by Erik Carter
And now she was the one who had tried to kill a man.
Now she was an attempted murderer.
She kept staring at the back of her hands, feeling the presence of the mirror a few inches away from her. Taunting her. Gray dust from the gravel covered her fingers. Her knuckles were white. Trembling. She squeezed the sink hard.
The mirror.
She couldn’t look at it.
She quite literally couldn’t look herself in the mirror.
It’s always a bit of a revelation when you’re faced with a phrase’s real-life origins.
How can you look yourself in the mirror?
The words rolled over in her mind, again and again.
And she forced her self to do it. She forced herself to look in the mirror.
She saw someone who had tried to kill another human being.
Her eyes were bloodshot from her tears. Her hair was frazzled, dusty, and filled with leaves. The entire left side of her face was pink and puffy, contused in spots. The damage that Watson—or Dale, rather—had done to her.
Maybe it was the blow she needed, something to knock sense back into her just before she would try to do the worst thing imaginable.
Because now she could feel herself escaping Asa’s mental bonds. Dale—this federal agent of some sort—was a good man, she realized. And Asa was not.
Little flashes of memory hit her. The previous night. Asa’s naked flesh. Their sweat. How she’d considered the age difference. And savored it. Enjoyed the taboo. Feeling him filling her. Looking into his eyes. Questioning what she saw. Ignoring her gut instincts, the ones that had always been so good at reading people. The ones that told her that the eyes she was gazing into were cold. That they were no good.
She was disgusted with herself.
She’d slept with him.
And how she’d slept with him, the things she’d done…
Oh god…
Sonya believed in redemption. She believed people could overcome things, that even murderers could be forgiven. She’d read a lot about people who had overcome horrible pasts and gone on to do great, kindly things.
God, the universe, the Most High … He would forgive Sonya. She knew this.
She just didn’t know if she could forgive herself.
So what choice did she have? She was already in so deep. She was an attempted murderer. In her eyes, she was tainted.
She looked away from her reflection. She tried to calm her mind, to think as rationally as possible.
Nations went to war all the time. Criminals were executed. Tough decisions were made for the sake of higher causes, and sometimes people had to be killed.
She thought of Asa’s speeches. His desire to save the environment. What more noble cause was there?
Maybe she was being too hard on herself. Maybe the universe had positioned her exactly where she was needed to do exactly what needed to be done.
After all, she was an attempted murderer now.
What choice did she have but to go through with things?
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Who are you?” Hendrix said.
It was the exact question he’d asked Dale the previous night, in the basement, when they’d first met. As with that encounter, Dale was a captive and Hendrix was in the position of power. But this time the scales were even more disproportionately weighted.
Because this time Dale was tied to a chair.
Hendrix was a foot away from him, also seated, straddling a folding chair that he’d flipped around, his arms draped casually over the seat-back in front of him. He’d asked the question with that magical eloquence to which Dale had become accustomed. Smooth, precise, and measured.
Dale’s retort was equally as refined.
“Piss off.”
They were in an office, the room next to the kitchen, the one in which Hendrix’s Russian telephone conversation had occurred the night before. Bookshelves lined the walls, and behind the large cherry desk there had been an overstuffed, green leather desk chair. This chair had been pulled into the center of the room, and Dale was now securely tied to it with extension cord—his forearms to the armrests and his feet to the rolling legs.
Hendrix chuckled at Dale’s response.
“Fair enough. First names are fine. What I really need to know is who you’re working for. But I’m guessing you’re not gonna tell me that either.”
“Look at that. You really are a prophet.”
Hendrix laughed again, harder this time. “Evasive. Deceptive. How perfectly fitting of a federal agent.”
“Oh, but you’d know all about deception,” Dale said, “wouldn’t you, Darrell Asa Lutz, State-Department-dropout-turned-motivational-speaker?”
For half a moment, Hendrix was truly taken aback, and for the first time, he seemed to not have a response. Then his smartass smile returned. “I haven’t heard that name for some time.”
“Because you’ve fully immersed yourself in your lie,” Dale said. “The only way to do it. Using those communications skills of yours, that silver tongue. Whispering poetic poison to anyone who’ll listen, gathering supporters, convincing them of a noble cause. But in reality, you’re just talkin’ jive. You have a bigger plot you’re working on behind the scenes.”
Hendrix glanced away. The smile on his face shifted from wickedly playful to almost introspective.
“It’s so easy, Dale,” he said. “People’s ears are wide open. They want to listen. They’re looking for something to believe, for someone to follow. The things I say … they hardly even make logical sense. They just sound good. That’s all! And people love it. Toss a little word salad at them, and they’ll lick it out of a filthy trough.”
At that moment, Hendrix especially reminded Dale of the CAE’s leader, Glenn Downey. Downey also had a group of people clinging to his every word, simple people who, as Hendrix had just said, yearned for something to believe in, people who wanted so desperately for someone to show them a righteous path in a dark world. Taking advantage of this simple purity made Dale’s blood boil. He wanted to thrash out of his binds and destroy Hendrix.
