Limbo Man by Blair Bancroft

head back on his shoulder. She murmured and snuggled closer. Nice. The Feds had surely gotten that part of his profile right.
    At last he allowed himself to open the newspaper. Bladskoye dyelo! He’d lost more than two weeks. Anything could have happened by now.
    Was he too late? The worst had happened, and the Feds were investigating the aftermath. Hardly. The newspaper was full of war and disaster, but not on the scale of Armageddon.
    So he was going to have to wing it, keep his mouth shut, find out where they were going only when they got there, find out what the Feds wanted to know when they asked him. Maybe Blondie could be coaxed into filling in the gaps, though he was clueless about how he could get her to do that without revealing his unique vulnerability.
    The sun was still climbing when they landed at an airport that looked not much different from some he’d seen in Siberia. Sergei figured they must have been flying west, at least two times zones, because the sun had not yet reached its zenith. As the plane descended, he’d seen the vast dark green of forests, a glimpse of rugged mountains. Colorado, M ontana, maybe Wyoming or Idaho.
    As they taxied, one of the suits unbuckled his seat belt and approached them. Gently, he shook Blondie’s shoulder. “Time to get up, Agent Frost. We’re here.”
    Too bad the suit and Blondie weren’t on a first-name basis. Awkward, sleeping with a female when he didn’t even know her first name.
    And yet . . . Frost was a name he recognized. He’d seen it in the newspaper , heard it on TV. An unusual surname, one he ought to recall . . . James Frost, known as Jack, that was it. Deputy Chief of Homeland Security. And Blondie was a relative, he’d bet on it.
    No way. Not even Jack Frost would pimp out his own daughter.
    Yes, he would. From what Sergei had heard, the man had steel balls. Ruthless was the kindest adjective applied.
    And Blondie had them too, no matter how anatomically impossible that was. Only someone that tough would snuggle up to Sergei, the monster, who was also Sergei, the gangster.
    “You and Tokarev,” the suit added, speaking to Blondie,“will exit the plane protected by our cordon of guards. There’s a van waiting that will take you to the safe house. Two shotgun cars, fore and aft. Agent Kessel and I—he nodded toward his partner—will stay with you, plus all six guards. That should ensure your safety until we . . . ah . . . make some progress.”
    Blondie nodded, smiled. “Thanks. We appreciate the help, Agent Grimes. It was pretty lonely out there for a while.”
    Blondie turned to him, flashing a smile that pinned him in his seat. Anger evaporated in a blaze of a very different kind of heat. “Hey, Nick, time to check out our new home.”
    Nick . Who the hell was Nick?
     
    The only words Nick had spoken since the black-clad commando types had escorted them from Aunt Victoria’s house to the dock, had been the whispered command to lower her seatback, plus Tokarev’s smirking assurance that he would behave himself. After that, not a word. Not on the airplane, not on the van. Odd. Even now, he was sitting beside her on the rear seat, teeth clamped over his tongue, arms clamped over his chest, his face as stony as she’d ever seen it. Probably just an antipathy to Feds , yet something just didn’t feel right.
    Vee looked over the other occupants of the eight-passenger van. One of their black-clad guards sat in front with the driver. The two suits from the plane occupied the center seat, leaving the back for Nick and herself. Agent Grimes was older than his partner. A man with sharp, hard eyes that missed nothing. Mid-forties. Fit. Way beyond competent. Dear old dad had assigned his best. Agent Stan Kessel was at least a decade younger, better looking, with an American melting pot face that blended into any crowd. His eyes revealed a brain as sharp as Grimes’s, but kinder. Probably because he’d had less time to become cynical, Vee