Love and Let Die (Masters and Mercenaries #5)(127)

The gaggle of tourists flocked away. Denisovitch stared ahead, looking at the tombs of the Romanov family, slaughtered that day by the Bolsheviks at their Winter Palace. They had finally found their way here.

Ian glanced at his watch. Ten seconds if he was properly synced.

Liam flanked him, Alex coming up on the right.

The guard who was standing slightly behind Denisovitch tipped his hat and walked away, likely to join Dusan outside. Their prey was left with no one to watch over him.

Ian slipped the knife from where he’d hidden it in his sleeve. It slid into his gloved hand.

Then the world seemed to explode. The building shook. The ground beneath them reverberated with the sound.

The cannons from the Naryshkin Bastion went off every day at noon. And every day at noon the tourists screamed and turned and, just for a moment, were afraid.

That was the moment Ian Taggart struck.

He pushed his knife in precisely under Denisovitch’s ribs and into the man’s heart. There was a small gasp and the jerk of a body as it fought briefly for life.

“For Charlotte.” It didn’t matter if Denisovitch heard him. All that mattered was the job was complete and his wife no longer had to fear for her life. He eased the man down behind the velvet rope and off to the side, left the knife in, and turned and walked away.

He and Charlie were free to live the way they wanted to—together.

The sun was bright on Ian’s face as he turned toward the river and made his way out of the enclosure. With Alex and Liam behind him, they made their way to the edge of the fort and down the steps to the rocky shore where Simon and Jesse and Eve waited at the water’s edge with a boat.

Then she turned and he caught sight of her. His Charlie had her face to the sun, soaking in the day.

The sun had nothing on her.

“Are we ready to head home, then?” Liam asked.

“Yes, we are,” Ian replied, walking toward the boat.

It didn’t matter, though. Home had ceased to be a place for Ian Taggart. He hopped on the boat, the waters of the Neva rocking them as Simon fired the engine and they pulled away.

“Hello, my Master,” Charlie said to him, her wedding ring sparkling in the light as she put her arms around his neck and held her face up for a kiss.

“Hello, my love.” He looked down at the collar he’d placed around her neck before taking her mouth with his.

“Newlyweds,” Eve said, grinning. “They can’t keep their hands off each other.”

Alex took that as a cue to kiss his wife silly. Ian couldn’t let his best friend have all the fun. He kissed his Charlie again, the wind whipping through their hair as Simon started toward the Palace Bridge.

No. He didn’t need to go anywhere to be home. He was already there.





Kensington

London, England



The Garden was quiet at this time of day, and Damon Knight preferred working here to dragging himself into the gloom of MI6. Everyone was always rushing about, doing very important things. Everything was important at MI6. The Garden was his own personal kingdom, and he missed it when he was on assignment. He tried to stay in his own quiet office as much as possible when he was in England.

He stared at the e-mail he’d just received. It looked like there was a new head of the Denisovitch syndicate. His operative in Russia announced that Denisovitch had been found dead at the Peter and Paul Cathedral just an hour before. He claimed that Dusan Denisovitch was already moving to consolidate power.

Good for Taggart. Knight had offered his own services in bringing down the man who was threatening McKay-Taggart, but he’d been quite forcibly turned down.

That had actually hurt a bit more than he would have thought. He couldn’t take it too personally. After all, Taggart had told Tennessee Smith to go to hell as well.

It just wasn’t every day that he had a man he considered a friend suspect him of being a traitor.

And it wasn’t every bloody day that he had to conclude that his partner was the real traitor.

Fuck him. The evidence was right there in front of him, a long string of coincidences that led to one conclusion—Baz was working with Nelson before he’d died.

Damon shoved a hand through his hair and cursed.

Baz had been his best mate for years. How could he not have bloody well seen it?

The door to his office opened. At this time of day, there were usually a few submissives working, cleaning the club and preparing for the night’s scenes. He’d asked Jane, a sweet sub he’d been playing with lately, to bring him tea. And Scotch. He would need it to make the call he was about to make. He had to talk to the higher ups about arresting the man who had been by his side for years.

Was he really going to make that call? Or was he going to try to deal with it on his own. Maybe Baz had gotten in trouble. He could be impulsive. Maybe he should check into it further.

“Come in, pet.” He turned toward the door.

And stopped. It looked like he wouldn’t get a chance to make that decision about his friend.

Baz stood there, a Ruger in his hand. “Sorry, mate. Jane is, shall we say, unable to perform at the moment. Well, she’s dead, so not likely she’ll be performing anytime soon.”

Before Damon could get out of his seat, Baz pulled the trigger and pain slammed into Damon’s system. His chest. He had a bullet in his chest. Damon fell back, his hand coming up to cover the place where the bullet had gone in. He fell forward, hitting his desk.