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Finished in the bathroom, Cate returned to her bedroom, dressed quickly in one of the three changes of clothes the Morgans had supplied her with, then made her way downstairs. She followed her ears to the kitchen, where she could hear faint deep voices, though she couldn’t make out the words. She crept silently nearer, then checked abruptly in the doorway when she spotted a stranger sitting at the kitchen table with Liam drinking coffee.
When the two men saw her, they both put down their coffee cups and stood. The tall black stranger reached her first, his hand outstretched. “Good morning, Ms. Mateja,” he said in his booming voice. “You don’t know me, but I’ve been following your case very closely. I’m Nick D’Arcy.”
She shook his hand. “Are you Liam’s boss?”
“No, ma’am. I’m the head of the agency. But we’ve been involved in this case from the beginning. One of my agents put this case together with Liam’s brother,” he said, indicating Liam standing on the other side of her in his shirtsleeves, his gun in its shoulder holster clearly visible. “And I’m the one who arranged this safe house for you.” He smiled gently. “I hope my people have made you comfortable here, Ms. Mateja.”
“Oh yes. I—” wasn’t expecting a lot, she almost said, but then realized that might come across wrong. I’m used to making do, didn’t sound right, either. She smiled perfunctorily and settled for saying, “Very comfortable, thank you. But please call me Cate.”
Liam took a step closer to her, his hand outstretched as if to touch her...but he didn’t. “Cate, D’Arcy was just telling me he has another plan for us—if you agree.”
She looked from one man to the other. “Another plan?”
“Why don’t you sit down,” Nick D’Arcy said, “and we can discuss it.” He moved to the coffeemaker on the counter. “Want some coffee?”
“No thank you.” Cate didn’t drink coffee. She’d been too young to acquire the coffee habit before she’d first come to this country, and for six of the past seven years coffee had been a luxury she couldn’t afford, even if she’d wanted to...which she didn’t.
Liam opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice, offering it to her. “Juice?”
“Yes, please.”
He grabbed a tumbler from the cabinet and filled it before handing it to her. She accepted it with a simple, “Thank you.”
D’Arcy had refilled Liam’s coffee cup and his own, and they settled around the table. “Here’s the situation, Ms.—Cate,” he corrected himself smoothly. “I don’t know how much Liam told you about this case, but—”
“Very little.” She glanced apologetically at Liam. She didn’t want to seem critical, but he really hadn’t said all that much. Need to know, she reminded herself now. He’d told her only what she needed to know...no more, no less. “I know another witness is dead,” she admitted, glancing down at her hands. “I knew her,” she added, almost to herself. Then her eyes met D’Arcy’s. “Not friends, you understand. But I met her when we were first brought to this country nine years ago. She was a year older than me.” She could have said a lot more, but anything she revealed about the other woman would be far too revealing...about herself. About what had happened to them both.
“I’m going to tell you a little story,” D’Arcy said. “And afterward I think you’ll understand why I’m not willing to take chances this time around. Did you want some breakfast before I start?” he asked, shifting gears. “This could take a while.” When she shook her head, sipping at her orange juice, he took a deep swallow of coffee. He placed the cup back on the table, arranging it just so, as if he was mentally arranging exactly what to tell her in the few seconds it took him. Then he looked at her, all softness gone from his face.
“Aleksandrov Vishenko’s branch of the Bratva was collaterally associated years ago with a domestic terrorist organization called the New World Militia, founded and run by a man named David Pennington. Ever heard of him?” Cate shook her head. “Pennington was briefly married to Vishenko’s sister, Mariella. They had one child, who they named Michael...born with a birth defect that left one leg shorter than the other. Not crippled. Just not perfect. And Pennington was a perfectionist.”
His brows twitched together. “Mariella subsequently divorced Pennington, resumed her maiden name—Vishenko—and changed her son’s last name at the same time. Then tried her best to forget she’d ever been married to Pennington. But apparently her brother didn’t share her aversion to her ex-husband. Either that, or Vishenko didn’t care about the personal aspect so long as his relationship with his ex-brother-in-law remained profitable. Which it did. Very profitable, for both men. Arms dealing, including the theft of military grade weapons. And drugs, of course—Vishenko was an up-and-coming member of one of the most powerful drug cartels in the country. He was young, but completely amoral even then.”
