“I don’t have much choice.” Talia let out a breath. “Sorry I’m not in the party spirit. I know you planned a girls’ night out to cheer me up.”
She appreciated these women, who with their husbands, made up her inner circle of work friends. They were trying their best to support her
Scarlet thumped her drink glass on the table and flicked her long, red hair over one shoulder. “Just so you know, I gave GQ a piece of my mind when I found out he broke up with you. Jerk.”
“I honestly don’t blame him—not much anyway. Falling for someone I work with was just plain stupid. We should have known it would lead to nothing but heartache.” Talia took a gulp of her margarita. “He feels bad, too. Maybe not as bad as I do, but guilt is doing a number on him.”
“As it should.” Riley narrowed her eyes. “What the hell does the man want? You’re gorgeous and funny and so smart it’s scary.”
For the first time all evening, Talia smiled. “Says the woman working on a cure for Alzheimer’s. You’re describing yourself. You know that, right?”
Her friend choked on a bite of taco. “I’m not in your league when it comes to looks. I always wondered why Noah didn’t try to date you before I arrived on the scene.” She gave a sage nod. “Now I know. Workplace romances suck, especially when you have to trust your ex to save your life on a regular basis.”
“I’d still save him. That’s what our team does.” She fingered the salt on the rim of her glass. “GQ never set out to hurt me. I don’t think he had a clue he wasn’t over his childhood sweetheart until she showed up on his radar again. I wish I could hate the woman, but she’s actually very sweet. A little needy. Not at all prone to arguing. In other words, my exact opposite.”
Scarlet snorted. “If he wants a little lady who hangs on his every word and doesn’t have a mind of her own, you’re better off without him.”
“You’re right.” Talia finished off the margarita, her second, and her head spun a little. “We had a few issues, even before he hooked up with his ex. But it still hurts seeing his damned handsome face every day.”
“Do you want my two cents, Luna?” At her affirmative nod, Arden’s expression grew thoughtful. “Take a vacation. Get away from GQ and the whole Counterstrike team. What you all do is draining, and time off to decompress would be healthy.”
Her idea had merit. She was closer to these women than to anyone else in Boston, yet they didn’t even know her real name. To her co-workers and their wives, she was simply Luna, Counterstrike’s kick-ass computer hacker. She’d been recruited by Wolf after leaving Quantico nearly two years before, and she hadn’t regretted taking the job, not for one minute. Rescuing victims who’d been abducted, seeing the relief and thankfulness in their terrified eyes, or the joy on a mother’s face when her child was returned home safely, was a rush unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
Still, she got a little tired of always being Luna—even with GQ. Sometimes remembering she was actually Talia Davis took an effort, and the thought of losing her identity frightened her.
“Go have a fling. Some red-hot, rebound sex.” Scarlet sank her teeth into a taco and chewed. After a moment she swallowed. “The team will survive without you for a couple of weeks.”
“True. I’ve been giving Silas pointers, and he’s almost as good at hacking as I am. Not to brag or anything, but that’s high praise.” She frowned at her empty glass. “I don’t know about a fling, but I could use a change of scenery that doesn’t involve sneaking in and out of some crap-hole warehouse under cover of darkness.” She eyed the margarita pitcher with longing before tamping down the urge. Getting drunk wasn’t going to solve her problems, only make her more miserable tomorrow morning. “A sunny beach has potential.”
“Throw in a cabana boy, and it sounds practically perfect.” Riley raised her glass. “Cheers to tropical vacations.”
Arden lifted her sparkling water. “Think about it, Luna.”
“I will, but enough about my sad situation. Have you chosen a name for your baby girl yet?”
Arden grimaced. “Only three months to go, and we can’t agree on anything. Suggestions are welcome.”
