“Miss Stolzer had no wig or sunglasses in her possession.”
“She must have thrown them away.”
“I’m sure you can see how it might look like you’re lying.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I said how it might look, not that you are.” He leaned toward the bed. “I actually know you’re telling the truth.” He waved toward the door. “The problem is, our friends out there are convinced you were in on it. There is a lot of evidence piled against you.”
Liesel stared at the ceiling. She’d always been able to get herself out of trouble in the past, but she had no idea how to do that now. “Are you here to tell me I’m going to jail?”
“Not at all. It’s my job to see that never happens.”
As he stood up he pulled a ring out of his pocket and slipped it over his finger.
“How?” she asked.
“I’d tell you to just trust me, but you don’t know me and, truthfully, trust isn’t necessary.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He clasped her cuffed hand, and something pricked her palm.
13
KARAS EVONUS
A QUICK, SHARP whistle ripped Ananke from sleep. She shot to her feet, ready to deal with any threat that might come at her.
It turned out she was alone in a small, metal walled room with a narrow bed that took up half the space, with a toilet and a sink at the other end. There was a single door and no windows.
A cell. She’d seen plenty in her life, even been in a few.
A shelf stuck out of the wall above the foot of the bed. On it was a stack of neatly folded clothes. She glanced down and realized she was wearing only a bra and panties.
Anger boiling, she grabbed the clothes and yanked them on. Though she’d never seen them before, the formfitting yet flexible slacks and the black, long-sleeve, light pullover sweater were items she would have picked out herself.
Someone was trying to prove they knew her, and that pissed her off more.
She tried the door but, no surprise, it didn’t budge.
All right, assess.
Her last memory was of passing through an airplane galley kitchen on her way to deal with Perkins.
I remember feeling something. A…prick. She muttered a litany of swear words she saved for only the most special of occasions.
Someone had drugged her before she could do the same to Perkins.
Obviously, the asshole had not boarded alone, and Ananke had failed to identify his partner.
Hold on. Hadn’t someone been following her?
She seemed to recall seeing a person behind her, but couldn’t remember if it was a man or a woman, let alone what he or she looked like.
Ultimately, it wasn’t important. Perkins had caught her and brought her to wherever the hell this place was. The only reason he hadn’t killed her yet was so obvious, even an apprentice on her first day in the business could have figured it out. Ananke was the assassin of the people’s candidate, and therefore a valuable commodity. Likely, this was some kind of high-security Philippine prison. Either that or she was in a holding cell waiting to be transported back to Manila. Given the whistle that had woken her, she figured she’d know the answer soon enough.
She stretched. Boy, was her back tight. As she raised her arms over her head, she felt a slight pull in the crook of her right elbow. She pulled back the sleeve of the sweater and found a small red circle of dry blood, like one made by a needle, surrounded by a small bruise.
An IV line?
Her eyes narrowed. Sore back. Needle mark on her arm. How long had she been out?
A metallic squeak rose from the bottom of the door. She whirled around, thinking it was opening, but instead of the whole door swinging out, it was only a hatch along the bottom. When the flap was out of the way, a covered tray slipped through the slot and then the hatch closed again.
“Hey!” she yelled. “Where am I?” She pounded her fist against the door. “Hey! Hey!”
But whoever had delivered the tray was either gone or had been instructed to say nothing.
Ananke’s stomach rumbled.
She banged the door once more before giving in to her hunger, picking up the tray, and setting it on the bed. As she lifted the cover, the aroma that wafted out was both familiar and unexpected. Pork and sriracha sauce and fresh bread. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
On a plate was what appeared to be a pork belly sandwich, exactly like the ones made at one of her favorite restaurants in Los Angeles. Beside it was a bowl of fruit salad containing only the ones she loved, and a bottle of Pellegrino Sparkling Water—her drink of choice.
Again, she was being presented with a clear demonstration of how much her captors knew about her life. She knew she should be further enraged, but at the moment she was too hungry.
There would be plenty of time for anger when she finished eating.
__________
DYLAN HAD THE headache of headaches, the kind where any move he made drove another hundred nails into his brain. So it didn’t take long to figure out his best course of action was to lie perfectly still.
Though he had yet to open his eyes, he knew he was locked up in a garda cell. What he couldn’t figure out was what the officer had done to him. Most garda only carried pepper spray and a baton. A few, detectives and the like, were allowed to carry guns, but if it had been a bullet that pierced the back of Dylan’s neck, he’d be in a casket, not on a bed.
Taser?
Dylan knew for a fact some garda carried them. He’d been tased once, years ago. A night out with the boys, too many beers, and a little public drunkenness. Don’t ask. What he remembered most was that after he finally sobered up, he could still feel an electric tingle under his skin. He didn’t feel that tingle now.
