Midnight Action Page 14

  Morgan’s ears were ringing, his heart pounding, his hands shaking as he stealthily moved through the smoke. Something hot whizzed by his ear. A bullet. He flattened himself against the stone wall on one side of the gate, squinting at the thick gray haze obstructing his vision. He couldn’t see a goddamn thing.

  A small explosion several yards ahead of him suddenly shook the ground beneath his running shoes. Unconcerned with his own safety, Morgan continued forward. Half a dozen steps and he almost tripped over a crumpled body on the pavement. He flew to his knees, peering at the lifeless face, and cursed when he realized it was Jansen, one of his fellow soldiers.

  Another round of gunfire deafened the air. Morgan kept moving, gripping his gun with two hands as he pushed forward. He didn’t know where the rest of the team was, where Jeremy was, where anyone was. And he didn’t care. All he cared about was finding Ariana.

  Christ, he had to make sure she was safe.

  Morgan took another step, then another—then flew through the air as a second explosion rocked the yard.

  He landed on his back. Hard. As his head bounced off the asphalt, his vision became a sea of black and gray.

  He must have passed out, because when his eyes opened again, he was no longer on the ground, but propped up against something solid. He blinked, realizing he was on the street and sitting against the property’s outer wall. Blinked again, and noticed the flashing red-and-blue lights all around him. The various law enforcement and military vehicles. Black body bags being rolled toward the waiting coroner’s van.

  “Ariana!” Morgan shot to his feet, only to sway wildly as a rush of dizziness overtook him.

  “Sit the fuck back down,” came a sharp voice. “You’ve probably got a concussion.”

  As the dots in front of his eyes faded, the image of Jeremy’s face came into focus. Morgan’s CO looked livid as hell as he stalked toward him.

  “Dietrich?” Morgan managed to croak.

  “Gone.” The CO’s jaw hardened to stone. “No sign of him or the girl. Somehow they slipped through the perimeter.”

  Instantaneous relief flooded Morgan’s chest at the knowledge that Ariana had survived. Followed by bone-crushing fear when he registered that she and Walther had gotten away.

  He swallowed and met Jeremy’s eyes. “Casualties?”

  “Three of ours, four of theirs.” The other man ran a hand through his dark buzz cut. “Heads are going to roll for this. My superiors are already demanding to know what the hell went down tonight.”

  “We weren’t ready,” Morgan mumbled.

  “No shit,” his CO snapped. “But we didn’t have a choice. Dietrich was making a run for it.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Yes, we do. Confirmation came in when you were unconscious,” Jeremy said grimly. “Dietrich made about a dozen wire transfers earlier today—most of his accounts have been drained. His jet was on standby, but he also booked several flights on various commercial airlines, probably to throw us off track. Since his plane is still at the hangar, we have to assume he and the girl have other means of transportation. Probably traveling under fake passports too.”

  The girl. Ariana.

  Morgan suddenly felt sick. “We have to find her.”

  “She’s not a priority. Our only objective is to apprehend Dietrich.”

  His CO’s casual dismissal of Ariana brought a lump of bile to his throat. No, the US military didn’t give a shit about Ariana. Neither did law enforcement. They would use all their resources to track Dietrich, but Ariana wouldn’t even be a blip on their radar. She wasn’t involved in the family business, nor was she privy to the details of it, which meant she was useless in the eyes of the intelligence community.

  To Morgan, she was the only priority. Fuck Dietrich. Fuck the mole and the nukes and the whole goddamn mission.

  He needed to find her.

  “Commander!” One of the officers on the scene signaled for Jeremy to come over.

  “Sit down, Jim,” Jeremy ordered. “I’ll send one of the paramedics to check you over.”

  Once he was alone, Morgan didn’t do as instructed—rather than sit, he wandered farther away from the commotion, all the way to the stop sign at the end of the road. He needed to think, damn it. Needed to come up with a plan.