“You could learn a thing or two from me,” Hendrix said.
“Oh?”
Hendrix nodded. “What I’ve just told you, it’s pure gold. Use your head. People aren’t so difficult to understand or to control. You’ve just got to break through to their minds. You gotta get in here.” He tapped a finger, hard, against Dale’s scalp. “Be clever. Use your head. That’s all there is to it.”
“Use my head. Got it,” Dale said, trying not to roll his eyes. “But to what end? What are you trying to accomplish here? What is all this?”
Dale motioned widely with his head, indicating the cabin on the whole.
“As you obviously know, I got myself into a bit of trouble with the State Department. Embezzling funds for the Soviets—short of espionage, that’s about as treasonous as it comes. And you know the punishment for treason. Amnesty is never gonna happen, so my only hope of survival is outside the United States. Of course, I’ll never make it through customs into a foreign country, not without being turned over to the nearest embassy. Unless…”
He dangled the last word in front of Dale, waiting for Dale to complete his thought.
“Unless you went in the back door,” Dale said. “Special arrangements from a grateful government, hostile to the U.S., to whom you sold state secrets.”
“Bingo. You’re a smart one, Dale,” Hendrix said. “My spies at Y-12 have already gathered a treasure trove of intel. Tonight, Cody and my boys are going to make their offensive on the plant, getting me the biggest piece of intel yet, while I’ll be elsewhere attending to more important matters.”
“Matters such as…?”
Hendrix scoffed and stood up.
“Oh, I think I’ve told you plenty already. And you still won’t even tell me who you’re working for.” He paused. “You’re not going to, are you?”
“Nope.”
“You’re not p
laying fair, Dale.”
“I’m a rotten bastard.”
“So I’ve noticed. Still, I imagine you’ll start talking … eventually.”
Hendrix put a slight emphasis on the word eventually, an emphasis that Dale found troubling, ominous.
Hendrix walked to the bookshelves and grabbed a small, thin item, wrapped in an electrical cord. As he unwound the cord, Dale recognized what the item was.
It was a soldering iron.
Dale gasped.
Hendrix smiled at him and grabbed something else—another extension cord, matching the ones with which Dale had been tied. Hendrix plugged the iron into the extension cord, the cord into the wall, and then dragged a small table from beside the desk and placed it next to Dale. He set the iron on the table and took a step back, shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Maybe you won’t tell me who you’re working for and why you’re here, but I’m betting you’ll tell our mutual friend.” He craned his neck to the closed door behind them. “Sonya!”
The door opened, and Sonya walked into the room. She wore a minidress and looked damn sexy. Aside from the smashed-up face.
Asa ushered her closer. “Ah, you put the dress on. Excellent. We’ve established that you’re no longer afraid to kill Watson. This time, however, I’m not asking you to kill him…”
He looked at Dale and flicked his eyes toward the soldering iron. Winked.
“I just want you to make him really miserable.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
If Sloane had to spend anymore time in these woods, he was going to go nuts. That was yet another reason to wrap things up right now.
He was crouched on the wet ground yet again, monitoring the cabin, and he’d been informed of how the situation had progressed with their target. After the man had taken Steeger hostage and negotiated with Hendrix, one of Hendrix’s men had killed Steeger and then forcibly hauled the target away to the cabin.
Which made Sloane question everything.
If the target wasn’t working for Hendrix and had also been against Maddox, whose side was this guy on? Clearly he wasn’t with the Russians, as Lebedev seemed to be in cahoots with Hendrix. Was the guy with another foreign power with nuclear aspirations? The Koreans, perhaps? Why was Steeger killed? Clearly he wasn’t an associate of Hendrix’s, as Sloane and his team had thought. Had he been working with the target?
There was a noise to Sloane’s right. A snapping branch. Not one of his guys. They were all in position.
Sloane put his finger over his trigger and looked. He had assumed the sound had come from someone making their way through the trees from the cabin, but instead he saw a figure moving toward the cabin.
Whoever it was, he was ready for some sort of action. He wore dark tactical gear, like a SWAT officer, and carried an M16. The guy was headed right toward Sloane, though it was clear that Sloane hadn’t been seen.
Sloane slowly lowered himself deeper into the undergrowth. The man walked within a foot of him and continued forward, never breaking his slow, methodical stride. Sloane had been through extensive SERE training and could make himself practically invisible, even from inches away.
The armed man continue toward the cabin. And it was then clear that he wasn’t alone. Sloane saw other figures in the darkness. Lots of them. All headed toward the cabin.
Organized. Trained. Well-armed. There was only one group it could be.
The security police. The ORR’s protective forces.
But what the hell were they doing out here?
Something was about to go down. And Sloane needed to ready his men. He would radio them when this new group of men was well outside earshot.
Whatever was about to happen was going to be huge. And somehow Sloane knew it was connected to the man who’d chased Maddox. The man who always wore a leather jacket and blue jeans.
Sloane’s target.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Dale could smell the soldering iron heating up.
