STORM SEASON

by Deb Carlin

  "I know you're not a bunch of Scotch enthusiasts."

  He laughed. "That's right. We grew out of the Futures Working group, but we are a privately help company. Very dedicated."

  "Baldwin's told me about it. That's an interesting gang of people you’ve assembled.”

  “We have people from every section, multiple countries. From CIA to Mossad and military to police. We even have a couple of novelists, brilliant men and women whose sole purpose is to dream up the most unfathomable situations for us to scrutinize, because real life always imitates art.”

  “Doesn’t it though,” she said.

  His shoulders shrugged, a perfectly Gallic gesture Taylor had never seen an American man master. “Oui. It is strange, life. Any time you want to join us, say the word. You’ve got just the right temperament to fit in. I was hoping to discuss it with you this weekend anyway.”

  Taylor raised her eyebrows. “What, come to a meeting or something?”

  She envisioned pipes and dark smoky rooms, green computer screens and cables spitting out from teletype machines. Romantic thoughts of spies long past. Which was silly, because she’d seen Baldwin at work, and it wasn’t cool and dreamy. It was brutal, and seeing him in that element always gave her a chill down the spine. When he shut down his compassion, his became another person entirely.

  Florian gave a small laugh. “So to speak. The meeting would be of a more permanent nature.”

  “Oh. Are you offering me a job?”

  “I am. I’d like to hook John Baldwin, too. He understands our mission, that our work is vital to the safety of all of our countries. Like the intelligence services, we collect and analyze data, act when necessary. We share with many of them if we see they are behind the curve ball.”

  Act when necessary. Again, she was getting into the shadow world she didn’t like to think of. Some would see it as breaking the law, something she was vehemently opposed to. But for the greater good, as Baldwin always liked to point out, for the greater good, rules were sometimes meant to be bent and broken.

  “I think you mean behind the eight ball.”

  “Alors, my English. Yes. The eight ball. But much more importantly, we use the information we collect to anticipate. Anticipate, and avoid. The problem with the FBI, with your police forces, with law enforcement in general, is the very nature of the work. React, react, react. The CIA is better, but even they are stymied by their political ties. Black ops hardly exist anymore, there is no funding for special programs, and no balls on your politicians.

  “Our work is entirely independent and very proactive. We want to prevent the attacks before they start, rather than hunt down the perpetrators after the fact. You get John Baldwin to come along and you can name your price. You're both worth it."

  "That’s very kind, but it’s not about the money--"

  "Of course it's not. You are, I believe the right word is, an idealist. You fight for justice because ever fiber of your being screams that it is the right thing to do. Just think, Taylor Jackson, what power there would be in preventing the attacks you investigate before they occur. That is our job. And your unique abilities are worth a great deal to me.

  “You both come from money; you've also earned enough to retire comfortably. So think of this salary as a cushion. You can buy his and hers Ferraris, or give it away to starving African children, I don't care. I need your minds. You're instinctive, and smart, and you could do a lot of good for your country. Think about it. Santé."

  He clinked her glass and walked away.

  She took a sip of wine to cover her discomfiture. Well. That was interesting. She dismissed the conversation. She was perfectly happy working homicide for Metro Nashville. She didn’t like change. She especially didn’t like the idea of abandoning her team.

  And preventing murder? Preventing attacks? No one could do that, not effectively. Someone evil would always slip through the cracks.

  The snow was heavier than ever, coming down so hard she could barely see the lights of the cars passing by on the street below. She checked her phone; the forecast was calling for twenty inches. A small bloom of panic started in her chest. The last time she’d been snowed in, a blizzard of epic proportions in Scotland, not great things happened.

  Florian caught her eye from across the room and smiled politely. He was clearly watching her, and she resented it, though she didn’t know why. He’d made an offer. She’d gotten them before. It was what it was.

