by Toby Neal
“Then I will be filing a motion to that effect in Federal as well as state court.” Jameson’s hands flickered around the coffee table, gathering the rejected contract pages Smithers had let fall. “DAVID is a threat to national security.”
“Such hyperbole. Now I know the kind of inflammatory language you will use in your motion, the hysteria you will try to incite—and how prejudicial that is to my client.” Smithers stood and crossed her arms.
“Well. Ms. Ang is a foreign national.” Jameson also rose. He twitched at his lapels, his hair.
“Ms. Ang is not a foreign national, as you know perfectly well. She has dual citizenship in Thailand and the U.S. She is the daughter of a United States Ambassador, for goodness’ sake. You will not get far with this slander.” Smithers paused to reload. “Ms. Ang has an obligation to obtain the necessary consents for DAVID to access law enforcement databases, and she will pursue those consents through the proper channels. But you don’t have the right to deny her that process.” She picked up her purse. “Let’s go, Sophie.”
Sophie met Waxman’s gaze. “I almost trusted you there, Ben, for a moment.”
“I didn’t know about that clause. And this is not personal. This was never personal, this thing with DAVID.” Sophie had never seen Waxman’s face so stark. “We should talk about this. Privately.”
“How could this not be personal? DAVID is an extension of my abilities. First you tried to steal it, then to kill it.” Sophie tugged the brim of the cloche lower, to hide her eyes. She felt an actual pain in her chest as she followed Smithers out.
She’d loved Waxman, just a little bit, and she hadn’t known it until it was over.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mary Watson pulled up in front of her rundown apartment building three weeks later. She held open the door for Ginger to hop down from the cab, and gave the floppy brim of her hat a tug, pulling it down firmly to hide her face.
Ascending the exterior metal stairs, Sophie felt oddly disconnected from her surroundings. She’d had a post-shooting debrief and several more meetings with Dr. Kinoshita, Security Solutions’ psychologist. The petite Japanese psychologist’s words had helped her sort out what was going on. The panic she’d struggled with about leaving the apartment and the persistent sensation of unreality were all part of post-traumatic stress.
“But it seems to me that you were going through something of an identity crisis before you were shot,” Dr. Kinoshita said, keen brown eyes gazing at Sophie’s mutilated face unflinchingly. She leaned forward to touch Sophie’s hand. “I’ve read your file. You escaped an abusive husband into the FBI, where you learned to fight and defend yourself, eventually bringing him down…but you never learned who you really were. You were married so young, to a sadistic man—how could you discover what the rest of us have a chance to, when your goal was survival? What has happened to your face is a metaphor, in a way, for the changes that you’re going through. You’re in the middle of becoming someone new, and what you will ultimately look like, be like—who you’ll be with as a romantic partner, what you’ll do for a living…all of it is in flux.”
Two rounds of laser scar removal had helped minimize the edges of the skin graft area, but one side of her face was still raised, oddly contoured, and a different color than the rest of her facial skin. The prosthetic cheekbone had settled “as well as could be expected,” according to Dr. Littleton, but now her eyes were off-kilter: one appeared higher than the other, and tight skin pulled it wider. Sophie’s hair was still too short to cover the bald area of the skin graft as it went up into her temple, so she continued to wear hats.
Her face would never be the same.
Dougal Sloane was still at large, and she’d found she couldn’t relax in her father’s apartment, even with the building’s security detail and the other measures she’d installed after the previous breach.
Too many people knew where she lived. The only thing she could think of that would make her feel safe was to be someone else, somewhere else, off the grid.
Her father, of course, had not agreed with this plan. “You’re having some sort of breakdown,” he said. “And it’s understandable. Just keep going to that therapist you’re talking to. It seems to be helping.” But in the end, he’d had to return to work in Washington. The minute he was gone, Sophie packed her backpack, a few more things from the penthouse, and here she was again. Mary Watson.
