by Sable Jordan
Nothing struck Fletcher as odd. Possible scenarios came to mind—kidnapping, sex slaves, drug runners—and each was subsequently dismissed.
“Children,” he said, voice and expression blasé. “You’ve discovered Sanzio Galletti is a sexual deviant. Likes little boys. Disgusting, but not a crime that concerns this office. While I encourage you to forward this to the appropriate department, I sincerely hope you didn’t solve this mystery on Company time, especially after I gave you a direct order to leave this alone.”
Rachel’s eyes narrowed to slits. She pushed the top page aside. Fletcher heaved an annoyed breath, flicked his gaze down again. A repeat of the very first picture, high-gloss and magnified to 8x11. The kid with the ice cream. Two scoops in the cone. Greenery backed him, maybe taken in a park of some sort.
“Start in the upper left quadrant,” Rachel said.
The sky was barely a strip near the top of the page, and practically colorless. Fletcher had no idea what he was supposed to see there, but hunched over to study it closer. He combed through the area, mentally breaking the picture into a grid. Moving from left to right, he spotted a tiny black dot. An artifact on the lens, or a printer anomaly. It happened.
He kept going, searching the white sky with the pencil’s eraser to stay in some semblance of a line. Another black dot appeared. And then another. Four anomalies later, his eyes scanned the sky in the upper right portion of the page, noting the smattering of dots. Not so many as to be obvious, but definitely there.
Fletcher took the picture in as a whole. Several white dots in the trees. A handful of colored dots peppered the boy’s jean jacket—an orange one here, a red there. A yellow dot in the center of the scoops of chocolate ice cream.
He lifted his head, meeting the satisfied smirk on Rachel’s face. She eased into the hard chair beside her.
“Two minutes.”
She nodded. Her voice softened and she folded her hands in her lap. “Brazil is a poor country. If I’m Galletti and I’m kidnapping someone for ransom, it has to be someone with money. A political figure, entertainer…maybe a local business owner made good. The missing persons list is long, and even with those criteria, it would take a while to narrow down.
“Looking at the photos again, I figured that can’t be right. See, if I’m a kidnapper, doing this for money, wouldn’t I want these boys’ parents to think their child was in immediate danger? The goal is to get them to pay, not think I’d taken their kid for a trip to Disney.
“Every picture appears staged.” Rachel pulled the top page over again and turned it to face her, pride in her voice. “The kid with the ice cream, this one with his bike, and then this one here with a lollipop and two front teeth missing—that’s my favorite, by the way.” She smiled briefly. “Where would you find an abundance of pictures with this ‘lazy days of childhood’ feel?”
Fletcher leaned back in his chair again, feeling like an idiot. “Stock photo site.”
“Each and every one of them, sir. I know you hate to hear it, but I’m relieved to know these boys are safe.” She flicked her gaze up to his a moment and then down again. “Anyway, if the boys aren’t the focus, why the pictures?”
His brows drew together. “Can send a lot of data in a picture.”
“And you can change the data too.” Searching through the file pages, she located a set of stapled spreadsheets and handed them to him.
Fletcher flipped through the packet once and went back to the top page of tables detailing the results of her analysis. He skimmed the info, impressed.
His girl was thorough.
“Steganography, sir. They’re using the photos to transfer coded messages,” Rachel said, breaking into his thoughts. “Change a single pixel here and there, or alter a group of them, like the kid with the soccer ball. Who would notice? You didn’t catch it until you could see the picture blown up.”
Staring down at the data sets, Fletcher dropped his pencil on the table and wiped his hand over his mouth. This was the break they needed.
And she’d found it.
“Do we know what they say?”
The light in her eyes dimmed and her bun slipped when she shook her head. “No. I don’t know the password. Does every altered pixel correspond to a letter, or every third? If I had the password…”
“But we don’t,” Fletcher said, more gruffly than he intended. He grabbed up his pencil again; trapped it in the web between his index and middle fingers, wiggled the digits. The stick tapped out a beat against his thumb.