  But…

  She’d be forty in a few years, and as far as her career was concerned, she would need to make a decision about her role going forward. It was already being whispered that she’d make Captain soon, in charge of Nashville’s entire Criminal Investigative Division, and that meant off the streets and on to the paperwork and political glad-handing. Captain Jackson. A few more years, then further up the brass ladder. Maybe even Chief in ten years. More bureaucratic nonsense. And then what? Run for office? No, thank you. She had too many opinions and not enough reserve to stop her from sharing them freely.

  Baldwin wanted her to join the FBI, which would be a logical step. And though she admired everything he did, she knew she wouldn't fit in. The culture was too restrictive. She had enough bossing around at Metro that drove her mad; having to follow the kind of dictates that the federal government imposed on law enforcement was a recipe for disaster.

  The Macallan Group. Proactive rather than reactive. Huh.

  She looked around the room again for Thierry Florian, but didn't see him. She sent him a mental thanks a lot. There would be no sleep for her tonight.

  October 9

  Chesapeake Bay, Maryland

  0000 Hours

  THE CAMERAS ARE ON, for my safety. They will catch everything. I made sure before we began. Just in case.

  The kisses are going a mile a minute. Our clothes are gone, my slip is rucked up over my hips. I skipped panties, hopeful for this moment. It makes things so much easier. His hands rush over my body, grasping my skin, kneading my buttocks, hands hurrying to my thighs and then my back, up and down and around and I whisper, “Too fast, too fast.”

  He slows, smiling, his right palm lingering along the curve of my hip, then sliding to my breast, his mouth featherweight, following his touch.

  It has been too long. I should stop him before it goes much further, but it feels so good, to be touched, to be loved.

  His hand slips down between my thighs, and a moan escapes my lips. Stay in control, stay in control, but I am losing it, he is too good, too skilled, and I hit the point where I don’t care anymore, I am just an animal, needing, wanting. His finger is deep inside me and we are still standing, skin to skin, glued together. And it feels so good.

  Fuck it. I inch up and he catches the movement, effortlessly lifts me, and my legs wrap around his waist. He is breathing hard, ready to go. Pushing against me. Waves of pleasure shudder through me. I think I might faint, take a deep breath to clear my head.

  He catches my lips, kissing, sucking, staring into my eyes. He moves his hand, and I can’t help but respond.

  Recognizing it is time, he lays me down on the bed and slows his movement further, stroking, caressing, gentling when I want it rough, the mistake of a new lover. “Now,” I urge, and he smiles and spreads my legs wide, one palm on the inside of each thigh, and thrusts into me, hard. I cry out, go right over the edge into the bliss, and he comes with me.

  I lose time; I always do after sex. Hazardous, but inescapable. Hence the cameras. An old habit, hard to break.

  When our breathing slows, he rolls off me, to the side, and I rise from the bed.

  “Don’t get up,” he says, leaning on an elbow, beckoning me back.

  Too late. I am already at my purse, the bag open, the cold steel in my hand. My favorite companion. I turn to him, a brief smile playing on my lips.

  “Thank you,” I say, and fire. The suppressed round sounds like a sigh in the darkened room. It takes him between the eyes and he collapses back onto the bed.r />
  Another means to an end.

  I replace the weapon, dress, brush my hair, enjoy the flush of color on my cheeks. I wipe down the room, grab my cell phone, turn off the video camera, and face the connecting door to the room next to my newly dead lover.

  A moment twenty-five years in the making. Finally here.

  I jimmy the lock, silent as possible. The door opens, and there he is. Asleep, quiet. Far from innocent. He looks older in his sleep.

  Older, and soon to be very, very dead.

  0110 Hours

  TAYLOR SHOWERED AND CHANGED, then stalked her suite, wishing for something to do. No pool table, the bar was closed for the night. Baldwin was getting some well-earned sleep, having made a successful arrest. The battery on her Nook was charging - of course, the thing could stay charged for a month and the minute she really needed it, wham, nothing.

