by Jillian Dodd
I giggle. “Oh, duh. Sorry. My brother was watching some show about this military guy who got his arm blown off and had this almost robotic one. That’s the first thing that popped into my mind.”
He studies me, and I can tell he’s thinking I am an idiot. And quite honestly, I’d prefer him to think of me exactly that way.
“Anyway, he’s a bad guy.”
I nod, pretending to follow. “Got it.”
“We want you to make friends with him, maybe let him buy you a drink.”
“But I don’t want to be friends with a bad guy.”
“You would pretend.”
“Oh, okay. Wait. Why would I do that?”
“Because we need time to search his car for clues.”
“So, I’d be like a decoy. A distraction?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
I make a little pouty face.
“Does that not sound like something you could do?”
“No, it does. I just thought it would be more exciting. Like I’d be searching for clues or something.”
“Well, you could do that, too. If you were talking to the Russian and you overheard a clue, you’d want to tell us.”
“This might be a stupid question, but why would I care if the guy is selling weapons? The CIA sells weapons.”
“Maybe he’s selling them to terrorists.”
“What kind of weapons?”
“He dabbles in all kinds of things: RPGs, AKS-74Us, MG4s. Nasty stuff.”
“Sounds serious, all those letter and numbers. I’m not sure someone like me would know what those things are.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily have to know—”
“Although, honestly,” I interrupt, “if I were a terrorist, I’d probably be more interested in the L-85 assault rifle or maybe something like a RPK-12 light machine gun. Unless I really wanted to do some serious damage, then I might need an RPG-7 or a nice little Stinger rocket launcher.”
“Were you playing dumb with me, before?”
“You were talking to me like I was, so I thought I would fulfill your wishes.”
“How do you know what an L-85 assault rifle is?”
“Battleground,” I say with a grin.
He rolls his eyes. “You kids and your damn video games.”
“Can we try it now?”
“Try what now?”
“Point to someone and tell me what you want to know about them.”
“Hmm.” He scans the room and then gestures. “Over there is Senator Martin Vanderbilt. He’s very protective of his family after a kidnapping scare a few years ago. He rarely speaks of them in public and would never give out any pertinent details. I want to know where his children are going to summer camp.”
A few minutes later, I’m at the bar when the Director wanders over. “Ready to admit to defeat?”
“No, I was just grabbing a drink. His twelve-year old son, Austin, and his fourteen-year old daughter, Beatrice, are going to Lakeland Camp in the Adirondacks. Apparently, it’s a family tradition. His college-aged son attended when he was younger and even served as a camp counselor. He also tried to set me up with said son, whose name is Nathaniel and who is very close by as he attends Georgetown Law School.”
The man raises his eyebrow at me just slightly, showing a hint of surprise. “You did well. So, will you do it?”
“If it doesn’t put me in danger,” I shrug. “Sure, why not?”
“Good to hear. I actually have a mission for you.”
“Um, okay?”
“This week the King is hosting a state dinner at the Montrovian Embassy. I’m told Aleksandr Nikolaevich may be in attendance.”
“Is that Viktor’s father?”
“Yes.”
“And what does he have to do with anything?”
“There are rumors that his international shipping company may be smuggling arms to people we don’t want to have them.”
“I don’t know about that, but the man sure builds a gorgeous yacht.”
“Just keep your ears open, and if you hear anything of interest, call me directly,” he says, then hands me a card with his cell number written on the back.
I take the card and put it in my clutch. I mean, it couldn’t hurt to have the Director of the CIA on speed dial.
After dinner, I pull Ari aside. “The Director of the CIA just recruited me to be an informant. I suspect he will try to recruit you too.”
“Do you think he knows the truth about us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Which means our cover runs very deep.” Ari eyes one of the members of the country band, a beautiful brunette, and says, “Which is a good thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have some hunting to do.”
“Does that mean I should see myself home?”
“I’ll let you know later, but I sure hope so.”
I’m getting ready to text my driver when I hear Mike Burnes speaking in hushed tones on his phone as he’s heading for the exit. I don’t know why, but I follow him, watching as he rounds the corner and meets up with someone.
I keep my body flat against the building and then stealthily peek around the corner. Neither man is facing my direction but rather standing face-to-face, giving me a view of their profiles.
The man he’s speaking to is tall and wearing a trench coat and hat, which is weird considering it’s not cold or rainy out.
I move closer in an attempt to better hear their conversation, using a dumpster as cover.
I have no reason to be back here. It’s dark, and smart young women don’t walk down alleys alone at night.
“You’re not going to like this,” the man in the trench coat says. “We believe that the assassin known as The Priest made the hit on the President. There is no one else who could have done this.”
