one of the rental rooms, heads down, leaning against the wall as shadows moved in the well-lit unit they were guarding.
They were talking, their voices too low to hear, and the satisfied demeanors of earlier had been dropped. They looked nervous and if he wasn’t mistaken, quite possibly scared as well.
He’d read the dossiers on these men, and he wouldn’t have believed anything could make them nervous, let alone have them looking like three teenagers preparing to face a disciplinarian.
As they waited silently, the shadows in the rental unit began to slow, and long minutes later another man stepped into view.
Gregor Ascarti.
Dressed in his trademark silk suit, his blond hair perfectly combed back, but with a limp Jordan didn’t remember from that last operation against Sorrel that had reportedly taken Ascarti out as well.
Gregor Ascarti had been Sorrel’s right-hand man after his son. He had been the logistical expert who had been damned near impossible to defeat.
And now he was back.
Somehow, the bastard had managed to not just survive, but apparently to live and thrive for the past eight years completely under the radar.
He moved slowly, the limp obviously hindering his movements, as Mark Tenneyson and Ira Arthurs, the mercenaries who had been watching the Taites, exited the rental unit behind him. Ascarti stopped directly in front of John Frackle.
Before anyone could guess what he would do, his hand came back and a strong, heavy blow was delivered against the other man’s face. Frackle was flung back against the wall, but surprisingly, considering his reputation, he didn’t attempt to strike back.
Jordan saw the struggle in Frackle’s face though, the tightening of his fingers as he made an effort not to make a fist.
Jordan strained to hear the conversation, but all he heard were angry murmurs. The combination of their automatic habit of keeping their voices low and the distance from the other men made the conversation impossible to decipher.
One thing was certain, though: Ascarti wasn’t pleased. The fact that the men hadn’t arrived with Tehya was likely the reason for Ascarti’s displeasure.
Hell, he wished he could get fucking closer. If he could just hear what they were planning.
He wasn’t aware how tense he was, how closely he was checking out the surrounding cover, until he felt Noah’s hand on his shoulder in warning.
A tight grimace pulled at his face as he gave a quick nod, an affirmation that he understood the grip.
As Jordan continued to watch, Ascarti moved closer to Frackle, almost nose to nose, his finger poking in the other man’s chest, though his voice never rose.
That was a conversation Jordan would give damned near anything to hear at this point. Though he was fairly certain he knew the gist of it.
They had returned without Tehya, and Ascarti wanted Tehya.
As Jordan had thought earlier, it had all the earmarks of a revenge strike.
But as he watched, eyes narrowed, events sifting through his mind, he couldn’t help but suspect there was something more going on than simple revenge.
These men weren’t having a love affair with Sorrel’s memory. If Tehya happened to have dropped in their paths, then they would have struck out at her. But to still be searching for her after her disappearance?
It didn’t make sense.
Suddenly, Ascarti moved again, the hand holding his weapon moving, the metal smacking into Frackle’s face and knocking him to the ground. In the next breath Ascarti had his gun beneath Fillipini’s chin, pushing it high and tight.
“Fucking stupid…” His accent was thick and dark with fury, the violence in his tone causing Jordan’s brows to lift.
The voice lowered just enough now that only the tone could be heard.
Ascarti stepped back, watching as Frackle came slowly back to his feet, stumbling slightly as he braced himself against the wall.
“Imbecile. The next time, you … will…” The threat was clear as the muzzle of the weapon went beneath Frackle’s jaw, lifting it as Ascarti leaned closer to finish the sentence.
With a final slap against the side of the other man’s face, Ascarti stepped back, straightened his silk jacket, then turned around to face the mercenaries behind him.
The dim fluorescent lights above hit his face at just the right angle, giving Jordan a first, clear look at the other man’s face.
His brows lifted.
The left side of Gregor Ascarti’s face was horrendously disfigured. Scars marred the entire side of his face, twisting around his eye, giving his profile a grotesque appearance.
Jordan slipped farther back into the shadows as the Italian former smuggler moved with far less grace