Sophie reached Mary Watson’s door and fumbled out her keys, unlocking it. There was no good reason for the feeling of relief she had to be in this place versus her father’s luxurious penthouse. This building had no doorman, no security but the motion detector and extra locks she’d installed—and still it felt more like home than the penthouse.
Ginger gave a happy bark and bounced into the apartment as Sophie bent to pick up pamphlets and flyers left on the mat by Jehovah’s Witnesses, a car detailer, and a pizza joint.
She stepped inside and locked the door behind her, engaging the extra security measures that she’d installed—and then she paused, sniffing the air, and turned.
The apartment smelled fresh, not musty. Marcella had asked for a key to the place, and she must have stopped by.
Sophie took a few steps in, to peer around the dividing wall beside the door. One of the windows over the sink was open, allowing a breeze. A tablecloth printed with palm trees covered a small round table with a couple of chairs in the kitchen alcove, and a vase of red and yellow ginger both brightened the place and sweetened the air. A small futon couch with a coffee table had been positioned in front of the glass sliders, and when she peeked into the bedroom, she gasped at the sight of a pretty bedroom set in rattan, with a mirror on the wall.
Tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth with a hand. Marcella must have done this, and her father had probably paid for it. She was loved.
Sophie lowered the backpack of clothing she had brought from her father’s apartment, and set the laptop that was still her lifeline to the online world she knew so well on the table, where a note was folded and tucked under the vase of flowers.
Your dad, Marcus, and I wanted you to be a little more at home in your place. Hope you like what we did! We love you, beautiful. ~ Marcella, Marcus, and Frank
She opened the sliders, letting the evening breeze blow in. Ginger lay down on a brand-new dog bed her friends had put near the door. She called Marcella and her dad and left tearful messages thanking them for the surprise. “You don’t know what it meant to me to open the door and find the apartment looking like this.” She set the phone down, but it almost immediately buzzed again.
“Marcella?” She answered it without checking the caller ID.
“I wondered if today was finally the day you were going to pick up.” Connor Remarkian’s cheerful Aussie accent brought a flush to her cheeks.
She’d been dodging his phone calls ever since the hospital and hadn’t seen him in all that time. It was hard to forget that the last time she’d seen him, they’d kissed. What would he think of her now? And how much did she care?
She still wasn’t sure.
“I needed some time to recover from the injuries I got on the Big Island.” Sophie hated how wooden her voice sounded. She was so bad at this relationship thing.
“Totally understandable. Bix has kept me informed of your progress. But I had hoped we were at least friends, and you would let me…help you somehow. Be a support.”
“I’ve been going through a lot. I’m sure you heard I was shot in the face, and I don’t look…like me anymore.” Her voice broke on the last word and she covered her eyes against the prickle of tears. She hadn’t cried throughout the whole ordeal. Why was she crying now?
“I have to see you.” His voice sounded rough. “When can I see you?”
Sophie dashed the tears off her cheeks, feeling the sag of her eye, the dented, dimpled surface of her skin with her fingertips. The truth hit her as she rubbed the wetness away—she didn’t want things to go any further w
ith Connor, because she couldn’t stop thinking about the Ghost.
And he hadn’t written her in all this time.
Fuzzy memories of the Ghost talking to her in the hospital still made her skin prickle. Had Sheldon Hamilton visited her there, or had that just been wishful thinking? No one could tell her if he had or not, but the feeling that he’d had something to do with her waking up was too persistent to ignore.
This was a conversation that needed to be had in person with Connor—he deserved that much. She glanced around the apartment. She might have furniture now, but the fridge was still empty.
“I need to go out for something to eat. Why don’t I meet you for a night beach walk at Ala Moana Beach Park after?”
“Can we eat together, too? Could that count as the date you asked me on that we never had?”
Sophie pinched the bridge of her nose, embarrassed. “I guess.” She named her favorite noodle house, and they set a time.
Sophie brought in the rest of her things, fed the dog, and put away her clothes. Wearing a pair of slim black jeans and a tank top with pearl earrings and Mary Watson’s straw hat, Sophie drove to the noodle house.
