Target: Hard Target Part 6

He laughs, then I take him into my mouth and his laughs turn into full on groans.

Chapter Six.

Benjamin After I prepare a meal for the two of us and we eat, I take Morgan to bed, but not to have s.e.x. She's exhausted and needs to sleep. While she's been through a lot in her life, more than most, I'm not certain how she will feel tomorrow.

Things got rather carried away in the shower.

Brilliant move, I think. Pure f.u.c.king brilliance to have s.e.x with her again. I need to keep my distance and not because there is something wrong with her, or I can't commit to a relations.h.i.+p.

I can commit, but in situations like these, I have no idea if either of us will survive, or if our need to be together is grounded in that Morgan thinks she owe me and I her. Based on David's response, I say we're in the camp of having to leave the country to survive.

"Ben," she says sleepily.

"Yes, love."

"How do you know how to use a gun and jump off buildings?"

"I thought we discussed this already." I trace a line down the center of her back. "My former life taught me everything."

"Why did you give it up?"

I gaze at her face, at her eyes that are half-closed. She's close to pa.s.sing out. "I wanted something different. Wanted to do good, make something of myself."

A little smile curves the corners of her mouth. "Me too."

I wonder at that admission. It's rather strange given her background. While I wasn't in charge of background checks at PharmGen, I did snoop on Morgan. More for my obsession with her than anything else. Despite having no one, she's led a charmed life.

A soft snore leaves her and I extricate myself from her arms. Pulling on a pair of pants and a long-sleeve t-s.h.i.+rt, I head to my office. There is one in every house and flat I own. While I might have chosen to follow the straight and narrow path, there are still inroads that can help me navigate it.

Inserting the flash drive into the main system unit, I open the flash drive and take a peek inside. More codes, much like the ones in Dr. Clark's email make up most of the doc.u.ments while the images are of cells. Since my specialty is computers, I can't make heads or tails of his scientific jargon. Falling back on one of the best and simplest tools of my trade, I run an anonymous Google search.

Nothing. "f.u.c.k."

I shoot an email to Violet Virus, a German-based hacker who, at the tender age of thirteen, infiltrated the EU's supposedly secure cloud and publically posted high clearance level emails. Her code-cracking skills are beyond genius. Plus, her background is in biology.

After the email is sent, I call my brother on a secure line.

"Benji," he says.

"You're drunk, Koyla" I say, more than a little shocked. Nikolai never calls me by my nickname anymore. Only Grandfather does, then again he has pet names for all of his grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. The Romanov clan is rather prodigious in size.

"Nyet. I'm celebrating."

My brows shoot up. "The occasion?"

"Everly's pregnant."

"Baby number four, eh?"

"Da."

"Oh no, the Russian's slipping in," I tease. "Let me talk to Everly."

"Nyet. She's sleeping. At home."

I hear squeals in the background, then shouts. "You're in charge right now, aren't you?"

"We're at the bookstore. Nicky is organizing my shelves. The girls are helping him. Everly's parents are supervising."

He sounds so pleased, so d.a.m.n happy and normal, that I can't bother him with my troubles. It wouldn't be right. My brother worked too hard for what he has now. To be the bookseller known to everyone as Roman Smith and not Nikolai Romanov.

"That's great. I hope to visit soon. All those college girls, you know." I wince. I sound like the old me. The one who acted like he hadn't a care in the world, even while he toppled governments and executed men for crimes against humanity at Grandfather's behest.

"Benji," he begins and the censure in his voice is all too apparent. "You're too old for them."

"Twenty nine is hardly old," I disagree. Though there are days when I feel ancient.

"Old enough to settle down. Give me nieces and nephews."

"You sound like Grandfather."

"A man without the love of a good woman is nothing."

I smile a little. "Then you are everything, Kolya."

Nikolai is more than just a brother to me. Growing up, he acted more like my father and I followed him around like a puppy. I tried to emulate him, making myself an annoying pest, but he was always patient with me.

I owe him my life.

"I'll let you go. Work stuff."

"Don't go so long without calling next time, little brother."

"Stop getting sentimental, Paxon." Old man.

After ending our call, I text my last resorts.

My cousin Dmitry, a driver for the Bratva, who can get anyone out of anywhere, no questions asked. Or rather hardly any questions asked. In any case, I text my cousin Maxim as well, but this is where things get a little tricky.

Maxim strictly works for MI-6. While I trust him, there is no way he'll get involved with something that could potentially hurt his career or put his wife in jeopardy-no matter that they are estranged. However, he cannot ignore domestic terrorism in the City.

Either way, Morgan and I are f.u.c.ked if they can't help us.

While I wait for their responses, I check the cameras around the city, looking for signs of Wraith activity as well as gunned men skulking around this part of town. It's rather fas.h.i.+onable, but no one gets to know their neighbors anymore, so that makes it perfect for an anonymous buyer.

While I told Morgan that I won the safe house in an online poker game, the truth is I bought the restored mansion for a steal-a mere three million-with a corporation listed as the buyer. That's not strictly illegal. Plus, the corporation is a good citizen, paying its fair share of taxes.

After finding no sign of anyone from the Wraith Organization, I search world news bulletins.

"Blyad," I growl, rechecking my steps. "How can there be absolutely nothing?"

