Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

Do or Die Reluctant Heroes By Suzanne Brockmann




PROLOGUE

August 29th


Several years ago …

Istanbul, Turkey


Ian Dunn’s job for this assignment was a simple one.

Charm and distract.

And make sure Prince Stefan stayed here, at the Kazbekistani embassy in Istanbul, while Ian’s former SEAL chief and right-hand man, John Murray, used his SpecOps training to break into the prince’s hotel room and download the contents of the man’s laptop onto a flashdrive.

Someone, somewhere—probably sitting at a desk in some windowless room in the basement of the Pentagon—believed that the jet-setting prince had information about a person of interest wanted in connection to a missing stash of sarin nerve gas. And, because Prince Stefan’s laptop computer was too low-tech to properly hack, that unnamed someone had reached out to Ian in order to gain the information the old-fashioned, hands-on, up-close-and-personal way.

And that brought Ian and his motley crew all the way to Turkey, where tonight he’d donned a tuxedo for what was hopefully his final tiresome, up-close-and-personal evening with the prince, so that Johnny could take the hands-on approach with that laptop.

In the past few days, ever since Ian had become inseparable besties with Prince Stefan, he’d discovered that not only was the title purchased, but also that the prince was as mean and soulless as he was petty and stupid.

His family was of Eastern European descent, with some real royalty thrown in via a connection to Vlad the Impaler—who hung from a branch that Ian would’ve kept secret, had the family tree been growing in his yard. But the prince found the connection boast-worthy, along with the fact that his grandfather and father had taken most of the family fortune and fled to South America when it became clear that the Second World War was going to, quote, end badly for them, end quote.

And yes. Over the past few days, Ian had confirmed the fact that the “family fortune” was, in fact, ill-gotten gains from Grandpa’s collaboration with the Nazis. Some of the loot had been left behind, hidden on the farm where Gramps and Daddy had lived in Poland—not far from Auschwitz.

About a week ago, Prince Stefan had followed one of his grandfather’s treasure maps and he’d found nearly three million dollars in antique jewelry beneath the straw-covered dirt floor of a dilapidated barn. Just as Grampy had promised.

A more patient man might’ve extracted the gems and melted down the precious metals, getting more for the items overall, but Prince Steve was in need of some immediate cash. Which meant he was looking for a buyer who didn’t care from whence his shameful treasure had come.

Enter Ian, with his hard-won reputation for knowing exactly how to fence stolen jewelry.

It didn’t take much digging to discover that the K-stani ambassador was a potential buyer. Not only did the extremely wealthy man have a thriving side business, buying and selling precious metals and gems—his diplomatic status gave him access to move stolen goods easily throughout the region—but he himself was also something called a “Holocaust collector.” And yes, that was as hideously awful as it sounded. The man had a fascination for everything from anti-Semitic propaganda to SS uniforms and weaponry to lampshades made with human skin. Jewelry stolen from people who’d been rounded up and exterminated was right up his ugly-ass alley.

Ian didn’t know the diplomat personally, but he knew a guy who knew a guy. And so he held his nose and made a few phone calls.

Which led them to tonight’s show-and-tell with the prince and his plunder, followed by what was promising to be a teeth-grindingly awful embassy dinner with several dozen other guests who shared the ambassador’s and prince’s narrow worldview.

But the dinner meant that Prince Stefan would be out of his hotel room for long enough to allow Johnny M. to wrestle with his laptop and download its contents.

Ian didn’t have to like it—he just had to do it.

But when the prince was lovingly laying out his collection of stolen necklaces, brooches, rings, and bracelets on several yards of plush maroon velvet, Ian knew that, for him, dinner was out. Not gonna happen, and not just because he had to clasp his hands behind his back to keep himself from punching the prince in the face when the idiot held up a particularly dazzling diamond necklace and jovially said, “Heil Hitler, am I right, or am I right?”

No, dinner was not going to happen because luck had delayed the ambassador, and Ian and the prince were still waiting here, still all alone in this embassy sitting room, when Ian’s Bluetoothdisguised headset clicked on.

“Download complete.” Johnny M.’s salty voice came through Ian’s earpiece, loud and clear.

Suddenly, Ian had options. He had choices. And he knew—instantly—what he was now going to do.

He was over near the door, and he opened it to peek out at the still-empty corridor. Luck was on his side—this could work. He shut the door again.

The prince had crossed the room and was now pouring himself a glass of something from a bar setup, droning on again about how special it was for him to see—in person—the farm where his father and grandfather had spent the bulk of the war.

