by Sonja Stone
His eyes met hers as his face softened. “I didn’t mean to imply that you couldn’t. I just meant we’re in this together. Whatever you need.”
Nadia shook her head. “I’m sorry. Thank you, I appreciate your saying that.”
“Absolutely.” He pulled her back into a hug. “I’m on your side, Nadia. Always.”
She leaned into his chest. The warmth of his body radiated onto hers. Just being in his arms relaxed her. “Don’t worry about your meeting with Dean Shepard. You’ll do great.”
He squeezed a little. “Thanks for saying it.”
Nadia sighed. At least I have Jack.
He kissed the top of her head. “Are you okay? Do you want me to walk you inside?”
“No, I’m fine.” She forced a weak smile as he pulled back to look at her. “I’ll see you later.” Before he answered, she turned away.
Back in her room as she waited for Libby, Nadia unwrapped The Iliad. The second she removed the cellophane and opened the book, she realized Homer held the key.
The study edition of Homer’s epic poem contained numbered lines: page fifty, for example, had line numbers in the high seven hundreds.
Nadia searched her bag for the postcard. Sitting at her desk, she jotted the numbers down onto a fresh piece of notebook paper: 125.793.4, 51.805.1, 51.792.7, 360.591.5 // 46.599.4, 95.475.7, 112.329.9 // 138.106.3, 104.16.6, 95.475.7, 183.265.7, 116.446.4, 357.493.9. Page number, line number, word number. The first, 125.793.4: north. The second: thirty.
She finished the first series and read the results: north thirty three degrees // fifty two feet // twelve point two hundred thirteen inch.
GPS coordinates, latitude and longitude: N 33° 52’12.213”. The second set provided the western degree. All she had to do now was enter the coordinates online to find the location.
Nadia sat back in her chair, tapping her pencil against the desk. She knew exactly what this meant.
Someone had left her a dead drop.
After weeks of waiting, Damon had started to think the worst—that his mom hadn’t made it, that she was already dead. But then, two days ago, he’d finally received word that Roberts was ready to negotiate. The overwhelming relief Damon experienced when he hung up the phone was indescribable.
His mother was still alive.
Early Wednesday morning he climbed aboard the spacious Phoenix city bus and headed toward the meet.
Every time the bus lurched forward, Damon held his breath. The frequent stops posed no danger—a jolt wouldn’t cause detonation—but knowing this didn’t ease his mind. He wiped the film of sweat from his forehead and checked the worn slip of paper in his pocket for the hundredth time. The address scribbled on the note was way downtown, three transfers from where he’d started.
The air brakes hissed as the driver pulled to the curb. He opened the doors, and the smell of sweat and diesel momentarily dispersed as chilled air rolled into the cabin. A woman boarded, wrinkled skin and gray hair, and she eyed Damon as she shuffled down the aisle. With his muscular build and shaved head, he knew he looked intimidating—that was the point, but still. She clutched her purse closer to her chest. The driver began to close the doors.
“Hold up,” Damon called. He couldn’t take it anymore. “Let me out here.” He climbed down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Even in its sketchiest neighborhoods, Phoenix was cleaner than Baltimore, where cigarette butts and fast-food wrappers littered every gutter.
Damon’s black jacket, zipped to his neck, was too heavy for the desert morning, even in January. He thrust his hands in the pockets, cast his head down, and took the last two blocks on foot.
A half block from the destination, he slowed. He’d arrived early to check out the area. He found a dumpster across the street to use as cover.
The warehouse, situated in the middle of the block, appeared to have only one usable entrance. There was probably a garage door around back; a loading zone. A line of windows, which provided ventilation and light during the day, ran high along the top of the building, accessible via the fire escape. That meant the interior held a mezzanine office. A single streetlamp stood close to the main entrance, next to the chain-link fence.
Damon crossed the street with quick strides and banged on the door. His left hand returned to his jacket pocket, where it clutched the cylinder wired to the vest.
