by Justine Davis, Amy J. Fetzer, Katherine Garbera, Meredith Fletcher, Catherine Mann
HOW DID THE BLACKOUT HAPPEN? Sam asked.
ALEX WAS DRIVING HOME FROM WORK. DRIVING. JUST LIKE RAINY.
Sam automatically fit the details to the scenario she had created about Rainy. WHAT ABOUT THE SEAT BELT?
IT HELD. SO IF SOMEONE WAS BEHIND ALEX’S BLACKOUT, THEY DIDN’T WANT IT TO LOOK TOO MUCH LIKE RAINY’S ACCIDENT.
ALEX IS OKAY?
YES, THANK GOD. SHE WAS REALLY LUCKY.
Sam’s throat closed up, Someone was after her friends…and she couldn’t help them.
ALEX FOUND OUT MORE ABOUT THE MYSTERIOUS FBI AGENT. I JUST FOUND OUT TODAY MYSELF AND WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW.
TELL ME.
HIS NAME IS JUSTIN COHEN. REMEMBER THE LEGEND AROUND ATHENA ABOUT THE DARK ANGEL?
Sam did. And back in school, Alex had actually seen him from a distance. The young man had broken in to the academy twice, the second time being while the Cassandras were there. He’d claimed the academy had killed his sister. Over the years, the Dark Angel had become something of a Robin Hood figure to the school, a legend the girls giggled over late at night.
JUSTIN COHEN IS THE DARK ANGEL. HIS SISTER DIED ABOUT NINE MONTHS AFTER RAINY’S “APPENDECTOMY.” DOING THE MATH ON THIS ONE, SPYGIRL?
YEAH.
TURNS OUT THAT JUSTIN’S SISTER, KELLY, ACCEPTED FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS TO BECOME A SURROGATE MOTHER. UNFORTUNATELY, SOMETHING WENT WRONG WITH THE PREGNANCY AND SHE DIED.
WHAT ABOUT THE BABY?
HOSPITAL RECORDS SAY IT DIED AS WELL. DARCY IS CHECKING UP ON THE POSSIBILITY OF OTHER SURROGATE MOTHERS. RAINY MIGHT HAVE A CHILD OUT THERE. IN A STRANGER’S HANDS.
That thought chilled Sam. WHO DID THIS? she asked.
WE DON’T KNOW YET. BUT HERE’S WHY JUSTIN BELIEVES ATHENA ACADEMY HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH HIS SISTER’S DEATH. THE NURSE WHO TOOK CARE OF HER AT THE HOSPITAL WAS BETSY STONE. KAYLA’S GOING TO TALK TO HER.
Sam sat, stunned. Betsy Stone had been Athena’s resident nurse since the academy began. Sam chatted with Josie a little while longer, batting around possibilities, that Betsy Stone or Athena Academy were in on whatever had happened to Rainy. All too soon, their chat time was up.
When she was alone again, Sam’s thoughts turned dark. Someone had claimed the life of one of her friends and nearly taken the life of another. As long as the Cassandras saw fit to pursue the mystery, Sam felt certain that all of their lives were potentially forfeit.
And she was stuck in a damn cell on bogus charges that she couldn’t disprove and couldn’t begin to understand. She couldn’t help them. Most of all she hated the helpless feeling that filled her.
However, the past two weeks hadn’t gone unrewarded. She’d finally remembered the elusive memory involving failed seat belts and blackouts. Now all she had to do was get someone to listen to her.
Riley stopped in front of the security door to Sam’s private holding cell and pushed his hand against the palm scanner mounted to the right. The screen pulsed and the reader read his palm print. Three seconds later after the ID had been confirmed by the automated system and the agent manning security on the video camera overlooking the hallway, the locks clicked open.
He started to enter, then felt uncomfortable just barging in. Sam was waiting for him. He knew that because he’d stopped off at the observation room after his arrival. And she had sent for him. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that just walking in was an invasion of whatever privacy she had left.
