Jenna Mills - The Perfect Target

“They think Viktor’s holed up somewhere in Europe,” Javier added.

Maybe. Probably. When the U.S. got determined about finding something, safe hiding places became scarce. “Do they know where?”

“If they do, they’re not saying.”

A distorted picture finally formed. Sandro flipped through channels on the old black-and-white until he found the familiar CNN logo. The picture remained fuzzy, however, the sound garbled.

“The State Department’s heightened the travel warning for American citizens and interests,” Javi added. “With Jorak in custody, Viktor will be desperate. They fear retaliation.”

Sandro slammed his palm against the side of the television, still no sound. Against a backdrop of a proud American flag, Ambassador Peter Carrington grew more animated by the second. Defiance glowed in his eyes, hardened the lines of his patrician face. His hands moved as he talked, slicing through the air like a chop to the neck of an invisible opponent.

“What’s he saying? I can’t get any volume.”

“The usual. The United States is not in the business of negotiating with criminals on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.”

Sandro stepped back from the television, suddenly cold. “Zhukov will take that as a direct challenge.”

A hard noise broke from Javi’s throat. “I don’t understand people like Carrington, so snug in his ivory tower that he doesn’t realize he’s not insulated from the real world.”

“He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” Sandro pointed out. The highly revered, much loved Carrington family skirted as close to royalty as America got. “He’s never had his world blow up around him.”

“That’s about to change,” Javi warned as the interview ended. A shadowy image of General Viktor Zhukov replaced that of the newly appointed ambassador to Ravakia. “Viktor’s already on the move, knows he needs leverage.”

Leverage. The word snaked through Sandro like rancid meat. “You mean a hostage.”

“Viktor made contact about thirty minutes ago,” Javi said, his voice practically drowned out by a siren somewhere in the city. “He’s already got a plan. And a target.”

The news didn’t surprise Sandro. “Who?”

“Miranda Carrington.”

The name did. An image immediately formed, of leagues of chestnut hair and exotic green eyes. “The ambassador’s daughter?”

“A child for a child,” Javi muttered cryptically. “Word on the street is she’s in Europe indulging some gypsy fantasy. She was last seen in Seville.”

Only a few hours’ drive from Lisbon.

“Cristo.” Sandro knew little of the ambassador’s youngest child, other than that in her late twenties, she seemed the exact opposite of her perfect, politically correct older sister and brother, Elizabeth and Ethan, dubbed the E-twins by the press. Not that Miranda wasn’t perfect in her own right…

She sure as hell could kiss, he thought, then wished he hadn’t. Vividly, he recalled a tabloid photo of a bikini-clad Miranda wrapped around some Ivy League frat boy, mouths locked in a pose more suited to the cover of an X-rated video.

Sandro sucked in a sharp breath and shoved wet hair back from his face. His body groaned in frustration.

Don’t go there, he warned himself. Don’t even think about there. Especially not with a woman targeted to become a pawn in a high-stakes international game. Especially not while he stood wet and naked in a hotel room that reeked of sex by the hour. He couldn’t afford to be distracted any more than he could afford the nasty kink in months of grueling undercover work. His mission was clear: gain the general’s trust, learn his secrets, then bring him down.

“It gets worse,” his partner added, seemingly reading his mind, as always. “That’s why I’m calling.”

Sandro braced himself. “Lay it on me.”

“The general wants you to get her for him, amigo. Said if you can deliver the girl, he’ll know where your loyalties lie.”

Sandro went very still. A test. The irony of it burned clear down to his bones. If he failed the test, he failed his country.

But if he succeeded…

Reeling, Sandro dragged the phone back to the narrow cot and slipped his hand under the pillow, where his 9mm awaited, silencer intact. “Tell him I’m onboard.”

He’d always excelled at tests, wouldn’t fail now. Training and loyalty left him no choice. He had to find her. Find the ambassador’s daughter. Find her fast, find her first.

Before the long-awaited chance to cozy up to the general went up in flames.

No one recognized her.

Miranda Carrington lowered her tortoiseshell sunglasses and glanced around the open-air market, savoring the sense of liberation. No one watched her every step. No one shoved a camera in her face. There was no one grabbing a mobile phone to excitedly report her outfit, her language, the drink in her hand. No one waiting for her to commit a faux pas worthy of splashing all over the covers of every grocery-store tabloid.

Exhilaration tumbled through her hard and fast. Miranda wanted to twirl around the crowded cobblestone sidewalk, to laugh. Instead, she smiled. Last night a storm had raged, but the morning held nothing but clear blue skies and cool Atlantic breezes.

And freedom.

Here, in the small Portuguese village of Cascais, no one gave a flip about her or her prestigious family. No one noticed the two glasses of port she’d nursed the night before. No one paid attention to her slightly off-kilter sense of fashion. No one watched. No one cared.

Here, she was just another woman, on just another day. She could dance in the street without speculation that she was practicing witchcraft. She could laugh out loud.

Smiling, Miranda reached for the camera draped over her shoulder, lifted it to her face, and snapped several shots of the vendors working the market.

“Bom dia,” she greeted the older gentleman who’d moved from South Africa to Portugal, where he now made his living carving wooden toys for children by night and selling his crafts by day. He offered her a big smile, which she captured on film.

“Astrida! Astrida!”

Down the cobblestone walkway, an older woman grinned despite her missing front teeth.

“Rosita,” Miranda greeted, then snapped a shot of the woman standing proudly in front of her stall, with a fine array of brightly colored scarves blowing in the April breeze. Miranda had purchased one just yesterday, and now used the slinky turquoise fabric to hold blond hair back from her face.

“Obrigada,” she said in thanks, then continued on her way. A few feet away, she took a shot of a young woman showing off handmade seashell wind chimes to a group of older tourists.

Years of sweltering under the public eye kept Miranda walking at a brisk pace. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. She wanted to savor anonymity as long as she could.

The thrill never went away. Sometimes, she still couldn’t believe she’d finally convinced her father to let her live her own life. Eleven years before tragedy had forever changed their family, and in its wake, he’d tightened the net around his family to near unbearable restrictions. But Miranda hadn’t seen Hawk Monroe or any of his men in weeks. And she’d certainly looked. She knew the tricks, knew the small tests to figure out if someone was shadowing her or merely living their own lives.

More than anything, Miranda wanted to live her own life.

At the end of the street stood a trendy boutique, boasting the seaside village’s finest collection of European perfumes. Miranda was tempted to dash inside but didn’t want to waste the hazy morning light. She’d seen a fleet of old, rainbow-colored fishing boats bobbing in the harbor from her hotel window, and—