by Lisa Hughey
"I want you to keep the baby," Jordan said fiercely. “His wife fired my mother when she found out Mama was pregnant. I’m not sure if she ever knew the baby was his, but she wouldn’t have an unmarried, pregnant maid in her house.”
That sucked.
“They were both unprincipled pigs.”
“No argument from me.”
Jordan rested his elbows on the table, hands gripped tightly together. “My mother is an amazing woman.”
“No question.” She’d raised Jordan into a decent, caring man, alone. “However, I’m not sure what this has to do with me.”
“I refuse to abandon you or the baby.”
Okay. New scenario. So we’re going to spend the rest of our lives, however short that might be, on the run and raising a baby together?
“Let’s take it one step at a time.” First I had to figure out who wanted me dead.
A swell of exhaustion overtook me so completely I nearly fell over. The lethargy was so encompassing, my body felt surrounded by jello.
“Go sit on the sofa.” He jerked his head toward Thea’s ultra-modern, sleek and probably completely uncomfortable, couch. “I’ll clean this up.”
As I sank down, the sofa was amazingly soft and welcoming.
“I think someone has been watching my house lately as well as yours,” he said as he scraped dishes and put the plates in the dishwasher. “Or they’re watching both. But that doesn’t make any sense. No one knew about us.”
There was something in his voice I hadn’t heard before. Had I hurt his feelings by keeping our relationship a secret?
“Any ideas?” Jordan interrupted my musings.
I’d filed the paperwork to declare him a ‘Close and Continuing’ relationship right before I left. I didn’t really want to address this subject, but I should probably let him know.
“I, uh, might have an idea.”
Jordan started the dishwasher and came over to the sofa with his half-full glass of wine and a glass of milk for me. Settling on the other end, he propped his feet up on the kidney-shaped cocktail table.
The normalcy of sitting together struck a weird chord, bringing back memories of making out in my living room.
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Spit it out, Stace.”
“I filed the paperwork to officially register you as my boyfriend.”
He plunked his glass on the coffee table and angled his body to face me. “You have to file paperwork?”
“Uh, yeah. If you start dating regularly, you’re supposed to give the CIA the information so they can check out the significant other and make sure you aren’t putting yourself in a compromising situation. They do a comprehensive background check. I just hadn’t filed the paperwork earlier....”
Because I’d wanted to keep him to myself. Just a little bit longer. Once your significant other has official status, quarterly reports have to be filed.
The invasiveness of the process seemed annoying and stupid.
He was mine.
“I’d heard that their investigations take forever. Half the people I knew weren’t even dating the person anymore by the time the background check was completed.”
“You’d heard?”
Damn. He’d picked up on that. “Uh, yeah. I’ve never actually filed paperwork before.”
He processed that information carefully, his lips curving as he recognized the significance of my answer. “So we need to assume the CIA has connected us?”
“Yeah.” And dammit, I didn’t want to bring my shit down on him.
“We’ll just have to travel carefully.” Jordan’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display. “It’s Thea.”
I could hear her voice on the other end of the line. She seemed pretty upset or excited or something.
“Calm down. It’s okay. I’ll explain when you get home.” Jordan never raised his voice, didn’t panic. “It’s fine. What channel?”
He flipped his phone closed, grabbed the remote and pushed the power button.
“What’s wrong?”
The plasma screen on the wall flared to life.
“That.” He pointed to Thea’s 42-inch, wide-angle screen.
A larger than life-size picture of me was displayed prominently, and Wanted, Armed and Dangerous scrolled across the bottom of the screen, along with a phone number in case I was spotted.
Someone had just changed the rules. The private hunt for me had just gone public. They’d given every law enforcement officer in the country permission to shoot me on sight.
I was marked for death.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Who the fuck is after me?”
Thea's modern apartment was silent but for my labored breathing. I looked at the serious faces in the press conference on the television. A White House press secretary spoke at a podium, U.S. Flags hanging on poles behind him.
Two men flanked the press guy. A military official, in full dress uniform decorated out the wazoo with fruit salad and...Senator Jordan.
The same man Jordan had met with earlier in the week.
My stomach roiled from a sense of ultimate betrayal.
“It’s your buddy.”
“Shhh,” Jordan shushed.
“How do I rate a White House press conference?”
The press secretary continued to disseminate information. "Former professor, philanthropist, Staci Grant is being sought in connection with various terrorist networks." After he asked for the entire freaking country to be on the lookout for me, he said, “We believe she used her position of authority as a professor to find and recruit trainees for terrorist camps.”
Jordan’s lips tightened--he didn’t approve. "You really did recruit kids?"
Deep down I’d always known if I told him about my work for the CIA he wouldn’t approve. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I was compelled to explain.
“In actuality, the people I referred approached me. I just steered them toward organizations the CIA thought might be recruiting. We tagged them and then were able to identify more members of militant factions. Later we turned them into assets promising them immunity from prosecution for gathering evidence.”
