by C. E. Murphy
A gunshot, loud as Gabriel's horn, shattered Rafe's last words. Alisha jerked violently, the sound completely unexpected, and watched as pure astonishment washed over Rafe's face. He began turning away from her a final time, the strength draining from his body as he did. His collapse was oddly graceful, a rose of red spreading over his back as he fell to reveal Frank Reichart standing in the room's doorway, lowering his gun.
Alisha gaped at him long enough that he cracked a wry grin, then opened his palm away from the gun to reveal Brandon's quantum flash drive nestled in his palm.
"You son of a bitch," Alisha said in amazement. Reichart shrugged, blew her a kiss, and walked out the door, leaving Alisha and a scene of carnage behind.
Chapter 30
She awoke in a French hospital, hooked up to more monitors than she'd known could fit on one person, and watched over by Greg, who didn't look like he'd slept in days. His thin beard had come in scruffy and the bags under his eyes were deep enough to swim in, but none of that had hidden either the flash of profound relief when she'd opened her eyes, nor the tightening of his jaw as he chose his first words to her.
"You hid your location and your plans from me. From me, Alisha."
"You were in Beijing." Flat tone. Painful words to say, emotionally, but physically, too: speaking told Alisha she had tubes down her throat. She swallowed around them and met Greg's eyes mercilessly.
He looked away first. A coup-counting snarl contorted Alisha's face, and she waited, every bit as angry as he was, for him to offer an explanation. What he finally said, though, was, "You went into cardiac arrest after that stunt in the safe house. One of the Russians kept you alive. We flew you out of Moscow after you'd stabilized, but nobody wanted to risk an overseas flight. We're just outside of Paris now."
Alisha, memories of the safe house disaster returning, croaked, "What about Boyer?"
"Recovering. He'll have a scar to impress the ladies with."
"Reichart?"
"Got away clean." Greg spread his hands, lips compressed. "We were busy trying to save you."
"Oh, fuck you, Greg, don't put that on me. You were in Beijing."
Strain showed in the cords of his neck again, and for the second time, her handler looked away. "Brandon's been trying to come in for months. I've been trying to handle it discreetly. I was at the Beijing facility to see how far his work had really gone. If he was going to come in with it, I needed to know how much bargaining power it would bring us."
"And why the hell wasn't I told?"
Greg's glance skittered back to her. "You'd been in contact with Frank Reichart three times in the past week, Ali. What did you expect us to think?"
"Three—!" The incredulous burst made Alisha's throat hurt and, angry and in pain, she clawed the tube out, gagging the whole way. Greg looked faintly ill. "He fucking broke my cover wide open two times in a row, and you think, what, I was working with him?"
"You met with him in Paris."
"Jesus Christ." Alisha slumped into her hospital bed, suddenly drained of energy. "He's the one who led me to Brandon, Greg. He recognized something I hadn't."
"Or he planted that drawing himself to point you at Brandon, so you would be in Beijing to make sure he got out of that factory safely."
Alisha, out loud, said, "It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," and earned a scathing look from her handler. "Cut the crap, Greg. I've had enough of it."
"I am still your superior officer, Agent MacAleer."
"I've had enough crap, sir." Alisha closed her eyes and turned her face away, and after a while—a long while—heard him rise and leave. As soon as he did, she began unhooking the other lines and tubes attached to her—blood pressure cuff, oxygen meter, heart monitor, saline drip—and got unsteadily to her feet in search of her clothes. Someone had brought her hiking gear, and she changed into hiking boots, jeans, and a t-shirt before worried doctors showed up to find out why her vitals were no longer being monitored. Alisha argued with them all the way out the door and released herself from the hospital's care whether they liked it or not. No one stopped her; Greg had disappeared from sight, and they hadn't put any kind of guard on her.
Five minutes later she was in a ride-share, heading south to lose herself in the European countryside.
#
Alisha pushed the journal away from her and scooted her chair back so she could stretch, fingertips on the desk and spine extended long. Small pops and thumps came from within her spine, making her feel inches taller. She groaned, stretched a little more, and sat up again.