He closed his fist and knocked. The thumps sounded hollow and lonesome out in the hallway. She’d been inside for five weeks, more or less in solitary confinement. He knew he couldn’t have gone as long as she had and still remain as sane as she was. It was almost as if she thrived on the solitude.
“Come in.” Sam’s voice sounded surprisingly normal.
Taking a deep breath, Riley pushed the door open and followed it inside.
Sam stood across the room, leaving plenty of space between them. She wore sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt that muffled her natural curves somewhat.
“You knocked,” Sam pointed out.
Riley nodded. “Seemed like the thing to do.”
“Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.” Out of habit Riley swept the room with his peripheral vision. He spotted the white rose beneath the bed. The flower looked fragile and delicate.
“Thanks for coming, too,” she added. She wrapped her arms around herself, showing a hint of insecurity.
“I was told it was urgent. If Mitchell hadn’t okayed the meet, I wouldn’t have been able to come.”
“I think he expects me to confess everything to you.”
Disappointment flooded Riley. He didn’t want to be the confessor figure. If Sam had really worked with terrorists smuggling arms, he didn’t want to be the one to go on record as a witness, didn’t want to hear it from her lips. But he would, and the room’s surveillance systems would keep track of her every word.
“Don’t worry, McLane,” she said. “I’m not confessing to anything.”
Riley felt immediately relieved, then got frustrated with himself. He didn’t like the fact that she was able to see through him so easily.
“I’m not worried,” he said.
“If you say so.”
Her casual dismissal of his brief defense irritated him. “What did you want, St. John?” His tone came out harsher than he’d intended.
Sam dropped her arms to her sides and placed her right foot behind her left at a ninety-degree angle. The movement was unconscious, and Riley felt she hadn’t even noticed her own movements. He felt bad about her response. He couldn’t help wondering how many harsh voices she’d endured in those foster homes, and how many of them led to other forms of abuse.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you had planned,” Sam said.
“I didn’t have anything planned.”
An eyebrow arched over one ice-blue eye. Her look took on a sardonic cast. “Rumpled slacks, ditto on the shirt and tie and a sports coat. I don’t think you were at home watching ESPN with the guys.”
“I was out.”
“And unless my eyesight is failing me, that’s a lipstick smudge on your shirt collar.”
Riley resisted the impulse to reach for his shirt. He had been out with someone he occasionally dated and slept with while in the Langley area. The woman was a fellow agent he’d developed a casual relationship with in the field and had tracked that back into the occasional hotel room. Neither of them took the relationship home or took the involvement as anything more than physical release.
“I was out,” Riley said.
For a minute he thought she was going to press him on the issue.
Then she broke eye contact. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your personal life.”
“You didn’t.”
“Maybe the woman you were with felt like I did.”
“It’s a friendship, St. John.” Agents who spent most of their time out in the field undercover or beating the bushes learned to have liaisons rather than love affairs, one-night stands instead of meaningful relationships. Riley had seen too many agent marriages crumble under the pressure of long-distance relationships and a job that was anything but nine to five. Of course, there were exceptions to the rule, but he’d never wanted to buck the odds, or found a woman worth taking the chance with.
“You have many friends like that?” Her tone was sharp.
Riley thought about how he should respond. The answer was no, but the woman he’d been with was truly a friend. They shared themselves when they could and when they needed to let someone in who understood the dark and dangerous world in which they lived. But it had to be someone who wouldn’t take it personally when each of them chose to shut down and deal with personal crises and issues when those times came.
There had been other women over the years. Some had moved on. Two of them were dead, and one of them Riley had killed when she’d tried to murder him.
“Forget it.” Sam raised her ha
nds and brushed the question away. “What you do isn’t any of my business.”
Riley wanted to tell her that, no, it wasn’t any of her business, but he was too surprised. Is that just a little jealousy, St. John? Is that what’s going on here? The thought took him totally by surprise. Still, it was understandable because he hadn’t been able to be as cold and strict as Mitchell during the few times they’d encountered each other.