“The barn was just as they’d described it,” he said as Ian approached him. He turned to make a disparaging face. “I’m afraid there’s no hard liquor here—only this ridiculously sweet wine.”

“It’s traditional. It’s what they serve in Kazbekistan,” Ian said as John’s voice clicked on again.

“I’m out of the hotel, and clear,” Johnny said. “Repeat, I am free and clear.”

Those were the words Ian had been waiting for, and he threw all of his outrage and disgust into a very solid uppercut to the prince’s chin.

Boom.

Punching the idiot in the face felt as good as he’d imagined it would.

His Majesty didn’t have time to register his royal surprise. He probably didn’t even recognize that Ian had hit him. He just shut down. His eyes rolled back in his head as he crumpled onto a red-satin-covered chaise lounge—which proved to be far less of a stupid-ass piece of furniture to have in an embassy sitting room than Ian had originally thought when they’d first been shown in.

As he fell, Prince Stefan’s wineglass went flying, but it landed on the carpet and didn’t break. Ian took care of that, crunching it into pieces with the heel of one of his shiny black rented shoes. Shoes he was now going to have to run in—which was going to suck.

So be it.

He toppled several chairs as he moved swiftly to the fourth-floor window that overlooked the glimmering lights of the ancient city. The K-stani embassy was housed in a building that dated back to the relatively recent nineteenth century, which meant ledges and stone ornamentation abounded. Climbing down to the ground would be difficult but not impossible.

Ian unlocked and opened the window wide as he activated his headset microphone and spoke to his team. “Slight change of plans, gang.”

Three of his four teammates spoke almost at once, groaning and moaning, as the curtains moved in the warm night breeze. This was one of the major differences between leading a SEAL team and leading a group made up of friends and family. SEALs didn’t bitch and moan when their commanding officer gave an order. At least not to the CO’s face.

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” Ian’s brother Aaron’s voice went up an octave.

Shelly, who was back in the States with Aaron, running support from thousands of miles away, put it more diplomatically. “Is that really necessary, sir?”


“Define slight,” Aaron demanded.

Francine’s grim voice cut through. “I’m in the limo, right out in front of the embassy. Since John has the flashdrive, the job’s over, we’re done. Ian, walk out the door and get into this car.”

“Pull onto the street on the west side of the building, France,” Ian ordered the woman who was both the best driver he’d ever worked with and his sister-in-law, as he headed over to the table that held the jewelry. “Point the car so it’s heading north. I’ll be running, probably full sprint, when I reach you. Be ready to evade and escape after I’m in the car.”

“Ah, shit, really?” his brother’s voice said, even as Francine muttered her own expletive-laced affirmative.

“Evade and escape who?” Francine asked.

“I’m not sure just yet,” Ian admitted. “It depends on how the next few minutes play out. Be ready for anything.”

Even Johnny, usually taciturn, couldn’t keep himself from chiming in. “Sir, we got what we came for. Francie’s right for once. I know this guy’s an a*shole, but just take a deep breath and walk away.”

“Can’t do that,” Ian said as he swiftly rolled the jewelry into two large but easily pocketed packets. He secured them inside his tuxedo shirt, then buttoned his jacket over it.

Shelly was the only one who offered assistance. “I still have you on the fourth floor of the embassy, in the northeast corner of the building. Infrared SAT images show only one other source of body heat with you, currently motionless. But there are six, repeat, six assumed unfriendlies getting off the elevator on your floor. Whatever you’re up to, ready or not, here they come. You’ve got maybe twenty seconds, tops …”

Ian wasn’t quite ready, so he moved fast.

The room didn’t have a mirror, so he had to use the glass of a framed picture—moonrise over the harsh Kazabek landscape—to get a glimpse of his reflection as he messed up his hair. That wasn’t enough to make him look as if he’d been in a down-and-dirty fight with a cat burglar—no, make that two cat burglars. It would have to be two, if anyone was going to believe that they’d overpowered a former Navy SEAL.

He’d felt something tear in the right sleeve of his jacket when he’d punched ol’ Steve, and he reached up, found the give in the shoulder seam, dug his fingers in, and gave it a tug … and fabric ripped.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Blood.

Blood always did the trick.

Ian quickly went back to the wineglass he’d broken and picked up a shard. Head wounds bled like crazy—he wouldn’t have to do more than scrape himself, but over his ear, so the flow wouldn’t obscure his vision and …

“Shit,” he said, because it hurt like hell.

Meanwhile, Shelly started a countdown—presumably one would be when the ambassador and five guards came through that door. “Ten … nine … eight …”

“Johnny, get to the extraction point,” Ian quietly ordered his former chief as he wiped off and then tossed the piece of glass before smearing blood across his face. In the process, he got it all over his hands, which added nicely to the effect.

