The psychiatrist sipped coffee and regarded him with the penetrating eyes. “Last March I remember seeing you on a stretcher, being taken from a warehouse, if I remember correctly, and of course I watched the coverage of your supposed rendition. When you surrendered last month, I watched that as well. And now, your disappearance from Quantico has captivated the media and the entire country.
When Georgia approached me, she made it quite clear before identifying you, that I would be in a position to assist someone who needed my specialized services but was not able to ask. Rowan, I know you’re innocent. Helping you regain emotional health would be my pleasure. In fact, I would consider it an honor.”
The last thing he wanted to talk about was his emotional health. Thinking about what the tricky shrink might get him to divulge left him uneasy. Just drinking coffee with the guy was exhausting, and he didn’t like the feelings the doctor had stirred up in a half-hour of chatting. But more than anything, today he wanted to be with Danielle. “Well Doc, I’ve got another appointment. How about tomorrow, same time, right here? That fit into your schedule?” He couldn’t help snickering. This was his personal, private psychiatrist, after all. “Oh yeah, there’s one last thing. How much did my colleagues offer to pay you to come out here and tell me what to do?”
* * *
Angelo stared at Rowan’s back as his new patient strode away with a slight limp, seemingly without a care. It was a façade, of course, but he marveled at the man’s demeanor. Barefoot, wearing a rumpled, unbuttoned shirt over cutoffs and clutching a Starbucks mug, Rowan had shown him how to navigate the labyrinthine house. Then the brooding man strolled with him to the brick walkway and pointed the way to the beach. After that, Rowan had sneered at him and said, See ya later, Doc. He didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes so cold and mocking. And yet, he sensed good humor and kindness in the troubled man, all but lost beneath layers of what he knew must be truly abysmal pain.
Whew. Georgia hadn’t been kidding when she’d said this would be a challenge. Rowan Milani got all his juices flowing. The man was hurting and his well-meaning friends had wounded him even more by acting without his consent. Shaking his head over their thoughtlessness, he decided to get more Starbucks and jot down his initial thoughts. Chuckling over their shared enjoyment of what constituted a great cup of coffee, he realized he’d found a starting point in developing trust with the wary man.
Goodness, then he needed to figure out how to send some money to his daughter, the Union Gospel Mission in Sioux Falls and maybe even his ex-wife. The amount Rowan told him would be deposited in an account for him – every month – was nothing short of staggering and significantly more than he’d been promised. There had to be a way for him to share it without giving away the identity of his patient or his whereabouts. He’d have to consult with Chad or Michael about that.
Feeling more energized than he had in years, he took a moment to enjoy the warm breeze fluttering the palm branches, the sugar-white ribbon of sand and the turquoise water. His life had definitely turned an interesting corner. Smiling to himself, he shrugged. Looking back had never been his style. The future stretched ahead, full of interesting possibilities for him and his new patient. He couldn’t wait to get started.
* * *
Sitting cross-legged on the blanket he’d arranged on the sand, Rowan tossed back a hefty shot of Jack Daniel’s. After meeting with his colleagues and talking with the sharp-witted psychiatrist, he needed the whiskey. Relishing the burn down the back of his throat, he splashed more into the glass and wondered what was keeping Danielle. He’d already poured her favorite wine.
Stretching and twisting his back, he considered the state of his body. Soreness lingered in his shoulders, along with a stiffness he figured would probably be with him for the rest of his life. Some of the scars from last spring had started to fade. But most important – no more aching twinges plagued every breath.
Deciding his ribs had healed enough, he’d asked Danielle to meet him at a hidden section of beach. Tucked into a curve in the shoreline and partially shaded by a cluster of palms, it provided the privacy he craved. It wasn’t the Four Seasons, but it beat the house, where someone always seemed to be knocking on their door. And he wasn’t in the mood for interruptions – not today. Danielle walked around the bend and waved. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. Bettina gave me the third degree, so I finally told her to tell everyone to leave us alone for the afternoon.”
