Lady Liberty

by Vicki Hinze

  “No, I’m not in the mood for an inquisition. You tell her we’ve been in the swamp for a couple days, and she’s going to nag you to death with questions.”

  Did Gabby pull her matchmaker-from-hell routine on him, too? Wishing she knew exactly what he meant, she wrinkled her nose at him. “I don’t get nagged. I’m the veep. Too many secrets.”

  “Right.”

  Sybil smiled at his sarcasm. Nothing so mundane as her position would keep Gabby from nagging or plying her with questions. “Can I give her a message from you?”

  He thought a moment. “Tell her I’m breathing and she owes me fifty.”

  “You made a fifty-dollar bet with her?”

  “I won.” He smiled. “That’ll drive her nuts.”

  “I’m going to have to work on you to be nice to my friend.”

  “I started being nice to her because she was your friend,” he countered. “But Gabby grows on you.”

  “So does bacteria, but that doesn’t mean you like it.”

  “I like her.” He looked from the doorway back to Sybil. “She loves you.”

  “It’s mutual. She’s been an important person in my life. My best friend.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So who should I remind you to call so they can hear your voice and know you’re okay?”

  “No one.” He looked away, studied the ceiling. “With the job, I don’t have much time to develop friendships.”

  No one? He had no one? “Crazy hours, huh?”

  “Bitchy bosses.”

  He was teasing her. “Those, too.” And he was trying to change the subject. Jonathan did that a lot, whenever she got too close to the bone of something he didn’t want to look at up close. “I’m sorry you haven’t had a Gabby in your life.”

  “Me, too.” He looked vulnerable, hurt, and he trusted her enough to risk letting her see it.

  Taking a leap of faith, she walked back to him, lifted a hand to his forearm. “I’ll be your friend, Jonathan.”

  He stared at her a long moment, looking torn between opening up and totally shutting down, and then he sighed. “I’d be the luckiest man alive if it were that easy, Sybil.”

  The hallway light shone on his face. He dipped his chin to look at her, casting shadows on the wall, on her, and she had the strangest feeling that he had loved long and hard and the woman had never known it. Could anyone really be loved like that and not know it?

  Maybe, but it wasn’t going to be her. She was going to risk the fall and settle this woman versus the veep debate inside her head. “But it’s not that easy between us, is it?”

  He hesitated, closed his eyes, then opened them and looked down at her with regret. “No, it’s not. It never has been, and it never will be.”

  Was that why he had left her detail? Because he cared for her and felt he shouldn’t? It was possible; she had been his married boss. She wanted to know but couldn’t ask him. Not now, not yet. She needed a better grip on their relationship, and he needed to overcome some of the pain in his eyes. “I’d want to know you were okay” She moved closer, lifted her arms, and then hugged him hard. His arms wrapped around her and he sighed against her neck. A long moment later, she screwed up her courage and admitted the truth. “Actually, I’d need to hear your voice, Jonathan.”

  He lifted her chin and met her gaze, trailed a fingertip along the line of her jaw, then dropped a kiss to her forehead. “Me, too.”

  Swallowing hard, he backed away, shutting her out as clearly as if he had stepped behind a wall. “You’d better get moving. We need to get back. Your feet need medical attention.”

  “Later. For God’s sake, Westford. You don’t say, wait, hold the crisis while I tend to my feet.” We’re not in the swamp anymore. “Give me twenty minutes,” she said, then wound through the house to her bedroom.

  Two minutes later she stood in the shower, swallowing rapidly again and again. He couldn’t see them being friends and he’d kissed on the forehead, not the mouth, so he didn’t want more than friendship, either. She was important to him, but what exactly did that mean? They weren’t in the swamp anymore. So he wanted to back off from her now? So the near-death trauma had worn off and he’d gotten his needed dose of affirmation of life?

  Whatever his reasons, she should be grateful. Relationships were messy. One between them would make their lives even more complicated. He was being wiser about this; thinking with his head, not his heart. But she didn’t feel grateful or relieved. She felt… hollow.