Dates, times, leaders, methods of communication, key people.
“The CIA isn’t supposed to operate on U.S. soil.”
“Yeah. Well, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.” Actually we just couldn't recruit Foreign Nationals on U.S. soil or spy on American citizens. These kids were actually U.S. citizens.
“You really thought this was okay?”
I was proud of my work, of my service to my country. My grandparents had raised me to honor and respect the government. To do my duty to the greatest nation on earth.
“Wait a minute, Mr. High and Mighty. You used to kill people for the U.S. government. I don’t think you have a lot of high ground here.”
We both stood, facing off like combatants, the cocktail table in the gulf between us, while the press secretary droned on and on.
“Those kids were going to find a way to support a perceived injustice whether I helped them or not. What I do, did,” I caught myself, “ultimately saved lives. We’ve been able to shut down or deport hundreds of potential terrorists based on the information they obtained. And we stopped attacks on several targets.”
“And what about those kids?” Jordan said, "You used their idealism to put them in danger."
I knew I shouldn’t do it, but I couldn’t help it. “They chose that path. They could have gone into the freakin’ Peace Corps and changed injustices that way. These are kids who wanted to fight.”
Jordan blew out a breath in disgust.
“I redirected far more kids than I ever recruited. Most of the time I tried to channel their idealism into something else.” It really pissed me off that I had to explain. "Some of the kids were recruited to work directly for the CIA."
“They should be giving you a medal instead of hunting you.” Sarcasm was heavy in his voice.
My heart
cracked. There was no other word for the sensation. His words wounded me with a physical pain as he dismissed my work.
“You know me.”
Jordan was stoic in the face of my near desperation. He retreated without moving an inch, his face expressionless, closed, remote. “I thought I did.”
He’d known me better than anyone else in my life. His total shut out exploded in my face more effectively than the toe popper that had almost taken off my foot.
I had a desperate need to pull him back toward me, emotionally, physically, any way I could.
Thinking if I could just touch him, connect with him physically, he would accept me again, I lunged toward him. I banged my shin on the coffee table, hitting my already damaged leg, sensitive nerves screeching in protest.
My vision dimmed as pain zinged through me.
Jordan steadied me before I could gasp. Here was the contact I’d wanted, but in a completely different, impersonal manner.
Rather than retreat, I leaned on him, into him. The warmth of his body soothed me, comforting me, familiar and right.
I had thought I loved him.
That was the reason I filed the paperwork. I thought we’d been moving toward something permanent. But I should have known a relationship based on lies would never succeed. Maybe it was time to start using the truth.
My cell phone rang. I ignored it.
This was more important.
“Look. My main job was to track and analyze potential Agency employees for the CIA using a set of criteria I developed based on my own recruitment.”
The CIA didn’t make value judgments on race or religion or politics, and their targets were strictly expedient. They just wanted people who could be of use in the espionage war.
He removed his arm from around my waist. I mourned the loss of affection even as he lashed out at me.
“Wasn’t it dangerous for you to be working both sides, so to speak?”
“I was never the direct contact person for recruitment of CIA personnel or the terrorist trainees. I just identified their names and information.”
Jordan crossed his arms over his chest, withholding his touch and sending out clear defensive signals. “Explain.”
“For the kids they are accusing me of recruiting for terrorism, I never hooked them up. I suggested clubs or religious organizations we thought might be fronts for more sinister groups.”
“They couldn’t prosecute you?”
“Not under normal law.” Although with the expanded power of the Patriot Act, they might be able to get me for recruiting terrorists. The arrest and detainment guidelines were fairly loose.
“For the CIA recruits...they were told they’d been identified as potential recruits. Because the CIA is so secretive, even within the organization, with the exception of a direct superior and a few other higher ups, no one knows exactly what anyone else does.”
“Which brings up an interesting question. Why haven’t you reported in?”
“The CIA didn’t get me out. They left me in that prison.”
And I checked the USA Today classifieds every day. No contact.
“You told me your trip wasn’t CIA,” he accused.
“I wasn’t in Afghanistan for CIA business. It was personal. However, if the CIA was going to set up a...situation, my imprisonment would be perfect.”
“They knew you were there?”
“Of course, but I wasn’t connected with the Agency officially.”
“So you assumed since they didn’t get you out that they wanted you there?”
"Yes." I couldn’t afford not to assume my death would be expedient for someone, somewhere at the Agency.
I just wasn’t sure why.
The only thing I could come up with was my file on Department 5491. Someone didn’t want that information made public. Although I would never have exposed the file.
“Department 5491 is from the NSA but included CIA agents as well as NSA and DIA. I don’t know who to trust. Someone set me up.”
Jordan sighed and gazed steadily at me. His anger still burned below the surface but in his hazel eyes I saw his support. "You can trust me."
I knew him. Knew his core decency. Knew his protective instincts would encompass me and the baby. At this point, likely the only person I could trust was Jordan. He wouldn’t let anything happen to the baby even if he was still mad at me.
