Squelching his disappointment, Lucas pondered all the conceivable ways to make Dwyer look bad. Maybe there was more than one way to skin a cat.
“All right.” Jaguar had too much at stake for them to turn Fitz down. “We’ll agree to your terms on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“We want Lieutenant Mills restored to active duty once Dwyer is gone. Aside from a few missing memories, there’s nothing wrong with him. Any one of us would follow him into an assault.”
Fitz rubbed his medallion as he contemplated the request. “That’s not something I can do myself, but I might be able to nudge the right people.”
Lucas glanced at Saul and got another slight nod. “All right,” he agreed. “We have a deal. We’ll retrieve Patterson and protect her for as long as you need us to.”
“Deal,” Fitz confirmed. “Have a look at the files on the drive and contact me with any questions.” Plucking two business cards from a tray on his desk, he handed one to each of them.
Lucas and Saul stood up, pocketing the cards.
“Unless I hear from you otherwise, I’ll see you at the airfield at 8 p.m. tomorrow.” Fitz put a hand out.
Returning the agent’s firm grip, Lucas hoped Fitz was an honorable man. He’d certainly done commendable work, given the plaques on his wall. But was he guided, like Lucas was, by higher principles? Or were his actions dictated solely by the laws of men?
Foxes were sly and cunning, but were they really trustworthy? Lucas figured he would find out in the end.
Chapter 2
Charlotte lurched from the clutches of a too-familiar dream. Sitting up in the bed she’d come to abhor, in the room that had been her prison for nearly a week, she found herself clammy, her heart racing. If she lay down again, she would fall right back into her recurring nightmare.
She couldn’t understand why she dreamed she was in the plane with her parents when it crashed. The accident that had taken their lives three years earlier haunted her still, even though the longest, loneliest years of her life had occurred since then. With shaky fingers, she brushed the hair from her damp face and looked around.
Moonlight melted through the slats of her shuttered window, informing her of the lateness of the hour. Over the roar of waves outside, Charlotte heard a noise that pushed her unpleasant dream aside and brought her more widely awake.
There were footsteps in the hallway.
Holding her breath to listen, she recognized the plodding footfalls of her host. The day she’d regained consciousness, he’d dropped by to chat, introducing himself as Roger Holden. Middle-aged with a face and body that betrayed a sedentary lifestyle, he hadn’t struck her as particularly threatening.
“Why am I here?” she’d demanded immediately.
“I’m protecting you until it’s safe for you to go home.” The gold watch at his wrist paired with his quality clothing screamed of wealth. He spoke with urbanity and a touch of condescension, as if she ought to be grateful for his putting a roof over her head.
She had gathered from Holden’s words that he was somehow connected to Dwyer, or perhaps The Entity itself for whom Dwyer acquired weapons. She’d also concluded that The Entity knew about her photographic memory. Having seized her supervisor’s iPad, all the evidence of Dwyer’s activities was now gone, except for what she might possibly reconstruct by reviewing the files stored temporarily in her head. But why not just kill her as they’d killed her supervisor, Lloyd Elwood? It made no sense why they would keep her alive until her memories faded—and then what? Just let her go?
Either way, unless Holden gave her paper and a pen with which to record what she remembered, Elwood’s findings would fade from her mind in just a few more days.
“I’d like some items to help me pass the time,” she’d told Holden. “Could I have some books, plus a pen and paper? I’d also like a pair of shoes.”
Holden had returned the following day, bringing books and a change of clothing.
“What about a pen and paper and a pair of shoes?” she’d reminded him.
“You won’t need those for a while. Go ahead and sulk,” he’d told her when she had glowered at him. You’ll thank me for protecting you one day.
Not likely, she’d thought.
Nor was it likely he was bringing her what she’d requested at this time of night. Whatever his intentions, they could not be honorable.
