“Yes. Sorta. I hid here for about a year after Emily was born.”
“They didn’t have you imprisoned at Langley?”
His question felt like a needle in her soul. “No.” She bit back a retort, but it leaked out. “Not everyone believed I could kill my husband.”
He looked at her, nonplussed. “I didn’t mean that.”
Sure he didn’t. She gritted her teeth, cursing her feelings.
She’d mingled memory with circumstance and come out with false intentions. Even if he had said he cared, she’d let herself read too much into his sudden appearance into her life. His cold words and stinging accusation blindsided her.
Lacey had no doubt he planned to arrest her the minute she found Ex-6. He cared about his country. The guy practically had the Stars and Stripes tattooed on his heart. There was no way he’d allow her to trade away national secrets. Even for Emily. Which meant he was a good guy … or bad guy?
She’d have to ditch him. She wanted to cringe but held it back. Just when she thought she might have a hero back in her life.
The little cabin had two rooms—a kitchen/main room and a back bedroom. She treaded to the bedroom and ran her light along the wardrobe, the saggy double bed, and the nightstand. Judging by the layer of dust, no one had even set foot in here to swirl the shadows, so no one knew that she stored the nation’s most precious commodity in a room behind her grandmother’s wardrobe.
She glanced at Micah, debating. Took a breath. “Can you go in the kitchen and get me a chair?”
He frowned, one eyebrow raised in suspicion.
“Please?”
She could just hold him at knifepoint, but somehow she couldn’t bear to actually use the knife, which would make the act pointless. Unless, however, he believed she would use it, which he probably did. He still had the little prick on his neck where she’d ground the fork in. Emily was worth it.
He turned and she watched him go, feeling a little sick.
She waited until he was in the kitchen and then rushed to the bedside. She groped under the bed, up along the box spring. Yes! She wiggled the stun gun out from under the slats.
As she turned it on she truly hated herself. How could she do this to Micah? But he was like a hound on a rabbit and dead set on dragging her in to be hanged. Hadn’t he said that on more than one occasion? Who knew but maybe he’d called the NSA and told them where to lie in wait for her?
She flattened herself against the wall and waited. When he entered the room, hands full of the chair, she aimed for his neck, gritted her teeth, and hoped he went down easily.
Maybe he should call. Give Lacey a pep talk. Nero stared at the clock, ran his glance back to Emily, who sat eating Froot Loops one at a time out of the box, her eyes glued to SpongeBob SquarePants.
If Lacey was cooperative, he’d let her listen to her daughter laugh. And then he’d remind the little spy who was in charge here.
He sat down at the computer and dialed his connection. Thankfully, Ishmael had set up the calls, sending them through a dozen servers, many of them dummies, across the world before connecting with Lacey’s telephone. He typed in the text message, but before he hit send, he contemplated allowing Lacey to hear Emily’s laughter.
No. Let her wonder. Let her feel the fear of not knowing, hoping against hope that the one she sacrificed for still breathed.
He had no doubt that Lacey would obey him. He hadn’t watched her fight to protect Emily for the last six or so years without understanding the part the little girl would play in this moment. He’d wait, the taste of revenge filling his mouth.
If Jim Micah had somehow sniffed out her trail … well, wouldn’t his death be that much sweeter? He’d waited nearly seven years to get the Green Beret back in his sights.
Nero took a deep breath, ran his hands over his empty stomach, feeling it knot. Despite his cravings, he’d have to wait. Jim Micah would die another day. Besides, being a smart man, surely he wouldn’t believe a word Lacey said.
A smile tweaked one corner of Nero’s mouth as he pushed send and imagined her receiving his message.
TIME’S UP.
TOMORROW, MIDNIGHT.
COWARD’S HOLLOW.
JUST YOU AND EX-6.
“What is wrong with you?” Micah turned, slapped Lacey’s arm away from his neck. Whatever she’d held in her hand skittered across the floor. She didn’t even glance at it while she punched him, knuckles first, in the chest. He gasped as the pain went deep. “Lacey, stop!”
