by Sonja Stone
“I don’t have a license.”
“Not what I asked, but okay.”
Outside, Nadia inhales lungfuls of the cool night air as she follows Damon to the side of the building. When they reach the back corner of the warehouse, she stops, pressing herself against the siding. Police sirens sound in the distance. She looks past him, over his shoulder. From the north come flashing lights. “Come on. We gotta go.” Nadia grabs his wrist and turns toward the south.
“I’m sorry about all this. I never meant to leave you. I didn’t know Roberts would have extra security.” He pulls his arm away. “I’ll go toward them; you double back. They’ll chase me. Probably won’t even see you.”
“No—we can both run. Come with me.”
He pulls her into a rough hug. “I knew you cared about me.” Before she can answer, Damon shoves her around the side of the building.
Nadia stumbles backward. She catches herself, then scrambles in his direction. As she rounds the corner, she sees him sprinting toward the police cars.
She takes a deep breath to yell after him, but before she utters a sound, someone clamps a hand over her mouth. An arm wraps around her waist and she’s dragged back around the corner.
Damon sits in a familiar room, strapped to a familiar chair. He’s never been in this particular room, but they’re all the same. His metal chair is bolted to the floor in front of a bare steel table. A second chair is shoved into the far corner. A single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling. It shines in his eyes. The cinderblock walls don’t have one-way mirrors, which is never a good sign. No cameras, either. He’d much rather someone look in, keep an eye on the interrogation. Make sure it stays on the up-and-up. The thick, stagnant air smells like urine.
His face throbs, which is probably a good thing, because it detracts from the pain of his arms wrenched behind his back. He can’t move his left shoulder—he’s pretty sure it’s dislocated. And he’s ridiculously thirsty.
Under the table in the center of the room is a drain. Probably to hose the blood off the floor. If he can free himself, he’ll climb on the table and yank down the electrical cord holding the lightbulb. He can strangle someone with that. Damon moves his weight around in the chair, hoping to find a weak spot in the frame. It appears to be cast from a single piece of steel: no joints to exploit. He’s stuck.
The door opens and a man walks in. He wears jeans, work boots, a gray t-shirt, a heavy silver watch. He’s got a beard and a deep tan. Looks like special forces, maybe CIA. He pulls the spare chair up to the far side of the table, opens a water bottle wet with condensation, takes a long pull. He slams the bottle onto the table; water sloshes out of the neck. He smiles and wipes the water onto the floor. “Looks like I spilled.”
“Is my mother safe?” Damon asks, his throat raw.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I dropped her at the police station. She needs to be in witness protection or Roberts will have her killed.”
The man stands and circles the table. He grabs Damon’s jaw. “That’s quite a shiner.” His thumb digs into Damon’s cheekbone until the cut opens and starts to bleed again.
Damon winces. “What do you want?”
The man puts his face in Damon’s and says, “You’re a disgrace to your country. I have no intention of helping you or your mother.”
Damon’s pulse quickens. “Come on, she’s not part of this. What do you want? I’ll tell you anything. Just get my mother into WITSEC.”
“You tried to assassinate a sitting senator of the United States.”
“It wasn’t me,” Damon says.
“We have evidence to the contrary. My brothers are overseas risking their lives to protect your way of life. You disgust me. You’re a traitor.” He stands and spits at Damon’s feet.
Damon turns his head. The fatigue of the last twenty-four hours catches up to him. The constant output of adrenaline has depleted his reserves. He’s got nothing left. “I didn’t shoot Bishop. But everything else that I did, it was for my family.” The words are barely audible. “I had no choice.”
The soldier sits on the edge of the table. He grabs the cord just above the bulb and shines the light into Damon’s face. Damon’s eyes ache from the brightness.
“Please,” Damon whispers. “I don’t care what you do with me. Just help my mom.”
After a few minutes the soldier nods. “I got a mom. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for her.”
A flicker of hope. Damon meets his eyes. “I’ll do anything.”
The soldier releases the bulb and the light swings. Shadows sway back and forth across the table. “Anything?”
“Anything,” Damon says.
“Well, I can’t let you walk outta here. My brothers would never forgive me. But I might be able to help your mother. If you are willing to help me.”
“Whatever you need.” Damon prepares himself. The next few hours, he is certain, will be spent reciting everything he knows about Agent Roberts and his operation. Contacts, procedures, meeting sites, names. The CIA’s been trying to bring the Nighthawks down for a long time, but the organization is so insidious; Nighthawks have infiltrated every branch of government and law enforcement. Damon’s a valuable asset.
The soldier pauses. He leans forward and speaks quietly. “What exactly did you tell Nadia Riley?”
Damon’s blood runs cold. If this guy wanted to end the Nighthawks, that’s not where he’d start. He’s one of them. “Who did you say you were with?”
“I didn’t.”
Damon nods. “So you’re with Roberts. Then you know I didn’t shoot Bishop. You know it was a setup.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind. Tell me about the girl.”
“Why does Roberts want her so bad?”
“You have my offer. It expires in two seconds.”
“I didn’t tell her anything. She doesn’t know anything about the Nighthawks.”
