by Sable Jordan
She eased onto the edge of the bed, hopped up and went to the chair. If the Agency wanted her to back off a target, that meant she’d bumbled into another field agent’s playground. If they knew about the wife, did they know about Xander? If they had an agent on Xander, were they now watching her?
She flipped through the text messages, coming across a butt ton of Fay selfies and random pictures of different places around Japan. “Does Connolly know?”
“Seems to be the question du jour,” he chuckled. “No. But assume they’ll be watching me. Closely. I didn’t give you up—don’t make me.
“Next, Sanzio Galletti. Followed up on the pictures of the boys. All stock photos with messages coded in. Steg—”
“Steganography,” Kizzie said dryly. She should have thought of that. Instead she had her head so far up her ass over Xander she couldn’t think straight. “Got the password?”
“Hoping you can help me out there. Anything you remember from his place or hearing him say?”
With the kids no longer a risk and a massive need for sleep—and there was that teeny tiny detail about a salted bomb in DC—passwords didn’t count as important right now. “I’ll think about it.”
The last text messages sent from Fay’s phone went out nearly two weeks before. But they all went to one number. No name was listed in the contacts and she asked Fletch if he could do a triangulation on the cell, get the owner’s name from there.
The call disconnected, Kizzie rested her forehead atop her folded arms on the desk. She’d have to get her gear and figure out a way to Kadena, see if she could make that Space A, but she needed a quick nap. Just five minutes to regroup.
Her eyes closed, breathing slowed in spite of the moans seeping through the walls.
Seven minutes later, her HushMail account went from 0 to 1.
SAN
August 6th
Tokyo, Japan
The plane stood at the ready just outside the private hangar at Haneda International. Beside it, Xander absently checked his watch to break up the thoughts he’d been mulling over. He’d be calm about this. Rational. Even if he’d spent the last eight hours or so with his heart in his throat and his stomach in a knot. He’d keep it together.
“Everything set?” he asked, hearing Phil coming up beside him.
“Customs is handled; clearance for the plane. Support on the ground. But we’ve got a small window. We need to move.”
Xander crossed his arms over his chest and waited. He was usually a patient man, but right now his nerves were bad and the waiting could very well kill him.
“Four minutes and the hour’s up,” Phil said. “Gotta assume she won’t show. In fact, twenty grand says she doesn’t.”
Three more minutes ticked by.
“Large bills please,” Xander said as a taxi pulled up to the hangar. Grumbling about how ‘this woman’s gonna send me to the poor house,’ Phil spun and headed to the plane.
She came across the tarmac with a purpose, wearing secret agent standard dress—dark jeans, a tank and a dark jacket. His black ball cap was pulled low on her head, further shading her eyes. He couldn’t read her, and he didn’t like it. When she was close enough, Xander started to speak but Kizzie walked right by. Frowning, he turned and watched her.
She goose-stepped over to Frederick’s office and threw open the door, ducked inside. A handful of words were exchanged and then Kizzie marched back out, tossing over her shoulder, “You had one job, Freddy! An easy five grand for your crap art collection.”
She strode back to Xander. “Need my gear.”
“So you’re not done throwing this tantrum?” A knee-jerk response, out in the open in spite of all the Zen calm he’d tried to muster before.
“Tantrum…” Kizzie repeated slowly, as though tasting the word in her mouth and trying to process the flavor. Sour. “My gear. Got a plane to catch, chief.”
“And you’re running.”
“Yes…Late.”
“No,” Xander said. “From me.”
Her head shifted back and forth. “I don’t run.”
“You’re doing it now.”
“If that’s how you see it.” Kizzie bunched a shoulder to her ear. “Or I realized I don’t need you.”
“And which Kizzie is this? The agent, or the woman from the shower?”
“Same person. Off her rocker most days. That was one of them. My gear.”
He chuckled mirthlessly. “Can’t be—the agent knows the fastest way to Harvey isn’t on a commercial jet. The woman thinks commercial is the farthest from me.” He stepped closer; she balled her fists. “Get on the plane, or get put on the plane. You do get a choice.”
