Flee

by Francine Pascal

  “We’re out of the city now,” Henrik said. “I think it’s safe to come back up front.”

  Flashes of countryside whipped past the window as Tom crawled into the front passenger seat. It was the familiar northern European terrain: muddy fields, the occasional roaming herd of cattle, silos stretching up into the sky. Rural Belgium. Tom relaxed, at least as much as he could. Unconsciously his hand fell to his waistband, where a pistol lay hidden. They would be prepared now if a car pulled up alongside them.

  “You’re going to be in deep when you get back,” Tom said mildly. “I wish I could take the fall for you.”

  Henrik shrugged. “They’ll punish me. But they have to love me for the prestige I’ll be bringing them. Oliver Moore, in custody. It’s for the greater good, is it not?”

  Tom nodded. Henrik had called Interpol for reinforcements. Naturally Interpol would oblige. No doubt agents were being dispatched at this very moment. But Henrik would be in up to his eyeballs for bending rules and using the agency’s resources to track Loki’s accounts illegally, without waiting to go through the proper channels. It was a risk, yes. On the other hand, if it paid off. . . .

  “Did you ever know my brother?” Tom wondered aloud. “Before he turned?”

  “Not personally, no.” Henrik brushed a tuft of white-gold hair back behind his glasses. “Of course George spoke of him back in those days. Who didn’t? His reputation preceded him. Tell me, why is it that the most brilliant agents always lose their way?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Tom didn’t have to reply. And it wasn’t worth thinking about, anyway. Because every agent, no matter how decent or wellintentioned, had once considered taking that same dark fork in the road, the one that had led Loki astray.Tom included. After all, Loki was his twin. If the seeds of evil could be sown in Loki, then certainly they could be sown in Tom as well.

  “How did you first meet George?” Tom asked, eager to change the subject. “He never told me the specifics.”

  “When I started, I was a commando. . . . Oh, was it twenty years ago already?” Henrik chuckled and shook his head. He glanced in the rearview mirror, then shifted lanes. “George had a mission in Belgium. I helped him on the case. Of course, I was very young then. I made some big mistakes, despite being on such an elite force. Overconfidence, I suppose. I probably hurt more than helped him. But he taught me along the way and saved my life more than once while he was at it.”

  Tom nodded slowly. “He’s a good man,” he said quietly, picturing Gaia at George’s brownstone. The thought comforted him, if only a little.

  “Yes, he is. It’s too bad about his wife.” Henrik sighed. “But you know, that Katia, I never trusted her.”

  Tom stiffened. “That Katia?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” Henrik replied evenly. “I met her several times here in Europe. A beautiful redhead, but she never would look me in the eye. Looking back, it seems obvious now that he was set up.”

  “Doesn’t it,” Tom replied, and his body went cold.

  Dating

  GOOD FOOD WAS JUST ONE OF THE many sweet perks of living with the Mosses. Gaia’s eyes widened as she surveyed the spread Olga had laid out for dinner: roast leg of lamb with rosemary, golden new potatoes, glazed carrots, fresh snap peas, a beet salad (Olga’s Eastern European touch)—and to top it all off, Olga’s special gravy. Olga’s gravy was pure genius.A monument to poor health.It was thick and rich and so buttery, it could probably glue arterial walls to each other. Which meant, of course, that it was right up Gaia’s alley.

  “Wow,” Ed said.

  Gaia shot him a quick smile from across the table.

  “It’s such a lovely treat to have a guest,” Mrs. Moss announced graciously.

  “It’s nice to be here,” Ed said simply. He raised his eyebrows and flashed a crooked grin. “Thanks for having me.”

  Mrs. Moss was beaming.

  Turn on the charm there, Fargo,Gaia thought, resisting the urge to smirk. She couldn’t get over how Ed had dressed up for the occasion—in a crisp white button-down shirt and a pair of new corduroys. Any doubts she’d had about inviting Ed to dinner had evaporated the moment he’d walked through the door.

