He stared down at the dead assassin Antoni, the dark blond hair matted with blood, the head shot having taken off half his face. He wasn’t nearly as handsome, as debonair, as he had been when Ian’s men had raided the warehouse.
“Have the Misserns arrived yet?”
Josef and Martin Missern were the weapons dealers Ian was to have met at this warehouse. In less than ten minutes.
“Their limo just pulled in minutes ago,” Deke reported. “They’re being held outside.”
Ian’s jaw clenched. Would the twins, certain Sorrell contacts, have arrived if they had known about this strike?
Of course they would have, he thought cynically as he stared at the bullet-ridden bodies laid out before him.
“Secure the perimeter. Half of you take up sniper position, the other half are with me.”
He had a dozen men. He had come prepared. Survival instinct, knowledge of his enemies, or just plain paranoia had precipitated the cautionary attack on the warehouse.
It wasn’t the first time Sorrell had tried to take him out in the past year. Ian had learned to be on guard.
Of course, that was the price of walking away from a life of truth, justice, and the American way to take over the reins of a drug cartel. That cynical thought had something dark and bitter brewing in his gut.
As he turned and strode away from the dead bodies he knew none of the regret at the loss of life that he had often known during his years as a SEAL. The knowledge that he’d had no choice, that he was preserving the laws of his nation, didn’t comfort him.
Because he didn’t need comfort.
“What the hell happened in there?” Deke asked, his voice low, as the others moved out to secure the perimeter and to surround the heir of the Fuentes cartel. They left Ian and Deke in the center as they moved from the warehouse.
“Did you see Algeria?” Ian asked him carefully.
“Who could miss her,” Deke breathed out roughly. “Those Russian cheekbones and cool hazel eyes would be a dead giveaway a mile away. Knock-dead gorgeous and dangerous as hell. Have you ever seen such a pretty package housing such a black heart?”
Ian holstered his weapon as he stared at Josef and Martin Missern across the warehouse lot, although his attention was focused on Deke.
“You’re sure it was her?” Couldn’t anyone else see beneath the package, the disguise?
“Man, no one could imitate Algeria.” Deke snorted, but his look as he stared back at Ian shifted. “Could they?”
Ian shook his head. “It looked like Algeria; I just didn’t expect to see her here.”
“Antoni was here,” Deke pointed out. “They’re known associates.”
“She doesn’t usually work assassination squads,” Ian reminded him.
It was clear Deke didn’t have a clue who Algeria actually was.
Ian rubbed at his jaw, pausing before stepping closer to the Missern limo and staring around the warehouse lot. The neat wood and metal buildings were grouped close together, their contents awaiting shipping or delivery. It was the perfect place for an ambush. So why hadn’t the Chameleon warned him of it?
She had been the Chameleon tonight, partially. The disguise had been perfect, as it always was. The feature-altering latex appeared as natural as true flesh. The contacts in her eyes hadn’t given a hint of their true color, and the wig, if it had been a wig, looked as natural as real hair.
It better be a wig. God help her if she had cut that length of silky black hair that had graced her head in Atlanta.
She looked like a witch in her natural form. Gorgeous. Wicked. Seductive. The persona of Algeria Winters was as dangerous, as lethal, as any disguise the Chameleon had ever taken though.
“We have another problem,” Deke warned him then.
Ian glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Just one?”
Deke grimaced. “Word came in as we were suiting up to attack the warehouse. Kira Porter sent a message to the villa saying hello.”
Ian froze. Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch. She had called the villa? Which meant Diego knew, and that scheming, matchmaking bastard would be all over that one like white on rice. Nothing would please Diego more than to believe Ian had managed to catch the interest of a society princess such as Kira Porter—her real life persona. But it had also been the warning he wondered why he hadn’t recieved.
He was going to wring her slender, graceful little neck.
“Ian, what the hell is going on here?” Josef Missern snapped, as he and his brother and chauffer stood with hands flat against the hood of the limo.
Black-clad Fuentes soldiers pointed lethal M-16s at their backs, their eyes behind the black masks filled with the anticipation of death.
He pushed Kira to the back of his mind. He would deal with her later. But he would deal with her. And when he did, he promised himself, she wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much as she believed she was going to.
“Treachery, Josef.” Ian strode across the distance with lazy ease as he watched the weapons dealers with a cold smile. “Treachery and death. Would you like to join in? I can arrange it for you.”
The Frenchman paled as his brother stared back at him in horror.
Oh yeah, they had known what was going to happen here, and they were the perfect messengers to inform Sorrell that his highly paid assassins had failed.
As for the missing Algeria Winters, aka the Chameleon, aka one satin-fleshed, gray-eyed, black-haired Kira Porter? Well, he would take care of her on his own. And whatever her agenda, she could fly right back to Washington and let her handler know she had failed.
Ian had warned them when he left to stay the hell out of his way. He would kill and ask questions later before he would risk his own life, and his own plans. He was here for vengeance, and by God, vengeance would be his.
Two
“SO WHERE THE HELL IS Kira Porter?” Ian slammed the door to his office the next night and faced the bodyguard who had stepped inside with him.
His orders to Deke that morning had been simple: Find Kira Porter.
Deke looked as damned tired as Ian felt. Waylaying assassins and buying arms from gun smugglers at midnight, trying to justify letting the scum of the earth live another day, and doing it with only a few hours’ sleep in the past two days hadn’t helped his mood.
Nearly being knocked on his ass by a pint-sized black-haired witch with more guts than common sense wasn’t helping either. It didn’t matter to Ian that she was one of the most experienced and competent contract agents that he knew. It sure as hell didn’t help that she likely knew exactly what she was doing. The fact that she was there had the blood boiling in his veins. Unfortunately, it wasn’t all anger that was causing it.