So sue her. Under that nerdy scientist look, he was downright cute.
Judging from the way he held her eyes, he thought the same about her. “I’m Bradley.”
“Thanks, Bradley. I’m Ian.”
He canted his eyes down and to the side in the most adorable way. “Nice to meet you, Ian. That’s a lovely name. Like the James Bond writer, Ian Fleming.”
“He’s one of my favorites,” Fleming said.
“Mine too. Spy novels are a guilty pleasure of mine.”
Fleming had pulled off abductions before. Hell, she’d once been an assassin with skills comparable to Chandler’s. But the people she’d kidnapped and killed had been a nasty part of a nasty game. None had been civilians, and the guileless nature of Bradley’s introduction, as if he really was just meeting a woman in a parking lot, threw her a little.
Or if she was honest with herself, maybe it was her own reaction that had her a touch flustered. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Bradley.”
“I’ve never seen you around here before. Did you recently buy one of the units?”
Fleming was hoping she wouldn’t have to answer that question, at least not until he was closer to the van. “Yes. This building.” She pointed to the one next to Bradley’s.
“Welcome to the complex. I like it here, but I’m not around much. I tend to be a workaholic. What do you do?”
She hadn’t pegged him as nosy. But he didn’t seem suspicious, just interested. “I’m opening a shop nearby. Computer and electronics repair.”
“Really? I design robotics.”
“Well, maybe you’ll need one repaired someday and come to my shop.” She gave him a full-wattage smile.
Bradley held up the cans. “I can carry these in for you. Which unit are you in?”
Fleming had no keys to the building, and she wasn’t about to expose her lie. “That’s not necessary.”
“It’s no trouble.”
The guy was either an excellent actor, or he was sincerely trying to help. Since acting was not usually part of the science nerd repertoire, she was leaning toward pegging him as simply a nice guy. If she didn’t put an end to this conversation soon, she ran the risk of starting to feel guilty for what she was about to put him through.
“I’ve worked really hard to not think of myself as a burden after the accident. Please, if you’ll just set the cans in my lap, I’ll take care of the rest.”
Milton gave her a sheepish look. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Just…I’m sorry.”
He held up a can as if to cut off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. I understand.”
Damn, Fleming thought. He really was a nice guy.
She forced her spine to stiffen. She had to keep her mission front and center in her mind. The fact that Bradley Milton was cute and nice didn’t change the reason she was here. And what she had to do.
He finished tracking down the last of her groceries, and when he handed her the cantaloupe, Fleming made sure she touched his fingers when she took it.
“Thank you, Bradley. Just when I thought there were no good men left.”
“No trouble. It was really nice to meet you, Ian. I…uh…”
Fleming smiled again. She could tell he was trying to ask her for her number, or maybe to his place for some coffee.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Bradley? Usually I’m not so bold, but I really think you’re cute.”
“Really? Thanks. All I have is Sasha. She’s a fox.”
“So it’s a friends with benefits thing?”
“What? No! I mean, she’s really a fox. A domesticated silver fox.”
“I’ve heard of those. Bred in Russia. They act like dogs.”
“Sort of somewhere between dogs and cats. Sasha is very lovable. I feel bad I work such long hours, but she likes to watch TV while I’m gone. Nature shows mostly, although she likes Jon Stewart for some reason.”
“She’s a liberal?”
Bradley laughed. “Possibly. Would you like to meet her?”
“Some other time, perhaps? It’s really late now. But…Can I get your phone number?”
“Uh, sure.”
He fumbled for his wallet, and took out a bent business card that must have been in there for months, maybe years.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Bradley. Maybe we can catch a late dinner.”
“I’d like that, Ian. Nice to meet you.”
He offered his hand, and Fleming took it, holding for longer than necessary. Then he went off to his building, and she pretended to go to hers.
When Bradley was out of sight, Fleming went back to his car and slashed two of his tires.
Chandler
“Fear is natural, but it can also be deceptive,” said The Instructor. “Make sure the threats you see are real, because if you’re focused on the wrong one, the one you don’t see could kill you.”
Thanks to a blown tire in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania and a nap that went overtime in a rest area off the Ohio tollway, it was nighttime by the time we reached Chicago. Our business postponed until office hours tomorrow, Hammett and I headed for the bland camouflage of the suburbs. After a couple of amazing burgers at a place called The Assembly, we drove halfway around the world to find a liquor store so Hammett could pick up a bottle of bourbon. Then we checked into a hotel near the restaurant.
We’d barely stepped in the door, when Hammett said, “Let’s go out, get laid.”
I stripped down to my underwear and sat down on one of the double beds. Each bed sported two pillows, and I was glad to see it. The perfect evening for me involved jamming one of those pillows over my head and muffling out the sound of her constant jabber.
“Come on. It would be fun. Who knows how long we’ll have before The Instructor releases the video and we’re made into instant hermits. In the meantime, we should go out, blow off steam. We could pick up a couple of hotties, and if they don’t give us at least three orgasms each, we’ll gut them like the pigs they are.”
