Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(40)
Aha. And now Dan got her game. Make Kozlov think they already knew all the important things in the hopes of conning him into telling them the not-so-important things. Basically, bluff. Smart cookie, that one.
“Who are you?” Kozlov narrowed his one remaining good eye, turning to spit on the ground as if in punctuation.
“Whoa,” Zoelner said, tucking his Beretta into his waistband and crossing his arms. It made the lapels on his leather jacket flare wide. “Looks like you dropped something there, Andrei.”
Chelsea shot Zoelner a look that clearly conveyed, You’re not helping. Zoelner answered with a laconic shrug.
“If you don’t mind,” Chelsea said, “I’m going to refrain from answering that, Andrei.” With a subtle jerk of her chin toward Penni and Dan—both of them continued to keep Kozlov in their sights—she indicated without words that he who has the weapons gets to ask the questions.
Kozlov glanced over at Dan, his eye swelling more and more each second. Dan had a pretty mean right hook too. “Could you point that some place other than my head, cowboy?” the Russian asked. “Like you, I prefer a hair trigger.”
“Oh, sure thing.” Dan nodded, dropping his aim from Kozlov’s head down to his crotch. “Better?”
Kozlov scowled.
“So now that we all know where we stand, and now that your mission is officially in the garbage, how about you help us out, Andrei?” Chelsea asked, her voice ringing with false sweetness. Zoelner had once said she was a lion when it came to hunting for information, fierce and indefatigable. Obviously her ferocity didn’t just apply to scanning reams of Intelligence documents.
A light in the second-story window of the building across the street clicked on, proving the block wasn’t entirely deserted. Kozlov glanced up at the glow, then leveled a look on Chelsea. “You really wish to do this here, golubushka?”
Chelsea tilted her head like she was trying to decide if that was an endearment or an insult.
“The alley.” Zoelner jerked his chin toward the narrow cobblestoned path cutting behind the coffee shop. “There are no windows back there.”
“A dark alleyway?” Chelsea made a face. “Yeah, that seems appropriate.”
“Move,” Dan ordered Kozlov, motioning with the T/C Contender. “And keep your hands where I can see ’em, or you and me are gonna have ourselves a problem not easily fixed with anything other than a bullet.”
“Okay, cowboy,” Kozlov said, raising his hands above his head. “You are the boss.” Slowly crossing the road, Kozlov started whistling a tune Dan recognized as the Russian national anthem.
Cheeky bastard, he thought with a hint of admiration. It was just a hint, mind you. Because following close behind Kozlov, the Contender at the ready, Dan wouldn’t hesitate to shoot the sonofabitch should he so much as look at him sideways. He knew Penni was at his back, even though he didn’t dare take his eyes off his target to verify it. Truth was, he didn’t need to. That weird, wonderful connection they shared meant he could sense when she was near him. And by the sound of a hissed argument, Zoelner and Chelsea were bringing up the rear.
As a group they shuffled past a pair of rusting blue dumpsters that reeked of molding coffee grounds. Something small and furry darted out from under one of the bins, running on fast feet toward the opposite end of the alley. The temperature inside the narrow expanse was markedly warmer, and when Dan spared a quick glance to his left, he realized why. There was a small vent spewing steam from the boiler in the basement of the coffee shop.
“That’s far enough,” he told Kozlov once they were half a dozen paces past the dumpsters.
When the Russian stopped and turned, Chelsea murmured, “Excuse me,” as she squeezed by Penni and Zoelner to come stand beside Dan. A look down into her eager face had him fighting a grin and saying, “Okay, tiger. He’s all yours.”
She nodded her thanks. But before she could say anything, Kozlov preempted her with, “I will not say a word until you tell me who you people are.” The second-to-last word sounded more like pipple. He seemed to be amazingly unconcerned that three weapons were currently aimed at the softer parts of his body. Then again, the FSB wasn’t known to employ wilting lilies.
“I thought I made it clear that we’re the ones asking the questions,” Chelsea spat.
Kozlov shook his head, his busted lips curling back to reveal discolored teeth. “Like you said, my mission is ruined. So why should I answer your questions? Why should I give you anything?”
Chelsea considered him for a second, and Dan took the opportunity to appreciate the Dance of the Spies she and Kozlov were performing. When he worked with the SEALs, information sharing between foreign Intelligence agents wasn’t a big part of his job description. His had been more of the get in, blow some shit up, and get the hell out kind of gig. And the work he did for BKI was so black it gave credence to the phrase If I told you, I’d have to kill you. So watching two spies squaring off, trying to feel each other out, was surprisingly entertaining.
“Fine,” Chelsea allowed. “A little tit for tat isn’t too much to ask. The answer to your question is we’re the ones who’ve been sent in to do what those before us haven’t managed.”
Kozlov lifted a brow and glanced around at the four of them. Dan had to admit they looked like quite the motley crew. Probably especially him. He took another swipe at the wound on his forehead and noticed the blood was congealing in his eyebrow. The cut was finally clotting. So…silver linings and whatnot.