Redemption by Will Jordan Page B

reflected in the amber-coloured liquid.
    Hate yourself later, he thought, tipping it back and forcing himself to swallow the contents. He knew it was a bad idea, but that didn’t stop him. It never had.
    He was well into his third glass when the doorbell rang.
    ‘What the hell …?’
    Shuffling through to the hallway, he unlatched the front door and pulled it open a crack.
    Standing on his doorstep like the world’s most delinquent-looking girl scout was Frost. She was wearing her leather jacket and clutching a helmet under her arm, her short dark hair sticking up in disarray. Her bike was parked on the sidewalk; some monstrosity of red plastic and carbon fibre that probably weighed less than she did.
    ‘Keira …’ he began, taken aback by her sudden appearance. ‘What are you doing here?’
    The young woman gave him a crooked half-smile. ‘Some things are better not said over the phone, know what I mean?’ She nodded over his shoulder. ‘Are you going to invite me in, or leave me standing here in the friggin’ cold?’
    ‘Erm, yeah, of course.’ He moved aside and let her pass, then closed the door behind her.
    She glanced around the cluttered hallway, taking in the faded carpet and the stack of old newspapers and magazines that he’d been meaning to take away for recycling but hadn’t gotten around to. ‘Nice place you’ve got, by the way.’
    Her sarcasm was obvious. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
    ‘So I see. Anyway, relax. I didn’t come here to be wined and dined,’ she called over her shoulder as she strode through to the kitchen.
    Dumping her helmet on the counter, she spied the pizza box straight away. Lifting the lid, she gave him a disapproving look. ‘What? No pepperoni?’
    ‘Can’t stand the stuff,’ he said.
    ‘Is that a Brit thing?’ She shrugged and pulled out a slice. ‘Fuck it.’
    Drake shook his head. ‘Please, help yourself.’
    ‘Hey, I’ve been busting my ass for you all night,’ she retorted while in the middle of eating. ‘The least you can do is spring me for dinner.’
    His eyes lit up. ‘On that subject, I hope you’ve brought more than just your charming attitude.’
    ‘Afraid not,’ she said, taking another mouthful. ‘There’s nothing on Maras anywhere. CIA, FBI, police, Interpol … all our searches turned up nothing. She’s a ghost.’
    Drake suppressed a sigh of frustration. It was a long shot, but it was disheartening all the same. ‘Someone must know who she is.’
    ‘Yeah – Cain,’ she said.
    He sighed and rested his hands on the counter. ‘You did what you could. Thanks for trying, at least.’
    ‘There’s something else.’ She laid her pizza slice down. ‘Out of interest, I did a little research on the name Maras.’
    Drake leaned closer, intrigued. ‘I’m listening.’
    ‘Well, my first round of searches turned up a property letting agency, and a diesel generator supplier from Pittsburgh. Hardly the kind of thing that would inspire a CIA code name, so I counted them out. Then, when I thought about her being in a Russian prison, I changed the search parameters …’
    Drake picked up his glass of whisky and took a gulp. ‘Just give me the short version,’ he said as the potent alcohol settled in his stomach. ‘What did you find?’
    Frost eyed the drink with a raised eyebrow.
    ‘I’m off the clock,’ Drake reminded her irritably. ‘Talk or walk.’
    ‘Suit yourself,’ she said, shrugging. ‘If I’ve got my facts straight, Maras refers to a legend from Baltic paganism. It was all the rage a thousand years ago, but it’s almost an extinct religion now. Anyway, according to them, Maras is a goddess of war.’
    Drake frowned, feeling all the more uneasy about what they were about to do. And more important, about the woman they had been sent to rescue.
    A goddess of war.
    ‘Heavy shit, huh?’ Frost prompted. ‘I’m not sure what I should be more worried about – the prison, the parachute jump, or her.’
    ‘I’d go