She sat down slowly at the edge of the tub, looking at her face. She had her father’s eyes, and her mother’s hair, sleek and dark as a blackbird. Sam had a brief, fleeting memory of Wes arranging the waves over his body as she laid over him, using his ribcage for a pillow, listening to the beat of his heart. Another time. Another era. Back when she was innocent, when life felt succulent and ripe for the taking in its full-slip sweetness.
The truth was, Samantha missed the girl she’d been with Wes. When she’d made love to him in Afghanistan, she’d been chasing a past she recalled with longing. A time when she felt tender and guileless and wildly in love. The world she’d inhabited was so simple then—her orbit defined by her family, her friends, her naïve ambitions, and the adoration she felt for that beautiful boy with the blithe smile and eyes as gold as the sun.
Sam turned off the faucet, slipping into the scented water with a groan of deep satisfaction. She felt the warmth seep into her bones, dulling the aches, the earlier pain diffused into the effervescence. As she lazed in the drowsy contentment that stole over her body, her mind wandered over what Rox had said to her on the phone.
There is something beautiful about scars. You said scars meant the hurt was over; that the wounds were closed and healed and done with.
Had she lied to Rox all those years ago, telling a frightened girl in pain what she needed to hear? Or was it the truth she herself wasn’t willing to acknowledge?
Sam had never really allowed the wounds to close. Not the ones that mattered. She owned her sadness, but she’d never learned to let go of the suffering that came with it. It defined the woman she’d become—angry and fierce and indomitable. Samantha took life by the horns now, unafraid to wrangle with it, heedless of the outcomes, because she had already survived so much. What else did she have to fear?
What do you want? Carey’s words whispered through her mind.
“I want out. I want out of this loneliness,” she admitted to herself in the quiet peace of the steam-filled tub, as warm and comforting as a womb. “I want to stop reliving my agonies again and again. I want the wounds to close. I want the pain to heal…”
Samantha knew she couldn’t heal the past by living in it anymore, dragging herself across the shards of her memories, comparing herself to a girl she could never be again.
She could only heal herself in the present.
She just had to figure out what she needed to do that…
Chapter 9
March—Morning
Tel Aviv, Israel
R O X A N N E
Rox burned off her early-morning disquiet, cleaning the AirBnB flat she’d rented down to the drains, erasing all trace of her existence. She liked to switch it up every two to three days, and thanks to the willingness of regular people to share their homes, she always had an interesting place to stay, well under the radar, each booked under a new, untraceable identity.
Today she’d be moving onto the next persona in a new part of Tel Aviv, so she carefully applied her make-up: contouring her features to manipulate the eye, making her nose appear longer than it was, her cheekbones higher, her eyes a little more almond-shaped. Rox pulled on a shoulder-length dark wig, flipping up the ends with a hair dryer. Finally, she dressed herself in a fine gabardine business suit she’d bought the day before, finishing the look with black-rimmed glasses and a pearl necklace. For all intents and purposes, she looked like a banker or a business consultant. Attractive but not eye-catching. Young but professional. Altogether forgettable.
Satisfied, Rox did one last sweep of her look before slinging her purse over her shoulder and swinging open the bedroom door.
“Good morning, neshama,” Avi said, surprising the hell out of her.
Rox immediately reached for the gun in her handbag and he pushed her back into the apartment before she could pull it on him.
“Maybe don’t shoot me just yet,” he said as he clasped her wrist with one hand, locking the door with the other.
“How the hell did you find me?” Rox snapped, pissed he’d managed to find her. If Avi knew where she was—anyone could know. Dammit. She immediately began thinking through all her carefully catalogued escape routes.
“Oh, come on—you don’t get to act outraged when you pulled the same stunt in my home a few days ago,” he replied, hazel eyes quickly taking in her outfit. “This look is entirely too uptight for you, neshama.”
“You should see what I’m wearing underneath,” she retorted, though her heart was beating triple time.
