by Justine Davis, Amy J. Fetzer, Katherine Garbera, Meredith Fletcher, Catherine Mann
The night vision was sensitive enough to pick up the rising steam that clouded Sam’s body and occasionally hid her completely from Riley’s view. The view tortured him. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t. All those times he’d watched Sam on the racquetball court, all those times he had seen her on the mats sparring with opponents, he had wondered what she would look like nude.
Now…he almost knew.
A few minutes later Sam turned the water off. The clouds of vapor thinned and disappeared. He closed his eyes as she stepped from the cubicle, intending to give her privacy. But he opened them seconds later, unable to stop himself. He exhaled as he realized Sam had picked up the towel she’d placed on the floor and wrapped it around herself.
After she was dry, Sam dressed in bra, panties, sweatpants and a tunic top. The clothing was virtually sexless, but Riley couldn’t get the sight of her out of his head.
In the dark, Sam trailed her fingers down the wall and found her way to the bed. She lay down on her side, facing the wall and tucked into a ball.
Riley knew that some observers who didn’t know Sam St. John’s history might think she’d curled up into a fetal position. Riley knew that she had just assumed the best defensive position she could against someone who might attack her while she slept. Her back and shoulders could take more punishment than her face or front. He had no doubt that she’d wake at the slightest touch, the slightest sound.
Sam’s foster years hadn’t been pleasant. And Riley knew the reports he’d read only revealed part of what she had been through.
He watched her sleep. After settling in, she was still. He envied her that. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he’d brought her in.
Finding her hadn’t seemed like he was doing his job; it had felt more like a betrayal.
Riley switched the night vision off. Reluctant to leave, he triggered the audio pickups in the room. He increased the volume till he could hear Sam’s breathing, slow and steady.
She slept.
For a moment Riley listened to her, made himself realize that she was all right. And he told himself Sam’s situation was going to change tomorrow. That realization didn’t make him feel much better. The change still wasn’t going to set her free.
He hated the conflict that raged within him. Sam didn’t deserve to be free. He’d seen the digital recordings that Mitchell had gotten from British intelligence.
There was no way she wasn’t guilty.
On the twelfth day, the cell door opened without warning.
Sam stood in the center of the floor in a relaxed martial arts L-stance, right foot back and perpendicular to the left foot forward. Her arms hung at her sides, but she could lift them instantly to defend herself if she had to. She stared at the swinging door and imagined that the air outside the room felt and tasted a lot different from what was trapped in the cell with her, but she knew that wasn’t true.
When Riley McLane stepped into the room, Sam experienced mixed feelings. Anger came first, which she expected, but hope and attraction came as well. She forced the hope away. She’d learned a long time ago that hoping for something was nearly useless. The only thing that truly mattered was the ability to make something happen.
The attraction was confusing. She’d always noticed an undercurrent of it when she was around him, but now the sensation was like a live thing. She didn’t know what to do about it and couldn’t help standing there feeling very much like a deer in headlights.
During the past twelve days, it seemed as though not a moment had passed that she hadn’t thought of Riley McLane. Of course, those thoughts were mixed. Sometimes she missed him and other times she wanted to kick his teeth in for taking advantage of Rainy’s funeral to capture her.
Confronted with him now, she didn’t know how to respond.
“St. John,” Riley said in a deadpan voice. He carried an armload of clothes that included a teal blouse and wheat-colored slacks. There was even a pack of hose. “You’ll need to get dressed.” He offered the clothes.
Sam stood her ground. “No one told me when checkout was.”
Riley grimaced. “Don’t be a smart-ass.” He wadded up the clothes and fired them off his chest like a basketball pass.
The clothes separated in midflight. Sam had to scramble to keep them from hitting the ground. For a moment, she considered letting them scatter, but the opportunity to get dressed in slacks and a blouse instead of sweats was too enticing.
You’re getting weak, she chided herself. But she consoled herself with the fact that if she could recognize her weakness, she wasn’t really weak. Getting dressed in those clothes was something she deserved, but she didn’t have to have it.
“Where are we going?” Sam asked.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Riley told her. “Get dressed.”
“Now we’re on a timetable?” Sam took her time and sorted through the clothing. When she got to the bra and panties that had come from Victoria’s Secret, one of her guilty pleasures and one that Rainy had empathized with yet teased her about, she knew Riley had been to her home. Knowing Riley and the men with him were watching embarrassed her. She kept her head down, cheeks flaming in spite of her attempt at iron control, and didn’t make eye contact.
The bra and panties weren’t hers, though. These still had the price tags on them.
And that’s a weakness of yours, Riley McLane. You didn’t have the guts to go through my panty drawer. Sam was mildly surprised. During the time she’d known Riley, she’d felt certain he was the kind of agent that could do anything.
“We’re on a timetable,” Riley said.
“And I’ll want a shower and some privacy.” Sam glared up at him.
“We don’t have time for a shower.”
“We,” Sam stated coldly, “aren’t taking a shower.”
One of the two agents standing at the open door snickered.
