Elisabeth Naughton: Extreme Measures

The phone went dead in his ear before he could respond. As dead as Humbolt on the floor beside him. Zane dropped back to the ground with a groan. The phone fell from his fingers to roll across the floor. And as they flew over the jungle and Stone packed his leg wound, Zane vaguely heard their medic tell the pilot to haul ass or they were gonna run out of time.

But he didn’t care. As his vision blurred and darkness threatened, only one thing revolved in Zane’s mind. Only one goal remained.

No matter what it took, no matter how long, he’d find her. He’d find her, and he’d make her pay.

One year later

Evelyn Wolfe appreciated good music. Though she couldn’t play an instrument to save her life, that didn’t stop her from recognizing talent when she heard it. The guy with the violin two tables over, though, staring at her on the warm Seattle street as he played a medley that literally hurt her ears? He wasn’t one of those talents. Not even close.

She avoided eye contact like she’d been doing since he came over twenty minutes ago and bugged her to request a song. She might look like a tourist enjoying the summer sunshine, but looks could be deceiving. She knew that better than anyone.

With her back to the café windows, she scanned the busy street again, her gaze shielded by dark sunglasses as it skipped past trendy boutiques, cars whizzing by, and multicolored flower baskets hanging from light posts to give the area an upscale feel. The salty scent of the Sound drifted on the breeze along with that of fried foods from street vendors, but she blocked it all out, instead focusing on the contact she was about to meet. She didn’t have a picture of the man, but she remembered how he’d depicted himself: tall, dark, blue eyes, dimples.

That could describe anyone, she knew, as four different men, all matching that tall, dark description, walked by the outdoor café at various intervals. Each time one would pass, anticipation curled in her stomach and then dropped like a stone when he moved away.

Come on already. I don’t have all damn day.

Eve’s frustration grew to exponential levels. A quick glance at her watch told her Smith—which wasn’t his real name by a long shot—was now twenty minutes late. Scenarios and options for what the holdup could be raced through her mind.

She brushed a strand of shoulder-length blonde hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She missed her long, dark locks already. But the change, like everything else she’d done to prepare for this meeting, was important. In a few weeks—hopefully, if all went as planned—she’d hit her stylist in Monterey and dye it back.

If all goes as planned . . .

She nearly snorted. She’d learned long ago that things in this business never went as planned. But that didn’t stop her. Or make her think of leaving. She’d considered leaving once, a long time ago, but that seemed like a different world now. And it was probably a good thing her plans hadn’t panned out then. She could barely remember what life was like in the real world.

Her rambling mind froze when she caught sight of a man across the street heading her direction. She narrowed her eyes to see him better. He wore jeans, a gray T-shirt, fancy boots, and a baseball cap to cover his head so she couldn’t decipher his hair color. But he was definitely tall. And dark, judging by the stubble on his jaw. And his gaze was locked solidly on her.

Her adrenaline shot up as she watched him cross the street a block down. As he maneuvered around tourists and locals. But she calmed herself, just as she’d been trained, when she realized his gaze hadn’t once wavered from her face.

The fingers of her left hand tightened around the napkin in her lap. The Glock pressing against her lower spine reminded her just what was at stake.

The man slowed as he approached. She caught his eye color. Blue, definitely blue.

He stopped in front of her. Smiled. Two deep dents creased his youthful face.

He was her guy.

“Juliet?”

Eve smiled. Using an alias came as easy as breathing. And this one . . . well, she’d been using it for years. “You’re late.”

He slid into the seat opposite her. “Couldn’t be helped. You brought it?”

American. Definitely. But Eve couldn’t tell which part of the country he hailed from. Not that it mattered. Though there was something . . . familiar about him.

She scanned his face but was sure she’d never met him before. However, that tickle in the back of her throat told her she knew him from somewhere, and she needed to be careful.

“First I’ll need proof you have my”—she paused for a moment, just to show him he didn’t hold all the cards—“package.”

Smith shot her a devastatingly handsome grin, leaned back in his chair, and stretched his long legs in front of him. Anyone walking by would think they were old friends. But she knew different. “And what if I said no?”

For some reason, at that second, a long-ago conversation with Sawyer ran through her mind.

“Bluffing is 90 percent of the game,” she’d said. “You know that. If they believe you, that’s all that matters.”

“It’s different for a woman, though,” he’d countered. “Are you ever scared?”

“Always. But that’s part of the risk we take.”

It’d been one of those quiet nights in Lebanon when they’d both been on duty, monitoring the run-down drugstore across the dusty road through their apartment’s crappy windows while Carter had been snoring in the next room. Why the conversation popped into her head now, she didn’t know. But she definitely didn’t need it. Or thoughts of the man who now hated her with every fiber of his being.

She pushed aside the memory and reached for the bag at her feet. Her chair scraped the sidewalk as she stood. “Then I guess our meeting’s over.”

She turned to leave.

“Juliet?”

She glanced back over her shoulder and followed Smith’s gaze as it shifted across the street to a white van now parked against the curb. A burly man dressed in jeans and a tight-fitting T-shirt climbed out to stand in the road. He folded his arms over his massive chest and stared right at her.

“That move is not advised.” Smith nodded toward her chair. “Sit.”

Eve scanned the street for other threats, for something she might have missed earlier. Didn’t see anything other than the van that had appeared during their conversation. But the hair on her nape was suddenly standing straight, telling her the power of this meeting had shifted. And not in her favor.

Slowly, she eased back down into her chair. Smith smiled and signaled the waiter. A server darted over and listened as he ordered.

He was gloating. This most definitely wasn’t going as planned. Eve’s adrenaline ratcheted up.

When the waiter left, Smith pulled a cell phone from his pocket, pressed a button, and slid it across the table toward her. “Take a look.”

Eve expected to see a photo of the file she’d been tracking, but what flashed on the screen was an image of a woman, lying on her side, hands bound behind her, ankles tied together, feet bare, and a black sack covering her face. Eve lifted the phone, watched as the woman struggled against the bonds, trying to free herself. When she rolled toward the camera, a purple butterfly on her right ankle came into view. The same tattoo her sister Olivia had gotten during her freshman year of college.

No.

Eve’s gaze shot to the man across from her, and any pretense of bluffing disappeared. “Where?”

He nodded toward the van across the street. The burly driver was now gone.

Her heartbeat shot up into the triple digits. “How do I know for sure she’s in there?”