July 2nd – 10:24 PM – Baltimore, MD
Natalia was acutely aware of Sloan watching her as she sat beside Jordan on the edge of one of the hotel room’s two double beds. She critically examined Jordan’s chest covered with an array of colorful bruises, especially along the right side of his rib cage. He winced when she gently palpated the area. Had a broken rib sliced the pleural cavity? She wished she had her stethoscope so she could listen for breath sounds.
Sloan paced, muttering under his breath. How irritating to be in tune to Sloan’s presence lurking behind her when she needed to concentrate on more important matters, like the state of Jordan’s physical health.
“What happened?” Sloan pelted Jordan with questions. “What did the guy want? Can you recognize him?”
Ignoring Sloan, she bent over to peer at Jordan’s eyes. At least his concussion appeared to be mild, his pupils reacted evenly and brisk. No other cranial nerve damage that she could see. Although the bruise over his one eye was swelling at an alarming rate.
“Well?” Sloan demanded irritably. “You must know something.”
Natalia rounded on him. “Poshi. Leave him alone. How am I supposed to do a complete physical assessment with your constant badgering?”
Sloan eyes narrowed. “I need to know what happened. We have to figure out what’s going on.”
“At Jordan’s expense?” She curled her fingers into fists, trying to control her temper. “Give me at least ten minutes to examine him.”
Jordan groaned and shifted on the bed. Grateful for the excuse, she turned back to her patient. “I can bind your ribs, which should help stabilize them. You’ll need an ice pack for your eye. And I can give you over-the-counter pain medicine.” When they’d stopped at the drugstore, she’d insisted Sloan purchase more acetaminophen and ibuprofen. She hoped they’d take the edge off his pain long enough for him to get some sleep. She picked up the Ace wrap.
“Let’s get it over with then,” Jordan said in a resigned tone.
He groaned again when she helped him upright. Swaying slightly, he sat at the edge of the bed while she wrapped his ribs with an extra wide elastic wrap. She had to practically hug Jordan in order to get the bandage all the way around his torso.
“I’m taking a shower.” Sloan disappeared in the bathroom, shutting the door rather loudly behind him.
“Thank heavens,” she muttered as she wrapped Jordan’s chest. Sloan’s dire expression and incessant questions were driving her crazy.
“He doesn’t like the way you’re caring for me. He’s protective of you.”
She raised a brow at Jordan’s observation. “No. It’s you he’s worried about. He went nuts when we lost contact with you.” The way he’d kissed her had likely been an attempt to forget his friend’s dire condition. “I get the feeling he doesn’t have much confidence in my nursing ability.”
“He hasn’t cared about a woman for a long time. Two years.” Jordan’s eyes were focused on some spot over her head, as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Since Shari died.”
After smoothing one end of the elastic wrap over his chest, she unwrapped another roll. She remembered the picture of Jordan with the brunette woman in Sloan’s living room. “Shari was your wife.”
“My wife. His sister.” Jordan’s tone was flat. “Sloan took her death very hard. He feels responsible even though he isn’t. The past two years has been difficult for him.”
“For both of you, I imagine.” Strange how Jordan seemed to be concerned about his partner when he could barely sit upright under his own power. Why did he act as if something romantic was going on between her and Sloan? She hadn’t given Jordan any reason to think she was interested in Sloan on a personal level. Or was her awareness of him more obvious than she realized? She hoped not. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, placing the second elastic wrap around his chest.
“Thank you.”
She wanted to ask more questions, about Sloan, about how Shari died, and about Jordan himself, but the fatigue etched in his face made her swallow her curiosity.
The poor guy needed sleep. “Here.” She dropped four pills cup in the palm of his hand. “Take these, they’ll help you rest.”
Surprisingly, he did as she asked, downing the medicine and making a face as he handed it back. He groaned as he lay down against the pillows.
She covered him with the light blanket then doused the light. She left the room long enough to fetch some ice from the machine down the hall. She made a cold compress, and then placed it on Jordan’s forehead. The lamp on the other side of the room was still on and she stared at the second bed wondering where Sloan planned to sleep.
