by Dees, Cindy
“I am being serious,” she snapped back. “Kindergarten teachers don’t run around making mortal enemies.”
“Apparently, you do.”
“This isn’t about Dawn again, is it?”
“Doubtful. I called your dad while you were sleeping. He said there’s been no unusual activity up their way. He had a couple of your brothers come over to the house to beef up security around Dawn for now.”
Wow. That was actually pretty thoughtful of him. So unlike him in his current asshole-ish frame of mind. “Uh, thanks,” she mumbled.
He shrugged.
“Don’t attempt to use your left arm or move it. The bullet passed through just above your left lung and below the shoulder joint. You were lucky the guy didn’t use a hollow point round. The exit wound in your back is only a few millimeters larger than the entry wound, so I’m guessing he went with a Teflon-tip bullet. Which means we’re looking at a pro. Snipers prefer hard-tip shells—they fly truer.”
She truly did not care what type of bullet had nearly killed her. At the moment she was less interested in his spy self than his doctor self. “What did you do to fix my shoulder?” she asked.
“Cleaned the wound mostly. Had to cauterize a small artery and then stitch it all up. You really were incredibly lucky.”
Yeah. Incredibly lucky that a trauma surgeon with tons of experience treating gunshot wounds happened to be a few yards away from her when she got shot. Incredibly lucky that he had actually turned around and came back to help her. Incredibly lucky that he kept a crash pad nearby and usually traveled with a wide array of medical gear in his luggage.
“Thanks for saving me, Alex.”
His answer was quick. Sharp. “Don’t thank me. I only came back because I thought the sniper was using you as bait. I needed him to take another shot so I could get a position fix on him.”
Jerk. But after her reflexive reaction, she paused to actually consider what he’d said, tilting her head to study him. Was he being honest, or was he just covering up the fact that he’d cared enough about her to come back for her?
God, he was harder to read than ever. She was really getting tired of that cold shell the real Alex was hiding behind. Assuming this robot of a man wasn’t the real Alex nowadays.
“Now what?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth turned up reluctantly. She supposed it was just like old times for her to be asking him that.
He answered, “Now I do some poking around. Figure out who wants you dead.”
“What kind of poking around?”
“Computer poking to start with.” To that end, he moved past her, being careful to avoid physical contact. Was he being considerate of her injured shoulder, or was he just loath to touch her?
Frowning, she followed him into the living room. He sat down on the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table and cranked up a laptop computer.
“Can I help poke?” she asked reluctantly. She was still furious with him, but the guy had saved her life. It was hard to hate him after that.
He shook his head absently, already typing away. Truth be told, he probably did know just about every important detail of her life already. Her life was pretty simple, and she’d always been an open book to him.
She picked up the TV remote off the coffee table and channel-surfed, bored. Every now and then a sharp pain knifed through her shoulder, but she suffered in silence. She’d be damned if she’d whine to Alex Peters. Sometimes, having the McCloud stubborn streak truly sucked.
In between dealing with the bouts of pain, she fretted over Alex’s earlier accusations back at the condo. She was an anchor around his neck? He’d been wrong to trust her? She’d betrayed him? She didn’t have the first idea how to convince him he was wrong, now that he’d fixed the ideas in his head as fact.
Personally, she didn’t think she’d performed too badly in Cuba. Things had gotten pretty dicey there for a while, and she’d followed his instructions and pulled her weight while they were together. She had managed to make her way to Guantánamo all by herself, too, which was no small feat. And then there was his rescue. Although it was probably an unrepeatable, minor miracle that she’d pulled it off, still, she’d pulled it off.
Now that she stopped to think about it, she hadn’t done half-bad for being just a kindergarten teacher. A trained field operative couldn’t have done much better. “Tell me, Alex. How could I have performed any better than a trained spy in Cuba? I stayed alive, I didn’t get you killed and, furthermore, I managed to rescue you. What else did you want from me?”
