Dark Vengeance (The DARK Files Book 4) Read online

  DARK VENGEANCE

  Susan Vaughan

  Dark Vengeance (The DARK Files, Book 4)

  Copyright © 2016 Susan Hofstetter Vaughan

  Published by Gullwood Press

  Digital formatting by Nina Pierce at Seaside Publications

  Cover design by Rogenna Brewer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [email protected]. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Revised and Updated. First published as Deadly Memories.

  For more information on the author and her works, please visit:

  www.SusanVaughan.com

  Contents

  About DARK VENGEANCE * Dedication & Acknowledgments * Dear Reader * Excerpt from Dark Memories * About the Author * Other books by Susan Vaughan * Book Reviews *

  Prologue * Chapter 1 * Chapter 2 * Chapter 3 * Chapter 4 * Chapter 5 * Chapter 6 * Chapter 7 * Chapter 8 * Chapter 9 * Chapter 10 * Chapter 11 * Chapter 12 * Chapter 13 * Chapter 14 * Chapter 15 * Chapter 16 * Chapter 17 * Chapter 18 * Chapter 19 * Chapter 20 * Chapter 21 * Chapter 22 * Chapter 23 * Chapter 24 * Chapter 25 * Chapter 26 * Chapter 27 * Chapter 28

  Dark Vengeance (Book 4)

  Which is deadlier—the deaths he can’t forget or the danger she can’t remember?

  Jack Thorne wants to take revenge on his enemy and stop him from selling stolen uranium to a terrorist. But the only woman who knows the man’s secrets can’t remember them. With death on their trail across Italy, Jack must protect Sophie Rinaldi and help her recover her memory. Jack is torn between his longing for Sophie and his pledge of vengeance. And how can Sophie fall for this tormented man who mistrusts her?

  If she regains her memory, what she knows could destroy them both…

  When published as Deadly Memories, this book was a Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence Finalist, a Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Finalist, and an RT Book Reviews Top Pick & Reviewer’s Choice Nominee.

  The DARK Files series

  DARK MEMORIES (#1)

  DARK COVER (#2)

  DARK RULES (#3)

  DARK VENGEANCE (#4)

  DEDICATION

  To my sisters in spirit — Virginia Kelly, Ann Voss Peterson,

  Sheila Seabrook and Linda Style.

  And to my research assistant — thanks for always being my rock.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Grazie mille, many thanks for your help and expertise — Sheila Franklin, Elizabeth Jennings, Mary LaRochelle, Dennis Lombardi and Helen Vaughan. Any errors or fabrications are mine.

  Prologue

  “I BRING YOU a fortune in diamonds.” The gaunt man shifted from foot to foot on the flagstone terrace. Sweat misted his forehead.

  Sebastian Vadim leaned back in his chaise lounge and savored the last sip of grappa. The fiery liqueur, Italy’s best-kept secret, would level his nerves. His grueling buying trip had ended in frustration, and upon his homecoming, this unwelcome visitor descended on him.

  The grappa also allowed him to temporize while he decided how best to deal with Dobrich, his second cousin from a part of the family best forgotten. Police departments from Paris to the capital of his native Cleatia had hosted Dobrich for offenses ranging from smuggling to picking pockets.

  Vadim crossed his ankles and straightened the seam in his tailored silk trousers. He angled his face to the late-afternoon sun’s warming rays as he regarded his sweating relative.

  In the Cleatian of his homeland — a language he’d not spoken in years — he said, “Cousin, did anyone observe your arrival here?” Vadim preferred to remain below the radar of the Veneto polizia. He’d chosen this country villa near Venice for privacy.

  “No one local. The bus driver will not remember me.” Dobrich’s shapeless trousers, threadbare jacket and the battered metal toolbox at his feet created the cover of a laborer. A man no one would notice. “May I sit down, cousin? I am not feeling well.”

  “Of course.” He waved a hand at the chairs surrounding the glass-topped patio table. “Not too close. My sympathies, but I do not wish to contract your illness.”

