by Elle Kennedy
Because if the man had truly grown up in Lisbon, then he would have known that the Collectors Wing at Lisbon’s most renowned museum had been opened only four years ago. He’d slipped up. Claimed he’d visited the wing as a child—but that was impossible. There had been no Collectors Wing when he was growing up.
Shit, how could she have forgotten that?
“I created a new life for myself,” he muttered angrily. “I contacted Michel Beaumont, one of my father’s associates, the only one who could be trusted. Beaumont helped me start over.”
Lorenzo stepped closer and squatted in front of Isabel. An evil gleam filled his eyes. “I tried to bury the past, but alas, I’m not the kind of man who allows slights against him to go unpunished.”
Isabel licked her dry lips and shifted on the chair. It would take no effort at all to go on the attack, kick him square in the face, slice her elbow into his temple, but the presence of those armed guards stopped her from making a move. That, and the quick shake of the head Trevor gave her when he saw her readjust her position.
“I’ve been searching for you and your husband for a very long time,” Lorenzo said in a soft voice. “But you went underground like a pair of fucking rats.” His eyes gleamed again, satisfied. “But four months ago, you finally surfaced. Or rather, he did.”
Lorenzo jerked his head in Trevor’s direction, but continued speaking before Isabel could make sense of his last remark. “I’m going to enjoy watching you die. I’m going to enjoy it very, very much. Originally I did not want to risk being connected to your deaths, but—”
“But Lassiter fucked everything up for you?” Isabel finished politely.
“I shouldn’t have trusted that incompetent fool to get the job done.” He looked at Trevor, shrugging. “But I confess, I’m happy to see you survived the attack on your company’s training facility, Mr. Martin.”
Isabel hid her confusion. Trevor’s company? Did Lorenzo not realize he’d sent a hit squad to raid a mercenary compound?
“Because now I have the pleasure of your wife’s company as well,” Lorenzo went on. “Killing you separately would have achieved the same end result, but this will be more entertaining. I’m going to enjoy hearing you beg me to spare your wife’s life.” He glanced at Isabel. “And you, your husband’s.”
Smirking, Lorenzo approached Isabel’s chair. “In fact, why don’t I give your husband a little taste of what’s to come?”
In the blink of an eye, he pulled his arm back and unleashed a blow that connected with her face and knocked her right out of the chair.
As stars danced in front of her eyes and pain throbbed in her cheek, Isabel glimpsed a blur of movement in her peripheral vision. An angry shout echoed, followed by a loud thud and a cry of outrage.
She blinked, her vision clearing in time to see Trevor being restrained by one of the bodyguards. The other guard, a stoic-faced giant with Slavic features, grabbed Isabel before she could make a move.
He jammed the barrel of his gun against her temple and said, “Boss?”
Lorenzo staggered to his feet, holding his sleeve to his nose. “Tie them to the chairs.” His hand moved to reveal the blood dripping from his nostrils.
A sideways glance showed the slight smirk on Trevor’s face, and Isabel stifled a sigh, wishing he hadn’t gone after Lorenzo like that. The man was already pissed off. No need to rile him up even further.
Their captor loomed over them once more, his mouth twisted in anger. “Enjoy the time you have left together. Soon the games will start and while I expect to enjoy every fucking second of your suffering, I can assure you, Mr. and Mrs. Martin, that the two of you will find no enjoyment in what I have planned for you.”
• • •
“You really have no respect for other people’s property, huh?”
D shifted his head at the sound of Ethan’s half-sarcastic, half-amused remark, which had been directed at Juliet. The team had just set up across the street from the Meiro mansion, in a gorgeous Tudor-style home that had been sitting empty for the past two weeks and would remain empty for two more while the owners vacationed on the French Riviera.
D was positioned near the large bay window, wearing all black and armed to the teeth, just like everyone else in the room, including Juliet, who answered Ethan with a shrug.