“Already on my way,” the man reported.

“Seven … six …”

“Car’s in position.” Francine sounded annoyed. But then again, her usual emotional state was one of being permanently pissed off.

There was only one more thing Ian had to do after giving himself a quick visual check in that picture’s framed glass. He scrunched up his face and hunched his shoulders, staggering slightly as if he were still dazed from being hit over the head by a blunt object.

Yup, the blood sold it.

“Five … four …”

Ian kept his stagger going as he propelled himself across the room and over to the fire alarm. He hit the wall with his shoulder on Shelly’s three, and slapped a hand up, reaching for the pulldown alarm. He left a nasty streak of blood on the wall before his fingers found the lever on two.

The alarm—a combination of old-fashioned bells and a more modern electronic shrieking—went off on one as the door opened, also right on cue.

“There were two of them,” Ian shouted as he continued to use the wall to hold himself up. “They took the prince’s jewelry and went out the window!” He pointed with that bloody, Oscar-worthy hand.

The ambassador stepped back, letting his muscle move swiftly into the room. Two of the guards went to the window; the others came toward Ian and the prince.

“I’m fine—I’ll be okay. But the prince is hurt. Help him,” Ian said, not wanting any of the guards to feel the packets beneath his shirt. He straightened up, pretending to shake himself off before he pushed past the ambassador, who was still in the doorway. “The thieves left just moments ago—maybe we can stop them before they get down to the street!”

He heard the order being given for the guards at the embassy door to hold all traffic, both into and out of the building, but he ran toward the stairs anyway. Down the hall, to his left …

As Ian threw open the door to the stairwell, he was aware that several of the guards were on his heels—including one man that he recognized as the embassy’s head of security.

That was not good. Or … maybe it was. If this guy was with Ian, the security staff at the door weren’t likely to stop him.

He hoped.

The HOS raised his voice to be heard over the ringing alarms and the clatter of their shoes on the slippery marble stairs. “Can you describe your assailants?” His English was impressive, which for some might’ve been a bad thing. But not for Ian.

Ian’s ability to communicate had always been one of his biggest strengths.

“They were dressed in black.” As they went down the stairs that wound down and around—a half flight, then a landing, another half flight, another landing—Ian described what he himself would’ve worn, if he were attempting an early evening burglary in Istanbul. “Masks on their faces—nylon. But thick nylon—so thick, I can’t even tell you their skin color. One of ’em had dark hair, I do know that. The other might’ve had a shaved head, but that’s just a guess. He might’ve been blond with a crew cut. I honestly couldn’t tell.”

The HOS had a face that was unreadable—or maybe it was just the shitty lighting in the stairwell that made him seem impassive.

Either way, Ian needed to give the man more. He held up his right hand. His knuckles were battered and already starting to bruise from punching Prince Steve. “Another educated guess is that they’re wearing body armor. I fought back, but it was like hitting a brick wall. And then they hit me, took the jewels, and went out the window.”

His head was still bleeding, and he transferred some of it onto the banister as punctuation.

But there was still nothing on the HOS’s face—no reaction, no sense that the man either mistrusted Ian or that he believed him.

So Ian pushed it, saying, “If we don’t stop these guys, the prince is going to crucify me. I told him your embassy was safe.”

That got him a flash of the HOS’s dark eyes. “It is. We have an extensive state-of-the-art surveillance system—cameras, both inside and out. There will be footage of what transpired.”

Uh-oh.

But Ian had left his mic hot, and his support team had heard that. Aaron’s voice clicked on, over his headset. “Shelly’s already hacked into the embassy computers and …”


“Whoopsie,” Shel’s voice said. “Looks like today’s footage from the security cams, both interior and exterior, has been mysteriously erased. Don’t you hate when that happens?”

“Thank you,” Ian said as he jumped down the last half-flight of stairs. Of course now HOS was looking at him sideways, so he added, “For letting me know that we’ll catch these guys—that whoever they are, we’ve got them on tape.”

He pushed open the door to the first-floor lobby where, thanks to the fire alarm he’d pulled, it was chaos central.

Fire trucks had already arrived, and the guards at the entry had failed to keep out both the firefighters and local police, who were already working to evacuate the building.

This would be a really good time for Ian to go in one direction and the HOS and his men to go in another.

But the HOS stayed on Ian’s heels as he went out into the warmth of the night.

So Ian slowed. “Which way?” he shouted to the HOS.