Sonya walked over to Dale and Hendrix. She wore heels with her minidress, and they clicked on the hardwood floor.
Hendrix finally took his eyes off Dale and looked at her.
“Sonya, I got a problem. Dale here is some sort of fed with some sort of reason for being here. But he won’t give me any details. I’m thinking you and that soldering iron can get it out of him. But don’t be completely mean to him. No, no. Make it sugar and spice. A one-woman good-cop-bad-cop routine. Hurt him and then be real sweet to him. Sexy sweet.”
He winked at her.
“Go on,” he said and motioned toward Dale. “Climb aboard.”
Sonya looked from Hendrix to Dale. After a brief moment, she did as he instructed, throwing her bare legs over Dale and sitting on his lap, face-to-face, a few inches apart.
When Dale and Sonya had first tangled on the floor of the basement last night, Dale had been aroused by the closeness, even in the precarious situation he’d been in. Now, with her straddling him in an overtly sexual position, her weight on his thighs, their most secretive of regions pressed together, the scenario would seem even more irresistibly erotic. He could feel her breath on his face. He could smell her.
But this time it was different. Dale wasn’t aroused in the slightest.
Because there was a red-hot soldering iron on the table beside him.
“There you go,” Hendrix said to Sonya with a grin. “Give it to him good. From both barrels. Pleasure and pain. Do that thing with your tongue. You know the thing I’m talking about.” He looked at his watch. “Now, I need to go get ready. Don’t waste too much time, Sonya. Folks will be arriving for the meeting soon, and I don’t want them to hear a man screaming. Get your answers, and we’ll move on.”
He stepped over to the table, grabbed the soldering iron, and gave it to Sonya. He wrapped his hands around hers and brought the tip of the iron against Dale’s jeans for a split second.
The heat was intense, searing.
Dale screamed out.
Luckily, his Levi’s had absorbed much of the brunt. It was just a taste of the pain to come. The wound on his leg was small, but there was now a little, black hole in his jeans that would need to be mended.
No one messed with Dale’s 501s.
The bastard.
Hendrix took his hand off Sonya’s then placed it on top of her head, tussled her hair playfully.
“All right,” he said. “You kids play nice.”
After a final look at Dale, he walked across the room and left.
There was a small thunk as the door shut.
And then they were alone.
Dale gave Sonya a grin.
“I don’t suppose I’m in any position to charm my way out of this?” he said.
It was more than just a smartass remark.
It was a distraction.
He didn’t give her even half a moment to process what he’d said. He brought his head swinging toward hers. Unlike the headbutt in the basement—when Dale had purposefully missed—he intended on making contact this time. He intended on knocking her ass unconscious.
Sonya jumped out of his lap. The power of Dale’s thrust propelled him forward, sending the chair rolling forward on its casters. The chair crashed into Sonya. She stumbled backwards another few steps, the soldering iron still in her left hand.
“Come on!” Dale shouted, spit flying from his mouth like a madman. “I can do this all night!”
And he meant it. Dale could fight his way out of any situation. Even tied to a chair on wheels while being faced with a woman who had already tried to kill him once. A woman who now held a glowing-hot metal instrument in her hand.
Dale dug his fingers into the leather of the armrests. He gritted his teeth.
Bring it on.
But then Sonya did something very unexpected.
She went to the wall on the opposite side of the room, pulled the extension cord out of the socket, and set the iron on the floor—hinged on its stand so that the hot tip didn’t touch t
he hardwood. She walked back over and looked down at him.
Then she did something even more unexpected.
She threw her legs over him, sitting on his lap again.
She looked him earnestly in the eye, only a few inches away, tears forming.
“I’m sorry for what I did. Outside. With the gun. So sorry.”
She kissed him.
And not just a peck on the lips. She kissed him passionately, her lips moving fast and hard over his, her tongue coming out.
When a woman has tried to murder you less than half an hour earlier and now she has you tied to a chair, making out with you, you gotta realize that she’s more than a little bit off her rocker. But you don’t want to offend her, for fear that her insanity might swing back in the other direction. So you kiss her back.
Especially when she’s a damn good kisser.
Sonya finally stopped, and pulled away from him. Tears fell freely from her eyes.
“Why the change of heart?” Dale said.
“I was wrong. With all of this. This isn’t me. I … I just got so swept up in it all. You’re here to stop Asa, aren’t you?”
This girl was too unstable to offer any sort of information to. Dale didn’t respond.
“It’s okay. I know that you are,” she said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have done this to you. I want to help. What can I do?”
Dale hated the state the obvious.
“It would be really great if you could untie me.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She stood up and started undoing the knots in the extension cords. “You should scream. He thinks I’m torturing you.”
“Good idea.”
Dale screamed, deeply, from the gut, channeling all the horror movies he’d ever seen.
“How else can I help?” he heard Sonya say from behind the chair as she continued to untie him.
“I gotta tell you, I’m not sure I fully trust you, Sonya.”
“I don’t blame you,” she said quietly.
“I’m getting out of here. My friend’s in trouble. Just don’t get in my way. That’s the only way you can help.”