Eric Lustbader - Blood Trust

He turned her slightly so that her back was more in the light cast by the flames. He touched her tenderly.

“Where did you get these scars?”

“I was punished. Once.”

“Who did this?” Though the scars were fresh, their length, the pattern was identical to those on Annika’s back. “Who punished you?”

“Arian Xhafa himself,” Edon said. “This is his mark, his punishment.”

Jack felt all the breath go out of him as everything fell into place. No wonder Annika was so interested in coming after Arian Xhafa—it was he who had marked her, just as he had marked this girl. Jack put his hand to his head. Every time he thought he had come to the core of Annika, another layer of secrets and lies was revealed.

God help Arian Xhafa, he thought.

TWENTY-FIVE

THE SYRIAN tilted his face up toward the sun. “Pity about Oriel Jovovich Batchuk,” he said. “We had a lucrative deal with him, and once he became Russia’s deputy prime minister he was our best single customer.”

Xhafa shot him a glance. “That was months ago. We’ve replaced him ten times over.”

“Ah, but Batchuk was also the father of Annika Dementieva, and she is so very special.”

Xhafa shifted uncomfortably on the hardwood bench.

The Syrian knew better than anyone the relationship between Dementieva and Xhafa, though “relationship” was an inadequate term to describe what had happened between them. The knowledge sickened him; it was no surprise that their hatred for one another knew no bounds; Xhafa was obsessed with her. This enmity would prove dangerous for him if he allowed Xhafa to go after her. Xhafa wasn’t exactly rational when it came to the subject of Annika Dementieva. He and Xhafa were tied together through Gemini Holdings, the shell corporation that Caroline, in her genius, had set up for them to make their international deals legitimate. He was at risk as long as Annika remained alive. Though Caro had assured him that no one could trace either of them back to Gemini, he was not at all certain that included Annika and her devil of a grandfather.

Caro was incredibly smart and incredibly proficient at whatever she set her hand to; he had seen that for himself many times over. She was an autodidact—she had taught herself pretty much everything she knew about business, computer programming, and the Internet. He was stunned at what she could accomplish at her workstation.

“You must let it go, Arian. This is business. You must leave Dementieva to me,” the Syrian said now. “You need to keep your eyes on the prize—and on Jack McClure. The magnitude of his interference is an unexpected complication.”

Xhafa sighed. “I suppose I needn’t remind you it was through McClure that you lured Dementieva out of hiding.”

For a moment, the Syrian went dead still, and was aware of the blood draining from Xhafa’s face. Yet that wasn’t enough for him.

“When I need reminding, I’ll ask Caro.” His words were delivered with an acid bite. He realized, belatedly, that he had confided too much of his plan to his man. He bit his tongue at the mistake; he’d not make it again. No one understood his mind, save perhaps Caro. This was her true value to him, one he’d rather die with than divulge to anyone.

“Apologies,” Xhafa managed to get out, after an oppressive silence.

These were two proud men, preeminent within their own spheres. But both were acutely aware that the Syrian’s sphere was vastly larger than Xhafa’s, and sometimes this discrepancy caused friction. But managing friction was one of Xhafa’s strong suits, even if, in this case, it meant putting his tail between his legs.

“Apologies,” Xhafa said again. “The loss of my longtime base was something I never imagined.”

The sun was gone now, the shadows lengthening, the air growing cooler.

The Syrian sighed. “Sometimes it seems to me that life is constructed only of unexpected losses.” This was as far as he was prepared to go to mollify Xhafa.

“HABIBI.”

The whispered voice from behind Caroline stopped her from returning to her work. She turned slowly, her lips turned up in a mysterious smile.

Taroq was standing in shadow, in a place where he couldn’t be seen by the two men in the garden. Like his master, he was Syrian, a distant nephew, in fact. Tall and bronzed with wide shoulders and a slender waist, he exuded a certain solidity. His full beard was light brown, almost copper-colored in sunlight, and his long eyes were gray. Still as rock, he watched her with an avidity she could feel though twelve feet separated them.

Caroline hated men, but she didn’t hate Taroq. She had cultivated him almost from the moment the Syrian had brought her to the compound. Caroline was one of those people who felt no remorse, no guilt, no sense of loyalty. She defined herself as amoral; a psychiatrist would no doubt render a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, because her major traits fit like a glove: patterns of deceitfulness, a failure to conform to societal norms, blatant disregard for the rights and safety of others. An ignorant person might call her a psycho, but that would be a misnomer; Caroline’s disorder was far more complex.

The best thing about Taroq—besides his strength, that is—was that he was drawn to her, rather than being repulsed as the other guards clearly were. Taroq was smart enough, and close enough to his master to be curious about Western civilization—not the TV shows or films or designer clothes, but the concept of having choices. For him, Caroline presented a doorway into a new world, in more ways than one.

“We’re quite alone.” His voice was already thick with lust. He held out a hand, his need shining like a beacon in a storm. “Let’s go—”

“No.” She beckoned. “I want to look at him while we do it.”

This was apparently too much for Taroq. He stood very still and shook his head.

Caroline stared into his eyes as she began to slowly unbutton her shirt. She was wearing nothing underneath and by the fourth button the inner halves of her breasts were visible. She kept opening buttons without parting the shirt. When she was finished, she unbuttoned her jeans and slowly pulled down the zipper.

Taroq’s eyes grew wide; she was naked underneath.

Her arms hung at her sides. Some mysterious inner working rolled the tiny swell of her belly.

“Come,” she said, and Taroq was compelled to do as she commanded.

GUNN, CURLED in the trunk of Vera’s car, heard the doors open, then felt the weight of two people getting into the car. This indicated that Vera had been successful in luring O’Banion. He turned and, pulling open the Saab’s pass-through from the trunk to the backseat, he crawled through, only to find O’Banion on the backseat, pointing a suppressed Glock at his face.

“Howdy-do, Gunn.” O’Banion’s grin was chilling. “You proved yourself to be a snake just like all the rest of your kind. I don’t think snakes live very long, but in any case longer than you.”

Gunn wanted to say something—anything—but, frankly, he was speechless. How had the bastard known? Willowicz was dead, so that left Vera. Where the hell was she? Probably cut and run. That fucking bitch!

O’Banion took possession of Gunn’s Sig Sauer and stuck it in his waistband without taking his eyes off his adversary. “Believe me, it’s going to be a pleasure watching your head fly apart.”

At that moment, Vera’s head popped up above the front seat back. She had something stretched between her hands—the long lace from one of her boots. Before O’Banion could pull the trigger, she whipped the lace over his head and across his throat. Then she pulled mightily.