“She’s just a friend,” Riley said, before he could stop himself.
“Okay. You have a friend. I got that.” Those ice-blue eyes flashed angrily.
Riley felt even more uncomfortable and grew increasingly irritated with himself. Her reaction to the situation wasn’t logical, but she had a reason not to be logical. She’d been locked up for five weeks with limited human contact and a hell of a stress load on her. He, on the other hand, had no excuse for the way he felt. He’d abandoned a warm and willing woman in a hotel she had paid for to come and stand before another woman who was probably the most trouble he’d ever seen. All so he could feel guilty and mad at himself.
“My friend has nothing to do with this, St. John,” he growled.
“Good. Then I’m happy for you and your friend.”
“Is that what you called me here for? To pick a fight?”
“I’m not picking a fight.”
“You should try standing on this side of the conversation.”
Sam looked at him. “Try being locked up for five weeks.”
Riley held his hands up at his sides. “Okay. You win. You’ve got it worse than I do. I hope calling me here and reading me the riot act about the fact that I have a life and you don’t helps you out.”
“I don’t need help.”
“And I don’t need the grief.” Riley turned toward the door, cursing himself out for not simply staying away. When Mitchell had called about Sam’s request, the director had advised him to stay away, but they both recognized the fact that Sam had more resources to survive in her situation than just about anyone they knew. That was saying a lot. So Riley had come and Mitchell had allowed it because Sam had them both over the barrel. Riley needed to exorcise some of his guilt, and Mitchell still needed answers regarding the terrorist activity in Berzhaan.
“Riley.” Her voice was softer, more vulnerable. “Wait.”
Standing still, one hand on the door, Riley said, “I can’t help you, Sam. You’re going to have to help yourself out of this mess. I don’t have any answers.”
“Please.” Her voice broke.
“Mitchell’s not going to listen to me,” Riley said. “And I don’t have anything to tell him.”
“It’s not about me.”
He waited, not knowing what she was going to say.
“I think my friends might be in danger.”
That caught Riley’s attention and came far enough out of left field that he turned around. “What friends?”
Sam glanced pointedly at the lipstick mark on his collar. “Obviously not the same kind of friends that you have.”
He looked at her, not knowing how to respond but unwilling to leave her. Damn, but she looked so vulnerable with her arms wrapped around herself. Just the same, he knew she’d try to kick his ass if he mentioned it.
She broke eye contact and let out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I intended to say. I apologize. I’m just not very good at being helpless.”
“It’s okay. If I was in your shoes, I don’t think I could handle five weeks of solitude.”
Her eyes flashed again. “Being trapped in here isn’t the problem, McLane. I can do this. Sooner or later I’ll get out. No matter what Mitchell says or does, I know that’s true. Believing anything else just won’t work. I’ve been in lots of places worse than this.”
For a split second Riley got an image of what Sam St. John had been like as a foster child. Quiet and willful, she’d learned to bide her time even when she was very small.
“The problem is I can’t help them,” she went on.
“Your friends?”
Sam nodded.
“Are they in trouble?”
“I think so.”
“What makes you think that?”
“From the information Josie has been giving me.”
“Josie?” Then the name clicked. “You mean Captain Lockworth.” Riley hadn’t been part of that information loop.
“Yes.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I think they may be in danger.”
“From what?”
“Not what,” Sam corrected. “Whom.”
Riley pointed to the bed. “Do you mind if I sit?”
“Go ahead.”
Crossing the room, Riley sat on the edge of the bed. He tried not to remember that she slept there, all curled up tight in a ball against the wall in the corner. The bed was neatly made, with military precision corners. One of Sam’s earliest foster parents had been an army drill sergeant. Evidently he’d taught her how to make beds.
“Whom do you think your friends are in danger from?” he asked.
Sam held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “I don’t know.” Before Riley could say anything, she hurried on. “I also think Rainy was killed. I don’t think she died in a traffic accident.”
Surprised, Riley looked at Sam. “You’re saying she was murdered?”
