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  Never in front of David.

  Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Fu pull out a small silver Makarov pistol that looked painfully like the one she had back home. He leveled it at David.

  Yanna’s eyes widened as Kwan stepped up to her and smiled at David. The man she loved.

  “I’m going to kill her,” Kwan said softly. “And then maybe we’ll do business.”

  1

  One week earlier

  * * *

  Yanna Andrevka hadn’t spent the last six years of her life putting her kid sister through college to watch her throw it away on some pudgy, bald American named Bob.

  Then again, she wouldn’t be doing cartwheels if Elena were marrying a hip, urban Russian named Sergey or Ivan either. The very fact that her bright, beautiful sister put any man before finishing her law degree had Yanna turning the beet she was chopping into a blood-colored mash.

  “About finished with the salad, Yanna?” Katya asked as she drained off the water from the potatoes into the sink. Steam rose, cooking the already stifling galley kitchen. The tourists who thought that Siberia in summer still meant glaciers and bitter winds should spend a day in her apartment in August. The Gobi Desert was probably cooler—certainly it was less humid. Yanna scraped the beets into a bowl along with onions, pickles, diced cooked potatoes, and cooked carrots. She picked up a wooden spoon and began to stir.

  “Where’s Elena? She’s supposed to be back by now.” The fact that her sister had lifted nary a finger for the goodbye sendoff she planned gave Yanna sufficient ammunition to let her anger simmer. It felt better than facing the fact that in twenty-four hours she’d be alone in their two-room flat, no one to greet her when she stayed too late at volleyball practice or harass her about having no social life.

  She had a social life. Namely, Elena. Especially now that Yanna’s other friends—Vicktor and Roman—had ladies who took up their free time. Ever since Elena moved back to Khabarovsk two years ago, after getting her undergrad degree in St. Petersburg, Yanna’s life had taken on new vibrancy. Maybe it was watching Elena come into her own and blossom into a beauty like their mother. Or maybe it was living vicariously through her soap opera romances or listening to her dreams of life after school. Until two years ago, Yanna had seen her kid sister as a nuisance, a leech, just another price Yanna had to pay for her mother’s foolishness.

  Now she wasn’t sure just how she’d survive without Elena to greet her when she arrived home from a date or a class, regaling her with her latest drama.

  Bob had better be worth it. Or Yanna would cross the ocean in a single bound and spike his head across his two-story beach house. The pictures did look nice, however.

  “She’s picking up her wedding dress,” Katya said. “I told her they have dresses in Seattle, but she says she wants a Russian dress. You can take the girl out of Russia, but you can’t take Russia out of the girl.” Katya looked up from the potatoes she was mashing. Skinny as a sixties-era model and wearing a pair of jeans and a sheer white blouse, Katya looked like she hadn’t the strength to mash a pea. With long bottle-bleached hair and brown eyes, the twenty-two-year-old English teacher had a ticket to Seattle with Elena. She’d continue on to Jersey to meet her prospective groom. She poured more milk into the potatoes. “I’m getting my dress from a store in New York. I already told Mario that.”

  Yanna swallowed a remark and turned back to her salad. She added oil, salt, and pepper and tried not to let her cynicism leak out. She should be happy for the two girls. They’d won the lottery, according to too many Russian women. American husbands. Life in the promised land. True, most women in Russia today struggled to find jobs, and when they did, pulled in less than eighty percent of the salary men did. Yanna had to be twice as good at her profession to get half the respect a man did. Still, after seeing what loving the wrong man—too many times—and living with a permanently shattered heart had done to their mother, well, Yanna wasn’t about to mess with the good thing she had going. Decent friends, a solid job, a flat to come home to…she had more than most women could hope for.

  Besides, she had already found her true love. And even if he never knew it, their email relationship was enough for her. Actually, it was probably safer, even more rewarding her way. If he never knew how she felt, he could never reject her, could he?

  Yanna poured the salad into a glass bowl, then lifting it above her head, squeezed past skinny Katya and out into the family room. She’d set up her dining room table, pulling it out from the wall and placing it in front of the sofa. Three chairs sat on the other side of the table, and with an end table added from her bedroom, she’d made seating for at least eight. The rearrangement left little room to maneuver, what with her shelving unit running the length of one end of the room and her television at the other. Khrushchev forgot to leave room for breathing when he designed the tiny single-family flats.

