“Partying teenagers is a job for the county sheriff? If this were the first time, it would be one thing, but you’ve been late to class the past three weeks in a row.”
“My dad is busy,” the girl protested.
“But it isn’t always your dad, is it?” the teacher said more kindly. “Didn’t you say you forgot what day it was last time you were late?”
With obvious reluctance, the girl nodded.
“I thought you wanted this part?” the teacher asked in a gentle voice that showed she was not immune to the burgeoning crocodile tears.
“I do, I do!” the girl protested. “The Sugar Plum Fairy has the best dance. Please, I promise to get to class on time next week.”
The teacher nodded and the girl ran off before she could change her mind. But right as she got to the door, the young girl stopped and flashed Natalie with a brilliant smile that gave no hint of the tears looming a few moments ago. “Thank you again for catching me. I would have broken my butt.”
Natalie laughed and smiled. “No problem.”
When Samantha was gone, the teacher turned to Natalie with a sigh. “Thank you from me as well. Sammie’s mother died when she was young, and she’s been raised by her father. She’s our best dancer. A real natural talent. But she doesn’t take it very seriously. I think she prefers hockey over ballet,” she added with a dramatic shiver.
Feeling the same way about hockey herself, Natalie could commiserate. “She’s young. Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
The teacher shrugged as if she didn’t think that very likely. “You’re new around here?”
Natalie tensed defensively, the instinct to cut the conversation short with the question—even an innocuous one—strong. But she knew that in a small town like this it would only provoke more comment if she appeared to be hiding something.
She’d grown up in a town about this size where everyone knew everything about everyone else. Although they hadn’t known everything about her. How could they? Not even she had known everything.
It was common knowledge that she and Lana had been adopted from Russia, but who could have imagined that they were the daughters of Soviet “traitors,” who had been put in some sort of secret program as punishment for their parents’ sins.
Her parents had been ballet dancers in the old USSR who’d tried to defect to the West after a performance but had been forced to abandon their plans when the woman who was watching Natalie and her sister fell asleep in front of the TV and failed to bring the girls backstage after the show as she was supposed to have. Natalie’s parents had been arrested and thrown into a Russian prison to die, and the lives of their two children had been destroyed because of a boring TV show.
Ironically, the Soviet Union dissolved later that same year. But it was too late for her parents, and the former KGB members who emerged in the new government as SVR (Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation) agents had not forgotten the children of the former traitors. They were unknowing and unwitting “sleepers,” sent to America as children via an adoption program and ready to be “awakened” if the relations between Russia and the US were to chill again.
If it sounded like something that could happen only in a book or movie, that is exactly what Natalie had thought, too. Until hockey player Mick Evans walked into her perfectly wonderful, boring, and normal life four years ago and made her believe it.
She’d never been able to watch hockey again without a shudder, which, coming from Minnesota—or the USSR for that matter—was something akin to sacrilege.
Mick can’t find you, she reminded herself. Relax.
Natalie forced herself to return the broad smile of the other woman, who she could see was just being friendly; the ballet teacher wasn’t a hit man sent to kill her. Again.
“I am new to town,” Natalie said. “I’m renting the old Lewis farm and moved in a couple weeks ago.”
The other woman’s brows shot up. “I’m surprised that place is habitable. It hasn’t been lived in full-time since Mrs. Lewis died a few years back.”
More like five. And she was right. The place was horribly run-down. But Natalie had agreed to fix it up in exchange for a minuscule rent. The four children who’d inherited it had no desire to be farmers, but they hadn’t been able to sell it. They were just happy to have someone living in it so its value didn’t depreciate further.
Natalie’s chest squeezed. She loved the place. It was perfect—or would be if she had the chance to do everything she wanted. But she knew she probably wouldn’t have the opportunity. She couldn’t stay long. She had to keep moving.
But maybe one day she would find a place just like it to continue the artisanal cheese business that she’d just been getting started when her father had been forced to sell the family farm. That was when she’d made the fateful decision to go to Washington and the nightmare had begun.
If only she could go back. She would be safe and secure in her nice boring and ordinary life, instead of feeling as if she’d woken up in some sort of bad James Bond movie.
And the man she loved would still be alive. They might never have met, but at least he would be alive. The squeezing in her heart turned to the familiar ache that she suspected she would carry with her forever.
Realizing the other woman was waiting for her reply, she said, “I’m doing some work on it—fixing it up a little.”
“A little? I’m surprised the place even has water.”
Natalie smiled, which felt odd from disuse. She hadn’t had much to smile about in months. “It was a little rusty at first, but once I got the water heater going again, I’ve even been able to manage hot showers.”
“Wow! You know how to fix a water heater? I’m impressed. But you might not want to let Joe Randall hear you say that. He’s the town’s plumber, and he’s protective of his territory.” The woman smiled again, her eyes crinkling. She was older than Natalie had thought—probably a few years past Natalie’s twenty-nine—but her diminutive figure and tidy build coupled with delicate, dark features made her appear much younger. “I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself.” She held out her hand. “I’m Becky Randall.” Her grin deepened at Natalie’s reaction to the last name. “Yep, the plumber’s daughter who can’t even fix a leaky toilet.”