He stared at her silently, a stubborn look on his face. She would take that as tacit admission that she had a point.
As for the rest of it, the not trusting her and believing so easily that she would betray him—those accusations concerned her more. They spoke to his core distrust of all women. She was more convinced than ever that she had to find his mother and unravel that mystery if she was ever to salvage him from the morass of his broken soul. Of course, he would tell her to forget trying. To let him stew in his own private corner of hell.
It was tempting to walk away from him. His problems loomed larger than she felt like she could conquer. And his verbal attack earlier at the condo had been almost more than she could absorb. She might have been strong enough to save his life in Cuba, but she doubted she was strong enough to save his soul.
But then he had to go and save her life. To come back for her after she was shot. The McCloud men took owing someone their life pretty seriously. And no surprise, it turned out she felt the exact same way. Even if Alex was doing his best to deny the debt she owed him.
How could one man send so damned many mixed messages in so short a time? She fell asleep fretting about it on her end of the sofa and without finding any answers.
*
WHEN SHE WOKE UP, the apartment was silent and dark, lit only by the flickering light of the television. Alex was nowhere in sight. Alarmed, she bolted to her feet and raced for the bedroom.
She skidded to a stop in the doorway, her shoulder screaming in protest. He was sprawled across the bed, his naked, muscular back as beautiful as a statue in the peachy streetlight coming in the window. An alarm clock beside the bed said it was a little before 6:00 a.m.
Restless and uncomfortable, she gave up on sleeping and pulled on a turtleneck shirt she found in Alex’s backpack. It was big on her and she had to roll up the sleeves. But it fit over her bulky bandages. She found a notebook and tore out a piece of paper. She laid it on the tile kitchen counter to write a note to Alex. That way, an impression of her note wouldn’t be left in the notebook.
“I’m going out to take care of something important. I’ll talk with you about it when I get back. Please be here.” She underlined the please and signed the note with a K.
She took her purse from the kitchen counter where Alex had left it. It must have been in the front pocket of her sweatshirt when she bolted from the condo last night. She crept out of the apartment quietly. Where was she? Thankfully, her cell phone, which had been in her jeans pocket, had a mapping application. It placed her in northern Virginia. She wandered a couple of blocks until she found a bus stop. It took studying the map inside the shelter to figure out how to get to Langley using public transportation, but in about an hour, she stepped off a bus a few blocks from CIA headquarters.
She called Uncle Charlie’s cell phone, which he didn’t answer, and left a brief message naming the coffee shop she was sitting in. A sparse early morning crowd stared at computer screens or read newspapers while they waited for paper cups of caffeine alertness to kick in. She finished with, “We need to talk. Off campus.”
Her uncle surprised her by striding into the café not even a half hour later. Wow. That was fast. He wore a suit and tie beneath his dressy wool overcoat, too. Either she’d caught him on his way out the door to work, or else he’d rushed like a big dog to get over here to meet her.
He slid into a chair across from her at a tiny table
. “What’s up, Katie-kins?”
She noted that his lips barely moved. Was he worried that someone was watching them on a security camera? She did her best to emulate him, murmuring from behind a frozen half smile, “You tell me.”
“What do you mean?”
She spoke low in deference to their public location. “I got shot last night. Was it your guy?”
He jolted at that. “No!” If that wasn’t genuine surprise, he was a fantastic actor. “Are you okay, Katie?”
“I’m fine only because a trauma surgeon was there to take care of my injury.”
“Mmm. Lucky,” was Charlie’s noncommittal answer.
“Alex said it was a pro. Used some sort of Teflon-tipped round preferred by snipers to shoot me.”
“Christ, Katie. What’s that all about? How are you, really?”
“I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse. Good news is I’ll live. As for what it’s about, that’s what I’m hoping you can tell me.”
“Thank God you’re safe.” He reached across the table to squeeze her hand in what she took as a real gesture of concern. Then he asked casually, “How was your trip?”