He didn’t recognize the man who answered. “What.” The bulge from the man’s firearm created a lump under his black sports coat.
“I’m here to see Roberts.”
The man stepped back and let Damon through.
The second he’d cleared the entrance, Damon unzipped his jacket, revealing the vest strapped to his torso. Thick packets of C-4 circled his middle.
The guard reached toward his sidearm.
Damon held up his hand, thumb pressed on the dead-man’s switch of the detonator. “You shoot me, we all die.”
The man’s right hand hovered near his hip. “Okay, just calm down.”
“I am calm. Get me Roberts.”
“Wait here,” he said.
Damon scanned the open space of the warehouse as the guard climbed the metal steps leading to the upper office. The single mezzanine window overlooking the loading area was dark with blinds. As expected, the back wall had a garage-sized door, for loading and unloading trucks.
“Soldier.” Footsteps rattled the stairs and echoed lightly across the concrete floor. Agent Roberts, the man who had kidnapped Damon’s mother and burned down her house, strolled toward the main level, followed closely by his hired gun. Roberts carried a tactical briefcase in his left hand; his right hand casually trailed along the metal railing. His expensive suit was overkill in this neighborhood.
“Where’s my mother?” Damon asked.
“Somewhere safe.” Roberts reached the concrete floor.
“What took you so long to contact me?”
“I wanted to be sure you’d be ready to negotiate.”
Damon moved forward. He matched Roberts in height and exceeded his build. Damon was solid muscle—he also had youth on his side. “Well, I’m here. You said you’d trade me for her, so where is she?”
“Yo.” The hired gun took a tentative step toward Damon. “You need to step off.”
“That’s not exactly the arrangement,” Agent Roberts said.
“Well, what exactly is the arrangement?”
“Step off,” the guard repeated.
Damon turned on him, pushing his face into the guard’s. “I’m about two seconds away from snapping every bone in your body.” He squared his shoulders, stared him down.
Roberts took a deep breath. “Everyone, relax.” He turned to Damon. “These histrionics are completely unnecessary, as was wrapping yourself in C-4. This is a business meeting. I have something you want; you have something I want.”
Damon glared at the guard for another moment, then addressed Roberts. “Go on.”
“A few months ago, you claimed to have evidence implicating the Nighthawks as a terrorist group,” Roberts said. “I believe your exact words were, ‘If you take me down, I will drag all of you down with me.’ ”
“That does sound like something I would say.” Damon had never trusted Roberts. As an insurance policy against becoming their fall guy, he’d carefully assembled incriminating evidence against the Nighthawks organization: photographs, documents, fingerprints….
But Roberts neglected to mention the thumb drive Damon had recently found in the storage unit. He probably didn’t even know it was missing.
“I’ll need those files.”
“Then you’ll release my mother? Just like that?”
Roberts nodded.
“Show me proof of life.”
Roberts looked to his guard. The man hesitated for a half beat, then pulled a Polaroid from his jacket pocket and handed it to Damon.
Damon felt the rage swell inside his body as he took in the picture of his mother, tear-stained cheeks, dirty hair, holding a copy of today’
s newspaper. He narrowed his eyes and, for a split second, considered lifting his thumb. He took a deep breath through his nose before he spoke, forcing himself to maintain control of his voice. “If you hurt her…”
Roberts held up a hand. “Let’s not.”
Damon shoved the picture in his back pocket. “You’ve had her for six weeks. She’s seen you—she can identify you. You can’t let her go. And how do you know I won’t make copies of those files? You’re not gonna let us walk outta here.”
“First of all, your mother hasn’t seen me. She’s been kept in a safe house with another agent. I have no reason to kill her. Secondly, those copies will be of no use to you because you are going to do something else for me, and this errand will provide me sufficient leverage against you.”
“What’s the errand?”
“I need someone brought in.”
Damon shook his head. “I don’t follow. How does that buy my freedom?”