“Over here!” The man pointed around to the east side of the building, just as Ian expected him to—the sitting room had been in the northeast corner, the window that was the alleged burglars’ escape route faced east.

The two guards immediately took off in that direction.

“I’ll go ’round the other way,” Ian volunteered. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

He didn’t wait for permission; he just took off, heading for the west side of the building—where Francine was waiting behind the wheel of the limo they’d rented to drive Prince Stefan to the embassy.

Unfortunately, the HOS followed Ian.

The sidewalks in this part of town were cobblestone, and slippery as all hell. Ian used that as an excuse to shift onto the street as he turned the corner and … Yup, there was Francine, by the car.

She’d left it idling, in getaway mode, taillights lit, but she’d gotten out and was standing beside it—because theirs was not the only car waiting at the side of the road, and she wanted to make sure Ian saw her.

The narrow, normally lightly trafficked street wasn’t empty as he’d hoped.

The other guests for the embassy dinner, arriving in their limos and Rolls-Royces, had been pushed here, out of the way of the fire trucks and police vehicles. Some had gotten out of their rides and were cluttering up the sidewalks in their tuxes and sequined gowns—blocking access.

And okay. It was not what he’d been anticipating, but Ian could work with this.

The HOS, as expected, was not pleased. “Clear this area,” he shouted in a variety of languages.

“Maybe they can help us,” Ian suggested to the man, skidding to a stop beside Francine, to ask, “Excuse me, sir”—with a hat pulled down over her hair and face, she could’ve been a height-challenged young man—“have you seen two men, dressed all in black …?” He, too, repeated the question in German and his terrible French.

Francine shook her head as she climbed back in behind the wheel.

And this was where HOS should’ve continued swiftly down the line, asking the same question of the potential witnesses, before telling them, again, to clear the area.

But from the corner of his eye, Ian could see the HOS reaching into his jacket, where there was probably a handgun of some kind.

Apparently Ian’s communication skills had failed him.

So he gave the HOS the same message that he’d given Prince Steve back in the embassy. Boom. A knockout punch to the face.

The HOS went down and Ian relieved him of his weapon before jumping into the car.

“Go,” he said, but Francine was already on it, driving away.

She covered her headset mic to say, “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” Ian said. “Self-inflicted.” He saw out the back windshield that some of the tux-and-sequin-wearers had seen him throw that punch. Several rushed to the HOS’s side, shouting for the police—who couldn’t follow them, thanks to the snarl of limos and Lamborghinis.

Still, as Ian watched for pursuers, Francine drove like the pro that she was, moving them quickly into the labyrinth of streets, taking them far from the action at the embassy.

No one chased, no one followed, and Ian finally felt secure enough to focus on applying pressure to the cut at his hairline.

“We’re clear,” Francine announced over her headset. “Heading for the extraction point.”

They were leaving the country via private jet from a small airport outside of the city. The client had arranged the flight, which meant they’d board the plane without even so much as a conversation with customs, which was nice.

“Johnny, tell the pilot to be ready to go wheels up as soon as we arrive,” Ian ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Francine covered her mic again and asked, “Did you do what I think you did?”

“Yup,” Ian said.

He pulled out the packet that he’d tucked into the left side of his shirt and opened it, wanting a closer look at one of the pieces—a silver locket.

Its delicate chain had become entangled with a diamond necklace and an emerald bracelet. He gently pulled it free.

The locket had caught his eye back at the embassy, in part because of its lovely simplicity, in part because he’d wondered if it opened and …

Yes. The inside held miniature photos—one on each side. On the left were a young man and woman on their wedding day, circa the late 1930s. On the right was a photo of a little girl, maybe four years old, with her mother’s sparkling dark eyes and joyful smile.

And Ian knew that he’d made the right choice.

Because maybe—just maybe—that girl had survived.

She’d be around eighty now. And for her, this locket would be priceless. As would every other piece that someone else’s mother or grandmother had worn against their skin.

Francine glanced at him as he wrapped it all back up. “Three mill’s a pretty good haul for one night’s work,” she commented as she pulled the limo onto the runway, not far from the waiting plane.

Ian tucked the packet back into his shirt. “Yeah.”

They got out of the car and were halfway up the stairs to the plane when Francine said, “So now you’re a jewel thief.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

Johnny was waiting for them in the cabin, and he handed Ian the flashdrive that held the contents of Prince Stefan’s computer, then helped the co-pilot secure the door.

Ian strapped himself in, his two teammates on either side of him—both already settling in for a trans-Atlantic nap—as the jet screamed down the runway and lifted them safely away and into the night.