by Kimberly Rae
“That’s why I never lose. I can sense all the possibilities.”
Since Steve was not present, Cole allowed himself a small eye-roll. “Can you sense my desire for a large meat lover’s pizza?”
“Ask her to dinner.”
“Yeah, that’d be classy.”
A truck drove past and backfired. Cole tripped and landed on one knee, helpless against the sudden flashback triggered by the sound and the impact:
She removed her headscarf to reveal glorious waves of long black hair and features that would inspire poetry. Delilah, he’d named her, the woman with haunted eyes, who asked for secrets.
“Don’t do this,” he pleaded.
Her hand wrapped tight around the grenade. “I have to,” she said. “I warned you. I told you.” They both heard the unmistakable roar of the lead tank of his battalion’s envoy. She removed the safety clip. “There is no other hope for me.”
“Please...” He reached out.
She pulled the ring. He had two seconds to assess the facts. Distance. Trajectory. Length of time before her grenade would detonate the eight other explosives strapped to her body.
The number of his men who would die...
“Cole, are you there? Can you hear me?”
Cole shook himself free of the memory and stood. “What did you say?”
“I said just get her to come here and I’ll do the rest.”
“And then I’m out of the picture, right?”
“Right.”
Cole hesitated at the door. He swiped a hand across his chin. “And even though I live in Gainesville now, you’re not going to call me up every time you need a side job done, right?”
“This was a one-time thing. I appreciate the help.”
“I don’t—” Cole realized Steve had hung up and didn’t bother to finish his sentence. He surveyed his surroundings again, this time for quick exit routes, another skill he’d never expected to use as a civilian. A large amount of his experiential training, both in and out of combat, was proving useful in his new life. Too useful for his comfort.
He swiped his phone to record mode and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Comfort didn’t matter. Neither did his personal feelings or impressions. “Time to get the job done,” he muttered. He pushed open the door to Rahab’s Rope and found himself in a heaven for women who loved jewelry and pretty things. He stood just inside the door, a bull afraid to step too far into the china shop.
Meagan Winston stood twenty feet away near the register. She was taller and more lithe than he’d expected from his study of online photos and surveillance from a distance, and her hair was a different color than the photos he’d examined, and shorter. She had flown in just yesterday. What twenty-five-year-old single woman chose to fly internationally on Christmas Day instead of spending time with family or friends? What kind of woman got tested for driving under the influence during lunch hour?
The facts all pointed in the same direction. She was the one.
__________________________
Friday, December 26
1:30 p.m.
Lucias arrived moments after Meagan but parked across the street, noting his mileage counter had tripped ninety thousand one hundred miles exactly. He wanted to park next to her, get out and talk to her, but he couldn’t today. He wasn’t wearing the right clothing. Didn’t have the right name. So he waited, watching, making sure she was safe. Her stride was purposeful—she always strode purposefully—as she walked from her little yellow car to the front entrance of the store.
His heart filled at the memory of the day he met her, at that very store, the first day of February, 2010, back when the sparkly jewelry had appealed to his eyes, before the terrible headaches. She had been kind to him. She gave him a tour of her store and told him about her trips to India. Lucias’ contact had wanted him to cross over to South America to expand their drug trade internationally, but from that day on, for Lucias there was no option but India.
A car door slammed. Lucias looked back to make sure the police had not followed Meagan to the store. It was not a police car, not a marked one. The man who emerged was big. His broad shoulders stretched his open suit coat so much, Lucias doubted it would button. The wind nudged his jacket off his barrel chest and revealed a gun holster strapped over his left shoulder. It wasn’t empty. Lucias watched through his rearview mirror, shaking, as the giant pushed his dark sunglasses off his eyes and looked at the sign that said, Rahab’s Rope, a Global Marketplace. He walked toward the store, talking on his phone, looking around. He saw Lucias. Was he an undercover cop? Had Lucias somehow raised suspicion? Had someone discovered that the little vial of colored sand-art packaged in his trunk wasn’t a cheap souvenir?
With trembling fingers, Lucias put his car in gear and merged into traffic. He had to get away, get home, right now. He could check on Meagan later.
That man had better not do anything to the woman he cared about, or he would pay. Lucias would do anything to protect Meagan.
4
Friday, December 26
1:30 p.m.
“Your hair! What happened?”
Meagan stepped back and angled her head to look in the mirror positioned behind the cashier counter. A stranger stared back. It wasn’t just that ten inches of hair was gone and it was a different color; her loose Indian-style top flowed even more than usual. Indian curry and her stomach typically had a love-hate relationship, but this trip the love part had been missing entirely, sending her home minus a few pounds she had not needed to lose.
Then there was the bruise where her forehead had hit the steering wheel an hour ago. Nothing like a big black-and-blue mark to inspire people to ask what stupid thing she had done lately. She’d stick with the story about her hair.
“It turned orange,” she told Brianna, the newest intern at the store, whose own chestnut hair cascaded in curls down to her waist. “The stylist said it had been dyed too many times and there was nothing she could do.” Meagan shrugged. “So now I’m a pageboy.”