  Walther and Ariana couldn’t have gotten far. They were probably still in the city, making arrangements to skip town. If he could just tap a few contacts, maybe he’d be able to find them before they—

  “Hello, Jim.”

  The female voice sliced through his chaotic thoughts.

  His hand snapped for his gun just as a petite blonde emerged from the shadows of the driveway behind him. He spun around, weapon drawn, then staggered backward as if he’d been shot by a cannonball.

  “Noelle?” His voice sounded weak and shaky to his ears.

  “Long time,” she said lightly.

  Morgan stared at her. Shocked. Confused.

  But not shocked and confused enough to stop the streak of joy that rippled through him.

  Oh Lord, he’d waited so long for this. To see her again. To hear her voice. She’d be twenty now, he realized. And she was as beautiful as ever.

  His gaze got lost in the sight of her. Big blue eyes and golden hair, perfect features and plump, red lips. He’d envisioned this reunion so many times before, practiced what he’d say when he saw her again, but now that it was finally happening, he couldn’t do anything but stand there and stare.

  It didn’t take long for his awe to fade into wariness. Because now he was noticing other things. Like the hard line of her mouth. Her skintight black clothing. The smug satisfaction in her eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” he said hoarsely.

  Her lips curved in a smile. “Evening the score.”

  The cryptic response triggered another bout of confusion. He blinked rapidly, trying to ignore the pounding in his temples. Maybe he did have a concussion. Maybe he was hallucinating this entire encounter.

  But no. This wasn’t a hallucination. Noelle was actually here. The girl he’d desperately loved was right here in front of him.

  Except...this wasn’t Noelle, or at least not the one he remembered, and as her words registered in his head, suspicion snaked its way around his spine.

  “What did you do?” he said slowly.

  In a deliberate move, she cocked her head in the direction of the carnage he’d just left.

  Horror slammed into him. “It was you?”

  She simply arched a brow.

  “Oh fuck. It was you,” he mumbled. His head started spinning. “You tipped them off.”

  “She deserved to know what you were doing to her.” Noelle’s tone stayed calm and even, her expression without remorse.

  Morgan felt like he’d been punched in the gut. His entire body trembled with anger, which only grew as the seconds ticked by. Ariana was gone. He might never see her again.

  And it was all because of Noelle.

  “You...” White-hot fury burned a path up his throat. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

  “Oh, I know exactly what I’ve done.” Noelle smiled. “So. How does it feel, Jim? How does it feel to have the most important person in your life stolen away from you?”

  His hands tingled wildly—every part of him wanted to wrap them around her throat and squeeze. His body was on fire, devoured by hot flames of rage until his vision became a mist of red.

  “You have no goddamn idea what you’ve done,” he hissed out. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” She inched closer, and he flinched when she ran a cold hand over his stiff jaw. “I’m not the weak, naive girl you knew in Paris, honey. I can tear you apart now.”

  You already have.

  His throat closed up to the
point of pain. Hatred, stronger than anything he’d ever felt in his life, began to form in his gut. Fierce and volatile.

  “Oh, and Jim?” Her evil smile widened. “Taking away the love of your life was the appetizer.” She lightly stroked his bottom lip. “I’m just getting started, honey.”

  He was too enraged to move. To talk. To breathe.

  In the blink of an eye, Noelle was gone. Vanished as if she hadn’t even been there.

  Morgan’s gun dangled loosely in his hand, but he couldn’t find the strength to raise it. To fire a shot in the direction she’d disappeared in.

  Noelle had done this to him. She’d tipped off Dietrich and now he might never see Ariana again. He might never know if—nausea promptly seized his throat, cutting off the terrifying thoughts.

  Morgan breathed through it. Ignored the sick feeling in his stomach and the throbbing of his temples and the agony shredding his heart to pieces. Instead he focused on the rage, the need to punish the person responsible for his torment.

  He would make her pay for this.

  Goddamn it, he would make her pay.