Her thoughts were interrupted when the bathroom door opened and Sloan emerged, looking more attractive than she cared to admit, with his hair damp from his shower and his T-shirt clinging to every contoured muscle. Her pulse leaped erratically in her chest, a sensation she tried to ignore.
Sloan glanced over at Jordan, noticing he appeared to be asleep. He didn’t try to wake him, but turned back to where she stood awkwardly between the beds.
“You can rest in the second bed,” he said as if reading her mind. “I’m going to hook up the computer to see what I can find out about Michael Cummings.”
According to Aunt Lara, Michael Cummings was the FBI agent Uncle Alek was working with during his trips back to Russia. Her interest peaked. She’d like to know more about the man, herself. “I’d like to help.”
“No need.” He took up residence in the chair closest to the door and set up his satellite computer on the small table nearby. “Better for you to get some rest.”
She wanted to argue because he needed rest as much if not more than she did. But she was too tired to fight. The open bathroom door reminded her it was her turn to use the shower. She brushed past Sloan to head toward the bathroom, her skin prickling in awareness at the slight touch.
After shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it, staring at her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her skin was pale and the wound along her hairline was beginning to scab over. She looked terrible but not as bad as Jordan.
The brief closeness she’d shared with Sloan—was it only earlier that morning?—had completely vanished. She shouldn’t have cared, should have known that the situation would only become more complicated the longer they were forced to be together.
Jordan’s presence had altered things between them. Why didn’t she feel a welcome relief?
Because she missed him. Missed the closeness they’d shared, the intimacy of being held in his arms.
More than she would have imagined.
July 2nd – 11:07 PM – Baltimore, MD
Sloan scowled at the computer screen, trying not to be distracted by Natalia. He’d acted like an idiot when she was taking care of Jordan. There was no excuse, except that the brief flash of jealousy had caught him off guard.
He’d never been jealous over a woman before in his life. But watching Natalia caring so tenderly for Jordan had dropped a green haze over him.
Since when did he care more for a woman than he did his partner? Since never. He shook off the unwelcome thought and scrolled through his e-mail. There was another urgent message from Bentley, their FBI contact. “Bentley isn’t too happy with us,” he muttered, deleting the message without replying. “He’s demanding we turn over Natalia.”
“And you’re surprised?” Jordan asked, his voice weaker than Sloan liked.
He glanced over at his partner, who was now awake. Sort of. “No. For all we know, he’s the mole.” Not that they could prove it.
“I hope not.”
Sloan knew his partner needed rest, but he burned with a need for answers. “Did you get a good look at the guy who jumped you?”
Jordan tilted his head, looking at him with his good eye since the other was pretty much swollen shut. “No. But there was more than one. Three guys were waiting for me after I’d stopped to grab something to eat.”
“Three?” His stomach clenched at the unfavorable odds. “How on earth did you manage to get away?”
The corner of Jordan’s mouth curved in a smirk. “I’m good.”
Sloan shook his head in disgust. “Yeah. I know. Good thing, too, or I’d be angry.” Jordan’s close brush with death set his teeth on edge. He honestly didn’t know what he’d do without his friend and partner. “I can’t believe you found us.”
“Divine intervention? Maybe. When I stumbled across the green cargo van, I thought I was hallucinating at first.” Jordan frowned. “Until I looked inside and saw your stuff. I jimmied the lock, and then climbed in to wait, hoping you’d be back for the gear.”
“And you’re sure you couldn’t identify them?”
“I didn’t recognize a single one, but that doesn’t mean much, they could still be members of our former employer. Or hired thugs.” Jordan shifted, winced and rubbed a hand over his sore ribs. “I’m sure the only reason they didn’t kill me right away was because they wanted information about you and Natalia.”
“Natalia?” Sloan’s heart dropped. What if they’d gotten their hands on Natalia?