She swept his feet out from him and he landed hard on his back, knocking out his wind. She had the knife out and he decided from the look on her face to stay down. He mouthed the words calm down but felt a crushing weight on his chest.
Air, he needed air. He forced himself to take a breath, gasped, took another. “Stop,” he managed in a rasp.
She was shaking, and if he could read her right she was just about in tears. “Turn over. Put your nose to the floor, lace your hands behind your head.”
He blinked at her.
“Now!”
“All right. Okay.” He turned over, grimacing as his chest burned. He was going to have a doozy of a bruise, right next to his scars. But it was nothing compared to the wounds she’d inflicted on his heart. And to think he’d actually begun to trust her, just a wee bit, not once but twice. Conner had been right. … This woman had a hold on him, one that made him a glutton for punishment.
She shoved her knee into his spine as she bound his hands above his head and then to the bed leg. With his rope.
“C’mon, Lacey, don’t do this.”
“You can’t follow me anymore, Micah. I don’t know what side you’re on, but perhaps I need to say it again—this time in Russian or maybe Arabic?” She leaned close to his ear. “I’m not going to turn myself in, and you’re not taking me in.”
He swallowed. Okay, it freaked him out more than he wanted to admit how well she read his mind. She knew he wasn’t just a goodwill ambassador, which probably meant she hadn’t believed his declaration about caring either. “I’m just trying to help you.”
“You can help me by forgetting my name,” she said tightly. But he heard the strain in her voice. “I’m sorry.”
She moved to the wardrobe and wheeled it back. Behind it, a metal door told him that she’d done more than just hang out in this cabin and nurse her baby. She didn’t glance at him as she pressed her hand to a security panel on the door, said her name, and stepped back.
“You built that?”
“Of course.” After the panel clicked, she pulled the door open. Even from his less-than-advantageous position on the floor, he could make out a bank of computer and communications equipment. A soft buzz filled the otherwise silent bedroom.
That is, of course, if he ignored the sound of his breaking heart. Here he lay, hog-tied and helpless, watching the woman he’d once loved prove her betrayals in multitudes. What was he supposed to believe if she didn’t give him a chance to trust her?
Micah ground his back teeth together. “You know my career is ruined, right?”
She didn’t answer.
“I haven’t told anyone where I am, but when the NSA finds me, they’ll know we were together.”
She popped her head out. Her voice shook. “When they find you like that, they’ll know you’re innocent.”
“So, you’re just going to call them and show them where your vault is? They’ll bomb the doors off getting in there. And then what will happen to Emily?” He had her attention. “And even if I don’t tell them, which you can’t guarantee, they’ll charge you with yet another crime. Assault. Kidnapping.”
This snapped her out of her reverie, her eyes hard on his. “I don’t care.”
“You do care. I know you. You care so much that you’re going to do anything to save Emily, even condemn yourself to execution. But more than anything you want to have your daughter. Don’t you think I can see that?”
She tightened her jaw and turned.
<
br /> “Do you know who wants this thing?”
She froze. “No.”
“So it could be Iraq or Libya or Syria or even China.”
She moved away.
“All right, listen, I know you’re not a traitor.”
“Oh, really?” Lacey snapped. She whirled and gave him a glare, one that should have turned his blood cold, expect he already felt pretty numb, especially as he mentally tallied his accusations against her. So maybe he deserved that glare. “I thought you’d be leading the posse to lynch me.”
He felt the floor dig into his throbbing chest. “Listen, I was wrong, okay? I … should have known you better. I should have trusted you.”
“Yeah, you should have.” She frowned, and he watched her shoulders stoop. “But what could you do? You know what you saw. And what you saw was me covered in my husband’s blood.” She slid down to the floor, stared at him with red eyes. “But I couldn’t tell you the truth. I just hoped that you’d believe me.”
