by K. T. Samois
Emmanuel says no more, and Hardin appreciates it. He isn’t in the mood to chat, and their transfer to the heliport is sooner than he’d like. Emmanuel seems to sense his mood, because he disappears into his backroom and returns in an instant, two cloth pouches in his hands.
Hardin nods, accepting it as a favour repaid, and puts the pouches away for safety. Transaction completed, he’s striding back into the darkness, trying not to think about the diamonds burning a hole in his breast pocket, or what they mean.
***
The phone rings just as she’s stepping foot out of the shower. She doesn’t want to think about what might have gone wrong, or why Copeland might call her — I hope everyone’s all right.
She flings herself across her bed to catch the cell phone vibrating its way across her bedside table, almost losing the towel. When she flips the phone over with shaking hands, Hardin’s name pops up. The relief is so acute her hands shake.
“Hi!” Ree yelps, and then tries again at a pitch that wouldn’t deafen a dog. “Hi, Hardin.”
She doesn’t think she sounds winded, but Hardin sounds like he’s smiling, and okay, maybe she is panting a bit after her mad dash from the bathroom to the bed.
“Good evening, Ree. How are you today?”
He sounds so smooth. So suave. So debonair. He’s hiding something.
“Better now that I’ve heard from you! How is everything?” Ree asks, plumbing for information.
“It’s well. The walls are sweating, Riona,” he says, and Ree can picture it. He’d have caught some colour already, going that glorious summer gold he wears so well, and his military-lean body would be in a skin-tight, sweat-wet undershirt, like a present for her to unwrap…
“That sounds delicious.” Ree can all but hear him roll his eyes at her. “Meanwhile, I’m getting a face full of garbage day.” she says, to distract him from her shameless objectification. He doesn’t buy it for a second.
“Delicious,” Hardin says, tone flat.
“Right? The joys of city living. But hey, there’s someone up in the penthouse.”
“Oh? Do tell.” He sounds curious, which is the wonder of it. She’s never met a man who appreciates gossip more than Hardin. It’s intel, she can hear him say.
“Someone bought that?” Hardin’s carrying on. They’d checked the price online and laughed until they’d cried. The realtor is clearly an optimist.
“More money than sense, if you ask me. Whoever bought it hired movers. Can we hire movers?” Ree asks, distracted by the idea of luxury.
Hardin doesn’t dismiss it out of hand. “Where are we moving?”
“Up in the world, clearly.” Ree can hear the quiet chuckle that wrings out of him. She misses him so much it makes her chest hurt.
“The bed’s too big,” she informs him.
“It’s only a queen, Ree.”
“Yeah… but now that you’re not in it, there’s way too much space. I’m sending you a picture.” She takes a quick selfie and thumbs it through. Ree doesn’t need to see the delivery status to know Hardin’s received it. She can hear his indignant squawk through her phone’s speakers.
“Why are the couch pillows in the bed? And — Are you wearing my gym shirt?!”
She looks down and then at the mirror in front of their bed, where her reflection is visible.
Busted.
“Would you believe me if I said I’d washed it first?”
He scoffs. “Not if you had a witnessed affidavit. You’d just bribe your sisters.”
“Does it — do you mind?” she asks and hates how small her voice sounds. “I just missed you. The pillows were a pretty crap comparison.”
“Well, if you’re thinking of moving up, start looking. If nothing else, we’ll need somewhere with a bit more privacy. We might tour a few when I return, hm?”
“I’d like that.” The thought is lovely, but Ree can’t help her nerves. “Hardin, how’s everyone? It just feels… Everything’s fine there?”
“Everything’s fine, Riona. We’ve all arrived with luggage and sanity intact… we’ve even wrangled the bureaucrats. It’s just first mission jitters, kitten. I promise.”
He pauses as though listening to something Ree can’t hear and then replies in rapid-fire French that does interesting things to her pulse.
“We’re moving out, Riona.” Hardin says, and Ree nods, even if he can’t see her. She’s been checking their schedule. “I’m off to do what you pay me to. Be good, kitten.”