I shake my head in disbelief. Little is known about the Wraiths outside of the Bratva world. When I was a younger man, they were the transporters for our family. No muss. No fuss. Of course, someone wasn't happy with their situation-my father, Vladimir, for one, but he's long dead-killed by Grandfather for planning a coup against him. And for attempting to a.s.sa.s.sinate my brother.

The only good thing I know is that Wraiths are near to extinction, courtesy of my Grandfather's decree. Apparently, one of their higher-ranking men broke protocol by asking questions and demanding more money. When he didn't get either, a full-fledged attack was waged on the Bratva.

From what I remember, it didn't last long-a day or two at the most. I was fourteen and Grandfather kept me away from most of the violence. However, he did not prevent me from watching their executions.

"You should know what a man looks like in his last moments."

Rubbing my jaw, I log into a new search engine that allows me to spy on anyone, anywhere in the world who has a security system or a camera on a device connected to the Internet.

It's not something that most know about, but it's growing in users every month. Unfortunately. While I find it useful, the Average Joe who does not want their own webcams and security systems used against them, will not.

I log into Pinter's personal account, one that I set up myself, and take a look around. He's seated at his desk, talking to someone on the other side that I can't see.

Another quick press of a b.u.t.ton and I'm privy to his conversation.

"He's like a f.u.c.king ghost."

"You knew Romanov was a risk," a bodiless voice says.

They must be video chatting. I zoom in on the screen. Though I can't make out the face on his monitor, it's obvious he's in a Skype chat.

"You a.s.sured me that he was done with the Bratva."

My skin crawls. He knew who I was, who I used to be before he hired me?

"And I am not wrong," that same voice insists.

"Yet he stole the flash drive."

"I thought you said the little pizda stole it."

Anger rises, but there's nothing I can do about his use of Russian pejorative to describe Morgan. For now, anyway. I attempt to get a view at the screen, but every effort I make is thwarted.

David waves a hand in the air. "They are working together."

"We need the flash drive, Mr. Pinter. The buyer is most unhappy with these turn of events."

David blanches, the color leeching from his skin at a rapid rate. "You'll get your b.l.o.o.d.y information. Stall the buyer. My men will find him-"

"They won't find you, will they, Benjamin?"

The hair at the nape of my neck stands. There is no way anyone can know I'm here. I made sure of it.

David nearly jumps from his seat. "He's in the room?" He sticks his hand into his pocket, drawing out a gun and aiming it rather wildly.

"Sit down, Mr. Pinter. He's not in the room with you, at least not physically."

Unease pa.s.ses over my former boss's face, but he does as he's instructed. Though it is obvious he is not pleased to do so.

"Now that I have everyone's attention," the bodiless voice begins, "This is what's going to happen. Mr. Romanov will accompany Ms. Tanner to 24 Rue Haxo."

He wants us to travel to Paris? My finger hovers over the escape key. I should really shut this down, wake Morgan up, and get the h.e.l.l out of London, heading in the opposite direction of France. South America, Brazil more specifically, is fantastic this time of year.

"There the package will be deposited. Your key will be left in a package by the front door of your safe house." If he knows which safe house Morgan and I are occupying, why won't he name the street? "Pa.s.scode is your fake American social security number. You have forty-eight hours to comply with my request."

My heart kicks against my chest. s.h.i.+t. We've been found. I have to burn the hard drives and- "Forget Paris. I'll send my men to his door. Tell me where he is," David demands, his face becomes blotchy.

"You will leave Benji alone."

b.l.o.o.d.y f.u.c.king h.e.l.l. While it's obvious that my heritage is Russian, no one outside of my family calls me by the diminutive.

David's jaw clenches. The look in his eyes is murderous. "Fine," he bites out. "But if this gets f.u.c.ked to h.e.l.l and back, I am no longer responsible."

That's all I need to hear. I key in the sequence for the burn, grab the flash drive, and stride out of the room to prepare for our rendezvous in Paris. Since our location is already known and we're not dead, I'll take that as a sign of good faith.

My office at home has already been taken care of with a single text from me. Since I operate remotely, my server is located in the most secure building in the world.

I jog down the back stairs, turn the sconce located by the bottom step to the right, and wait for a panel in the wall to move to the side. The large room contains an a.r.s.enal, clothing, every technological gadget known to man.

And of course, an Aston Martin as one does in these situations.

We'll need new pa.s.sports, cash, credit cards, and scrubbed phones. Two hours later, I'm tired as h.e.l.l, but it has to be finished. I roll my head from side to side, attempting to relieve the pressure, as I pack the last few things and carefully place them in the boot of the Aston Martin. Doubling checking everything one last time, I head back upstairs to wake Morgan.

Sunlight is streaming though the window and Morgan is sitting up in bed when I walk in. Her chin length blond hair is mussed and her lips are parted on a yawn before she settles against the headboard.

For a moment, I struck by the picture she makes. It looks so right for her to be in my bed, waiting for my arrival. Although that is not the case, I let my imagination wander. Let myself imagine that I wake up to her every morning.

But not for long.

I clear my throat. "Good morning."

She takes one look at my face and asks, "What's wrong?"

"We've been found and we've," I glance at my watch, "less than fortysix hours to reunite the flash drive with its owner."

She leaps to her feet, grabbing the robe I'd lent her from the end of the bed and putting it on. It's ridiculously large for her, the sleeves hanging nearly to her thighs.

"You'll have to change into your old clothes. I'll buy you new ones later." While I can manufacture new identification papers and print 3-D guns, I don't usually stock women's clothing.