by Cate Noble
The bedroom door opened just then and Rocco came out.
“He claims he followed us here from the airport,” Rocco said to Dante.
“Alone? And with the precautions we took?” Dante shook his head. “Somebody’s feeding him information. How reliable is the owner of this place?”
“Does Grigori know you were in Rio?” Cat interrupted. If so, did Viktor know she’d been in Rio, too?
“More than likely,” Dante said. “But that doesn’t explain how—”
“Viktor had you tagged,” Cat said. She remembered what Dante told her earlier about not recalling all of his imprisonment. Giselle had forgotten, too. If Viktor had somehow been involved with Dante’s capture, too, did that mean the CIA had sold out one of their own?
Or had Viktor lied about the CIA’s involvement to compound Cat’s anguish? Disinformation…
Dear God! Where was Viktor now?
“What do you mean ‘tagged’?” Dante asked.
Cat pointed to the underside of her left upper arm. “Viktor implanted a microchip in case we escaped. I cut mine out.”
Dante unfastened his shirt again, ripped his arms free. Rocco moved in to help look and immediately pointed to a spot.
“Small, round scar? From a large-gauge hypodermic?” Rocco asked Cat.
She nodded.
Dante and Rocco swore simultaneously. “Grigori was probably waiting on backup. Cocky bastard,” Rocco said. “We need to lose that chip and get out of here.”
“Can you cut this one out, too?” Dante asked her.
Cat held up a trembling hand. “No. He’ll have to do it.”
“We’ll need to make it quick,” Rocco said. “Let me get a medic case.”
“I need…” Cat turned to Dante and spoke slowly in an effort not to cry. Marco. She needed to contact Sister Dores. “To make a phone call.”
She watched hesitation cloud Dante’s eyes, knew he struggled with trust as much as she did. They both had unanswered questions.
“If you want to warn your lover,” Dante began.
She could no longer hold back tears. “Marco,” she whispered. “Is my son. Have to warn them.”
The color drained from Dante’s face and was quickly replaced by a hard-edged anger. “Viktor raped you, didn’t he? Jesus! I’ll fucking kill him. Did he know…you were pregnant when you escaped?”
Cat shook her head. “Not…Viktor’s.” She swallowed. “Yours. Need to call. Now.”
Dante stood outside the hangar at the airport three hours later. The stars he’d seen hundreds of times before shone brightly overhead. Except now they were different. He was different.
He and Cat hadn’t spoken much since she’d dropped her bombshell. She’d rasped out the explanation that Marco was in an orphanage and Dante had immediately jumped to conclusions.
“You gave up our son!”
If Cat had had the strength, she surely would have kicked his balls in again. And he deserved it. She’d explained it was only a cover and that she lived at the orphanage, too.
Then they’d had to flee the house, forcing Dante to focus on other matters.
He had a son.
Behind him the hangar door opened. Rocco stepped out. “We leave in five.”
“How’s Cat?” Dante asked.
“She let me hook up an IV—it’ll help rehydrate her quicker. She’s upset that there’s no answer at the orphanage. I reminded her it’s the middle of the night there, but…” Rocco shrugged. “How’s the arm?”
“Fine.” It had hurt like hell, but Dante had let Rocco probe and remove the encapsulated chip. They’d dropped it in a FedEx box for Travis.
And after finding the tracking device, both men had drawn the same conclusion. If Zadovsky had been involved in Dante’s capture he probably knew what happened to Harry and Max. Jesus, if they were alive…
Travis had been stunned to hear about the turn of events and immediately began sifting for dirt on Grigori. He struck gold. Grigori was a former KGB explosives expert, Yuri Stanis. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. If Grigori had blown up Dante’s boat, that meant he was also linked to the explosions that killed the foreign operatives, too. That Zadovsky seemed to have had access to information leaked from the Agency was also of top concern.
Travis was en route to Mexico City to personally collect Grigori from his new and secure hiding spot. Dante, Rocco, and Cat were on their way to Rio to collect Marco. His son.