Riley looked vastly irritated, but his cheekbones showed a little color. Sam knew she’d struck a nerve. “We need to go now.”
“Then I can go barefoot and in sweats.”
“St. John, now isn’t the time to be difficult.”
“Oh? Is there going to be a time later? See, I didn’t get the itinerary. I’ve just been locked away for the last twelve days and left without human contact. Not exactly conducive to gaining a positive response from a subject.”
“Nobody thought we needed a positive response.” Riley returned her glare. “A lot of people still don’t think we need one.”
Sam let that hang for a moment, then—because she couldn’t help herself even though she knew not to ask—she asked, “What about you, McLane? Do you want a positive response?”
Too late, Sam realized that the question could have dual meanings. The two agents minding the door grinned at each other.
Riley looked more irritated than ever. “Take a shower. Get dressed. You’ve got ten minutes.” Without another word, he turned and left the room, closing the cell door behind him.
After he’d gone, Sam was surprised to find out how alone she felt. A lump rose to the back of her throat. She didn’t want to admit how scared she was, but she was. And she did. She didn’t like doing it, but she’d always tried to be honest with herself.
Quickly she laid out the clothes on the bed. When she got to the business-cut jacket, she discovered a package in the pocket. A plastic bag inside the pocket contained deodorant, perfume and a few makeup items. After twelve days of being without those things, Sam felt as if she’d discovered a treasure trove.
The small perfume bottle shouldn’t have entered the room at all. The bottle could be broken and the shards used for a weapon or to slice her wrists. A small disposable razor lay at the bottom of the bag.
Sam weighed the bottle and the razor in her hand. Only grim determination and a lot of time would have made the disposable razor a threat. But the bottle was a different matter.
Was Riley that certain of her? That she wouldn’t use the shards as a weap
on? Or that she wouldn’t try to commit suicide out of guilt for whatever it was she was supposed to have done? Or because of the futility she had to be feeling about being locked up and not being able to get free?
Or was he just giving her a way out?
The possibility crept into Sam’s mind without warning. She felt chilled to the bone.
Never in all the years that she’d spent in one foster home after another had she felt like ending her life. She’d always dreamed that there would be a way out. She had known that eventually she would grow up and she could be on her own.
But what about now? she asked herself. Her hand trembled slightly, and she instantly got frustrated with herself. For all she knew, she was paroled, on her way to freedom. Of course, Riley McLane hadn’t acted that way. Or maybe he was just upset because he believed she was guilty of whatever it was she hadn’t done.
She made herself stop speculating. She didn’t have any answers. She had questions, but they weren’t the right ones she needed to ask.
Despite the fact that Riley had wanted her to hurry, she stayed in the shower long enough to put the razor to good use. When she finished, she truly felt clean for the first time in days.
Someone banged on the door as she started getting dressed. Each piece, from the underwear to the hose to the slacks and blouse, felt like battle armor sliding into place. Her confidence grew.
“We’re late,” Riley growled through the door.
“Another minute,” Sam called, starting on the makeup by touch since she didn’t have a mirror. Riley had even provided a brush. When she finished, she walked to the door.
“—father always told me a woman would be late to her own funeral,” a man was saying. He fell silent as Sam stepped through the door.
Riley stood out in the hall. Dark, wraparound sunglasses masked his eyes.
The other two agents stared at Sam.
“Wow,” one of them said in a low voice.
Sam almost blushed. She didn’t make eye contact with either of the two men. Instead she waited without saying a word.
“Let’s go.” Riley gestured to the other end of the hall. “Director Mitchell’s office. You know the way.”
Sam started walking.
“Wait, Agent McLane.” The agent who spoke produced a pair of handcuffs. “We need to cuff her.”
A shudder passed through Sam despite her resolve not to show a reaction. The long trip back by plane with her hands manacled in her lap and covered by a jacket had been claustrophobic. Going to the bathroom, even with a female agent along, had been embarrassing. The worst part had been the way kids had stared at her.
“No cuffs,” Riley replied.
“Standard operating procedure—”
Riley wheeled on the speaker, freezing the man in midstride with the handcuffs swinging before him. “Isn’t something we’re worried about today, Gautier. Got that?”
Gautier hesitated for a moment and looked thoroughly pissed. “Got it. But if she gets away—”
“No,” Riley said. “No getting away. And, Sam, if you try, if I have to shoot you to stop you, I will. Understood?”
“Understood,” Sam said. As she looked at the stony glare he gave her, she knew that he meant what he said. She also thought she saw a flicker of sadness in his dark eyes. But when she turned away, she felt his hard gaze on her, tracking like a sniper’s cross hairs.
Chapter 8
“Have a seat, St. John.”
“No, sir,” Sam replied, forcing herself to remain calm. The fact that Director Stone Mitchell hadn’t addressed her as “agent” spoke volumes. “I’ll stand.”
“Suit yourself.” Mitchell didn’t sound like he cared. He flicked his gaze to Riley. “No handcuffs?”
“My decision,” Riley said.
Mitchell waited expectantly for an explanation.