Her chronicle lay in a tall stack, quick handwriting sprawling across its pages. The handmade paper had wonderful tooth, soaking up the ink from her fountain pen without smearing. Her left middle finger, where the pen rested, was ink-blotched from hours of ceaseless writing, but she had captured the essence of her mission, of the tumultuous emotions and exhaustive discoveries, and in doing so, released some of her frustration and fears. She could write a neutral report now—type one, thank goodness—and given Greg Parker's absolute fury with her, she would need every ounce of neutrality she could muster for the official account.
She'd called Erika from a pay phone within Parisian city limits, and verified that the software Reichart had stolen was, at least, corrupted. Alisha hadn't set him loose on the world with functional drone specs, which was something. Not much, maybe, but something. And Brandon Parker was in CIA custody, from whence he might, or might not, return. Erica didn't know and at the moment, Alisha didn't care.
Nor did she trust the story Greg had woven for her, but neither he nor Brandon were likely to tell her the truth about their connections to the Sicarii organization. Alisha would have to suss that one out herself, and—aggravatingly—she would have to go back in to do it. She had to regain Greg's trust, convince him that she hadn't been working with Reichart, pretend that she believed his Beijing story. The thought made her grind her teeth, and she rose from her chair to lower herself into a downward dog, stretching, clearing her mind.
She had traveled all day, hitchhiking, taking back roads through French villages and working her way into northern Italy. She'd rented another hostel room in Genoa, bought the materials she needed to work on her 'strongbox chronicle', and collapsed into exhaustion before writing a word. Relying on the kindness of strangers immediately after walking out of a cardiac unit in the hospital might have kept her off the grid, but it wasn't the easiest way she could have chosen to travel. On the other hand, Greg couldn't get much angrier at her than he already was—and the feeling, Alisha thought sourly, was mutual—and a day or two of delay before she turned in the mission report wouldn't make that much difference.
She'd been writing since she woke up, taking breaks to stretch and eat and use the toilet, and now she rifled through the pages she'd set aside, searching them as if they held hidden answers to all of her questions. The truth was they just contained the questions, written in frustrated longhand, and no answers at all.
The next chronicle would, she promised herself. Those answers would end up in a different strongbox in another part of the world, but the tantalizing hope that someone, someday, might find each of them and piece her whole story together was part of why she wrote them. Everyone, she supposed, wanted to be remembered, one way or another.
Weary to the bone, but satisfied with her work, Alisha bound the manuscript in brown paper and tied it with red twine, slid it into her backpack, and left the hostel to take a train up to Milan.
She really shouldn't, and knew it, but the temptation, and the amusement she got from it, overruled good sense. The manager at the bank Brandon had stored his quantum drive in—the bank Alisha had stolen it from—was a young woman this time, not the man who'd fallen for Alisha's story about gifts left in safety deposit boxes. She hadn't been worried either way; a change of hair style, different clothes, British accent, diffident attitude, all made her into an entirely new person. The young male manager wouldn't have recognized her even if the
y had spoken again.
She didn't go quite so far as to put the chronicle in the same safety deposit box Brandon had used. It wouldn't do to have him come back someday and find the account of her latest adventure. They were meant to be found eventually, not now. For now…
For now she had some making up to do, assuming Greg would forgive her. Answers to find, since she hadn't quite forgiven him. Secret organizations to expose, if she could.
Frank Reichart's ass to kick, for that matter.
Alisha left the bank and went out, smiling, to unearth more mysteries, and discover their answers.
Acknowledgements
The Strongbox Chronicles were originally written under a pseudonym, and languished in relative obscurity for reasons completely beyond my control. I am completely thrilled to finally republish these books as C.E. Murphy novels. Although they were never terribly well known, they were well-enough liked by those who read them that over the years people never stopped asking whether there would be more Strongbox Chronicles. I'm delighted to tell those readers that yes, there will be new books in this series. Not right away, because I've got a lot of other work to do, but there will be more someday!
In the meantime, these are the Author's Preferred Editions of the Strongbox Chronicles, which means there have been revisions since their original publication. Mostly I've added or fixed some things that I always kind of wanted to, because I'm no longer constrained by the very specific word count length that the books originally had to come in at. The truth is I'm pretty sure that unless you've read the originals dozens of times, or read the two versions side by side, you won't notice any differences, but I'm happier with them. :)
Thanks are still due, after all these years, to early readers Silkie and Jai, whose respective Google-fu and desire for more Strongbox Chronicles never failed to delight me, to Lance Henry and Marc Moskowitz for a little Latin guidance, and to my original Strongbox Chronicles editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey. I would also like to include a shout-out to editor Natashya Wilson, who called me a "dangerous writer" when this book was originally written. Remembering that compliment has gotten me through some hard moments over the years.
