Flee

by Francine Pascal

  I could never bring myself to return there. Not since I lost her. The thought has crossed my mind many times in recent days, but I can’t afford grief right now. I need to stay on top of my emotions. When this thing with Loki is finished, I’ll take Gaia to Bruges. She would love it there: the Gothic churches, the Benedictineconvents peeking through the fog. It’s dark and mysterious, but somehow warm and welcoming, too. Like Gaia herself.

  I know I’m presuming too much to imagine that Gaia would want to go anywhere with me again. But I’ve got to keep assuming that when the time is right, she’ll let me back into her heart. She’ll understand why I’ve had to leave her, and she’ll forgive me for it. Because without Gaia, I have nothing. I lost everything else a long, long time ago.

  indifference

  Tom cocked the hammer. He thrust the barrel of the pistol intothe fleshy part of the neck at the base of her skull.

  Cocktail Hour

  HEATHER SUPPOSED THAT IT WAS a bit naive to expect Sam to call her back. She hadn’t seen him or spoken to him in weeks. For all she knew, he and Gaia had eloped. Maybe he hadn’t picked up his messages. Or maybe he had finals. Or had been bitten by a West Nile mosquito and gotten shipped off to the Center for Tropical Diseases in Atlanta or wherever it was.

  Yes, life was full of possibilities. Wasn’t it wonderful?

  A tear spilled onto Heather’s mattress as she stared at her phone.She couldn’t seem to get out of bed.Maybe she should go to the living room and join her mom. But no, that would be much worse. Her mother was having some women over for cocktails today. Returning full steam to New York society.Go, Mom.What bliss at the Gannis home.

  “Oh, Heather, dear!” her mom called over muffled peals of laughter. “You sure you don’t want to join us?”

  “No, thanks, Mom!”

  Heather heard her own voice. There wasn’t even a trace of sadness, though she’d been crying only seconds earlier. Amazing. Was she as bad as her mother? Was she that capable of deception? Were appearances all that mattered?

  No.

  Without pausing to second-guess herself, shegrabbed the phone and savagely punched in Ed’s number. Her breath came in tight gasps. There was a ring on the other end, that dull buzz. Another. Then a third. He still hadn’t responded to her letter, but maybe that was because—

  “Hello?” Ed answered.

  Heather bit her lip. He sounded so open, so friendly. A wave of hope expanded in her chest.

  “Hi,” she whispered, her voice choked with longing.

  “Heather?” Ed asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Hi.” Ed’s voice was toneless. Not mean, not hard. Not much of anything.

  “Hi, Ed,” Heather whispered, straightening, wondering if her mascara was streaked, if she looked as bad as she felt, but then remembering that he couldn’t see her—

  “I got your letter. Thanks. But I don’t think we should talk more about it right now.”

  Heather blinked. “You don’t?” Her voice faltered.

  “No. I’ve got too much on my mind. I’m. . . I’m sorry.”

  Heather nodded. In his voice she heard a cacophony of feelings. She heard pain. She heard loss. She heard anger. A lot of things. Or did she?

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he said.

  Please feel something, Ed,she pleaded silently, desperately. Indifference was the one thing she couldn’t handle. It didn’t match his personality. That first“hello” carried such promise. Ed must know how much she loved him. That they could truly start over. That her secret had destroyed their relationship only because it had eaten away at her, turned her into a monster, made her sabotage the one good, real thing in her life. But she had learned, and now—

  “Heather?” Ed said softly. “I’ll see ya later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  There was a click, and the line went dead.

  Heather’s body felt as light and empty as a crumpled paper bag.She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to cry. It didn’t work. She sniffed.

  Cocktail hour with Mom was sounding better and better.

  Very Russian Eyes

  AS QUIETLY AS POSSIBLE, TOM slid Henrik’s key into the lock. The door clicked open. He entered the apartment, squinting through the morning sunshine that streamed through the windows. Brightly lit motes of dust danced in the empty foyer.

  Where are you, Charlotte?