“Interesting. Did André tell you what we found?”
He frowned slightly. “No. Should he have?”
She lowered her voice further, even though no one was sitting near them. “I have no idea what your chain of command is. We found sarin. A lot of it. With Arabic labels. In a bunker.”
Charlie went still and visibly paled before her eyes. He leaned forward to mutter low, “What proof is there?”
“None. We lost it on the way out. But we have pictures of victims and the barrels it’s stored in. A whole bunker full of barrels, by the way. And Alex examined dozens of dead victims.”
“And you told Fortinay about this?”
“Yes. We told him nearly a week ago.”
Charlie’s gaze went hard and angry. So. André, or André’s boss, had kept that little bombshell under wraps, huh? Maybe they were waiting for the proof to come out of Cuba before they blew the lid off it. Or maybe the White House was using the time to prepare for the coming showdown with Cuba and big brother Russia. It was all way, way above her pay grade.
“Where’s Alex now?”
“Safe house.”
“Any idea at all who might have shot you?”
“None. I’m a kindergarten teacher, Uncle Charlie. I thought you might know.”
His eyes, so like her mother’s, were troubled.
Katie leaned forward across the tiny bistro table. “What can you tell me about something called Cold Intent?”
“Where on earth did you hear that?” he blurted.
“I read it. Alex doodled the words.”
“Katie-kins, I’m urging you in the strongest possible terms to drop that line of inquiry. Do you hear me?”
“Y-yeah, sure,” she stammered. “Consider it dropped.”
Charlie exhaled in relief.
“Can I ask about Alex’s mother and if you’ve turned up anything on her?”
Charlie’s shoulders went rigid once more and he painted on a ghastly imitation of a smile. Whoa. What was up with Alex’s mother that had him so freaked out?
He spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear him. “Claudia Kane. That was her name. She was American.”
“Was? Is she dead?”
“Her file is closed.”
God, she wished she knew how to interpret that. If only Alex were here to dig through the innuendo and doublespeak. She made careful note of Charlie’s body language to describe to Alex later. Her uncle swallowed convulsively and wiggled an uncomfortable shoulder.
“How did she get to Moscow to meet Peter? Was she one of yours? Surely, she was. Civilian Americans didn’t get into Russia easily at that time.”
“Leave it alone, Katie.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking you to.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not enough. Alex is falling apart, and he needs answers.”
“Falling apart?” Charlie echoed in quick alarm.
She sighed. “Something happened to him at Gitmo. He was drugged, and he’s been a little crazy ever since.”
“What did they give him?” Charlie demanded.
“I don’t know. The syringes I saw were filled with a pale yellow serum.”
Her uncle frowned. “I’ve seen all the standard interrogation meds. Scopolamine and the other standard medications are colorless. Describe how he’s crazy? Is he violent? Psychotic?”
“Nooo,” she answered slowly. “I’d describe him as paranoid. Defensive. Angry. Maybe even a little schizophrenic.”
“Those are not typical symptoms of truth serums. They’re designed to lower inhibitions, not raise false ones. Sounds like they hit him with a mind-altering substance of some kind.”
“They who?” she demanded low and urgent. “And why?”
Charlie opened his mouth to answer. Snapped it shut. He knew. But he wasn’t going to tell her.
“Can you at least tell me how long the effects will last?” she pleaded.
“Stuff like that usually runs its course in about a week. Maybe two at the outside. Of course, it’s possible for residual effects to persist for years or permanently.”
“Don’t tell me that,” she groaned under her breath.
He shrugged apologetically.
“What more can you tell me about his mother, this Claudia Kane?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes were wary. Guarded. He so knew more about Alex’s mother than he was telling her. The woman was a CIA operative, or else her uncle was the tooth fairy.
“Was she a sparrow? Was she sent to Moscow to seduce Peter, or was that an unplanned side excursion in her mission?”