  Dobrich collapsed onto the cushioned seat as if he had walked all the way from Cleatia. He tucked his toolbox beneath it. “Thank you, cousin. Maybe the flu, but I think food poisoning. The inn where I stayed before crossing the Adriatic had sanitation from the Middle Ages.”

  “Tell me, then, about the diamonds. Where did they come from?” Vadim continued in the silky tone he affected for negotiating. “Are they in that disreputable box?”

  Dobrich bent into his handkerchief with a phlegmy cough that churned up from the soles of his feet. Blood spotted the dingy linen. A nasty form of bug or food poisoning. Whatever it was, Vadim wanted the man gone. And quickly.

  “My employer is Viktor Roszca. You know of him?”

  Vadim couldn’t prevent his startled reaction. Roszca was a high-profile international arms broker. He didn’t usually deal in black-market diamonds, but it was credible he might hire a fellow Cleatian, one who was expendable and not overly bright. Given Roszca’s recent circumstances, Dobrich’s involvement became more interesting.

  Vadim wanted details. “Who has not heard of Viktor Roszca? Go on.”

  “Four days ago I took possession of the package. The previous courier passed it to me. I headed to Antwerp, where my papers say I have employment. There I was to receive more instructions. In a bar, I saw on the television that the Cleatian government has Roszca in custody. If I went to Antwerp, I too could be picked up. I thought of my wise and generous cousin, who appreciates diamonds.” Dobrich’s weak smile displayed bleeding gums.

  Vadim suppressed a shudder. Two meters away wasn’t far enough. He pushed to his feet and strolled to the flower garden at the terrace edge, where he plucked a rosebud. “Why would Viktor Roszca take you into his confidence?”

  Dobrich appeared to take no offense at the slur on his character and status. The man knew his worth — or lack of it. “He did not. No one told me what was in the hidden compartment of my toolbox.” He tapped the side of his nose with an air of pride. “A little brainpower is all it took.”

  Diamonds. Suspicion pricked Vadim’s nape. Apparently Dobrich hadn’t seen the entire news story on Roszca. What the idiot carried were not diamonds. “Tell me.”

  Another spasm racked the other man’s frame. Then he continued. After the news headline of Roszca’s capture, he left the bar for his room. With Roszca gone, the package belonged to him, he reasoned. His first move was to pry open the lead lining in the bottom of the toolbox. In it he found rough, pea-sized gravel, unremarkable looking but heavy.

  He guessed that the first courier had come by freighter from Africa to the Adriatic port. Dobrich was to take it to a major diamond-cutting center. Therefore, what he had must be uncut diamonds. “What else so small could be so valuable? I bit into one to test its hardness. Nearly broke a molar.”

  Dobrich’s logic contained freighter-sized holes. The other courier could’ve come overland instead of from diamond-rich countries in West Africa. Uncut diamonds did not resemble pea-sized gravel, but he wouldn’t disabuse the fool of his notions. If he’d stayed in the bar for the rest of the newscast, he never would’ve o
pened the lead-lined case. Or perhaps he would. He might not have the imagination to understand the danger. What the lead-lined case contained had poisoned him.

  Vadim eyed the toolbox as if it were a dragon ready to breathe fire on him. As indeed it might. “Did you then secure the lead compartment once more?”

  Nodding, Dobrich mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. “I sealed it fast so no one would suspect. Are you interested, cousin?”

  “I am intrigued. But I am being a bad host. You are ill and need rest and refreshment. I will have you shown to a room. We can talk more later.”

  “Thank you, cousin. I am quite fatigued.”

  As if Vadim had pressed a button, his bodyguard and assistant stepped through the doorway and bowed.

  Dobrich struggled to his feet and bent to pick up the toolbox. He followed the bodyguard into the villa.

  Vadim returned to his chaise, leaned back against the soft padding and poured another glass of grappa. A miracle had fallen into his lap. His pulse raced. Dobrich’s toolbox held the key to wealth and power. With it, he, Sebastian Vadim, could achieve control of the diamond market. He might even achieve legitimacy in some eyes.