“That’s not a pageboy cut. You’re a pixie,” Brianna corrected. She reached to move Meagan’s bangs aside. “Is that a bruise on your forehead?”
Meagan pushed the hand away with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Whatever you want to call my hairstyle, the short length is great for showing off this latest batch of earrings I brought back from India.” She glanced in the mirror again at the silver wire hoops their Indian partners had styled through and around jade beads, creating a design unique to Rahab’s Rope. Her gaze drifted up to her forehead, and she arranged her bangs to cover the skin better. “These are my new favorites. I’m so glad I didn’t have the stock in my bag when I got mugged.”
“You got mugged?” Brianna dropped the marketing postcards she’d labeled and bent to retrieve them from the floor, calling up from where she crouched, “What happened? I hadn’t heard anything about that.”
“It was the last day there, and I’ve had the creepiest feeling since that someone is following me. It was so strange, this—”
Their pleasant-sounding bell announced an arrival. Meagan swiveled on her cork-heeled sandals to tell the customer the store was closed until New Years. She should have locked the door. “Welcome to Rahab’s Rope. We’re doing inventory today, but—”
Her words faded to silence. Was this bulky, intimidating man Cole Fleming? She had given him the store address when he’d asked about meeting her, not willing to share home information, a precaution she felt doubly thankful for now that she knew he wasn’t a policeman. Not a local one anyway. Maybe he was a reporter out to sneak a good story and just lied about being with the law, or he might be a lawyer for someone they’d been instrumental in prosecuting. Whatever he was, if he was a liar she wanted nothing to do with him.
Brianna put a hand on the counter and pulled herself up enough to peek toward the doorway. “Wow,” she whispered, and added with a giggle, “Weren’t you just saying this morning how hard it was to find a guy taller th
an you? What are the chances ...”
“Shh!” Meagan directed back toward the counter.
What would her perfect guy be like? Brianna had asked the question just that morning. She hadn’t teased when Meagan said he had to be a guy she could look up to, both physically and spiritually, but she had joked about Meagan’s stipulation that he not be too thin. Meagan didn’t have anything against thin men, but if she got to create her dream man, she was particularly attracted to ones who had some meat on them.
This guy was downright beefy. His sport coat stretched around muscular shoulders and even the hands passing his tablet back and forth were huge. He stood just inside the door, surveying, a crease of concentration between his eyes. She followed his gaze around the room, encompassing jewelry, scarves, window-hangings and woodwork. When his eyes stopped on her, she wondered what he saw that made him frown. A glance down at her white broom skirt and turquoise silk top, embroidered in white and accented by one of their finest necklaces, told her all her clothing pieces were where they should be.
“I’m looking for Meagan Winston,” the superman in a suit said, and Meagan blinked.
Brianna stood and her sudden appearance behind the counter seemed to startle him. “That’s Meagan,” she said brightly, pointing. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to help you find what you’re looking for.”
She was too far away to jab with an elbow. Meagan hoped her smile looked unembarrassed. “I’m Meagan. What can I do for you?”
He assessed her with his eyes, rather boldly, but without any indication he was flirting. “I’m Cole Fleming. We talked on the phone this morning. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Um...are you a lawyer?” She decided he couldn’t be with a newspaper. Journalists usually tried for charming. This guy was as charming as a brick.
He approached and she noted they were the same height. No, she wore heels, which meant flat-footed he’d be taller than her.
“FBI,” he said.
What a chatterbox. He stood, feet spread, hands positioned at his sides but not relaxed. She brought her gaze up to his wide face with its prominent jawbone and chiseled features. His eyes were a dark green, almost emerald, the exact same shade of his shirt. “You’re with the FBI?” she asked.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Today I am.”
She crossed her arms. He had called her that morning before she ran off the road, so it couldn’t be about that. “What do you want to know?”
“You should give him a tour,” Brianna offered.
Meagan resisted the urge to throw one of their coffee-table books at her young, grinning friend. “He’s not a customer, Brianna. He just wants—”
“A tour would be great.”
She eyed him, and after a moment said, “Alright, Mr. Fleming. This way please.” With some effort, she morphed into professional mode and ignored the man’s unnerving silence as he followed her around the room. Pretending he was an average customer, she regaled him with stories of how their work began and different women whose lives had been changed for good. Tears gathered when she talked about the children she had hated to leave just days ago.
“It’s difficult to get the women out of the brothels, for many reasons,” she explained, pushing aside wooden doors attached to the wall via wheels that slid along a metal rail. They opened to reveal space where they stored materials and created new designs. “But we have had great success rescuing children who are growing up there. Brothel children are ostracized in their society, so giving them a place where they are treated with love and value can make a big difference for their future options.”
“I’m sure it makes a difference to their present hope as well.”
She noted with curiosity how his eyes had softened when she spoke of the children. “Yes, I find loving the children, and being loved in return, is the most rewarding part of what I do.” She hadn’t planned to say that, but when his eyes turned to her and some kind of connection passed between them, she did not regret her words. “And best of all, we get to offer them the unconditional love of God and the eternal freedom that only comes through Jesus Christ.”