A lively discussion with a lot of laughter ensued as they finished their meal. After they paid the bill and left the restaurant, Talia unlocked her bike from the rack near the door and leaned on the seat while the other three flagged down cabs. A strong breeze blew off Boston Harbor, clearing her head of the last of the alcohol fumes and allowing memories to seep back in. Maybe she should have had a third margarita, after all.
“If you want to talk or vent or just bitch a little, give me a call.” Riley paused beside her. “We all care about you.”
“I know you do, and I appreciate it. Really.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before settling her helmet on her head. “I just need some time.”
“The offer stands. Take care of yourself, Luna.”
After the final cab pulled away, Talia threw her leg over the bar of her bike and pushed off. She pedaled through the busy Boston streets, dodging traffic with the ease of habit, and reached her South End walk-up apartment in under fifteen minutes. Resting her bike on her shoulder, she carried it up two flights of stairs to her unit, unlocked the door, and wheeled it inside. The place was small, a glorified studio, but it was hers alone. The lack of space was worth not having roommates to deal with.
She leaned her bike against the wall beneath the window, flopped down on the couch, and pointed the remote at the TV. She didn’t care what was on. Her only goal was to blot out the silence so the lingering sound of GQ’s laughter, or worse—one of his playfully inappropriate suggestions—wouldn’t fill the void. She didn’t want to picture him popping a champagne cork on their first month anniversary or toppling her onto the bed in the alcove behind her.
Flipping from show to show, she finally settled on an episode of No Stone Unturned. Maybe a historic mystery would take her mind off the present. Wyatt Stone stood at the base of an Aztec pyramid talking about . . . something. She didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying, having come in near the end of the episode. But the man was distractingly good looking, and that worked perfectly for her right now.
The pyramid faded away, and a close up of Stone sitting in an armchair in front of a case full of leather-bound books filled the screen. “Friends, I need your help. I have a story brewing that will do more than simply change history.” He flashed his trademark smile. “It’ll shatter all our perceptions about our founding fathers.”
Blinking tired eyes, Talia straightened, wondering what the heck he was talking about.
Stone held up a silver spoon, and the camera zoomed in. Delicately curved and intricately detailed, some sort of predatory bird was etched on the handle.
“There are six more antique silver spoons similar to this one somewhere out there. Mine has an eagle. The others are engraved with one of these symbols.”
A blowup of a shield divided into six unique panels replaced the spoon. Above the shield was an eye in a triangle that reminded her of the one on the back of the dollar bill.
“You’re looking at part of the original design for the National Seal proposed by Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams. The other spoons will each have one of these symbols on the handle. If you have any information that may lead to their whereabouts, please contact the studio.”
A phone number and email address replaced the symbols as Stone continued, “The details can also be found on our website. Go to www.NoStoneUnturned.com for more information.” The handsome star reappeared on the screen and held out his hands in an imploring gesture. “Someone out there holds the key to unlocking this mystery.”
Wyatt Stone’s sexy smile made her forget all about GQ for thirty whole seconds as the man looked directly into her eyes. “Call me.”
The credits ran briefly before the station cut to a commercial. Talia pushed the power button on the remote, and the screen went blank. After a minute, she stood and walked over to the
closet. Standing on her toes, she tugged a cardboard box from the overhead shelf and carried it to her bed. She’d stored photos and keepsakes from her childhood inside the box. Although many of the memories were painful, she wouldn’t trade them.
Lifting a stack of photos, she paused to touch a picture of her dad, a big, handsome man with a dozen tattoos. One arm was wrapped around his wife’s narrow shoulders. Her mom’s smile was hesitant but beautiful, reminding Talia of a blue-eyed, blond angel. She stood in front of her parents, seven or eight years old, dark hair braided into cornrows with colorful beads, and brown eyes alight with laughter. Her complexion was a soft mocha, reflecting a combination of her African American and Anglo heritages. Moments like this had been rare. Even as a young girl, she’d known ugly elements lurked beneath the normalcy her mother tried so hard to foster. A lie that had blown up in their faces when gang violence took her father from them with the speed of the bullet that killed him.