Connor was already seated at a corner table. Sophie was surprised at the lift in her spirits to see him. He rose to greet her, sea-blue eyes intense as they traveled over her face, body, and clothing, registering the changes as she approached. He hugged her, knocking her hat back and making her laugh.
“You look great. It’s so good to see you.”
“Likewise.” Sophie liked the feel of his arms around her, but detached herself. They sat.
“What’s your favorite dish here?”
“Saimin.”
“Good thing. It’s a saimin place.” They laughed.
Sophie was relieved that he didn’t comment on her face. It must be improving.
After eating, they walked down toward the beach park along the sidewalk. “I feel naked without Ginger,” Sophie said. “But the restaurant changed their rules. They used to let me tie her up on the sidewalk outside.”
“Anubis is moping at home, too. He always likes an occasion to see her, as do I.” Connor took Sophie’s hand, squeezed.
Sophie felt the words she needed to say about the Ghost on the tip of her tongue, but couldn’t bring herself to speak them yet. This was so nice. He felt good beside her—his acceptance a balm, his presence easy.
They reached the park, and headed for the water’s edge, where they slipped off their shoes. Little wavelets splashed their feet, and the night wind thrummed in the palm trees. The moon on the water lit their way.
“I expected you to look much worse, with the way you’ve been hiding from me. Hideous. A Halloween witch with a single eye, at the very least.” Connor swung her hand, clearly trying to broach the subject in a lighthearted way. “And for the record, it wouldn’t have mattered to me if you did look like a witch.”
Sophie couldn’t even smile. “I don’t know how much better I’m going to look than this.”
“You’re beautiful. But then, I suspect that it doesn’t matter how many times people tell you that, you won’t believe them. I wonder if you believed it even before your injury.” He stopped her, turning to place one hand on her shoulder, one on her mutilated cheek. “This was never about your looks for me… Well, okay, it might have started that way—but it hasn’t been about that for a while now.”
Sophie took a step back. Her heart hammered with anxiety. She hated to hurt him, she wasn’t sure she wanted to—but she owed it to him to be honest. “I have feelings for someone else.”
“I don’t think Alika Wolcott is coming back to Honolulu.” Connor’s eyes were hidden and dark with the moonlight on them from above, but his voice low and definite.
“So you know about him, then. And you’re right, that’s over between us. It’s not him I was talking about.”
“Who, then?”
Sophie hadn’t expected his urgent persistence. “I’m not ready to talk about it. Just like I’m not ready…to talk about what we might be to each other.”
“Fine. We’ll go as slow as you need to.” Connor was making an effort to rein in the frustration she could still hear in his voice. “But it’s hard knowing that some mystery man is making a move on you while I’m being a gentleman.”
“I’m trying to be fair by telling you.” Sophie bit her lip. She pulled her hat off and slapped it against her leg, releasing tension. “Okay, then, since you won’t let it go. It’s Sheldon. We’ve been in touch online, and I need to know…what’s between us. He visited me in the hospital, I’m sure of it, and I think he has feelings for me too.”
Connor tipped his head back to speak to the heavens, throwing his hands up. “Of all the people!”
“I’m sorry. I know he’s your friend.”
They fell in step together again. Sophie was surprised at the relief she felt at having told Connor the truth. “You know that he’s the Ghost. But what you probably don’t know is that…we’ve kept in touch since last year’s case. I know it’s crazy to feel this way…and believe me, I wish I didn’t.”
“I warned you when we went hiking that he wasn’t ever going to be available. For a relationship, or anything else.” Connor’s voice was tight with tension, the words bitten off.
“But he came to me in the hospital. He said he’d see me when the time was right.” She heard the pleading in her voice. “You know him better than anyone. Tell him I need to see him. I need to know if he…”
“Why would I help you with that?” Connor picked up a stone, skipped it across the ruffled surface of the black ocean. They were close enough for the warm tropical waves to splash over their feet. “The guy is competition.”
“I thought he was your friend.”
