Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2)

by Lisa Hughey

  Jordan eased open the door. A blast of warm air hit him in the face. The cheery sound of the Corrs singing about the stars going blue washed over him.

  What the hell.

  He’d have a glass of Irish to remember her and then get out of New York.

  If she wanted to see him...she'd be able to find him.

  SIXTEEN

  Jordan headed for a booth in the back of the pub.

  The stools at the bar were all occupied with what appeared to be regulars, arms akimbo on the lip of the polished mahogany counter and one hand never far from their pint.

  The bartender, a burly, red-faced man, laughed at something one of the guys said, then went back to wiping the counter.

  He lifted his chin at Jordan. “What can I get ya?”

  “Club soda with a lime and a Guinness.”

  Bartender gave a short nod of approval. “I’ll bring it over.”

  He slid into the booth at the back, giving himself an unobstructed view of the door. The window was at shoulder height so he’d only be able to see someone if they passed on the sidewalk, not in the street.

  Let them follow him. Shit. He didn’t have anything for them to find. He hoped his tail wandered around looking for their asses.

  Conversation was muted, murmurs accompanied by clinks of glass and silverware hitting ceramic. The bartender plopped the glass of club soda on the table, then gently set down the glass of Guinness.

  “Anyt’ing else?” he asked, the lilt of Ireland in his voice.

  Someone came through the door, the swift rush of cool air swirled over him.

  His stomach growled. “Yeah. Burger medium rare, no cheese, steak fries.”

  Jordan rubbed his hands over his face and wondered how he’d come to this. Sitting in a bar in New York City, looking for a woman who didn’t want to be found.

  He’d let his work go.

  He’d let everything go in the quest to find her.

  By the time the bartender moved to the table in front of him, the woman had slid into the next booth. Her back to him.

  Jordan surveyed the stick thin bones of the woman’s shoulders and arms. She was almost as thin as the woman he’d accosted in the street.

  She ordered, her soft tone clearly audible over the music, which had segued into a rousing rendition of the fiddle version of Joy of Life/Trout in the Bath.

  She lifted a shaky hand to swipe at her hair, the grace of the movement at odds with her condition.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice husky.

  Jesus, now he was hearing her voice. He fingered the amulet in his pocket, taking comfort in the familiar carvings.

  “You want anyt’ing else?”

  “No, thank you.” It was Staci.

  He was afraid to believe. Thinking he was going to make a fool of himself. Again. “Staci?”

  Her back stiffened but she didn't turn around. It was her!

  Pure joy rushed through him. He instinctively moved out of the booth and kept his gaze on her.

  If the bartender hadn’t been unintentionally blocking her way, Jordan was pretty sure she would have bolted. As it was, she had no way to get out, or away.

  “Jordan.” She sank back against the booth. Her hand fluttered toward the scar on her left arm as if trying to hide the angry red slash from him, before she defiantly set her arm down in plain view.

  “You two want to sit together?” The bartender was grinning, playing matchmaker.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” Jordan repeated more forcefully. “I’d like to catch up.”

  Jordan insinuated into her booth, on the same side of the table. The position was awkward but he wasn’t giving her any chance to escape.

  “What brings you to New York?” she asked politely. As if they were minor acquaintances, rather than lovers.

  Former lovers.

  “You.”

  She jerked back. He’d surprised her.

  Jesus, she looked like hell.

  She’d always had the softest skin. Now, the texture was rough and as he bent closer he could see fine spots, almost like liver spots, and that wicked scar, puckered and pink along her left forearm.

  The need to touch her, to reassure himself she wasn’t a figment of his over-taxed and over-stimulated imagination, steamrolled through him.

  He opened his arms, ignoring her slight flinch, and pulled her into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, bony and sharp against his biceps. His big hand cupped the fragile curve of her head, as he pressed his cheek against hers and inhaled her unique scent.

  God, he’d missed her.