  Truth be told, nothing would distract her enough. She was worried about the storm. The gathering winds were howling past her window; one small corner of siding had come loose and was rattling. She could just make out people moving around outside, workers, most likely, sent out in the storm to batten down the hatches. They worked in twos, probably tied together so they wouldn’t get lost.

  A scene from a Laura Ingalls Wilder book pranced into her head, something she’d not thought about since she was a child. The rope between the shed and the house, followed to feed the animals, so Pa wouldn’t get lost. Or Laura. She couldn’t remember exactly who was meant to be saved by the slender thread, but it had worked, and all ended well.

  She had no tether to keep her safe, and it worried her.

  The television gave no succor, either. The whole country seemed to be in the grip of this massive and mercurial storm. The Weather Channel was covering the huge, multi-state event that was causing chaos across the country. The massive mega-storm had swooped down from Canada, slicing through Illinois, where Rockford had received record-breaking snow totals, and people were still lost. She sent her friend Mary Catherine Riggio a text, checking on her, knowing the Rockford P.D. homicide detective would be out helping the emergency prep folks, but didn’t hear back. And poor Maggie was down in Pensacola, Florida, which was flooded out after 20 inches of rain, and still experiencing thunderstorms and high winds. Major damage. The radar clearly showed the catastrophic storm heading right toward the Washington, D.C. area, which meant Taylor was now directly in its path

  Jim Cantore warned everyone to hunker down, because it was going to get worse before it got better. The snow totals were going to break records all up the Eastern seaboard, the storm surges would cause widespread flooding up and down the Chesapeake Bay.

  Great.

  As a first responder herself, Taylor wasn’t used to sitting in a hotel room waiting for a storm to hit. If this were Nashville, she’d be in the command center at Metro, giving instructions, helping the city cover all the quadrants to minimize the danger to its citizens. She gave a moment’s thought to calling the Calvert County Sheriff, offering her services, but realized she’d be as wanted as a wart.

  She lit the fire, grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge, cuddled into the bed, and watched the flames dance while she listened to the warnings. When she could take no more, she flipped off the Weather Channel, found THE PRINCESS BRIDE on one of the movie channels and turned down the lights. She knew the words practically by heart, but it was better than nothing.

  The ROUS, Rodents of Unusual Size, were beginning to lurk when the power went off.

  The fireplace was down to coals as well. She'd burned through more logs than she'd realized the stash was getting low.

  Taylor picked up the room phone, heard nothing. She pressed a few buttons, but no dial tone started. Thankful she’d thought to charge her cell phone. She called down to the front desk. Nothing. The lines were dead.

  She knew the hotel had generators, she just needed them to kick in. It would get cold in the room quickly, the fireplace didn't put off that much heat, so she grabbed the extra blanket from the armoire and tossed it on the end of the bed.

  Nothing to do but wait, and try to sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning, she managed to drift, her rest disturbed by terrible dreams. She was cold, so cold, hiking through the snow, with no one in sight, just the expanse of white spreading in all directions. She knew it was the end, she wouldn’t survive. And the voice of the Pretender whispered in her ear.

  It was two in the morning when the fire alarms went off. She scrambled from the bed, shaking off the chill, not sure if it was the temperature or the dreams, and threw on her jeans. It was cold in the room, her fingers fumbled with the buttons. After shrugging into her jacket, she pocketed her cell and wallet and opened the door to the hallway with care. She could smell smoke.

  Other guests were streaming from their rooms. Her hand went absently to her waist, reaching for the comfort of her Glock. Nothing there. Damn.

  She went back into her room, made sure the door was latched, then retrieved her Glock 27 from its case in the interior of her suitcase. They key to the lock shook in her hands – damn, it was cold. She had only brought the small backup gun, certainly hadn’t planned to get it from its case. She hadn’t expected to need it, not at a conference in a swanky hotel.

  She slapped a magazine in place, put two more in her jacket pocket, and stowed the weapon in a paddle holster. She felt sure she wouldn’t be the only one armed out of this crew – cops and counterintelligence officers weren’t that dissimilar.