“Hey, if you’re stupid enough to rely on SSI for your home security needs, then you deserve what you get.”
“SSI?” Ethan echoed.
“Secure Systems Incorporated.” She offered a dry smile. “Never trust an alarm company that uses the word secure in its name. SSI is every burglar’s dream—the easiest system on the planet to circumvent.”
From his perch on the other side of the window, Morgan narrowed his eyes at the brunette. “What about the Meiro house? What system can we expect to find there?”
“The Meiros are old school.” As she talked, she unsheathed the knife at her hip and absently ran her fingers over the seven-inch blade.
“They’ve got the good old electric eye. Photoelectric sensors,” she clarified when Morgan raised his eyebrows in question. “Transmitter, receiver. Light is transmitted to the receiver, and if the beam is interrupted, even for a nanosecond, the receiver sounds the alarm. You can usually find them in front of doors, windows, long corridors. Smart folks disguise the units as power outlets, but most people are dumb-asses and leave them in plain sight.”
“The Meiros?” Morgan asked.
“Smart,” she conceded. “But dumb in their choice of lighting components. Instead of UV or infrared, their system uses laser light, which is easier to spot.”
“How do we disarm it?” D inquired in a brisk tone.
Juliet grinned. “Already done.”
Next to her, Ethan frowned. “How did you manage that?”
“It’s all very convoluted and probably way over your heads,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Let’s just say my methods involve dummy components, piggybacking the central station, Paige’s technological wizardry, and good old-fashioned deception.”
Morgan looked uncharacteristically amused. “Meaning?”
“I’ve fooled the system into thinking it’s working properly, when in fact it is not.” She shrugged, still stroking the smooth edge of her blade. “The motion sensors on the exterior need to be manually disarmed, though. I’ll go in first and take care of them. Unless you want me to talk your men through it?”
Your men. D didn’t miss the distinction—now that Morgan was back in the picture, Noelle had been conspicuously absent. Probably brooding in a corner somewhere.
D got a real kick out of that particular mental image. He imagined the woman was spitting nails that her command had been stolen from her by a man she despised.
“You can handle it,” Morgan told Juliet. “Just don’t screw it up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“So how the fuck do we get them out of there?” Liam asked from across the room.
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” D rasped. “We’re looking at four guards. That’s nothing.”
“Only four?” Juliet looked surprised. “They must know that Isabel and Callaghan are here with a team. Why wouldn’t Meiro take stronger measures to protect himself?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know who they really are,” Morgan said slowly.
She frowned. “If he recognized her as Valerie, then he must know she’s an operative. He just wouldn’t know who she’s working for.”
“Maybe he didn’t recognize her as Valerie.”
“So, what, he was after Paloma and Julian Martin?” Juliet sounded bewildered.
“Possibly.” The boss shrugged. “Whatever his motive, the lack of guards works in our favor. Our only obstacle is the motion sensors—once Juliet disarms them, we’ll be inside that mansion before they even see us coming.”
• • •
Lorenzo strode into the grand kitchen and marched to the sink. He ran a dish towel under the tap and brought it to his sw
ollen nose, the fury inside him rising once more. That motherfucker had the nerve to lay a hand on him?
Julian Martin would pay dearly for that.
And the woman . . . so cool and collected, even with the threat of death looming over her. For some reason, he found that infuriating. It was an insult even, as if she truly didn’t appreciate the trauma he was capable of inflicting on her.
He let out a ragged breath. Her punishment . . . oh, her punishment would be much, much worse than her husband’s.
By the time he was through with her, she’d be begging him to kill her.
“Tomas! What happened?”
Renee’s concerned exclamation sounded from the doorway, and then his wife hurried toward him. She was still clad in the dress she’d worn to the gala, even though he’d ordered her to change for the airport.
He frowned. “You’re not ready yet. I told you I want you out of this house.”
“I don’t want to go. These are the people who murdered your father, Tomas. I want to be here to support you.”