  He knew better than to voice that thought out loud. Mentally, she was further away from him than when she’d been in Afghanistan.

  Jordan held on tight, even though she didn’t feel right. The stiffness, the hesitation, the roughness of her skin, the scars that marked her. Staci’s body language made it clear she wasn’t his anymore.

  Right. He’d known that. Really, he had. But seeing her had obliterated that knowledge.

  “What are you doing here?” Her voice was muffled against his collar.

  He’d have to let her go, but first he threaded his fingers through her raggedy hair and brushed the dark-colored bangs away from her face.

  “Looking for you.”

  “Found me. I’m fine.” Her tone a total dismissal.

  He regarded her solemnly. “I can’t leave just yet.” He had to tell her about the agents and the injections and the antidote she needed. Jordan glanced around. “We can’t talk here.”

  “Then I’ll leave.” She nudged her hip against his, and once again he was struck by how fragile she felt.

  “What happened?” He fingered her skin, noting the blotchy blobs of color, darker than her normal skin tone, unlike any kind of tan he’d ever seen.

  He recalled Johnny Wishbone’s description of Staci. A black woman. Not real dark, but definitely black. What he was thinking was so preposterous except the evidence seemed to be right in front of him.

  “You turned your skin black?”

  She calmly took a sip of her Jamieson, her gaze averted.

  He took in the other changes.

  She’d lost a ton of weight. Not just weight, she’d lost muscle. They used to work out together every day. She’d had a solid build. Not heavy by any means, but definitely not skinny.

  “You’re half-starved.”

  Without meaning to, he ran a gentle finger over the scar on her arm.

  She covered the scar self-consciously. “Just like a man to cut and run when the looks are gone.”

  He noted the hesitant, shaky brush of her fingers. No way would he fall for that. Jordan leaned in close. “I didn’t cut and run. You did.”

  She pushed back stubbornly against the high back of the booth, face forward, lips compressed into a flat line, hands crossed over one another in her lap. So ladylike.

  Something about the position of her hands, just so, nagged at him. Suddenly he put the pose together with the darker skin tone.

  “That was you on the plane, when the lady bumped into you.” He shouldn’t have doubted his instincts. Dammit. “Wasn’t it?”

  She refused to answer.

  “Just great. The silent treatment.”

  The bartender dropped his plate down onto the table, gave Jordan a look. Better be good, boyo. I’m watching you.

  The odor of slightly charred beef hit his nose, and his stomach rebelled. Logically he’d known she hadn’t wanted to see him. If she had, she’d have come home.

  Come back to him.

  But deep down inside, there’d been hope that something had prevented her from contacting him. Some unknown force had kept them apart.

  Instead, his own mind had refused to let go of what they’d shared.

  A relationship built on lies. One that was over.

  He had no appetite left.

  She, on the other hand, was wasting away to nothing. He pushed the burge
r in front of her. “Eat. You look like hell.”

  Staci looked down at the burger. Her face blanched, and she swayed.

  “You’re fading away. You need to fucking eat.” He shoved the hamburger in her face.

  She did some sort of exorcist move with her head. “Let me out. I’m gonna be sick.”

  She pushed half up off the seat, her shoes scuffing on the floor as she frantically tried to get past him.

  “Shit.” Not kidding. She was gonna blow.

  Her throat jerked convulsively as if she were trying to keep the contents of her stomach from spewing right there.

  That shot him into action. He jammed out of the booth and she was gone, like a bullet from a sniper rifle, into the ladies’ room.

  Jordan threw forty bucks down on the table, called to the bartender, “Can we get that to go?”

  He followed her. Just in case she was trying to pull a Houdini, he’d hang by the bathroom until she was done. Jordan leaned against the wall, hearing and trying not to listen to the sound of her being violently sick.

  He took a step toward the bathroom. The bartender came up and handed him a styrofoam container. Jordan paused, weighed the wisdom of his next question carefully before deciding he had to ask. “Any other possible exit from the bathroom besides this hallway?”