“That’s impossible. He’s been dead since—”
“Since he was double-crossed and killed by whomever ordered the hit on one of our best agents and her daughter six years ago.”
My ears perk up, and there’s a burning sensation at the pit of my stomach. Is the agent he’s talking about my mother?
“It’s hard to believe we never found her daughter’s body,” the director says, shaking his head and looking sad. “I just pray whatever he did to her was over quickly.” He pauses. “Hard to believe she’d be eighteen by now.”
Are they talking about me? About my body? Do they think I’m dead? No, it can’t be me. There must be another agent who was killed in that timeframe. Who had a daughter the same age as me.
The director continues. “What proof do you have that The Priest is alive?”
“There was a woman he was thought to be tied to. After some research, we discovered she was killed in a suspicious auto accident four years ago.”
“What does that have to do with him if he was dead?”
“Exactly,” the man states. “We believe the people who hired him found out he wasn’t dead and attempted to rectify the situation.”
“But no one knows for sure?”
“That’s correct. He disappeared without a trace and more than likely altered his face. Facial recognition software has come up with nothing.”
“Maybe he’s living off grid?” the director suggests, although the way he says it isn’t dismissive, more like he’s playing devil’s advocate.
“He had to get in our country somehow to do the hit.”
“He could have been smuggled in.”
“Something like that would require help from others. The Priest doesn’t work that way. He never has.”
“If he’s truly alive, we need to find him before anyone else does. I want this played close to the vest. Get a team together. No more than four. And only those you trust explicitly. We can not allow this to leak until we know for sure.”
“What will we do if we find him?”
“We take him out,” the director says.
I realize they are finished with their conversation, and I need to get out of here quickly be
fore they discover me. I manage to sneak back around the corner, but have only taken a couple of steps when my foot collides with an empty can, making an audible noise.
I hear the sounds of feet hitting pavement behind me, so I take off running.
I can’t get caught.
I can’t get caught.
Please, don’t let me get caught.
I move as fast as I can back toward the entrance to the dinner party. Thankfully, no one is outside, so I barrel through the door and head straight for the ladies’ room.
I lock myself in a stall and attempt to catch my breath.
Five minutes later, I text Ari.
Me: I’m feeling sick and want to go home. Should I go without you?
Ari: Where are you? I’ve been looking for you.
Me: Bathroom. Can you meet me out front?
He doesn’t say anything when he sees me, just puts his arm around my shoulder and helps me in the car.
As he’s driving away, he says, “What’s wrong?”
“My mom worked for the CIA, and they think I’m dead.”
“What do you mean?”
I tell him what I overheard in the alley.
“And you think they were talking about you? It could have been anyone.”
I shake my head and lay my hand across my belly, my gut knowing the truth. “They were talking about me.”
“So what if they were. How does it affect you now?”
I tell him about the locket and what Terrance found on it. About how whatever my mom was working on at the time got her and my father killed.
“I had to study The Priest in school. They told us the folklore. Based on the jobs he managed to complete, he was the best. I wouldn’t say I idolized him, because I don’t think random killing for money is right, but there was a respect level.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Except that he killed my mother and if Terrance is right about our upcoming mission, we’ll be sent to deal with him. It’s what they’ve been training me for.”
“If that’s our mission, we’ll complete it,” he states confidently. But Ari hasn’t studied him. Doesn’t know what The Priest is capable of.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I reply softly.
Ari is quiet during the remainder of our drive home, apparently thinking through this new discovery.
When we pull in the driveway he asks, “Why didn’t they say anything about your dad? You said he was killed a few days later.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he died differently?”
“Or he’s still alive.”
“No way. He was a good dad. He wouldn’t have dumped me at Blackwood.”
“What if it was for your own safety?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t believe that.”
“You got out of the car,” Ari disagrees. “What makes you think he didn’t?”
“Because I watched the car blow up, and he wasn’t out of it.”
Ari purses his lips in thought and just nods.
Lorenzo isn’t home yet, so I go straight to my room and take a hot bath.
I need to calm down and think.
Ari’s right.
Why does it matter if they think I’m dead? If the CIA doesn’t know I’m still alive, I definitely work for a very powerful covert agency, who more than likely hid me away not only to train me, but possibly to keep me safe.
But safe from whom?
And why?
MISSION:DAY THREE
The Queen of Montrovia is having tea in the castle’s parlor and reading the paper when a photo catches her eye, causing her to frown.
Huntley Von Allister, who had all of Montrovia thinking she might be their future Princess, is holding hands with Daniel Spear while his father is sworn in as President.
With a sigh, she picks up the phone and calls her son.
“Hello, Mother,” he answers politely.
“Lorenzo, there is a matter that I need to discuss with you.”