  Classical music floated to him from somewhere deep inside the residence. Tom listened. Bartók. He followed the sound, walking noiselessly into the kitchen. Unwashed dishes sat in the sink, but there was no sign of her. He drifted into a long corridor, and the music grew louder. It was coming from a room at the end of the hall. The door was open just a crack. Tom withdrew his gun and moved toward the music, his back to the wall. Surprise was his best weapon. He held his breath and peered through the doorway.

  There she was, busily downloading files off a computer. A Colt .45 with a silencer lay on the desk beside her. Funny. Tom had always found it interesting (and mildly amusing) that foreign terrorists—particularly Eastern Europeans and Russians—seemed to prefer big, bulky, American guns. He had a few theories as to why. Most of them had grown up in repressed societies, under the watchful eye of a secret police. Such gaudy weapons probably made them feel free, as if they were expressing their individuality. Like cowboys. Or cowgirls, in this instance.

  Something else struck Tom, too. Aside from the gun, Charlotte could still pass for a perfect housewife. Her blond hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She might have been downloading recipes. Unlikely, though.

  Without making a sound, he slid through the doorwayand crept up behind her. Her fingers clicked away on the keyboard. She was oblivious to his presence.

  “Good morning,” he whispered in Russian.

  She lunged for her gun, then froze. Tom’s pistol was at her head.

  “How nice to see you again, Mrs. van de Meulen,” he hissed into her ear.

  He spun her desk chair so that she faced him. She regarded him impassively. If any emotion could be said to register in her face, it was disdain. Tom stared hard into her eyes. Now he finally understood why Charlotte had reminded him so much of Katia. It wasn’t her smile, her long neck, or her sweet nature. It was her eyes. Those wide-set, almond-shaped, very Russian eyes. She was no Belgian. Tom would bet money that this woman came from a long line of Tartars.

  “You’re good at masking your accent,” Tom said finally. “I really believed you were just a nice Flemish lady.”

  “Congratulations, I suppose,” the woman replied in flawless English.

  Tom gestured with the gun for her to stand. The woman obeyed, but she lifted her chin in defiance, her eyes blazing. He jammed the pistol against her head and seized her in a choke hold, then pulled her roughly from the desk—searching for twine, duct tape, anything to keep her still.

  “What do you want?” she gasped.

  “Open the drawers,” he commanded.

  She did his bidding even as he held her, pulling out desk drawers and opening cabinets until Tom finally found a ball of tape. It wasn’t very strong, but it would do for now. He threw her to the ground and dug his foot into the small of her back. With his free hand he deftly wound the tape around her wrists, biting off the end of it to seal the makeshift set of handcuffs. The acrid taste of glue filled his mouth. He stood, his foot still firmly planted next to her spine.

  “Talk,” he commanded. “What’s the plan?”

  She said nothing.

  Tom leaned over and smacked her with his pistol-—very sharply, in the face.

  She flinched but didn’t cry out. She was strong, this one. But of course she was. She worked for Loki. Her cheek reddened, and her eyes watered.

  “I will not hesitate to kill you, believe me,” Tom whispered. “That you’re a woman makes no difference. I’ll put a bullet in your skull without a second thought.”

  “Do you think Loki would actually tellusthe p
lan?” she grunted in Russian.

  “Enough of it, yes.”

  “Is Sasha dead?” she asked.

  Tom frowned. “Sasha?”

  “My partner.” She groaned.“Henrik.”

  “He is. And you will be joining him soon.”

  “Fine. I’m not telling you anything.”

  Tom cocked the hammer. He thrust the barrel of the pistol into the fleshy part of the neck at the base of her skull. “Your choice,” he said.

  “Wha—what do you want?” she stammered, squirming.

  “The information you gave me,” Tom growled. “This physicist in Chechnya. True or false?”

  “All of it false,” she panted. She tried to squirm again, but Tom kicked her spine. She cringed, then went limp. “Our orders were to stall you,” she gasped. “Until we could plan to get you to—”

  “Where was Sasha taking me today?” Tom demanded.

  “To a private airstrip where a chartered airplane was waiting. You were to fly to the United States.”