Downing another gulp of Jack Daniel’s, he watched her walk toward him in the deep sand. The enticing bounce of bare breasts under her t-shirt and the natural sway of her hips beneath short shorts had his palms sweating and his pulse pounding in his throat. Blinking in the dappled sunlight, he gazed up at her. “Hi Danielle. Have some wine.”
Sliding down next to him, she took the glass and watched him through a long, slow swallow. “Mm, thanks, this is the best wine. Hey…I ran into Michael and he told me about the psychiatrist.” She sipped more wine and then frowned, laying her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry they did that without consulting you.”
The feather light touch of her body against his chased the jumbled thoughts away. He twined his fingers in her hair, enjoying how the sunlight sparkled through it. “The shrink is OK…and he likes Starbucks.”
Danielle laughed out loud and tipped her head back to finish the wine. Staring at her smooth neck, he followed suit and drained the whiskey, tossing the glass to the sand beyond the blanket. When she slanted a brow and laid back in the shade, he looked down, mesmerized by how her breasts filled the t-shirt. She ran her tongue provocatively around her lips and his mouth fell open.
Giggling, she pushed herself back up beside him and slid her hand inside his shirt, trailing her fingers from his chest to his belly, pumping his heart rate higher and giving him instant goose bumps. “Rowan, take your shirt off, would you? Want me to help you? Do your ribs still hurt?” She paused, swirling her fingers in the fine hair around his belly button, giggling again when he grabbed her cool, dry hand with his hot, sweaty one. Her voice became wistful. “Do you realize it’s been almost six months since we flew to Chicago for the weekend?”
Nodding as he pulled the shirt off, he smiled at her. “Yeah, I know how long it’s been. But hey, my ribs don’t hurt anymore.”
Eyes wide, she put her hands on either side of his face. “I can’t believe it. What are we waiting for?” Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him down with her to the blanket. Her fingers left a trail of fire on his skin, moving playfully down and helping him out of the cutoffs, then tingling up his sides, dancing across his shoulders, and raking deep into his hair.
Arousal rolled through him in burning waves and he kissed her hard, heard her soft moan when his tongue touched hers. Eager for more, he slid his hand beneath her shorts and she lifted her hips to help him pull them down. When he slipped his hand under her t-shirt and felt her tremble, saw her chest heaving, he could barely whisper. “We gotta get rid of this, Danielle. It’s in my way.”
He waited while she pulled the t-shirt over her head and then lost himself in her body. God, she was so soft all over. When he explored with his hands and lips, tasting and teasing with his tongue, she arched her back and gasped, sending his heart rate skyrocketing.
She was everything he could ever want. Then the steel door slammed shut, echoing in his mind, sending him back. Alone in the frigid cell, nose burning at the stench of sweat and urine, he remembered what he’d wanted so desperately to tell her while he suffered, cuffed and chained, staring at the concrete floor.
He lifted his head and shuddered. Danielle opened her eyes. “What’s the matter?” Her hands, warm on his chilled skin kept him anchored in the present.
Breathing hard, he looked down at her. “In the brig at Quantico, I…” He paused, touching her face with shaky fingers. “I thought I’d never see you again and I wished… I wanted so badly to tell you how much I missed you and how much I loved you.”
D
anielle stared at him intently, and her hand gripped his arm. When she spoke, the ferocity in her voice made him shiver. “It’s all over. Just make love to me – right here – right now.”
Unexpected tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them away. “Danielle, you know that’s all I ever want to do.”
The smile she gave him was tender. “I love you so much, Rowan. And I can’t wait any longer.” Her hands were warm and gentle on his body. “Please – let’s do this.”