“Hell if I’m going to help him take you from me.” Having declared himself, Connor seemed as relieved as Sophie was to have acknowledged the proverbial elephant. He took her hand again and swung it a little in the dark as they walked.
Sophie felt the constriction in her chest lifting and something else replace it, something light and bubbly. She’d told him, been as honest as she could be, and they were still talking. “So I guess I’ll just have to keep looking for the Ghost on my own.”
“Better yet, you can give that shit up.” She could see the crinkles of humor beside Connor’s eyes as he tried to lighten his tone. “Let the Ghost play his little online mind games with criminals. I’m here, and I’m real.” His hand felt big and warm, pleasant. “And I want to be with you.”
She wondered how it would be to have Sheldon’s hand holding hers—and almost couldn’t breathe at the thought.
The spit of a silencer at close range was almost lost in the sighing of the waves, but Sophie couldn’t miss the sear of pain on the outside of her left bicep. She gasped. “Gun!”
She ducked low and spun to face the threat, but Connor shoved her behind him.
Somehow she wasn’t surprised to see moonlight shine on Dougal Sloane’s bald pate as the big Scot walked toward them, gun hand extended, the familiar chrome Beretta lengthened by a cigarlike black protrusion—a silencer. Connor had gone very still, and for some reason she was reminded of the way Anubis could stand like a statue, all coiled menace.
“You’re hard to kill, Mary Watson.” Sloane kept advancing. The next shot couldn’t miss. Sophie edged out from behind Connor. Her mind settled into that focused place where she went when she needed to. Just another couple of feet, and she could reach him.
But Sloane stopped just outside of range and lifted the pistol, waggling it back and forth between them.
“Which one of you would like it first? This is nothing personal.” Why did they always say that? It was such bullshit. “Just cleaning up loose ends, Mary. With you out of the way, there’s no case against me.”
Connor shoved Sophie down and aside, and leapt for Sloane’s gun hand.
Sophie gave a cry, falling to the sand as the weapon fired. Connor’s body hit Sloane. The two
men went down, landing in the shallow water at the water’s edge and rolling in the surf as they grappled with each other.
Sophie scrambled to her feet, belly tightening with nausea as adrenaline flooded to her system.
Connor had to have been shot.
There was no way Sloane had missed at that range.
Sure enough, it was Sloane who stood up in the shallow water. He turned to push his foot down on Connor, submerging his motionless body.
Sophie launched herself with all her strength, hitting the big bald man in the back of the neck with her protruding elbow, knocking him face down into the water. But he was still holding the pistol, and he brought it up out of the water, firing, firing, firing, the spit of the rounds a deadly rain—fortunately he couldn’t get an angle to hit her.
Sophie used her body weight to keep Sloane submerged, her knee between his shoulder blades. She grabbed the arm holding the pistol, and using all her upper body strength, twisted it behind his back until she heard, and felt, the pop of his shoulder dislocating. His body jerked beneath her as he released a gust of bubbles, and the pistol fell from his fingers and sank to the bottom.
Sloane thrashed, trying to get a purchase to stand and toss her off. Small waves, the uneven sandy bottom, and his strength all contributed to Sophie having trouble staying on his back and holding him under.
Sloane managed to get his feet underneath him, and surged upwards with a gasp that threw her backwards. She landed in the shallow water, scrabbling backwards crabwise on her hands and feet towards the shore as he spun to face her.
One arm dangled useless, but Sloane’s good hand reached toward her as he coughed and bellowed in rage, staggering out of the shallows toward her.
Sophie lashed out and caught his knee from the side, a tricky move she had learned in her MMA fights. In matches it had to be done carefully or it would break the knee joint—but this time, she wanted to break it.
Sloane went down with a cry, his leg collapsing, bringing him to his knees in the water. Sophie burst up to hit him from the front, capturing his head in a chokehold and drawing him up against her hip. Holding her wrist with the opposite hand, Sophie winched down the pressure on his windpipe as he tore at her arm, punched at her legs. Dougal Sloane wasn’t going down easy.