Ripped: A Blood Money Novel Page 4

  “Ms. McCallister—”

  “I know, I know. Indelicate, isn’t it, to hint at rape, interrogation and beatings? So I won’t bother hinting.” She waved a shushing hand at him. “I knew what I’d signed on for when I joined the Service. No big deal,” she lied smoothly. “But it gets tiresome after a while and I wanted to be home again. What is the quaint phrase—I ‘hitched my wagon’ to Nash’s because he promised me that would be the last thing we did for Moscow.” Her voice softened. It was as though she were on trial, and sat upon the witness stand with one chance to present her testimony. “But I’m not the one who tried to grab for power, or let herself be manipulated because of a fuck-up in her past. That’s on you, Yang.”

  Yang’s jaw clenched, knuckles whitening on the desk. “You were Nash’s accomplice. You knew he planned to take Beth Faraday and turn her over to the Russians.”

  “You offered the same solution!” Outrage rocked her, and Chandler shot to her feet. “I heard you, Faraday heard you. That night, when you wanted to trade her safety for Faraday resources, you said you would send Beth to Moscow and rescue her, basically, at your convenience.” She hated that she shook, but tremors shivered along her limbs nonetheless. “Nash had a noose around your neck, and you tried to save your skin by sacrificing this man’s sister—” she jabbed a finger at Faraday, who watched her wordlessly “—but do you know what the Polnoch’ Pulya would’ve done to her? Do you?”

  No one spoke.

  Chandler fell back into her seat with an exhausted sigh. “Tell me how it is that my crime is worse than yours, Yang.”

  “It’s not,” Yang responded crisply. “Which is why I asked Quinn to bring you here.” She opened a file folder on her desk, lifted a single sheet of white paper and flipped it to face Chandler. “You’ve agreed to use any remaining connections in Moscow to help Mr. Faraday, correct?”

  “Yeah, so?” Chandler had no intention of sharing what she’d demanded in exchange. Her sister’s wedding was private business, nothing to do with the spy world.

  The section chief glanced at Faraday. “As you have stated, Moscow is a dangerous place for you, and I’m sure you understand the risks you face in returning.”

  Chandler understood the risks, all right. Her cover had been shaky enough when she left Russia, shortly before the mess with the Faradays had begun. Going back, trying to maneuver Faraday into the inner circle so he might wreak his vengeance, stood a high likelihood of getting one or both of them killed. Certainly her, at the very least.

  Yang continued, flicking the piece of paper with her fingertip. “This letter reinstates you to your position within MI6 and Section T-16, all record of your association with deceased agent John Nash stricken from your record of service as though it never happened.”

  “What?” Chandler snatched the paper and skimmed its contents, blinking in shock. “But...why?”

  There was a pause before Yang answered. “Because you are a valuable asset to MI6 and, upon reflection, I believe decisions were made...prematurely as to your continued viability as an agent.”

  Finally, Faraday spoke up, and Chandler hadn’t been aware of just how anxious she was to hear him raise his snooty voice and use his poncy words to full effect. As he did now, on Yang. “By ‘continued viability,’ you refer to your surrender of Ms. McCallister into Faraday custody for an indeterminate period of time, I assume?”

  “That indeterminate period of time has now become determinate. I will have my spy returned to me, Mr. Faraday.” Reaching out, Yang snatched the paper from Chandler’s grasp. “When you are finished with her.”

  “Rude,” Chandler muttered. “Like I’m not even here.”

  “Pretend for the moment that you are not,” Faraday returned in an equally soft voice, pitched for her ears alone. “Because you’re not going to like what I have to say next.”

  And he was right; she didn’t.

  “Think back, if you can, to a conversation we had shortly after my sister’s rescue.” He stood and, without pausing for permission, plucked the letter from Yang’s hands to peruse it himself. “We agreed that you would maintain your position as section chief of T-16—that I would not report your conduct to your superiors—so long as you consigned Chandler McCallister to Faraday custody. You traded her freedom for yours, which is starting to sound like a nasty habit, Colleen. If you take her back, what is to stop me from calling Management? The Management you report to, I mean.”

