“It’s me.”
“I…thought you were caught up in the unrest in Hamān.”
He thought about his torture at the hands of the FDS, the dank cell. “You could say that I was caught up.”
“Why are you calling? You want the payment transferred?”
He remained silent, tightening the tension, playing his prey. “No,” he said finally. “The job is incomplete. Dr. Sterling is still alive.”
“What! Where is she?”
He could hear him breathing. “We need to talk. In person.”
“We never meet in person.”
He could hear fear now. He knew Samuel Killinger didn’t want anyone to know about his personal assassin. Killinger didn’t want his colleagues to know he’d had his own Venturion board members taken out from time to time.
“You’re messing with me. It’s imperative that I know at once where she is. This…could have grave implications. Tell me, and you will get your fee, regardless.”
“They’ve taken her to an island off Africa.”
“Who?”
He motioned to the bartender as he spoke, pointed to a bottle of tequila. “I think there’s more at stake here than you allowed me to believe, Killinger. It almost cost me my life in Hamān. I do not like being used. I need full knowledge of a situation before I go in to do a job. You played me for a fool. I don’t appreciate it.”
“Fine, we’ll renegotiate. But we cannot meet in person. It’s out of the question.”
“Hmm, a matter of national security, perhaps?”
Dead silence. “All right—when do you want to meet?”
The bartender placed his drink in front of him. He nodded in thanks, picked up the glass, swigged it back, felt the heat. He was glad for it. It would help dull the pain of the torture still lingering in his body. He motioned for another. He’d heard his captors talking outside his cell on São Diogo, before he’d escaped and killed the man they called December. They’d mentioned a deadline of October 13 more than once. They’d also mentioned a gathering on Killinger’s yacht. It sounded important.
“I can see you on the thirteenth,” he said, fishing. “Not before.”
Killinger swore.
The man smiled. Killinger never swore. And he himself rarely smiled. Killinger had played him, and he was going to play him back. Every now and then he enjoyed indulging in a game like this.
“I’ll be in the Caribbean on that day.”
He nodded to himself. “Where will you be staying?”
“I’ll be on my yacht. We can meet there. I need to see you before eleven that night. Any later will be of no use to me, and you can forget your fee.”
“The name of your yacht?” He knew already. He’d made it his business to know everything about the people who hired him to kill.
“The Genevieve.”
“Your wife’s name. Very nice.”
Silence.
“She looks so much like your wife.”
“Who?”
“Olivia.” He hung up, sucked back his tequila, the movement tearing at the injury in his neck where the sultan had stabbed him.
Killinger stared at the cell phone in his hand. His chest was tight, squeezing his lungs like a vise. He was losing control. If Paige Sterling was alive, it meant someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to fake her death. Either someone was on to his plan or would be soon.
Had President Elliot broken the silence? Had he managed to enlist someone who was operating out there in the shadows, working against him?
He thought of Henri Devilliers and his shady connections. Was he involved in some way?
He tried to breathe. He had to release the pathogen now. He had no other choice.
He walked to his window, still gripping his phone. But Olivia was out there somewhere, out of his grasp. He had no antidote near her, no one to whisk her out of the country. He had to wait.
What would it all be worth if he killed his own daughter? What kind of man would that make him?
He clenched his jaw, thinking.
He turned suddenly, picked up his other phone and began punching in a series of codes that would set off a chain of events that only he personally would be able to halt.
He hung up, feeling a resurgence of his power. He had just initiated protocol that would cause the bombs to blow at precisely five minutes past midnight on October 13, Eastern standard time. He had just bought him self additional bargaining power—insurance—in case things went sideways.
If all went according to plan and Elliot stepped down before midnight as planned, he would press the button that would deactivate the code of instructions. If not, the pathogen would release—with or without him.
And it was time to end his relationship with his albino assassin. He would have his guards take him down, on the yacht, nice and quiet down in the hold.
He’d do the same with Devilliers as soon as he could lure Olivia away from him.
He’d find a way to explain the man’s disappearance to Olivia. And she’d get over it, just as she’d gotten over Jack Sauer all those years ago.
He stilled in mild shock. Why was he even thinking about Jack Sauer? He frowned, stared out his windows at the lashing rain and the gray sky.
It was because of Devilliers, that’s why. There was something vaguely haunting about the man. His daughter was clearly attracted by a certain type.
06:30 Romeo. Over the Atlantic.
Friday, October 10.
“Wake up, princess.” He couldn’t help it, she looked like one to him, rumpled and sexy in his bed on the FDS jet, miles above the world. More than once he’d glanced up from his desk and had to fight the urge to climb into that bed beside her. But he had work to do. He had to coordinate the takedown. They now had fewer than four days to stop Killinger.
She sat up, pushed her lustrous mane of hair off her face, her eyes dreamy, and she smiled sleepily at him. His stomach swooped instantly—no air turbulence involved—and he felt himself go rock hard.
“Hey, your eyes…they’re gray again.”
“Giving them a break from the contacts.” He winked as he spoke.
She went silent, her eyes holding his.
