Starting today, I’m posting the first few chapters of Dangerous Allies, the first book in the Ruby Danger series. Today’s installment includes both the prologue and chapter one. I’ll post additional chapters once a week or so.

Hope you enjoy it!

 

PROLOGUE: MOSCOW, 12 YEARS AGO

The teen hunched his shoulders in the oversized leather jacket and tapped the 9 mm Makarov tucked into his belt. What would it be like to kill a man? He had to get it right, show Viktor what he could do. His leg jackhammered in the bmw’s rear footwell as he traced another line through the condensation on the window and counted the floors of the apartment building opposite. One. Two. Three. And four, where—

He jumped as Viktor clamped a hand on his thigh.

“Stop that. You’re making me crazy.”

The teen stared at the tattoos and heavy gold rings on Viktor’s hand and willed his leg to be still. The jackhammer moved to his chest.

Viktor released his grip.

“Yury will be alone. Get the stories. Get out. Simple.”

The teen nodded. Simple. The word echoed in his ears as he stepped from the car, his breath turning to frost, and flipped up his jacket collar with unsteady hands. Simple. He trotted to the front door, the pistol and silencer digging into his back. Simple. Drawing a quick ragged breath, he pushed open the door and headed for the stairwell. He took the narrow steps two at a time, brushing the wall with one hand, silently counting as his fingers bumped over rough patches in the plaster. Simple.

At the fourth floor he paced down the hall, slipping the gun out from under his jacket. He had not bothered to bring spare ammunition; eight rounds would be more than enough. Raising the weapon in his right hand, he rapped on Yury’s door with his left.
The door opened and almost immediately slammed shut.

But the teen was quick, his foot already inside the jamb, and he gasped as the door rammed his thin leather boot. He shoved the door into Yury, who toppled onto the floor. The teen limped across the threshold. A shock of greying hair had fallen over the older man’s furrowed forehead and his mustache trembled as he looked up at the gun.

The hammering in the teen’s chest slowed when he saw the fear in Yury’s eyes. He gestured with the pistol.

“The stories for Izvestia. Get them.”

At a sudden noise he jerked his head to the tiny kitchen on the right. Something sizzled in a pan, but the room was empty. Glancing at a closed bedroom door on his left, he gestured again.

“Now.”

Yury pushed off the floor with shaking arms, walked to a desk under the window and pointed to a file folder. The teen placed his pistol on the desk, flicked his hand to show it was still within his reach, and tucked the folder under his jacket. He turned to pick up the gun.

“Yury, who was that?” a voice called from the bedroom.

The teen dove for the pistol. But as he closed his fingers on the grip Yury tackled him, knocking him off balance and against the desk. A bone snapped in the teen’s upper arm and the gun went off. Glass erupted in a china cabinet across the room and the weapon flew from his grasp as he crashed onto the floor with Yury’s full weight upon him.

The gun lay about six feet away, in the broken glass below the china cabinet. As the teen struggled to his knees, Yury grabbed his leather jacket with both hands, trying to hold him back.

The teen crawled to the pistol, wincing as glass slashed his knees, his right arm cradled at his side. Stretching out with his left hand, he curled his finger around the trigger, twisted, and fired. Yury grappled for the weapon, grunting, his eyes wild, and the shots went wild. Pots clanged in the kitchen and stuffing flew from the sofa.

With an agonizing heave, the teen wrenched the gun directly into Yury’s chest and pulled the trigger. Blood blossomed on the older man’s shirt as he slumped to the floor.

The teen collapsed onto the carpet beside Yury’s body, his heart hammering like blows from a fist and his breath coming in ragged bursts. He gazed into Yury’s lifeless eyes. Relief mingled with satisfaction and the teen’s mouth twitched. Simple.

Smoke spewed from the kitchen, filling the room. Coughing, he rose to his feet and turned to the door. In the haze stood a woman, who stared at Yury’s body with a hand cupped over her mouth. She lifted her gaze to the teen, and to the arm cradled by his side.

“Mama!”

A child’s cry. The teen jerked his head around.

The woman threw herself against him, hurling them both onto the floor, and yanked viciously on his broken arm. Roaring in pain, he thrust the gun into her chest and fired.

Nothing. The pistol was empty. With a roar, he heaved the woman off him and bent over her, battering her face and head with the gun until she lay still. He yanked a silver locket and chain from her throat and rose to his feet, his chest heaving.