  Good God. It seemed Yang would do anything to save her job and standing, starting and ending with selling out those who had faithfully served under her command for years.

  Before Yang could defend her corrupt actions, Chandler stood, trying to ignore the picture she must present, shoulder to shoulder with the enemy. But right now, right this instant, one enemy loomed larger than the other, and she’d rather side with the cold but brutally honest man beside her than the conniving woman across from her. “I accept your offer,” she told Yang, lifting a hand to halt any objection Faraday might have. “But how about you two save your battle of one-upmanship until we return from Russia? Since I’m sure you’re already taking bets on whether I return still breathing or not, and it’s not like it would matter then. A dead me solves all problems, yeah?” She took the letter from Faraday, placed it on the desk, tapping two fingers on it. “If I make it home alive, I sign it, you sign it, and I get my old life back.”

  “Agreed,” Faraday said firmly, much to her surprise. “Colleen?”

  Yang’s expression remained neutral. “When you return, then.”

  Unable to stand another minute in the office, Chandler opened the door forcefully and strode past the desks, past the stares of her old colleagues and into the hallway outside.

  Faraday appeared at her side a second later. “I have questions.”

  “Well, I don’t have any bloody answers for you, Toby.” Leaning her shoulders against the wall, she sagged, emotions in turmoil, and held out her hand to him. “Give me your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to call my sister, damn it, and tell her I’ll be at her wedding. Because I will be there, won’t I?”

  “You will indeed.” The weight of a slim mobile slipped into her palm. “I’m going to go fetch Freya. Stay here, please.” Broad shoulders defined by perfectly tailored wool was the last thing she saw as he turned a corner, leaving her—rather trustingly, the idiot—alone with a means of communication for the first time in a month.

  Yet she didn’t betray that trust as she typed in her sister’s number and lifted the mobile to her ear, waiting impatiently as the ringing continued, until—”Hullo?”

  “Pip, it’s me.”

  “Chan! Omigod!” A girlish squeal from the other end of the line had Chandler grinning. “Oh, and by the by, you’re not allowed to call me that this week. I’m Pippa to all but you, and I don’t want Cameron picking up any bad habits before we say ‘I do.’”

  “Pip is an adorable nickname.”

  “Pip makes me sound like a street urchin from a Dickens novel, so you’re lucky I love you as much as I do to have tolerated it for so long.”

  Chandler relaxed against the wall, pressing the mobile against her ear harder than necessary, wishing she could absorb her twin’s voice into her bloodstream and pull the comfort of it around her like a down-filled blanket. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to call. I...met someone.” Lies. Well, sort of. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to invite him t—”

  “To the wedding? Oh, my goodness, yes! Yes, bring the man you’ve finally deemed worthy enough to warrant an introduction.” Her sister sighed happily. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this very day?”

  “Longer than I realized, given your reaction,” Chandler murmured wryly. “Had no idea I was denying you so, sis.”

  Pippa’s laughter tinkled softly, li
ke dainty wind chimes, and Chandler sank deeper into the calm that only her twin could provide. “It’s been a positive drought, darling. Who is this mysterious man?”

  Good question. “He’s a barrister. American.” A warden and a spy and among the most ruthless businessmen she’d ever met. “Tall.”

  “Tall?” She could almost hear Pippa shaking her head. “Fine, tell me this—is he handsome?”

  It wasn’t surprising in the least that the moment Chandler opened her mouth to answer, the man in question stepped into the hallway, returning to fetch her much sooner than expected. He straightened his cuffs as he stared at her from ten feet away, stern and stiff in his observation. “Yeah.”

  Pippa’s voice seemed to come through a tunnel, muted and abstract, as all of Chandler’s senses sprinted to pin needle-sharp on Faraday where he watched her with his cold, gray gaze. “...know I’ll meet him Monday, but you’ve got to give me more detail, Chan. I swear, I think I’m more excited about this than I am over my own wedding!”