“Yeah. Every one of their questions centered on her. Which makes me believe the mole is getting antsy to get his hands on her.”
He imagined he could sense the hot breath on the back of his neck as the enemy closed in. If only he knew who exactly the enemy was. A group the size of the Solntsevskaya was difficult to pin down. He needed specific names of people to target. If the Mafia had branched their operation into the DC area, who was in charge? If he and Jordan could find out that much, they’d have a place to start.
The bathroom door opened and Natalia stepped out, wearing one of his T-shirts. He averted his gaze, thinking he liked the idea of her wearing his things a little too much.
With an effort, he turned back to his computer and typed Michael Cummings’ name into the database he and Jordan had created in the year they left the FBI.
“Do you mind if I turn on the television?” Natalia asked as she settled on the empty bed, sliding beneath the covers and propping herself up against the headboard.
“Suit yourself.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, relieved she looked relaxed and calm.
“Turn on CNN,” Jordan whispered, obviously fighting to stay awake. “See if any information on Korolev or Nevsky is out there yet. Maybe we’ll learn something.”
Natalia obliged, and Sloan listened as he typed in commands. He found what he was looking for when Cummings’ name popped up as an FBI agent. He read the brief bit of information they had on the guy. His picture didn’t look familiar.
“I need to find where he is now,” Sloan muttered as he redirected his search. He, of all people, knew how much could change over the course of a year.
“Sloan? You have to see this,” Natalia’s horrified tone pulled his concentration from the computer.
“What is it?” He asked as he turned toward the television. “Turn it up.”
She hit the volume button on the remote.
“In breaking world news tonight, we’ve just learned there’s been an explosion along the Kazakhstan oil pipeline, cutting off the flow of oil to Beijing, China. We’ve been told the explosion went off about four in the morning, Moscow time. And as you can see by the film footage behind me, the fire is still blazing out of control.”
“I don’t believe it.” Sloan stared at the grainy picture of the fire behind the CNN news reporter’s head.
“This feeds into your theory, Sloan,” Jordan spoke up. “First the assassination of Josef Korolev and now the destruction of the Kazakhstan oil pipeline.”
“But I don’t understand. How are they related?” Natalia asked in a bewildered tone. “The prime minister was here to talk about the International Middle East Peace Conference. How does the peace conference relate to the pipeline?”
“I don’t know.” Sloan felt sick as he abandoned the computer to stare at the ongoing news coverage. “But there has to be a link. We need to figure it out and soon.”
“Both events compound the strained relationship between the US and Russia,” Jordan commented. “With a bit of China thrown in.”
Sloan nodded. “Yeah. Except that I keep coming back to terrorism.”
“Why terrorism?” Natalia asked. “I don’t understand.”
Jordan stared at him, unmistakable sympathy in his lopsided gaze. He averted his head, knowing how Jordan worried about his obsession with the Solntsevskaya. He knew the Russian Mafia was branching into terrorism but couldn’t prove it.
“It’s just a feeling I have. The third point in the triangle is the dismantling of Russia’s stockpiled nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons. Russia has the largest stockpile of chemical weapons in the world, over 40,000 tons. I can’t help worrying that the pipeline explosion is just a prelude to something more. Something bigger.”
“Bigger? Like 9/11?”
“Yeah.” Sloan definitely had a bad feeling about all of this. “The assassination of Korolev here in DC was a warning. A message.” He stared at Jordan. “Think about it for a minute. The Solntsevskaya has brought their operation to DC. What if they really are setting up a terrorist attempt?”
“Dear Lord, please have mercy,” Natalia whispered.
“Exactly. I’d say the city most likely to be a target is none other than Washington, DC.”
July 3rd – 2:20 AM – Washington, DC
Alek heard a sound, just the lightest brush of fabric, and was instantly wide awake. Tense, he held his breath, not wanting to alert the guards. In the past day and a half he’d caught a couple of them staring at him with frank, undisguised hatred. Lying perfectly still in the dark jail cell, he focused his senses on his environment.