Now that his mind was clearing a bit, he couldn’t understand why the cop tased him in the first place. Even if the guy had suspected Dylan was up to no good, he would have tried to arrest him first, right? That would have been the civilized thing to do.
Before Dylan could take that thought any further, a howling whistle wailed down on him. He curled in on himself, his hands pressing on his ears but doing little to stanch the aural assault.
When the whistle finally—mercifully—stopped, Dylan peeled his eyelids open a fraction of an inch and took his first look around. The room was a cell, but not like any he’d seen before. No bars, only solid walls and an equally impenetrable-looking—
—door, on which a small panel at the bottom had just groaned open. As he watched, a tray slid into his room and the panel dropped back into place.
Curious, Dylan started to push up, but a spike of pure torture reminded him why he’d been holding still. It was another hour before the crippling pain lifted enough that he could finally move, but the remnants hung in his skull like a cloud of anguish.
Instead of standing, he knelt on the floor—learning in the process he was clothed only in his underwear—and lifted the lid off the tray.
Garlic soup. And roasted chicken. And could it be?
He picked up a breaded ball and bit into it.
Yes. Fruit dumplings.
All of it exactly like how his Czechoslovakian-born grandmother used to make them. With his head still impaired, he didn’t realize what feeding him such a personal meal said about his captors.
__________
ROSARIO WENT FROM unconscious to full alert without any stops in between. It was a habit she’d learned growing up in the preacher’s house.
There were times when he’d come into her room in the middle of the night and yank her out of bed, yelling at her about chores he said she hadn’t done that she actually had. She’d discovered early on that if she displayed even the tiniest bit of sluggishness before doing what he demanded, he would bring out his switch and her backside would be red for days. So she quickly learned how to leave sleep behind in an instant.
H
er second life benefited from this ability, too. She’d lost count of how many times waking in a flash had saved her from being robbed or beaten or raped, especially in her first year in Mexico City, before she’d found safer places to live.
Whatever room she was now in was pitch-black and dead quiet. She clicked her tongue softly against the roof of her mouth. No echo, meaning the space was small.
With care, she lifted her arms straight up, and then moved them slowly to either side as if she were doing a yoga move. Her left arm touched the wall before it reached the forty-five-degree mark. Her right, however, went all the way down until her bicep was lying beside her on the mattress. She let it continue down until the tip of her index finger brushed the floor.
As she brought her right arm back up, she felt a tiny point of tightness in the crook of her elbow. She rubbed it and discovered a small bump. The area surrounding it was sore, too. It could have been a cut, but from its location and size, she was pretty sure it was a needle mark.
She assessed her body for other irregularities, but found nothing other than the fact she was almost nude. When she set her feet on the floor, it was cold and felt like metal.
Using the same careful approach she’d employed earlier, she determined the room was two meters wide by three long. She also found a shelf with clothes on it—a T-shirt, it felt like, and jeans that, when she pulled them on, were a perfect fit.
Not long after she dressed, the lights came on and a loud whistle screeched from a speaker in the ceiling. A few minutes later, a tray of what she assumed was food slid into the room. She didn’t check. She’d already been drugged at least once, so until her stomach twisted with hunger pains, she wasn’t going to consume anything.
Instead, she sat on the bed and stared at the door.
__________
LIESEL SLEPT THROUGH the whistle and panel opening and the tray being pushed into her room.
She woke two hours later, rested, no headache, and momentarily believing she was in her hotel room at the Wolf casino. But reality quickly returned in an avalanche of crushing memories—the assistant catering manager’s office, the gunshot, the head wound, the hospital, the police, and the man who’d said he was Liesel’s lawyer.
Finally, the mental assault eased enough for her to notice the silence.
Where were the beeps of the hospital equipment?
And the odor of medicine?
The bed felt different, too.
She opened her eyes and looked around.
“What the hell?”
14
OFFICE OF THE ADMINISTRATOR
DESPITE THE DEATH of a Committee member and the last-minute field team substitution, everything was progressing within the expected parameters.
The four candidates had been woken from their induced sleep—Ananke’s the longest at six days and Liesel’s the shortest at thirteen hours—in preparation for the final stage of recruitment. Due to the special circumstances surrounding the fifth candidate, and the fact he would not be necessary on the Fairbanks mission, the Administrator had decided to let him stay where he was until a more appropriate job came along.
The Administrator checked the recruitment schedule, and was about to alert the monitoring team that they would begin shortly, when a bong from his computer signaled a request for a video chat from Committee member Tuesday.
The Administrator clicked ACCEPT. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon. I know you’re quite busy, but I wanted to confirm that the field team was in place.” Though the man’s tone was businesslike, the Administrator noticed an underlying concern, bordering on panic, in Tuesday’s disposition.
“Our recruits are in place, yes, but we have not yet begun orientation.”
“Why not? Shouldn’t that happen right away?”
“Pardon me, Mr. Tuesday. You should have received a copy of the schedule. Did you not?”