Staggering through the smoke, he opened the door with trembling fingers. A knot of people drew back while he limped into the hall with the gun shaking in his outstretched hand, his other arm cradled at his side. His head throbbed, blood dripped from gashes on his hands and face, his pants hung in shreds, and black smoke billowed around him.

The teen hobbled down the hall and into the stairwell.

 

CHAPTER ONE

As the gleaming white prow of the Apollonis sliced through the Caribbean’s turquoise waves, Ruby Delaney stretched out on the Emperor Suite’s balcony and savored the total absence of gawkers, stalkers, and e-mailed death threats.

Day Two of the one-week cruise intended to restart her life and things were going pretty well. So well, in fact, that she decided to call that creepy steward and ask him to make her another gin and tonic while she planned her strategy. She tried to remember his name. Bogger? Bogwash? She snapped her fingers. Bogdan, that was it.

Ruby checked her cellphone: ten-fifteen a.m. She made a face, then sat up and briskly swung her legs over the side of the chaise. If she was going to have a third drink before noon, she better make it herself. No reason for the entire ship to know about it. Besides, that last gin and tonic had at least one-sixth of a lime in it, when she had specifically asked for one-eighth. She eyed the enormous piece of fruit marooned in her empty glass and rolled her eyes. If she had wanted fruit juice, she would have asked for fruit juice.

There was another reason. If she made it herself, she wouldn’t have to look at that tattooed hissing cobra that slithered down Bogdan’s cheek, wrapped twice around his neck and disappeared under the collar of his uniform. She shuddered. Not to mention the way he looked at her. She shuddered again. Even after nearly ten years as an actor, she still resented being ogled like a hooker.

“It comes with the territory,” her agent Felicity would have said, “just smile and nod.”

Smile and nod. Ruby grinned. She could do that. But another gin and tonic would make it a lot easier.

Tying a crimson silk pareo around her bikini, she reached for the floppy sun hat on the foot of the chaise, settled the hat on her head, and glanced at the balcony’s hot tub. Four water-stained screenplays perched precariously on its edge. She had promised Felicity that she would read them and return to Manhattan rested and ready to tackle the auditions her agent was prepping. “We need to get you back out there,” Felicity had said, “if you’re serious about turning things around, that is.”

Ruby frowned. Of course she was serious. But she had scanned those scripts and they were, in a word, sh—

Oops. She had also promised to rein in the swearing. Not to mention the drinking. Pursing her lips, she glanced at her empty glass. Felicity couldn’t have meant now, surely. She turned to the suite’s open French doors.

The piercing cries of gulls overhead caught her attention and she shaded her eyes and peered up at them. Her jaw dropped when she saw two much larger birds, floating far above the gulls. Before leaving Manhattan, Ruby had downloaded an article about birds of the southeastern Caribbean that described the ‘magnificent frigatebird’ and its seven-foot wingspan. And now they were right above her. Two Fregata magnificens, gliding majestically on the Caribbean thermals. She watched in awe as they swooped and soared in the crystal blue sky.

‘They’re also called pirate birds,’ the article had said, ‘because they rob other sea birds of their hard-earned catch.’

The frigatebirds swerved south and drifted farther and farther from the ship until they were two black dots in the sky. Something to tell her little nieces about, for sure.

She would also tell Antony, if he ever returned. Her husband had disappeared after breakfast and she had not seen him since. Ruby dropped her hand and glanced at the open door. Second honeymoon, my ass. Frowning, she tapped a finger on her mouth. Would ‘ass’ be considered swearing? She shook her head. Nah.

Ruby walked to the edge of the balcony, leaned her elbows on the railing with her head in her hands, and stared at the shimmering waves. There were no ships on the horizon, no fishing boats, not even a porpoise or two to flash through the surface and break the monotony. Straightening up, she ran a hand along the Emperor Suite’s polished wood railing. It was almost as wide as the balance beam she had practiced on so many times in her high school gym, when all her dreams had seemed attainable.

Absently tapping the railing, Ruby glanced to her left at the three partial decks that rose at the ship’s prow. Yesterday she had worried about the narrow metal walkways that circled those decks, though they were gated and marked keep out, but after seeing no one but crew on them she had relaxed. The walkways were deserted today as well. Turning, she walked through the French doors and into the air-conditioned suite. Her bare feet sank into the ridiculously luxurious carpet as she strolled over to the bar, pausing only to pluck a smooth-skinned lime from the immense fruit bowl on the dining table. After tossing ice cubes into a fresh glass, she picked up a paring knife and divided the lime into eight equal wedges. Licking her fingers, her lips puckering from the tart juice, she surveyed the living room’s leather upholstery and thirty-foot expanse of glass. So much for a romantic, secluded vacation. This suite had made them the most talked about guests on the ship.