In the face of such overt friendliness, there was nothing else Natalie could do but return the shake. “Jennifer,” she said. “Jennifer Wilson.”
“Welcome to Kensington,” Becky said. “Are you a dancer or just a ballet fan?”
Natalie tried not to startle, but the question hit too close to home. “Uh,” she stumbled awkwardly, “just a fan.”
“Too bad. I’m looking for help with our annual Christmas Nutcracker production.” Natalie wanted to bite but forced herself not to say anything. “Well, if you are looking for work, the diner needs a new waitress, the hotel a bookkeeper, and the middle school a new psychologist.”
Natalie gave a sharp bark of relieved laughter. “Are you the town’s job recruiter?”
Becky grinned back at her. “Nope, just its manager.”
Natalie couldn’t hide her shock. She took in the pink tights, black leotard, toe shoes, and the thin, short black dancer’s sweater that crossed in the front. “You’re the mayor?”
“Town manager in these parts, but the job is essentially the same. You aren’t the only one who is surprised. I didn’t sign up for it, but no one else would agree to step up after our previous manager was caught dipping into the community fund to take his girlfriend on fancy vacations. They moved to the city before anyone figured it out.”
Natalie assumed she meant Burlington, which was Vermont’s most populous city at forty-five thousand. Tiny by most American comparisons, but big compared to the six thousand in Kensington. Burlington was about forty miles to the south from Kensington, which was on the Vermont-Canada border. Her picking a town so c
lose to the border hadn’t been a coincidence.
“What do you do?” the other woman asked. “Other than fix water heaters and put my inheritance in jeopardy?”
Natalie laughed. It felt good. Unfamiliar, but good. Despite her initial reserve, she found herself liking the ballet teacher/mayor—manager, she corrected herself—and responded truthfully. “I guess you could say I get things done.” My Girl Friday. That was what the deputy secretary had called her. The wistful smile fell from her face. Her handle-everything reliability had been her downfall. If she’d been less sure of herself, less the starry-eyed millennial who thought she could change the world, maybe they would have left her alone.
She shook off the what-ifs that didn’t help and explained, “I was a legal assistant for a law office in New Jersey the past five years.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. That’s what Jennifer had been doing before . . .
Natalie forced away the memory of her best friend before the tears in her throat rose to her eyes.
Becky’s eyes gleamed as if she’d just won the lottery. “I could use exactly that kind of help if you’re interested. You should see the mess the former manager left of the files.”
Natalie’s defenses were up again. A friendly conversation on the street was one thing, but she sensed it would be hard to keep her barriers up against someone as easy to talk to as Becky Randall. Ballet teacher, town manager, and plumber’s daughter.
“I’m pretty busy at the farm right now, but I will keep it in mind. Thanks for thinking of me.” Natalie glanced at the window, glad to see the girls were standing there staring at them. “I think they’re waiting for you, and I better get back to the farm. I still have some work to do before dark.”
The afternoon had gotten away from her.
“You okay out there by yourself? It’s pretty remote. I can call the county sheriff—Samantha’s dad—and have him check in on you if you’d like. I have to talk to him anyway.” She didn’t seem to relish the conversation.
Those flared instincts turned into full-on alarm bells. Natalie should have cut and run earlier. “No, please,” she said with what she hoped was not as much panic in her voice as she felt. “Don’t trouble him. I like the quiet, and I’m used to being alone.”
“In New Jersey?” Becky said with a healthy dose of skepticism.
This was turning out to be a disaster. Natalie had never been very good at lying, which was ironic given what she’d had to do the past few years. “I grew up on a farm.” Before she could ask where, Natalie added, “I better go. See you around.”
She got into her car as fast as she dared, waving when she saw that Becky was still standing there looking at her.
So much for not acting suspicious. Natalie’s hands were shaking as she started the five-mile drive down long county roads to her farm. No, not her farm. She couldn’t think of it like that. Her temporary place to live.
Her eyes kept darting to the rearview mirror, half expecting someone to be following her.
She had to calm down and stop imagining Russian hit men behind every corner.
The early-evening skies had darkened with clouds by the time she turned onto the long driveway, and even the shadows were making her jumpy.
Anxious to get inside, she pulled around back into the barn that served as a garage and pulled the groceries out of the trunk. She’d get the rest of the stuff in the morning.
She was about to turn around when a shadow fell across her from behind. The tall, powerfully built shadow of a man.
Her heart jumped to her throat as panic and fear turned every drop of blood inside her to ice. Oh God, they’d found her!
Three
Where the hell was he?