  Tom took a deep breath. So. Everything he’d been told was a fabrication. Chechnya. The trace on Loki’s bank account. Everything. This trip to the United States was probably a lie, too. They’d strung him along. Wasted his time.

  Or maybe not. At least now he was in a position of power, however fleeting.

  “What is my brother’s plan?” Tom repeated.

  The woman struggled to turn her head. Her bloodshot eyes met Tom’s. “If you’re going to kill me, do it,” she choked out. “Otherwise get out of here!”

  It became clear to him then: She was far moreterrified of his twin than she was of Tom—even though Tom was here, pointing a gun at her. But he could use that terror to his advantage. Appearances went a long way. This woman feared him because he was a replica of his brother. He could play that hand. But he had to act quickly.

  His eyes flashed to the computer. On the screen was a long list of aliases, most of which Tom recognized: renowned assassins, terrorists. He smacked the woman one last time with the pistol, then snatched the mouse and scrolled down the menu bar. Loki had actually given these scum ID and PIN numbers. And titles as well.

  The Wolf (TW): 078654, Project Manager. . . Bernard Ferry (BFF): 884742, Arms Supplier. . . Josh Kendall (J): 666854, Security. . . Sasha Ilyavich (S): 226727, Security . . .

  Tom clicked the mouse twice more, shifting to another list. These names he didn’t recognize, but their titles turned his blood to ice.

  Genetic Consultant. . . Biochemical Engineer . . .

  So maybe that anthrax factory in the Sudan wasn’t so far off the mark after all. Loki was gathering terrorists and corrupt scientists for some kind of biological weapons project—

  DNA.

  As the letters sprang from his memory, he shuddered. His informant had mentioned DNA. And Gaia. And kidnapping. His mouth suddenly felt very dry.His thoughts kept racing, but only down blind alleys. What on earth did any of this have to do with Gaia? None of the pieces of the puzzle seemed to fit.

  He turned to the woman on the floor, his gun still trained on the back of her skull.

  “I’ll ask you again,” he said. This time he didn’t sound urgent or anxious. Instead he affected an imitation of Loki’s own silky tone.“What is my brother’s plan?”

  “I. . . I. . . I can’t tell you. You have to believe me.” Her voice rose to a high-pitched squeal. She was panicking now.“He never—”

  “That’s fine,” Tom interrupted. “I’ll just leave you here to die, then.” Without another word he jabbed the button to eject the disk in the A drive.

  “Kill me!” she pleaded shrilly. “Do it now!”

  Tom snatched the disk, shoved it into his pocket, and hurried from the apartment, closing the door behind him. Killing her at this point would be an act of mercy. He wasn’t in a particularly merciful mood.

  Vermin

  “GAIA’S FATHER, AS YOU MUST know, is a very uncaring parent,” Oliver stated. He shook his head as if with regret.“He’s also a very dangerousman. We aren’t certain of the depth of his operation.”

  Sam swallowed. His flesh crawled. These little touches of sincerity were too much to handle. He nodded and tried to look less than wholly terrified. It took every ounce of effort he could muster. Even though Oliver had unstrapped him and allowed him to sit back on a comfortable leather couch, even though Oliver had fed him a plate of some delicious pasta with cream sauce and red wine—yes,wine,no less—Sam was much more frightened now than he was when he’d first emerged from unconsciousness. This place, this loft. . . it was sohuge.But it was so sparse, too. So cold.Was it a residence? An office? Both? Or was it simply an elegant torture chamber?

  “Do you have any questions?” Oliver asked.

  Sam shook his head. Oliver seemed very comfortable in his new role as the perfect host. Mr. Congeniality.He almost reminded Sam of Josh—what with that plastic smile and those chiseled good looks.But of course he did. He was toying with Sam, trying to get him to lower his guard. Just as Josh had. Fortunately, Sam had learned his lesson.

  “You don’t want to know who my employers are?” Oliver pressed.

  “Why would I care?” Sam forced himself to reply. The truth was, though, he doubted very much that Oliver had any employers. Everything about him—his dress, his mannerisms, the way he’d treated the burlyman who’d brought Sam his food and promptly disappeared into a back room—suggested thathewas the one who did the employing.Hewas the boss.Hewas the one who’d hired Josh to turn Sam’s life into the living death, the purgatory-en-route-to-hell it had long since become.