As was his custom, he knocked first. Regardless of her silence, the lock gave way with his electronic key, and the door swung open. Lighting in the hall cast his portly silhouette into relief, including the pistol he wore holstered under his left arm.
She’d contemplated how she was going to relieve him of that pistol when the time came, but not until she had a pair of shoes to wear. She might be impulsive, but she wasn’t stupid. Escaping wouldn’t be easy, given the shift rotations of the guards, made more obvious by the motion-activated spotlights placed throughout the yard.
Like those spotlights, her lamp came on suddenly, revealing a bottle of wine and two glasses clasped in Holden’s pudgy hands.
“Are you all right?” he asked with seeming concern. “I thought I heard you scream.”
She might have cried out in her nightmare without realizing. “I’m fine.”
“Still sulking?” With a tolerant smile, he stepped into the room, and the door locked automatically behind him. When he left, he would fish the electronic key from his breast pocket and let himself out again. She’d been watching.
The slight slurring of his speech paired with the half-empty bottle of wine set off an alarm in Charlotte’s head.
He’s drunk, she thought with wariness. Then she realized what an edge that gave her.
He’s drunk!
Despite his advantage in size, inebriation was bound to slow him down. He didn’t look like a man who worked out often. She, on the other hand, was going to CIA training camp as soon as her brother landed a job out of college. Having known since adolescence what she wanted to do with her life, she had studied martial arts from a very early age. She could easily debilitate Holden, grab the gun, let herself out and…then what? She had yet to plan an exit strategy that wouldn’t get her caught.
Her heart pounded as he approached her. Glancing at his shoes, she gauged whether his Ferragamo slip-ons might just fit her. Not unless her feet grew several sizes, she surmised.
“Thought you might like to have a drink with me,” he stated. “Get to know me better.”
She considered the offer, deciding she might as well see what happened. “All right.”
Looking pleased, he promptly poured them both a glass and put the bottle on her table.
“To your future,” he said, handing her the second goblet.
She refused to toast to that but lifted the glass to her lips and pretended to sip.
The mattress dipped as Roger sat next to her, close enough that she was assaulted by his overpowering cologne. He proceeded to talk about himself—how he’d been a Texas senator once, how many famous friends he had. As he talked, Charlotte asked herself if she should seize the opportunity presented or wait until she had a plan.
Flying by the seat of her pants was her usual modus operandi.
“Who sent me here?” If she made it home again, she wanted to know who to thank.
Roger frowned at the question. “Tha’s not up for discushin,” he retorted. Standing up, he turned his back on her to pour himself another glass.
His condescending tone helped Charlotte make her mind up. She was escaping tonight.
Now, in fact.
Springing off the bed, she snatched the pistol from its holster. Startled by her actions, Roger dropped his goblet as he spun around. It shattered as it hit the wooden floor, spraying wine and scattering shards of glass in all directions.
She released the pistol’s safety as she backed up. The familiar weight of the gun lent her courage as she aimed it at his heart. She’d trained herself to be an excellent marksman.
His surprise faded, giving way to a strange smile. “Do you really think that’s loaded?” he taunted, sounding alarmingly sober.
Roger’s lack of fear suggested he was telling the truth. He stepped closer, bits of glass crunching under the soles of his shoes.
“Is this any way to treat your host?” he chided. She got the impression he was enjoying himself.
“Let me leave,” she demanded, backing up, “and I won’t hurt you.”
His only response was to chuckle. All at once, he lunged at her. Charlotte squeezed the trigger automatically. The hollow-sounding click that reached her ears had her throwing the useless weapon at him. He flinched but kept on coming.
Charlotte met his attack with a block, driving her knee simultaneously into his belly.
Her thrust doubled him over. She followed it with a spinning roundhouse kick that sent him sprawling across the wine-stained floor. His head struck the wall with an ugly thud, yet he didn’t lose consciousness.
