Slowly, he dared another look toward the Jet Ski. His breath caught in his throat.
The woman was nowhere to be seen. She was gone.
“Looking for me?” came a voice behind him and slightly to his left.
Caspian froze, aware that he was holding a gun in his hand, his pulse roaring in his ears. He slowly turned his head toward the voice.
Ten feet away, the woman stood, her feet planted, her arms steady. She held a pistol in a two-hand grip.
And it was pointed straight at Caspian’s head.
Chapter Four
Port de Sóller
Mallorca, Spain
Liesel Bergmann’s stomach growled as she twisted the cap off a bottle of water. She poured the contents into the Nespresso’s reservoir, then set the bottle aside. She grabbed one of the complimentary coffee pods—a dark roast—and slipped it into place before powering on the machine.
While the machine warmed up, she glanced at her phone, checking the tracking app. A large, imprecise circle covered the map, showing only a general area of where Caspian might be.
He probably has no signal.
She wasn’t surprised. Mallorca’s rugged terrain and patchy cell service had given her the same issue on her hikes. But Caspian had been gone for a while now, and she expected him back soon. She wasn’t worried, though. Caspian was the last person who needed looking after.
They’d met by chance in a Krav Maga class he taught for fun. At the time, she’d thought he was a mid-level translator working at the United Nations headquarters. Truth is, she’d almost left him. Because apart from being good in bed—well, better than good—she’d found him to be a tad boring. But then she’d learned that Caspian Anderson wasn’t just a UN translator who drove an old Toyota Camry; he was one of the most accomplished killers in the world. A top-level assassin known only as Elias.
This discovery, and the fact that he’d found out she was a German spy, had almost broken them up. But it hadn’t. And since then, her life had been an exciting series of dangerous events.
Events that had nearly killed her.
Liesel opened a cabinet, found a small ceramic cup, and placed it under the dispenser. She pressed the flashing white button, and the machine hummed to life. Moments later, the scent of fresh coffee filled the air as a steady stream of dark espresso poured from the machine. The aroma was rich, deep, and exactly what she needed to shake off the last remnants of sleep. Because after their rather enthusiastic wake-up call, she had fallen into a deep sleep, a rarity for her.
At least since Bordeaux,she thought.
She had to admit that six days of sun, relaxation, scuba diving, and a whole lot of Caspian Anderson had worked wonders on her body and mind. She hadn’t realized just how much she had needed this break until she’d arrived on the island.
Liesel took the first sip of her coffee, then crossed the room to the full-length mirror. Standing naked in front of it, she studied her reflection. She was attractive. She knew it. She was aware of the looks men gave her, the lingering glances, the furtive double takes. She was fine with that. Her excellent metabolism helped—there was no denying that—but the truth was, she worked damn hard for the body she had.
But it wasn’t for vanity. It wasn’t to look good in a bikini or to impress anyone. She trained hard because she had to be ready. Because the next time she had to fight for her life, she wanted to win. The French surgeon who had removed the bullet fragments from her abdomen had told her she had survived because she was in peak physical condition. The words the doctor had spoken to her still lingered in her mind.
You survived because you are strong and healthy. Your body did most of the work. I only removed what wasn’t supposed to be there.
Liesel’s gaze dropped to the faint scar just below her ribs. She traced it with her fingers. The skin was firm, but the pain was gone.
The memories ... not so much.
She still had nightmares. Not every night, but often enough. Once or twice a week, she’d wake up, heart pounding, drenched in sweat, reliving the moment of her ambush and the impact as she hit the ground after flying off the motorcycle. Some nights, her dreams were so vivid that she felt the bullet impacting her skin again, and the searing pain that came with it.
She took a few deep breaths, then finished her coffee. She put the cup down on the counter, then went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She then stepped into the shower and let the hot water stream over her shoulders as she let her thoughts drift.
Sofie.
Her sister. Her only sibling. A woman she had believed to be dead.
Nicklas Drescher, her handler at the BND—the German intelligence service—had shared with her his suspicions that she was still alive. Liesel had refused to believe him. Her sister had died in Afghanistan, serving as a logistics officer with the Bundeswehr. Liesel couldn’t wrap her head around Sofie being alive. She had read the reports. She had attended the funeral.
I mourned her, for God’s sake!
