Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) Read online

  Working with Morgan had made her see the benefit of having an official end of the workday, and marking it with a nice dinner. She was determined to keep the tradition going, so when they’d returned from court at 6:30, she gave the team a fifteen-minute break to change into comfortable clothes and make personal calls. She’d taken out her contact lenses and put on glasses, slipped into jeans and ballet flats, and pulled a black cashmere cardigan over her white dress shirt. Then it had been back to work. It was late for dinner, but given the upheaval caused by Morgan’s death, she was glad she’d been able to send the memo and end their workday before midnight. Besides, their bodies were still operating in the Eastern time zone. It didn’t feel nearly as late as it actually was.

  “This is ridiculous. Damn email still hasn’t gone through.” Eric plopped onto the couch, lifting his laptop, and clicking at keys. “We’re working on the most important international tribunal ever convened, and the network is less sophisticated than something from the 1990’s.”

  “Sophistication is what slowed it,” Samantha answered. “State of the art firewalls, encryption devices, and filters make it secure and unhackable and for that, we all should be grateful. Otherwise we’d be slipping paper memos under the doors of the judges each evening. Absolutely that would be a job for someone other than first chair.” She gave Eric a pointed look and a smile, indicating the job would be his, not hers.

  Knock. Knock.

  The rap of hard knuckles fueled by a powerful arm on solid wood resonated through the room, stealing any laughter from her joke.

  “Has to be Black Raven. Marshals wouldn’t have let anyone else up,” Charles frowned. “They’re early.”

  Black Raven wasn’t supposed to arrive until 11:15, and the transport to their next hotel was to occur shortly thereafter, assuming it was going to occur that evening. Eric, Charles, and Abe exchanged a glance, then their attention turned to her. She had explained what Black Raven-style protection entailed, and their eyes revealed more than a bit of unease. She didn’t blame them.

  Knock. Knock.

  The solid sound, coupled with the early arrival of the security team, when the security company normally worked with the precision of a Swiss timepiece, sent a shudder of sudden uncertainty through her.

  “One minute,” she called, adjusting her eyeglasses as she stared at the computer screen. Whoever was on the other side of the door would have to wait until the email went through, just like the rest of them. Having a private security company was not her choice, and the agents would have to learn they weren’t going to interfere with work.

  Samantha had encountered few people as stubborn as she, who chose a course of action and followed it as though it was chiseled in granite. Her grandfather was one of those people. To the rest of the world, he was Samuel Dixon, the ballsy, eccentric leader of multiple Fortune 500 companies. Within minutes of Morgan’s death, her grandfather had called. In his typical controlling fashion, he’d steamrolled her protests as he insisted Samantha and the rest of the Amicus team from the United States have their own security detail.

  It didn’t matter to her grandfather that there was nothing alarming in Morgan’s death. At 65 years old and an insulin-dependent diabetic, with a history of cardiac events, reality was that Stanley Morgan had health issues that could lead to sudden death. Once the judges offered Samantha the position of chief, Samuel became even more adamant.

  Black Raven was her grandfather’s go-to security company, and he’d already made the hiring call by the time he first told her his idea. With steadfast insistence, and continued reference to the horrors of terrorist acts that the ITT was examining, he’d worn her down in repeated phone calls. She’d given her grandfather one stipulation; she’d agree to Black Raven protection, but she did not want Jesus Hernandez to have anything to do with her on-site security detail. She didn’t want to see him or hear from him, and she damn well expected her grandfather to make this happen without it becoming an issue.

  Jesus Hernandez.

  Zeus to anyone who knew him.

  Once, years earlier, she’d known him well. Or so she’d thought. Turned out she hadn’t known him at all. She focused her gaze on the intricately cut crystal water pitcher that the waiter placed on the table. In the last twenty-four hours, she’d been too busy with work to worry about whether her grandfather had truly understood the gravity with which she’d made the stipulation. She hadn’t intended her demand as something her grandfather could consider and reject.