I might have found the comment funny, if I knew for sure that she was joking. “You really think that’s a good idea?”
“It might keep me alive. Being with you all this time is boring me to death.”
“Drink your booze and let me sleep.” Of course, I didn’t intend to sleep.
She snapped on the TV and leaned back with her bottle of Blanton’s. Much as I didn’t like her, she had good taste.
I shimmied between the sheets. The bed wasn’t fancy, but it felt good. Even though we’d gotten some rest in the SUV, I was still fighting exhaustion, and I wondered how Hammett could even joke about going out.
If she was joking.
Still, lying down was nice, and I rolled to my side, my back to Hammett, and slipped my shotgun under my pillow. As tired as I was, I didn’t trust my psycho sister, and I wasn’t going to nod off, giving her the opportunity to break my neck in my sleep.
I listened to Hammett flip through the vast array of channels at least five times. Finally she set down her bottle on the bedside table and switched off the light and television.
I stared into the darkness, wondering how Fleming was doing in Baltimore, listening to Hammett’s breathing slow and fall into a steady rhythm. I ran my fingertips over the reassuring shape of my shotgun. Either she was faking it, or she’d drifted off. I wasn’t going to take a chance on which.
If she moved, I would know it.
And I would take her out.
Years Ago…
Her codename was Chandler, and when she was ten years old, she spent a hot summer afternoon picking out her parents’ caskets. They were lovely caskets, polished hardwood, cream velvet inside, and costing much more than a pair of matching boxes destined to be buried in the ground should. She clutched her caseworker’s hand, a gentle older woman named Elise who smelled like cinnamon and Aqua Net, and tried not to notice how still the air was in the funeral parlor, how cold, like the inside of a refrigerator, like the chill of icy w
ater, like the depths of a tomb.
Two days later, she was in that same funeral parlor, and even though Elise had made sure she was wearing a sweater over her dark blue dress, she still felt chilled to the bone. She wondered if she would be warm if she curled up in the box beside her mother’s body. She wondered if the stern-looking funeral director would yell at her if she tried.
After the funeral, a group of ladies from a church she never attended served lunch. Ham sandwiches, potato salad, brownies with thick chocolate frosting. There weren’t many people at the funeral, the neighbors, some folks who said they were from her parents’ work, some others who seemed friendly and talked to her in soft voices. Most stayed for lunch, and from the look of it, most found the food plenty good.
To Chandler, it tasted like sawdust, and she wished more than anything that she could carry the brownie outside and eat by herself.
The lunch seemed to drone on forever, and Chandler occupied herself watching the handful of kids play some sort of secret game while casting sad glances her way. They invited her to join in, but she refused, shaking her head. Then Elise took her hand again and loaded her into her shabby car and dropped her off at a house with a tree fort in the backyard and introduced her to the Blasniks, her new foster family, whose house was perfect and homey and friendly, and the parents and kids looked at her with sympathy in their eyes.
The little girl ran away from the Blasniks, and the Johnsons after that. Some of the families were nice. Some weren’t. It didn’t matter either way. She didn’t belong with any of them.
But before she could escape from the Ryans, Elise visited her again, this time to take her to the man who’d adopted her. The man who would be her new daddy.
Driving through a neighborhood of houses, one bigger than the next, Chandler sat belted in the backseat, looking at the Christmas lights and pretending to listen to Elise’s assurances that she would like her new home, and that even though her new daddy didn’t have a wife nor other children, he would love her and take care of her as if she were his own.
“Here it is!” Elise said in a false-cheery voice as she pulled the car into a short, sloped driveway.
The house was huge, with double garage doors facing the road like the imposing gate of a castle. The rest of the house looked fortress-like as well; big, solid, and built of red brick, it was devoid of twinkle lights or evergreen garlands or a menorah. Peering up at it, Chandler felt a shiver climb up her spine.
Elise turned off the engine and twisted to face Chandler. Her eyebrows pulled together at the top, her forehead wrinkling with lines of concern. “You have to stay at this house. Promise me, OK? Because if you don’t, I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to find another family who will take you.”
Chandler dropped her gaze to her hands. She didn’t want to stay here or anywhere else. She wanted to go back home. She wanted her parents to be alive again, loving her, taking care of her.
“Promise me, sweetheart.”
Chandler moved her head in something Elise might interpret as a nod.
“Good girl,” Elise said, then climbed out of the car and waited until Chandler did the same.
The air was cold and smelled of fresh snow. Chandler’s feet felt heavy, but she forced them to move, following Elise up the walk to the front door. Elise pressed the doorbell, and chimes rang through the house, low and imposing and echoing like church bells. A moment passed and the door swung wide.
A man filled the space. Tall and with square shoulders, he stared at her, his eyes hard under bushy brows. Hair short and face clean-shaven, he looked as if he was accustomed to wearing a uniform. Something with gold braids on the shoulders.
“You’re late,” he said to Elise. “This is the girl?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
He stepped to the side, leaving space in the doorway, and Elise pushed Chandler into the marble foyer.
