Chapter 4

FOUR

Midnight

Service tunnels under Bucharest

“Come to Bucharest, they said.” Spence raised a boot out of the muck and made a face. “We’ll get together, have a few laughs.”

Declan squeezed his flashlight. The beam bounced off the sides of the underground tunnel. “If you’re going to quote my favorite movie, don’t screw up the lines.”

The skinny boy leading the way through the maze turned a grinning face on them. He couldn’t be more than ten or twelve. “Die Hard, mda ? Great film.” His dirty hands flew through the air, mimicking a karate chop before he pointed at himself. “Van Damme, my favorite.”

Why the fuck had Meg set this up as their meeting place? The tunnel was only about a hundred feet below the streets above, and much of the city’s waste, water, and sewage ended up there one way or another. The stench was nearly unbearable, and there was a more sinister smell lingering underneath. Death.

Their boots echoed on wet stone as they trudged along the dimly lit corridors. The faint screeching and chirping of rats lingered around corners and clung to the shadows. How did anything survive down here?

Despite the conditions, gangs of orphaned and runaway children frequented the tunnels. Much like the malnourished kid ahead of them, most were homeless and relied on each other for food and protection.

The place felt like an Orson Scott Card novel. Despite being eight, ten, twelve years old at the most, these kids lived and fought like adults. They were tough. He would think twice about turning his back on one.

“How long have you lived down here, Van Damme?” Spence asked the kid.

The boy brightened at the nickname. “Forever. Bruce Lee, he takes care of us.”

Sure he did. The stench overpowered Declan’s nose again. As horrible as it was, he’d smelled worse. Seen it, too. Thousands packed under a bridge in Afghanistan, moaning from hunger pains and withdrawal from opioids. Hundreds rounded up and slaughtered in pits in Siberia.

The list went on. Most of it didn’t affect him anymore. At least, that’s what he told himself, anyway. He couldn’t afford to let it.

Nightmares and flashbacks weren’t the half of it. He swore the ghosts of those he hadn’t saved tried to suffocate him every damn night.

Deeper and deeper they went. People were piled together in spots. Could they avoid this Bruce Lee character who controlled the tunnels?

A man like any other, but one who had set himself up as king, he could be trouble for them. He could stop them from getting to their destination. He might even kill them.

Declan was no psychologist, but he understood men like Bruce Lee well. Their motivations were often illogical, and their reactions and decisions were based on the moment, not any long-term plan or wisdom gained through life experience. They lived in the moment, never knowing if they would make it to the next day, month, or year.

Yet, the system this man had set up showed he had the smarts to take advantage of his own people while providing a strange form of protection and oddball family for them.

Strangers, however, we’re a double-edged sword. They might provide food, money, and other favors, yet at the same time, be seen as a threat. Their team needed to present as an ally, not an enemy.

Declan had already promised their young guide a hundred Romanian leu. Cheap by most standards but approximately equal to a hundred US dollars. A sum that would make the Van Damme fan rich.

That said, the kid had wanted Declan’s boots to sell to one of his tunnel mates for a better spot to sleep, closer to the heat pipes. No deal—not only did Declan need the damn things, they were his lucky tact pair. They’d climbed mountains, slogged through bogs, roamed desserts, and kicked plenty of lowlife ass through the years. He didn’t understand why they hadn’t fallen apart yet, but like him, maybe they were too damn stubborn.

To appease the boy, Declan had dangled the carrot of his pocket knife that contained fourteen different tools. The kid’s eyes kept sliding to the pocket where Declan had stuffed it away. For him and many of his friends, tangible goods—tools, boots, weapons—were more valuable than money.

Not much fit that category for him. A few people, including the one he was walking with and the one he was about to meet. Too bad Meg hated him.

The commendations in his CIA folder made him look like a hero—a loyal, experienced, and elite soldier for his country. At one time, that was enough. Up until the day he’d met Meg Ann Carson.

His whole life changed after that.

He’d ordered himself not to fall in love with her. Had done it anyway. He’d demanded his heart not go belly up like a trained dog every time she walked into a room. He’d failed that, as well.

Over and over again, he’d fallen for her. Let her manipulate his feelings for her in a way no one else had ever done.

And then she’d sucked him into The Black Swans to use his skills and competency to balance her brilliant mind. He’d been her biggest supporter and her fiercest devil’s advocate—exactly what she’d wanted him to do as her second in command. Challenge her, test her, back her up when shit hit the fan.

She hated failure as much as he did, and it had been the two of them together who could take any challenge and look at it from all angles. Their team could provide the outcome needed for any goatfuck, no matter what sacrifice had to be made.

Until that sacrifice had been one of their own.

Jessie’s face tormented him every time he closed his eyes. That brutal swing of the machete. The sound when it connected.

His nightmares were filled with that sound. With Meg’s screams.

His waking moments with the ring of her hateful accusations.

Her hate, period.

For what he’d done.

For what he hadn’t done.

Saved Meg at the expense of Jessie. Saved the woman he loved by sacrificing one of the teammates they’d both sworn to protect.

He and Spence rounded another corner. People of all ages huddled together for warmth. Their pale, thin, and dirty bodies were unnaturally still. Many didn’t even appear to be breathing.

Some days—hell, most of them—he wished he wasn’t. That he could go back in time and offer himself in exchange for Jessie. Meg would still hate him if he were dead, but maybe she’d still love him, too.