Avi seemed to like that idea, releasing her wrist just enough that she managed to twist out of his grasp. She yanked her gun from her handbag, stepping back as she disengaged the safety, the click audible in the quiet room.
“I don’t recall inviting you in, Avi.”
He prowled closer, ignoring the gun. “Invite me in then,” he said softly, and God help her, she imagined inviting him in for all kinds of other fun and games.
Rox stood locked to the ground as Avi nudged her gun to the side. He leaned in slowly to graze her cheek lightly with a kiss, the bristle from his shaven cheek a deliciously rough whisper against her skin. The glimmering chemistry between them seemed to go from strength to strength. She wasn’t altogether sure if it was the provocative awareness between two people as dangerous to each other as they were to enemies, or if it was a mutual appreciation for each other’s skillsets and abilities, but whatever it was, standing this close to Avi Oded was like sparking fire to a tinder.
But if he’d bothered to track her down in person, Rox suspected it was for an important reason. And as much as she’d love to allow herself to be seduced by a scorching hot super spy, she was certain seduction wasn’t the reason he was standing in front of her this morning.
“If you showed up this early without even a cup of coffee, you’re about to deliver some very bad news, aren’t you?” Rox stepped back, dropping her handbag onto a nearby settee before tucking her gun in the back of her waistband, just in case.
“Actually, it’s your turn to make the coffee.” Avi answered with a smirk. “Why does it have to be bad news? I could have just wanted to see your latest disguise,” he said, looking over her business suit. “I don’t like it. You look like a litigator.”
“You don’t like lawyers?”
“Not particularly. But I like that I never know what the hell I’m going to get with you. Each time I see you, you’re completely different,” he marveled.
“It’s a gift.”
“It’s a defense mechanism.”
“So I’m a chameleon,” she shrugged, turning to move into the small kitchen. “I suppose I do owe you a cup of coffee,” she conceded.
Avi watched her go through the motions of preparing a pot, casually seating himself at the small table across from her as she worked, giving her space. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he crossed his legs casually. This morning Avi was impeccably dressed in fine wool slacks and a lightweight black sweater under a lambskin jacket. He looked good, but it was obvious he’d been up for hours.
“So where are you moving to now?” he asked after a few minutes. Rox smiled in spite of herself.
“Avoiding having people know where I am the point. Telling you defeats the sort of defeats the purpose,” she replied, brow raised.
“It’s just me, neshama. Save me the trouble of having to track you down again,” he coaxed.
“Tell me how you found me in the first place.” She leaned against the counter.
“The same way you found me,” he replied noncommittally. “People with our skillsets and resources can find nearly anyone we want, given the right motivation.”
“That’s a nice non-answer.”
“The queen of evasion is calling me out for being evasive?” Avi smirked.
Rox poured them both a cup of coffee as soon as it was finished. He murmured his thanks as she sat down across from him. “The only reason you’d bother to track me down in person is if you’re worried about me o
r if you’re worried about you,” she stated matter-of-factly, sipping her drink. “Neither of which is a good thing. Who else knows I’m here?”
“Only me, neshama,” he answered, though it sounded like a promise. “And you’re partially right. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t concerned—though the issue has become larger than you, me, or Samantha.”
Her brow knit. “Go on.”
Avi reached inside his jacket pocket and produced a stack of photographs. He handed them to her. They were pictures of passports. Six in total. Different countries, different names—but all the same face.
Lucien Lightner looked different from what she expected, but unmistakable nonetheless, if you knew what you were looking for. Gone was the aquiline nose and cleft chin, but she’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere. Lightner was still handsome in a brutal way, but his elegant greyhound sleekness morphed into the kind of gauntness only surviving a great ordeal could manufacture.