  The doorbell buzzed. Yanna grabbed her key from the latch by the door and peered out the peephole. Elena smiled broadly. Her teeth looked huge in the domed view.

  Yanna pulled open the inner door, then unlocked the outer door. Her fellow FSB pal Vicktor had installed the vault-like steel barrier during the reign of a serial killer a few years back. It squealed on its hinges as it opened.

  Elena squeezed past Yanna into the narrow entry hall. She toed off her sandals, setting a bag down beside her. “Guess what I got?”

  “Your wedding dress?” Yanna said, closing the door.

  Elena’s face fell. “Katya, you rat!”

  “Oh, please,” Yanna said as she brushed past her sister. “I spy on people for a living. If you think I didn’t know what you were up to, you haven’t lived with me since you were a kid.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you have my computer and my cell phone bugged, as well as listening devices planted throughout the flat and in my school bag.” Elena placed a kiss on her sister and scooted into the kitchen as Yanna finished setting the table.

  Sometimes she seemed so much like Yanna it was difficult to believe not only their fifteen-year age difference, but that they had different fathers. Long, mink-brown hair, flashing dark eyes, a reserved smile—these things Yanna recognized of herself. But Elena’s willingness to embrace new ideas—like internet dating—or even her belief that she could make marriage with a man she’d never met work, these were from her father, their mother’s youngest and most outspoken boyfriend. Her mother had been wildly happy with Genye, the dreamer. Until he’d been arrested for drunk driving and beaten to death in his holding cell.

  After that, something had died inside their mother, as well. About then, Yanna graduated from college, stepped in, and took over the raising of Elena. Perhaps this was why Yanna just couldn’t forgive Elena for abandoning her for a man. This, too, felt like a legacy from their mother.

  In a few days, the only thing she’d have left of Elena would be her hand-me-down jeans and one of the matching silver lockets they’d exchanged last year for Christmas.

  Katya emerged with the potatoes as the doorbell rang again. Yanna opened it to three of Elena’s groupmates from school. They charged into the flat, dumping their sandals and book bags, and turned up Valery Meladze on the stereo. Yanna felt young again as the music found her heartbeat. The bell rang a third time, and Vicktor, Roman, and Sarai stood just outside the metal door. Yanna’s contingency.

  Sarai gave her a quick hug. “How are you holding up?” She had to nearly shout.

  Yanna shrugged. Although she and Sarai had only met over a summer years ago and hadn’t seen each other again until this past fall when Roman rescued Sarai from becoming a political prisoner, Yanna felt as if she had known the blonde American doctor all her life. Or maybe she simply reminded Yanna of Sarai’s brother, David. Probably another good reason Yanna enjoyed having Sarai around.

  Roman handed her a bouquet of flowers. “For the bridesmaid.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, and Yanna was touched by his kindness. The COBRA captain with the tawny-brown hair and hazel-gree
n eyes seemed so much happier with Sarai around, and the wounds he’d received in gulag had healed nicely, especially under Sarai’s care.

  Walking in right behind them, Vicktor caught Yanna before she could follow Roman and Sarai into the flat. Vicktor had an intensity about him, all the way from his dark hair to his toned frame, that scared away most women. But Yanna and, most of all, Gracie, his fiancée, knew that underneath that take-no-prisoners exterior resided a man who would give his life for his friends.

  “Gracie said she’d meet Elena in Seattle. She’s there working on a new project, so she said she could sneak away. I sent her the flight information.”

  Yanna nodded, hating the sudden prick of tears his words caused. His blue eyes softened, and he reached out and gave her a one-armed squeeze.

  “Thanks, Vita,” she said. She’d planned on asking her friend Mae—a former Air National Guard pilot who’d recently moved to Seattle—or even David to keep tabs on Elena, and the fact that Vicktor had suggested his fiancée, well, all at once it felt like maybe Elena would be okay after all.