“Still in shock, Dad?” Rocco asked.
“I never thought I’d have kids.” Dante had given Rocco the broad strokes before they left. Of course, at this point all Dante had were broad strokes. That, and a million questions.
The pilot came out just then, signaling he was ready.
Inside the jet’s cabin, Rocco replaced Cat’s IV. “You’re looking better already. Wake me when this drips out.”
As Rocco moved to the rear of the aircraft, Dante motioned to the seat beside Cat. “Do you mind?”
“No.” She still had his cell phone gripped in her hand.
“Still no answer?” he asked.
“No, but it’s two a.m. in Rio. I’ll try later.”
Her voice sounded better. The throat lozenges they’d picked up were working. And she’d finally agreed to take some ibuprofen.
“Can we talk, Cat?” Dante hated asking, knowing she needed to rest.
But he had to know the rest of the story. He’d been relieved to learn she’d left their son at the hotel in Paris, to know that Viktor hadn’t gotten ahold of Marco.
The plane was moving now. “What did you do after leaving Berlin?” he asked.
Her eyes darkened, remembering. “I was desperate to get back to Paris. To find Marco. But Giselle was so sick, and we were in a stolen car.”
“Running for your life, by the way,” Dante added. Cat had probably been in poor physical shape herself.
“I called Remi. He’d just had surgery—I didn’t even know. Alfred, his butler”—she smiled—“yeah, like Bruce Wayne. Alfred came immediately, but Giselle had already died.” Cat grew quiet. “He helped me stage her death; I claimed her body later. Alfred has connections at the morgue and handled everything. He found that Marco had been placed in a state home, as a ward of the French courts. I broke in one night and basically kidnapped him. I suspect the French have kept it quiet rather than face more outcries over another child falling through the public welfare cracks.”
She paused and drank water. “Alfred took care of passports for Marco and me and got us out of Europe. He also gave me money, but then he had to back away. We knew Viktor would watch to see if I went to Remi for help.”
“Did you go straight to Rio?” Dante asked.
“No. I hid several places before coming up with the Rio plan.”
The orphanage. “Were you raised at Saint Maria’s?”
At first she didn’t answer. Finally she nodded, but offered no further explanation.
“I guessed that,” Dante admitted. “For Marco to have been taken in there, you would have had to known someone.”
“I worried the French authorities would publicize the kidnapping. That Viktor would figure it out.” She looked at him, cleared her throat. “How did you find me?”
“I got your Luzia name by following up on Remi’s death.” He also told her about tracking down Pearl Patterson.
“I didn’t want to be the one to help Remi,” Cat blurted out. “But Alfred’s health has been declining due to Parkinson’s. I couldn’t tell them no. They would have done it for me.”
Dante noticed that she was out of water. “Be right back.” He got up and got them both a chilled bottle of water. He brought back a box of tissues, too. She was trying so hard to hold it all in.
He opened her bottle, passed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Have I thanked you for protecting our son?”
Her eyes grew moist. “Right now, I don’t feel like I’ve done such a great job.”
“Yes. But everything seemed stacked against us. And you’d said—we’d both said—we didn’t want children.”
“If I had known…”
“You’d have what? Not gone on that mission? Come to Belize and celebrated?” Cat blinked back tears again, grabbed a tissue. “It’s too late to play what-if.”
Was it too late for them to start over? “You’re right.” Dante met her gaze. Then he reached for her hand and clasped it in his. “Now, will you tell me about the day our son was born?”
Chapter 37
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
July 16
(Present Day)
By the time they touched down in Rio, fifteen hours later, Cat was frantic that there was still no answer at the orphanage—
“Don’t think the worst,” Dante said. “You said the nuns stay busy. And now they’re down one volunteer.”
She prayed he was right.
Dante hadn’t left her side on the plane. They’d talked for hours last night, mostly about Marco. The shock of learning he had a son showed in the way he shook his head frequently.