  Chapter 14

  Present day

  Morgan paced the guest room as he waited for Sean Reilly to return his call. He’d put in an urgent request to the information dealer nearly two hours ago, and if the son of a bitch didn’t get back to him soon, he was going to flip the fuck out. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that Noelle would storm in and kick him out of the town house by force.

  Or maybe she’d put a bullet in his head. He supposed it depended on how furious she still was.

  But Noelle would just have to suck it up and deal with his presence a little while longer, because he wasn’t going anywhere until he got some answers to his questions.

  The most pressing one being: Why the hell was Walther Dietrich in Paris?

  He still couldn’t wrap his brain around it. He’d been hunting Dietrich for almost two decades with zero results, and then, when he wasn’t even looking, the man appeared in front of him like the fucking Ghost of Christmas Past.

  Dietrich must have rebuilt his empire during his long absence from society. Clearly he was living under an assumed name these days—Maurice Durand, owner of a billion-dollar pharmaceutical company. But was the legitimate businessman thing a cover? It had to be. The Dietrich that Morgan had known was a ruthless criminal, an arms dealer who wasn’t above selling guns to warlords or getting his hands dirty when he needed to. Morgan’s elite intelligence unit had been assigned to the man after Dietrich had managed to plant a mole inside US Special Operations and stolen American warheads to arm rival governments.

  There was no doubt in Morgan’s mind that Dietrich was still dealing weapons, but he hadn’t heard a peep about Maurice Durand in association with the arms game.

  Fortunately, his phone rang before his brain imploded from all the questions and doubts running through it.

  He picked up instantly, answering not with a hello, but with a brisk, “Well?”

  “Hello to you too, Morgan,” came Sean Reilly’s Irish brogue. “You really are an ornery bastard, eh?”

  “What did you find out about Durand?” he demanded.

  “Not much. Which says a lot, actually.”

  Morgan settled on the edge of the bed and drummed his fingers against his thigh. “If you don’t fucking elaborate in the next five seconds, I’m going to fly to Dublin and beat the shit out of you.”

  “Such violence! And to think, I actually wanted to come work for you, asshole.”

  Right. Morgan had forgotten about that. Trevor Callaghan had told him last week that Reilly had expressed interest in potentially coming on board, but he’d had other issues on his plate at the time. And although he knew he had to replace Holden eventually, he hadn’t wanted to accept that one of his best soldiers—and his oldest friend—was gone for good.

  But he didn’t have time to think about any of that right now.

  “Tell me about Durand,” he said impatiently.

  “Fine. This is what we know about the guy—he showed up in Paris ten years ago claiming to be the illegitimate son of Louis Durand, a reclusive millionaire from Lyon. Durand Senior rarely ever left his estate, he didn’t have any family, but he was notorious for his affairs with the female members of his household staff, so nobody was surprised to hear he’d fathered a child. When the old man died, Durand Junior showed up with his birth certificate and a copy of a DNA test, proving he was the rightful heir. The lawyers didn’t question it, those gullible oafs. But you and I both know bogus results could be bought if you just have enough money.”

  “So Dietrich inherited the old man’s money?”

  “Why are you so certain Durand and Dietrich are the same man?”

  “They are,” he said darkly. “Trust me.”

  “All righty, then. Well, yes, Durand Junior inherited a fortune, but he already had his own to bring to the table. Claimed he got it from investing wisely. Once he got to Paris, he bought out Beaumont Pharmaceuticals, renamed it, and has been growing his empire ever since.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He’s a recluse too. Hardly ever leaves his estate, except to pop into company headquarters once or twice a week. He doesn’t go out socially, and when he does, he’s always alone. Well, not alone—he travels with an army of bodyguards—but he doesn’t show up anywhere with a guest.”

  Morgan swallowed. “No mention of a daughter?”

  “None that’s on record.”