He knew she called him Tomas only out of habit, and only because they’d agreed never to use his real name, even in private, but it still raised his hackles. He was Lorenzo Blanco. Lorenzo Blanco, once heir to the biggest arms empire in South America.
And now look at him—Tomas Meiro. A fucking casino owner. Married to a woman who ate pussy, living in her father’s house and running her father’s businesses.
He should be carrying on his father’s legacy. Not Michel fucking Beaumont’s.
“I don’t need your support,” he said through gritted teeth. “You will leave this house tonight.”
“As you wish.”
She averted her gaze, but not before he saw the look of displeasure on her face.
Lorenzo took a calming breath and gathered the shattered pieces of his composure. Whatever bitterness he harbored against Renee’s father, he couldn’t hold it against Renee. The woman had done nothing but offer him support, and he’d come to appreciate her counsel over the course of their marriage. There might not be any love between them, but there had always been friendship and mutual respect.
“You must go.” He softened his tone. “I don’t want you anywhere near these people, Renee. The revenge I have in mind . . . it will be dished out slowly. Very, very slowly. I can’t have you tainted by any of this. Do you understand?”
After a long beat, she capitulated. “I understand.”
“Good.” Lorenzo leaned in and brushed his lips over hers in a brief kiss that surprised them both. “Trust me, ma chérie. You don’t want to be around for what happens next.”
• • •
“So it’s been about us the entire time,” Isabel said wryly. “Julian and frickin’ Paloma.”
She didn’t bother putting up the pretense any longer. Gone was Paloma’s accent, gone were Paloma’s speech mannerisms. If the cellar was wired for sound, which she doubted, then Lorenzo would quickly find out that she and Trevor had lied about their identities. Who knew, though? That might work to their advantage. Maybe he’d be inclined to keep them alive longer, for the sake of answers, at least.
Beside her, Trevor released a rueful sigh. “And thanks to me, we’re tied to chairs and about to be tortured by Lorenzo Blanco.”
Though she couldn’t move her arms, legs, or torso, she could still twist her head to look over at him. “What are you talking about? It’s not your fault.”
“Lorenzo said he tracked me down four months ago. Me. I used Julian’s ID in Argentina, remember? That’s what raised a flag. He’s been searching for us since Blanco’s death, which means he probably paid off every passport officer at every airport to alert him when Julian or Paloma resurfaced.”
“And then what? You unknowingly led his men back to your compound?”
“I must’ve. I can’t imagine how else he could’ve found it. The place was buried under piles of paperwork and the address is hard to find.”
Her brows knit together in a frown. “What did Lorenzo mean when he said your ‘company’s training facility’? Where did he think he was sending that hit team?”
“I own a lot of different businesses under Julian’s name. One of them happens to be a private combat school that prepares military recruits for basic training and teaches civilians combat skills. I’ve got two locations—one in Sarasota, one in Mexico.”
“Wait. This company actually exists?”
Trevor shook his head. “On paper, but I’m thinking Lassiter fucked up and assumed the compound was the Mexican location for Julian’s bogus combat school. I can’t think of any other reason why Lorenzo hasn’t questioned what Julian was doing on a compound with a bunch of highly trained mercs.”
Isabel ran her tongue over her bottom lip, which was dry and beginning to crack. The air in the cellar was too damn arid, yet at the same time, moist. And the odor of rotting grapes was beginning to give her a headache.
“It was always about us.” As she voiced the thought again, pain circled her heart. “Beth, Lloyd, Hank . . . they died because of us.”
God, more deaths on her conscience. More deaths to atone for.
“Don’t,” Trevor said firmly. “Don’t blame yourself. This is all on me.”
“No, it isn’t. I refuse to let you carry the burden alone.” Her staunch declaration hung in the room. “If you’re at fault, then so am I. There. I shoulder half the blame.”