  Now, with the hard knock marking the arrival of the private security company and the literal changing of the guard for the team, her stomach twisted into a hard, nervous ball. Samuel, the larger-than-life man who had raised her after the death of her parents, had taught her to be self sufficient, disciplined, ambitious, and successful. From a young age, he’d treated her as an adult and an equal. He’d always insisted she call him by his first name. Never Grandpa, or Gramps. Yet even with his no nonsense attitude towards everything in life, Samuel knew the reasons why she didn’t want Zeus there. At least he knew some of the reasons why. Surely her grandfather had damn well listened to her?

  Knock. Knock. The email notification finally flashed that the message and the attachments were sent. The cc copy that she’d sent to herself appeared in her inbox with an accompanying ding, just as Lorenzo put a vase of fresh flowers on the worktable that he’d transformed into a dining table.

  “Done,” she said, shutting down her laptop and standing. “Thank you for all your hard work today.” As Lorenzo stepped away from the table, she said, “Lorenzo, the table is beautiful. Merci beaucoup.”

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  She walked across the room as Charles signed for the room service. She opened the door. Zeus, arm lifted and fingers curled together as he prepared to rap on the door again, towered over her five seven by a good ten inches. Dropping his arm to his side, he gave her a cool nod, his brusque manner suggesting a nod was all that was needed to bridge the gap between his decision to leave her and the intervening seven years. “Hello, Sam.”

  Chapter Three

  I’m never speaking to Samuel again.

  Samantha swallowed her shock and composed her features. She was a world-class litigator, for God’s sake. She’d practiced the look of composure in the mirror. She gave Zeus the kind of look she used in court when she knew she was on a losing side of an argument. It was the kind of look that revealed nothing about inner turmoil, and she thanked God she’d practiced how to reflect confidence when she felt none, because right now she needed every bit of cool she’d ever deposited in her considerable reserves.

  A brick wall of a man, Zeus stood still and erect, shoulders broad, muscular arms loose at his sides. Waves were evident in his cropped, thick black hair, which matched the midnight-black of his eyes. In the intervening years since she’d last seen him, she’d had plenty of occasion to remember what he looked like, because her mind played the cruel trick of never forgetting anything about him.

  Time hadn’t diminished his smoldering good looks, or the gravity in his jet black eyes, set off by high cheekbones, thick eyelashes, and dark brows. His gaze had an intensity borne of constant, carefully measured thoughts he typically left unspoken.

  There’s no way out of this. Requesting Zeus’s removal from the job will mean Zeus will know why. He probably would’ve figured it out even if the request came from Samuel, but now he’ll have no doubt that the request came from me. He’ll know how much he got to me. Gets to me. Oh hell. He does not get to me. That happened seven years ago, remember?

  A neat evening shadow accented the hard set of his jawline and hollow cheekbones. Some men wore that style facial hair as a fashion statement. He was the kind of guy the others were emulating. Ribbing on the sleeves on his black polo shirt stretched over muscular biceps. Black pants were pulled taut over his muscular thighs. A gun was holstered at his hips, on a low-slung belt that carried extra ammunition clips and a stun gun.

  Flanking him
were four men, dressed exactly as Zeus, almost as tall, all muscle bound, and all looking serious. Testosterone came off them in waves. If there hadn’t been variations in hair, eye color, and skin tone, she’d have sworn Black Raven was a clone factory. Each agent carried a black bulletproof vest. The two marshals who had been on duty in the hallway stood to the side, their navy-blue blazers and gray dress slacks seeming ordinary in comparison to the blatant show of brawn and power the Black Raven agents displayed.

  “Are you and your team ready?”

  “No. The plan was Black Raven would arrive at 11:15, even though we’d prefer to do the move in the morning.”

  Without heels, looking Zeus in the eyes required her to tilt her chin up, and that action brought flashes of fragmented, dormant memories—lips parting for a kiss, his powerful arms reaching around her while her body yearned for his, gentleness becoming heated, frenzied desire, his rugged body covering hers, their limbs tangled together, a palette of contrasting skin tones in soft candlelight, his tawny, hers ivory. Samantha gave herself an inward, mental shake, immediately irritated that these visions remained in her memory bank. Outwardly, she did nothing but blink, breathe, and square her shoulders.