“You can’t very well turn me in to the CIA when you’re guilty of kidnapping.”
“Bring you someone.” Roberts nodded and Damon asked, “Dead?”
“I said kidnapping, not murder.”
“All right.” Damon’s eyes passed from Roberts to the guard and back again. “Who do you want?”
Roberts clasped his hands together. “I want Nadia Riley.”
Damon studied Roberts’ face in the yellow light of the warehouse. A wind kicked up outside, pressing against the windows and rattling the panes of glass. The gusty breeze swept under the garage door and along the floor, making the hairs on Damon’s legs stand. “What do you want with her?”
“What concern is that of yours?”
“She doesn’t know anything.”
“I didn’t ask you what she knew. In any case,” Roberts said, “you owe me an agent, don’t you?”
Damon frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Hayden’s dead. That makes me a man shy.”
“It seems to me that whoever killed Hayden did you a favor.”
“How do you figure?”
“He wasn’t worth a pinch of—”
Roberts interrupted. “Nevertheless, I’m a man down.”
“Technically, you’re two men down. You recall you took a shot at me? I’m not exactly toeing the company line.” He glared at Roberts. The lack of response annoyed him. After a moment, Damon said, “Nadia won’t turn, you know. You’re wasting your time trying to recruit her.”
“I don’t intend to recruit her,” Roberts said.
“Then why do you want her?”
“Soldier, let me ask you something: What is your objective here? Why are you asking questions that don’t pertain to your mother’s safety?”
Damon narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like being part of a mission without understanding its endgame—especially with someone as untrustworthy as Roberts. Sure, Roberts wanted Project Genesis, but what did that have to do with Nadia? On the other hand, the man made a valid point. She was someone else’s problem. “I bring you Nadia, and my mom and I go free?”
“And your files.”
“And my files,” Damon said.
Roberts nodded. “That’s it.”
Damon paused for a beat. “I’ll let you know when I get the package.”
“Last item of business.” Roberts knelt down and opened the plastic case he’d been holding. A medical gun sat nestled in the foam lining. “I need to inject you with a tracking device.”
“How do I know it’s not lethal?” Damon asked.
“You don’t. Now turn around.”
Damon held up the detonator as a reminder. “Maybe I’ll stick around for an hour. See if I keel over.”
“Be my guest.” Roberts pulled Damon’s shirt away from his shoulder and injected the device. Damon winced as it embedded into his flesh.
“You’re all set,” Roberts said.
Damon zipped his jacket and backed toward the door, the bodyguard following closely. He held up a hand. “I’ll show myself out.”
Outside, he hurried down the street and around the corner. When his line of sight no longer included the warehouse, he leaned against the stucco wall running along the sidewalk. His shoulder throbbed. He really hoped it wasn’t poison.
Damon pushed off the wall, faced away from the street, and removed the corded detonator from his pocket. The knuckle of his thumb ached from pressing the button so long. With a steady hand, he detached the trigger wire.
Nadia Riley. What did Roberts want with her?
It didn’t really matter. If that’s who Damon needed to secure his mother’s freedom, so be it. He exhaled deeply as he started for the bus stop.
Looks like we’re gonna have a reunion.
* * *
—
Two hours after the meet, as Damon was leaving the hardware store with a bag of supplies, he received a phone call. He picked up, expecting to hear Roberts on the other end. “What do you want?”
A digitally modified voice spoke into the line. “I have a proposition for you.”
“Who is this?” Damon looked around the busy parking lot. No one seemed out of place. He checked over his shoulder.
The robotic tone continued. “You can call me Mr. Green.”
Damon scoffed. Had to be one of Roberts’ guys. “What do you want?”
“I’ve wired fifty thousand dollars to an account in your name. I’ll text details of how to access the money, as well as instructions for collecting the remainder of your fee—an additional four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Half a million? “Who the hell is this?”
“Should you accept, the funds will be made available immediately upon completion.”