  Yanna followed him into the family room, where everyone crammed around the table. Some merciful soul had opened the windows to her flat, and when Katya switched off the music, street traffic three stories below drifted up, adding an early-evening ambience. The smell of hydrangeas and dahlias lifted from the bouquet on the table, now covered with bowls of salads, cutlets, mashed potatoes, and glasses of prune sok.

  Elena emerged from the kitchen, carrying her masterpiece, a tall napoleon cake of thin layers and abundant cream. Yanna couldn’t help but notice how Elena glowed, just like a bride should. She’d pulled her dark brown hair back, and it cascaded in curls along the neckline of her sleeveless tank. With a hint of tan on her arms and nose, she looked about sixteen. Yanna could hardly believe this was what Elena really wanted. But then again, if Yanna were to look deeply, perhaps her dreams weren’t so very different. Not really.

  Someone to love her? To count on? No, that wasn’t so foreign a desire.

  Yanna picked up her glass of sok, raised it to the group. “To Katya and Elena. Cheslivaya vechnaya!”

  “Happily ever after,” they all chorused as they touched their glasses for a toast.

  He’d never eaten deep-fried frog on a stick, but David Curtiss was a patriot, and he’d do just about anything for his country.

  “Shei-shei,” he said as he took the delicacy from the vendor, fished out a New Taiwan dollar and dropped it into the vendor’s hand.

  He wondered which might leave a worse taste in his mouth—fried frog or meeting a man who had beheaded the two undercover agents who had tried this trick before David. But if all went as planned, his culinary sacrifice would lead him to the identity of Kwan-Li, leader of the Twin Serpents, the largest organized crime syndicate in Southeast Asia.

  The smells of night market were enough to turn even his iron gut to mush—body odor, eggs boiled in soy sauce, fresh fish, and the redolence of oil from the nearby shipyard. Even worse, the fare offered in the busy open market sounded like something from a house of horrors menu: grilled chicken feet, boiled snails, breaded salamander, poached pigeon eggs, and the specialty of the day—carp-head soup.

  “What did you get me into, Chet?” he whispered, wondering if Chet Stryker, his cohort for this unfortunate op, was grinning at the other end of his transmitter. “Squid or even snails, okay, but a frog?” Chet had set up this meet—and the frog signal. “Next time, you’re going to be drinking asparagus juice, buddy.” He hoped Chet’s silence meant he still had eyes on him. David hadn’t seen his partner in the forty-five minutes he’d been walking around the market—a sign of Chet’s skill, no doubt.

  David looked at the brown and crispy frog and wondered if he was supposed to add condiments—he’d noticed horseradish and a sort of ketchup at the bar.

  A few more seconds and he’d have to take a bite. It wasn’t enough to just stand here and try to blend in with the crowd—not an easy task given that every man who brushed by him stood around chin height. Even with David’s long dyed-black hair, silk Asian shirt, and designer jeans, he knew he looked like a walking American billboard. Thankfully, foreigners flocked to the novelty of night market in this part of Kaohsiung in Taiwan.

  He saw an American couple stroll by, listened to their comments about the food, the smells. A short, slightly pudgy blonde, wearing a blue Taiwanese shirt and shorts set probably purchased in a local beach shop, sucked on the straw of a jujube shake. Next to her, her husband was finishing off a grilled squid. Aid workers, probably—the island had a plethora of Americans working in relief and humanitarian aid agencies. Especially after the last earthquake.

  If only that shaker had dismantled Kwan’s organization. But unlike the hospitals and island utilities, organized crime kept their systems up and running without a hiccup. They transported heroin out of mainland China and arms and munitions in, where they ended up in rogue countries like Afghanistan, or even Iran, and in the hands of rebels like the Karen, a minority group in Burma, or Abu Sayyaf in the Philippines, or even countless crime syndicates from Thailand to Malaysia.

  But the disruption of services in Taiwan gave David what he needed to slip under Kwan’s radar and place himself on his doorstep. If he played this right, Kwan would agree to his offer of pistols, automatic rifles, rocket launchers, mortars, and the promise of a light howitzer, in exchange for 150 kilos of heroin. The exchange of weapons for drugs would accomplish two goals—intercept another shipment of heroin and trace the trail of arms.