Kizzie was the one person who might have found something of use during her risky time at Galletti’s home. Considering Fletcher had been dodging her like she was the tennis ball in a game of pickle, she might not make getting that info easy.
He pulled open a drawer in his desk and removed his secure phone. Dialed without bothering to work out what he would say and then perched the device between his shoulder and ear. “Is that all, Hayford?”
Moving a stack of files, he located a legal pad beneath the heap. A glance up and he saw the touch of pain in her eyes. Rachel cleared her throat, stood and collected her files. With her back straight, she turned to leave.
Fletcher offered a weak, “Good work, ag—” but the door shut softly before he had a chance to get it all out.
Four rings later, he cut the attempted connection and dropped the phone onto his desk, a newly determined man. The women who always came through for him—Rachel, Kizzie—he’d disregarded their “feelings” about the Galletti op and he’d been wrong. Had he helped, they might have found this info days ago. He’d make it right with Rachel later, but he’d start with Kizzie.
Agent Baldwin had three requests. Nothing on Harvey, as usual. The dead Japanese girl wasn’t in any of his databases—not surprising. But the third item Fletcher hadn’t even bothered to look at once he’d stupidly washed his hands of Kizzie’s madness: the Person of Interest.
Accessing his computer, he pulled up the files she’d sent. There were several pictures of a woman. Not bad looking. Actually, she was hot. Olive skin, nice face. Short, dark hair gelled against her head in waves. In one shot, she actually stared straight at the camera. Big, dark eyes, but something about them didn’t quite match her feminine looks. Those eyes were hard and stoic. Eyes with secrets.
Fletcher ran the photo through the paces, tried Kizzie again to no avail. He thought about his alternatives in the event he didn’t get anything from his search on the woman.
As silly as it was, the agencies meant to protect the country—NRO, CIA, FBI, and all other tri-lettered variations—didn’t work together. Well, more precisely, they didn’t work together well. Too many kids in the sandbox and all of them bullies. Bureaucracy at its finest. There was no one he trusted in the FBI—feebs had shifty eyes—everyone at the NRO was a space cadet, and the CIA…well, apart from a handful of people, Fletcher knew they really were the center for inefficient assholes. And he’d been the flag-bearer.
He’d do it himself. Even if it meant marching into the Pentagon and demanding— No, not demanding. One didn’t demand from the Pentagon. He’d ask. Nicely. See what that got him.
Bottom line, he was determined to get Kizzie the info she needed.
Two coffees, a ham sandwich, six mini donuts, eight unanswered phone calls and three hours later, he had a hit. He straightened in his chair, bleary eyes glued to the computer screen. PASSWORD REQUIRED flashed white against the black background, the cursor blinking patiently.
Kizzie’s P.o.I. was in the system all right. And whatever it was for, it was on the top-shelf of Intel. Being an upper-tier SOO at the CIA, Fletcher had access to the old databases. Relics compared to the servers they had now, akin to watching Star Wars on a beta tape and an old black and white TV, versus experiencing it on BluRay with a 60-inch, HiDef set and immersive surround sound.
He doubted anyone used the system anymore—most of the Intel was hold-over stuff from the end of the Cold War, maybe a couple hits from covert ops carried ou
t during Desert Storm. Still, traipsing through the old databases would mean footprints. His footprints.
He’d have to take extra care to cover them up. In and out too fast for anyone to notice. Quick, like a real field agent.
Nine characters into the ten-digit alpha-numeric passcode, he stopped. If Kizzie was in deep, she’d pull him in too. Could cost Fletcher his position, his office, his livelihood.
He tapped the last character, hovered over the ENTER key. A twist of his head to the left, and he stared at the dark grey skies building outside his hard-earned piece of glass. If this blew up, he’d lose that too…
Without looking, he stabbed down on the button. The background dissolved—so simple—and Fletcher let out a humorless chuckle.
Like every government operation ever run, getting in was the easy part.
Getting out clean would be the problem.
August 4th
Tokyo, Japan
“That’s a children’s tale, isn’t it?”
