by Lisa Hughey
We emerged from the darkened walkway under the scaffolding and fell into an easy partnership. He checked right while I took left.
Everything appeared ordinary. I breathed a quick sigh of relief. We sprinted across 49th Street and I finally realized where he was dragging me.
The Waldorf.
Could be he was heading toward the W, but my luck wouldn’t be that good.
I hadn’t been to the Waldorf-Astoria since my grandparents’ death fifteen years ago. I swallowed hard, this time from the memories.
“The Waldorf?” I didn’t want to go inside.
“Yeah.”
The doorman smiled as he pulled open the ornate brass doors for us, not even blinking at my attire or that we were both sweating.
Jordan hustled me up the intricate Persian runner. The light streaming from the elaborate crystal chandelier felt ultra bright after the onset of dusk outside.
We headed for the elevators. The piano tinkled from the lobby bar for the hotel guests seated on the curved sofa. A distinguished man in a tux and an older woman, perfectly coiffed, in a bronze beaded gown, sauntered around a large round mahogany table, laden with a flower arrangement so huge, the top almost touched the smaller crystal chandelier in the elevator lobby. But not everything was so formal. A couple of younger guys in jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes hurried past us with Starbucks cups.
The elevator doors were sliding closed. Jordan took two long strides forward, and put his hand out to stop the doors from closing.
We stepped into the empty elevator. He punched the number for the fourth floor.
“Hate elevators. Ambush waiting to happen.” His tension was contagious.
When the elevator dinged for our floor, we instinctively moved to separate sides, almost pressed up against the wood paneling of the wall where the doors opened.
If anyone was waiting, they’d think we’d gotten off earlier.
The doors slid open.
No one moved.
A vacuum cleaner droned nearby. I peered out, looking at the mirror across from the elevator bank as Jordan pressed the button to keep the doors open.
The foyer was empty.
As if choreographed, we exited quickly. “What room?”
“Service elevator.”
He strode toward the center of the tower, clearly already having done reconnaissance. Expecting trouble?
Jordan glanced at his watch. “We’ve got two minutes before any of the other elevators could get back here, assuming they didn’t stop along the way.”
“Stairs?”
“That’s why we’re using the service elevator.”
He stepped through a door marked ‘private’, and punched the elevator call button. We held perfectly still, listening for any kind of pursuit.
We jumped inside, and I jabbed the ‘door closed’ button. Jordan hit the button for the eighth floor, then pulled out his cell phone and pressed speed dial.
“Who are you calling?”
“A friend.” Jordan spoke quickly and quietly into his phone. “I’m coming. I need you to be at the door, ready to let me in. Someone is following me.”
We made it to the room without incident. The door swung open and Jordan jerked me inside.
“Dude. Can’t believe you were followed.”
As the door slammed shut behind us, a guy with a mop of curly blond hair stood in the suite's foyer and looked at me with total surprise.
“Holy shit, Staci Grant. You found her.” A big smile lit his face showing a line of straight white teeth. “What, you just wandered around New York City until you ran into her?”
"Uh, sort of," Jordan replied.
He beamed at me. The whole situation felt surreal. We stood in a small foyer that reminded me more of the entry to an apartment than a hotel room.
I knew this little foyer. We’d always gotten a suite when we’d come to the Waldorf. My grandmother insisted we have a formal flower arrangement for the little key table so every time we walked into the room we saw and smelled roses.
A lump formed in my throat.
I hadn’t been back here for a reason, dammit.
Jordan still had my right hand in his left. I used the distraction of the surfer guy to reach into Jordan’s holster with my left hand and grab his weapon.
The weight of the gun in my weakened hands and arms was almost too much. “Who the hell are you?”
“Whoa.” Surfer dude’s hands went up.
Jordan released my right hand so I could steady the weapon.
“The safety’s on. Let’s keep it that way.” He was calm as he stepped in front of the surfer guy. “Staci, meet Zeke Hawthorne.”