Sam took a deep breath. The answer came hard. “Yes. My friends think so, too.”
“Why?”
“You’d have to have known Rainy,” Sam said. “Dying in some kind of accident—” Emotion took her words.
Tears gleamed in her ice-blue eyes, and Riley knew it took a real effort of will not to let them fall.
When Sam continued, her throat was husky with pain. “Rainy—Rainy just wouldn’t have died in an accident. She was one of the most complete people I’ve known.”
Riley spoke softly, wishing he could ease Sam’s pain. “Accidents happen, Sam. Life has a habit of not turning out the way we think it should.”
“Rainy’s death wasn’t an accident. Her seat belt failed.”
That caught Riley’s attention. “Failed?”
“Yes. And that isn’t all.”
Though Riley was certain that Sam didn’t know what she was doing, she started to pace. He watched her, trying to figure out what her angle was, what she wanted from him. His attention kept wandering to the taut flesh that rippled beneath her sweatpants. Even the loose material couldn’t disguise the coiling and bunching taking place.
In terse sentences, Sam briefed Riley on the information about Rainy and the blackouts that had befallen two of her other friends. Her report was nearly emotionless as she stayed centered.
When she stopped her report, he asked, “If we accept that your friend was murdered, your other friends’ blackouts were caused by the same source—”
“Kayla and Alex,” Sam said.
Riley looked at her.
“Their names,” Sam said.
“Kayla’s the police lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
“And Alex is the forensics expert with the FBI?” Riley remembered the woman from the research he’d done with Howie Dunn.
Sam nodded.
“She sat in on the autopsy before the funeral?”
“That’s what Josie said. The Cassandras—”
“Cassandras?”
An embarrassed look flashed on Sam’s beautiful features. “A name we gave ourselves. The academy was big on breaking the new students into groups that worked together. We were the Cassandras.”
Riley waited. She didn’t continue, so he prompted her.
“And Josie’s working on a spy plane.”
Sam shot him a quick, suspicious look. “I didn’t tell you that.”
But Riley knew from the disoriented flicker in her eyes that for just an instant she thought she might have. “You didn’t tell me that, Sam. I did background checks on all the women you went to school with. I don’t know the particulars of
what Josie is doing, but I know what program she’s attached to.”
“That’s privileged information.”
“Yeah, but when you’re dealing with someone who might be assisting terrorist activity against the United States, a lot of doors get opened damn quick.” Too late, Riley realized the pain his words caused Sam. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Sam. It was just a statement of fact. Once you were labeled a threat, I was given a blank check to prowl.”
Taking a deep breath, getting rid of the emotion, Sam nodded. “Okay. Fine. We’ll make that work for us.”
“We?” Riley repeated. “Us?”
She looked at him in exasperation. “I need help. Haven’t you been listening?”
“Sure I’ve been listening. But all you’ve trotted out is a lot of supposition.”
“Supposition didn’t get Rainy killed. Neither did a failed seat belt. There’s an assassin out there.” Sam drew a breath. “He’s code-named the Cipher.”
A chill touched Riley then. He’d heard of the Cipher. No intelligence agency knew much about the man. Or if he was a man for certain. He was a phantom, supposedly able to walk through solid walls and assassinate targets.
“No one even knows if the Cipher exists,” Riley said.
“Then give me the chance to find out.”
“How?”
“Let me have the files on every assassination that the Cipher’s name has turned up in. Let me research him.”
“I thought he was a myth. A bogeyman the intelligence community dreamed up to challenge new recruits.”
“Do you remember what his signature is? The thing that all of his kills reportedly have in common?”
Riley shook his head.
“All of his victims fall asleep before they die in what is supposed to be an accident.”
“How do you know this?”
“He’s mentioned in the files on Berzhaan. I read about him—or her—while I was working the op in Suwan last year.”
“You read this a year ago?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t forgotten it?”
“I forget very little of what I read or see or hear,” Sam replied. “Gift for languages, remember? That’s part of how it seems to work for me.”