket, turning up the collar. He walked three quarters of a mile and found the small house with a blue Fiat parked in front, on a stretch of concrete between the house and a low brick wall that separated it from the busy street.
Cars buzzed past, the whip of air ruffling his hair. He went down the side of the redbrick house, to a side door beside the kitchen window. White UPVC door with a semicircle window.
Ice knocked and waited.
The handle turned down, and the door opened. The agent in residence was at least six two, dark hair long and loose almost down to his shoulders. Hair tie on one wrist.
“They told me to come here.” Ice could use the injury as cover to convince this guy he needed help, but announcing his injury would put him at a disadvantage.
The guy stepped back. “I got a communiqué. You’re Division Zero?”
Ice nodded and entered the residence. “Nice place. Smells like Cheetos.”
“Can’t get ’em here. Every time I go Stateside, I stock up.” The guy sniffed. “I’m Jim.”
“Calvin,” Ice said. Two steps got him into the kitchen, a long narrow room with the sink at the far end and the washing machine under the counter opposite the refrigerator.
“Help yourself to whatever. I gotta check on something.” Jim wandered off down the hall, walking stiffly like he too was injured.
“Thanks,” Ice called back. “I could use a sandwich or something.”
Ice bent and pulled open the door of the small fridge—not without pain, though he didn’t show it even if he was alone.
He found it stocked with a couple of microwave meals and two pints of milk in glass bottles.
The tiny freezer compartment at the top had one ice cube tray and a small box with one chicken nugget.
A slight scuff of the guy’s shoe gave it away when he came back.
The fact he was attempting to disguise his approach told Ice all he needed to know. He dug his fingers in the box and feinted, ducking the other direction.
Jim swiped down with a knife.
Lured here so the CIA could kill him. Why? Ice would probably never know, apart from the fact that he had reason to believe Silas Ilman—Steph’s father—was dead. Whatever Kraus’ reason, Ice had to live long enough to ask and try to get a straight answer.
As if a guy could do that with someone like Kraus.
Ice slammed the frozen-solid chicken nugget into Jim’s nose, driving it upward, then grabbed his knife hand. Squeezed the wrist and brought his other arm down on the guy’s forearm, breaking both bones. Jim roared with pain-filled anger, his knees giving out.
Ice brought up his knee and shoved the cartilage of Jim’s nose the rest of the way into his brain.
Jim fell to the floor.
Ice went to find the agent’s computer so he could fish for more answers. Like where his team was being held—and exactly how wrapped up in this the CIA would turn out to be.
He pulled up a secure browser and found a message board the team used.
Bingo.