  Gaia still wasn’t sure what had possessed her to send that e-mail. True, Mrs. Moss had complained yesterday that the dinner table would be so empty, what with Brendan at the dorm and Paul out with a friend and Mr. Moss away on business—so a part of Gaia had obviously been responding to that.The wordemptywasn’t a word that anybody needed to hear in this place.But a different part of her wanted to test something. That part wanted to see if an unusual set of circumstances—like a semiformal dinner in the presence of an adult— could give her relationship with Ed the kick in the butt it needed to get back to normal. For good.

  “Can we start?” Gaia asked.

  Mrs. Moss laughed. She draped her napkin across her lap. “Of course, dear.”

  Once again Gaia felt a strange flush of warmth. That had been happening a lot this evening.Dear.It was such a small, incidental snippet of speech. Virtually meaningless. And certainly unconscious on the part of Mrs. Moss. But that was why it elicited such a strong emotion.Mrs. Moss wasn’t faking anything for Gaia’s benefit.Gaiawasher “dear.” And Gaia knew that she’d brought something into Mrs. Moss’s life as well—into the lives of all the members of the Moss family. She brought companionship. It wasn’t a one-way street. It was arealrelationship. Which meant that it was unlike any othershe’d experienced in the recent past—except, of course, with Ed.

  “It. . . um, helps to chew before you swallow,” Ed teased as Gaia shoved a forkful of lamb into her mouth and wolfed it down.

  “Very funny,” Gaia muttered. She sliced off another chunk of meat.

  Ed shrugged at Mrs. Moss. “I apologize for my friend’s manners,” he said dryly.

  Mrs. Moss laughed. Her eyes flashed between the two of them as she served herself some potatoes. “Well, I can certainly see that you fit well together,” she remarked. “How long have you been dating?”

  Dating?

  Stop. Rewind. Delete. Empty recycle bin. Blood surged to Gaia’s face, and she found herself cringing. She stared at her plate as if it would somehow magically deliver her from thisawful, awkward, miserable moment. . . .Was Ed looking at her? And how could Mrs. Moss not know about Sam? Sam was Brendan’sroommate.This was mortifying. Gaia could feel him next to her, jiggling his knee, obviously about as relaxed as she was.

  “Um. . . we’re just friends,” Ed mumbled.

  Bury me, please. Earthquake. Building collapse. Whatever.Gaia nodded quickly, forcing herself to relax. She glanced up at Ed. His face was the color ofthe beet salad. He started shoveling food into his mouth.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Moss apologized. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “No problem,” Gaia said. Right. It was no big deal. Mrs. Moss had made a natural mistake. Yet somehow it seemed to resurrect that invisible but very palpable weirdness between Gaia and Ed. Her cheeks were still burning.

  Well. She would just have to eat her way through this. Soon enough, the moment would dissipate, maybe five bites from now. Besides, was it really so bad? It was anormal, painful, family-style moment.In a way, it was almost as if Mrs. Moss was her own mother—doing what mothers did. Being totally unsubtle.

  Gaia paused, fork suspended.

  My own mother.

  Somehow, despite all the tension and awkwardness, everything became clear to her in that instant. She was in no hurry. She needed to take her time. Oliver was too much of a risk right now. Of course he was. Maybe in a month she’d be ready to join him. But for the present she was happy here. Phenomenally embarrassed, but happy. And hey, Mrs. Moss got something out of the deal, too. She got to make Gaia blush. Call her “dear.” Feed her. And most important, she got to enjoy a part of Mary’s life, to keep that part of her life alive.

  She was Gaia’s family now.

  Bird Man

  SAM’S EYES FLICKERE
D IN TIME with the epileptic strobe light behind his eyelids.On-off, on-off, on-off. . . .

  Was this the white light people-talked about when they passed over from life to death? The tunnel to heaven? It didn’t seem right. There was nothing comforting about it. Sam didn’t feel like he was “coming home,”the way people described near-death experiences on those cheap cable shows.So maybe this was the tunnel to hell. Of course. Where else would Sam Moon be headed? His body was gone; he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel anything. Only the searingon-off, on-off. . . .