  Oliver smiled. “I work for the government, Sam. So does your friend Josh.”

  In spite of his horror and fear Sam couldn’t help but smile in return. Now,thatwas funny. “You honestly expect me to believe that?” he asked in a tight voice.

  “Yes. I do.”

  It was an interesting approach, Sam had to admit. Maybe Oliver thought that if he presented Sam with the most outrageous, far-fetched scenario, then Sam would be inclined to believe it: reverse psychology taken to the extreme.Or maybe he thought that Sam was an amnesiac. Or maybe he believed his own words. Yeah, that was a distinct possibility, too. Sam had no possible frame of reference with which to judge this man or his actions. Maybe Oliver wasn’t merely a psychopath, but a delusional one at that. Because if Sam were to believe that Josh Kendall worked for the CIA, then he might as well believe that Charles Manson had worked for Save the Children.

  “Let me just get this straight,” Sam said in the silence.“The government forces people to break the law, and threatens them with laser gun sights, andkills—”

  “Sometimes we have to push the envelope,” Oliver murmured, shaking his head again. “I wish we didn’t. But when we are faced with an enemy like Gaia’s father, we have no choice. The wordsinisterdoesn’t even come close to describe his dealings.”

  Sam stared at him. “He sounds a lot like you,” he said.

  Oliver chuckled. “He is like me, I suppose. But somewhere along the way he took a different path.”

  Enough.“What do you want from me?” Sam spat. His patience was nonexistent at this point. He knew that he was here for a reason and that he had two choices: do this guy’s bidding or die.The latter was preferable.He just didn’t want it to be painful. Another dart in the back would be just fine.

  “I want you to bring Gaia to me,” Oliver said pleasantly.

  Sam shrugged. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?” Oliver asked, but his tone remained soft, as if they were simply discussing something as banal as meeting for lunch.

  “She hates my guts. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  Oliver smiled. “She doesn’t hate you, Sam. She loves you. But she’sangrywith you. All she wants from you is to make one last attempt at reconciliation.That’s all I want from you, too. I want all of us to be happy. But this has to beherchoice. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Sam didn’t answer.He had a
vivid hallucination of leaping from the couch and strangling Oliver with his bare hands.But he didn’t move a muscle. It wasn’t so much the lies that enraged him—it was the knowledge that there was no way out of this. Oliver was truly a genius. He was like a conductor, masterfully orchestrating the symphony of Sam and Gaia’s failed relationship. He’d split them apart just so he could bring them back together for his own vile purposes. Whatever they were.

  “She’ll talk to you,” Oliver continued. “Gaia loves you. Trust me.”

  Trust.That was the word that melted Sam’s facade. He couldn’t hide the fury in his eyes. He felt clammy perspiration on his palms, in beads on his back. He knew he was only glimpsing the tiniest fraction of Oliver’s depravity. The man’s face glinted every time he said Gaia’s name.What does he want with her?Sam shifted in his seat, certain that he had no choice but to play along with this empty charade. For now. As long as he could stay alive long enough to warn Gaia, then—

  “I have a cell phone,” Oliver murmured. “You can make the call from here.”

  “Yeah, um—okay,” Sam stammered.

  Suddenly Oliver’s birdlike eyes hardened. “You’re lying,” he stated in a flat voice. “You don’t intend to help at all. I’ll have to dispose of you now and convince Gaia of the truth myself.”

  Panic seized Sam.No! He’s going to kill her!He shook his head.“N-No, I do. I’m just. . . confused. I—”

  “Do you really think you’re better than me?” Oliver snapped. “You slept with a married woman twice your age. You helped a known terrorist escape from prison so that you could avoid a murder charge. Don’t pretend that you stand on some sort of moral high ground, Sam Moon. You’re vermin.”

  Sam couldn’t respond. He could only gape at this man, this bottomless well of agony. The white room went black. Shame and guilt and self-hatred flooded through Sam until there was nothing left but a void. He couldn’t take this anymore.