“I do,” he said quietly, really embracing that thought for the first time. So he couldn’t get his brain completely around that statement in a convincing clench, but he wanted to believe her. At least it felt better to be on the side of hope rather than despair. “Now, please, believe me when I say I am not going to turn you in.”
Lacey suddenly looked exhausted and not a little beat-up emotionally. She held a rabbit’s foot key chain in her hand. “When John and I were working overseas, we communicated with our handler via e-mail and telexes. Occasionally we’d have a dead drop. But the Middle East wasn’t a friendly place, especially for Americans, and we had to watch our backs. We found it easier to e-mail our reports, encrypted, of course, and send them through about ten different servers. But even so, they were decryptable to the right hacker.”
He watched her, twisting the rabbit fur between her fingers.
“We were tracking the sale of industrial secrets to a group in Kazakhstan. John had linked them to a Korean terrorist group named Chul-Moo. We were pretty sure that someone in the American oil refinery company we were embedded in, namely the company’s CEO, Frank Hillman, was going to auction the ultra-gasification technology they’d developed to this group. The thing was, this process is illegal in most parts of the world because the refinery technology it uses to make syngas emitted ozone-destroying toxins and poisoned the air.
“We intercepted a communiqué about the buy and because of the urgency, John went in naked, posing as the buyer. Meanwhile, I was supposed to contact his handler. I couldn’t reach him so I e-mailed him. Then I went to Kazakhstan to help John.
“John asked me to stay in the hotel. But you know me; I can’t stand to be left behind.” She closed her eyes, as Micah traced the scene in his head. “I followed John. Although I was careful, I disrupted his meeting with Ishmael Shavik. Shavik put a knife to my throat, told John that he knew he was CIA and that he was going to learn a lesson about double-crossing the Chul-Moo.”
She took a breath, and her voice dropped. “I struggled and Shavik stabbed me. John went berserk. He jumped the guy, and I somehow ended up with the knife.” Tears ran down her cheeks. “I knew I was hurt badly and he’d probably killed the baby, but I also knew that I couldn’t let John die. I tried to get into the fight, but Shavik turned John around and shoved him into me.”
She opened her eyes, and the agony in them shook Micah to the bone. “So you see, I did kill John. I am a murderer. Therefore, I don’t really care what happens to me. It’s only Emily who matters now.”
“How did Shavik know John was CIA?”
“I don’t know. I’ve long suspected Frank Hillman. He was my boss … I mean, the boss for my alias. John and I both worked undercover as researchers for Hillman Oil. When I discovered that the gasification program Hillman had been developing was complete, I informed our handler and was told to keep my eyes on Hillman. He was acting very strangely, and I suspected him as the seller, although I never proved it. About three months after John was killed, I heard that Hillman had a daughter who had died right about that time. I can’t dislodge the idea that his daughter had been taken and sacrificed because we disrupted Chul-Moo’s buy.”
“Which is why you think Hillman has it in for you.”
She gave a halfhearted shrug.
Micah wanted to moan. No wonder she feared for her daughter’s life. Revenge was a powerful motivator. “How did Hillman discover that John was CIA?”
She climbed to her feet. “I think my communication was intercepted.” She sighed, ran a hand across her cheek. “Probably, if we had had secure communications, John would be alive today.”
“You can’t live with what-ifs, Lacey,” Micah said, but his words screamed in his heart. He’d been taking hits from the merciless what-ifs for the last ten years.
She swallowed and her face tightened. “And I can’t dodge them either.” She blew out a breath. “Most of all, I can’t live with the what-ifs if I lose you too.”
He looked at her in horror, his throat raw. “You’re not going to lose me.”
She stared at him, looking painfully close to tears. Still, her voice came out clipped and hard. “You’re right. I can’t lose someone I never had.”
He was debating how to respond when he heard a trill, like his cell phone. Only he’d left it charging in the pickup.
Lacey jumped, and he watched with wide eyes as she reached into her shirt and pulled out a Nokia. It trilled again. She didn’t look at him when she slowly pushed the button and read the text message. Then she closed her eyes and put the phone to her chest. He could hear the despair in her voice. “I have to go, Micah. I’ll call Sam in an hour and ask him to come and free you. Please don’t follow me.” She gave him a sad smile. “And thanks for letting me borrow your truck. I promise to return it if you don’t call the cops.”