  More comfortable with the familiar weight on her hip, she left the room, followed the remaining stragglers to the stairwell.

  “What’s the matter?” she called out to the nearest man.

  “Dunno,” he replied. “Guess it’s a fire. Wish they’d turn that bloody alarm off though, it’s breaking my eardrums.”

  “No kidding. It’s deafening.”

  Down the five flights, carefully picking their way, with cell phones giving the only decent light. There was emergency lighting on the walls, but the lights were dim, as if they weren’t getting proper connections.

  The stairwell exited into the lobby. A crowd of people had gathered in the dark. They weren’t being evacuated, just left to mingle in the cavernous space.

  Taylor didn’t like this at all. She bumbled around in the dark a bit, saw Cherry, her face underlit by a flashlight, making her seem like a ghoul. She was pale-faced and carrying a clipboard. Just as Taylor reached her, the alarm stopped, leaving her ears ringing.

  Cherry gave her a wan smile. “Oh, good, Lieutenant Jackson. I can mark you off the list.”

  “What’s going on? Is there a fire?”

  “When the power went out, the generators to the rooms failed. A small fire started on the roof, and they’re trying to contain it. There’s a skeleton staff on the night shift, plus several people couldn’t, or wouldn’t, make the drive in, and the roads are blocked, so the fire trucks can’t get here. They’re doing the best they can.”

  “Should we be evacuating people?”

  “No, not yet. Thankfully, the lobby is on a separate generator, and the heat will stay on here for a while. As soon as they give the word, we can send people back to their rooms. Might as well settle in until they give the all clear.”

  “You need to put me to work, I’m going bonkers. What can I do to help?”

  Cherry flashed the light on her list. “We’re still missing a few people. Would you be willing to take a flashlight and hike back upstairs, knock on doors? Be very careful, we wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”

  “Absolutely. Who are we missing?”

  “Let’s see – Ellis Stamper – he’s in 4880, and Thierry Florian, right next door in 4900. Hildy Rochelle as well, the brunette woman who was charming everyone tonight. She’s on the fifth floor, 5380.”

  The man nearest them said, “Cherry, I saw her earlier, she’s down here somewhere.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks for letting me know, Ron.” She turned back to Taylor. “Just the two gentleme
n, then.”

  “Got it. On my way.”

  “Thank you, Taylor. I appreciate it.”

  Cherry handed Taylor an extra flashlight, and she headed back to the stairwell.

  Now that it was silent and empty, she had to admit, it was a little creepy. She climbed the stairs, enjoying the burn in her thighs that started on the third floor. It warmed her up. The faint scent of smoke was stronger up here, but no worse than when she’d exited her room.

  The fourth floor was deserted. Taylor needed the flashlight – it was amazing how dark the hallway had become. She heard nothing but the whistling wind.

  Room 4880 was halfway down the hall. She knocked on the door.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Stamper? You’re needed downstairs.”

  Nothing.

  She banged a few more times. He must have passed her in the night. She walked down to the room next door. “Mr. Florian, it’s Taylor Jackson. The generators are out to the rooms and there’s a fire on the roof, they want everyone downstairs. Cherry sent me up to find you.”

  Silence, again.

  They must have already made their way down. A wasted trip.

  She’d just started back toward the stairwell when she heard the noise.

  She stopped dead in her tracks, listened for it. Yes, there it was again. It sounded like crying. She pulled open the stairwell door and let it slam closed, then stepped lightly back to the two men’s rooms.

  Stamper’s room was still dead quiet, but she could swear there were hushed voices coming from Florian’s.

  She knocked again. “Mr. Florian? Are you in there?”

  Nothing. The silence was pervasive, complete. False?

  She shook it off. Must have been the wind. Or, better yet, this old place was probably haunted, and she’d just been tricked by a ghost.

  Not that she believed in ghosts.

  Not really.

  She went for the stairwell, made her way back down to the lobby. She found Cherry in the spot she’d left her.

  “Nobody home. They must already be down here and you just missed them.”