Jack swallowed at the electricity beginning to hum between them.
“I missed you, Jack.”
The words were so simple, yet they held so many layers, covered so many years. He smiled back at her, a strange sadness welling his heart. “I missed you too, Livie,” he whispered. More than you will ever know.
She held out her hand to him.
He took it, sat on the bed beside her. She touched his mouth where the scar met his lips.
“I love it when you smile, you know?”
“And I love it when you sleep in my bed.” He squeezed her hand. “And now you better get dressed before I get in there with you. We land in half an hour.”
Her face turned serious. She glanced at the table, his papers, his laptop, his phone. “You’ve been busy.”
He nodded. “Been putting together a shopping list.”
She cocked a brow. “What for—assault rifles and grenades?”
He laughed. “No, weapons of a different kind. Henri and his lady like to dress in high style. We need to get ourselves a couple of killer outfits, my dear.”
She raised the other brow. “You’re serious.”
He narrowed his eyes in jest. “Deadly serious. We have a challenging cover to maintain—lovers in the Caribbean.”
She laughed, and her eyes turned grave almost instantly. “He’ll have men waiting for us when we land, won’t he?”
Jack nodded. “They’ll be picking up our tail again, for sure. But FDS will have men, too.”
“What about this plane, won’t they trace it?”
“Probably. It’s registered to a company that belongs to Henri Devilliers, which they will discover if they look hard enough. Otherwise, they’ll find nothing at all. The cover is tight. And it must remain so until we are on that yacht.”
/> A shiver ran through her.
He touched her cheek. “You’ll be fine, Olivia.”
Doubt pooled in her eyes. She glanced at the metal cuff on her wrist.
Guilt oozed in him. He looked away, started to head toward the cockpit.
“Jack, wait. Will you please take this off?”
He sighed deeply, turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”
Disappointment stole into her features. “You still don’t trust me, do you? You think I won’t be able to stand up to my father when I see him.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then take this off.”
“Olivia, the only reason that’s on now is for your own protection,” he lied, looking right into those clear honey-gold eyes. His chest constricted so tightly it hurt. “There’s been one kidnap attempt already. If it happens again, the GPS in that cuff will enable us to find you. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Her eyes remained locked onto his. “Why would my father try that again? I’m out of the country.”
“He might not want Henri on his yacht. If he is nervous enough, he might try and separate us before Monday.”
Her mouth flattened, and she averted her eyes.
Jack went to the cockpit, his fists balling at his sides. He’d broken her down, he’d rebuilt her trust. And now he was going to have to smash it to smithereens.
To get Killinger, to save the nation, he was going to have to pay the ultimate sacrifice—he was going to have to kill his dream.
He was going to have to give Olivia up for good.
Chapter 13
16:32 Romeo. CBNN Newsroom.
Monday, October 13.
The White House correspondent speed-dialed the CBNN producer’s direct line. The producer picked up on the first ring. He’d clearly been expecting the call.
“Something major is going down,” said the correspondent. “The president has called a press conference for tonight.”
“What time?”
“That’s what’s really weird—eleven-thirty.”
The producer whistled softly. “His health?”
“That’s my guess. He’s clearly not well…” He hesitated, glanced over his shoulder. “My contact told me Elliot was slurring his words this morning, and he stumbled twice. I…I think he might actually invoke the twenty-fifth.”
“Christ! I’ll get things rolling….”
17:00 Romeo. Grand Cayman.
Monday, October 13.
The late-afternoon Caribbean sun was warm on his naked torso as it sank toward the horizon, tinting the sea a shimmering copper. Today was the day. In seven hours it would all be over.
Jack paced the length of their private balcony as he talked on the phone, his languid motion belying the gravity of his discussion.
His first call had been to check on December’s funeral arrangements.
His next call was to the FDS dive boat. The vessel was chugging out from a cove in Little Cayman at this very moment, setting course for the Genevieve, masquerading as a tourist dive charter. Another craft was approaching the Genevieve from the north—this one disguised as a deep-sea fishing charter.
The choppers were on standby on Little Cayman. They’d be in the air and approaching the Genevieve shortly before midnight. The team he’d moved out of Honduras was also in position, strategically distanced from the Killinger yacht
Jack signed off and set his phone down on the glass-topped table where hotel staff had put the drinks and snacks he’d ordered. He picked up the printout and studied the specs for the Genevieve again, committing the layout to memory.
The motorized yacht was a monstrosity, complete with twenty-six state rooms and a helipad that would play nicely into their strategy. Killinger’s office was off the main stateroom on the port side, according to Olivia.
He set the specs down, cracked open a cold beer, turned to look over the sea and sipped. The necessary weapons had been procured from their Honduras operation. He had his personal weapons with him, but they were mostly for show, since he expected he’d be frisked upon embarking the Genevieve. Killinger would be surprised if Henri was not packing, and he’d take care to disarm him.
His real weapon was the detonator tag and the cuff around Olivia’s arm. He was now wearing the detonator on a chain around his neck, just as if it were a military dog tag. The syringe and antidote had been installed into a compartment in his shoe, thanks to McDonough.