  His eyes fluttered open, and a face appeared. It was the handsome face of a man in his late forties. An oddly familiar face. God?Man. . . made in his own image. . . .Disjointed phrases from the Bible filtered through Sam’s consciousness as he stared up into two bright eyes. Sam had never been a religious guy, but—

  “Don’t be afraid of me, Sam Moon.”

  Sam jerked. He tried to bolt upright but couldn’t. Heknewthis face somehow—and it was not the face of God.It was the face of a hawk, some kind of giant bird of prey.Yes. His arms felt like granite cylinders at his sides, lifeless, useless. He blinked. The man clicked off the beam of a penlight and tucked it into the breast pocket of a dark suit.

  “Glad you finally decided to join us, Sam,” the man said. “I was worried our friend had put too much anesthetic in that dart. Quite a sleep you had there, my friend. When we gave you your insulin injection earlier, you barely flinched.”

  The words flowed together. Sam could understand them, but they were fuzzy, seamless. He fought to make sense of his surroundings. He was strapped to a table in some kind of vast, unfurnished room. Everything was white. “Who are you?” he muttered. “I know you?” His disembodied voice floated up and away from him. It came from far away; it came from underwater.

  The man smiled. His eyes were very sharp.Bird eyes.They seemed brighter even than the light that had streamed into Sam’s pupils, the light that had resurrected him from his temporary death.

  “I am Gaia’s uncle, Oliver,” the man said. “I do not believe we have met in any formal sense, Sam, but I know who you are. I brought you here.”

  “Brought me here?” Sam croaked. He was still groggy, but his heart stirred into faster beats now. He was having trouble breathing. “But Josh—”

  “He’s gone,” Oliver reassured Sam in a calm, soothing-voice. “You aren’t in any danger. Forgive the use of force, but I needed to talk to you alone.”

  Gaia’s uncle. . . .

  Sam swallowed. There was a stone in his throat. No, a bowling ball; that was it, a bowling ball—andthis bird man was saying something to him now, about how much he loved Gaia, how much he wanted her to go live with him. . . . Sam’s thoughts sharpened.

  The words crystallized into individual shards of a greater whole.And all at once, with terrible, sudden clarity, he understood.

  He recognized this voice.

  Yes. It was the voice of his worst nightmares. The voice he could never forget. Sam clenched his fists, trying to stop himself from giving in to the nausea rising in his throat,the bilious black sludge threatening to choke him.

  “I love her very much,” the voice continued. It was smooth and musical, reverberating through the room, through the chambers of Sam’s head, where they metamorphosed into other words. . . .

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Do you love her, Sam?”

  They were the questions that had haunted Sam night after feverish night, posed by the stranger who had captured him all those months ago—the stranger who had tortured him, the stranger who had denied him the insulin he needed as a diabetic, the stranger who had almost killed him.

  But not a stranger.Thisman.

  Gaia’s uncle.

  Oliver (if that was even his real name) smiled cordially at Sam now, offering him water, food,anythingyou need.He was the man at the source, the man who orchestrated. . . . The nausea receded, and an icy coldness gripped Sam’s stomach.He was still disoriented, but one thing was clear: he needed to get as far away from this man as possible, as fast as he could.But escape was out of the question. There was no point in even trying.

  “I need your help, Sam,” the man finished.

  Panic fluttered like a wing inside Sam’s tight chest. But he forced himself to nod. It was best not to fight. It was best to pretend for as long as possible. Because this was a very dangerous man. Sam knew that.It was a blood memory hard-wired into his veins.

  This man was a killer.

  Slippery Wheel

  “I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU KNEW Katia so well,” Tom said. His eyes bored into Henrik’s profile. Only years of rigorous training kept his hands still, his voice calm. Inside, he was a seething mass of confusion and rage. Because Loki had won yet another battle. He didn’t even have to be in the same part of the world, but he’d cleverly persuaded Tom to trust this man.

  “Loki can really find them,” Henrik mumbled, changing lanes.

