Chapter 26
Cornered.
Cal tried to calculate the Russians’ next move, running scenarios in his head. Angles, cover, fallback options. The enemy had more choices than he did. Then there was the other wild card. His wife.
What the hell was Io going to do?
Traffic continued to drive by, engines rumbling, but the sidewalks on both sides of the street were empty now. Trujillo had been through gang warfare before. People knew when it was time to disappear and lie low. Civilians had melted away, leaving only the predators and prey.
Okay, that made it easier. The only person he needed to take care of was Io.
He shifted his stance, angling slightly. Just enough to shield her. His muscles were coiled, ready to spring into action at the first move. Cal did another sweep.
Rocky and Snidely flanked Petrova who was ambling toward them. Boris and Bullwinkle had weapons drawn and were closing in. Closing off the few options he and Io had. He tried to free his hand from Io’s, but she didn’t release him.
A split second to check on her. He needed her loose, responsive, ready. Io wasn’t scared. She was irritated, which somehow made his pulse spike harder.
Wild card. She could be a timebomb waiting to explode. And whatever she did could make defending her even more difficult.
His instincts screamed at him to fight, to go on the offensive before Io did something to detonate the bomb. Cal fought it off. Going off half-cocked would be a great way to fuck things up. Discipline. He’d had it trained into him. He wasn’t risking the woman he loved by giving in to impulse.
Elena’s face flashed in his mind.
Petrova’s gaze was locked on Io. The bastard wasn’t rushing—he didn’t need to. Not only did have the numbers and the angles on his side, he had the confidence of a man who believed the trap was sprung. That there was no escape.
“Keep walking. Almost there.” Io’s voice was low, not even a whisper.
Why the fuck was she insistent on moving toward Petrova?
Then he spotted it. One more store length ahead. A café. A sign hanging on the glass door turned to Open. A way out.
His pulse hammered. That door was their lifeline, the only exit from the snare being tightened around them second by second. They had to reach it before the assholes reached them. It was their last option.
“See it,” he told Io under his breath.
Cal calculated the distance to the doorway, the time it would take to open it. The time it would take for Io to get inside. He measured the distance the five Russians were from the café, factored in their pace. They’d move faster once they saw the door open.
It was going to be tight.
“No hesitation,” he warned her.
“Copy.”
Petrova seemed amused. Fucker thought he had them boxed in. He thought there was no way out.
Nearly to the door.
Cal weighed whether to draw his pistol, but that might encourage them to open fire. He didn’t want to risk Io. Or the diners and employees inside the restaurant.
They were edging forward, Cal estimating the timing with every step. He knew when the situation went critical. “Run, Thing!”
She immediately headed toward the café door. Bullwinkle’s pistol tracked them, Boris mirroring him. Petrova barked out an order in Russian. Cal only caught part of it. Enough to know they needed to hurry.
Io yanked the door open, the bell jangled wildly. He barreled in behind her. “Move. They’re going to cover the alley. We have to beat them.”
Diners froze. So did the waiters. Then people dove under tables. Cal ignored it.
She was already racing through the dining room, headed toward the back, and he followed her. A waiter lost control of the tray he carried and dishes crashed into the floor. A woman screamed.
Io slammed her hands into the swinging door into the kitchen. He was on her heels.
Heat slammed into him. Boiling pots, frying oil, steam filling the air. Now the cooks began yelling. One brandished a knife as chaos erupted. Cal kept his eyes on the man with the large knife. He wasn’t allowing him near Io.
“Back door,” Io said. He knew that meant she’d located the back door.
Knife dude was dangerously close. He put his body between the chef and Io. “Go,” Cal ordered. He needed to trust her to get out first and pray the Russians weren’t waiting for them. Grabbing the man’s wrist, Cal disarmed him, kicked the knife away, and followed her.
The back door loomed ahead, half hidden behind stacked crates of vegetables.
Io was already there. She knocked into the side of top crate with her shoulder and it hit the ground.
He saw her grimace, but she didn’t slow.
The crash made the shouting erupt in the kitchen again and he turned, making sure no one else was coming at them with a knife.
Clear.
“Door’s jammed,” Io reported.
