Page 18 of Every Last Breath

But her looks were only the half of it. He’d learned fast: she was bright, had a wicked sense of humor, a feisty spirit, and no clue the power she wielded with her guileless sensuality. He’d been a moth drawn to a blowtorch.

Damn it. He still was.

He shoved the torturous memories into the bunker and moved to Maddox’s bureau. Neat rows of lacy underwear. Yoga pants, running shorts, tees, tanks. He rifled the right nightstand, recalling she preferred the side of the bed closest to the bathroom. Top drawer had a phone charger, vibrator, and condoms. Closing the drawer quickly, he realized he might not be ready to face all of this.

A large velvet case sat in the bottom drawer. Thumbing the latch, he flicked it open. A sweet set of kunai throwing knives sent a flutter of surprise through him. The black stainless-steel blades jibed with the new Maddox. The woman who wore tactical field boots, handled a knife like a professional, had kidnapping as a hobby, and was savvy enough to discern his Buddha beads weren’t for prayer.

The deeper he dug, the louder his shitstorm meter screamed mayhem a-coming.

If she had these blades, high probability there was other stuff. He kept sweeping her condo, snooping under the mattress, shoeboxes in the closet, coffee cans in the kitchen.

Thirsting for pay dirt, he unearthed nothing. No secret compartments, no false bottom drawers. Not even a laptop. Besides the throwing knives, the only other out-of-place thing was a spool of fishing line in a kitchen cupboard.

In the living room, his gaze fell to the gas fireplace. He dug out a flashlight from his backpack. Shining the light inside, he scanned for signs of tampering, any indication something might be hidden within. Nothing odd stood out.

He unscrewed the vent plate anyway. Inside were the usual knobs, metal tubing, and wires. A patch of darkness in the far corner snagged his gaze.

Most people would’ve dismissed the slight oddity. Not him. He reached in and felt around.

Bingo. A black courier bag made from a scaly, high-heat-resistant fabric. He dumped the contents. Passports in fake names, bundles of cash in a variety of currencies. His gut tightened.

With Maddox’s mixed heritage—African American on her dad’s side, Swedish and French on her mom’s—her ethnicity was impossible to discern. Her dad had worked for the State Department, bouncing their family from one embassy posting to another. Maddox had a knack for linguistics and spoke four different languages. Five, counting the Russian Cole had taught her.

The powerful combo of her looks and being multilingual enabled her to blend in and disappear in almost any country of her choosing. The question was, why would she need to?

What was she caught up in? Was she in some kind of trouble? Or was she the trouble?

Again.

After the FBI raid that had taken out the big gathering of the Bratva families discussing expansion, he’d called her to see if she’d told anyone about the meeting. He’d hung up once she’d said yes, too furious to hear the why. The only thing that’d mattered was cleaning up the fallout.

The soft shuffle of footsteps in the outer hallway stopped right outside. His gaze snapped to the front door and dipped to the slight crack at the bottom. There was a shadow of someone standing on the other side. His pulse zipped up a notch.

It wasn’t Maddox. She would’ve unlocked her door and come inside. Whoever it was stood still, as if listening. Or trying to figure out how to circumvent her smartcode dead bolt.

A whisper of a rustling sound, then a second shadow appeared, sending a wild kick of adrenaline surging through him. He chucked the passports and cash into the courier bag, stuffed it beneath the fireplace, and tipped the vent plate back without wasting time screwing it in place. He scrambled from the floor, yanking his Beretta Storm out of his backpack, and took a defensive position in the kitchen.

If the Russians had tracked him down, they wouldn’t get the drop on him twice in one day.

* * *

Maddox’s skin crawled. Standing still as death in front of her apartment, she stared at the doorknob as though it was coated in ricin. Her instincts vibrated like a hard-struck tuning fork. An intruder had been in her apartment and was possibly still inside. Even if her gut was wrong—and it seldom was—proof lay on the ground.

The small piece of monofilament fishing line she placed between the strike plate and door every time she left her apartment wasn’t there but on the threshold. A simple method of detection, no elaborate bells and whistles, but effective, easy on her government-salaried wallet, and unnoticeable unless a potential intruder knew precisely what to look for.

She had set down her groceries with the barest rustle of plastic. Her mind spun, retracing her steps. Had anything seemed odd, suspicious on the street? No one loitered near her building, no unfamiliar cars that didn’t belong, and Cole’s motorcycle hadn’t been parked out front.

Drawing her gun, she tapped in the code on the touch screen. She twisted the knob slowly. Inching the door open, she eased inside and crept down the hall. She snuck a quick glimpse over her shoulder to be certain no one was closing in from the coat closet behind her.

The air in the condo shifted. She sensed someone’s presence. Danger lurked somewhere in her home. Whoever had violated her sanctuary was going to get a bullet for their stupidity.

She skirted deeper, stiff spine against the far wall, giving her a clear view of the empty living room. Her finger rested on the trigger guard, never the trigger until she had sights on a target and was prepared to shoot.

A floorboard creaked in the kitchen. She sidestepped, rounding the corner, gun aimed, and came face-to-face with her intruder.

Cole held a gun leveled at her head, prepped to blow a hole in her. A wired energy thrummed from him, crackling in the air. He stood with the barrel trained on her, keyed up, riding a perilous edge.

She holstered her weapon. “Unless you’re going to shoot me, put your gun down.”