Why does he have a firearm?
Terry approached the man from behind, grabbed him as fast as he could, knocked the gun from his hands, and put him in a sleeper hold. He could feel the man thrashing around for his life, the rifle dropping by his feet. When the guard’s body went limp, he dragged him behind a nearby car to conceal him, and he headed toward the elevator.
That was when he had a thought, striking him from nowhere like a bolt of lightning; he would have to leave the building somehow. Terry went back and took the rifle from the floor, disarmed it by removing the magazine, and threw it into the nearby trash. His exit was secured, and he looked around, making sure he hadn’t been seen. There was only the wheezing whistle of the air as it squeezed between the vents.
He went to the elevator and studied the panel. He watched the lights blink on as they spread across the display, indicating where the limo passengers were heading. By Terry’s reckoning, whoever was inside that car (Robbie had told him that Charlie would be leaving, but it was by no means certain) was of at least minor importance, and it was him, her or them who might be worth pursuing.
The light stopped on the fourteenth floor, and he took the stairs toward it.
His pulse was racing as he ascended the steps. The last time he’d been involved in any kind of covert mission—permitted or otherwise—had been earlier in his time with the FBI. He’d been sent to Turkey to fish out details on an American terrorist militia group, much like the heart-pounding scenario he was facing now. Only back then he was younger, quieter, nimbler. Terry wiped his brow, dripping with sweat.
When he reached the fourteenth floor, he pushed open the door and peered into a dark hallway. The lights were dimmed as if to accommodate somebody with a headache. Terry looked up and down both ends of the corridor and, seeing that nobody was around, stepped into it. He had no idea which way he should go, but he took the left and hoped for the best.
This place is too quiet, he thought. I don’t like it.
Terry went around the corner and froze. He hadn’t heard the footsteps until he saw the two suited men heading his way. They were wrapped up in conversation, and Terry thought he heard the name Salinger. He dodged out of sight and looked around. Too late to head back to the elevator. Nowhere else to go. His breath was unsteady as he panicked. His only option was to open the door beside him and hope nobody was inside.
He winced as he turned the handle and entered. The men were just coming round the corner when he closed the door. Now, he was in a dark room, and he fumbled for the light, checking both sides of the door. When he found the switch, he turned to see that he’d found an office. All the way around the walls, aquariums were lit up and tropical fish swam the length of the room. There was nothing else in here, save for a desk dead in the center.
Curious, Terry hurried to examine the papers stacked on it.
There were maps everywhere, blueprints, paperwork bundled into brown files, and a framed photograph of an old man seated at a desk. There was a brass lamp that looked antique. It must have been worth a fortune.
There’s nothing here.
Terry stepped back to see if there were any drawers under the desk. He found two of them and opened the left one. Inside was nothing but a handgun. He reached out for it, thinking it might come in handy if he was caught. His hand was halfway to gripping it when he changed his mind. The last two things he needed were prints on the gun and blood on his hands.
Terry closed the drawer and opened the next one.
In here were more piles of paperwork and a series of photographs held together by a singular thick paperclip. He picked them up and scanned through them like a flipbook. There were pictures of a silver-haired man surrounded by police officers. They looked as though they were closing in on him, attempting arrest. There was something about the man that looked way too relaxed—like he had it completely under control.
He put the pictures back and rustled through the paperwork. Underneath was a book. He took it and looked inside. To his horror, there was page after page of names, brief details of their circumstances scribbled below them. Terry studied it hard, finding that he knew some of these people. Jameson, he read with a sudden terror. Winters. He was onto the ninth page by the time he realized this was a list of the agents, and they were all police officers. On the next page was Sergeant Zachary Houston.
This should be more than enough to be considered evidence.
Terry pocketed the book and made for the door, barely giving a damn whether it would hold up in court. Right now, he just had to get out of there alive. He crept back into the hallway, where he heard shouting.
“You made me a goddamn promise!” the voice yelled, muffled behind the walls. It sounded like the person shouting was close to tears. But Terry didn’t have time to stop and listen. He had what he needed and wanted out.
He rushed back to the stairway and only managed to take two steps before he saw people a few floors down, circling the staircase and making their way up toward him. Heart pounding, Terry considered going up instead, but he’d already pushed his luck in this cave of wonders. Instead, he turned, went back to the hallway, and summoned the elevator.
It took its time reaching him. He kept an eye to his left, where the footsteps were growing louder. He looked at the display as the light crawled up to the fourteenth floor—his floor. The door to the stairs began to move, and Terry felt a wave of panic sear through him.
The elevator doors sprang open. Terry hurried inside, pushed the button and held his breath while they closed. He was heading down, back into the parking garage where he’d been only a few tense minutes ago. He pictured his wife again, hoping she wouldn’t be worrying about him coming home on time.
That was when he froze.
At the other end of the garage, there was a fuss of armed guards huddled around a black Volvo. It was the car he’d left the unconscious guard behind, and it looked as though the body had been discovered.
