Twenty-two

The one good thing about being angry—really, truly angry, as she never had been in her life—was that it settled her stomach and warmed her up.

Charity’s head was reeling at seeing Nick, alive and well, and here in her house.

The man before her was Nick, but not Nick. Her Nick was a reassuring sort of man, exuding a kind of bland calmness. This Nick was like a dangerous animal, a panther or a lion. Instead of elegant business clothes, he was dressed all in black from head to toe, like a ninja. Jeans, sweatshirt, light parka. Instead of shiny, elegant shoes, he had well-worn black boots on, the kind of footwear meant for serious business and not for show.

He held himself differently, too, with a coiled energy just waiting to spring. Instead of the affable half smile that was his default expression, he looked grim, mouth tight, jaws clenched.

It didn’t surprise her that this new Nick said he’d been in the army and was now a law enforcement officer. Then again, he could actually be a criminal—right now she was reserving judgment on anything he told her. One thing was for sure—he looked dangerous, every inch of him.

And, unfortunately, incredibly sexy.

This was not a good thing. She didn’t want to notice that at all. The doorbell rang a second before Nick yanked it open. There was a tall blond-haired man on her porch, as grimfaced as Nick.

“I knew it,” he began furiously. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Nick was unfazed by his anger. His shoulders stiffened and he stepped forward and got right into the man’s face. “We’ve had this conversation already and watch your mouth, you fuckhead, there’s a lady here.”

The man’s mouth closed with a snap as he looked past Nick’s broad shoulder and saw her. “Ma’am,” he said warily.

Charity nodded. She had no idea what to say.

He sighed and dug into his jeans pocket, coming out with a leather wallet he flipped open. There was a brass badge on the bottom and photo ID on the top. He held it out at chest height and walked into the room, stopping a foot from her.

Charity stepped forward and examined the brass badge. It had an intricate design with symbols she didn’t understand. Department of Homeland Security was etched along the bottom. The ID had a photograph of the man in front of her, obviously taken in happier times, since he was faintly smiling, totally unlike the grim expression he wore. Above the photograph was his name: Special Agent John Di Stefano.

She looked up at him. He wasn’t quite as tall as Nick, but he was still much taller than she was. “Special Agent Di Stefano,” she murmured.

There was sudden silence in the room, as if no one knew where to go from here. They all waited for someone to take the lead.

“Show her yours, Nick.”

Charity’s eyes widened and she almost said, I’ve already seen his, but she bit her lips before the words could tumble out, pure hysteria bubbling in her throat.

Nick took out the exact same kind of leather wallet, with the exact same kind of brass badge with the symbols and Department of Homeland Security written on it. The photo ID was the same, with a grim-looking photograph and Special Agent Nick Ireland above it. He snapped it shut and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

With a hostile glance at Nick, Di Stefano cupped her elbow and started steering her toward the couch. She didn’t have the strength to resist.

He sat her down on the couch and took an armchair, shooting another hostile glare at Nick when he sat right next to her.

Di Stefano leaned forward in the classic male position, legs apart, hands dangling over knees. He stared straight into her eyes and said, “You haven’t seen me. I don’t exist. This meeting never happened. That has to be said and understood right up front, ma’am.” Another dirty look at Nick. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, though. You shouldn’t know about us at all.”

Nick placed his arm along the back of the couch, angling to hold her against him. She leaned forward, away from his grasp.

“Special Agent Di Stefano,” she said clearly, turning her head away from Nick. “I imagine you are referring to the fact that apparently you are both here on a confidential mission. I assure you that I have no intention whatsoever of divulging information that might be harmful to my country. However, if your mission here is to spy on Vassily Worontzoff, then I think you are wasting your resources and our country’s resources. The man is a great writer and nothing more.”

Nick threw some objects on the coffee table between her and Di Stefano, stopping Charity just as she was getting heated up in her defense of Vassily.

She looked at them. A box of medicine, what looked like a steel bolt, and a CD.

“What are these?”

Nick’s jaw muscles rippled. “My own little Worontzoff kit. Pick them up.” Charity just looked at him. He waved a long finger at the little pile. “Go ahead. Pick them up.”

She did so, gingerly, wondering if maybe they hid something. But no. They were perfectly normal objects. A box of medicine by a big international pharmaceutical company with a vial for IV administration inside, a bolt, and a CD with no markings. When she finished studying them, she put them back quietly and waited.

Nick picked the box up again and put it back in her hand. “This is a breakthrough drug, used in the treatment of some advanced cancers, especially effective in pediatric medicine. Look at the price.”

She turned it over and searched for the price on the bottom flap. Her eyes widened.

Nick nodded curtly. “That drug is worth eight hundred euros, more than one thousand dollars at the current exchange rate. It’s experimental, and expensive. Or would be, if it were genuine. What you’re holding is about ten cents’ worth of printed cardboard, glass for the vial, and tap water. Worontzoff’s business partners slipped these packages into shipments to hospitals. Not a bad business at all. One thousand dollars for ten cents’ worth of product. We’re talking a markup of nearly a million percent. Most profitable business on earth. Nothing else comes even close. In comparison, dealing in cocaine and heroin is for chumps. The only downside is that some poor kid dying of leukemia will get a shot of tap water in his veins instead of a drug that could save his life.”

Shocked, Charity turned to Di Stefano. He nodded. “Yeah. New spin on the drug trade.”

“And this?” Nick continued, handing the bolt to her. “A very expensive component of the latest generation of wide-bodied airliners, made of a titanium alloy and machined to within a tolerance of a few microns. They cost seven hundred and fifty dollars each because of the rigorous testing each bolt goes through. Except that this one is made of cheap nickel. It’ll start splitting at about the tenth takeoff. For a while there, until they figure out what’s going on, it’ll be raining planes.”

Charity dropped the bolt as if it had suddenly become red-hot.

“And this?” Nick held the CD up. “I saved this for last. On this CD are the access codes for about twenty percent of our nuclear arsenal. We intercepted it on its way from Worontzoff to the Iranian minister of defense and replaced it with fake codes. Cost—something in the range of ten million dollars. It will take the Iranians some time to figure out they’ve been ripped off, and when they do, it is my earnest hope that they will whack Worontzoff for us, so we won’t have to go to the expense of bringing him to trial.” He clenched his jaws so hard the skin over his temples moved. “And right now? Right now, good old Worontzoff, man of letters, is going to meet tonight with one of the world’s top terrorists and it is very likely that scumbag one will have something nuclear to sell to scumbag two.”

Charity swallowed. Her throat had tightened so much it was hard to get the words out. “That’s his business meeting?” she whispered. “With a terrorist?”