  She lifted her face to the stream of water and tried to imagine what it would be like to be loved by him, but even with her hormones running amuck, she couldn’t imagine it. That was just as well, considering. He’d been pretty clear that he didn’t want to imagine it.

  But she did. And she knew she would.

  Resentment burned in her stomach. Fear joined it. The last time she dared to love a man she ended up lied to, married to him, lied to again, deceived and betrayed and humiliated, and it still wasn’t over.

  You ended up called on the carpet and blessed out by the likes of Cap Marlowe, for God’s sake. He called you a corrupt fraud, and you had no idea what he was even talking about. Wouldn’t he be pleased to know he had actually caused your divorce? Wouldn’t he just love it?

  She snagged a bar of soap and scrubbed her arms, wishing she could wash away those memories and that the water would stop stinging her cuts and scratches. That confrontation with Cap Marlowe wasn’t one she would ever forget. But living through it once was bad enough. She didn’t want to relive it again and again.

  After rinsing, she soaped again and wondered how long it would take to get the smells of the swamp out of her pores. Jonathan had been right to apply the brakes. He’d go on to another detail, and she’d go on with her work. It didn’t feel great, but it was for the best. She had a promise to keep.

  Rinsing off the last of the soap, she watched the water swirl clear at what was left of her feet. The only parts of them that weren’t bruised were cut and now bleeding.

  Damn it, she missed him already.

  Her heart wrenched, and, for the first time, she admitted without fear or regret that her work wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted to care for and to feel cared for by someone special who shared her life. She wanted to know that if she died, one man—-just one man—would mourn. Was that asking too much?

  Oh, God. You’re in serious trouble here. This doesn’t sound like swamp fever.

  Wrapping a thick, fluffy towel around her, she walked through to her bedroom. But even its soft peach and green decor failed to soothe her. Flustered, she picked up the phone and then flung herself across the bed and called Gabby.

  Some things never change.

  Gabby answered, sounding so sad that a lump slid into Sybil’s throat. “Hi,” she said. “It’s me.”

  “Oh, God, it’s true!” Gabby said in a shaky rush. “I knew you couldn’t be dead. I would have felt it, and I didn’t. I told Lisa it wasn’t possible, but she thought I was nuts.”

  Gabby had mourned, and her clerk, Lisa, had tried to help her through it. “Has she been threatening to lace your coffee with Prozac again?”

  “Prozac, Xanax, you name it. If she doesn’t straighten out, one of these days I’m really going to fire her.”

  Maybe when hell froze over. Gabby and Lisa were close, not that it stopped either of them from making threats. “Uh-huh. Then you’ll be bitchy for six months because you won’t be able to find anything.” Lisa had her own rendition of job security. Even the FBI had failed to break the code on her bizarre retrieval system. “Remember last year when she had emergency surgery? You were nagging her for the location of files in the damn recovery room.”

  “True.” Gabby’s sigh crackled static through the phone. “You should have stayed dead until this challenge is over. What’s Westford thinking?”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it.”

  “Why the White House? Someone caught your chopper landing on film. The word is you’re
okay, but you don’t sound okay, so are you? Before you answer that, remember who you’re talking to here.”

  “I really am fine—bruised and scraped from head to toe, and in a helluva hurry at the moment—but fine.”

  “Tough. Let whatever it is wait. Indulge me for a few minutes. Your death was devastating, Sybil. God, I was pissed at you for dying on me—and, for the record, you’re a lousy liar. You’re not fine.”

  “Go easy on me, okay?” Sybil checked the clock. She had ten minutes, but after Gabby’s comments, Sybil couldn’t not linger a minute or two. Gabby needed the idea of Sybil being alive to really soak in and become real to her. “It’s been a wicked week and I’m in denial.”

  “Oh, hell. This is serious. You’ve only been in denial once since we got drunk and went skinny-dipping in old man Morris’s pond, and then you ended up marrying Mr. Snip It.” Gabby groaned. “Spill it. I want details.”