He let out a heavy breath. “You are damn impossible at times—you know that? I just had to fall in love with the most stubborn woman on the planet. Fine, it’s neither of our faults then. Does that sound—why are you looking at me like that?”
Isabel’s heart was pounding. “You’re . . . in love with me?”
His whiskey eyes flooded with emotion. “Duh.”
“Duh?” She gawked at him, torn between laughing and bursting into tears. “That’s seriously all you have to say?”
“This can’t come as much of a surprise, Iz. I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I just hadn’t admitted it to myself until now.”
Isabel bit her lip. Wow. He loved her. She still couldn’t wrap her head around it. Trevor Callaghan loved her. Her.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh? That’s all you have to say?”
Her pulse kicked up another notch. “I . . . I’m still absorbing it. I guess I—” She halted as a muffled thump echoed right above them.
“What was that?” she demanded.
Before he could answer, they heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.
Trevor’s voice contained a chord of satisfaction. “That is the cavalry coming to our rescue.”
Chapter 24
There was a chill in the air as D and Morgan approached the patio doors. The others were covering the front of the house and the street; with only four guards to contend with, a two-man show was more than enough. Make that three guards, D amended. Meiro’s wife had been escorted by a lone bodyguard when she’d left the mansion twenty minutes ago.
As promised, Juliet had made quick work of the motion sensors, and no alarms had been raised as the men crept through the shadows of the manicured backyard.
When they reached their destination, Morgan hung back, gun in hand, eyes gleaming with intensity.
D crouched in front of the door, unclipped his pick kit from his belt and tackled the lock. As he inserted a tension wrench into the keyhole, he said a silent prayer that Juliet’s “trickery” had indeed taken care of the security cameras. He was acutely aware of the two cameras mounted on either side of the stone patio. Pointing right at them. It wasn’t losing his anonymity that he worried about, but the element of surprise.
One of the pins in the lock clicked into place. He shifted the hook pick, applied more pressure with the flat wrench, and thirty seconds later, the dead bolt clicked open.
Palming his H&K pistol, D pushed on the door handle and slowly opened the door. A glance at his feet confirmed what Juliet had warned them about. Lasers.
Four of them spanning the doorway, a crisscross of beams that went up to his waist.
No way to step over them, but D knew he could clear the top beam if he backed up and jumped over it at a run. He didn’t want to risk making noise, though. They had no idea where Meiro or his guards were. Fortunately, there was nobody in the kitchen.
He glanced at Morgan, who was also examining the laser field.
D clicked his earpiece. “You sure about the lasers?” His voice was almost inaudible.
A snicker sounded in his ear. “You scared, D? Who would’ve thought.” Juliet chuckled. “The alarm won’t go off, boys. Trust me.”
He suppressed his irritation and looked at Morgan again. The boss gestured to the red beams as if to say, you first.
Fuck. Fine.
D took a deep breath, uttered another silent prayer, and walked right through the beams.
Nothing happened.
Blessed silence prevailed.
Morgan stepped in after him and closed the door. The two men crossed the dark kitchen, communicating with hand signals as they moved deeper into the house. Shadows and silence greeted them at every corner.
Morgan signaled to the light spilling out from the front parlor, indicating that he would take the upstairs.
D nodded and gestured that he would investigate the main floor.
They went their separate ways, moving silently through the mansion. The rooms were furnished with expensive pieces and tasteful works of art, but the house lacked any personal touches. Apparently Michel Beaumont hadn’t spent much time here—the man had preferred the casino penthouse, just like his son-in-law. Renee Meiro didn’t seem to be around too often either; according to her credit card statements, the woman was traveling most of the time.
D’s instincts hummed as he neared the entryway to a corridor bathed in light. He flattened himself against the cream-colored wall, his weapon pressed to his thigh.
He waited. Listened. Became aware of the sound of soft breathing.
Someone was in that hallway.
Morgan was still upstairs, but the continued silence told D that the boss hadn’t encountered any problems.