The Bodyguard Contract. Donna Young

few months back she’d led Cain on a merry chase. She’d changed her identity and went into hiding to stop the President’s assassination. “You’re in love with Celeste. Big difference.”

      Cain being in love was still a new concept for Ian. While Cain was the cool, collected one, their sister, Kate, was logical to a fault. As the middle sibling, Ian was the emotional one—quick to laugh, quicker to temper.

      A challenging balance of personalities, their mother always said. But one that seemed to work. Because of this, Cain had been Ian’s sounding board since they were children. But for some reason, his problem with Lara was too intimate to even share with his brother. “I can handle it.” To take the bite out of his answer, Ian added, “But I appreciate the concern…and the offer. Enough to take a rain check.”

      “You won’t have time for a rain check, not for the next few days anyway. You’re going on assignment. I need you to keep track of an operative.”

      “Anyone I know?” Ian asked before rubbing the towel over his head. Hell, tracking had long been Ian’s specialty, so the request didn’t surprise him. It would do him good, too, to take his mind off—

      “Lara.”

      Ian stopped midstroke, his eyes hardened. “No.”

      “It’s not a suggestion, Ian, it’s an order. You’re under contract. Remember?”

      “Only for a few more months.”

      “Well, it’s a good thing that watching Lara’s back should only take the rest of today,” Cain drawled.

      “Is she in danger?”

      “No,” Cain answered, but the word rang with caution. “Not at the moment. But my little voice is working overtime on the possibility.”

      Over the years, Cain, like Kate and Ian, had learned to accept the inner warnings, to trust them. A gift from their ancestors, their father said, passed down through strong Scots blood.

      “So in other words, you need a babysitter.” Ian used the agency’s slang for bodyguard with derision. “I’ve been there, done that. No thank you.” He turned his back on Cain, using the few seconds of reprieve to push back a wave of concern. “Have Quamar do it. She likes him. And it’s just the right type of mission to get him back in the groove again.” An ex-Mossad agent, Quamar Bazan was one of the few Labyrinth operatives the MacAlister brothers would trust protecting their loved ones.

      “Quamar might have his eyesight back, but he hasn’t been cleared by the doctors for duty.” A few months prior, their friend had taken a gunshot to the head while protecting the President’s mother. It was a miracle he had survived. “You’re the only one I can send at this point.”

      “Why?”

      “You’re going to ask me that after what I just saw?” Cain glanced at the Virtual Imaging equipment.

      “What you just saw was none of your business,” Ian bit out. “Pull her from the mission or assign someone else.”

      “She’s neck deep in it. Pulling her now would blow months of work.”

      Lara had joined Labyrinth three years prior. Ever since, she’d been neck deep in one situation or another. “Lara’s at the top of her game when the pressure’s on.”

      “But this time I’m not confident her mind is in the game.”

      “We are talking about Lara Mercer? All business, no personality?” The words tumbled out like dry, bitter leaves. Ian rubbed his face with both hands, ignoring the whiskers that scraped his palm. God, he was tired. Of the espionage, the endless chasing after bad guys—dealing with his feelings for Lara. “Forget I said that.”

      “Ian, you’re the logical choice.”

      “Trust me, Cain, there’s nothing logical about Lara and I. You don’t want to send me.” Ian reached for his gym bag to snag a cigarette, then swore. He’d quit months before, but the craving still gnawed at him.

      “You’re right, I don’t.”

      Ian stared at his brother for a moment. It wasn’t in Cain’s nature to jump into decisions. If anything, he was too cautious. Most times, Cain made sure he’d always had a backup plan on any mission.

      Obviously, Ian was that backup plan. “All right, boss,” he said, resigned. “Fill me in.”

      Cain walked over to a nearby computer console and hit a few buttons. “Later today, Lara’s meeting with this man.”

      A picture flashed against the back wall. A priest, posed in a professional portrait. An older man with strands of hair smoothed over a slightly shiny head. A hint of a smile added mischief to an otherwise plain face. “Father Xavier Varvarinski. Retired. St. Stanislaus Roman Catholic Church, Las Vegas.”

      “I’m listening,” Ian growled. Only Lara could be at risk dealing with a priest.

      “Father Xavier,” Cain repeated, “is Russian intelligence. A double agent for Labyrinth operations. Been in the business longer than you and I put together,” he explained. “As a priest, he’s had access to most of the Russian terrorist leaders and Russian Mafia members.” His gaze shifted to Ian. “I’ve never dealt with him directly, but he’s good. Very good.”

      Ian studied the picture, noted the worn creases, the laugh lines. Evidence the priest spent most of his time enjoying life. But the weariness that dulled the blue of the man’s eyes caused a jab of trepidation deep in Ian’s belly. “When was this picture taken?”

      “Six months ago.”

      A lot can happen in six months. “Is he a real priest?” Ian wondered aloud. They’d all used different aliases at one time or another. Impersonating a priest was no different than pretending to be a cop, or a doctor.

      “Yes. Served in Vietnam in his early thirties. Studied for the priesthood after his discharge. Seems he got his calling somewhere in the midst of that mess.”

      “Interesting way to combine two careers,” Ian commented, then hung his towel loosely around the back of his neck. Only his white-knuckle grip on each end gave away his edginess. “I assume this priest has information regarding the biochemical.”

      “Actually, it’s in his possession….” Cain paused. “It being Substance 39.”

      Ian let out a slow whistle. “So the rumors are true then. We have a new biochemical warfare weapon to worry about.”

      “While the Russians have tagged it with their usual substance number, on the streets it’s called Katts Smeart. The English translation…Silent Death.”

      Cain moved on to the next slide. This time it was a newspaper photo of a man behind a podium—average height, slight in build, with properly trimmed brown hair, peppered with gray. His style was just short of slick. Not too Hollywood. But close.

      “Katts Smeart is a synthetically enhanced poison allegedly financed and created by this man, Mikhail Davidenko, leader of the Russian terrorist sect—The Maxim. A fact the Russian government has conveniently overlooked. And the Russian Mafia has embraced.”

      “Davidenko.” Ian recalled the name, acknowledging the punch of caution that jarred his spine. “Involved mostly with gambling, drug and human trafficking, arms and nuclear material dealings—even the sale of body organs. I’m not surprised about the biochemical warfare. Only that it took him so long.”

      The next picture appeared on the wall—an aerial view of Davidenko on his yacht, entertaining. “Bottom line with Davidenko is profit. Biochemical manufacturing is big business these days,” Cain said.

      Ian noted a few politicians, European and American—all dressed designer casual and surrounded by topless, thong-clad beauties. “Amazing what dirty money can buy.”

      Cain grunted in agreement.

      Ian