In each of the six passports, Lightner’s eye color varied between green, brown, and blue. His hair color changed from brown to black to blonde. He had a goatee or beard in some photos and was clean-shaven in others. Even with his new face, Lightner managed to pull off jaunty and sophisticated—the kind of man who knew exactly who he was and precisely what he was set about doing. Despite her animosity toward him, Rox was impressed. Lightner had fully embraced the very chameleonism she lived by, but he was the same demon underneath it all, just as she was. The disguises they interchanged never really changed that.
Rox took a deep breath, thinking through next steps. “This is some seriously good stuff,” she told Avi honestly. She looked up after a moment of studying the photos. “Why are you concerned all of the sudden? We have Lightner’s new face. Now all we have to do is track this piece of shit down. Everything’s just gotten so much easier.”
“Not necessarily.” Avi shook his head, his mouth compressing into a hard, thin line. For the first time since he entered the room, Rox saw the stress lining his eyes, the tension he held in his shoulders. “I started running biometrics on Lightner last night when I got the passport photos from one of the counterfeiters he used. I wanted to see if he was still in the city,” Avi explained. He paused, running his fingers across his mouth, like he didn’t want to tell her something.
“Go on,” she urged, leaning forward.
Avi met her eyes. “We run two kinds of surveillance in Israel—blanket biometrics and targeted searches. Blanket biometrics include anyone Mossad wants to keep an eye on. Suspected terrorists, targets, ex-cons, other spies—”
“Any chance I can get access to this software?” Rox asked, only half-joking.
“I’m surprised you haven’t already hacked into the NSA,” he responded.
Who says I haven’t?
“I was curious if Lightner would come up in any searches and who he might come up with,” Avi continued explaining. He reached inside his leather jacket and pulled out a couple more surveillance photos. They were grainy, but Lightner’s new face was instantly recognizable. He was getting into a dark SUV with a tall greyhound of a man with round wire-rim glasses. Rox had no idea who the man was, but clearly Avi did.
“That’s Uzi Dichter,” he informed her. “He’s a major player in Taas, an Israeli weapons manufacturer, but everyone knows the man’s corrupt, even if it’s not said outright. Unfortunately, he’s protected because he’s a vocal supporter of our current prime minister.”
“Avi, no offense, but I don’t see why I should care about this,” Rox pointed out. “So Lightner’s got some nefarious friends. What’s the big deal?” Unless Samantha was right, and this is going to be Lightner’s new breadwinner… she kept those thoughts to herself.
“It’s a big deal because Dichter has been dealing arms for the past few years, skimming off the production excess or declaring inventory damaged when it’s actually perfectly fine. Mossad is aware, but since the quantities have been relatively small and dispatched to countries where we have no interests, it’s been flagged but not acted upon.” Rox put two and two together.
“You think you just found Lightner’s new business model, don’t you? You think he’s going to get into arms?” Damn, Samantha either had a sixth sense or she was just that good. Probably both.
“It makes sense,” Avi answered with a shrug. “If he can get his hands on something significant, like new gen-weapons tech, Lightner can easily turn a profit selling to militants in Africa, the Middle East, or even Southeast Asia. It’s a fast way to get back to black. Besides us, no one knows what he looks like now, so he’ll be virtually untraceable unless agencies know what to look for. So far.”
“It’s smart,” she agreed. “Almost all his money is gone. This is a quick-turn investment with guaranteed profitability. He already knows all the major players from his time in the British SAS and working deals through K&R at Leviathan. Hell, he’s probably got the world’s most wanted militia leaders on speed dial already.” Rox looked down at the pictures. “What’s the story on Dichter? You said he’s linked to the current PM?”
“He’s a bottom feeder,” Avi answered with an eye roll. “Too small to bother with, but too protected not to be a pain in the ass.”
“So we come at him sideways. Make him an offer he can’t refuse,” she finished with a shrug.
“He’s not a member of the Tattaglia family, neshama. This isn’t The Godfather,” he replied. “Taas is one of the most important weapons manufacturers in the world, and Dichter is very close to all the right people. This requires strategy—finesse.”