Another brush of fabric. The scent of sweat made his gut clench. As he strained to listen, he heard what sounded like a muffled footstep, close. Too close. He imagined he could hear someone breathing just a few feet away.
Someone was inside his cell.
He tensed and sprung, throwing his arm up just as his opponent struck. Using every bit of his advantage, he thrust the other man back a step as he leapt to his feet. There wasn’t much room for him to maneuver though, so the assailant’s next strike found its mark, and searing pain burned where the blade of a knife sliced his arm.
It had been years since he’d been in a street fight, but some skills were never forgotten. He didn’t bother calling for help, knowing that only someone with a key could have gotten inside in the first place. He tried to remain calm, but his heart thundered loudly, impeding his ability to hear.
His assailant rushed forward and Alek tried to dodge the left hand holding the knife as he slammed a fist into the man’s face. Bones crunched and pain burned again as the knife slashed along the vulnerable flesh of his side. Ignoring the searing pain, Alek drove the heel of his foot toward the guy’s kneecap, sweeping outward to draw him off balance. Something clattered to the floor and he felt a surge of satisfaction knowing the guy dropped his knife.
They struggled, locked in an equally matched embrace as each tried to unbalance the other. Finally, Alek found a good grip on the man’s face and he shoved him backwards with all his might.
A loud crack reverberated through the room as his assailant crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Blood seeped from his various knife wounds as he stared at the dark shape of his opponent who hadn’t moved since hitting the floor. Putting a hand over the worst of the injuries, the wound along his side, he moved forward.
He bent over the body, peering through the darkness to see what had happened. Then realized he’d knocked the guy’s head against the steel edge of the toilet.
Alek’s knees buckled and he sank to the edge of the bed, his fingers sticky with blood still seeping from the open slice along his side. He stripped off his shirt and pressed it against the wound. Was God still watching over him? He couldn’t be sure.
How long did he need to wait before daring to raise the alarm?
How long before he bled to death if no one came?
July 3rd – 2:31 AM – Baltimore, MD
Sloan continued to watch the CNN news coverage of the Kazakhstan pipeline explosion long after Jordan and Natalia had fallen asleep. He pulled out his notes and stared at the triangle he’d created.
Jordan was right, these events were tied together. He didn’t believe in coincidences on a good day, and especially not now. The pipeline explosion and Korolev’s assassination were somehow linked. Most likely by the Solntsevskaya. Maybe the Solntsevskaya’s infiltration into the Russian government was deeper than anyone knew. What he couldn’t quite figure out was how Natalia fit into the picture.
He glanced over to where she was curled up on the bed, her beautiful facial features relaxed in sleep. Her uncle, Alek Nevsky, had to be the key; he’d been in correspondence with Josef Korolev. But why had she become a target? Because of something she knew? Or because of something she saw? He wished he knew.
Tearing his gaze from her, he tossed his notes aside and stood to stretch. Exhausted, he blinked, trying to concentrate. Maybe he’d better use Natalia’s spare pillow and stretch out on the floor to get some sleep.
Just as he was about to hit the button on the remote, he saw the headline, American Suspect in Pipeline Bombing flash across the television screen in true CNN style. Narrowing his gaze, he turned up the volume to hear more.
“There is a suspect in the Kazakhstan pipeline bombing, and we’ve learned this person of interest is actually an American citizen. Apparently, this suspect was found dead in his hotel room just moments ago, from what police suspect is a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Our on-site reporter has also discovered that there were traces of explosives found in the room.”
“I don’t believe it,” Sloan mumbled beneath his breath. What else could go wrong? “First the FBI is accused of killing Korolev, and now this. Team USA is really racking up the points.” Tthings were going from bad to worse. The White House officials had to be going nuts over this latest news.
“The suspect’s identity has just been released. The Russian authorities believe a man by the name of Michael Cummings created the bomb that destroyed the Kazakhstan oil pipeline. And their theory is that once he set off the explosion, Michael Cummings took his own life.”