“I will,” she promises, and then gets an awful, evil, no-good idea. “But if I’m not, I’ll think of you, sir.”
“Riona-” he starts, when another interruption makes him switch to French. His tone this time is much less polite. “Riona, I-”
“I heard, sir. Be safe, Hardin. I love you.”
“Sweet dreams, kitten.” he says, and hangs up. With nothing left to do, Ree tumbles herself into her too big bed, turns off the lights, and resigns herself to too many days without Hardin.
***
Ree never sleeps well when Hardin’s away.
11:45, her clock blinks at her, and Ree scowls at it and flops over onto her side, away from it. Hardin’s old gym shirt bunches around her waist and she tucks his pillow a little closer to her face. Breathing in, she can make out the rich woodsiness of his shampoo and the warm spice that is uniquely Hardin. It’s a sorry imitation of the real thing, but it’s the best she’s got at the moment. Giving up on any shred of dignity, she tucks herself around his pillow. Surrounded by his scent, Ree dozes off.
She jerks awake what seems like a moment later, with a fear-dry mouth and the certainty that something is terribly wrong. The meat of her upper arm feels like something’s stung her.
3:32, the clock flashes; thanks to her blackout curtains, it’s the only light in the room. In the sharp flash of neon green light, the young woman in black stands out like a spectre.
“Hi Ree,” little ex says with a too-wide smile. She’s fidgeting with what looks like an EpiPen. Ree feels her stomach sink; only part of it is dread. Nausea is making the room spin.
“Changed the password, but not the lock? Not smart…”
Ree opens her mouth to scream, and little ex moves like a snake. To her horror, Ree’s now staring down the barrel of a very large and definitely not street-legal gun aimed at the centre of her forehead.
“No Hardin here today,” little ex says cheerfully. “So I wouldn’t bother trying that.”
Ree shuts her mouth with a click of teeth, and the other woman’s grin turns nasty.
The room swims.
“Did you drug me?”
Little ex nods.
“Uh-huh. Don’t worry. It isn’t poison. It won’t even hurt you.” Her voice goes brittle-sharp. “I’m not allowed to either. J said so.”
“Oh, shit,” is Ree’s eloquent response as she’s dragged out of bed. Tangled in her covers and disoriented by the drugs, she goes tumbling to the floor with a crash; she bites her lip and tastes copper. She yelps, one hand flying to her mouth before the woman can slap it away.
But even that’s enough. Her hand comes down onto her bedside chair as little ex hauls her to her feet; Ree lets her hands grope over the fabric, spreading DNA as best she can in her drugged stupor.
Her attacker catches on soon enough and drops the hand with her gun to Ree’s ribs. Ree sags against her, helpless and resentful; the gun is a heavy threat. Her head’s spinning and Ree is certain she’s going to throw up.
Her gut churns with fear when little ex hauls her out of her apartment. When little ex gets them into the hallway, she staggers Ree over to the elevator. Ree blinks around, head lolling stupidly. Her reflection looks drunk; the shuddering elevator doesn’t help. The woman sags at her side, doing a passable impression of two inebriated twenty-somethings back from a bender. She hits the sub penthouse with a sloppy mash of fingers, smearing any fingerprints with the sleeve of her coat.
Fuck, Ree thinks. That’s slick.
/> She lets her head loll backwards, giving the small camera in the corner an unobstructed view of her face. “And I held the elevator for those moving guys...” she muses drunkenly and, more importantly, aloud.
The girl gives her a dirty look. “What?”
“What?” Ree says and lets her weight sag a bit more; if this lunatic thinks she’s going willingly, she’s about to be disabused of that idea.
Malicious compliance it is!
Chapter Twelve
The elevator door opens with a cheerful ding and a little shudder; Ree sways at even that movement. She lurches out of the carriage and makes an attempt at staggering away; little ex follows, stage-whispering. “No, no, it’s this one!”
She loops an arm around Ree’s neck; the gun in her pocket is a heavy weight against Ree’s ribs. They’re close enough together that the cameras won’t be able to make it out; either little ex is brilliant, or she takes direction well.
