One burly airport worker was busily refueling the jet, while another, clipboard in hand, waited for her to hand over her paperwork for a final perusal. Once she’d given him the documents, she dropped the staircase, then approached the two men. “English?” she asked, and the one with the clipboard nodded. “Lift him in,” she said, handing the man several yuan bills. He took Dario inside while the other got his wheelchair and their bags.
“I suspect you’re responsible for my freedom,” Heather said as they both waited for the workers to get Dario settled.
“Are you all right?” Chase avoided eye contact, not sure she could face Heather after what had happened between them.
“They didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you mean.”
She could feel Heather staring at her.
“But I was pretty damn scared I was about to become someone’s next donor,” Heather continued. “God, I just want to go home and forget all about this…abysmal experience.”
“About that,” she said softly. “I can’t let you go back to the US yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dario isn’t the forgiving type.”
“But I take it you made a deal with him.”
“Do you think he’ll care about our agreement after I let him go?”
“Let him go?” Heather sounded furious at the prospect, but Chase still couldn’t meet her eyes.
“I can’t just kill him,” she said. “He’s not part of my assignment.”
“He’s a criminal.”
“He is, but I wasn’t hired to go after him.”
“Can’t you have him arrested?”
“Again, he’s not my problem.”
“He became your problem when you involved me.”
“I’m getting you out safe and sound, right?”
“Out, yes,” Heather snapped. “But not safe and sound. Not when I can’t even go back to my own country. And what’s going to stop him from coming after me when you’re done with him?”
“We’re going to relocate you, with the help of the feds.”
“Are you serious?” Heather shouted. “My life isn’t for you to play with or decide what happens to me. I came here to help you, not for a life makeover. Did you conveniently forget to tell me all this before you scammed me into helping you?”
“I understand this is all too much to take in right now,” Chase said, “but I didn’t set out to destroy your life. If things had gone according to plan, if Dario had never found the wire, everything would have worked out differently.”
“But I suppose you forgot to inform me about that particular scenario. So, instead, I get a, ‘Oh, oops, Heather…things didn’t go according to plan. It’s too bad, but we’re going to change your life now.’” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Heather run her hand through her hair in exasperation. “I have a sick brother, or did you forget about that, too?”
“Of course not. We’ll make arrangements for him to come with you,” she said quietly, hoping to calm her down.
“That’s just….just…”
The two airport workers emerged from the jet, interrupting their conversation. The one with her paperwork nodded at Chase as he returned the documents. “Takeoff in twenty-one minutes,” he warned her sternly, as though there might be repercussions if she wasn’t ready to depart precisely on time. “I still have to check the cockpit.”
She nodded her approval and he went back inside. Heather stared at the jet like it was a one-way transport to Hell. “You have to get in, Heather,” she said gently. “Please. It’s for your own safety.”
“Fuck.” Heather hesitated another several seconds, but finally headed toward the narrow stairway with Chase beside her. Chase extended her hand to help her aboard.
“Don’t touch me.” Heather’s icy tone and rigid body language spoke volumes about her state of mind, and if looks could kill, Chase would already be six feet under. It hurt to see Heather so angry with her, but this whole damn situation was beyond her control. Yet again, her job was defining her personal decisions, actions, and reactions, and silently demanding her to do whatever was necessary. She wanted only to take Heather the hell away from this mess, but, like Landor, all she could do was protect her from the danger she herself had put her in.
Chase followed her into the plane and asked both Heather and Dario to buckle up as she walked past them up the aisle toward the cockpit.
The airport worker was just coming out with his clipboard. “You’re ready for takeoff,” he told her.
“Thanks. I’m good to go.”
As she followed him out, Heather and Dario simultaneously blurted out, “What?”
She turned to look at them as she closed and secured the door.
Heather looked dumbfounded. “You’re going to fly this?”
Dario sat rubbing his thighs with his eyes shut, as though willing his legs to work long enough for him to jump off the jet.
“Relax, I’ve done this before. Once.” She smiled. She hoped Heather would realize she was joking to break the ice, but when Heather started to unbuckle, Chase went to her and stooped to stop her hands “I used to do this for a living in the military,” she whispered. “Tru…I know what I’m doing.”
Heather looked at her dubiously for a few seconds, but finally relaxed back in her seat.
Once she was satisfied Heather wasn’t going anywhere, she went back to Dario and withdrew a set of handcuffs from her jacket.
“Is that necessary?” he asked. “Do you think I’m going to jump?”
Heather answered before she had a chance to. “I think it’s necessary.”
Chase secured Dario’s wrist to his armrest. “You heard the lady.” She rose and headed toward the cockpit. “First stop, a US military base in Japan to change aircraft. Then on to France.”
“I wish to avoid any involvement with the military.” Dario still looked and sounded shell-shocked about her piloting the plane.