“You should back up.”
“Or?” Xander frowned, and then a lethal grin curved his mouth. “Want to hit me, Princess? Would it make you feel better?” She didn’t respond and he tipped her chin up so he could see her eyes. Two hard brown orbs glared back. “Go right ahead, sweetheart. Swing. Won’t even move. Just know it’s gonna piss me off, so you better be able to handle what you get back.”
Her gaze darted away, came back to him. She raked her teeth over her bottom lip and infused pure sunshine into her tone. “Oh great and powerful Oz, may I have my gear now? Please?” Her lips spread into a wide, toothy smile.
“After you tell me what has you so scared you keep running from me.”
“Maybe you missed the part where I kick ass for a living, Duquesne. I don’t scare easy.” Her gaze and head moved deliberately from his eyes down to his shoes and back up. “And you ain’t big enough or bad enough to make me run, slick.”
“Ooooh, Kizzie,” Xander whispered, eyes slipping closed. She was on really dangerous ground. He rubbed a hand over his face and drew a deep breath. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from pinning her willful ass down and spanking her until she cried. His voice dropped an octave lower. “Start at the beginning.”
“I don’t have time for— ”
“Make time,” he ordered. She pressed her lids together, clearly struggling for calm. Xander didn’t want calm. He wanted the truth. Calm, stoic, unruffled—those were reserved for the agent. He wanted the woman, open and ready, who’d come to him to give and get a comfort he’d stupidly pushed away. “When are you gonna stop running?”
Brown eyes flashed open, a mighty storm swirling in their depths. “I. Don’t. Run.”
“Yeah, you do,” Xander challenged. “You are now. Helsinki—you ran from me; Oman—you ran from me. Hell, you hopped out of the shower and bolted. It’s why you’re CIA—a handy excuse for never having to deal with anything that tests you, makes you vulnerable; never have to trust anybody. And it’s more than just Agency training, baby girl, it’s in you bone deep. Just keep running. Farther…faster. Moving targets are hardest to hit, so you just keep moving and you won’t get hurt. Or is that the ‘smart dolphin, don’t bleed’ bullshit you tried to feed me? Admit it, you’re afraid of being hurt ‘cause you already have been. That’s why you left the Point, isn’t it? You bled?”
“Wow….” She leveled a glare on him that said she wouldn’t back down. “You sped straight past ‘about to’, made a left at ‘fuck around’, and are cleared for landing at ‘piss me off!’ I. Want,” she said, enunciating each word slowly, “My. Sh—”
“Who was it?”
Both fists clenched, she pressed them to her crown and growled. “The hell are you talking about now?”
“The Point,” he demanded, ignoring her flippant tone.
“Nothing happened at The Point.” She rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated breath. “I just left—”
“What really happened at The Point, Kizzie?” Her breathing kicked up a notch and he knew he’d got her goat up. Good. Half a step closer and Xander threw his cards down on the table. “Why’d you run? Who was big enough, bad enough?”
“If you don’t—”
“Who hurt you, Kizzie? Said you didn’t matter? Was it Joe? He tell you he didn’t c
are about you? Who made you a whore? Who touched you and you didn’t want them to?”
“Y—” Kizzie’s mouth stuck. A millisecond later her eyes narrowed, then the light left them completely, leaving in its place a dark void.
It took Xander a moment to fully register the magnitude of what he’d unearthed.
Shit.
By themselves they meant nothing, but side-by-side, it made sense: “The Point left me”; “No emotion, no feelings. Scratch the itch and be done”; “…whore…”; “I don’t want you to care about me.” No trust. The quick surges of anger. The wall…always, always the wall.
A much younger, much less-adept Kizzie Baldwin had been forced to do things she never wanted to. That’s why she thought he’d take from her, because someone else already had.
Kizzie breathed in an out through her mouth, each circuit swaying her body. Xander’s gut clenched, there was an ache between his lungs and his own breathing came much faster than normal as he searched her face.