Cal went at it almost at a run. His shoulder slammed into the metal door. Pain shot down his arm when it didn’t give. The second slam took care of the problem. The door banged open, spilling them into a narrow alley.
The stench of rotting food waste was overwhelming, but there were no Russians here. Yet. “Left,” he ordered.
Without hesitation, Io turned and raced the direction he’d dictated. He caught up to her and took her hand. Not wanting to be separated from her. They hit a spot where two alleyways intersected and Cal tugged her that direction.
This alley was wider, the smell better since they were behind shops now and not the café. Delivery entrances.
He heard yelling in Russian from the first alley. Cal spoke Russian. Fluently. He and Io had been spotted. They were being pursued.
The news got better. There was a fence blocking the end of the alley.
“Fuck.”
“Truck,” Io said. “You drive.”
The box truck sat near the back door to one of the stores. The engine was running. Maybe she knew what she was doing after all.
She pulled open the driver’s door and scooted over. Cal was climbing up behind her when the delivery driver came out of the store. His rant stopped mid-bellow when the mobsters opened fire. Shutting the cab, he put the truck in gear.
Cal sped toward the Russians. They could either get the fuck out of his way or they could get run over.
They jumped clear, but they emptied their clips, shooting at the truck before Cal squealed around the corner. More Russians in the first alley. Not only Petrova, Boris, and Bullwinkle, but three other men.
Bullets hit the truck’s side panels, the metallic clang echoing.
“Get down,” he ordered, worried Io would get hit.
Her hesitation lasted a split second, then she followed his command, dropping to the floor, her head below window level.
“I should be returning fire,” she muttered. “We need some cover.”
“I’m almost to the street.”
He took the turn onto the main road without slowing. For a moment, he thought they’d tip over, but it lurched back onto all four tires.
Sidewalk vendors shouted profanities before Cal got the truck off the concrete and onto asphalt. In the side mirror, he saw Petrova’s team spill out onto the sidewalk behind them. They weren’t giving up.
Cal pressed harder on the accelerator.
They needed out of the area before the crew reached their cars and gave chase. But he kept his eyes open, making sure they didn’t run into more reinforcements. He wasn’t losing discipline now.
He had one goal. Keep Io safe. End of story.
Io tried to keep her mouth shut. They were both dealing with adrenaline aftermath and emotions were close to the surface. This hotel room, though, wasn’t designed to help anyone remain calm.
The walls were bright blue, the curtains were sunshine yellow, the bedspread was fluorescent lime green faux fur.
That was bad enough, but it was the ceiling that put her over the edge.
It was painted like a fuchsia and aqua vortex.
She got dizzy every time she glanced up.
There was a hot tub in a corner of the room and a four-poster bed with a red and gold canopy.
At least it blocked the ceiling.
It was also the only bed in the room and it was a double, not even a queen.
“What the hell kind of mess is this place?” Io growled.
“Do you think I like this fucking carnival?”
Io humphed out a noise that was half snort, half scoff. “You picked it.”
Cal glared. “They have two rooms with air conditioning. The desk clerk said the other one is orange and yellow. I thought blue was the better option.”
Taking another look around the room, she tried imagining what an orange and yellow version of this disaster would look like. While Cal had checked them in, she’d loitered near the windows, watching their asses. Io shrugged. “Sleep is overrated anyway.”
“For fuck’s sake. The place is clean, there aren’t any bedbugs, and we’re safe. That’s the most important thing.” He took a deep breath, clearly trying to take his irritation down a few levels. It must not have worked because he began to pace.
The carpeting was the least colorful part of the room.
It was a sedate shade of gold. She watched Cal’s boots meet the floor as he tried to burn off some of his mood.
Io eyed the fake fur covering the bed and elected to sit in one of the two chairs—the red upholstered chairs.
This room was a joke, but she wasn’t in the mood to laugh about it.
When he turned and saw her watching him, he stopped, scowled, and said, “We can’t reach Torres, not while Petrova is hunting you. I’m pulling the plug on this.”
Io sprang to her feet like there was a catapult in the chair. “Not your call.”