  The news was disappointing, but Morgan knew it didn’t mean anything. If Dietrich went to such great lengths to stay out of the limelight, then it stood to reason that he’d demand the same of Ariana. God knew that house was big enough to hide a hundred people inside it. Nobody but the staff would have to know she was on the premises, and even then, Dietrich could hide her existence from his employees if he really wanted to.

  But why? Why not introduce Ariana as his child? Why keep her hidden?

  Because he knows you’re trying to find her.

  Was that it? Was Dietrich protecting Ariana from the man who’d double-crossed her all those years ago?

  It made sense—Walther had always been fiercely protective of his daughter. Ariana had led a sheltered life; she was a spoiled and entitled girl who couldn’t survive a day in the world without her daddy.

  “Anyway, I’ll keep digging,” Reilly told him. “I’m trying to get my hands on his birth certificate and find out what he did before he appeared on the scene. I put some calls in to a few contacts in French intelligence.”

  “Good.” Morgan cleared his throat. “Hey, you still want to join the team?”

  He got a long pause in response, then, “Why? Are you making me an offer?”

  “You want the job, you’ve got it. But only if you get your ass to Paris ASAP. I need your help on recon.”

  He didn’t typically make rash hiring decisions, but he could definitely use Reilly’s help at the moment. He’d call Sullivan and Liam too. God knew they’d be over the frickin’ moon—Sully had already left him half a dozen messages demanding to be brought in as backup.

  “I’ll be on the first flight out.” Reilly’s voice turned smug. “Boss.”

  After he’d disconnected the call, Morgan raked both hands through his hair and cursed softly. He’d come to Paris to find out who wanted him dead, but now all of a sudden, the objective had become even more critical.

  Ariana was finally within his reach.

  His throat tightened as the memory of her face suddenly came to him. Her bottomless dark eyes, always conveying that perpetual gleam of petulance. Lord, he could even hear her haughty voice echoing in his head. Every word she’d said had held that superior undertone. Mine. Give me. I want it. She’d decided that everyone in the world lived to serve her, and when she wanted something, well, God help anyone who tried t
o get in her way.

  And she’d wanted Morgan from the moment she met him.

  Letting out a breath, he rose from the bed and looked around, his gaze taking in the high thread-count sheets, the gleaming antique furniture, and the thick, navy blue drapes. The room gave off an elegant vibe, just like Noelle. But it was also slightly cold.

  Just like Noelle.

  He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and tossed it on the bed, then rolled up his sleeves and steeled his jaw. Time to get this over with.

  When he walked into her bedroom, he found the terrace doors open, and the faint scent of tobacco floated toward him. Noelle was at the railing, her blond hair loose and undulating in the night breeze. She no longer wore her fancy dress, but a pair of black yoga pants and a cornflower blue shirt with billowy sleeves.

  Morgan stepped outside, glimpsing the pack of cigarettes on the table next to the door. He swiped a smoke from the pack, lit it, and came up beside her, fixing his gaze on the twinkling cityscape beyond the railing.

  “Listen, about Ariana—”

  “I won’t apologize for warning her,” Noelle cut in angrily. “So if that’s what you came out here for, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “I didn’t expect an apology.”

  “Good. Because I’m not sorry.” Noelle sounded embittered. “She deserved to know what you were up to. It’s not my problem she told her father, and it’s certainly not my problem that your team decided to ambush the house.” She laughed harshly. “If anything, I’m glad Walther and Ariana made it out. I’m fucking thrilled they disappeared off the face of the earth. It means I got to watch you suffer for seventeen years.”

  Morgan raised his cigarette to his lips, then exhaled in a slow rush. “I never loved her,” he said gruffly.

  Noelle didn’t answer, but he saw her shoulders go rigid.

  He repeated himself. “I never loved her.”

  When she still didn’t respond, he groaned in frustration.

  “That’s just what I led you to believe, okay? I wanted to hurt you, so I let you think I loved Ariana. But I didn’t.” He inhaled a quick drag, then blew out a cloud of smoke. “I hated her. Goddamn it, I hated every second I spent with her.”