She shut the wardrobe door and clipped the rabbit’s foot onto her belt loop. She didn’t turn around when he called her name.
The last thing he heard was the trapdoor closing.
Lacey felt sick. Bone sick. The kind of sick that made her want to curl into a ball and let the pain consume her whole.
She’d hurt, not just wounded, but seriously, bodily injured the one man she ached to trust. She missed him already, but if she didn’t leave him there, trussed up, Emily would die.
Lacey sunk down to sit at the bottom of the cement steps leading up to the cabin, clutched her arms around her waist, and held in a wail.
She could hear Micah up there, thumping, grunting, yelling. He was probably cursing her name. Why had she told him about John? She’d been sworn to secrecy, and if the CIA ever found out, she’d be brought up on more charges—ones that were becoming harder to keep track of. But she’d had to tell Micah. Especially after he said he believed her. How she longed to hear that. But believing was different than forgiving, wasn’t it?
Why did he keep following her? He was like a bulldog … but she should have known that before she called him. She’d only hoped he’d apply his bulldog tendencies to finding Emily.
Only wasn’t that what he was doing? Her throat thickened. She’d dragged him into this mess, kicking and screaming, then beat him up when he actually started to care. Even if he had eviscerated her with the accusation, she saw concern in his eyes. Honest, authentic concern. The kind he’d showed her the day she buried her mother. And she’d just punched the breath out of him. Oh, she was a real gem.
Except that first message had said, No Jim Micah. The thought made her weak. The fact that Frank Hillman knew Micah’s name only confirmed what she’d believed for years. He’d been watching from the shadows, watching her scream, watching John die. Watching her face light up with hope when Micah stormed into the warehouse, looking like a hero in war paint and his modern-day saber.
Maybe she could just check to see if he was okay. Thankfully, she’d installed an intercom system as a security precaution. She reached over and flicked it on. Yep. She could hear him plainly. Talking about her �
�
“… and, Lord, I don’t know what is going on with Lacey and her daughter, but she’s in trouble, and she needs help. Give her wisdom …”
He was praying. For her. She held her breath.
“… don’t let her get hurt, please. If it’s possible, please reveal these people who are after this Ex-6 thing. Bring them to justice. Most of all, look after Emily. Keep her safe and bring her home to her mother.” He paused, and she could outline his face in her mind, his dark eyes, his set jaw, his expression of concern. “Lord, help her to see Your light in her dark world.”
Lacey wrapped her arms around her waist and opened her mouth in a silent howl. Oh yeah, God was really here, wasn’t He? If anyone proved that He wasn’t in charge, it was Lacey Montgomery. She’d run her own life right into the ground. Her dad had been right. Letting John Montgomery woo her had brought her nothing but heartache.
She’d seen John call on God a few times … but never in prayer. He believed he could save the world on his own. John might have had the charisma of a spy, the makings of a world-class dealer, the passion to lead a small army into battle, and a smile that could melt her heart, but he misplaced the one thing that made him a good husband—faith. John had faith only in himself.
Micah had faith in God. Micah’s hopes might be slightly sterile and void of John’s passion, but they were firmly fixed in truth. Maybe that was the quality that emanated from Micah like a fresh breeze. Why she’d turned to him and not John when her mother died. Why his smiles of approval made her shine. Why she loved him deeper than—and before—John.
John was laughter and play.
Micah was solid. A man to build a life with.
And she’d tied him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. What if she couldn’t get through to Sam? Or what if Sam was detained for hours or even days … or weeks? Micah could die.
Her throat constricted as she tromped back up the stairs. Of course, Micah was right where she left him, face-down, hands above his head. His wrists were red where he’d already begun to work the ropes. He would have rubbed them raw and gotten nowhere. She knew how to tie knots.
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