“I have it. I just thought—” He paused, as if resetting himself. “I only wanted to confirm where things stood.”
“Orientation will commence in the next few hours.”
“And how long until they are operational?”
That, too, was in the schedule. But the Administrator replied, “Four days, as long as they accept our offers.”
“The schedule needs to be sped up.”
“I’m sorry?”
“And we need to change the mission.”
Caught by surprise, the Administrator took a moment before saying, “I don’t understand. Change to what?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Fairbanks job isn’t time critical.”
“That’s not precisely true.”
“What I mean is, the mission doesn’t need to happen immediately, and can be put off for a week or two if necessary.”
The Administrator worked hard to keep from frowning. “Technically, that’s correct. But the same is true for all the proposed missions.”
“I’m not talking about switching to one of the other choices. I’m talking about something entirely new that is time sensitive.” Tuesday explained what he meant, finishing with, “I’m sure you can see that this is an even better test case for the field team than Fairbanks. And there’s no question that it fits within the goals of the Committee.”
The Administrator considered his response. “It’s indeed a troubling situation,” he said. “And, as you say, a suitable mission to undertake. But there are rules the Committee must operate under. If we ignore them, the program will quickly fall apart.”
“Call the Committee into a special session. Let us vote on it. I’ll stand by the decision.”
“Very well. Mr. Tuesday, I am informing you that from this point forward, our conversation is being recorded.” The truth, of course, was that the recording had been on since the start of the call. “Are you formally requesting an emergency meeting of the Committee?”
“Yes, dam—yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Your request has been registered. Per Committee rules, I will convene the meeting at the earliest possible time.”
“Now would be best.”
“I’m sure you understand that is not in my control, but I will do everything I can to make it happen as soon as possible.”
Looking frustrated but resigned, Tuesday said, “Of course. I understand. It’s…never mind.”
“Just so we’re clear, Mr. Tuesday, I will also need to verify the events as you’ve presented them.”
“I’ll send you everything I have.”
“One final question. As you know, Committee rules are very clear on a separation between ourselves and the missions we take on. I apologize for saying this, but your demeanor makes me wonder if you have a personal connection to this.”
The lie flowed from Tuesday’s eyes to his face as he donned a more detached expression. “Of course not. It’s just…things like this…they affect me right here.” He patted his chest above his heart. “Admittedly more than they probably should.”
“I understand.”
The Administrator called his boss and succinctly relayed the details of his conversation with Tuesday.
“I agree,” Monday said after the Administrator finished. “Tuesday must have a connection to this. We need to find out what it is. But I’ll tell you what troubles me most. It is far too convenient that this alternate mission just happens to come up not only right when the field team is being assembled, but when they are also nearby.”
“I had the same thought,” the Administrator said. “We might not be able to dig up Tuesday’s connection soon enough to avoid an emergency meeting, but what I could do is recommend to the Committee that we don’t make the change, for any number of practical reasons. At this point, I think they’ll follow whatever I suggest.”
Monday was silent for a moment. “They would, but I don’t want you to do that. If this legitimately needs our attention, I want you to recommend it, and I want the Committee to vote for the switch. This is an opportunity for you and me, n
ot a complication. If there is someone working against us through Tuesday, this could provide us with the means of finding out who they are.”
“Whether he’s aware of being used or not, if Tuesday has a tie to this, he will need to be replaced.”
“Yes, he will.”
Two empty Committee seats in a matter of weeks. The Administrator did not like that at all. “Should we pass on a warning to the other members to be more vigilant?”
“No. If they’re not vigilant enough at this point, they don’t deserve to be part of our work. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have other—”
“Just one more thing, sir. Given the nature of the new mission, it would probably be a good idea to bring in the hunter.”
“I concur. Bring him in.”
Twenty-three minutes after the Administrator confirmed the details of Tuesday’s proposal, the Committee convened via video conference.
The vote to switch missions was 6-0 in favor.
15
ELSEWHERE
WARREN WAS IN Avanti’s office again.
“They’ve taken the bait,” he said.
“As I knew they would.” Avanti clasped his hands and set them on the desk. “And the babysitters? I’m assuming everything is under control.”
“They’ve reached the encampment and have transferred the cargo to the shelter.”
“Good. You’ve made it clear how they should proceed?”
“Yes, sir. McGowan has his orders on when to escalate.”
“And the child?”
“I personally made it clear that she’s not to be handed over under any circumstances. Once everything has run its course, she will be brought to us.”
Avanti nodded and said, “Please tell Ms. Richmond I’ll have my lunch on the patio.”
16
ANOTHER TRAY SLID into Ananke’s cell several hours after her first meal had been delivered.
Once more, the food was familiar. A raw kale salad with the blackened tofu she always requested at the vegan restaurant a few miles from her home in Boulder. If her captors were going to continue torturing her with food she loved, that was fine by her.
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