“Very well. Would you like to do so now?”
“Yes, I must. I fear you will not take the news well, however. Before your father passed, he issued a decree changing the date by which you must wed.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“He liked Huntley and had hoped things would progress, so he gave it to me. He didn’t want to put unnecessary pressure on your relationship. Speaking of which, where do things stand with you and Miss Von Allister?”
“Things are—complicated.”
“By the fact that she is seeing another man? She is holding hands with Daniel Spear during his father’s swearing in. Is it true that you are staying at her home in Washington?”
“Yes. It is.”
“And where do you stand with her?”
“Mother, we have only just recently met. We then went through something traumatic. It may take some time for us to work through the, uh, details.”
“So things will work between you?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Do you want it to?”
“Yes.”
“Are you saying that you love her?”
“She is unlike any woman I have ever met before. Would you approve of her if I did?”
“I would need to get to know her better and, of course, there is the law to deal with. Your bride must be a citizen of Montrovia.”
“Her citizenship is already in place.”
“When did that happen? How did it happen?”
“I had it approved by the Prime Minister before the Queen’s Ball and had planned to tell her once we were alone. I hoped it would be the first step in an official courtship.”
“And that was interrupted by the kidnapping?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“So what changed things?”
“I was nearly killed by my own cousin. Did that not shock you?”
“Nothing shocks me anymore,” she says with a sigh, the years of being in the spotlight having taken their toll long ago.
“Not to mention Father’s passing, the funeral, and the coronation.”
“I was told you gave Huntley use of the Royal Yacht, and Daniel Spear accompanied her.”
“That is correct. She had been seeing Daniel before we met. She thought that I didn’t fancy her further.”
“Why did she think that?”
“Because of how I behaved after the coronation. She thought we were over.”
“You are the youngest King of Montrovia in the last hundred years and, unfortunately for you, your reputation proceeds you. You are seen in the public eye as a playboy who only cares about his personal pleasures. When you were courting Miss Von Allister, that perception was starting to change, but the damage has not been repaired. The people need a King who they believe has their country’s best interests at heart.”
“And I will prove to them that I am worthy of their respect.”
“You have two weeks to show progress with Miss Von Allister. If you are not together and publicly dating by the end of that time period, I will be forced to start arrangements for you to marry.”
“Marry who?”
“Lady Elizabeth Palomar.”
“Lizzie?”
“Yes. She comes from a good family, and her father seemed amiable to the idea.”
“How would you know that already?”
“Your father spoke to him before he passed. He had planned to tell you, but then you started dating Huntley, so he told me to let it run its course before we brokered the deal.”
“I am not in love with Lizzie.”
“She is beautiful, and you will learn to love her just as I learned to love and respect your father. Of course, producing heirs will be of utmost importance and part of her duties as your wife.”
He closes his eyes. “I won’t allow it.”
“I’m afraid you don’t have much choice, Lorenzo. The decree your father signed proclaimed you must marry by your twenty-fourth birthday. You have two options
. Get engaged to the woman of your choosing, or you will be betrothed to Elizabeth.”
My sleep is fitful and filled with crazy dreams. I wake up starving and have breakfast sent to my room.
I’m just finishing up when there is a soft knock on my door, and Lorenzo whispers, “Are you awake?”
“Yes, come in,” I reply.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, sitting on the edge of my bed.
I push my tray away and pretzel my legs. “Not really. Did you?”
“It is hard for me to get much sleep when I am in such close proximity to you.”
I wink at him. “Dirty dreams?”
“Yes, the kind where our chess game wasn’t halted.”
I smile. “If it’s any consolation, telling you no that night was very difficult for me.”
“That is good to know,” he beams. “This morning, I am meeting with business and government leaders to discuss the worldwide terror crisis. Then I’ll be touring some of the Washington monuments this afternoon. Would you care to join me?”
“I would love that. What time shall I be ready?”
“Around two o’clock? We’ll have a private tour of the Library of Congress and then go to the National Archives. I decided to have a monument built in honor of my father and thought those would provide some inspiration.”
I take his hand in mine and give it a little squeeze. “Lorenzo, that’s such a sweet idea. What kind of monument?”
“Much like you, my father loved history. I thought either a museum or library, where we could house much of Montrovia’s history for the public to see. Right now, they get glimpses of history during the castle tour, but after the attack, it’s been advised that I close the grounds to tourists.”
“It’s sad, really. That people can’t just get along.”
“It is,” he agrees. “But the world has changed since I was a boy. Someday in the near future, I hope to have children of my own running around. My family’s safety would be of the utmost importance. This would be a good compromise.”
I reach out and touch his face. “You are going to be an amazing King. Do you know that?”