More lately, in terms of getting this book back out into the world, extraordinary thanks are due to my Dad, who minded my son while I worked, to Sarah Rees Brennan, who met me day after day so we would both put our noses to the grindstone and Get Stuff Done, to the Word Warriors (who have been there day after day for TEN YEARS NOW!), to Skyla Dawn Cameron for her AMAAAAAZING new cover art, and to my book designer, who will make the print edition of this look beautiful because she too is AMAAAAAAZING. :)
I also owe a great, great debt of thanks to (this round of) early readers Lisa Pegg and Mary Hargrove, who found a host of typos that had been introduced during edits. My favorite one was the bit where a coat snapped around Brandon's lips, and the most baffling one was where a chapter that used to have an ending just...didn't anymore. o.O :)
And lastly, of course, but obviously not leastly, all my love is due to Dad, and Ted, and Henry, who all did the happy dance with me for WEEKS when I got the rights back to these books!
-Catie
About the Author
According to her friends, CE Murphy makes such amazing fudge that it should be mentioned first in any biography. It's true that she makes extraordinarily good fudge, but she's somewhat surprised that it features so highly in biographical relevance.
Other people said she began her writing career when she ran away from home at age five to write copy for the circus that had come to town. Some claimed she's a crowdsourcing pioneer, which she rather likes the sound of, but nobody actually got around to pointing out she's written a best-selling urban fantasy series (The Walker Papers), or that she dabbles in writing graphic novels (Take A Chance) and periodically dips her toes into writing short stories (the Old Races collections).
Still, it's clear to her that she should let her friends write all of her biographies, because they’re much more interesting that way.
More prosaically, she was born and raised in Alaska, and now lives with her family in her ancestral homeland of Ireland, which is a magical place where it rains a lot but nothing one could seriously regard as winter ever actually arrives.
She can be found online at mizkit.com, @ce_murphy, fb.com/cemurphywriter, and at her newsletter, which you should definitely sign up for because it's by far the best way to hear what's out next! (Also, if you signed up for it before February 2019, you could, uh, sign up again, because I accidentally deleted my whole mailing list and lost so many subscribers... :})
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Did you love The Cardinal Rule? Then you should read The Firebird Deception by C.E. Murphy!
Agent Alisha MacAleer has put the past behind her as best she can, but her trust in the CIA is no longer what it was...and the Agency's faith in Alisha is fractured, too.
When a mission goes sideways—again—thanks to her ex-lover Frank Reichart, Alisha's loyalties are called into question. Furious to learn that brilliant but treacherous Brandon Parker is back developing the next generation of his sophisticated artificial intelligences, assigned to desk duty, and sure that there are answers that only she can get to, Alisha is left with an impossible choice.
She can follow orders, or she can strike out on her own to uncover Brandon's intentions, Reichart's secrets, and the hidden mastermind behind the game she's been drawn into—a mastermind whose identity she suspects, but could never guess.
With no support, no resources, and no safety net, Alisha must believe that honor can survive a trial by fire….
Read more at C.E. Murphy’s site.
Also by C.E. Murphy
Collected Tales of the Old Races
Year of Miracles
Baba Yaga's Daughter
Kiss of Angels
The Austen Chronicles
Magic & Manners
The Guildmaster Saga
Stonemaster
Seamaster
The Heartstrike Chronicles
Atlantis Fallen
From Coffin to Grave
The Inheritors' Cycle
The Queen's Bastard
The Pretender's Crown
The Lovelorn Lads
Bewitching Benedict
The Redeemer Wars
Redeemer
The Rising
Keys
The Strongbox Chronicles
The Cardinal Rule
The Firebird Deception
The Phoenix Law
The Worldwalker Duology
Truthseeker (Coming Soon)
Standalone
Roses in Amber
Siryn
Watch for more at C.E. Murphy’s site.