The corners of his mouth moved, as if he was trying to make them go upward into a smile, but then he frowned again and his next words surprised her.
“Would you be able to leave work for a couple of hours?”
Both her eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”
She had led him back into the main part of the store, close to the cashier counter. Brianna listened to their conversation with unveiled interest.
He did not seem embarrassed or even shy. “I’m sorry, Miss Winston, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to come in for questioning.”
5
Friday, December 26
2:15 p.m.
Meagan reached out to steady herself on the cashier counter. “What?” she asked. “Wh—why?”
The black-suited man lifted his arm and rotated his shoulder counter-clockwise. His face remained impassive. “I’m afraid I can’t give you that information. Your name has shown up in reference to an investigation I am helping with. I’ll need you to come with me.”
Meagan heard Brianna gasp behind her, followed by the sound of postcards fluttering to the floor. “I most certainly will not,” Meagan announced.
The sliding doors between the shop and the back room slid open with a protesting squeal. Kelsey Sanders, owner of the store, peered through and motioned to Meagan, a question in her eyes. When Meagan shook her head, Brianna whispered, “I’ll go,” then said loudly, “Coming, Kels.” She gathered the postcards into a clump and dropped them onto the counter. “Don’t say anything interesting until I get back.”
Meagan rubbed the tense spot on her forehead. Another squeak let her know the doors to the back room had either been opened wider, or slid shut. They needed to oil those runners. She dropped her hand to see Kelsey whispering to Brianna, gesturing Meagan into the work room. Something was not right.
“I think...” Meagan faced Cole. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”
He frowned. “Miss Winston, I—”
“I really don’t have time right now to—” Meagan’s own interruption was cut off by the appearance of a third person in the doorway. Alexia Rivera moved into the space just behind Kelsey’s right shoulder, mascara running lines down her face; her outfit, as usual, woefully inadequate for the season. Nine months locked in a basement had caused her to forget things like the need to check the weather before dressing for the day.
Brianna left Kelsey and Alexia in the doorway and made her way back to Meagan. “She’s in bad shape,” Brianna said, not needing to gesture back to the girl now weeping against Kelsey’s shoulder. “The guy who trafficked her is up for parole and she’s terrified he’s going to come after her.”
“Meagan,” Alexia called out. She motioned for her to come. “Meagan!”
Meagan turned to face Cole. “I need to go.”
“But I need to—”
Would the guy not give up? Alexia whispered frantically in Kelsey’s ear and Meagan saw Kelsey’s face tighten. “Meagan,” Kelsey said with a calm softness Meagan knew was her chosen tone for intense situations, “there’s a code red for you.”
She nodded. She could see that for herself.
Kelsey glanced at Cole and then locked eyes with Meagan. “And a code blue.”
Meagan felt the blood drain from her face. Alexia was looking at Cole Fleming with unmasked terror. Brianna let the postcards she had retrieved fall back on the counter. She murmured, “I’ve been here all summer and no one’s used code blue.” She abruptly veered around the cashier counter and grasped Meagan’s elbow. “We have to go.”
Meagan was not about to leave this man in their store while they hid in the back room. She faced Cole Fleming and said with slow and measured words, “I want you to leave now.”
The man looked from Meagan to Brianna, who took baby steps away from them both as she tugged on Meagan’s arm, urging her to follow. “You have
to come into the FBI office with me for questioning,” he said.
Meagan clasped her hands in front of her. “Do you have ID that shows you’re with the FBI?”
His forehead creased. “Not with me. Listen, I—”
“I will not go anywhere with you, and I am politely asking you to leave.”
“But you haven’t answered my questions yet.”
“You haven’t asked any.” She released her arm from Brianna’s painful grip and led the way toward the front door, her hand out in the way she might guide a lingering customer after closing hours. “The shop opens again on New Year’s Day. If you return then with some ID, we can talk.”
She opened the door. Brianna stood rooted to her spot, her hand still out, looking much like a mannequin someone had irresponsibly left in front of the cashier counter.
“But I—” he started to say.
Meagan didn’t let him finish. “Thanks for stopping by, and Happy New Year.” The moment he had both feet outside, she pushed the door closed and locked it. She smiled and waved through the glass then made her way back to the register. She grabbed Brianna by the arm and rushed her to the back room. Once behind the stockroom door, surrounded by organized drawers of beads and scarves and partially-made product, Meagan whispered to Kelsey, her voice shaky, “What happened? Why did you say there was danger to me personally?”
6
Friday, December 26
2:25 p.m.
Alexia curved around Kelsey to cling to Meagan. “Brianna said he wanted you to go in for questioning. Don’t you remember?” She wiped at her cheeks, spreading a large black smear across her face and onto the back of her hand. “Don’t you remember how I got trafficked? How my pimp got his girls?”
Kelsey’s red curls bounced around her freckled cheeks as she patted their youngest rescued victim’s shoulder and handed her a tissue from a nearby box. “He’d tell them he was a plainclothes policeman and that they needed to come in for questioning, and once he got them in his car, he’d drug them,” Kelsey said, still using that deceptively calm voice that helped their young victims but always put Meagan’s senses on edge.