The woman shows no mercy; she’s flopping around like a piss-drunk college girl, jerking Ree’s head around as she does. It’s deliberate, and Ree scowls at her.
“I hate you.” Ree says, slurring from the sedative. Little ex shoots her a nasty smile.
There’s a click as the scanner on the doorknob reads her fingerprint. The door swings open, showing off the third nicest view of the city she’s ever seen. Ree still prefers her apartment down on the fourth floor, where she can use the stairs, and the street-lamps cast a friendly yellow glow on the pavement. Here, the lights look like shards of glass, cold and unfriendly and beautiful.
Like the woman who rises from an elegant white chair to greet her.
She’s beautiful, remote as a serac, and with a fine bone structure that reminds Ree of photos of the high Andes. Austere, elegant and deadly, with the sort of majestic menace that scrapes moisture — and planes — from the sky. Her eyes are a deep Bering Sea blue, and her hair is a silvery gold that makes her look like an Arctic sunrise. Ree would recognize that patrician look of disdain anywhere.
“You!” Ree yelps, and the woman’s expression shifts into one of surprise. Her eyes, however, don’t change in the slightest. Ree suppresses a shiver.
“Pardon me,” the woman from the airport says, with that same sneering smile, “but I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting.”
“Bullshit.” Ree can still feel the woman’s nails digging into the sear of burning skin. Instinct makes her take a step back. The room whirls, and the last thing Ree remembers is the look of horror on the woman’s face as Ree vomits all over her white fur rug.
***
When Ree comes to, her head is throbbing and her mouth is cotton-ball dry. Her stomach feels like she’s eaten venom, and her blood is sluggish in her veins. She’s in an elegant room, on a luxurious bed, in whisper-soft clothes — none of which she remembers. There’s a weight around her left ankle; when she looks down, she can see a heavy band around it.
She takes a second to recognize the GPS tracker locked on to her ankle, but when she does, her blood runs cold.
Oh, no, panic whispers as a sickening realization dawns. I’m not blindfolded, either. She almost wishes she were. If they blindfolded her, this might be a regular hostage-taking. It might be a ploy to get back at Evie. But nobody keeps secrets from the dead…
Or the disappeared. The tracker around her ankle is a grim reminder of Ree’s predicament. She can feel her instinct to hyperventilate, and forces herself back to composure. She likes to break people, Hardin’s voice echoes, and Ree resolves not to give J the satisfaction. Instead, she takes stock.
All right, Ree. What do you know? Go through your list. Time: Unknown, but it’s light outside. Day: Unknown, but definitely before Hardin and the crew have come home. That’s a problem. The more time J has, the more unpleasant she can be.
Ree isn’t looking forward to any part of what she’s sure is coming, but before she can break into panic, she forces herself to breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth, until her heart stops thundering.
Don’t let her get in your head, Ree. Stay sharp. Keep thinking. What else do you have?
There’s always Evie…
Her eldest sister is the second nosiest person Ree knows.
When I miss church, she’ll know.
Ree consoles herself with that. Her sister might not understand her devotion, but she knows Ree’s dedication. Despite sleep deprivation, she hasn’t skipped a Sunday with her family in years. They’ll notice her absence. So she only has to last a little while.
It sounds great until the white door lacquered in mother-of-pearl slides open.
“Oh, wonderful, you’re awake.” The woman from earlier sounds delighted as she steps into the room and lets the door swing shut behind her. As soon as it does, the sound in the room muffles like a blanket’s fallen over it. Ree’s stomach churns. Soundproofing. Great.
“I know you,” Ree accuses anyway. “You’re the Ristretto with fifteen flavours of foam, and an extra shot of bitch.”
The woman’s wide smile crawls over her face. Ree’s arm throbs with phantom pain; the healed skin is still extra sensitive, no thanks to this heinous woman. Now Ree can understand why Hardin’s so shaken by her.
“Christ,” she says, begging for patience and courage and good old-fashioned common sense. “I should have known the moment I saw you.”
