Sandra Moore - Without A Trace

After that, it was dealer’s choice.

She chose the choke hold. In moments he’d passed out. She liberated another sidearm and a throwing knife. This guy she left in the open. His lemony triumph, always a sign of arrogance, had given him away before she saw him.

Nikki drifted into the shadows on the starboard side again, following the sound of the screams. They grew less loud, less frequent, as she threaded between containers. By the time she reached the bow, silence.

Somebody had made mincemeat out of the triads. Or the guards. Or both.

Nikki settled into a ball on the deck, making herself small and unhumanlike in shape to the careless glance. She eased the gun from her waistband. Then she took a long and careful sniff.

Nothing.

No coppery anger or coffeeish terror. No citrus triumph. Just sea air and diesel fumes wafting over the water.

It felt really, really wrong.

She adjusted her grip on the gun, consciously relaxed each major muscle. Loose, she thought. Stay loose.

In the silence, she finally heard the distinctive scrape of metal on metal, something unscrewing.

A silencer being removed. Or attached.

It was now or never, while he was distracted.

She leaped from between the containers as he spun to face her, her arm outstretched, pistol up and pointed into the man’s impassive face. Gotcha!

Only she was looking down the barrel of his gun.

They eyed each other warily. Arms straight and stiff, guns unwavering, muzzles nearly pressed to cheeks.

Nikki forced herself to look past the gleaming barrel and into the eyes of the man who held her life in his trigger finger. In the shadows and half-light, wrapped in some sort of black fighting garb, he was every inch the dark warrior. He looked exactly like the kind of man who could take out well-armed guards, instill terror in grown men and kill without mercy.

His eyes, the only part of his face not concealed by his disguise, were black, calm.

No wonder I couldn’t smell him, she thought. He’s at peace.

Of course he’s at peace, another part of her retorted. He’s got two guns.

One aimed at her face, the other at her heart.

Nikki counted breaths. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. Lungs full, her life about to end, she remembered sunlight slanting down onto Athena Academy’s grassy courtyard and the neighing of the smelly horses she hated to ride. She thought of the dry dirt and mesquite surrounding the silver mine where she first truly understood what her gift could mean, when she’d smelled burnt coffee and then heard a scared girl’s voice echoing up through the earth.

She’d come all this way just to die.

A tendril escaped from her messy ponytail and arced down onto her forehead. The heady scent of fish wafted over the ship’s bow. If she listened carefully, she could hear the distant traffic—small cars and buses darting through heavy weekend traffic. With one long, slow sniff, she knew the vehicles’ diesel and gas fumes and the rotten eggs of a spent catalytic converter.

But from her killer, nothing but a hint of ginger and something akin to warm chalk.

“Can we talk about this?” she found herself saying.

His eyes remained unchanged and he didn’t speak.

She slowly stepped to her right, out of the horse stance that was starting to burn her thighs. He pivoted with her. Their guns remained aimed, deadly. She needed to get close enough to a railing to jump. Maybe in the dark he wouldn’t be able to hit her. With either gun. Right.

She backed up a step. He followed.

He stood now in a patch of dim light slanting down from the ship’s bridge. He seemed fuzzy, in-substantial. Almost like a ghost.

Her ghost?

“Johnny?” she chanced.

“You are of the goddess?” His lips and tongue made the plain English words sound exotic, slightly thick.

“Athena sent me, yes.”

His body betrayed no sudden tensing, no anxiety. If he was nervous, annoyed, or inwardly jumping for joy, Nikki couldn’t tell. His guns stayed steady, but his gaze flicked over her formfitting training pants and top. “You are very small.”

So are you, she wanted to retort, but didn’t. True, she was a little short—it made squirming through boat holds easier—but he wasn’t that much taller. Her automatic comparison of his physique to Jet Li’s might be unimaginative, but it was also accurate.

“The goddess sent more than one emissary,” she replied, but couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice when she added, “A taller one, no doubt.”

His right eye tightened at the corner. Was he laughing at her? Angry? Confused by the English word emissary? The wind shifted slightly and she caught the scent of a classic novel she’d picked up once in the Athena library. The copy had been decades old, with yellow, mildewed pages she’d been happy to bury her nose in.

It was the scent of regret.

“My contact said you were of the dark goddess. The dog. Not Athena. Heck-a-tee.”

Nikki smiled despite herself. “Yes. Hecate.”

“Is that the dog goddess’s name?”

“Are you Johnny Zhao?” she countered.

He inclined his head in something like a formal bow, his eyes never moving from her face. Still not trusting her.

“What happened to Regina?”

He abruptly dropped his gun hands to his sides. “An ambush outside her work.”

“You were there?”

“I wasn’t alert.” Zhao flicked on the safeties of both guns and disappeared them into the folds of his fighting trousers. “I let her out of my sight.”

“I doubt that was the problem.”

“She was my responsibility.”

“She hired you. I’d say that makes things work the other way around.”

His eyes narrowed. Nikki wished he’d lose the ninja garb because she wanted to see the rest of his face, not just hear his voice emerging from black gauze. But she didn’t need to see him to know that the regret was now rolling off him in waves. He was telling her the truth. He’d felt protective of Regina, that was clear in the light pine underlying the old paper scent. And he’d failed.

Nikki realized she was still holding the semiautomatic on him. She lowered it and was immediately surprised by how strained her shoulder felt. Damn heavy gun.

“Who ambushed her?”

“I don’t know yet. It was a professional hit. No clues and no calling cards.”

“Did she give you any information I can use?”

Zhao shook his head. “She told me only to keep watch over this vessel when it came into port.”

“I can do that now.”

“With my help.”

His matter-of-fact statement struck her speechless for a moment, then she said, “Maybe.”

“Honor demands I complete the mission.”

“Do you even know what the mission is?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. Nikki knew that underneath his makeshift ninja costume he was likely smiling. She wished suddenly she could see his lips, and not to read them for tension or intent.

“I know you will need help. I am commissioned to complete the task. I’m responsible for—”

“Don’t,” Nikki said around her tightening throat. “She’s gone. Let’s move on.”

“I’m doing that. She paid me for a mission and I will complete it.”

Nikki recognized the universal male “ain’t gonna budge” look in his stance. Growing up with seven brothers was enough to teach her when she needed to bide her time, and now was that moment. She’d deal with him later, after she had a look around the ship. And since Hero here wanted to come along—and had great stealth skills—she might as well let him.

“What’s your background?”

He hesitated and for a moment she thought he’d ignore her question, but he finally said, “Hong Kong police.”