Charlotte kicked again while he was still on his back, but he grabbed her ankle and jerked, causing her to topple backward. She landed on her elbows. Bits of glass sank into her forearms, yet she scarcely felt their sting, too angry at herself for her rookie mistake.
As Holden rolled, coming up and over her, Charlotte reacted quickly, wrapping her long legs around his head and under his left armpit, putting him promptly into a figure-four stranglehold. Hooking her right foot under her straight left leg, she squeezed hard, cutting off his oxygen.
With mixed repugnance and fascination, she watched his eyes widen at the extent of her training. He thrashed and struck her with his free hand but could not get away. As his eyes began to bulge, he groped for the jagged stem of his wine glass, thankfully just out of reach of his straining fingers.
Timing was everything. Charlotte had no intention of killing him. Feeling his chest convulse with the need for air, it took everything in her not to free him. Once he lost consciousness, she would let him breathe again. Her thighs began to burn as she continued squeezing.
Finally, when it seemed he would never go under, his lids sank shut and he slumped, completely limp.
Charlotte relaxed her muscles slowly, ready to tense them again should he be faking. When he didn’t move, she let go and squirmed out from under him.
Now what?
Take his key and run, Charlotte.
The advice was uttered by such a familiar and audible voice she looked around, half-expecting to see her mother standing behind her.
Disconcerted by her hallucination but all too willing to comply, Charlotte dipped her fingers into Holden’s breast pocket and nabbed the flat key. Then she pushed to her feet and, skirting the broken glass, let herself out of the room, cutting out the lights as she went and locking the door behind her.
She found herself in a hall she couldn’t remember ever seeing before. Electric wall sconces lit several other doors just like hers. She supposed they housed the unending stream of guests she’d seen coming and going in the week she’d been lucid.
At the top of the stairs, she stifled a gasp and shrank back at the sight of two armed guards climbing the steps in her direction. Spinning away before they noticed her, she sprinted down the hall in search of another exit. A fearful backward glance showed the tops of the guards’ heads about to crest the landing. Using the key she still clasped, she unlocked the closest door and slipped through, finding herself, miraculously, in a servants’ stairwell.
The old wooden treads creaked beneath her feet as she raced down them. The room below appeared to be a pantry with countertops for plating food. She crossed to the only door, lifted the latch, and cracked it open. To her amazement, she had found an unguarded exit.
Easing into a dark, humid yard, Charlotte’s gaze went straight to a light shining in what had to be an outdoor kitchen. The buzzing of insects masked her footfalls as she raced toward it, searching for the outer wall enclosing Holden’s compound.
Over the pounding of her heart came the sound of running water and the clanking of pans. Hugging sandstone, Charlotte rounded the building, and there loomed the outer wall, fifty yards or so away. Palm fronds draped over it, preventing her from guessing how high it was or whether she could even climb over.
All at once, the cry she’d been dreading came from her second-story window at the front of the house. “Guards! Find my guest and get me out of here. She’s getting away!”
A commotion at the gatehouse meant the guards were scrambling to block her escape.
It’s now or never, Charlotte realized. Bolting from her hiding spot, she sprinted for the wall, flinching as her movements triggered motion-detecting spotlights. Several more blinked on, revealing her mad dash.
“There she is!” a man shouted some distance away. “Stop!”
Ignoring the order, Charlotte ran full tilt at the wall. Leaping up, all she managed to grab hold of was a slippery frond. The top of the enclosure stood well beyond her grasp.
Bullets peppered the wall next to her—a deterrent, she realized, quelling her panic. They weren’t trying to kill her. Guessing she still had time, Charlotte seized the frond like a rope. She would use it to climb higher. She pulled with her arms, scrabbling with her toes to assist her ascent.
By then, the guard was almost on top of her. Any second, he would grab her and pull her down.
Suddenly, a shadow blocked the moonlight. Something closed around her wrist—a huge hand, she realized—and it hauled her upward. In the same instant, a silenced weapon discharged with a hiss, and she heard the guard below her spill onto the grass with a grunt of surprise.