“You might be in charge of this op, but I’m in charge of keeping you alive. You can’t complete the assignment. You’re out.”
She hadn’t fought with him back in Germany—she’d been too shattered to let him see the damage.
But now, trapped in this garish room with adrenaline still burning through her, the old wound ripped wide open.
It’s hormones, fight it. But she didn’t want to fight it.
She’d been pissed off at Cal since he broke her heart.
Back then, she hadn’t yelled, hadn’t thrown tear-filled accusations, and that bottled-up pain met the aftermath of the day they’d survived.
“You are not in charge of me.” She fisted her hands, struggling to keep her voice low.
There was no telling who was in the adjacent rooms. “You gave up any right you had to offer your opinion on my life when you ended our marriage. Look on the bright side. You don’t need to worry about a divorce if I die. ”
She shouldn’t feel satisfaction over infuriating him, but she did.
Cal’s face went rigid. “Our marriage ended because I couldn’t stand by and watch you risk your life. I wanted you safe then. I want you safe now.”
“I offered you a compromise, and you turned me down flat. It was your way or it was over.”
Cal took her shoulders in his hands. Even angry, his hold was careful. “We’re hiding in a room that looks like a circus because your job is not safe.”
Io lifted her chin and met him glare for glare. “If you’d accepted my compromise, I never would have been in Puerto Jardin. I never would have attracted the attention of Petrova and his friends. I never would have gotten kidnapped by Fuentes.”
Cal’s jaw flexed, a tiny tic started, one that she’d seen every time they argued about her job.
His grip tightened fractionally, then eased, his thumbs brushing her shoulders as if he couldn’t stop himself.
“If it wasn’t Puerto Jardin, you would have gotten in trouble somewhere else.
Your compromise solved nothing and I wasn’t going to stay around, waiting to get a call that you were dead. ”
They’d covered this ground before and Io didn’t know what else she could say. “Everybody dies, Cal, even people with boring nine-to-five desk jobs. It’s inevitable.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to go chasing it.”
Turning to break his hold, Io said, “I’m not chasing it. You saw for yourself in France that my job usually isn’t dangerous. I bumped into your team’s op, stayed out of the way, and when I picked up intel, I passed it on. I didn’t put on a cape and try to play superhero.”
His expression didn’t change.
“There are all kinds of ways to die. Sitting at a desk, typing data into spreadsheets would smother me, kill the spark that makes me who I am. Do you even care about that or do you just want a doll you can control?”
Cal flinched. Barely, but she knew him. She saw it. “You think I want a puppet?”
“Your rejection made that abundantly clear. Maybe you thought if you told me to go back to LA that you’d scare me enough to do everything your way, but you’re not the first person who tried to force me to be someone I’m not.”
“You could just do the photojournalist part. In the States.”
Io pushed both hands through her hair, pushing it back from her face.
“Bullshit. You’d start bitching about that, too.
How long would it take before you told me I can’t go to Alaska because there are bears?
I can’t go to Maine because moose can be dangerous.
No, you can’t go to Louisiana, there are alligators.
At least be honest with yourself. You never loved me.
You only loved the idea of who you wanted me to be. ”
Cal went absolutely still, a response she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen from him before. She heard his breath catch and something flickered in his eyes, there and gone too quickly to identify. He looked away, and something about that signaled that she hurt him.
When he spoke, Cal’s voice could cut glass. “You’re wrong. I do love you. I might never get over you, but I can’t live with the risk.”
Adrenaline aftermath. That’s why she was feeling teary, but she wasn’t going to cry in front of Cal. “Then you don’t love me enough. Because if you really, truly loved me, you would accept who I am.”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, but didn’t say anything.
“Never mind. I’m done with this.” She needed to escape before she couldn’t hold back the tears anymore.
“Io—”
She cut him off. “I won’t forget again. The only person I can depend on is myself. Lesson learned.”
And pivoting, Io headed for the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Maybe she really was unlovable. First her parents, then Cal. How long did it take before she had to accept there was something wrong with her?
For a moment she held her breath, waiting for Cal to knock on the door. Waiting for him to check on her, but there was nothing. Nothing.
Sinking on the edge of the tub, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed silently.
Alone.