  “The short version is Jonathan went with me on this trip, I fell in love with him, and I don’t want to love him or anyone else. I can’t ride that emotional roller coaster again, Gabby”

  “Are you afraid you’ll be riding it alone?”

  “That’s only part of it.” Sybil stared at the bottles of colognes on her dresser. “This past year—since the divorce—has been the best year of my life.”

  “It’s been the safest year of your life, not the best one. You haven’t had to take any personal, emotional risks.”

  “Whatever,” Sybil shot back. “I liked it. I want to feel that way again. I have enough trouble here without—” Laughter crackled in her ear and she paused to regroup. “Gabby. What is so damn funny?”

  “You. Sybil, you’ve been on the Hill too long. You’re trying to legislate your heart.”

  Sybil let out a sigh deep enough to rattle windows. “I’m scared spitless, you heartless bitch. Show me a little empathy, even if you have to fake it.”

  “I know you’re scared.” All traces of humor left Gabby’s voice. “Mr. Snip It did a real number on you. But Jonathan isn’t like that lowlife weasel, and you can handle whatever you have to handle. You used to know that. Frankly, this promise you made David about men is turning you into one weird woman, Sybil.”

  Feeling weird, and not at all sure she could handle this love business, she glanced at the clock. “I’m out of time. Jonathan said to say hi and that you owe him fifty dollars.”

  “Damn.” Gabby’s sigh crackled static through the phone. “Tell him the check’s in the mail.”

  “What’s this bet about?” Sybil rifled through her closet, looking for shoes, though the thought of putting them on her tender feet made her sick to her stomach.

  “You on a secure phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “He bet there’d be a terrorist attack in Switzerland. I bet it would happen after you got back to the States.”

  It appeared they both had been right. “Hold that check.” None of her shoes fit. Her feet were too swollen. She snagged her sneakers as a last option before slippers.

  “One last bit of advice.” Gabby’s voice went serious. “You’ve never been a coward. Don’t start now. Tell Jonathan the truth. Trust him.” Gabby cleared her throat to signal the matter was officially closed. “And tell me one more time you’re really okay. You being in denial makes it hard to believe.”

  Trust. The one thing hardest for her to give. “I’m fine.

  Honest. My feet took a serious hit—just with bruises and cuts—and my ribs ache like hell, but otherwise, I really am all right.”

  “One more question. Have you slept with him?”

  “Gabby. That’s none of your business.”

  “Have you?”

  Sybil glared at the ceiling. “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  Frowning at the receiver, she let out a huff she meant for Gabby to hear. “That’s your second question, and I’m not answering it, either.”

  “God, you’re a prude. I’m not pleading Westford’s case, but consider it, Sybil. He’s gorgeous, and he has a body to die for. If he’s as good at sex as he is at everything else—”

  “I’m hanging up now,” Sybil said in a singsong voice. She cradled the receiver to the sounds of Gabby’s laughter.

  Westford as a lover. That was enough to conjure a batch of raw nerves. She hadn’t been with a man since Austin. What if she’d forgotten how to—no, no. This was definitely not the time to think about this.

  Thanks to Mr. Snip It, there might not be a later time…

  Sybil shot the clock a pleading look. Nearly two-thirty Nine and a half hours until impact. She sent up a quick prayer that she would be all right one minute after midnight, too.

  And once again her thoughts zeroed in on the crisis. Austin, what have you done? What have you done?

  First-Strike Launch: 09:31:03

  Austin Stone couldn’t get over it.

  Faust had routinely masterminded the most devastating terrorist attacks on the planet and yet he had failed to kill one unarmed woman—even after he had eliminated her plane and her people, and had isolated her with no resources.

  Sitting behind a computer desk in a spartan A-267 office, Austin glared at the white walls and floors. Not only was Sybil alive, she had ordered Commander Conlee to make Austin part of the crisis-intervention team. How the hell was he supposed to leave D.C. before the launch when he was restricted to the building?