At some point she’d fallen asleep, waking to find her head on Dante’s shoulder. That he’d been asleep, too, spared both of them new awkwardness.
They were in a private hangar again. She felt better than she had in a while. The IV and sleep had helped revitalize her body. But the biggest difference she felt was the lightness about her shoulders. That Dante knew…That he shared her worry.
Don’t read anything into it.
She sighed and tried calling the orphanage again. As the phone rang and rang, she suddenly remembered that Zetta had been packing the church office for the move to Saint Bernadette’s. God, how could I be so stupid as to forget that?
“I’m going to call Saint Bernadette’s,” Cat told Dante.
He and Rocco moved away, speaking quietly. Cat’s first attempt to contact Saint Bernadette’s netted a busy signal. A woman answered the second time.
Cat cut her short. “I’m trying to reach someone from Saint Maria’s,” she began.
Dante looked at her and mouthed, “They answered?” At Cat’s nod, he started moving back toward her.
“Saint Maria’s is now closed—” the woman began.
“I need to get in touch with Sister Dores from the orphanage. It’s urgent.”
There was a too-long moment of silence, that awful hesitancy that telegraphed bad news.
“You haven’t heard,” the woman said.
“Heard what?” Cat asked. Dante had reached her side, but she couldn’t look at him. “Please, I volunteered at the orphanage and helped Sister Dores and Sister Lolita with the children, but I’ve been away.”
“I’m sorry to tell you this then, but Sister Dores is in the hospital.”
Cat’s heart stopped beating. “Where is Sister Lolita?”
“Sister Lolita is—missing. Someone kidnapped her and one of the children.”
“Marco.”
“Yes! That was the child’s name,” the woman went on.
Cat felt as if she were dying, felt Dante’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “When…did this happen?”
“Last night. The doctors think the stress caused Sister Dores to suffer a brain aneurism.”
“What hospital is she in?” Cat’s voice grew hoarse.
“Antonio’s Public Charity.”
Dante’s grip tightened almost painfully as she disconnected. “What’s happened? Tell me.”
“Marco and Sister Lolita were…abducted last night.” Her voice broke.
His arms encircled her, holding her close. She pulled away, afraid that if she broke down now, she’d never stop crying.
She wiped her eyes on the backs of her hands. “We have to get to the hospital. I have to see Sister Dores.”
Rocco stood behind Dante. Cat knew by his grim expression that he’d overheard. “I’ll get a cab.” Rocco hurried off.
Viktor had Marco. That thought repeated nonstop in Cat’s mind all the way to the hospital. She was vaguely aware that Dante was having the airports monitored in an effort to determine if Viktor had left Rio. She prayed they weren’t too late.
When they finally reached the hospital, Dante stayed with her while Rocco took off to “check things.” Before she climbed out of the car, Rocco squeezed her hand in unspoken reassurance.
“This is all my fault,” Cat began as she and Dante hurried toward the entrance of one of the city’s poorest hospitals.
“Stop.” Dante’s hand cupped her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. Her son’s eyes. “There’s one person at fault here: Viktor Zadovsky. And I promise, Cat, we will get Marco back. But I need you—our son needs you—thinking and acting with clarity right now.”
She nodded, mostly to get him moving again.
Inside, they learned Sister Dores was on the fourth floor. Rather than wait for an elevator, they took the stairs. When they reached the fourth-floor landing, Dante touched her arm. “Sister Dores may be impaired from the aneurism.”
Like Remi. She hoped that was not the case. They found Sister Dores in a room with twelve other patients—the beds practically touching. The room was Spartan. No televisions or telephones.
“I’ll wait here,” Dante whispered. Here was a chair by the door.
Cat crept into the room, her attention focused on the gray-haired figure in the fifth bed. She’d never seen Sister Dores without her headpiece. As a child she’d once seen a strand of the nun’s hair work loose, but Sister Dores had swept it away as if embarrassed.
Seeing the nun’s chest rise and fall left Cat wanting to cry with relief. Sister Dores was so still, her complexion so ashen that Cat had thought the nun was dead.
