“How?”
“Trade secret.” He winked. “Now come on inside. Unless you’re still planning to gas me.”
Thousands of questions crowded her thoughts as she followed him inside the apartment and closed the door behind her. How did he survive? Why hadn’t he told her? And what had he been up to all this time?
For now, she kept them perched on the tip of her tongue while she waited for him to start talking. If her luck held, he’d save her the trouble and address her questions without any prodding.
“Décor’s a little sparse.” Vaughn crossed to her kitchen and opened the refrigerator as if he owned the damn place. He frowned. “You don’t have anything stronger than pineapple juice?”
There were a few bottles of hard liquor in the pantry behind him, but she didn’t feel like waiting for answers while he made himself a highball. “Sorry. Tomorrow’s grocery day.”
Her response didn’t faze him one bit. Juice bottle in hand, he closed the fridge and rummaged through her cabinets for a glass. “You look good, by the way.”
“So do you, for a dead man.” She stood by the recliner, her right hand resting on the unzipped purse where her Browning was stored with the safety off. Yes, they shared a long history, but things could change a lot in the space of six years. “I watched you walk into that building. Watched it explode. I went to your funeral.”
“Only person from the Agency who did. I was touched.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “The flower arrangement was nice, by the way. Thank you.”
As the shock drained from her system, it was replaced with a spark of temper that she refused to acknowledge just yet. “Why?”
“Why what?”
Her eyes narrowed. Part of her wanted to hug him, while the rest of her wanted to slap him silly for making her think he’d been dead all this time. “You know what.”
He gave a casual shrug. “I decided to take early retirement.”
Stunned into silence twice in one night. That had to be some sort of record. “You didn’t have to fake your death for that.”
“You do when you want to work as a free agent.” Glass full, he returned the juice bottle to the fridge and leaned back against the counter as he faced her. Under the bright lights in the kitchen, more scars were visible along his neck and arms, most likely the result of burns. “You know how the government gets when their agents leave for the private sector. How many years are you barred from leaving the country—five, seven?”
“Ten.” Even if an agent no longer worked for the government, they still knew things that could harm the country if they fell into the hands of foreign adversaries. It wasn’t wise to allow them to travel abroad until the information became obsolete.
Vaughn’s eyebrows lifted so high they almost touched his hairline. “See what I mean? Being chained to the States for that long would have put a serious crimp on my ability to earn a decent living. Besides, I made a lot of enemies over the years. This way, with everybody thinking I’m dead, I get the added bonus of wiping the slate clean.”
There was a fine line between disappointment and feeling like a fool. Usually, she hoped for the best but wasn’t surprised when human nature reared its ugly head. But there were rare occasions when disappointment hit her from an unexpected angle, and those were the times she berated herself for not being more cynical. “So you went through all that trouble just to become a damn mercenary.”
Spies worked for a purpose, for a cause, for what they considered right. They tended to hold an unfavorable opinion of mercs, who’d do any damn thing under the sun, right or wrong, as long as the check cleared.
Vaughn chuffed. “Oh, spare me the righteous indignation. You know as well as I do that a spy is nothing more than a criminal who collects a government paycheck. We lied and stole and killed for this country. Letting the government think I became a briquette pales in comparison.”
Whatever. She saw no point in arguing with a man who’d convinced himself he’d done nothing wrong. There were more important matters to discuss, like why he’d chosen now to come back from the dead and make his presence known. Obviously, he wanted something from her. What it was and how much it would cost her remained a mystery. “Why are you here?”
“Well, it certainly isn’t for the drink selection.” He sipped his juice and made a sour face. “Are you sure you don’t have any rum or vodka? I’d even settle for some schnapps at this point, because—”
“Vaughn…”
He grinned. “Oh, come on. Lighten up. You of all people should know I’m just jerking your chain.” He drank another mouthful of juice and set the glass on the counter. When his eyes met hers, all traces of humor left his face, and the change reminded her of just how dangerous he could be.
It also made her glad she was armed.
“I’m in town for a job, and I could really use your help.”
The hairs rose along the back of her neck. “What kind of job?”
Vaughn’s expression turned grim. “A Russian wet-work team flew into Orlando late yesterday afternoon. Remember your old buddy, Bazarov?”
Like there was any chance she could ever forget that asshole. An operative for the Russian Federation, Rudolph Bazarov was proficient in infiltration, interrogation, and hand-to-hand combat, but his real expertise, the part of the job where he truly excelled, was in assassination.
Essie had tangled with him on multiple occasions while she worked in Eastern Europe. Their last encounter was in a rough part of Warsaw, where he’d tried to choke her to death in an alley, and she’d convinced him to back the hell off by gouging one of his eyes with the key to her rental car. Good thing she’d sprung for the premium roadside assistance, or she would have had to explain the charge for a new key on her monthly expense report.