She shrugged. “And I wish you didn’t exist. If only wishes made a difference.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Off the coast of France
Cassady groaned as she came awake, her jaw aching from Rózsa’s beating when she’d tried to free herself in the bathtub of the hotel. The intervening hours or days—she wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed—were a blur. He’d drugged her so heavily she had only rare and brief semi-lucid moments, but whatever he’d given her seemed to be finally wearing off enough for her to ascertain her current situation.
She was on a small motorboat of some kind, and they were at sea. The porthole near her head gave her a view of endless blue, and nothing else. She was lying on a cot in the sleeping compartment, hog-tied so tight her hands were numb. Her mouth was sandpaper, so dry she couldn’t swallow, and after so many days without adequate nourishment, she was too weak to free herself. Not that she had any useful resources to help her—he’d stripped the room of everything but the bed and a blanket.
The urge to despair was strong. He’d won. She could no longer hope for any chance of escape, and if he continued to deprive her of food and water, she’d be dead in a few days at most. Thinking of Jack was her only comfort. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I tried. I did everything I could to get back to you. She closed her eyes and tried to block out everything but images of their happy times together.
Some minutes elapsed before a sound broke her from her reverie—kitchen noises, from close by. Rózsa was fiddling with pots and pans; the galley must be right outside the small door to the sleeping compartment. A short time later, he entered, holding a bowl and a glass of water, and though he tried to keep his face neutral, she detected a hint of relief in his eyes.
“Please,” she croaked through parched lips. “I can’t feel my hands.”
She’d grown so accustomed to his stoic silences and indifference to her suffering she didn’t expect him to answer, but he surprised her. “I’ll untie you for ten minutes, but if you make any further trouble, I’ll toss you overboard with a
n anchor and be done with you. In a few hours, I’ll likely have no further use for you, anyway.”
His cryptic warning sent chills through her. “What does that mean?”
“Your people are apparently unable to meet my demands, but I may not need them after all,” he said as he untied her. “Enjoy your meal. It’s probably your last.”
* * *
Sainte-Maxime, France 6 p.m.
“You never answered me,” Jack said, her heart hammering with anticipation. “How do you know me?”
“I promised to never contact you,” Celeste replied. “I wanted to, but…he made me promise.”
“Who made you promise what?”
“Your father.”
“My father? You know my father?”
“I do.”
“How? And why would you contact me in the first place?”
“Look at me, Jaclyn,” Celeste said quietly.
Jack couldn’t get past their resemblance, but was that what this woman was referring to?
“What do you see?”
“A woman who looks a lot like me. So what?” Unnerved by the conversation, she tried to sound flippant.
“That is because you are mine.”
Jack opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“You are my daughter, Jaclyn.”
Jack got up and paced. How was this possible? She was here to find Cass but instead found a stranger who looked freakishly like her and claimed to be her mother. This was all too weird to be true. She knew she’d been born in France, but that was all. Ops were told only their country of origin and that they’d been selected from orphanages because of their intelligence and other extraordinary abilities. As far as she knew, none had ever run into their biological parents. Why was this happening to her? What kind of joke was life playing on her this time? She raked her hand through her hair as she continued to pace, then finally stopped and turned to face the woman. “How are you sure?”
Celeste got up. “Please, wait for me here. I want to show you something.” She paused in the doorway leading toward the rear of the house as if to make sure Jack wouldn’t leave. “I will be right back.”
Her head felt as though it would burst. It was all too much to grasp. Could this woman really be her mother? She kept pacing, this time more keenly attuned to her surroundings, curious about the stranger who had her face. The house was even smaller than it appeared from outside, but clean and orderly and warm. Homey, with crocheted afghans and embroidered pillows on the antique couch and matching armchairs, and local watercolors on the walls.
She stopped to look at a photo on the fireplace mantel. Celeste, at a much younger age, probably in her twenties. The resemblance was uncanny. Celeste’s smile was forced and her eyes were worried, which made her look even more like Jack.
“It was shot shortly after you were taken away from me,” Celeste said from behind her. “Please, come sit next to me.”
She turned and found Celeste on the couch with a shoebox on her lap. She hesitated, not sure she wanted to see what Celeste wanted to show her, but after several seconds succumbed to her curiosity. “Who took me away?” she asked as she took a seat beside the woman.
“Your father.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have the means or…lifestyle…to support you back then, so I had to tell him about your existence when I called him to ask for help.”
“He didn’t know he’d fathered a child?”
“No. I never told him I was pregnant, or anything about you at all until three years later, when I realized I couldn’t…support you.”
“So you weren’t married to him.”
“He was an officer in the American army. When I told him about you, he traveled here immediately. He refused to leave without you after he saw you. I wanted to keep you, Jaclyn, but I was afraid my lifestyle would affect you.”