  Oh, Conlee hadn’t told Austin he couldn’t leave, but he had no illusions. If he tried, Conlee would stop him. Would he place him under formal arrest?

  Don’t panic, Austin. Without a resolution to the DNA mystery, they have no evidence. Without Sybil, they have no resolution. So she’s not dead. So what? Just discredit her. A whacked hornet’s nest creates a swarm, and swarming hornets sting.

  “We appreciate your helping us with this, Dr. Stone.” Conlee stood near the door and sipped from a can of cola, holding an unlit stub of a smelly cigar between his fingers.

  “Certainly” Austin peeled his lips from his teeth and forced himself to smile. “I’m glad you asked. I resent anyone corrupting my designs.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Conlee nodded, then returned to the outer rim.

  Dozens of engineers in offices all along the corridor were hacking through the complex computer system, looking for a way to stop the countdown. But they wouldn’t find one, and neither would Austin. What he would find was a way to get out of this hangar. His plane left at eight, and he intended to be on it.

  A swarm would scatter their focus. He could let them find Mendoza’s body, he supposed. The man had had to die, of course. Recruited to assist Austin, he had known too much to not be a threat. But verifying his death wouldn’t create a diversion substantial enough to allow Austin to get out of A-267. It was the right time, he supposed, to whack the hornet’s nest. While everyone was dodging the swarm and being stung, he could escape.

  He reached for the phone, carefully debating his words. Home Base would be listening to his every word.

  Patrice answered on the second ring. “Dr. Stone’s office.”

  “I’m going to be tied up a while. There’s a stack of correspondence on my desk that needs to go out today” It wasn’t necessary to get specific. The brown envelopes were the only things he had left on his desk. Everything else had already been shipped to what would become his new home and country. PUSH had been extremely accommodating. Patrice would know to contact Ground Serve and have the envelopes delivered.

  “I’ll take care of it now, sir.”

  “Thank you. And you might as well take the rest of the weekend off. Looks as if I’m going to be busy here for at least that long.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Stone. I’ll see you on Monday”

  On Monday she would be dead. “Be prepared to stay late. We’ll have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Austin hung up the phone. Sam Sayelle would get a jump on the others. Austin’s instructions to Ground Serve ha
d been explicit on that. Sayelle would break the story of Sybil’s treason, and, in a matter of minutes, it would be a hot topic on every network. With her credibility shot, her orders would fail, and Austin would be free to move at will.

  He hoped it happened before the bitch realized that only she held the key to the DNA mystery.

  Sybil couldn’t believe it. Mere minutes, and already West-ford was rushing her.

  She grabbed the ringing phone from the bathroom vanity, returned to her perch on the side of the tub, then crooked the receiver between her shoulder and ear and returned to doctoring her feet. “I’m hurrying, Jonathan. I can’t get the damn Band-Aids to stick. I put Neosporin on the cuts, and now the bandages just won’t stay put. How did you make them work?”

  “Put the sticky part where there is no salve.”

  It wasn’t Jonathan.

  Oh, damn. Heat rushed up her neck, flooded her face. “David?”

  He let out a little chuckle. “Hi. Sorry to interrupt your first-aid session, but we need to touch base, and I’ve only got a second. I’m still in teleconferences, soothing tempers at the UN, but I wanted to make sure Barber had briefed you on this treason rumor.”

  “Yes, he did.” She sat up and rubbed at her forehead with her fingertips. A dull pain throbbed in her temples. “I guess I should explain.”

  “I know you haven’t committed treason.”

  “No, I haven’t.” It took a pretty paranoid bastard to perceive Gil or what went on at the Wall as a threat, and Sayelle should know she wasn’t stupid enough to commit treason right under the Secret Service’s collective noses. The notion was ridiculous.

  “You can explain later. Right now, Pakistan is on the line. Hang with this domestically, Sybil. Every leader in the world is outraged and gnawing on my ass. I’m counting on you to make things right at home.”