The house was huge and castle-like on the inside, too. Decorated in stark white, grays, and black, it felt cold as snow. One arched doorway led into a formal white living room, another a kitchen, another an office furnished in dark wood and leather. Nowhere did she see any decorations for Christmas, or anything that could be considered a room where a child would be allowed.
The man started to close the door before Elise had a chance to step inside. “Leave us, please. I need to have a talk with the girl, set some rules.”
“Very well.” Without another glance in Chandler’s direction, Elise pivoted and walked down the steps.
Tears welled in Chandler’s eyes. She’d never thought of Elise as a comforting woman, she’d never liked her much at all, but she’d been the only recurring person in Chandler’s life since the accident. Seeing her walk away, being forced to stay in this hard place, was more than Chandler could take.
The man closed the door, blocking Elise from Chandler’s sight, then he turned back to face her. “Are you crying?”
Chandler swiped at her eyes with the back of one hand.
“You sniveling little bitch. You’re crying, aren’t you?”
Chandler didn’t know what to say. He could see her tears. It seemed stupid to deny them. So she just stood there, looking up at the man, wishing she was someplace else.
He drew his hand back and slapped her.
Her head snapped to the side. Stumbling back, she hit the wall, blobs of light spinning in front of her eyes, heat and pain blooming over her cheek.
“There will be no more of your sniveling. Got that?”
Chandler tried to nod, but her head hurt so badly, she couldn’t manage more than a tiny bob.
“You’re in my house now, and you will live by my rules. And your first rule is no crying.”
Tears still streamed from Chandler’s eyes, and try as she might, she couldn’t stem the flow. She hoped he wouldn’t notice. She hoped he wouldn’t hit her again.
“You will call me Father.”
Chandler shook her head. This man wasn’t her father. Her father was dead, buried in the cemetery alongside her mom.
She thought of Cinderella. It was a childish story, one for little kids far younger than fifth grade, but Cinderella’s stepmother was cruel, just like this man. “Stepfather.”
“You think you can talk back to me?” He drew back and slapped her again.
She bounced off the wall. Lights whirled around her head once again, and a metallic taste filled her mouth.
“I’m your father. I’m all you have.”
“Stepfather.”
He hit her again.
This time she slumped to the floor. Cupping her hands over her face, she let the tears flow as hard as they wanted and waited for the next slap.
“You ungrateful little shit. Your first parents coddled you too much. I heard they died because you were homesick. Is that true?”
She wanted to say no, to yell out that it was a lie, but the words stuck in her throat. If she had stayed at camp, if she had been a good girl, if she hadn’t called home, begging for Mom and Dad to pick her up, they wouldn’t have been on the road that day. They would be alive.
And she could be with them instead of here.
“You’re responsible, and you know it. Pitiful. You can’t even look me in the eye.”
Sobs shook her body. She took her hands away from her face, her palms wet with tears and smeared with blood.
“You’re not going to get any coddling here. You’re going to get what you deserve. And you’re going to be grateful for every scrap.”
He was right. About all of it. And right then, she would gladly have him hit her and kick her and beat her until she died. If she was dead, she’d no longer have to face what had happened.
The tragedy she’d caused.
The emptiness she could never fill.
The reality she could never change.
The White House
President J. Phillip Ratzenberger waited patiently for the Secret Service to do their bug sweep, then closed the door and picked
up the phone. Before he dialed the number, he noticed the damn cat hiding under the desk.
“Shoo, Chaz.” He poked the cat with the foot of his toe, and it hissed and bounded off. Ratzenberger considered calling in his men to have it removed, and decided to wait until after the call. He punched in the digits, and waited for The Instructor to answer.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“I asked you to keep me updated.”
“I have been. The target is secure. Our teams are proceeding with the amplification of the virus, which should be completed on schedule.”
“What of Hydra?”
“Hydra Deux has been able to locate one of the sisters. She should be in custody shortly.”
“She’ll lead you to the other two?”
“Not likely. She’s tough, and has proven adept at staying quiet.”
Ratzenberger frowned, then scratched the inside of his left nostril. “What is the threat level of the other two sisters?”
“I would assess it as high.”
“Is the story in place?”
“Yes. Awaiting your approval.”
Ratzenberger watched as Chaz leaped onto the Resolute desk. He swept the feline off, pushing it back onto the floor.
“Release the video,” he told The Instructor. “I want them out of the game.”
“Yes, Mr. President. I can imagine your predecessor’s cabinet is kissing up to you so they aren’t replaced.”
Ratzenberger smiled. “Indeed they are. Funny how quickly some people can adjust their attitudes once you become the leader of the free world.”
“I want to be Secretary of Defense.”
The president laughed. “Well, I’ll certainly put you on the short list.”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. President. That wasn’t a request.”
Ratzenberger’s grin became a scowl. “Is that a threat? Who are you to give me orders?”
“It isn’t an order, or a threat. We’re just two powerful men, helping each other. You’re in office right now because of me. You’re able to carry out your plan to vastly improve the United States because of me.”
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