Charlotte found herself sitting atop the wall, gaping at two dark figures crouched on either side of her. Black faces, slick caps, and clothing resembling diving suits made them nearly invisible. In the blink of an eye, one of them disappeared, springing silently to the ground.
“Charlotte Patterson?” whispered the one still gripping her.
“Yes, who are—?”
But he was lowering her into the arms of the first man before she’d finished. Then he joined them. One minute, Charlotte was gaping up at him, the next she was hanging over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. She squawked in protest.
“Quiet,” the commando ordered before breaking into a run.
His shoulder pummeled her abdomen painfully.
“I-can-run-on-my-own,” she protested, trying to draw breath.
“Not without shoes you can’t.” He was moving fast, and she had to appreciate that fact because Roger Holden was now bellowing out of the window, waking everyone on his property with his demands to recapture her.
To keep from swinging like a ragdoll, Charlotte grabbed her rescuer’s webbed belt and hung on tightly. In the forest of palm trees, she could see nothing, but he apparently could.
With lightning speed and the grace of a superior athlete, he headed straight toward the water. Suddenly, a beam of light strafed the treetops. Perhaps a beacon for ships, it was being used to hunt her.
But she wasn’t afraid. The man beneath her moved with absolute confidence. There were several weapons, a pistol and a Gerber blade strapped to his belt. He and his companion knew what they were doing. Already they had reached the surf and were jogging parallel to the water, covering ground fast.
From her upside-down perspective, Charlotte noted the moonlight dancing on the waves. Craning her neck, she spied a sickle-shaped beach. They weaved through an outcropping of rocks before her rescuer abruptly stopped and tipped her into warm, ankle-deep water.
As the blood drained from her head, his companion pushed a rigid inflatable boat into the water and held it for them.
She was picked up like a baby this time and dumped in the middle of the boat, on the rubbery floor.
“Sit here,” her hero instructed, before climbing in to sit at the prow. His partner rolled in behind them, started the motor, and shot them out of the cove and into deeper water. Charlotte
grabbed the closest straps and held on for dear life. Warm seawater sprayed her face as she watched the big searchlight swing in their direction.
Their small, speedy boat veered away from it. Up and over dark waves they flew, soaring and falling. Marveling at her miraculous escape and the timeliness of the men who’d saved her, Charlotte’s fear of being caught subsided.
I did it! she marveled. I actually got away. The memory of her mother’s voice raised goosebumps on her wet skin.
The island was a wavering light in the distance when the motor of their boat died without warning. They slid across the swells to a standstill where, aside from water sloshing the rubber sides, all was quiet until her rescuer flipped a switch on a transmitter. As he spouted code-speak to request a pickup, Charlotte guessed the men were with the US military.
The reply they got was distinctly civilian in nature, however. “Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be done so soon. I’m fishin’ for giant snappers ’bout twenty minutes away. Be there as soon as I can.”
With an impatient, “Out,” her rescuer put the radio away.
Charlotte pried her fingers from the straps to which she’d been clinging. “Th-thank you,” she said, shuddering with belated shock.
The commando slipped from his seat and joined her on the floor. The boat bounced with his movements.
“Are you hurt?” Large but gentle hands swept over her wet clothing.
She winced where the glass from Holden’s goblet had cut her forearms. “Nothing serious.” Her teeth began to chatter.
“Saul, toss me a blanket,” her hero requested, and his partner tossed him a rolled object. He shook it open and draped it over her shoulders. Grateful, Charlotte gathered the crinkly material closer.
Light-colored eyes pierced the darkness. “What happened back there?” he asked.
Detecting some level of annoyance in the question, Charlotte stiffened. “Um…I was trying to escape.”
“Did you have help?” This time he sounded suspicious.
“No.”
“You got that far on your own?” He sounded dubious.
Every Secret Thing Page 3