Setting the photos aside, she picked through a few medals from track meets she’d won, her high school graduation tassel, and a college acceptance letter to MIT. Finally, her fingers closed around the object she’d been searching for.
An old silver spoon. Her mother had treasured the family heirloom, passed down for generations from some unknown ancestor. The only time Talia had suggested they sell it to pay rent, tears had clouded her mom’s eyes. She hadn’t spoken of it again.
Despite the tarnish, the shape of a harp was still detectible when she ran her finger along the bottom of the handle. In her mind, the spoon was once again freshly polished, the etched design a dead match to the harp on the shield. She didn’t doubt for a minute she held one of the spoons Wyatt Stone wanted so badly.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
What was so historically significant about the pretty little piece of silver? She damn sure didn’t intend to hand it over to some TV producer without having her curiosity fully satisfied.
When her cell dinged, she dropped the spoon on the bed and walked over to the couch to check her messages. The team had a new mission. She closed her eyes and pushed everything else away—the mystery surrounding her family heirloom, sadness over her breakup with GQ, and the fact that all she really wanted to do was sleep for the next ten hours. Instead, she mentally shifted into work mode and waited for the call she knew would come. Her phone rang a minute later.
She didn’t bother with a greeting. “What’s going on, Wolf? Who’s the victim, and where’re we headed?”
“The teenage son of a business mogul. He was grabbed from his Southern California neighborhood while walking home from football practice. We’ll need your computer wizardry to locate exactly where the kid is being held, but you can work while we’re on the plane. We go wheels up in forty minutes.”
“I’ll meet you at the hanger.” She hung up, threw a few clothes and toiletries into a bag, and stowed her weapons inside. After zipping her laptop into its case, she paused to glance over at the open box on her bed. A smile curled her lips as she scooped the spoon off the comforter and dropped it into her suitcase.
Once their mission was completed, maybe she’d pay Wyatt Stone a visit . . . since she’d practically be in his backyard instead of on the opposite side of the country. If he wanted her spoon, he could personally plead his case. As she left the apartment, her morose mood lifted. She was actually looking forward to the encounter.
* * * *
President Talbot Cox stared at the paper listing his latest polling figures, which one of his aides had left on his desk in the oval office, then crumpled the report with one hand. The numbers reflected what he knew all too well. The divisiveness in the country was growing worse, and he was getting the lion’s share of the blame. Even members of his own party were beginning to distance themselves. Like he was contagious with some deadly disease, forgetting he’d dragged their sorry asses along with him in a sweeping victory three years earlier.
Damned idiots. He leaned back in the leather chair and closed his eyes. It was time for another distraction, something that would shore up support for his tough-on-crime, anti-terrorism agenda, and bring in a strong wave of supporters before one of the opposition got a foothold in his base. Not that he gave two shits about anything else that riled up the masses. But he did care about trade policies and keeping the government out of his pockets on Tax Day. With another term to establish favorable fiscal policies, he’d be richer than God when he left office. And if the country went to hell in the process, fixing it would be someone else’s problem.
When a soft knock interrupted his musings, he glanced at his Rolex and frowned. After ten was late for an unexpected visitor—unless some new catastrophe had occurred.
“Come in.”
The door swung open, and his chief of staff entered the room. One look at his face, and Cox’s gut knotted.
“What the hell’s wrong now?”
Mason Brower could have played linebacker for any NFL team. His suits always looked like they might burst a seam if he moved too quickly, but his chief of staff had a quick mind and a way of getting to the heart of any trouble. Once he zeroed in on a problem, he didn’t hesitate to suggest a solution, though most of his recommendations were far from ethical—or legal. Which was exactly why Cox had hired him.
“You’ll want to see this.”
From the dour tone, he guessed exactly the opposite was true but refrained from commenting as the big man opened a laptop on the desk and tapped a few keys.