“You let me worry about how to get to him,” Rox replied with a slow, confident smile. “Just get me any info you can on Uzi Dichter and where he’s going to be over the next few days.”
*
March—The Next Day
Wyatt Ranch, Texas
S A M A N T H A
Sam held the 20-inch barrel of the rifle up just after she finished cleaning and reassembling the big, handsome Winchester. Her Uncle Grant had lovingly cared for her father’s collection, and it showed. He kept them racked up in a custom sycamore gun cabinet along with other high-end rifles that would’ve made John Wayne salivate. Sam smiled a little as she ran her fingers over the oiled wood. Boys will be boys, no matter the age.
“That there’s a seven-shot, lever-action repeater,” Mack McDevitt said from the doorway of the library. “Used to be one of your daddy’s favorites during hunting season.”
Sam glanced up toward the thick Texan drawl. Mack McDevitt stood in the doorway of her father’s study, his rangy frame still broad and capable, despite his age.
“You used to help Dad pack his own shells too, didn’t you?” Sam replied with an amused grin. “Like you needed all that extra gunpowder with the heavy metal you guys were toting around. What were you two shooting at in Texas? Rhinos?”
“You would pack your own shells too if you ever had a couple-thousand-pound angry bull charge ya, little girl,” Mack teased her as he came forward.
Sam stood and Mack rounded the desk, giving her a gentle hug. “Good thing I’ve got a horse fast enough to get the hell outta the way, old man,” she teased back, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
Mack smelled like some nostalgic permeation of tobacco, spearmint, and clean cotton, a scent she’d recognize anywhere. Sam closed her eyes, recalling a wistful forgotten memory of the first time her father and Mack had taken her to one of his oil fields. She’d been a wisp of girl then, in awe at the sheer size of the mechanical jack pumps, teetering back and forth like giant see-saws, drawing up untold amounts of crude from wells she couldn’t begin to imagine the depths of. Mack had swung her up onto his shoulders as he walked her around, explaining what the massive machines were doing, breaking the process down into parts she found both scary and fascinating. And even now, she felt calm in the sturdy loop of his arms.
Sam leaned back, studying Mack’s lined face, the burnt-coffee color of his eyes. He was getting up there in years, but he was st
ill spry and fit as a fiddle. His leathery skin looked like it’d been permanently sun-cured, and she supposed it was. Because even though Mack McDevitt was a wealthy man many times over, he still made it a point to go out and see to Wyatt holdings weekly. He always liked being in the fields more than he liked being in an office.
“I hear Wyatt Petroleum will have a banner quarter,” she said.
Mack grinned, shrugging lightly as he stepped back. “Well, black gold’s still how we earn our keep, but the renewables you’ve got us developing are going to blow all that out of the water in a few years. Got a couple Chinese officials looking to snap up our solar thermal tech before the Russians can get to it first.”
Sam nodded, pleased. “Well, I could barely see two yards in front of me during my last business trip to Shanghai, so I’d say China’s probably willing to outbid Russia, and more’s the better. We’ll just plow all that profit into the other energy projects we’ve got in R&D.”
Mack nodded, walking toward her father’s open gun case. Rob Wyatt had collected some rare beauties—a beautifully engraved Remington carbine, a Springfield musket that had probably seen the Alamo, and a special Marlin rifle with a buffalo hand-carved into the side.
Mack glanced up at her, a mischievous smile on his face. “You want to see if these bad boys still shoot?”
Sam laughed softly. “I hurt my back, Uncle Mack. Not my eyesight. You sure you want to be embarrassed out on the range?”
“You’re cocky like your daddy,” he told her, eyes twinkling. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot about how I’m like him these past few weeks,” she admitted wryly. “Not sure I like it.”
Mack considered her a moment. “I know Rob wasn’t the greatest father to you, especially after your mama died. But he loved you, you know. You and Ry were the best parts of his life, even if he didn’t tell you so.”
Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 14