  Most of all, David hoped to put a face to the boss of one of the largest drug and arms trafficking rings in Southeast Asia.

  Then, maybe he could cut his hair, take a bath, and get out of his sweaty duds and into his uniform, where he felt most comfortable.

  And he’d finally write back to Yanna, who by now probably wanted to strangle him. He’d never gone this long without corresponding with her, and every day that passed without hearing from her felt a little like a part of him had died.

  Sorry, Yanna.

  Perhaps, however, this time-out from their daily emails and texts had told him one thing—how much she meant to him.

  He checked his watch. Kwan’s man was late. Which meant he’d have to take a bite of froggy.

  He lifted the amphibian to his mouth.

  “Lipley?”

  He heard his alias on the lips of a small, bowed man. “I’m Ripley,” he said.

  The Asian man—David placed him at fifty—nodded once and moved past him. David ditched the frog and followed, dodging shoppers, keeping the man in his sight. “Contact,” he said softly into his transmitter. But probably, Chet already saw that.

  They left the press and smells of the market and crossed the street into the shipyards. The container yard of Kaohsiung Harbor—the third largest in the world—had been an easy place to mask their shipment of Remington M24 Sniper rifles, Colt M16s and Commandos, and way too many HK MP5s. The CIA had also thrown in Smith & Wesson .45 pistols. David had watched from the roof of a warehouse earlier today as Chet checked the supply with the head of CIA in Taiwan after sweeping the area beforehand. He’d heard Bruce okay the transaction and even reiterate the agency’s agreement—and policy—to disavow should things go south. Figured.

  Then David had cleared Chet to lock the container tight and leave. Alone.

  He hadn’t heard from his partner until they met over an hour ago outside the market. Until Chet had told him about the frog.

  The moan of ships moving out into the South China Sea, the smell of seaweed and oil, and the sound of seagulls calling brought David back to his last trip to Russia, just over eight months ago. After making sure his stubborn-as-a-Russian sister, Sarai, was safe and helping his best friend Roman escape from a Siberian gulag, David had accompanied Yanna to a volleyball match in Vladivostok. And afterward, they’d walked down to the wharf to watch the lights of the ships glimmer against the blackened sea and listen to the water lap against the
massive steel hulls. Her long mink-brown hair blowing in the cold wind and that mysterious smile on her face nearly made him take her in his arms.

  Nearly.

  But he’d been dodging that impulse, with success, for almost a decade. Well, all but once. Still, starting a relationship—the kind he wanted to finish—with Yanna could only lead to heartache. And not just because they lived on different sides of the ocean. But because they lived on different sides of eternity. For now. He’d never stop hoping that might change.

  “Wait here.” The little man stopped him with an outstretched hand, and David stood still, his heart thumping as he watched the man disappear behind a three-story stack of metal containers. From behind him, he heard footsteps. He turned and tried not to flinch as two of Kwan’s muscles materialized. They both looked like they’d done time in a Chinese prison—their noses set poorly, bodies wedged into ill-fitting suit pants and silk shirts. Homemade tattoos lined their forearms. He recognized silver Russian-made Makarov pistols in their grips, and he kept his hands out of his pockets. “Where’s Kwan? I agreed to meet with Kwan.”

  “He wants a sample of the merchandise before he’s willing to meet with you,” said the taller, nastier looking of the two.

  David shrugged. The guns were real enough. They had to be, to make it overseas and into the right hands. Yet inside each gun, the CIA had installed a surveillance chip to leave a trail that David and the other members of this op could track.

  Hopefully, in the end, they’d bring down Kwan’s organization. Before they sacrificed precious lives. “Likewise, I want a sample of his merchandise.”

  One of them smiled, and it sent a warning into David’s gut. Something didn’t feel right. He’d been undercover in enough hot spots over the world, first as a Green Beret and then as a Delta Force operative, to recognize something sour in the air.

  But he said nothing as he turned and wound his way to the container he’d set up for just this scenario. He hoped Chet had heard the exchange and had him in his sights.