Page 4 of Steinbeck (The Minnesota Kingstons #5)

TWO

It worked.

Steinbeck’s crazy, thrown-together, call-it-chance, good-luck, not-to-mention-decent-intel plan had actually worked .

The tremor in her voice in the pitch darkness, the way Phoenix’s breath caught at his words... Clearly she hadn’t believed he’d actually show up.

“Seriously?” The voice on the other side of the wall seemed almost frail, nothing of the woman he’d met three years ago while on an op in Poland—tough, in control. Although, when she added a snarky “I hate to mention this, but you’re locked in here with me.” Yeah, it sounded like Phoenix.

He gave a laugh, a spark, the heat of it a warm flame igniting inside. “Please.” Then he reached into the pocket of the ratty pants he couldn’t wait to get out of and pulled out a key.

A helpful souvenir from the guard outside the tunnel door, currently snoozing in Stein’s rented Fiat Panda.

He moved over to the lock, inserted the key. The door whined open. Then he pulled on a headlamp and flicked it on. The beam cast over her cell, over her.

She stood at the ready, her hands clutching the bars.

She wore the same baggy green cargo pants and a grimier version of the same white T-shirt as a month ago.

Bare feet, so clearly she’d lost her flip-flops along the way.

Her hair glowed, copper red under his light, and her green eyes settled on him, wide.

“It really is you.” Her voice had cut to almost a whisper, as if he were an apparition, or maybe just a dream, losing all sense of her earlier bravado.

He swallowed back the same ethereal feeling, found words as he approached her lock. “Who else would deliberately sneak into a dark tunnel, get trapped in a cell, and show up smelly and dog tired to rescue a woman who might only get him into trouble?”

She cocked her head. “So many feelings for a guy whose biggest response is usually a grunt.”

And she was back.

He grunted and opened her cell.

And then she stood there, in the opening, three feet from him, just... staring. As if?—

“Phoenix?”

She launched herself at him. A full-on, legs-around-his-waist, arms-around-his-neck embrace, holding on as if he were a pillar in a flood, her only hope.

His arms went around her, and he had to take a step back to keep from falling, his knees hurting just a little from all the ruckus a few hours earlier, but he held her.

Held on to her. He’d never realized, really, how petite her frame felt against his. Small, strong, a bobcat more than a tiger, but also broken maybe—because her body shook a little, belying her tough demeanor.

“You okay?”

She leaned her forehead into his shoulder; then her entire body exhaled and she let go, first her legs, then her arms releasing.

He lowered her to her feet and met her eyes. They seemed to be—“Phoenix, are you crying?”

“What? No. Just... I’m cold.” She wrapped her arms around herself, then looked away. “Let’s get out of here.”

Mm-hmm. “Good idea. I don’t know how long we have until the Russians figure out that their guy at the door isn’t on a chai break.”

She frowned, and he resisted the urge to pull her back into his arms.

Even kiss her.

Yeah, shoot, he’d been harboring that version of their reunion for the last seventy-two hours.

Clearly, relief was not the same as “Oh Steinbeck, I’ve missed you so much.” This was an op, one still very much in peril.

Still, he grabbed her hand, put it on his belt behind him, and said, “Hold on. It’s dark.”

“That’s a newsflash.”

Ah, the woman was coming back to herself. He headed down the tunnel toward the entrance, some thirty feet away.

“I don’t understand—how did?—”

“No. You first. What happened in Cuba?” Because he’d woken up too many times over the past month with her words— “I’ll be right behind you” —in his head.

Words that he’d let himself believe. And then he’d spend the rest of the night wrestling away the what-ifs and please, no’s of the terror that he imagined befell her.

“The scooter wouldn’t start, and the cops caught up to me on foot.”

He felt her hand on his belt. If she let go, even once, he was taking her hand.

“They didn’t even bother to take me to the Cuban police, though, so I’m not sure they were official cops. I ended up locked in the guest room of the home of a government official.”

“The guy from the consulate?”

“No, someone else. Cuban. With Russian friends. They were after the program.” Her voice dropped a little then, and even as he kept them moving, his light dragging over the rutted, scarred rocky surface, his chest tightened. He didn’t want to ask?—

“They didn’t hurt me.”

He couldn’t speak.

“Much.”

He credited himself for not stopping, not turning and giving in to the urge to again pull her to himself. Never let go.

And okay, maybe that was overstated, but he was tired, cold, grimy, and lacking sleep.

“Where is the program?”

“You were there. It drowned.”

He did stop then. “Seriously?”