A hard swallow and he waited—for tears, an explanation, snark. He’d take anything right now apart from the bland, unemotional mask she’d slipped back on.
And he got it.
Head twisting side to side, Kizzie backed away, an empty grin on her lips. She pivoted, asphalt grinding underfoot. Long, confident strides carried her toward the taxi still waiting there.
Running?
Not anymore. Not from him.
He jogged to catch up to her. “Kizzie, stop.”
“Fuck you, X.”
He deserved that. “Baby—”
“Go away.” She turned and shoved him back a few steps. “Leave me alone.”
Another connection flashed in his head: Shark.
“That’s what that asshole Connolly has on you? He’s using that against you?”
“Red!” Kizzie stopped backpedaling and came at him, “Red red red, goddammit, red.”
Her fist slammed into his chest, and he grunted but took it. If it helped her, helped them—whatever “them” was—Xander would let her punch him silly. So what if Kizzie had a jab bound to double him over if he took too many of them. Christ, the woman could put her shoulder into it.
She winced, but kept striking. No tears. No explanation. No snark. Just a string of raw words that fell from her mouth.
“…and damn you. You don’t…” Kizzie trailed off, breathing coming hard and fast, mimicking the punches as she inched away from his advance. She swung again, shook her head, making the too-large cap shift on her crown, the bill angling away from her eyes. And what Xander saw in that moment nearly undid him.
Beneath all the badass, Kizzie looked so young and fragile. His heart squeezed.
She hit him again.
Her parents had been long dead, grandmother too, by the time Kizzie made Cadet Second Class—Junior year, to civilians—at The Point. Who was there when…it happened? Xander swallowed the bile in his throat and forced himself to call it what it was.
Who’d been there for Kizzie when she was raped? How had she kept it together? The forced admission only increased the questions. Questions Xander didn’t deserve answers to but needed to know.
She hit him harder.
“Crawl, beg, obey… bow… could’a done that easy…” For all the anger Kizzie’s voice was low, not emotional and high-pitched, strained through teeth clenched so tight they might crack. Hearing it like this somehow made it worse.
“I’da gave you that part of me, Sir,”—jab—“but not…” —right, left— “You don’t get…that…asshole! Not that.” Left… Right….
The fury faded enough that he got his arms around her, hauled her body against his, trapping her bent arms against his chest. She stiffened in his tight hold, and the fight seeping out of her was almost a tangible thing.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he kissed her temple, rubbed his hand up and down her back, “So so sorry…”
Xander pulled away just enough to cover one side of her face in soft kisses, apologizing again into her cheek. His mouth ghosted over hers, and then he kissed her just as tenderly. A few passes and Kizzie’s mouth went pliant beneath his, following his lead, accepting the words he wanted to say but couldn’t: I’m sorry. For then, for now. For later… You’re gonna hate me later…
Slow and hypnotic, he made a circuit of her mouth, devouring every delicious whimper that slipped from her throat. His hand tightened around her waist, the other tangled in her hair, and he kissed her harder.
Kizzie tore her mouth from his, pushing him back. They stood a foot apart, breathing hard and assessing each other. A tremor worked its way through her body, and Xander wanted to wrap her in his arms again and tell her everything would be all right; that he’d make everything all right if she’d let him.
But she would resent him for the lie.
Dragging her tongue over her teeth, Kizzie stared at him, tired eyes glittering. Xander adjusted his hat on her head, took a slow breath and licked his lips, tasting her there; bit back what he wanted to say and steeled his voice for what needed to be said.
“Get on the plane.” A rough whisper. “And don’t piss me off again, Princess. Crystal?”
Stepping to him, she rammed her shoulder into his chest to get him out of her way, but drew up short when he didn’t budge.
He wasn’t going anywhere. Not ever again.
He stared down at her; she dipped her chin. A deep breath and she looked up into his face. Clear that message had been received, Xander stepped aside.