  “That’ll never do,” Chandler muttered absently, not daring to turn her back on her jailer but wanting to shut him out of the conversation nonetheless. “I have to dash, darling, so you’ll probably die of anticipation, I suppose.”

  “You’re a beast, you know?” A weighted pause. “I’m worried. About—”

  Now Chandler did turn from Faraday, dropping her voice to a controlled whisper. “I know what about, and you needn’t. I took care of it.” Shortly before leaving for Chicago in February, she’d had the necessary conversation with a man digging too deeply into her family’s history. Her sister had nothing to fear, but the worry would live on nonetheless until Pippa and her fiancé exchanged vows.

  “You did? Oh, thank God.” Pippa sighed in relief. “I will see you Monday, then. Oh—did you change your number? I tried calling your mobile a few weeks ago and it went straight to voicemail. Should I use the one you just called me on?”

  There was a prickling at her nape, and Chandler knew he’d approached. “No, this is a loaner. I’ll have a phone by Monday. I hope you didn’t fret too much.”

  Her twin sighed. “I know better than to fret over you. Love you, Chan.”

  “Love you, Pip.” Ending the call, she turned, and nearly came nose to chest with her keeper. She shoved the phone at him, putting much needed space between them as she shifted away. Gray eyes stared down at her, and she caught herself mesmerized by the various shades and hues layered within the ring of each iris. Unacceptable. “My sister expects us on Monday.”

  “You told her about me?”

  “I told her I was bringing a man. Whether that man turns out to be you...”

  “There will be no other man but me beside you at that wedding, Ms. McCallister.” Pocketing the phone, he looked beyond her down the hallway and gestured someone closer. Freya appeared at their side while he explained, “Freya will take you back to the Underground until Monday morning, when Keir will escort you to your flat to pack your belongings for the wedding week. Will an hour suffice?”

  “To pack? Yeah.” Chandler wasn’t precisely overflowing with clothes, and as a seasoned spy, she was quite comfortable living out of a suitcase and packing said suitcase for any eventuality in a matter of minutes.

  “Excellent. I will pick you up outside your flat exactly one hour after Keir has delivered you to it.”

  In other circumstances, she might have enjoyed picking apart his precise language. His robotic nature made her want to poke him. Hard. “Does that mean Keir won’t be there monitoring me while I pack?”

  Amusement, as harsh as the rest of his rarely revealed emotions, curved his lips for a split second. “You are truly the only person I’ve ever met who looks at me and sees a fool. I wonder why that is.” Before she could process his intentions, he’d whipped a zip tie from his pocket and bound her wrists, tight enough to confine but not so tightly she might bruise. Considerate, given his speed.

  When he’d finished, she tested the restraints. “Got a lot of practice tying girls up, Toby?”

  They both froze, as though realizing at the exact same time how suggestive that sounded. As she mentally face-palmed herself, Faraday turned on his heel and strode toward the elevator, Freya and Chandler silent in his wake. Tingles danced up her arms before shooting down her spine, hot and uncomfortable as her mind scratched over her words. Tying girls up. A lot of practice. Practice. Toby. She was an idiot.

  The elevator dinged open into the garage, but Tobias didn’t depart, merely held the door for them. “I will see you Monday, Ms. McCallister,” he murmured before the doors slid shut again, and Chandler and Freya were alone.

  They didn’t speak as they moved to the sleek black car that had brought them to SIS, as Freya deposited Chandler in the rear seat and drove them up out of the garage and into stinging daylight. The light spurred Chandler to speech, shocking all her senses awake and away from the strange muffled sensation that had descended when Faraday tied her wrists. “Back to prison, then, yeah?”

  Freya turned down a side street. “It’s not so bad for another two nights, knowing you’ll be sleeping in a palace for the week after.”