“Hold on a minute. Where did you meet him? Was he a tourist here?”
Celeste shook her head. “He was in France for six months for his work. A tall, handsome man. Always so gentle and charming.” Her expression became wistful, almost sweetly melancholic. “A true gentleman, the type of man I wasn’t used to back then. Even after the six months were over, he used to come back to visit me. We had been seeing each other for two years before I got pregnant.”
“How did you meet?”
“I came from a very poor family, Jaclyn. I had no education and no prospects for a future. I did what I could to help support my siblings. I cleaned houses, sewed clothes, and baked to help my family.”
“You gave me away because you were poor?” she said, exasperated. “That’s no reason to—”
Celeste raised her hand. “The money wasn’t enough to feed so many mouths, so I did the unthinkable. And that’s where I met your father.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was working in a brothel at the time.”
“You mean you were a…a…”
“Prostitute.”
Jack dropped back against the couch and ran her hands though her hair. “Jesus fucking Christ.” She pulled out her pack of cigarettes and prepared to light one. “I need a smoke.”
“I will not have that in my house. It’s a disturbing habit, and I will not have you kill yourself in front of me. And watch your mouth, young lady.” Celeste frowned.
“First of all, I’m forty, and second…really? Cursing and smoking are what bother you about all this?”
“There’s no need for harsh language,” Celeste said sternly, “or self-destruction.” Her face quickly softened. “Your father took you away, and he was right to do so. A place like that is not where a child belongs. You deserved a better life than I could offer.”
“How…how did you know he was the father? I mean, you were seeing other men then.”
Celeste shrugged. “I just knew it. I was careful with other men, but not with your father. He knew there was a good chance you weren’t his, but that didn’t stop him from coming right over. Once he saw you, he knew. Just like I did.”
“So, where is he now? What happened to him? Because I sure as hell didn’t grow up with my father.”
Celeste looked away. “I don’t know. I was never informed.”
“I grew up in an institution, adopted by a private organization in the US where they train children from all over the world to kill, steal, and die for them.” She saw Celeste wince in pain at the recounting of her history. “Did my father sell me to them?”
Celeste took the lid off the shoebox. “I don’t know,” she replied as she busied herself with the contents.
“What was his name?”
“Jack Burnes. He named you after himself. I had given you the name Isabelle, but he insisted on changing it to Jaclyn even though you were already three years old.” Celeste removed a picture from the box and held it up. “This is the day you were born. You were such a beautiful baby.”
Jack took the faded Polaroid and stared at it. A much-younger and weary-looking Celeste, propped up on pillows in a bed, cradled her infant daughter with an expression of serene joy. She had never expected to see a picture of herself as a newborn in the arms of her mother; the experience was so overwhelming she had to fight back tears.
“This one was taken six months later.” Celeste handed her another photo.
Jack was clutching a stuffed bunny, her eyes bright with glee as she smiled at the camera.
“And this one was taken on your first birthday.” Celeste wiped her eyes.
Jack in a highchair, dressed in green overalls, caught laughing— her tiny fist gripped a remnant of cake and she had chocolate smudged all over her face. “I do like chocolate,” she said, and her voice broke.
“And these are—”
“I remember those,” she said, when Celeste gently lifted a mobile from the box. Five cherubs—thin, delicate sculptures about three inches long and made of braided gold wire—hung from a frame of wooden dowels. “My angels. My golden angels.”
&nbs
p; “I made them for you,” Celeste said. “They used to hang over your crib. From the day you were born until you left.”
Jack reached for them and couldn’t fight the tears anymore. They fell freely down her cheeks. “My angels,” she said again.
Celeste put her arm around her and they cried together. “I’m so sorry, Jaclyn. I want you to know if I had to do it all again, I would do it differently. I would have never let you go. Not to that kind of life.”
Jack kept looking at the mobile. “They were always in my dreams. The golden angels.” She held it up. “One angel is missing.”
“I gave it to your father when he took you,” Celeste said. “You used to look at those angels for hours. I wanted you to have something from your time with me. Something you loved, that made you smile.”
“I don’t know what happened to it.”
“Maybe your father does.”
“How did you know I changed my face?”
“I used to get pictures of you every few years.” Celeste reached in the box and handed her pictures starting in her preteens up to before she left for Israel and changed her life and face. All were candid shots taken of her private life—the early ones when she was away from the Colorado EOO campus on field trips, the later photos when she was in New York between assignments. “Who sent you these?”
“I don’t know. There was never a return address but I’m sure it’s your father.”
“Was he keeping tabs on me?”
“Maybe.”
“You said he was American, so I guess it’s possible he found me or knew where to find me,” she mused. “Do you ever hear from him?”
“No, but he still sends me money. He has a man deliver it to me once a month. He was always very generous.”
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