Terry was breaking into a sweat, his nerves shaken. He was trapped, but he wouldn’t waste his one chance. He drew the cell phone from his pocket and took three good snaps of the armed guards—he was sure they wouldn’t have permits for those weapons.
His only exit, as far as he knew, was behind the guards. He looked around, desperately scanning for anything that could help him escape. Now he found himself regretting not taking the gun in the drawer upstairs.
It was then that he saw it. Small, red, and lifesaving. The box sat on the wall.
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
BREAK GLASS
“Oh, and it is an emergency,” he said under his breath, almost laughing. He knew what these guards would do. They were hired to protect the building and somebody—if not everyone—inside it. Without thought, he pushed in on the glass, and an alarm rang deafeningly around him. Terry hid behind the pillar while the guards rushed past him and darted up the stairs. As soon as they passed, he headed toward the control panel, pushed the button, and watched with horrific tension while the shutter screeched open one last time.
His business here was done, and he had everything he needed.
Terry stepped onto the street and into the fresh air. People were passing by, going home for Christmas. He was now among them, blending in to be just another one of them, and he thanked God that he’d made it out of there unseen.
There was, however, one defining difference between him and the civilians; they were heading home, and he was not. Terry Davenport had work to do, and he would begin by taking the book to the director of the FBI.
Chapter Seventeen
“I hope you understand how much trouble you’re in.”
Blake followed Charlie with apprehension. He’d understood that his actions might displease the man, but he hadn’t had much of a choice. “Yes,” he said and nothing more as he followed him down the maze of corridors and into a large storage room. The place reeked of dust and something else. Something stale.
Charlie closed the door and leaned against it. “Do you
have any idea what you’ve done?”
Blake began to tremble. He could try to justify his actions as much as he wanted, but it would have no effect on this man. “I couldn’t kill him, sir.”
“You had one explicit order, which you failed to carry out. So if you’re not useful for following instructions, what the hell are you good for?” Charlie took out his pistol and pointed it at Blake. His finger curled around the trigger like a boa constrictor, and he began to squeeze.
“Oh, just do it,” Blake said. “I don’t care anymore.” In truth, he was frightened—on the verge of shitting himself, actually. But the way he saw it, he could either protest and get shot dead anyway, or call the man’s bluff to get what he wanted. Blake was, after all, a salesman. At least he had been, once upon a time. Still, those little tricks of manipulation didn’t seem to have left him. Not yet.
Charlie studied him, trying to make sense of the reaction.
Blake dropped to his knees, leaning his forehead against the lip of the gun. “Go ahead.”
Charlie hesitated, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly are you trying to prove?” He lifted the pistol upward, held it like James Bond does in the posters when he’s trying to act casual—lethal killing machine and all.
“I’ve tried to play fair,” Blake said, making a lot of hand gestures to hide the fact his hands were rattling with fear. “All I ever asked for was the truth about my mother. Hell, I even joined your team by trusting what you had to say about my family. But now you ask me to shoot my own father without giving me a half-decent reason? That I cannot do. Trust is a two-way street, after all, and I’ve yet to see any on my side.” It was the best speech he could have given. That, combined with his steeled eyes, would either make or break his plan.
Charlie studied him. There was an obvious danger within his eyes: small pools of sheer lunacy. The gun came back down and was aimed at Blake once again. His finger clenched to pull the trigger, and Blake tensed up.
This is it, he thought, this is—
Kerrssssch.
A radio hissed in Charlie’s pocket. Sighing at the interruption, he went into his pocket and pushed down on the button. “You guys really need to improve your timing.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the voice said through the handset. “We have a man down at the gate, but no other signs of intruders.”
Charlie uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Fucking useless.” He moved the radio to his mouth, his eyes still fixed on Blake. “Deal with it. I’m a little busy.”
“But, sir—”
“I said deal with it!” Charlie threw the radio across the room. Blake heard it shatter to pieces as it hit the far wall behind him. “Well, that ruined the moment,” Charlie said.
“I just want the file,” Blake said, silently cursing the interruption of the conversation (or, as he liked to think of it, the presentation).
“You can’t have it.”
Blake knew that if this man was going to shoot him, he would have cut the theatrics and done it already. Blake was in control, though Charlie didn’t realize it. Blake had made his demands. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re going to shoot me, then hurry the hell up and do it. You made me a goddamn promise! If you’re not a man of your word, then I don’t want to work for you anyway. So go ahead—pull the trigger if you want to, and have done with it. But if not, then put the gun away and show me the paperwork!”
Charlie snickered like he couldn’t believe that any of his agents would talk to him in such a way. He seemed to be considering the request until he finally lowered the gun. “Go wait in your chambers. I’ll have it delivered.”
Blake took a second to be clear that he’d heard correctly. When he did, he stood and went for the door, breathing relief but staring daggers at Charlie.