  Chandler smiled tightly, her gaze never leaving the view through the windshield. “Not so bad, no.” But she’d slept in palaces before; what she craved was the comfort of her own bed, with its pillow-top mattress and cozy down quilt. She longed for the plush bath mat in front of her claw-foot tub, for the heavy drapes she could fling open at will to let the sun shine through her flat’s south-facing windows. She missed the towels, the linens, the reading lamp and the bookcase.

  It wasn’t because she needed those things—she didn’t need anything. But the ache existed because she knew the likelihood remained, regardless of Yang’s promise, that Chandler would never see the inside of her flat again after Monday morning’s hour of packing. The second she stepped foot on Russian soil, she’d have a target on her back and Polnoch’ Pulya breathing down her neck. “Hey, Quinn.”

  Freya’s green eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Yes?”

  “You ever been to Moscow?”

  “No.”

  “It’s beautiful. Filled to the brim with terrible people masquerading as your friends and neighbors, but beautiful.”

  Freya shifted her gaze forward again. “So how is it different than any other city?”

  Clever Quinn. “It’s not. It’s no different at all.” Testing the zip ties around her wrists again, to no avail, she turned to glance out the window to her right. Building after building in quick succession swept past her, the loss of the immediate horizon causing her vision to blur as she retreated into her mind for the briefest of moments. “When I was undercover in Moscow, I stayed in a single-bed flat just off Red Square.” Premium real estate owned by the Accountant, the Midnight Bullet’s second-in-command—and the man Chandler had been directed to ingratiate herself with, in hopes he would officially take over the organization and become sympathetic to British interests. “I learned the man who owned the flat had housed his mistresses in it over the years, but I thankfully wasn’t his type. I could see Saint Basil’s from my window.” The cathedral with its domes like a confectioner’s creations had greeted her every morning, shadowed then glowing and making her mouth water with homesickness for pastel-colored macarons from the Ladurée shop off Piccadilly. “Over the course of nine months, I killed three people in that flat.”

  Freya said nothing, and a glance at the younger woman showed a face as stoically cold as her cousin’s.

  Flexing her fingers, Chandler leaned casually into the seat back. “I could tell you I didn’t want to, that I was forced into it, because I didn’t and I was. But I still managed to sleep afterward, six feet off from bloodstains.”

  “Why are you telling me this, McCallister?”

  Because twenty years ago, shortly before her tenth birth
day, Chandler had been forged in a crucible of blood and violence, and never would the combination—blood, violence—terrify her again. “Just an anecdote, Quinn.” And a warning little Freya was certain to deliver to the cold-eyed megalomaniac plucking their strings like a sociopathic puppetmaster.

  She smiled grimly. No one used Chandler McCallister without her consent, and it seemed the Faradays needed a reminder.

  Chapter Three

  “It’s...a house.” Beth Faraday stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the terrifying two-story structure on a tree-lined street in the neighborhood of quiet Lincoln Square—with a For Sale sign staked into the small front yard. “Like, a whole house.” Eyes wide, she whirled on the man at her side, arms crossing over her chest. “What the hell do we do with a whole house, Vick?”

  Raleigh Vick grinned at her, cheeks creased beneath his neatly trimmed black beard with its smattering of silver threads. “We live in it. It’s what people generally do with houses.” His big shoulders lifting in a shrug beneath the heavy gray wool of his coat, he tilted his head toward the open gate. “Want to go inside?”

  “Are you insane?” Beth sidled closer, voice lowered as she gave the house a wary side-eye. “We just got back to Chicago two days ago.” And the handful of days before that had been spent getting everything in order for Vick to open a satellite Faraday office in the Windy City. They had checked into the W Hotel downtown, barely having had a chance to breathe since being reunited nearly a week earlier. “How did you even find this place?”

  He stroked a broad palm over the short, soft hair covering her scalp, and she nearly purred at the tender touch and how cherished it made her feel. “I had a lot of time to dream when you were healing.”

  “You dreamed of a house. With me.” She linked her arms around his waist, lifting her chin to invite the kiss a statement like that deserved. “Yes, I want to go inside.”