  He already knew the perfect buyer. An eager buyer, a fanatic. With some clever negotiating, the deal would net him a fortune and a bonus — the destruction of his competition.

  And perhaps more. Viktor Roszca’s capture left a void in the international arms market. A void he could fill. He had the contacts. And soon he would have the means. Smiling, he raised his glass in a toast to himself, then downed the rest of the grappa.

  There was also the matter of his unfortunate cousin. Dobrich presented a minor problem. Regardless, he was a dead man. Two days, perhaps less. Definitely less. He could not risk an autopsy, which would identify the illness.

  When his man returned, Vadim said in Italian, “My dear cousin is to take a permanent rest. Bring me his toolbox. Then dispose of the body where it will not be found. Ever.”

  The toolbox had served well, but by now the Americans and Cleatia and also Interpol probably knew about it. For such a small package, a lead-lined compartment could be built into almost anything.

  Chapter 1

  Six days later

  JACK THORNE STRAINED for a bead on his enemy.

  The savage hatred always coiled in his belly stretched and sharpened its claws in anticipation. Only sheer will and concentration on his goal kept his hand steady and his expression impassive.

  He adjusted the lens focus and swung the view beyond the rows of grapevines and ancient lime trees, across the flower beds, until he acquired the mellowed redbrick villa.

  There. The damn murderer lived in there.

  Instead of Leica seven-by-forty-two binoculars, if only he had Sebastian Vadim in the crosshairs of a rifle scope. Patience, patience, he mouthed. Duty for DARK first. The Domestic Antiterrorism Risk Corps needed Vadim’s contraband and information.

  As the new addition to this Nuclear Interdiction Task Force, Jack had to do his part. Intelligence from Interpol had prompted the American and Italian antiterrorism agencies to cooperate on this mission — to find and confiscate a stash of weapons-grade uranium. First they had to nail Sebastian Vadim for possession.

  Afterward, Jack’s chance would come.

  He’d waited five years to exact vengeance. Five years of investigating alias after alias, lead after lead. A few days more would make no difference.

  “Nobody there but the cook and one bodyguard,” drawled Jack’s companion beneath the grapevine’s sheltering leaves. “The other security mug — the Italian — drove him and the woman somewhere before you got here. De Carlo and a couple DARK operatives tailed them.”

  Jack’s tension deflated. He lowered the binoculars and sank prone onto the rich Italian soil. He drew a deep breath of air spiced with ripening grapes and sun-heated loam.

  Leaning on one elbow, he eyed the other DARK officer, who reclined with his frayed cloth cap shading his face. Jack also wore a work shirt and pants — cover as farm labor if anyone at the villa spotted their surveillance team in the vineyard. “Any idea where Vadim went?”

  Matt Leoni affected a shrug and popped two sticks of chewing gum in his mouth to join the wad distorting his cheek.

  Three others — Italian cops — were strung out along the same vine row but close enough for conversation without electronics.

  When no one else replied, Leoni said, “Sometimes he takes the babe sightseeing in Venice. Sometimes they go to Treviso or the beach at Jesolo for a long lunch. Don’t expect them back until three or four. De Carlo will alert us.”

  Commissario De Carlo, a Venice investigative officer, was the task-force leader. “And Vadim hasn’t done anything suspicious? Contacted anyone?”

  “Nothing that would give us an excuse to move on him.” The man unscrewed the cap on his bottled water and drank.

  “Wiretap?”

  Leoni sighed. Except for the man’s tech skills, Jack suspected he was part of the task force mainly because he spoke fluent Italian. An angry red scar slashed from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone, the result of some mission gone wrong. Maybe sometime Jack would ask him about that.

  Then Leoni roused himself enough to shake his head. “Local polizia put up a roadblock of red tape. Vadim’s been a good citizen so far, spending liberally and living peacefully.”

  “Hereabouts, he’s a wealthy business consultant,” another officer added. “They have no idea he’s a major player in the diamond-smuggling trade. We’re not ready to share intelligence with them.”