* * *
EPILOGUE
September 11th
Rowan walked toward the pool house for his morning workout, a beach towel slung over his shoulder. Situated east of the house, surrounded by palm trees and a tangle of overgrown grass and shrubs, the secluded facility was one of his favorite places. Stepping off the brick walkway onto the sandy path leading to the door, he reflected on the routine – the deceptive semblance of normalcy his life had fallen into. Making love to Danielle, if he was lucky, constituted the beginning of his day. While she showered, he grabbed coffee and headed out to swim.
The Olympic-sized pool allowed him to vent his growing resentment over the destruction of his career and reputation, the scars on his body, the limp he couldn’t conquer, and the screwed up mess in his mind. He swam hard, pushed himself viciously until his chest heaved and ached. Then he worked out, forcing his shoulders, wrists and hands through the exercises Michael’s father had taught him. After that, he hit the weight machines until his muscles burned. Another swim helped him unwind, and he finished by soaking in the hot tub.
The exercise always made him hungry, and he munched through a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and took his coffee with him to meet Angelo. The shrink had grown on him, although more often than not, he needed solitude and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s when their sessions ended. Sometimes he wanted to choke the perspicacious psychiatrist, but Angelo seemed to know when his rage threatened to overflow and backed off accordingly. The bitch of it was that the guy got him thinking about things way more than he wanted to.
His afternoons consisted of drinking alone on the beach if Angelo’s insights proved to be too much. If not, he went fishing with Ralph. Now that they weren’t boss and subordinate, the tension between them had evaporated, and their friendship had grown even stronger. Ralph’s wife Marion made monster cookies for him and served them warm out of the oven with big glasses of milk, to fatten him up, she said, and he liked that. She was easy to talk to, and he could relax because she never prodded him with embarrassing questions about how he was doing. Nope, Marion just accepted him without judgment, like she always had, and he liked that, too.
During the evenings, he and Danielle curled up by themselves or met up with Chad and Bettina. They watched movies, read books, and caught the news. Sometimes he and Danielle just talked – about all kinds of stuff. Well, she talked and he listened. He loved to tweak her and then wait while she reacted. Her passionate responses gave him an excuse to get his hands on her before she could do something to him. And more than anything else, he wanted his hands on her, all the time.
This morning he’d planned to commemorate the attacks of September 11, 2001 and pay his respects to Michelle by watching the memorial services at Ground Zero in New York, where he’d been every year until this one. Scanning the channels and settling on FOX News, he found that he’d forgotten about the time difference, and the memorial services were over. Instead, a serious reporter anchored a special on America’s most wanted homegrown terrorist – him – for God’s sake – complete with pictures of his parents and the house in Carpinteria, California where he’d grown up. They’d found his high school senior picture, another from college, his FBI ID shot and finally, the photo taken at Quantico’s brig. He almost didn’t recognize the long-haired, bearded man who looked into the camera like a cornered animal. But he was well acquainted with the terror mingling with rage in that man’s eyes.
They had video too, of him on a stretcher and from the day Ralph escorted him across the tarmac in chains. Watching his halting steps toward the Bureau’s jet, he shivered. He could still feel the weighted, padlocked chain around his waist and the cold metal on his wrists and ankles holding him captive. The anchor talked knowledgeably about how he’d become radicalized, about his traitorous escape and the terrible blight he’d caused across the country and hell – around the whole fucking world.
After that the anchor reported on the FBI and CIA’s joint efforts to find him, and their newest angle – a fifteen million dollar reward for information leading to his apprehension. That made the sweat bead on his forehead. Any number of greedy entrepreneurs would be inspired to search for him. As his aiders and abettors, Ralph and Chad had rated only five million dollars each, and that made him laugh out loud. His colleagues would feel slighted.
While the reporter pontificated about the importance of bringing him to justice, of making him an example, the simmering rage boiled over. Goddamn it. They couldn’t do this to him. But they had. Dealing with the specter of recapture and the constant reminders of pain and degradation had too often left him bereft, floating in miserable limbo, but not anymore. Not after listening to the lies and distortions that left his reputation in tatters and would surely encourage loathing in the very people and the country he’d risked his life to protect.