The tunnel narrowed to an entrance with metal bars. The kid began outlining his favorite Van Damme film, complete with more punches, kicks, and quotes from his hero. With his lithe body, he slipped through the bars easily, but Declan and Spence had to remove their jackets and holstered guns to squeeze between them.

Even then, Declan had to suck in his breath as hard as he could to pass his muscled upper body through the tight space. It was touch and go, Spence egging him on when he got stuck. He had to stretch his arms overhead, sucking in his stomach but keeping his ribs from flaring in order to become like one of the bars himself.

Spence and the kid both tugged on him from the other side, the kid grabbing his thigh while Spence grabbed his belt. “One, two, three,” Spence said.

Declan sucked in another deep breath and imagined himself being as skinny as the two of them. They yanked and tugged, and it hurt like hell, but finally, he broke through to the other side. Off balance, he tumbled to the slippery, wet stones, his knee barking when it hit hard.

He heaved a couple of deep breaths before getting to his feet. He’d probably have bruised ribs tomorrow.

“Put on a few pounds, have you?” Spence joked.

He accepted his coat and weapon from him. “I’m at fighting weight, just like always.”

“Sure you are, mate.”

“Van Damme always lean,” the kid told him. “You should be more like him.”

Slipping on the holster before donning the jacket, he cocked his chin at the kid to get going. A set of iron steps led to a utility tunnel with pumps, pipes as big around as a man, and intricate groupings of valves.

As they cleared the top, his breath whooshed out at the sight of who awaited them.

He’d known he would see her after nearly a year of forcing himself not to interfere in her retirement. Had prepped himself for this very moment when they’d come face to face again.

What a joke.

Nothing could prepare him for seeing her up and close and personal, even after all this time.

She was thinner, her hair longer. She’d pulled the lush blond strands back in a ponytail, emphasizing her cheekbones and heart-shaped chin. Her eyes, always serious, had that haunted look that made him want to drop to his knees.

He wasn’t the only one tortured by Jessie’s death. Meg had always been wary and on guard, but after that night, the tormented, anguished expression had never left her.

Even now, after she’d been formally cleared of any wrongdoing, had gone through months of therapy, and had jetted off to exotic locals to rest and recoup, she looked as anguished as he felt.

Spence charged forward, lifting her off the ground. “There you are.” He hugged her hard, Meg stiffening in his embrace. Spence didn’t seem to care. He set her back but didn’t loosen his hold on her as he scanned her from head to toe. “Gods, you look good. All tan and such. What beach have you been gracing, sunshine?”

She pulled away, giving him a faint smile. “Good to see you, too.”

Contessa Vulpe was with her.

Interesting.

“Tess.” Spence offered a hand to The Architect. “It’s been a minute, eh, luv?”

“Get over here, you,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck. Then she turned to Declan. “Quit frowning, Dec. You look constipated.”

He allowed her to embrace him while all his senses stayed tuned to Meg. Had she recruited Tessa for this mission? “Imagine meeting you here.”

“I know.” She stepped back, a cunning grin on her face. “Strange bedfellows and all that, right?”

“Enough chatter,” Meg said. “We need to move.”

No acknowledgment of him, then. That’s how she wanted to play it.

Fine, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “Glad to have you,” he said to Tessa. To Meg, he said, “Thought you were still retired.”

Meg’s gaze flicked to him, away. “I am.”

Tessa and Spence exchanged a glance.

Mini Van Damme punched the air in front of him. “Pay up, mister.”

Declan did.

After the boy scampered off, Tessa drew out a folded map. She pressed it out on top of one of the enormous pipes, the noise louder here from the moving water inside. Steam hovered down the way, rising from grates in the floor.

“These tunnels run close to the old embassy.” She pointed. “We’ll follow this one there. “Another tap. “A second will lead us away from the old place and into the new, where I built in a back door.”

“Surveillance?” Spence asked.

“Of course,” she told them. “Here and here, but we can handle it.”

Spence dug in his backpack, bringing out a series of electronics. Each of them received an earbud with a mic and cameras the size of a button to attach to their clothing. Meg waved his offering off. “I’ve got mine already.”

Spence got in her face, studying her eyes. “You got a pair of Eagle Eyes, didn’t you? Where’s my pair?”

“There was only one in my kit,” she told him.

“Show me all entrances and exits,” Declan ordered Tessa.

She did, and he committed them to memory, using her map to create his own virtual version. His memory had always been one of his skills.

The last embassy he’d been in was similar in some ways, but each had its own distinct floor plan. “Let’s go over tactical requirements for the various scenarios: best case, worse case, holy shit case.”

“I’m going in alone,” Meg said.

Declan scoffed. “The hell you are.”

She pointed to the map and drew an X with her finger. “Spence and Tessa will stay outside the building here to monitor the riot and feed me intel. We need to get Tessa a rifle with a scope so she can be our eyes in the sky while Spence tracks me inside via his phone. You station yourself here.” Another X. “If I need help, I’ll message you.”

Fat chance. He stuck an earbud in and secured the camera on his coat lapel. “We’re a goddamn team, Meg. If Flynn wanted you to do this alone, he wouldn’t have sent for me and Spence. Grab your gear.” He started walking, his insides boiling. Of course, she would try to cut him out of this mission.

She could blame him all she wanted for the past, but he was still a swan and her second in command. “Let’s get this over with.”