J’s eyes narrow into shards; she can see where Hardin got it from.
“How?”
“Hardin has a type.” Ree says, bland as milk, and J’s smile goes fanged.
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Crazy bitches.”
J doesn’t budge; her smile stays just as wide, her eyes just as emotionless.
“And yet here we are,” she says by reply, and Ree figures she’s got a point.
Yeah. Here we are. Now what to do until the cavalry arrives.
Ree’s got a rough timeline in her head now and about twenty-four hours to kill until her earliest possible rescue. She takes a breath, and somewhere far below the dread, is a core of solid granite, bedrock bared to the ages.
All right. Let her break her teeth chewing on this brick.
***
He’s a man of means with a magnificent woman waiting for him at home, and an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a pebble in his coat pocket. The only thing Hardin feels as he stares at his phone is dread.
“Captain. Quit moping. She’ll text you back, you know. Staring at it won’t make it come any faster.” Martinez aims for reassuring.
Shard snorts — once — and then gets to his feet and stretches. If this weren’t an airport terminal, he’d almost brush the ceiling. As it is, he’s the tallest man around by far. “Anyone want to come get food with me? I’m not spending four and a half hours listening to Martinez bitch and moan about turbulence on an empty stomach.”
“Okay, whatever. I hate flying.”
“Martinez,” Shard says, voice flat. “At least you don’t need two seats and eat your knees, anyway. Come get food with me.”
“Yea, yea, I’m coming.”
Hardin watches them leave and then taps at his phone again. When the screen pops up, he restarts it. The phone reboots, and he checks the messages tab, then his emails. Nothing for two days now and counting.
“What is it?” Roz sits himself down at Hardin’s side. “Something’s troubling you, and I doubt it’s your operating system. Which means…”
“Riona’s not answering. She always answers me.”
“I’m sure she does. Is there any chance it could be mechanical? A problem with the device?”
Hardin shakes his head. “I’d considered it, Rozier, but… why not buy a new one and text? It isn’t as though she couldn’t swing it in the budget.”
“A family emergency?” The chaplain’s voice is quiet, steady, but Hardin can tell Roz understands his concern.
“Can’t be,” Hardin says. “I’m on good terms with her family. If something happened, they’d
have told me.”
“So you think something’s happened that they don’t know about.”
Roz is so quiet that Hardin strains to hear him, but every word sounds loud as a bell in his skull.
“Yes,” Hardin admits.
Rozier turns to look at him then, fixing Hardin with his world-weary gaze. “Chances are, Martinez is right and she’s just got something going on.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then trust her skills, no? She’s quick-witted, and an expert judge of character. I know she will manage whatever she might face. You’ll just have to trust that your love can handle herself.”
Hardin scowls down at his phone. “It’s not-”
“Like that? Mm. I’ve seen you miss death by millimetres, Hardin. I know when you’ve had a life-altering interaction. I am happy. This one was better for y-”
He goes silent and still as a lizard on a rock, eyes darting right.
“Captain,” he hisses, sharp and short and under his breath.
“I see them.”
These aren’t airport guards; Rozier’s zeroed in on a military posture, and Hardin’s noticing gloves and jackets worn too loose. Dressed to blend in, faces hidden from the cameras by sun hats and baseball caps.
“What do we do?” Theo asks, pulling one earbud out and turning off his music.
“Ignore them?” Roz suggests. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Tell that to the one with the shoulder holster.” Theo mutters, and Roz shakes his head. Hardin’s pocket vibrates. Despite everything, he snatches at it. It’s just Martinez, and his hopes deflate into grim focus.
MARTINEZ - 17:54
How do u wanna play this cptn? cuz there’s +1 on ur 6
Hardin’s jaw clenches; he thinks he can hear it creak. He tilts the screen down so that Theo and Roz can make out the writing.
“Professional?” Hardin asks. Theo checks the scene with the reflection of his phone screen and then nods.
“As the IRS,” he says, tone grim, “and half as friendly. Another one carrying, by the way. How’d they get any of that through the scanners?”