  “I know,” Tom breathed. He wasn’t lying. Loki had foundhim,after all—this “Henrik,” whoever he was. He was certainly not George Niven’s old comrade, Special Agent Henrik van de Meulen. No, the real Henrik was no doubt a corpse by now. Tom studied the man’s face. The plastic surgery was pretty damn impressive. So was the coaching. But not quite good enough. Because this impostor, good as he was, had gotten his wires—rather, wives—fatally crossed. He’d substituted Katia for Ella. He’d confused the recent death of one with the long-past death of the other. And sealed his own demise in the process.

  “We’ll meet with Loki soon enough,” Henrik said. “We’ll take our revenge. For George’s sake. And yours.”

  Tom nodded. “Yes, we will.” His voice was as still as a pond. He glanced out of the window, his mind racing. The little car chugged along, past the same drab scenery—with the sun a fiery red ball to their left.To my left? At sunrise?

  All at once Tom realized that they weren’t headed for Amsterdam at all. They were headed southeast, in the wrong direction. And that was the motivation he needed. He had to get control of this car and dispose of Henrik. Now. With a barely perceptible motion, he fished his pistol from his waistband—and in less than a tenth of a second had the barrel shoved against the man’s temple.

  Henrik flinched slightly, but he didn’t turn his head. His gaze remained pinned to the highway.

  “Pull over,” Tom commanded.

  “It’s too late, Enigma,” Henrik whispered.

  “Not if I shoot you,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “You pull over now, or you’ll be roadkill. I can grab the wheel and pull over myself.”

  For a few seconds Henrik kept driving, seeming to weigh his options. His knuckles were white on the wheel. But finally he slowed the car and pulled off to the side, over a little grassy knoll and then down a steep embankment to a field. The car lurched to a stop. Tom’s gun never wavered, not even for an instant. The barrel remained firmly planted against the impersonator’s temple.

  “Get out,” Tom croaked.

  “You should give it up,” the man said neutrally. His voice had changed. His consonants were now thick as gravel. “You have no chance of escape, regardless of what you do with me. Loki knows where you are.”

  Russian.Tom placed the man’s accent. This “Henrik” was a Russian, not Belgian-Dutch at all. But as Tom processed this information, tried to make sense of it, something darted at the corner of his peripheral vision. Henrik was reaching for his own weapon. Tom didn’t hesitate. He pulled the trigger. It was all over very quickly. There was a muzzle flash, a deafening crack, a painful recoil. Tom winced. His earsrang. Blood spurted from his enemy’s skull, splashing onto Tom’s shirt. The man flopped against the driver’s side window. He was dead.

  “Stupid,” Tom hissed out loud.

  But he wasn’t talking to Henrik or whoever the hell he was. He was talking to himself. He’d killed Henrik before he could get any real information out of him. And then he realized something else: That assassin back at the Pension Arboire. .
. that hadn’t been the Wolf at all. That had been one of Tom’s own—a member of the CIA or perhaps Interpol—coming to save him. And this phony Henrik had disposed of that agent before he’d even had a chance to open his mouth.

  Tom’s heart picked up a beat. He stared at the crimson ooze dripping from Henrik’s cranium. Why had Henrik reached for his gun? Perhaps because he knew he was dead, anyway? Yes. Even if he didn’t reveal any information, he’d been compromised. Tom had exposed him. Loki would never have allowed him to live.

  Move!

  The voice came from nowhere. His brain in a fog, Tom went through the motions of dragging Henrik’s body from the driver’s seat and dumping it in a cesspool by the foot of the slope. Then he returned to the car, started the engine, and sped across the field until he reached a small road, far from the highway.He knew where he was headed. To the van de Meulen apartment, as he knew it. The sun was his guide. But for some reason, he was having a hard time maintaining his grip on the wheel.

  It was only after he’d driven three miles that he realized why. His hands were soaked with blood.

  TOM

  Iremember coming to Belgium with Katia. When was it? Must have been fifteen years ago. We left Gaia with her grandmother and spent a week in Bruges, just the two of us. They call Bruges the “Venice of the North.” It was the most romantic week of my life. We rented a private boat and spent days drifting up and down the misty canals, stopping only for a glass of wine or to peep into an art museum, inhaling the timeless magic of the place and savoring the rarity of being alone together—just the two of us.