The soldier examines his fingernails. After a moment, he asks, “What did you tell her about her family?”
“What?” Damon asks. Why does he care about Nadia’s family? Then Damon realizes why the soldier is asking: Damon got that intel from Roberts’ thumb drive. “Is this about the drive I took from Roberts’ storage unit? Because those files were encrypted. I never even saw them.”
“Where is the drive?”
“My trailer blew up.” Damon lies without thinking. “The drive was inside.”
“So what did you tell her? What does she know?”
“That her father’s CIA. That’s it.”
“Why’d you tell her that?”
“What do you mean?”
The soldier leans forward and raises his voice. “What was your motivation?”
These questions make no sense. Damon shakes his head, confused. “So that she’d trust me. Because Roberts wanted her alive. I needed her to come willingly.”
The soldier straightened, seemingly satisfied. “Okay.”
“That’s it? Now my mom gets into the witness protection program?” WITSEC’s good. Two US marshals will know her whereabouts—no one else. Not even this guy.
“There’s just one more thing.” The man stands, circles the table like a shark, sits back in his chair. “You’re a loose end, my friend. As long as you’re around, none of us are safe—especially your mom. She’ll always be hunted, used as leverage against you. But lucky for you, I’ve got a soft spot for mommas.” He extends a closed, upturned fist. “So this is for you.” His fingers unfurl.
A cyanide pill rests in his hand.
Nadia claws at the hand clamped over her mouth. She stomps the top of her assailant’s foot with her heel and throws her left elbow toward his head. His hand blocks the blow, and he releases.
“Stop!” Jack whispers. “It’s me.”
“What are you doing here?” she whispers back.
“Saving your butt.” He leans against the wall and grabs his injured foot. “That really hurt.”
&nb
sp; “So don’t grab me,” she says. “I had the situation well in hand.”
Jack peeks around the corner. “Yeah, looks like it.”
Nadia leans around the edge of the wall. Damon’s face is smashed against the hood of a police car, his hands pinned behind his back. Maybe she can create a diversion, buy him time to escape.
Jack pulls her back. “I’m sure I must be mistaken, but it looked like you were about to bolt with him.” Nadia doesn’t answer. “I’m gonna assume Stockholm Syndrome, rather than treason. Are there any details we need to iron out before I take you back?”
Treason. Damon’s committed treason. He’ll be sentenced to death. He could’ve gotten away, but he came back for her.
“Nadia?”
The expression of hurt on Jack’s face brings her back to the moment. She shakes her head. “He left with his mother. He got away. But he came back for me.”
Jack grabs her arm. “He’s the reason you’re here in the first place. You don’t owe him anything, and he didn’t do you any favors. And you and I are both going to be questioned about this, so I’ll ask again, you weren’t helping him escape, were you?”
Nadia shakes her head and looks at the ground. Jack will be obligated to pass along any information she shares. “No, of course not. You misread the situation. He kidnapped me, then traded me for his mother. End of story.” She meets his gaze.
“I thought so.” His eyes bore into hers. “Come on, we gotta get out of here. I’m parked a few streets over.”
Nadia follows him away from the warehouse, between darkened buildings surrounded by chain-link fence. They cross in the middle of the street to avoid the streetlamps. A few blocks later, they reach the black Avalon and climb inside. Jack drives a quarter mile before turning on the headlights.
“You’ll be debriefed when we get back. Probably orally, and then you’ll have to write a statement. No one knows I came for you, so if you need time to review any details, we can do that. We can stop, get your story straight. It’s really important that you be consistent and confident.”
She turns to him. “How did you find me?”
“Simon low-jacked you. There’s a tracker in your pocket.”
“Well, that explains his excessively long hug.” Nadia feels around inside her jacket pockets. “How’d you get a car? What did you say?”
Jack glances at his watch. “I’m supposed to be completing my final mission, so they didn’t ask any questions.”
“Did you finish?”
He shakes his head. “This seemed more pressing.”
“But you won’t graduate. You’ve ruined your chance of being invited to continue on with the CIA.”
“That is correct,” he says quietly.
Oh no. “I’m so sorry.” Jack doesn’t answer.
Guilt presses onto her shoulders as the streetlights tick by at a rhythmic pace. Jack threw away his future. Damon got caught when he came back to help her—he’ll be sentenced to death. Yes, they made their own choices, but they made them for her.
She closes her eyes, exhausted. But her mind won’t rest.
Who paid Damon to destroy the student database? Bishop had motive, to hide his illegitimate child. That means Libby’s father also knows the true nature of the Academy.
Why did her father shoot him? The Nighthawks wanted Bishop dead—it wasn’t the CIA at all. Bishop wasn’t on their kill list.
Nightingale. She heard the name Nightingale. A code name used in Operation Cyprus—but who is Nightingale? The creator of Project Genesis? It has to be Simon’s mom.
She’s not dead. Maggie Pearle is alive.
What is going on?
“Pull over a second,” she says, opening her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” He pulls along the curb.
“Your senior project.”
“It’s too late. I’m out of time.”
She shakes her head. “No, not that. You know how I thought there was something more to it? Turns out I was right. The only question left is, who ordered the mission?”