Jack walked up to the edge of the balcony, placed his beer on the balustrade and inhaled deeply as he thought about that aspect of the operation. The medics were on standby with the choppers. If necessary, they could get Olivia to a hospital within minutes. She’d be safe. But still, he didn’t like the idea. Not one bit.
For too many reasons to count.
He stared over the sea, trying to moderate the unusual adrenaline pumping through his body.
Once the operation was complete, authorities would be notified and the FDS would move out. It would be best to eliminate Killinger in the takedown—a man with his power and connections was not easily contained behind bars. It would be simple enough to take him out with a stray bullet, and the world would be a safer place. But Jack knew now he could never do that to Olivia.
The man might be amoral, highly powerful and dangerous, but he was still her father. If he killed Killinger tonight, Olivia would hold it against him forever. He’d hold it against himself.
They were going to have enough against them as it was—after tonight a future for the two of them might never be possible.
He snagged his beer, swigged deeply.
Olivia stepped out of the shower and toweled off. Her body felt good—warmed from the sun, salted by hours in the sea and sated from an afternoon of making slow and languorous love as waves had rolled in to the shore outside and a soft Caribbean breeze had billowed the muslin drapes in their room.
She smoothed lightly scented lotion over her body, noting she’d already picked up a light tan. She examined the new bikini lines made by the skimpy little thing Jack had picked out for her, and smiled.
They’d spent most of yesterday shopping—him sitting in dressing rooms, her parading one outfit after another. He’d finally selected the sleek body-hugging backless gown she would wear tonight. It was a bold choice in blood red—one Henri would have made, he’d said. But she’d seen in his eyes that Jack Sauer himself very much approved.
Later they’d laughed and dined under palms overlooking the sea. They’d walked slowly along the beach in the moonlight, barefoot, and they’d skinny-dipped in velvet water.
And today they had spent their time lying in the sun, swimming, making love and talking about everything and anything except her father and what was going to happen tonight.
It was a time of getting to know each other again, finding out that although time had changed them so much, something hadn’t changed at all.
Olivia slipped into a silk robe and looked at herself in the mirror. She barely recognized the woman who stared back. She was the same, but alive with an inner spark of energy—a passion that made her glow and made her eyes dance with light. It was as if she had finally been awakened after being somehow dead for the last decade and a half. Being with Jack had brought her back to life.
She cinched her robe tight, padded barefoot into the bedroom, sat on the white bed cover and reached for the phone. There was one more thing she had to do.
She called Grayson.
“My answer is no,” she told him, before he could say anything else.
“Olivia?”
“I just wanted to let you know, Grayson, before—” before midnight “—before you heard it from someone else. I’m seeing another man. I have been for a while.”
She couldn’t bring herself to say she was sorry. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything else. She thought of Lizzie’s murder, of Grayson’s deception, of his role in Jack’s disappearance, of how he had wooed her, knowing all the while that he had murdered her cous
in and destroyed her fiancé.
“Olivia, wait. Don’t rush this—”
“It was you who wanted to rush, Grayson.”
“Can you wait, just until—”
Her heart began to beat harder. Until you become leader of the free world?
“—next week, maybe.”
“I wont feel any different next week, Grayson.”
“You’re with him now aren’t you? You’re with the arms dealer, Devilliers.”
She felt a sick twist in her stomach. So her father had told him. Grayson knew she was seeing someone else, and he hadn’t called her. He was playing her. They both were. Bitterness filled her mouth. “I’ll get the ring back to you somehow.”
“I don’t want the ring, Olivia. I want you.”
“Goodbye, Grayson.” She hung up. She blew out a stream of breath, and a weight lifted from her shoulders. She’d just said farewell to sixteen fraudulent years.
It’s what happens next that matters.
Jack’s words wove through her mind. But she felt better equipped for what lay ahead now. She was committed to seeing Grayson Forbes in prison, and she was ready to confront her father.
She stepped barefoot onto sun-warmed terra-cotta tiles and into the soft golden haze of late-afternoon sunlight. She caught her breath at the sigh of Jack. His torso was darkly bronzed from the sun, and the color of his skin contrasted starkly against the bright white of the loose cotton drawstring pants slung low on his hips.
He turned round and smiled, his eyes as light as the sky behind him. He motioned to the drinks tray. “Can I fix you something cold? Gin and tonic?”
“That would be wonderful.” She walked up to the balustrade and felt the soft breeze through her hair.
He came to her side, held out her drink. Ice chinked as she took it, their fingers brushing.
But he stilled, an unfathomable look filling his eyes. He removed the drink from her hand, set it on the balustrade and took both her hands in his.
Anxiety rippled through her. “What is it, Jack?”
“I wasn’t going to say this, not until after, because I’m not sure where we’ll all be after midnight.”
Her pulse quickened.
“Sixteen years ago I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.” His eyes held hers. “I still do. I still want you to marry me, Olivia.”
Rules of Re-engagement Page 15