  He had a world-series-worthy poker face, and he wore it now. Although she’d once glimpsed that he was a man of deep feelings and great passion, he typically showed the world only what he chose to reveal—that he was tough, powerful, capable, and smart. Decisive.

  Damn him and his decisiveness.

  She wished that Zeus had declined the job. He was a mercenary, though. By definition, he was a man who could be bought, and God knew her grandfather had enough money to buy people. That’s why Zeus was there, darkening the doorway of her hotel room. She wished it were a trait that made her dislike him, yet she understood ambition of any kind, even ambition fueled by economic desire.

  She had enough other reasons to dislike him.

  She only needed one, actually.

  “We left a message. Plan changed.” Zeus glanced at the two agents to his right and almost imperceptibly flicked his head. They walked into the room, and set the vests they were carrying on the couch as Lorenzo pushed the cart out of the room. One agent stood with his back to the far corner, his eyes crawling over every inch. The other went to the windows and shut the drapes.

  Samantha had a business phone and two personal phones. One of her personal phones was used solely for phone conversations with her boyfriend, U.S. Senator Justin McDougall. She hadn’t touched either personal phone in two hours. She’d been too busy focusing on work and in particular the nightly briefing memo. When she focused, she had tunnel vision. Anyone involved in ITT work needing to reach her would have gone through Charles, who monitored her business phone. The only call that had come through on her business phone had been from President Cameron.

  “You called on my personal number?” She knew how Black Raven operated. She didn’t plan on relinquishing both of her personal phones to Zeus, so she pretended to have only one.

  Dark-as-night eyes glanced at her. Hard. Assessing. “On the number you provided.”

  She turned in the doorway, half in the room, half out of it, and glanced at Charles. Neither of her personal phone numbers should have been put on the Black Raven questionnaire. Charles’s eyes met hers with a silent apology. He’d answered most of the questions for her. The more probing, personal questions she’d directed him to leave blank. From firsthand experience with the company, she knew the questionnaire was only a formality. Black Raven had ways of knowing things about the people they were charged with protecting. Much of it involved taking full advantage of insecurity in cyber data that people expected to be private.

  “In the future,” she said, her eyes returning to Zeus, “please go through my business line.” It wasn’t his fault that she’d missed the message, but she was still annoyed.

  “From here on out we won’t be communicating by phone,” he said, his tone conveying confidence in his ability to dictate the circumstances of their interaction.

  “Smoke signals? Carrier pigeon?” As her blood boiled with frustration at her grandfather for putting her in this position, and with Zeus for signing up for the task, his dark eyes met hers for a second.

  The barest twitch of a smile, at the left corner of his lips, disappeared as fast as it almost materialized. “Unnecessary. We’ll be only a few feet apart, at most. For the duration.”

  Undercurrents?

  His flat, dark eyes, told her nothing. Sharks revealed more personality in their fathomless eyes. Perhaps he’d never felt the tug and pull of forces that she’d been powerless to control. Perhaps he’d never wondered, what if. If he had, he gave no indication that any memory of their time together existed.

  Bastard.

  His eyes slid away from hers. He looked over her shoulder and into the hotel room as he touched his ear, holding his fingertip on an almost invisible transmitter. “Repeat.”

  Seven years earlier, she’d learned to read him. Or so she’d thought. The to-the-ear gesture reminded her he was in constant communication with other Black Raven agents, both onsite and off. As he listened, he was stiller than still. His eyes focused on hers as he assessed the information that he was receiving, conveying with a flat, focused look and the hard set of his square jaw a message that didn’t need words. He was there early for a reason.

  Something was wrong.

  “Jesus Hernandez.” His attention shifted to her team, who stood behind her. His self-introduction came in the usual brisk, to-the-point manner that Samantha hadn’t forgotten. “Call me Zeus. Compliments of Samuel Dixon, Black Raven PSC is now in charge of your security. Each of you has a primary agent. Eric.” Zeus’s eyes went directly to Eric, confirming that introductions weren’t needed. “Meet Agent Stan Lewis. Abe, Agent Brad Lambert is yours. Charles, meet Agent Zane Axel.”