Wait a minute. I knew that name. I’d studied every name and situation in that damn file so many times I could recite the information in my sleep.
“Dude. You didn’t tell me she was crazy.”
Jordan said, “She’s feeling off balance and threatened right now. Cut her a break.”
“Maybe if she freakin’ lowers that weapon.”
Jordan spoke to Hawthorne but didn’t take his gaze from mine. His hazel eyes, steady and confident, stared back at me, waiting for what I’d do next.
“Give her a second to process. She knows what she’s doing. She won’t shoot by accident.”
They calmly sat there discussing whether or not I would shoot them. As I swayed slowly, I realized either one of them could disarm me without breaking a sweat. They were giving me control of the situation.
“Zeke Hawthorne. Grandfather killed in a climbing accident.” My skin was slick with sweat and the weight of the Glock was starting to seriously affect my weak muscles.
“Yeah. That’s me.” Zeke peered over Jordan’s shoulder, looking somber. “Staci Grant, grandparents killed in a mugging, homeless man found two days later with wallets, etc., case closed. Staci Grant. Presumed dead.”
I glanced at Jordan, he didn’t look surprised, or confused, by our conversation, which was something I’d have to explore later. I stated the obvious. “They weren’t accidents.”
“Yeah. I pretty much got that from the file you started.” Zeke dropped his hands slightly.
I lowered the weapon cautiously. I couldn’t figure out why they would be here or how he’d seen that file. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for one Staci Grant, pronounced dead in an Afghan prison, according to an intel report complete with graphic photographs. Considered dead by everyone except this guy.” He jerked his head toward Jordan.
I blinked. There was a weird rushing sound. The gun drooped. “Do you hear that?”
The lights flickered. A single trail of sweat trickled down the side of my face. The sound was getting louder. Suddenly my vision went white and then....
Nothing.
EIGHTEEN
“Shit. Catch her.” Zeke went for the Glock.
Jordan twisted to scoop one arm around Staci’s back and the other around her knees while Zeke carefully supported the weapon from a safe position if her finger accidentally pulled the trigger.
Jordan lifted her higher into his arms completely freaked by how light she felt. They’d done enough physical engagement through Krav Maga and some fairly energetic sex for him to recognize her condition had deteriorated significantly.
“Jesus, she’s skin and bones.”
Zeke pried her fingers from around the grip of the weapon very gingerly. “Got to give her snaps, she didn’t let go.”
Jordan strode into the living area of the suite and headed for the sofa. “She needs to eat.”
“Judging by the condition of her skin, she’s dehydrated,” Zeke said analytically.
Jordan lay her down gently on the sofa, and with more reluctance than he would like, let go. The urge to just sit and hold her jacked through him.
He situated her, propping her feet with the throw pillows, smoothing the hair away from her face. “She threw up at Murphy’s and then I set a pretty hard pace to get here.”
“Cut yourself a break.”
Zeke paced behind him, around the coffee table, through the two chairs, in front of the business desk, and past the television that he had on low.
“I’ll go get carry out from Oscars downstairs. I can assess if we’ve got any unusual activity in the lobby or lower level at the same time.”
Jordan pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for her pulse. “Slow and steady.”
“Maybe she’s just worn out.”
“Yeah.” She was more than worn out. She looked like life had kicked her in the ass.
“Wonder where the hell she’s been for the past six weeks.”
Jordan surveyed her, brushed the neckline of the wool away from her neck, and noticed the fresh scars. Small, raised circular marks marred her neck.
“Hell.”
“Cigarette burns,” Zeke said in a hushed voice.
“That would be my guess.”
She’d been tortured. He should have been prepared for the possibility. She’d been in the prison where the woman had been beheaded. With excruciating clarity, all the marks on the unknown woman’s body came back to him.
He pushed up her sleeve to find deep tissue bruises braceleting her bony wrists. Now the wicked scar and clear signs of an unset break on her left arm took on a more sinister meaning.