Riley didn’t give one. He stood between Sam and the door, to one side of the director so that he could intercept her if she chose to try to attack Mitchell.
“Not a good decision, Agent McLane,” Mitchell said.
“She’s here.” McLane hesitated. “Sir.”
Opening a folder on the desk, Mitchell said, “How’s your shoulder?”
“Better,” Riley answered. “I’ll probably be released any day by Medical.”
“Probably so.” The comment coming from Mitchell sounded like a threat. The director glanced up at Sam. “You’ve been quiet for twelve days. You haven’t asked to see anyone. You haven’t asked to talk to anyone.”
“Would it have done any good?”
Mitchell’s flat expression didn’t change. “No.”
Sam knew the man was baiting her, offering hope only so he could yank it away. She’d seen him work an interview before.
“We won’t let you talk to anyone until we are ready,” Mitchell said.
“You’re ready now,” Sam observed. “And you want me to talk to you. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” She was conscious of Riley watching her, standing silent guard with his hands resting lightly crossed in front of him. “My decision is whether or not I want to talk to you.”
“I thought maybe you would want to talk to me,” Mitchell suggested. “I could be in a position to help you. Provided you help me.”
Sam stayed quiet, smothering a sharp retort. One thing she had learned in all the unfriendly foster homes she’d been in was to stay quiet when she was talking to someone who had power over her and was looking to use it. That was Mitchell now.
Mitchell feigned boredom. Sam didn’t buy the act. He was a man who made every moment count. He wouldn’t have had her brought to his office for no reason. Not even to kick her while she was down.
“I find myself in a desperate situation,” Mitchell admitted. “I’ve never personally dealt with a traitor before.”
Still, Sam told herself, sipping air through her nostrils. Stay still. He’s just talking, trying to rattle you.
But traitor?
“For the record,” Sam said in an icy voice, “I’m not a traitor. Furthermore, for the record, I resent any and all implications and references you have made and you may continue to make about my integrity.” She knew someone was taping the interview.
Mitchell’s demeanor took on more of an edge. “Who are you protecting?”
“No one.”
“Who turned you against this country?”
“I’ve not turned against this country.”
“You’ve been conducting criminal activities that endanger this country.”
Anger seethed inside Sam. “No, sir, I have not.”
Mitchell glared at her. “You’re lying.”
Sam barely held back a hot response.
“Do you know how I know you’re lying?” Mitchell challenged.
Confusion swirled within Sam for a moment. Mitchell wasn’t a man who bluffed.
“I’m not lying,” Sam said.
Mitchell stared at her.
“Sir,” Riley said, “maybe—”
“Agent McLane,” Mitchell interrupted sharply without looking at Riley, “if you utter another word, I’ll have you escorted out of this room.”
For a moment Sam thought that Riley was going to continue his protest. She had no doubt that Mitchell would make good on his threat. Thinking of being in the office facing Mitchell alone, or even with other agents around—being without Riley—wasn’t a pleasant thought. She hoped that Riley knew when to shut up.
Riley breathed in deeply through his nose, but didn’t say anything.
“Would you like to see the evidence I have?” Mitchell asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sam replied. You bet your ass I would.
Without hesitation, Mitchell pressed a button underneath his desk. Across the room, a projector rolled smoothly down from the ceiling like one of the monitors on a passenger jet. The screen pulsed for a moment, then cleared and went to high-definition digital image.
“This is a copy of one of the disks I received from MI-6,” Mitchell said.<
br />
Sam studied the images. The footage seemed to have been shot in the Middle East. Men, women and children in loose white clothing and some Western clothes converged on an open-air bazaar. Cages containing chickens, crates filled with vegetables and stands of cloth and Western DVDs and Japanese electronics created a maze of merchandizing.
“Do you recognize this place?” Mitchell asked.
Sam studied the footage, waiting for some clue. She was always careful and considered when she was forced into an answer.
Mitchell tapped the keyboard. The video stopped clear and clean, leaving a picture with crystal clarity. “Well?”
“I don’t know,” Sam answered in a neutral voice. “It looks like the Middle East. Iran. Iraq. Saudia Arabia. But there are some pockets in Eastern Europe that—”
“It’s Suwan,” Mitchell said.
Sam took a deep breath. Suwan was the capital of Berzhaan, a small country in the Middle East north of Iran. The United States maintained a presence there to support the current government headed by Prime Minister Omar Razidae.
“You know Suwan,” Mitchell said.
“Yes, sir.” There was no denying that.
“You’ve been there.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam returned Mitchell’s gaze. “On assignments. Assignments that you ordered me on.” During those missions, she had translated documents agents had stolen from various “businessmen” dealing with the Berzhaan Government as well as the two factions vying for control of the country. Berzhaan had a large amount of undeveloped oil reserves that could turn it into a wealthy nation overnight. But allowing in the wrong foreign power or the wrong foreign corporations could turn it into a puppet state of politics or economics.
“I know,” Mitchell said. “However, I hadn’t counted on those assignments helping your other, more clandestine, acts.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Are you sure about that?”