“Keep going, and yes. I didn’t get a chance to upload it—I know, stupid, but this entire op has been a comedy of chaos.

I’m back to zero. They put me on a boat; I swiped a cell phone with low battery and got a message out.

Bam, your turn. What happened after you got away? I heard—” Her voice hitched then.

Interesting.

“They said the yacht blew up.”

Who was they ? But he just nodded, then, “Tactical error. The Russians hadn’t left the ship, so we had a small shootout on the boat. Dec and I disembarked into the cool waters of the gulf.”

She snorted. “Pre-explosion.”

“Sort of. And to be clear, I looked for you in Cuba. Good job with the message. Jack, my brother, got it and asked me about it, and I knew it was from you. Clever, giving me the IMO number.”

“Clever, you figuring it out.”

With that, the old dance, a sort of camaraderie, settled into his bones.

They just might make it out of here.

“But that’s a long way from you showing up in a dungeon in Portugal.”

“I called my cousin Colt. He works with the Caleb Group.”

“That’s convenient.”

“About as convenient as the fact that, apparently, your sneaky little group of Black Swans occasionally works with the Caleb Group.”

“Sometimes they just need a woman’s touch.”

“Please. You’re all highly trained thieves.”

“Covert specialists in retrieving hard-to-obtain items.”

He let out a grunt. “Yeah, well, Colt’s boss, Logan, hooked me up with intel and a guy on this side of the pond named Roy.

Apparently, he knows the Petrov Bratva and especially their hideouts.

Once we figured out where your ship was heading, Roy put a tail on Tomas, their leader.

He owns an estate near here with an airstrip.

Our best guess was that they were going to move you. ”

“And what—the dungeon in Sintra is the international lounge? It needs a buffet, maybe drink service.”

They reached the door, and he glanced back at her, again casting the light upon her.

“Roy and I put a tracker on the Petrov car, and his hacker, Coco, tapped into the camera on the wharf. They picked you up getting into Petrov’s car, and when you headed out of the city, Roy stayed on your tail while I took a shortcut to Sintra.

I found the dungeon, tranqed the guard—left him in my car—and sneaked into the prison. ”

“Lots of what-ifs there, Ethan Hunt. I could have ended up on a plane.”

Her words only tightened the coil in his gut. “I took a chance.” He kept out the part where he and Roy nearly had a throwdown in the hotel room where Roy told him the plan.

He’d wanted to storm the wharf, but with too many sailors on the Russian dole... “This plan had the best odds for survival.”

Then he opened the door.

The twilight streamed in, and his eyes blinked hard against it. He cupped a hand over his eyes and eased into the cobblestone alleyway.

Phoenix still gripped his belt.

He pulled out a handgun, secreted to him by Roy. Steinbeck had a whole list of questions for the spy, but he’d pocketed them in favor of a thanks and a what-I-don’t-know-can’t-hurt.

They came out of the alley to a set of stone stairs, and he pulled off his grimy wig. Then he grabbed her hand and a baseball cap that he shoved onto his head.

“What look are you going for, there, Tom Hanks? Because you look like you’ve been on a desert island for half a decade. Nice wig and beard.”

He glanced at her. “I think there are things crawling in it. But I’m not the only one who needs a shower.”

Her mouth opened.

He smiled and found his Panda at the bottom of the stairs, secluded in another tiny alleyway.

Opening the back door, he grabbed the Russian, still zonked—so hopefully still alive—and pulled him out, leaving him propped in a corner.

“How much sleepy juice did you give him?” Phoenix got into the front passenger side.

“The entire shot,” Stein said as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“He’s breathing, right?”

“Had a pulse, so yes.” The engine turned over. “You ready to get out of here?”

She looked at him, blinked hard, her mouth opening, and shoot, he flashed back to the words he’d spoken to her three years ago as they’d left their safe house in Krakow.

Right before his world had blown up.

And right before she’d betrayed him.

She nodded, and he ignored the terrible stone lodged in his chest.

That was then. This was now. Him—oh no—trusting her. Again. Please, please...

“Let’s go back to my place,” she said as he pulled out. “They don’t know I’m gone yet. We have time, and I have security.”

“I think we’re living on borrowed time, but if it has a shower and grub, I’m in.” He held up a fist.

She bumped it.

He drove them off the mountain, past the lush estates and wineries, to the farmlands on the outskirts of Sintra. Postcard country.

“Why Lisbon?” He glanced at her. She’d ridden in silence since they’d left Sintra. He noticed a fading bruise on her cheek and didn’t want to ask about it.