  The bartender assessed him coolly. “Nope. One window, too small and too high up to get out.”

  Jordan nodded his thanks. “Got any saltines?”

  “I just might.” Suddenly the man grinned. “Be right back.”

  He scurried toward the bar, reached underneath then headed to Jordan.

  In the background, he heard the faucet running as the bartender gave him the small packages. “Always helped Mrs. Murphy.”

  Jordan registered that the water had been on too long. He lunged for the bathroom door and rattled the handle. “You got keys?”

  Murphy grabbed the key ring clipped to his belt. “Right here.”

  Mr. Murphy unlocked the door and swung it open carefully. And there was Staci half-in, half-out the small window.

  Her old self wouldn’t have been able to fit. As it was, her new emaciated, heroin-chic, God he hoped not, self, was just barely squeezing out. “If she comes back in, don’t let her leave.”

  Jordan didn’t want to hurt her, but he was damned if she was getting away.

  “She done something wrong?”

  Thinking quickly, he made up the first thing that came to mind. “Nah. We had a fight, and I’m trying to make up but she won’t talk to me.”

  “I’ve got her covered.” Murphy called out to him as the screen door to the alley slapped closed.

  Jordan hustled around into the narrow strip between buildings. He picked up her messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  Staci was almost to the ground when he caught her around the waist, feeling her ribs beneath the fragile sweater.

  “You’re bones,” he said helplessly.

  After he eased her gently to the ground, she sagged against him. Her forehead rested on his collarbone, body shivering relentlessly, breath sawing in and out.

  “Honey. We have got to talk. Come with me and we’ll sort it out.”

  She nodded numbly, all the will sucked out of her. “‘kay.”

  Jordan curled an arm around her shoulders and led her toward the street. About five feet from where the alley opened to the sidewalk, he paused to watch the traffic. Staci rested against him lethargically, as if once the fight was gone, it was all she could do to keep herself upright.

  He wanted to make serious tracks for the hotel, but he needed to be patient. Wait.

  He’d had to really cultivate that skill when he’d been on the Hostage Rescue Team in the FBI. The endless hours of waiting had been the hardest part of his training and the job. But he’d finally gotten it. He forced himself to hold, patient and calm.

  A single light over the backdoor of the tavern provided meager light. The lid to Murphy’s dumpster was open spreading the odor of decay and garbage.

  “We’ve got to move soon, or I won’t be able to make it,” she whispered. Her body stiffened. “Unless you’re waiting for a pickup.”

  He swallowed back a sharp comment. They could fight later.

  “I was being followed earlier. Just making sure they aren’t still out there, watching.”

  “Followed?”

  She straightened, just as the bicycle messenger crossed the street in front of them.

  Jordan saw the guy’s gaze search the alley and widen as he found in his target.

  “Shit. I hope you can run, ‘cause we aren’t home yet.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I didn’t have time to react.

  Jordan grabbed my hand, did a one-eighty, and hauled ass down the alley. I’d barely gotten a look at the guy then we were flying.

  The world whooshed into tunnel focus, everything receding, falling away.

  Getting away, from the guy, from Jordan, ought to be my priority. But I could concentrate only on the hardness of his hand in mine. Such a simple thing, and yet the comforting solidness of him eased something within me.

  “Pretty sure it was a team surveillance,” he said softly. “So it’s possible someone else is close. Depends how long it will take them to get in place.”

  The words dropped me back into the present with startling clarity. Instead of the surreal tunneling of a moment ago, I was bombarded with sensory details. The stench of the bagged up garbage, the overwhelming odor of cheap bourbon, the crunch of a broken bottle underneath the thin soles of my high tops. A pigeon swooped low and cooed at us.

  My breath huffed in and out of my chest in great gasps, burning my throat. The most recent and humiliating bout of nausea wasn’t helping. My legs trembled with the exertion, and we’d only covered the length of the alley.