Kizzie adjusted in the chair she’d stationed in the doorway that separated the bedroom from the common area of the suite. Across the room, Sumi sprawled on the mattress, swaddled in a hotel robe and reading a magazine as though on vacation and not running from—according to her—certain death.
39 hours since Sumi had been in their care and this was Kizzie’s first 6-hour stretch babysitting. She had no weapons—her gun and lucky knife were in Phil’s room, as were all of her other belongings—because, apparently, there was a concern she might kill the deranged former puppet. Kizzie wasn’t sure where Xander and Phil got that idea.
“Gigi?” Sumi asked, peering over the top edge of a newly purchased copy of PINKY.
Kizzie lifted her gaze from where it’d been locked on the white comforter, said a gruff, “What?”
“The spider and the fly…it’s from a children’s tale, yes?”
Kizzie grunted. Technically, it was a poem, but if Sumi had suggested it was from the Qur’an, the Gita, or the very laws inscribed on the tablets Moses got on Mount Sinai, Kizzie would have grunted in the affirmative all the same. Rocking her head from side to side cracked her neck, and then she focused on the bed once more.
39 hours ago it’d been their bed, their room. Arms tied, legs belted shut, Kizzie had crawled across this very floor, inching her way to Xander so he could deliver what turned out to be the most spectacular punishment she’d ever received in life. She’d been on that bed—sort of in the spot where Sumi was now—lying beneath his solid body, ready to accept every thick inch of him; had given him control, been willing to do whatever he wanted. God, she’d actually begged Xander to let her come.
Then this broad showed up and it all got shot to shit.
She should kill Sumi on principle.
39 hours…
39 hours out of the loop.
39 hours without Xander.
Kizzie puffed out her cheeks and blew out a breath.
The months she’d gone without seeing the man were nothing like this. Of course, they didn’t have an unfinished orgasm hanging between them before, but since when did Kizzie become so conscious of his presence? Or absence, as it were.
Xander hadn’t spoken to her since the events following Sumi’s all-too-convenient arrival. After his shifts watching their guest, he would come into Phil’s room, shower, change, and then drop onto the bed fully clothed. The entire process took about 15 minutes max. Kizzie counted. A couple hours of restless sleep and Xander would be gone again.
Attempts to get an update from him about any info Sumi provided were useless as a training bra on Norma Stitz. Phil wasn’t much help either, telling her to “Give it a minute,” and reminding Kizzie just how stupid she’d been to consider the man would flip on his boss.
“Do you like spiders, Gigi? I like spiders. Flies too… Although I don’t think a fly would step into a parlor, and why would a spider have a parlor anyway?” Sumi giggled, shaking her head. “Just silly.”
Yanked from her musings, Kizzie heaved an annoyed breath.
“Sorry. I’ve interrupted your thoughts. I seem to keep doing that—interrupting you. I saw the tie around your wrists. You and Master were…” Sumi waggled her brows. She shifted on the bed until she was sitting cross-legged like some teenager at a slumber party. “Does Master ever bind you with rope? Like Kinbaku?”
Expression bland, Kizzie gave a subtle twist of her head.
Sumi inhaled, clutching the magazine to her chest. Her eyes went wide and a euphoric smile seeped across her round face. “It’s the best feeling. Completely immobile, the rope so tight on your skin… It’s like an intense bear hug. You can’t move but you feel so safe and warm…protected.”
Kizzie blinked. Blinked again.
And again.
Sumi’s luminous smile melted into a troubled frown. She dropped the magazine beside her, wrung her hands in her lap.
“Did you have a job before you were Master’s submissive?”
Kizzie crossed her arms over her chest. This was worse than just waiting. This was waiting on ‘Roids and Red Bull. Like any other inmate Kizzie just wanted to do her time nice and quiet like. Maybe it was a good thing her weapons weren’t readily accessible.
Where the hell was Phil?
“Before I became her submissive I was in school, for horticulture,” Sumi said quietly. “That’s why I like spiders—all bugs, really. They’re good for gardens.”
“Captivating.”
Sumi’s face crumpled with sadness. “You’re still angry with me.”
“You did try to kill me, so there’s that….”