Her eyes took in the IV, the scuffed blood pressure cuff hanging over the bed rail. There was no high-tech beeping equipment like she’d seen with Remi. The beds weren’t even electric.
She slipped her hand into the nun’s. It felt icy.
“Mama.” The word popped out from a childhood long forgotten. A childhood steeped in the desperation of being abandoned by someone Cat couldn’t remember.
She’d been three years old when she first met Sister Dores passing out bread. The older children always beat back the younger ones, but the nun had spotted Cat that day, huddled behind a garbage pile.
The nun coaxed Cat out from of her corner using a crust of bread. But it had been the kindly smile that had encouraged Cat to take the nun’s hand and walk to the orphanage.
Few children stayed at Saint Maria’s more than a few years. Most ran away rather than follow the strict rules of school and church. Cat had thrived, had worked to become the nun’s right hand. At one point she had even imagined joining the convent, but Sister Dores had known it wasn’t the right choice. “You need to see the world.” Still, the nun had wept when sixteen-year-old Cat announced she was leaving the orphanage.
Sister Dores stirred now. “My little Rosa.” The nun whispered the name of that abandoned child, then grimaced with a fit of coughing.
Cat grabbed the cup of water beside the bed and gently lifted the nun’s head to help her drink. Only one side of Sister Dores’s mouth seemed to work and Cat realized the nun had indeed suffered some paralysis.
“M-M-M-Marco.” Sister Dores blinked back tears.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Cat asked.
“Three men.” Each word seemed to drain the nun. “Sister Lolita, too. They said—” Sister Dores started coughing again, but she refused another drink.
“Rest a minute,” Cat urged.
“No time. Have phone number.” The nun’s speech was slurred. “You must call.”
“They left a number?” Cat’s hopes soared. “Where is it?”
“He wrote it…on m-m-m-my hand. Said I couldn’t…lose it.”
Cat carefully unfolded the hand she held, but saw
nothing.
“The other one,” Sister Dores whispered.
Hurrying around to the opposite side of the bed, Cat gingerly drew back the sheet and lifted the nun’s hand. The skin here was clean too, except for the faintest mark of dark ink—a 1 or a 7—the rest had been scrubbed away. Marco.
“Did you find it?” Sister Dores asked.
“Yes.” Cat bent and pressed a kiss to the top of the delicately veined hand, unable to stop the tears.
“That’s good,” Sister Dores exhaled with relief. “There are…angels…waiting. They will guide you now.”
“Don’t leave me!” Cat begged.
The nun’s grip went lax.
“No!” Cat shouted out.
The single word echoed in the room as Sister Dores’s final breath left her body. Desperate, Cat looked around, but this hospital did not have call buttons, or fancy crash carts, or intercoms spouting CODE BLUE.
“I’ll get a nurse.” Dante moved away.
Cat hadn’t even realized he’d come up beside her.
And then he was back, gently releasing Sister Dores’s hand from Cat’s grip as a nurse moved in and bent over the nun.
But even before the nurse said, “I’m sorry,” Cat knew.
The angels had left the building.
“This is the worst,” Dante said to Rocco as he paced. “I want to find that bastard now.”
They were in the finest part of Rio, staying in a penthouse that included its own three-man security team. Travis had pulled out all the stops.
It had been four hours since Sister Dores had died. Cat had been inconsolable, grieving for the nun while worrying about their son and Sister Lolita.
Her love for Marco, for all the people she’d loved and lost, amazed and humbled Dante. He eyed the closed door to the bedroom, where he hoped she was resting.
His cell phone vibrated. It was Travis.
Travis was in Mexico City, interrogating an initially uncooperative Grigori. “He changed his tune when his fingerprints confirmed that he is Yuri Stanis,” Travis said. “Turns out he’s more afraid of returning to Moscow than of Viktor Zadovsky. Now he’s suddenly eager to remain in U.S. custody.”
“What are you getting out of him about Viktor?” Dante asked.