Fresh drink in hand, she walked back onto the balcony. As she bent to place her glass by the chaise, a light flashed in the corner of her eye. Glancing at the gated walkways to her left, Ruby squinted under the brim of her hat. The flash appeared to be sunlight reflecting off a metal object held by a figure on the top deck’s metal gallery. He raised the object in one outstretched hand and steadied it with his other.

And aimed it directly at her.

Ruby’s heart skipped a beat and she gripped her glass, her knuckles turning white. The gulls’ harsh cries echoed overhead and from inside the suite came the muffled sound of a vacuum cleaner. She held her breath. Should she run? Call for help? The figure shifted and turned away from the light. He was holding a camera.

She clapped a hand to her chest and gulped air.

The photographer stepped back from the blazing light and into the shadows. Ruby recognized the short-sleeved safari jacket that strained its buttons and the brown hair poking out from under a baseball cap. It was the photographer who had run onto the dock when she and Antony boarded the Apollonis. ‘Ruby, over here! Ruby, Ruby Danger!’ he had shouted.

Antony had hurried her along the gangplank. But Ruby knew the paparazzo wouldn’t give up, so she had turned in his direction and paused long enough for his automatic shutter to click half a dozen times. She had never dreamed he would board the ship. She frowned, chewing on her bottom lip. What other pictures did he have? Antony would blame her for encouraging him.

The photographer raised the camera nearer his face with one hand and gestured at her with the other as if they were pals, posing for a snapshot. What would it be this time? ‘Former TV Star Ruby Delaney Drowns Her Sorrows Alone On Luxury Cruise?’ Or the usual roundup of ‘Celebrity Cellulite?’ Ruby gave her thighs a quick appraising glance. Then she thrust out her chin. She’d give him something to shoot, all right.

Lowering her drink, she untied her pareo and let it flutter to the ground. Then she walked to the edge of the balcony, placed both hands on the railing and drew several deep breaths to center herself. Pushing down, she sprang onto the railing, carefully settling her bare feet while holding on with her hands.

She balanced a moment with her knees bent, the polished wooden railing smooth beneath her fingers, before releasing her grip and standing up. The Caribbean rushed by more than one hundred feet below as she raised her face to the horizon and stretched her arms to either side.

A soft breeze ruffled her hair and she brushed a strand from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she walked toward the stern of the Apollonis with her back to the paparazzo. Midway, she paused and glanced over her shoulder, smiling at the photographer who held the camera close to his face.

He was shooting now, for sure.

Passengers on other balconies stared up at her, poked their companions, and pointed. Ruby grinned and did a simple pirouette. She paused and then, treading lightly, turned again and walked back along the railing toward the ship’s prow and the photographer.

The ship lurched without warning and she teetered in the direction of the water. Crouching, she waved her arms on either side to regain her balance. Her heart hammered as she fought the impulse to look down at the waves ten decks below.

After a few seconds, she stood again and resumed her pace. Her body swayed slightly with the ship as she placed one foot in front of the other. Sweat trickled down her forehead. A sudden breeze caught her hat and lifted it off her head. The straw circle swirled in the air a few moments and then drifted to the water, where it floated on the surface like flotsam from a wreck. Ruby watched it disappear, sucked under by the ship’s powerful backwash.

Biting her lip, she dragged her eyes back to the railing. A clear spot on the balcony a few feet ahead would be perfect for a dismount. Six more steps. She paused to catch her breath and then stepped forward.

Five.

Four.

She shifted her weight slightly, ignoring the urge to wipe away the sweat stinging her eyes.

Three.

The ship shuddered. Ruby waved her arms and waited for her heartbeat to slow. After a few seconds, she took another step forward.

Two.

One.

She twirled, jumping onto the balcony, and landed with knees bent. For a second she stayed put, savoring the solid ground under her feet. Then she straightened up, grinned, and waved at the paparazzo.

He blew her a kiss.

The passengers applauded. At least, those who weren’t bent over their phones. Ruby smirked. Probably uploading photos to Twitter. She turned to the open door and froze.

A maid leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a scruffy ponytail and the nameplate on her short-sleeved blue uniform read, mila. The maid frowned and stepped back from the door. Ruby bit her lip as she slipped through the entrance beside her.

Obviously, not a fan.