“I was hoping to be friends. I don’t have any friends.”
“Bet that makes Christmas a breeze.”
“I’m sorry, Gigi.” Sumi glanced away, lips pursed, chin quivering. “You don’t…you don’t understand. My Mistress made me do those terrible things; hurt people I did not want to hurt. To prove myself worthy of her, to prove my trust, my love.
“I loved her so much. She was my heart, my soul, my…religion. I made a vow to follow her anywhere she led. I was,” she motioned with her hands, “a drop of water tossed into an ocean. Totally consumed. Didn’t know where I ended and she began, and now? Now I can’t remember myself before her.
“When I saw you at Sacha’s, even seeing you here, so beautiful and free… I envy what you and Master have. It’s clear how much you mean to him, how much he means to you. You serve him, bow to him. Like the In-Yo,” she rubbed her hand on the material covering her shoulder, right where her tattoo had been inked, “together but separate. You are still your own person. Still so strong even in love.
“You do love him, don’t you, Gigi?”
First off, where the hell had all that come from? And second, of course not.
Rule one of clandestine ops: There was no clandestine ops. The next, though the order of these things was debatable: don’t get emotionally involved. The minute anyone got close you were at risk of being compromised, and then you put the mission, your team, and your country at risk of being compromised. Emotions were sticky; love stickiest of all.
“Don’t you?”
“To the moon and back,” Kizzie said dully. In spite of the tickle in her belly, the words were just as empty as they sounded, and she tried for a smile but failed with flying colors.
The lie seemed to rip Sumi apart. Quiet tears slipped down her cheeks and she wiped at them with the oversized terry sleeves. “So then you know how it feels to become so absorbed with your Dom. Tell me, Gigi. How do you not lose yourself?”
The question hung in the air, the sharp blade of a guillotine over an exposed neck, inexorably falling. While she couldn’t claim to be “absorbed” with Xander—or in love, that was absolutely out of the question—clearly Kizzie had been out of her brain since leaving Brazil. She was here, wasn’t she? Had crawled across this floor, been bound on that bed… The “good” agent conveniently overlooked Xander’s past, Xander’s purchasing a salted bomb.
Xander’s wife.
And all to chase a “sticky” she could get with her own two fingers.
Not lose herself? Yeah. Right.
“You’re a good submissive, Gigi. That’s all I wanted to be for her. I’m hoping I can now be that for our Master.” Sniffling, Sumi flipped open the magazine and carefully ripped a page from the center. She folded the bottom edge, sharpened the crease with a nail.
Kizzie lost interest in the woman’s fidgeting, let the silence settle. The deafening roar brought more thoughts of Xander and the supreme Charlie Foxtrot that came after Sumi showed up.
He’d pushed her into a corner. He didn’t know that, but he’d done it all the same, and Kizzie fought to protect herself with the only weapon available. The problem? The enemy was in her head. A phantom. A ghost. But when you’ve guarded something for so long, the line between necessity and habit got fuzzy.
She needed to apologize—a normal person would apologize. A damaged person?
Kizzie muttered an f-bomb, thumbed the knuckle of each finger, one by one, pressing until she heard a crack.
The trick would be making amends without inviting more of Xander’s prodding. And he would prod. There was already one asshole using her past against her, didn’t need to add Xander to the list. She could see it now, her apologizing and Xander with the shovel at the ready, digging and digging until he found those old bones. The green ribbon…the sea of red.
Found out the truth behind Kizzie Baldwin, the fraud. The cow–
“Do you like flowers?” Sumi asked, voice puppy fur soft. Kizzie latched on to the distraction. “I used to love cherry blossoms—sakura, we call them here.” Sumi meticulously folded and unfolded the page, creased it here, made another one there, as though the action was the only thing keeping her tethered to the present.
She climbed off the bed, bringing the bent page with her as she crossed the room. Kizzie tensed, readying for any move Sumi tried to make, but the woman dropped to her knees at Kizzie’s feet close enough to strangle. Zero concept of self preservation. Don’t stroll into the lion’s den, stick your head between its jaws and then poke the damn lion.