“When I was arrested in Afghanistan...they specifically came for me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the other people in the UNOCHA group I was traveling with were allowed to leave. They only wanted me.”
“What was the charge?”
“Funny thing about foreign prisons. They don’t have the same laws regarding incarceration. They don't have to tell you why you're in prison.”
“Why did your group leave you behind?”
“I told them to go.” That may or may not have been a mistake on my part. “I assumed the CIA would quietly get me out. But that didn’t happen, and I spent two weeks in hell.” My voice broke, which pissed me off. I’m tougher than that.
Thankfully the military guy on the television, identified as Major Tony Vandenburg, interrupted my little breakdown. “We have reason to believe she is in New York City and traveling alone.”
This press conference could be a ploy by the CIA to get me back, to find out what had happened to me. Maybe they’d gotten tired of doing surveillance on my house and just wanted to know what information I had and why I had never reported in after escaping.
Jordan was still watching the flat screen. “How would they know you are in New York?"
I’d only spoken with Ravini, Zeke, Jordan and Thea. Four people. Obviously one too many.
Even if Thea wanted to turn me in, she wasn’t going to risk putting Jordan into a difficult situation. Was she?
I edged away from Jordan. “Did Zeke turn me in?”
“He wouldn’t have done that. His ass is in trouble already.”
“Maybe he thought it would gain him some points if he turned in a known terrorist recruiter.”
“He wouldn’t turn you in.” Jordan paced around the room, stopping to stare out at the view of Central Park at night.
The trust I thought I felt vanished as I stared at the senator flanking the press secretary in the press conference. “Maybe you did. It would certainly eliminate your problem.”
That pissed him off. “I don’t have a problem.”
“It would get you off the hook if I’m in federal prison.” Or worse.
“I don’t want to be off the hook, dammit.” He grabbed my upper arms, pulling me close. “Don’t make assumptions.”
“You met with the Senator,” I gestured to the television screen, “just a few days ago.” All the doubts that had been crowding my head suddenly coalesced.
What if I'd been wrong about being able to trust him? What if in my mind I'd built our entire relationship into something it wasn't just to get me through all the other shit?
"Don't do this. Don't throw up walls." Jordan's heart thudded against his chest as his desperate hazel gaze bored into me. His fingers curled around my biceps, not letting me back away. "If you know nothing else, you know that you can trust me."
The sharp sting of pain was nothing compared to the ping in my heart. I wanted to trust him. I did. Maybe too much.
My shoulders slumped as I finally gave in. "Okay."
"Good." Jordan squeezed me against his chest, his relief palpable.
My cell phone rang from inside my bag. The phone was a throwaway I’d bought to contact Ravini. Suddenly I put it together. Ravini was the only one who had the number. I could trust Jordan. “Shit.”
I grabbed my backpack and rummaged for the phone. After I dug it out, I glanced at the screen. I had one other missed call. Hurriedly I turned the phone off and shoved it away from me. “This needs to be thrown in the trash compactor or even better an incinerator if this building has one.”
The GPS locat
or in the phone was off. But for all I knew, we were experimenting with new technology that would work as long as the phone was equipped.
Jordan grabbed the phone. “I’ll take care of it.”
But before he could dispose of it, the sound of a key in the lock had us both diving for cover.
Thea stomped back into her apartment, muttering in Spanish.
I tried to get up in a dignified manner but it wasn’t easy. My muscles and bones protested, creaking and whining, as I lifted my head over the back of the sofa.
“Are you still here?”
I wasn’t sure if the question was supposed to be rhetorical so I answered. “Yeah.”
As Jordan walked toward her, she went off on him, with a torrent of Spanish, a lot of finger jabbing, and hair tossing.
I couldn’t blame her for being upset. A known fugitive in your living room wouldn’t make anyone’s day.
“And you,” she rounded on me. I held my hands up as if in surrender. “What are you thinking to drag miho into your disgusting and depraved activities.”
I couldn’t tell her I worked for the CIA. But just maybe I could calm her down a little. “Thea.”
“What?”
“Do you always believe everything you see on television?”
“Of course not.”
“Things are not what they appear, mi hermana.” Jordan patted her shoulder gently.
I certainly couldn’t fault her for being upset with me.
“We need your help.”
“You need to leave my apartment.”
“We will. First thing in the morning, after you rent us a car.”
“I’m not renting you a car.” Thea stomped her Donald J. Pliner shoe. “I want you out. Rent your own damn car.”
“We can’t take the chance Jordan is being tracked too.” I pressed.
“You dragged him into your,” she waved her hands wildly, “illegal activities!”
“There’s no official link between the two of you, is there?” I clarified, ignoring her theatrics. “No way for you to be listed in Jordan’s file as someone to watch if they are looking for him?”
“They’re looking for Jordan too?” Her eyes widened in horror.
“It’s not as it seems,” Jordan said consolingly. “I, we, will be okay.”