Page 6 of Every Last Breath

The unease prickling her gut since the briefing hadn’t subsided.

Something about this op was wrong. From the grainy, out-of-focus pictures of Matthews that looked as if they’d been taken by an incompetent drunk to the shoddy intel. Proper recruitment of an asset meant a one-inch-thick dossier to analyze and time to find the best angle to exploit. It was a delicate process convincing a target to cooperate, to possibly turn against friends or even their country.

A cold approach with little preparation was the riskiest. Finding the right opening and building rapport quickly with a stranger all had to be done on the fly. Working someone after establishing a genuine emotional attachment of friendship—or something stronger—was the best way. The CIA had trained her to read and manipulate people and to handle tricky situations. With a bioweapon capable of starting an epidemic in the mix, her only option was to get this done by any means necessary. Extra special care was needed for a dangerous asset who was hostile to government agencies, not to mention wanted by the Russians.

She’d give Cole Matthews the soft, kid-glove treatment. Persuasion was preferred over coercion. But if he wasn’t willing to play nice and things got violent, she could handle it.

Being able to hold her own physically against an opponent who’d most likely outweigh and outmuscle her was a requirement that came with black ops territory.

For two years, Nikolai had taught her Systema, a brutal martial art used by Russian Special Forces. The Agency had broadened her skills with Krav Maga, but the DGB had sharpened her talents to a lethal edge on the Gray Box whetstone.

She glanced at the flashing red dot on the handheld GPS tracking unit pinging Matthews’s cell. “The asset should be in the building second from the corner, this side of the street. A café, according to Google.”

“Black Kawasaki Ninja parked out front,” Reece said from the driver’s seat. “Maddox, white vehicle. Russian diplomatic plates.”

In the back seat, Gideon cocked his gun, chambering a round.

Hers was already prepped to fire, but she had no intention of using her sidearm.

She looked over her shoulder at Gideon. Pale-blond hair, electric-blue eyes, heartbreaker looks—a beautiful, unfaltering killing machine. How the DGB loved deadly things in pretty packages.

“No shoot-outs with these guys,” she said. “They’re probably Russian intelligence. Protected by diplomatic status. A high visibility incident and cops swarming would be bad all around. Nonlethal force only. Follow my lead.”

They both acknowledged the order with a nod.

“Reece, the map shows a back alley. Cover the rear of the café. Reaper, with me.”

As they approached the corner, Reece slowed the SUV. She and Gideon hopped out and darted across the street, dodging traffic. Reece veered right, heading toward the alley.

Although they wore fingernail-sized comms devices in their ears, Maddox directed Gideon with a quick hand signal to sweep around the far side of the white SUV. Training dictated he’d check the vehicle for potential hostiles and close in on the other side of the café door.

A loud commotion came from inside the restaurant. Wood crashing, glass breaking, fists hitting flesh. Sounded like a nasty brawl. Suddenly the noises flatlined, as if the scuffle had ended.

“A second vehicle with diplomatic plates parked by the kitchen door,” Reece said in her ear. “Vacant. I’m going in through the back.”

“Use extreme caution,” she said, but with his Delta Force background, that was a given.

The café door swung open. Two men in suits dragged out an unconscious guy wearing a tee and jeans. His chiseled, ink-wrapped arms were slung over their shoulders. The man had a bloodied silver Buddha necklace wrapped around his hand, and his head hung with long black hair obscuring his face.

Cole Matthews.

“Four men down inside,” Reece said.

“Asset is outside,” she said low. “Gideon, take out the tires.”

Gideon nodded through a tinted window from the far side of the white SUV.

She approached the closest guy. Six two. A solid two-forty. Built like a bull with a wide neck and powerful torso, no doubt he knew how to handle himself.

If he was right-handed, she’d have the advantage. Encumbered with Matthews’s limp weight on his right side, he’d be slower to draw a gun and maneuver to fend off an attack.

His gaze swept over her. A cursory side glance, and he dismissed her. As expected. All he saw was a woman—attractive face, wide eyes, a spot of cleavage. A nonthreat.

She closed the gap to four feet as the men hit the curb. Any second, it’d happen. Another glance, this time cautious and scrutinizing, followed by a defensive posture.

Then she’d have to be quick. Precise. He’d anticipate a blow targeting his soft tissue areas. Nose, throat, groin. She couldn’t go for those first.

Their eyes met. Her focus tunneled to action.