Is this for real? Damon narrowed his eyes. “Five hundred grand, just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He pressed his lips together and looked toward the cloudless sky. After a moment he asked, “And who exactly do I have to kill?”
After cracking the cipher, Nadia met back up with Libby. The juniors filed into the building designated for their studies, sandwiched between the senior class building and Hopi Hall. The classrooms, bright and spacious, were comfortably appointed with cushioned chairs and generous desktops. Large windows supplemented warm overhead lighting, and each soundproofed room was outfitted with a fiat-screen television mounted to the wall.
Their chemistry teacher had assigned a research paper on poisoning methods. The student who uncovered the least traceable poison got to skip the first exam. Their next class, right across the hall, was Computer Science and Information Systems, followed by Psychology, Nadia’s favorite. She took her seat as Dr. Sherman introduced their first unit of the semester, psychological warfare.
“Psychological warfare encompasses an array of behaviors and techniques, from the relatively benign to the highly dangerous,” Dr. Sherman said. “For example, the law of reciprocity. This technique is extremely common, and most of you will use it frequently while establishing relationships with possible assets.” She paced the aisles as she spoke. “You buy a drink for someone, they feel obligated to chat with you.”
“Well, that seems reasonable,” Simon said, not bothering to raise his hand. “I’m happy to chat for free drinks.”
“All right, that’s enough.” Dr. Sherman quieted the peals of laughter. “Simon, I suspect you’d be willing to chat regardless of free drinks.”
Nadia, smiling at Simon’s light blush, raised her hand. “Can you give an example of something more serious?”
“Certainly. Another technique is the ‘us against them.’ Here, you establish rapport by uniting yourself with your target. For example, say you approach a potential asset at a political rally. You might begin by saying, ‘They don’t understand what it’s like for us. These politicians, they don’t live in the real world, not like you and me.’ ” Dr. Sherman moved back to the front of the room. “Some psychological warfare is not so subtle: threats to colleagues or loved one
s, for instance.”
“Like a tiger kidnapping?” Nadia asked.
“Exactly. For those of you who don’t know, a tiger kidnapping occurs when one person is held hostage in order to force a second person to do something they would not otherwise agree to do.”
“Like what?” Simon asked.
Nadia turned toward him. “The son of the bank manager is kidnapped to force his father to break into the vault.”
“Great example,” Dr. Sherman said to Nadia. “Where did you learn about tiger kidnappings?”
“My father teaches criminology. He specializes in high-value kidnappings and political assassinations.”
“Excellent; perhaps you’ll choose that topic for your report.” Dr. Sherman glanced at the clock. “Speaking of, everyone, I want fifteen hundred words on a specific method of psychological warfare by Monday. Be prepared to explain your method to the class.”
“I see we’ve got a teacher’s pet,” Simon teased as they gathered their backpacks.
Nadia shook her head. “Wait’ll you hear me butcher Mandarin Chinese this afternoon. You’ll see my areas of expertise are extremely localized.”
Alan glanced up and nodded. “As her former tutor, I concur.”
“Thanks, Alan. I can always count on you for backup,” Nadia said, rolling her eyes at Simon.
By fourth period, political science, her forearm ached from note-taking. Professor Katz waited as the students settled in. Poli-sci still wasn’t Nadia’s favorite, but after two days she already liked Katz much more than she’d ever liked Hayden.
As class progressed, she realized it wasn’t just her—everyone seemed to enjoy his teaching style. Well, everyone except Alan, who sat and scowled, arms crossed, eyes trained on his desk.
About twenty minutes into the lecture, Nadia leaned toward him and whispered, “You’re gonna fail if you don’t contribute. Participation is, like, forty percent of our grade. Did you not read the material? Do you want to look at my notes?”
“Mind your own business,” he hissed. “It would be a sad day indeed if I needed your notes.”
“Alan, Nadia,” Professor Katz said. “Is it necessary to separate you?”