Jack stares through the windshield and shrugs. “I already told you, I don’t know. I’m not even sure Shepard knows. She was just acting as my handler.”
“Your assignment was to alter someone’s DNA, right?”
He turns to her. “How did you know that?”
“Damon made me destroy the student database. Simon broke into a lab that stores the CIA’s genome data. His paternity questions were put to bed right after Alan’s mission, which was to upload a strand of DNA. Your senior project was to make it look like Simon’s father is dead, to hide the identity of his actual biological father. And it would’ve been successful if Bishop hadn’t been shot.”
“My mission was to hide Simon’s identity?” His knuckles tighten around the wheel. “Wait—what does Bishop have to do with anything? Are you insinuating that Senator Bishop is Simon’s father? Simon is Libby’s brother?”
“I think so.”
Jack shakes his head. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you think I’m paranoid. You think my coming here to help Damon’s mom was a huge mistake. You think I’m crazy. But in this particular instance, I’m not. Can you just answer one question for me? Is the fake name of the fake agent in your fake mission Milo Riazotti?”
Jack sighs. “I can’t tell you—”
“Right.” Nadia looks away. “Your precious protocol.”
“No, that’s not—I can’t tell you because I don’t know.” His head lowers as he stares at his lap. “I was instructed not to read the individual op-specs. All I saw was the Operational Report. The overall objectives. I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want to tell you. I mean, I get the need for compartmentalization of information, but still….For all of these missions, I’ve been nothing more than a glorified babysitter and chauffeur.”
The disappointment on his face hurts her heart. She touches his arm. “No, that’s not true. None of us could’ve completed our missions without your guidance.”
“You seem to do just fine without me.”
“If I had to get along without you, I would be sitting in a jail cell right now.” He lets out a little laugh and she continues. “It’s not too late—let’s finish your mission. What are your op-specs?”
“I’m supposed to initiate the self-destruct on the wifi-enabled thumb drive at Gentech, then drop my operational packet at a predetermined location. I don’t have time to return you to school and then drive all the way back to Tempe before the dead drop.”
Initiating the self-destruct, destroying evidence that the database was altered from outside Gentech’s walls, will ensure that Nadia never discovers who ordered the mission. She’ll never find the connection between Jack’s project and Damon’s mission. The memory card in her pocket was meant to frame Oliver Westlake. It won’t contain a whisper of the CIA’s involvement. If Jack can’t complete his mission, if she can get her hands on that thumb drive, she might actually uncover the truth.
But it also means that he won’t graduate. His training will be over, his dreams at an end.
She takes a deep breath. “I’ll come with you. We’ll do it together. If you don’t graduate because you came here to help me, I won’t be able to live with myself.”
He smiles a little as he locks onto her eyes. “I get it.”
She smiles back at him. “I know you do.”
Completely overcome with anxiety, Alan marches to Dean Shepard’s office first thing Friday morning to confess his transgressions. He finds her door open and, after a curt knock, he barges inside.
“Alan, what can I do for you?” Well-formed words leave her lips like shiny little daggers. She closes the open folder on her desk and turns it face down.
He takes a deep breath, his mouth feeling desiccated. If he can get the words out without vomiting he will consider the conversation a success. What she does after that is well beyond his control. “I am afraid I have not been forthright in my communications.”
“Go on.”
Alan sinks into a chair. “Dean Shepard, my family is from Israel.”
After a brief silence, the dean says, “My family is from Scotland.”
He does not know how to begin. Should he start with the fact that he is a loyal recruit of the CIA? Should he explain the original arrangement he had with his grandfather? Should he mention that Simon blackmailed him?
“Alan?”
“Yes?”
“What do you need?”
“My grandfather is Israeli Mossad,” he blurts out.
Shepard leans back in her chair and folds her hands on the desk. “I see.” Her lips come together, slightly pursed. The corners of her eyes crinkle. Alan does not excel at reading facial expressions, but she appears to be amused. Perhaps she misunderstood.
“That is not all. He is here at the Academy.” He wills himself to say, to pressure me to act as his informant. But he cannot. “Under an alias. You know him as…Professor Katz.”
“Yes?” Saba says from the doorway.
Alan leaps from his chair and backs into the desk. “Saba. What are you doing here?”
His grandfather smiles and closes the office door. “I followed you.” As he moves into the room, Alan wonders whether or not Saba will dare kill him in front of the dean. But instead of strangling him, Saba wraps his arms around Alan in a clumsy hug.
“Please, sit down,” Dean Shepard says. “Both of you.”
They sit. Saba appears relaxed and confident. Maybe he did not hear the beginning of the conversation. Alan’s heart pounds furiously. He wonders at what point it will simply give out. He hopes it will be sooner, rather than later.
Shepard begins. “Alan, I invited your grandfather here. We’ve known each other for years. He taught a class at The Farm on interrogation techniques. What was that, ten years ago?”
Saba laughs. “At least. But it is not polite to point out such things.”
“Anyway,” she says. “After last semester’s security issues, we called your grandfather and asked him to fill in until we could properly vet a new instructor.”