  Leoni chuckled. “Just for grins, I tried to wire in anyway, but Vadim has a scrambler. With his black-market connections, he can get anything.”

  The video officer spat into the dirt. “He will not get away this time. If the uranium charge does not stick, Interpol now has given us enough evidence on the smuggling.”

  “For now, we wait.” Jack had read all that and more in the Interpol report, but he’d asked in case more intel had come in. He laid the binoculars beside him on the ground.

  At one o’clock the sun floated high among three puffy clouds. Temperatures climbed to a soporific sauna, incubating the cultivated vines and the watchers camped among their shady rows. “Unusual for early June,” said one of the Italians on a yawn. Everyone nodded in a doze.

  Except Jack.

  Downtime or not, his mind dwelled on his quarry. He didn’t need the CO’s report to know the relevant events.

  The uranium courier’s trail had disappeared after Venice, but his kinship with Vadim was no coincidence. When De Carlo interviewed Vadim, he denied any contact with his cousin and invited the officers to search the villa. They found nothing suspicious. Other than Vadim and his bodyguards, a young American woman resided there. An overly courteous Vadim had introduced her as his houseguest.

  Jack emitted a snort. Guest was clearly a euphemism. De Carlo’s report stated that her bedroom — beside Vadim’s — had been awash in Italian designer boutique clothes and silk lingerie with the price tags still attached. A check of Vadim’s credit card history showed he’d purchased them all. A man didn’t buy expensive clothing for a mere guest.

  He raised the binoculars and used the rest of the time to study the villa. The house, part of it dating to the 1600s, was a mix of red brick, native-stone chimneys and flagstone terraces. It stood at the end of a long avenue lined with lime trees. On one side was the vineyard, tended by the adjacent farmer cooperating with the task force. On the other side, opposite the watchers, sprawled gardens, a swimming pool and guesthouses.

  “They come,” one of the Italians said. “De Carlo says five minutes ETA.”

  Jack’s adrenaline surged and his temples throbbed. Deep breaths calmed him. Photographs had put a face to Vadim, but now he was finally going to see his enemy in the flesh.

  When tires crunched on the gravel driveway and the purr of a powerful engine approached, he raised the binoculars.


  An S-Class Mercedes sedan rolled up to the portico, and the driver climbed out, a swarthy man in a lumpy sport coat. The Italian bodyguard one Guido Mazza. He made a small bow as he opened the rear door.

  The diamond dealer eased smoothly from the backseat. He gleamed like his wares, in a tailored suit the same silver-gray as his luxury automobile. At a distance he looked fit, trim and much younger than his fifty years.

  Fifty is all you’ll have. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he memorized the man’s features.

  Even teeth showing in a crocodile smile, bright and bogus, Vadim extended a hand for the woman.

  Jack had seen photographs of her too, snapshots taken with telephoto lenses. Hot as the Italian sun but with a freshness that surprised him. Sophie Rinaldi, aged twenty-seven, from Pelham, New York. An American tourist who after two weeks of touring Italy moved in with Vadim. She—

  What he saw next short-circuited his thought processes. A slim foot in a red sandal extending from the Mercedes. Then a long, shapely, tanned leg. And the other.

  “The guy is pond scum, but mamma mia, he sure can pick ’em.” Beside Jack, Leoni had awakened.

  The Rinaldi woman accepted Vadim’s proffered hand as she slid from the leather interior. After smoothing her skirt — a gauzy red thing that floated to her knees — she tossed back her hair and smiled.

  That soft curve of lips sent a shock wave of heat into Jack’s veins. Never had the mere sight of a woman affected him with such power. Why now? Why her?

  Classic oval face, full lips, a mass of softly curling dark hair, toned feminine curves — the sensual Italian look. Hot but nothing special. Except she wasn’t what he expected, even from the telephoto shots. Softer, like her name, Sophie. With a breathless, otherworldly quality that kept his gaze riveted to her instead of to his target.

  A fluke — effects of the sun and anticipation. He exhaled slowly, then again until the sensual vise loosened. He dragged his gaze from the woman to Vadim.