“I just happened to catch the end of Stone’s show earlier in the evening and nearly shit myself.” A frozen image of a man sitting in a library appeared on the screen. “It took an hour for one of the techies I trust to pirate a copy and send it to me. You’ll see why I didn’t want to make an official request.”
“The man looks vaguely familiar.”
“Wyatt Stone from the television series No Stone Unturned. He ferrets out historic controversies and drags them into the open. His show is popular, with high ratings among most demographics.”
Cox nodded. “I’ve seen it a time or two. Play the tape.”
Brower pressed a key, and the video started. “Friends, I need your help . . .”
As the brief segment continued, Cox gripped the edge of his desk. By the time it finished, his shirt stuck to his back with nervous sweat. “Jesus Christ. I was just thinking we needed some kind of distraction. This wasn’t what I had in mind.”
“I spoke to Alan before coming over. He’s confident that even if Stone somehow gets ahold of all the spoons, he’d have no legal ground to challenge your presidency.”
Cox yanked off the tie he was still wearing and tossed it on the floor, remembering the thick folder he’d been handed the day after he was sworn into office. Various documents and reports for presidential eyes only, a few that had boggled his mind. The oldest was an executive order signed by George Washington. He’d brought it to the attention of his chief of staff and attorney general in a closed-door meeting, never really believing the document could blow up in his face.
“While the executive order couldn’t be used to overturn the government, your political rivals would have a field day with it.” Brower paced back and forth in front of the desk. “The country would lose its mind over a scandal of this magnitude. I can’t even imagine the fallout.”
“I can. Getting control of those spoons would be all the leverage one of my opponents needs to gain traction in the primary and carry momentum straight through to the general election. Hell, even a current dark horse might convince the public he’s the chosen one with a blanket endorsement from the founding fathers to set the country back on the right path.”
“God knows, there are plenty of candidates running, and half of them wouldn’t be above cutting his or her own mother’s throat to aid their personal cause.”
“The lot are a bunch of power-hungry assholes.”
Brower paced some more, the wind in his wake stirring the crumpled poll paper and toppling it to the carpet.
“Do you think Stone is working with one of the serious contenders?”
“I’ve no idea, but I damn well don’t want to risk it.”
“The simple solution would be to acquire all the spoons first to eliminate the problem before it becomes one.”
Cox stared at his chief of staff. “Seems like we could let Stone do the leg work for us. What we need is someone reliable close to the man who can feed us information. Once he has a hot lead, we move in first.”
“I assume you don’t want anyone with a legitimate claim left alive when this is over.”
“Hell no. Why even court trouble? Do whatever it takes to end this potential nightmare. As of now, this matter is your top priority. I don’t have time to worry about a bunch of damn spoons when my poll numbers are in the toilet. I need to hatch a plan to lure my people back into the fold, and I’m not the least bit squeamish about how I do it.”
Brower took a step back. “I don’t think I want to know what you have in mind.”
Cox smiled. “Probably not.”
* * * *
Senator Deirdre Gamble fingered the antique silver spoon, caressing the fleur-de-lis engraved on the handle while she grappled with the unexpected turn of events. Eyeing her friend, confidant, and advisor who sat calmly on the brocade sofa in the elegant townhouse, she ran agitated fingers through her short, no-nonsense hair without messing it up.
“You know this spoon is the reason I got into politics to begin with. It’s been passed down in the family for over two centuries, sometimes not to a direct descendant, but always to a blood relation of Alexander Hamilton.”
Jill Erickson raised one brow. “Does that mean Hamilton wasn’t your however many greats grandfather?”
“Not in the legitimate line, I’m afraid. I spent a lot of time tracing our lineage after my father gave me the spoon, and I suspect my antecedent was the result of an affair between a direct heir and one of his maids. If I had to guess, I’d say the spoon and document were confiscated rather than bequeathed somewhere around the Civil War.”
Ominous Legacy (Counterstrike Book 4) Page 3