* * * *
“It doesn’t hurt anymore, Kizzie…”
She sat at the table, curling and flexing her hand, looking through the window across the aisle. Every blink brought flashes of green and red and guilt—oh god, the guilt. But between those was the endless dark of night. Her old friend. Her confidant. Night held all of Kizzie’s secrets.
But now Xander knew the one that mattered.
Kizzie the fraud.
The coward.
Her eyes closed. Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Lord knew she had.
Detach. Compartmentalize. That’s what she did. Her entire mind boxed up like an apartment she’d moved into but never intended to live in.
Parent’s death in one box—medium sized—granny’s death in another, both with the tape picked at but never removed. Belém in a small container, the top newly restored. Sophomore year at The Point in another, smaller than a ring box—no, smaller, a custom-made half-inch by half-inch square she was sure she’d misplaced along the way—the teeny tiny lid now askew from Xander’s meddling. Junior year at The Point in the largest bin. Steel enforced. Lid held fast by rivets. Re-enforced with welding and a big, vicious pit bull with lots of sharp teeth sitting on top of the damn thing. Kizzie caught a glimpse of Xander as he returned to his seat, swallowed a sigh. Somehow, the contents of that box had still managed to seep through…
A soft whoosh of liquid and the sound of dissolving pellets. Xander shook a small white bag, dropped it on the table, repeated the process with another. “Kiz—”
“We’re not doing this.” Her voice stayed low because she hadn’t found it in the half hour they’d been airborne. “Drop it.” ‘Or die’ hung on the tail end of that.
A low cough cleared Xander’s throat. “I was actually going to fill you in on what Sumi told me. There’s a bomb to find, if you recall.” He extended his arm on the table, palm up, waiting for her hand. A small smile curved his mouth; a slight flex of his fingers, motioning for her compliance. “Hard or easy, Princess.”
“Sure you don’t need ‘em?” Kizzie asked, jutting her chin toward the ice packs. “You’re the one who got his chest caved in.” Xander grunted a laugh and she reluctantly slid her aching hand across the table. The jolt to her system she attributed to lingering adrenaline. Nothing more.
Palms connected, he traced over the swell on her center knuckles with the fingers of his other hand, the motion so light Kizzie almost didn’t feel it. Head bent in deep focus, he continued the unsettl
ing movements far longer than a cursory examination required.
“Forgive me.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held her firm, head shaking slightly. “That…shouldn’t have happened like that. I don’t have the right—”
“Damn straight, you don’t.” Anger disappeared when he lifted his head, genuine remorse clouding his brown eyes. She tugged again to no avail; swallowed hard, uncomfortable with that look.
A folded paper towel over her knuckles to protect her skin, Xander carefully placed an ice pack on her hand, the cold sting soothing instantly. Then he sandwiched it all with his other palm, holding it in place and letting the cool rush through. By his expression there was something he wanted to say, but he seemed to think better of it.
“Sumi said the target is DC. You come to the same conclusion?”
Business. She could handle that.
They exchanged the bits of information they’d gathered, Kizzie quickly relaying her findings from Fay’s phone, the oleander tattoo instead of the In-Yo on her back. The bastardized five elements theory. Xander gave her motive. Neither had a name, or a specific location in DC. They spent some time trying to connect dots, but came up short.
The last of the info transferred, Xander looked at her torn knuckles. “I know I’ve got pecs of steel, but I didn’t do all this damage.”
“Might have had a reflex with Koji and his friend.”
He shook his head. “Whenever I’m not watching you, you get banged up. That settles it. I can never let you out of my sight again.” He winked. “So, ready to eat this elephant?”
Kizzie cracked the barest hint of a smile. “As an agent for the CIA I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of an elephant. Now, if you’ll just stare at this handy mind-eraser pen…” He didn’t laugh.
“Is that what I stirred up in Helsinki?” She frowned and Xander continued. “You zoned on me while I was whipping you. Thought you’d reached subspace, but afterward you had this…haunted look in your eyes. I remember thinking I’d broken a dam you’d worked hard to build. I never imagined…”