Scott put down his phone after leaving another message for Travis Hart. It was his fourth or fifth in the past week, and he didn’t like it. The survivors had scattered to all corners of the globe after they’d reached Moscow, but the guys were always supposed to let Scott know where they were, give him a way to reach them, as well as a heads-up if they were going to be out of touch for any length of time. In the past few months that they’d been in hiding, there were times when it had taken one of the guys a day or two to get back to him, but it had never been this long.
For operational security reasons Scott was the only one who knew where they were all located. Travis was in Alaska working as a deckhand on a fishing boat. The boat was only a day-tripper, meaning he would put out one morning and return the next evening—usually working thirty-six hours straight—but they didn’t go out to sea for weeks or even months like some of the bigger commercial ships.
Travis should have gotten back to him by now.
“He’s still not answering?” Kate asked, knowing how worried he was getting.
Scott shook his head. “He better have a damned good excuse for going incommunicado.”
They were at Kate’s town house, using her well-equipped office and computers—having a sister who worked for the CIA had its benefits—to go over every inch of Natalya Petrova’s life, just as they’d been doing for every day of the past week. And what did they have to show for it? Plenty, if the goal was to show Scott how little he’d known her. But if he’d hoped to find anything helpful to lead them to learning more about the cell or how she’d operated . . . nada.
He hadn’t even known she’d had a sister, which he’d discovered courtesy of a deactivated Facebook account that they’d uncovered. There were only a couple of pictures. The most recent was from Christmas three years ago with Natalie and a slightly younger-looking version of her with glasses standing in the snow in front of a big outdoor Christmas tree. Though she deflected questions about her family, which took on a new significance now, Scott knew she was originally from Minnesota so he assumed the picture was taken on a trip home for the holidays.
Both women were bundled up from head to toe, with heavy wool coats, scarves, and matching pink mittens and knit stocking hats with pompoms. All you could see were strands of long blond hair, identical big, wide-set baby-doll eyes, pink cheeks, and big, happy smiles.
Scott must have stared at the picture for hours, as if looking for a clue. Looking for something he had missed.
But it didn’t even look like the same person. He couldn’t put this sweet-looking Midwestern girl with her arm protectively around her sister in fuzzy pink mittens—mittens, for Christ’s sake—together with the coolly confident and sophisticated Washington staffer, or the covert Russian spy who’d been responsible for the deaths of eight of his men.
It was as if she were a chameleon, changing appearances based on her surroundings.
But he’d never been able to figure her out. It had been part of the attraction. Now he realized it should have alerted him that something wasn’t right. Instead of asking questions, he’d been too busy counting the moments until he could get her naked again.
From the first time he’d seen her, he’d wanted to take her to bed, and that had never changed. He’d expected the relationship and the fiery passion to burn out quickly. Natalie hadn’t been his type. Sleek, polished, and sophisticated, she was nothing like the wholesome, girl-next-door type that he usually gravitated toward.
When they’d first met, he’d assumed she was like all the other power-hungry political brokers in Washington who were interested only in what he could do for her. Which was why it was so surprising when he told her he was a navy seaman on temporary leave visiting a friend at Walter Reed—which also happened to be true—that she seemed almost relieved. Her claim to be “an assistant” didn’t seem out of line with his first impressions, and he assumed she worked for someone on the Hill.
But after forty-eight hours of virtually nonstop sex, he realized how wrong he had been when he walked into op brief at the Pentagon and the woman he’d left tousled and limp from lovemaking in bed that morning was sitting next to the deputy secretary of defense.
>
She didn’t hide her shock as well as he did—or her anger—on learning that her “seaman” visiting a friend at the hospital was actually lieutenant commander of the president’s favorite secret SEAL team.
Later, when he cornered her after the meeting as she came out of the ladies’ room, she had accused him of lying to her and told him she never wanted to see him again. Oddly, she’d seemed almost frightened.
He’d wanted to argue but knew she was right. Anything between them was impossible. Guys on Team Nine weren’t supposed to have girlfriends, let alone one who was so highly connected in the Pentagon. A relationship between them would have gone over about as well as a turd in the punch bowl, as Travis liked to say. The government didn’t like when high security clearances mixed.
Scott had thought she’d meant it until she turned up at his hotel room later that night with something else clearly in mind. He knew he should back away, but with that sleek, sexy body pressed up against his, he found himself pushing her forward . . . onto the bed.
He’d returned to Honolulu the next day, but he’d come back to DC a few weeks later. He told himself it was to check in on Kate, who had recently gotten engaged—an engagement that had ended recently, not long after Colt had reappeared in her life—but when Natalie walked into the bar where they first met, he realized how much he’d been lying to himself.
That had been almost nine months ago. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her for the next six months—until he’d deployed for the Russia mission. And the knowledge of how easily he’d slid into her trap still infuriated him.
“What are you going to do?” Kate asked, referring to the subject at hand, that of his uncommunicative operator.
Scott had been thinking about that the past couple of days. “I’m going to see if Colt can track Travis down. Have you heard from him?”
Out of Time Page 4