“Fuck.”
Zeke pulled a Glock 17 from his suitcase, activated the internal locking system, and placed the weapon cautiously in an ankle holster above his Saucony’s. “What do you want me to get from the restaurant?”
Probably to cover the sound of Jordan’s harsh breathing.
He forced himself to focus on what he could do rather than on things he couldn’t change. The past was over and done. Focus on the future.
“Bland food. Hot tea. And carbs. Lots and lots of carbs.”
“Later.”
“Watch your back.”
“You know it, man.” Zeke hesitated at the door, staring hard at the unconscious woman. “You gonna be okay?”
Jordan clenched his fists, knew what Zeke asked.
“She’s fine.” He deliberately opened his hands and gestured to her frail form. “She’s harmless. Look at her.”
“Dude. You don’t know where she’s been.” With his hand on the doorknob, Zeke peered through the security viewer.
Jordan pushed back the anger, kept his mouth shut. As much as he wanted to argue, Zeke had a point.
“And she pulled a gun on us.” With that parting shot, Zeke let himself out.
Jordan pulled her necklace from his pocket, dangling the carved stone from his fingers, staring at the eye of Horus, the ancient symbol of protection.
Jordan grieved for the ways he hadn’t protected her and the ways she hadn’t let him. His lungs seized, banding together refusing to allow in air. Grief wrapped like a boa constrictor around his heart, squeezing.
Her breath was soft and shallow, as if she had just run five miles. Or as if caught in a bad dream.
Using his thumb, Jordan gently lifted her eyelid to check the murky blue of Staci’s eye, glazed with exhaustion, before letting her lid drift closed.
What could be dogging her so badly she would let herself go like this? Her body was a mess. While there was nothing wrong with the vintage clothes, her outfit definitely wasn’t her.
And why, why, why hadn’t she come to him? Maybe they'd left things very unresolved when she left, but she should know his personality well enough to use him and his expertise. Until she'd left for Afghanistan, it had felt like the beginning of something.
Something he’d never had before.
That alone should have scared the shit out of him. Because of his parents’ situation, he was always careful about getting involved beyond a certain level.
“Stace?” He pressed a hand to her forehead, noting the sheen of sweat with a frown. “You okay, babe?”
Stupid question.
An unfamiliar anxiety pressed in on him as he watched her sleep.
Staci stirred, a soft soughing of her breath as her eyelids floated gently open. A little V creased her brow as she looked at him for a moment.
“Jordan?” she whispered. He stroked his hands over her arms, and aware of her bruises, brushed gently down to clasp her fingers lightly in his.
His weapon lay on the coffee table; he kept his body between her and the gun. And dammit, it pissed him off that he even had to be thinking that way.
She wasn’t a criminal.
“I’m here, babe.” His voice rumbled deep in his chest.
Some people wake up right away and are perky, alert.
Not Staci.
In the morning, she needed a good fifteen minutes before she was coherent and pleasant. Still in that place between asleep and awake, her smile was soft and welcoming, her gaze warm with dreamy affection. God, he wanted to brush his mouth against hers, wake her like he used to.
“Hey,” she sighed. Her muscles bunched slightly under his hand, as if readying to move.
He leaned into her, inhaled the scent of her, a hint of gardenia on her skin, and surreptitiously brushed a kiss against her hair. “Take it easy. You passed out.”
He could see exactly when reality returned. To prevent her from pulling her hands away, he tightened his grip.
“Let me go.” Her tone was suspicious, harsh.
Sorrow bled through him, but he suppressed the emotion and kept his voice even. “You need to promise not to point a weapon at me again.”
“Yeah, sure.” Now that she was awake, her gaze was sharp, distrustful. “Where’s surfer boy?”
Jordan snorted with amusement. “I sent Zeke to get food.”
Her stomach growled.
“Not a minute too soon, sounds like.” He teased, still holding onto her hands.