  Zeus glanced at Sam as each bodyguard shook hands with their charge. He didn’t need to identify her primary agent, nor did he offer to shake her hand.

  “We’ll provide more details on logistics upon arrival at your new hotel. Each primary agent works with other agents on a team dedicated to your personal security. You’ll meet your team members later. This,” he glanced again to his left, at the lone agent who remained at his side, “is Mark Small. He and his team handle logistics, analytical support, and backup. You each have a Kevlar vest. Custom fitted vests are on their way, but for now these’ll do the job. Wear your vest in all business meetings, whenever we’re in transport, and whenever instructed to do so. The only time you won’t wear the vests is when you’re secured in your hotel rooms.”

  Mark Small handed Sam her vest. The weight of it carried a reality that chilled her. Before she could voice the question, Eric asked, “Are vests necessary?”

  Zeus glanced at him. “Yes.”

  Had she never been around Zeus, had she not personally witnessed him taking a bullet for her grandfather without hesitating, she’d have argued with his high-handed, imperious style.

  He glanced at her. “Put the vest on and let’s go.”

  “We need to have dinner first,” Samantha said, forcing her voice to be low and equally as authoritative as his. “And we need to discuss why we need to leave tonight. We’d prefer to make the move tomorrow morning.”

  “Departure time isn’t up for discussion.” She’d never met another man who could convey so much with so few words, while his expressions and body language filled in the blanks. He remained in the hallway, slightly to the side of the door, suggesting he expected them all to walk out in single file on his order. “No time to eat.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at her team. Charles stood in shocked, open-mouthed silence and Abe met her glance with a puzzled look in his blue eyes and a frown line bisecting his brow. Eric, who was the furthest from her, was focused on Zeus, and he was giving him a slow negative headshake. When she resigned herself to her grandfather’s demand that she have Black Raven protection, she’d given Eric, Abe, and Char
les an option to take it or leave it.

  The conversation had taken place as they were focusing on trial exhibits of the metro bombings that were the subject of the Paris ITT proceedings. Abe had been in the States, Eric and Charles had been with her. The grisly photos had acted as persuasion devices more than anything she could have said. Though she had warned Eric that Black Raven transfers could be abrupt, she could tell by his narrow eyes and flushed cheeks that Eric was only now grasping the reality.

  “This is ridiculous,” Eric said. “I didn’t agree to being manhandled. We’ve worked all day. Our dinner was just delivered. Let us eat while we discuss how this will work.”

  “I agree with Eric,” Abe said. “Aside from our preference that we leave in the morning, we were all set to leave at 11:15.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure moving makes sense at all,” Eric said. “This hotel is crawling with security because the judges are here. We’ve got a team composed of marshals and DHS agents.” He shrugged. “Plus, the French military is providing security.”

  “Zeus, if there’s a reason for the urgency, it would be best if you explain it,” Samantha said. Explaining himself wasn’t something he did naturally, but perhaps in a business capacity he’d be more transparent.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Thirty minutes ago the ITT prosecution team from Columbia was leaving a restaurant.” Zeus’s tone was calm and matter of fact, while the faces of the Columbian prosecution team flashed through her mind. “A car bomb detonated as they approached their vehicle. One dead. Two critical.” He glanced at her. “If you had answered your phone when I called, you’d have known this.”

  “Aw, hell,” Eric said, collapsing onto a chair at the dining table.

  Sam turned from Zeus, her attention on the marshals who had been overseeing their protection and who were now hovering near Zeus in the hallway. “Why weren’t we apprised of this?”

  Marshal Robert Smith shook his head. “French authorities are investigating, along with ITT forces.” ITT security forces were made up of law enforcement personnel from the four countries. “We’re not sure yet that the Columbian prosecution team was the target. It happened at a crowded café on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, known to be frequented by American tourists.”