Flinging open the door to the pool house and stepping into the welcoming humid warmth, he decided that as soon as his workout was finished, he’d find Michael. If anyone could figure out a way to eliminate the men who’d cost him so much, it’d be his hard-ass friend. For the first time since the CIA thugs had abducted him six months earlier, he wondered what had become of his pistols. The two guns were another part of him that he’d lost.
Frustrated and angry at the gross injustice and all the lies, he dove into the pool and started swimming. With each stroke, he envisioned them. Seth Hancock, Lucien Talbot, Sal Capello, Rodney Ainsley and the master, the orchestrator of the destruction of his entire life – Muusa Shemal. He would find a way – somehow – to exact revenge for what they had done. Nothing would make him happier than placing a forty-five caliber slug between the eyes of each man, courtesy of his Glock 36.
An hour-and-a-half later, he slid into the hot tub, letting his body sink beneath the water. The frothing jets eased the soreness in his shoulders and helped him relax. Now maybe he could think about what he needed to do. Pushing himself upward, he heard a shriek. Shoving his hair back, he shook water out of his eyes and scowled.
His mother stood next to the hot tub, hands over her heart. “Oh dear Lord, Rowan, you scared the living daylights out of me.”
Bottles of cleaning fluids rolled crazily across the tiled floor, and a plastic bucket lay on its side next to a pile of rags. Water dripped down his face while he stared at her. “Mom, what are you doing in here?”
Looking flustered, Janice squatted down and turned the bucket upright, glancing at him while she reached for one of the bottles. “Your father and I come over here once a week. You know how your father likes to tinker. While I clean, he fixes. Over the years, quite a few things around the estate have fallen into disrepair, and he stays busy…” His mother glanced toward the door.
Sure enough, his father came striding into the pool area wearing a tool belt over stained, tan cargo pants and a clean white t-shirt. Khalil looked happy. “Good morning, Rowan. It’s nice to see you enjoying yourself.”
Wishing he’d come earlier to avoid them and wondering how he could make them go away, he faked a smile. “Hi Dad, looks like you’ve got a project going.”
Khalil paused, looked at Janice and winked, then turned to give him a brief grin. “Yes, I’ve got several projects in the works. See you later.”
Suspicious, he watched his father walk away, whistling off-key, like he always had. Janice stuffed the rags and bottles into the plastic bucket and stood up, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Could we, I mean, would you… Rowan, I need to talk to you.”
/> Sighing, he let his head droop and washed a hand over his face before looking at his mother and considering his options. Janice stared beseechingly, hands clasped together. It was much easier to simply stay away from his parents. That strategy had been successful until this morning. But he couldn’t deliberately hurt his mother.
Blowing jihadists to kingdom come with his Glock 18 didn’t bother him. But God help him, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Janice to get lost. Not when she stood in front of him with tears glistening in her eyes, looking sad and hopeful at the same time. No, he’d been had. “Sure, OK Mom. Just let me get out of here.”
Climbing carefully out of the hot tub, he draped the towel around his shoulders and slid into a lounger. Water dripping everywhere, he put his feet up and stretched out, letting his wrinkled hands lay in his lap. Janice perched on an adjacent deck chair and leaned forward. “Thank you so much. This means everything to me. For a long time I’ve wanted to talk to you in person. It’s no good on the phone or in an email, to say what I need to, especially on this day.”
Annoyed with her meandering and the reference to 9-11, he frowned at her. “Let me help you out, Mom. You’re sorry, right? You want to apologize for things you said a long time ago. Well, all right. I accept your apology. And you know what? You can forget about it. Because the last thing I want is to relive any of that.”
Janice blinked at him. Her mouth formed an O and she raised her hands as if to stop him. “No, it’s not that easy. You don’t understand. What I need is…”
Consummate Betrayal Page 31