“Why were you trying to find me?”
Because they’d been on the brink of something big and he hadn’t wanted to let it slip away. Because he thought he’d loved her.
But it was clear from her question and her actions that she hadn’t felt the same. He shoved that thought into a tiny corner of his mind, someplace where he could examine his feelings later, maybe never.
Jordan kept the smile on his face as he debated how to answer.
She’d lied to him, evaded him, ignored him, crushed his heart and he still had this powerful need to care for her, to protect her.
The feelings were illogical and ill-advised.
He’d have been better off to just...forget about her after she cut him out of her life so completely. Yet here he was, after following her trail for the last four weeks and she didn’t trust him.
He wasn’t sure what that said about him. He wasn’t a glutton for punishment. He wasn’t a masochist. So why was he here?
NINETEEN
Jordan’s smile slowly faded. “Why didn’t you contact me?”
My body reacted to the familiarity of his voice, unleashing a tension I didn’t anticipate.
My throat constricted, freezing the muscles, making speech impossible. My chest was a solid block of concrete, taking in air a struggle. Pressure built in my head, my eyes, and I trembled on the brink of tears.
I couldn’t let him see any weakness. I had to protect myself at all costs because Jordan’s rejection had the ability to wound me far deeper than physical torture.
Involuntarily, I brushed my fingers against the hollow of my throat, seeking reassurance from my touchstone, my mother’s necklace. But it wasn’t there. Because I'd left it behind when I'd gone to Afghanistan.
I blinked back the moisture and took refuge in the attack. “You want to tell me what the hell is really going on?”
“Welcome home, honey.” The tenderness he’d shown when I awoke was gone, replaced with a cold sarcasm. “I was kinda hoping you were going to tell me.”
“Why were you looking for me?” I couldn’t reconcile it. We hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and our last email had been stilted and distant.
I couldn’t affo
rd to trust anyone. Someone had betrayed me and set me up to die in that prison.
“I didn’t believe you were dead.”
“Why would you think I was dead?” Zeke had mentioned the same thing right before I passed out.
“Because of these.” He grabbed a manila envelope and dumped the pictures out abruptly. Shock, horror froze me.
Fariya.
The stark picture zoomed me back to that place of cold, grit, hunger and pain. To that state of mind. To the sheer torture of existing.
I rubbed the skin around my wrists, still tender from the shackles. The yellow and purple contusions had faded from my skin, but not from my mind.
In some ways, I’d been lucky. Their methods of torture were old-fashioned and primitive.
“Did you ever go through SERE?” he asked quietly.
Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training. “Yeah.” I’d had it. I truly believed the training had saved my life.
"You okay?"
“I handled it.” No waterboarding, thank God.
He cleared his throat, as if wanting to ask but afraid of the answer. And he said brusquely, “I’ve read the reports on the Dark Prison and the Salt Pit in Kabul. It wasn't pretty.” Jordan’s gaze moved to the bricked-in fireplace.
“Those are our prisons.” Except woops. Yeah. Those prisons don’t exist. My bad. “This was strictly local.” My jailor’s methods had been primitive but effective. Making me stand for over twenty-four hours, shackled to the wall. At least I’d had underwear, so I wasn’t forced to stay naked for days on end. “Fortunately for me, their methods were not as sophisticated.”
Through the small window, high up in my cave room, I had been able to measure and track day and night, see the passage of time. Which saved my sanity. Taking away sleep and a sense of time and place was the easiest way to make a prisoner lose their humanity.
Plenty of people broke with just that little bit of deprivation.
“They gave you food?”
I knew why he asked. I was skin and bones. Since the Bahamas, I was sick most of the day. Usually in the evening I could keep down some food.
I didn’t know if it was a reaction to the pigment drug, or if I’d contracted some sort of bacteria in prison or escaping. “They fed me. But they varied the times and amounts of my food.” Limited though the sustenance had been.