Undercover Nightingale. Wendy Rosnau

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      Six months later

      The yacht that had lulled her to sleep hours ago now jerked Allegra Nightingale awake. She sat up just as the yacht’s powerful twin engines shut down.

      They were stopping.

      Why?

      She climbed out of bed and looked out the stateroom window. It was early morning and the sun was on the horizon. In the distance she saw a jet boat speeding toward the Stella di Mare.

      Filip was about to get company.

      Yesterday they had cruised through the Strait of Messina and headed up the coast of Italy. Filip hadn’t told her where they were going, and she hadn’t asked. He’d been in an unpredictable mood since their exodus from Nescosto.

      The attack on the villa had been well-executed, the incursion swift. Nescosto was now a pile of rubble along the Amalfi Coast, and buried beneath it was Filip’s brother Yurii.

      From the moment Filip had dragged her onto the yacht, she’d known no one else had survived. He’d ordered her below deck, and there she had remained while the Stella quickly sped away into the night.

      For three days she had danced around him, trying to stay out of his way—feeling as insignificant as a barnacle stealing a ride on the yacht’s hull. But now a boat was arriving, and so she pulled on the black sweatpants and gray T-shirt Filip had issued her like a prison uniform on a slave ship.

      She left the stateroom, headed through the companionway, and scaled the stairs to the deck. She heard voices and stopped to listen.

      “I came as soon as you called.”

      “You made good time, Lazlo. Is Matyash with you?”

      “I’m here, Filip.”

      Allegra appeared in the morning sunlight just as the man, Matyash, leapt onto the deck from the jet boat christened the Sera Vedette. He was a thin man who wore his dark hair long like Filip. His face, however, wasn’t nearly as handsome—a long scar cut deep into his cheek and curved into the side of his mouth.

      He spied her and sent his eyes on a slow, very deliberate appraisal of her body. The smile that followed puckered his scar and made his appearance grotesque.

      “You read my mind, Filip. A little entertainment to pass the days at sea will lighten our moods.”

      Filip turned.

      When his soulless eyes locked with hers, Allegra kept her face as expressionless as his. She had no idea what he would say or do.

      Her training had taught her to never show weakness. But today Filip was in control. He had been since they’d fled Nescosto as it crumbled into the sea.

      He could let these men take her, and they would use her as unconscionably as they used their guns. And if he chose to pass her from one to another, no amount of protesting would stop them.

      If she was entertaining enough perhaps she would survive. If not, she could be tossed overboard.

      Chin high, her backbone straight, Allegra waited for the ugly one to make his move, promising herself she would endure whatever ill plan he had for her.

      “Leave her be. The woman is mine.”

      Filip’s words were spoken with the same authority that made him such a dangerous adversary to his enemies, and a feeling of relief washed over Allegra.

      He held out his hand to her. “Come, Allegra.”

      He hadn’t touched her in three days, but now he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into the protection of his muscular body.

      He was a head taller than her five-seven height—an Adonis with wild black hair, high cheekbones and a pair of dark eyes that were as unpredictable as his moods.

      Lazlo pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. Allegra saw that it was a newspaper clipping. Filip dropped his arm from around her and took the paper.

      “A little something to fuel the fire inside you,” Lazlo said.

      Filip scanned the information, and as he did, Allegra craned her neck. It was from an Italian newspaper confirming the death of Yurii and the fall of Nescosto.

      The photo was horrifying, the devastation catastrophic. More important the article revealed who had been responsible. The NSA was claiming victory for the insurgence.

      Filip crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it overboard. Allegra moved away from him and went to stand at the railing. Behind her she heard him exchange words with his comrades, and in a matter of minutes the two men returned to the jet boat.

      Lazlo spoke to the captain, then followed his friend below. They were back within minutes with duffel bags slung over their shoulders, they boarded the Stella di Mare once more.

      This time, the man named Lazlo headed into the wheelhouse. The powerful twin engines began to sing, then the luxury yacht quickly moved out.

      Allegra remained at the railing, the warm tropical breeze lifting her dark hair around her shoulders as the yacht picked up speed. Yurii was dead, and he’d taken the details of their secret assignment to his grave. She questioned whether Filip was privy to the mission’s details. If he was, how long would it be before he shared them with her?

      She had no phone. She’d left everything behind when she had fled Nescosto. But if Filip hadn’t assured her that they were on the same page by the time they reached land, then she would find a way to contact Cyrus.

      She was deep in thought when an explosion rocked the yacht, pitching her into the railing. When she regained her balance and turned around, orange flames and billowing smoke were rising up out of the sea. Filip was holding a detonating device in his hand, and the Sera Vedette was gone, as well as its captain.

      The death of Yurii Petrov made newspaper headlines across the country. The Washington Post must have been lacking news on Wednesday, as they dedicated the entire front page to the incident, and bored the public with a lengthy profile on an international criminal no one was aware existed—no one outside the criminal elite and government intelligence.

      The article listed Yurii’s many atrocities beginning with money laundering, and ending with his affiliation with the Red Mafia. A color photo of Nescosto, Yurii’s headquarters, ate up half the page. If not for the caption, the once sprawling four-story villa built into a sheer rock face along the Amalfi Coast would have been unrecognizable.

      The NSA claimed credit for the takedown. They were vague on the details, but that was standard when the special operations group, code-named Onyxx, was involved—they were the invisible spooks no one talked about.

      The news story ended with a brief statement from France’s Department of Foreign Information and Counterespionage. The SDECE reported that two of their agents had died in the siege.

      It was the first Onyxx Agent Ashland Kelly had heard that another intelligence agency was undercover inside Yurii Petrov’s citadel at the time he’d planted the explosives, sending Nescosto into the sea. There had been a window of opportunity to escape before detonation—a СКАЧАТЬ