“You know I can’t answer that, Katie.”
But his gaze had flickered down and to the left evasively. She’d guessed correctly. Claudia had been a sparrow—an agent who used sex to compromise targets and to gather intelligence via pillow talk.
Charlie lifted his gaze, spearing her with an intense stare. “I’m telling you. Leave it alone, Katie. You have no idea who or what you’re messing with.”
She frowned, staring back questioningly. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d just warned her off more than Alex’s mother. He’d warned her off all of it.
He gathered his hat and newspaper. “You’ll send me those pictures, yes?”
That was an abrupt shift of topic. “Yes. Of course,” she mumbled.
“We’ll have to do this more often. It’s delightful to see you again, Katie-kins.” He startled her by leaning down to kiss her cheek affectionately.
“Be careful or people will think you’re having an affair with a younger woman,” she muttered.
He chuckled, put on his hat and turned to leave.
She stayed a few more minutes, finishing her coffee so it didn’t look like they’d just come in here for an information trade. She’d picked up a few things from Alex, after all.
*
THE MAN IN the corner of the café with his nose buried in the business news glanced up briefly as Katie finally left the café and hurried away. He pulled out his cell phone and placed a phone call.
“Tell Reggie he missed last night.” And knowing the sniper, the guy was going to get right tweaked about it, too.
The voice on the other end betrayed no hint of dismay, or any emotion at all, for that matter. “That’s a shame. Where’s the target now?”
“Moving east from here. On foot.”
“Roger. Will acquire the target momentarily. No need to follow.”
“Great,” the man replied brightly. Frankly, he was surprised he wasn’t receiving orders to follow the girl and clean up Reggie’s mistake.
“Come in now. We need to revise the strategy.”
“Ya think?” he retorted jokingly. “Okay, I’m outta here. I’ll see you in a few.” He picked up his gym bag. A metallic clank and its unusual weight were the only hint as to i
ts lethal contents.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ALEX WAS FURIOUS. He’d risked his damn neck to save Katie and she’d pulled a runner on him? Her note notwithstanding, he had no faith she’d return.
He was so done with her. He was done with all of them and their damned head games. His computer beeped to indicate incoming email, and he opened the first one of two that caught his attention. It was a file from Blondie. She must have sent it before she died. It had a gigantic attachment. Had she sent him... He opened the email that went with it eagerly.
Cold Intent is some serious shit, dude. I think you need this hacking algorithm more than I do. You’re gonna have to dig all the way to the bottom of the CIA cesspool to find what you’re looking for. I got too spooked at what I was finding to keep going and backed out. Sorry, but you’re gonna have to finish this research project on your own.
Swearing under his breath, he opened the second message, from C¥berE¥e, and decrypted it impatiently.
It was short. You want me to sit on what you sent me? Are you shitting me? It’s not dynamite. It’s a fucking nuclear bomb.
He sat down to type and encrypt his reply.
Our deal remains in place. If you don’t hear from me for a week, send everything to every major newspaper on the planet. I’m sorry to drag you into this, but I needed somewhere fast and secure to send the data. I only need you to sit on it a few more days, until I don’t need a dead man’s switch anymore. Then you can destroy it all.
He hit the send button and leaned back, frowning at the blank screen. He ought to destroy the flash drive and its evidence of chemical weapons in Cuba right now. If it fell into American hands, a global crisis on the scale of the Cuban Missile Crisis would explode. And personally, he had little faith in today’s politicians to get a solution right like Kennedy and Khrushchev had.
He stood up to go tear apart the flash drive and flush its pieces, but the doorknob rattled and he whirled and pulled his pistol instead. He waited tautly, his finger starting to squeeze through the trigger.
“Alex? It’s me. Let me in.”
Swearing under his breath, he moved to the door and threw the lock. He stepped off to one side, pistol at the ready in case she was not alone and being coerced.