Too Hard to Handle (Black Knights Inc. #8)(41)

“And what is that?” the Russian asked.

“Bring Winterfield down,” Chelsea finished with dramatic flair.

As if the whole of Cusco conspired to join her in her theatrics, a puff of steam belched from the vent near the trash bins, swirling into the cool air. Somewhere off in the distance a dog snarled and barked before falling silent. A dark cloud moved over the silver crescent moon, casting the alleyway into even deeper, more malevolent shadows. And damnit! There it was again! That creepy, crawly sensation.

Dan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and thought, Seriously? A cold, dark night in a foreign country, a dimly lit alley, and an American agent going head-to-head with a Russian agent while a muddy sense of gloom and doom hung in the air? If Dan was writing a bad spy novel, this is the exact scenario he’d describe. In fact, it was so clichéd it was almost trite. And he suddenly understood why Chelsea had said their new location was appropriate.

“Please,” Kozlov scoffed, the word sounding more like pliz. “That is nothing. The information I have is worth far more than your cryptic answers.”

“Well”—Chelsea shrugged—“the way I see it, you can either tell me what you know, or I’ll have Winterfield do it as soon as we apprehend him. If I have to go with option number two, I can assure you I’ll have my tech guys post your photo, name, and occupation on every social media site from Facebook to Twitter to Tumblr. It’s so hard to do this kind of work when the whole world knows about you, isn’t it?” she asked with feigned sympathy.

Dan shuddered at the mere idea and Kozlov regarded her for what seemed like an eternity, a muscle twitching fitfully in his bruised jaw.

“And if that doesn’t convince you,” Chelsea continued, “how about this? You either cooperate with me, or I’ll make it known to anyone who will listen—the president, the world press, whoever—that Russia was actively seeking to procure stolen information about foreign governments from a rogue U.S. spy. Given the trouble you guys are already in with the international community regarding that bad business in Ukraine and Crimea, I’d think you’d want to avoid another black eye on Mother Russia’s pretty face. You and I both know your country can’t survive another round of sanctions.”

Wow. As Aretha Franklin would say, “R.E.S.P.E.C.T.” Special Agent Chelsea Duvall had some serious props. Dan tipped an imaginary hat to her.

“Fine,” Kozlov hissed. “Ask your questions.”

Chelsea grinned. “See? It’s an easy decision when you think about it, isn’t it? So first things first. What’s your beef with Winterfield?”

Kozlov cocked his head, his one good eye narrowing. “I do not understand this expression.”

“Oh, sorry.” Chelsea shook her head. “Let me rephrase. We intercepted a phone conversation you had that led us to believe you’re here to kill Winterfield.” Something strange passed over Kozlov’s features, but it was so fleeting Dan wondered if it was anything or just the play of shadows. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Ha!” Kozlov’s bark of laughter echoed down the alley. “So contrary to what you would have the world believe, you Americans are not gods. You do not see all and know all.”

If only he knew just how true that was, he’d be dancing in the street…uh…alleyway.

“Feel free to gloat with your cronies over vodka shots when you’re back at the Kremlin,” Chelsea growled impatiently. “For now, answer the damn question. Why are you here for Winterfield? What has he ever done to you?”

Kozlov reveled in his own self-importance for a second or two more. If Dan thought it would help move things along, and if his hands weren’t currently occupied with the Contender, he would have slow-clapped for the jerkwad.

Finally, Kozlov shrugged. “It is not what Winterfield has done. It is what he has.”

“And what’s that?” Chelsea asked.

“We have reason to believe Winterfield knows the location of Stanislav Rubashkin.” By the way he said the name, it was obvious he expected them to recognize it.

Dan glanced at Zoelner. Nope. The former CIA agent shrugged with his eyebrows. One quick look at Penni’s ya-got-me expression had his gaze landing on Chelsea. Bingo. She was blinking rabidly behind the lenses of her glasses.

“Is that why he’s here in Cusco? To sell you Rubashkin’s information?” The color was running high in her café au lait cheeks.

“No.” Kozlov shook his head. “Our sources say Winterfield is here to meet a man who goes by the name of Khalid al-Rahma.”

“Which sources would those be?”

“Those ones we have inside the AQAP,” Kozlov admitted. All Dan’s mental bells and whistles started clamoring at mention of Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Not good. This is so not good. Fuckin’ Winterfield! “Al-Rahma is one of theirs. He has a reputation for procuring the unprocurable.”

“And what unprocurable thing is al-Rahma supposed to get from Winterfield?” Chelsea demanded.

Kozlov shrugged. “That we do not know. And we do not care.”

Dan blinked. Was it just him? Or was this thing getting ridiculously convoluted. Damn spies and their pretzel machinations and twisty, turny logic. He much preferred the kind of work that had clear parameters and precise objectives.