  Jesus, I was out of shape.

  I mean, logically I knew it, but trying to outrun a team surveillance brought my out-of-shapeness home a little too clearly. And the moment was a little too important.

  When we ran together a few months ago, I used to kick his ass. He was too bulky to be fast. He just powered through, but it wasn’t pretty. Now he was much faster than me.

  “You...should just...leave me.” It would eliminate two problems. I could get away from both Jordan and the guy following him.

  He didn’t even pause, just scooped his left arm around my waist and half-lifted me off the ground as he continued to run.

  Guess that was a no.

  Jordan’s gaze moved constantly, his right hand near his hip. And I realized he was carrying.

  He held me up while I clung to him like a helpless little girl. “What are we looking for?”

  “Never saw the second guy.” We skidded to a stop at the end of the alley.

  Sweat sheened over my entire body. Amazing really, I shouldn’t have any extra hydration because of all the puking.

  Jordan assimilated us into the flow of pedestrians at a seemingly leisurely pace, or as leisurely as foot traffic was in New York City. He hugged me close but kept his hand near his belt.

  “First guy, bicycle messenger. Black clothes, black helmet, messenger bag over his right shoulder, Bluetooth in his ear.”

  “You sure he wasn’t just a messenger?”

  He cocked his head at me.

  “Okay, sorry. Why is someone tracking you?”

  After all, his think tank job wasn’t exactly espionage and he’d been out of the FBI for over a year.

  We walked, me plastered against his side, his head bent down as if he were nuzzling my hair while he quartered the street in front of us and continuously glanced behind.

  “Not sure.”

  My shoulder rubbed against his chest. The bulk of his body, the heat of his skin, the woodsy scent of his soap and shampoo, the familiarity of his heartbeat, overwhelmed me.

  When I had allowed myself to imagine a reunion at all, hot sex had been my favorite fantasy.

  I needed my brain to sta
rt working properly. Not focusing on things that didn’t matter.

  “Damn, you’re bony,” he blurted out.

  My heart constricted.

  I was a goddamn mess. I knew it. I also never realized how much my appearance mattered to me until taken away.

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t going there. “So why is someone following you and why are you carrying?”

  He had a permit to carry concealed, but when we were together, I’d only seen him with a weapon when getting some trigger time at the shooting range.

  We dodged a slow-moving couple, man with a cane, woman with a blush-pink pillbox hat, playbill coming out of her matching pink purse.

  “I was involved in a shooting last week.”

  My steps dragged for a minute. “What?”

  “Not the place.” He glanced around meaningfully and, really, I knew better.

  But I couldn’t wait. “Shooting....” I prompted.

  “I helped an agent from the NSA and an old FBI friend recover two teenaged kids after they were kidnapped.”

  Startled, I glanced up into his face, set in a hard expression, mouth a thin line, gaze constantly roving.

  “I believe you know the boy.”

  “I do?”

  “John Wishbone.”

  I stumbled. John Wishbone. So I’d been right, and the girl had been in danger. “She okay?”

  “Bella?” The light turned yellow.

  Jordan sprinted across the street, dragging me along. As the light went red, taxis and cars jumped forward in a puff of exhaust.

  “Yeah.” Jordan kept his gaze on the traffic, the congestion around us. “She’s fine.”

  I’m sure I imagined the censure in his voice.

  I wracked my brain for a reason why he would have been involved with John Wishbone and Bella Holden and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how or why he would know either one.

  The suspicious part of my nature kicked in. I hadn’t even begun to process that we’d run into each other at Murphy’s. “How’d you hook up with them?”

  The sidewalk narrowed under scaffolding covered with a canvas tarp. I didn’t want to be confined. The flat, grim line of Jordan’s mouth confirmed he felt the same.

  He held fast to my hand and we hustled through the dark tunnel. “That’s a pretty long story and the reason I’ve been looking for you.”