“Salinger.” Charlie grabbed his arm, tight and unforgiving. “When you’re finished reading, you sure as hell better do your job. I did warn you; you may not want to read it.”
Blake pulled away from him and went to his chambers as he’d been told. Once inside, he took the item his dad had given him and tucked it under his pillow. There was no way he would want anybody finding it.
Blake waited there for hours, a mind game and a display of control from Charlie. He was likely expected to leave his room and come begging, but he refused. His patience had worn thin, but it was still strong enough to stand a test of endurance.
When the file eventually arrived, thrown at him by an eye-rolling Houston, Blake locked the door and returned to his bed. He ran a finger over its brown cover, knowing that inside was the truth—everything he wanted to know. Everything he had a right to know.
He sucked in a deep breath and flicked it open.
Blake’s hands were shaking when he turned the pages. His heart caught in his throat when he read the name: Linda Salinger, followed by her date of birth and date of death. Blake read it as February third and was about to turn the page before it struck him. She didn’t die on the third, he thought, his eyebrows crooked inward. She died on the fourteenth. It was Valentine’s Day.
This was already getting to be too much for him.
Convincing himself to stay strong, he turned to the next page. At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. There were details of how she’d been with Val Salinger when he was on a mission in Cuba. A light was shed on it by his father’s report:
Inside the villa’s living room, Sebastian Ferrara held a machete to Linda Salinger’s throat, and his mercenaries aimed their guns at me. We were outnumbered and on our knees, and they knew I was in possession of their data.
Ferrara, knowing that my one and only weakness was my wife, informed me that I was to give up the data we’d been sent to retrieve. He expressed that if I failed to do so, Linda would be the one to suffer.
As per the terms of my contract, the mission expected of me by my employer at the Agency required that I complete all objectives. Failure to do so would result in the termination of both my contract and my life.
It is with this loyalty that I refused Ferrara’s demands. This was the cause of Linda Salinger’s death.
Ferrara took the machete and cut her from ear to ear. Were I not to make use of that moment of distraction, I may not have been able to disarm the guard behind me. I made my escape by way of…
The report went on to specify how he survived the ordeal, but Blake glazed over it with moist eyes. He could picture the scene: his mother with her chin up and a blade underneath it, her eyes begging for her husband to protect her.
But he’d let her down.
Blake folded the report and flung it across the room. A tsunami of paperwork spread into the air while he got up and paced the room. He stormed around, gnawing on his thumb and trying to take in what he’d just read. He’d asked for it, and now he wished he hadn’t.
Hold on a minute. What was she even doing in Cuba?
He dropped to his knees, swiping sheets of paper aside, picking up others and throwing them away as he realized they were useless. He was trying not to look at the photograph of his mother, which lay to one side like she was looking up at him.
Blake found her information page—both parts—and read them with trembling hands. With more shock than he’d experienced in his life, he knelt staring at the jumble of numbers, now understanding what they meant.
They were her recruitment numbers.
Linda Salinger had been an agent.
Blake screamed, the toll of more lies grinding on him like a circular saw against soft wood. As much as he wanted to hate his father for hiding the truth, he now understood exactly why he had done it. And to say that Val Salinger was the reason his mother had been murdered was also a matter of perception—as far as Blake could see, he had only done his job.
But there must have been a way to save her!
And Linda, the sweet, kind, caring mother who’d always been there when Blake did anything stupid (such as stubbing his toe on the table leg) had other things going on in the background. He hated her for it
but loved her too.
The big question for Blake was whether he forgave his father, or if he’d found some new hatred that would make him carry out the execution. Soon, he thought as he wiped at his tears, Charlie will want a decision.
And Blake would give him one.
Chapter Eighteen
People were starting to gather around them, and it was drawing too much attention. Small children—who were far too young to see this kind of thing and consider it anything other than “cool”—were pointing and making their parents aware. As they leaned in to see what was happening, more people joined, until they were swamped with curious civilians.
“Does he have a gun?” said a short, bald man in a beige coat. “Get back, everyone! He has a gun!”
Robbie ignored them as best he could, holding Jackie’s body upright. She was bleeding out fast, and they had to get her medical attention. The problem was that taking her to a hospital would be no better than handing her over to the police.
But Jackie was dying.
Val looked up at him with a desperate expression as more people surrounded them. The man who’d shouted at them was now on his phone, reporting it to the police and probably hoping to be made famous for his discovery. He looked the type.
“We have to go,” Robbie said. “Now.”
Val nodded. They each took one end of Jackie’s body; Val had her shoulders and Robbie held her legs. On the count of three, they carried her into the van and drove off as fast as possible, the tires churning up smoke. Robbie sat in the back holding her steady, not even remotely caring that he was stained with blood.
“We need a plan, Robbie.”
“I know, I—Jesus.” He couldn’t lose her now. They needed her as much as she needed them. Robbie shivered at the possibility that he couldn’t get her through this. He’d already let the sniper shoot her, and he couldn’t fail her now. Not again.
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