Spies, Lies & Naked Thighs. Jina Bacarr

if someone was tailing him.

      Unless that someone was Caine.

      “Ooohhh…” A raspy sound came from the girl’s throat. His pulse raced. She was stirring, but her breathing was ragged. And were her lips turning blue? What if she started vomiting? He couldn’t take her to a hospital. Too many questions.

      “Quiet, bitch,” yelled the Russian in his native dialect, then he held a pillow over her face, cutting off her air. Her legs kicked wildly, her hands flailing about, her black nails trying to scratch her assailant.

      “You call that pillow talk?” Caine grabbed the pillow and tossed it onto the floor. The girl gasped for air, but she didn’t open her eyes. The effects of the drug kept her prisoner. He leaned over her, wiping the perspiration from her upper lip with his finger. Her closed eyelids shimmered silver and blue and gold like a metallic sunset, and her lips blazed red. He shuddered, imagining those lips giving him pleasure.

      Raising his voice, the Russian yelled, “I don’t care if Sharif did send you. Get out!”

      “I’m not going anywhere. I have my orders.” Alert and tense, Caine fought back the growing contempt he felt for the Russian. “Since you won’t share her, I’ll watch.”

      “So you can report back to Sharif?” The Russian tossed him a smirk. “Or is watching the only way you get off?”

      Caine tried a smile. “You’ll have a hard time proving that.”

      The Russian ignored his remark and ripped off the girl’s red thong and lifted her pelvis up to his lips, plunging his tongue deep into her, sucking and lapping. Her pulse twitched in her throat, her face numb and without sensation. Caine watched with disgust the desperate attempts of the terrorist to show his sexual mastery. Did the girl feel his rough tonguing? Was she enjoying it?

      “You Russians are so crude,” Caine insisted. He hated the way the man licked the girl, then, after wiping his mouth of the salty taste with the back of his hand, he inserted a finger to arouse her. She emitted a low groan and shifted her hips as he pushed his finger deeper inside her, circling her clitoris with rough strokes, gathering her juices on the tips of his fleshy pads. Distaste formed in his mouth as he watched the Russian spread the wetness over her thighs, letting it dribble down over her black and purple stockings, then bending over and sniffing her essence like a dog.

      Caine’s right hand curled into a tight fist. The man had no finesse, no idea how to arouse a woman. Why should he expect anything else from the ex-KGB agent? He recalled the terrorist’s background specified that he engaged in bang-and-burn ops. Demolition and sabotage operations.

      He had always prided himself on his sensual expertise to turn a woman on with his intellectual abilities to gain her confidence and create intimacy, then using that to his advantage.

      “Watch carefully.” The Russian laughed. “You Germans don’t know how to fuck a woman.”

      Caine smiled, ignoring his challenge. “Is that the only reason she’s here? Or is she a bargaining chip?”

      His opponent’s eyes snapped open. “Mind your own business.”

      So he was right. The Russian was a double agent, working for Sharif, but giving information to whoever paid him. He glanced at the U.S. currency stacked on the table. Didn’t the money prove that? Was the girl part of the deal? A little pussy to sweeten the pot? Then kill her?

      What happened to the federal agent the Russian was supposed to meet? That had to be the reason for the quick trip to Zurich. Then why had he been so sloppy on this op? Behaving recklessly and leaving a clear trail? Speaking openly on his cell phone and renting a room using a credit card under the name of Ivan Ivanovich? Caine never used the same credit card twice, had access to numerous passports through his prober, an operative who was also a specialist in false documents, and always used cell phones with cloned or stolen numbers.

      Before barging into the room, Caine had checked the area, looking for FBI suits hanging around the hotel. Nada. He had seen a blue van parked a block away. Three federal agents were probably inside, going crazy trying to figure out why the bug they planted wasn’t working. He grinned. Figuring the FBI was operating somewhere in the vicinity, he’d removed the receiver from the planter in the bar and dismantled it. Those FBI boys had no imagination. They’d been using the same old hiding place on every op since the Nixon days. He couldn’t take the chance on anyone taping him and burning him. Compromising him.

      As he did with every disguise, Caine spent a lot of time perfecting his legend, creating a German street thug in need of cash and excitement. The Teutonic accent wasn’t difficult for him to master since he spoke fluent German. The clothes were flea market glitz. His weapons procured through old contacts. To complete his disguise, he’d changed his gait and added a black eye patch with a pinhole in the middle to see through so it wouldn’t alter his depth perception.

      To prove himself, Sharif had been only too happy to let him demonstrate his capability with a Beretta 92 in the assassination of a Yemeni sheikh terrorist-turned-informant. Caine prided himself on his skill with weapons. When he was a teen, his father got a job as a security guard at a strip bar and legal brothel in the Nevada desert. His mother did the accounting. When he wasn’t peeking through the windows of the whorehouse watching the action going on, Caine spent his free time teaching himself marksmanship by shooting the heads off rattlesnakes. He could cock his weapon, fire and hit his target in under two seconds. This was vital to his survival since he worked moment to moment on pure instinct and adrenaline, barreling into ops headfirst, gun blazing.

      Caine took out the mark discreetly and efficiently, though after the renegade sheikh had relieved the FBI of more than a hundred thousand dollars. The lost funds, he decided, were a small price for the U.S. government to pay for him to infiltrate the relatively unknown but dangerous terrorist network. He also enjoyed showing up the boys at the Bureau. They hated it when a CIA operative beat them at their own game.

      Everything had gone according to plan. Until now. He had to find out why the Russian hadn’t returned to Paris as expected. The ex-KGB agent had orders to bring back details of a shipment of TATP to be delivered to Sharif. The highly volatile triacetone triperoxide was a vital component to the terrorist leader’s bomb-making operation. Caine hadn’t been able to find out his exact plans. Sharif kept that intel to himself, though the CIA operative had reason to believe the Chechen was preparing to increase his war chest by unloading a major antiquity with disputed provenance. Such a transfer into the wrong hands could not only deprive the art world of a centuries-old artifact but also cost innocent lives if Sharif used the money to fund terrorist activities. His job dictated he prevent that from happening, though at times Caine abhorred the tactics he must employ to get intel in the murky netherworld in which spy craft was often on a collision course with international politics.

      Taking a deep breath, Caine played down the suspicions in his mind and pulled out a wad of cash. He shoved it into the Russian’s face. “How much do you want to let me fuck the girl first?”

      The Russian, aware Caine was baiting him, waved his hand away. “I told you, she’s mine.”

      Caine could see the intent in the man’s black eyes that appeared deep in his face because of the dark purple half-moons underneath them. Even though they were smiling at him, he sensed the danger that lurked within them. He was wound up so tightly, any wrong move could set him into offensive action.

      Caine stood very still. What if he was wrong about the entire setup and there was no meeting with a federal agent? Could the microphone he found in the planter be old equipment left over from the Cold War? The blue van nothing more than a bunch of kids smoking weed?

      His normal MO was to catch the mouse, not when he was in his hole, but when he poked his head out of it. Not this time. Like a fisherman with his line, he had to know where to cast it and what bait to use.

      He leaned over the unconscious girl. The aroma of this expensive catch dripping with her own juices greeted his nostrils and made him more desperate to satisfy his own needs. This wasn’t