by L. T. Ryan
Table of Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Other Books by L.T. Ryan
Table of Contents
Beyond Betrayal
(Clarissa Abbot)
L.T. Ryan
http://LTRyan.com
[email protected]
@LTRyanWrites
PUBLISHED BY:
L.T. Ryan
Copyright © 2013
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
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Other Books by L.T. Ryan
Other Books Featuring Clarissa Abbot
Noble Intentions Season One
Noble Intentions Season Two
Noble Intentions Season Three
In memory of Nick Reider.
One of the greatest men I ever knew. One of the best friends I ever had.
Dedicated to his wife, Lyne, and their five children.
Believe in miracles.
Always.
Chapter 1
General Edward Lawrence Logan International Airport. Logan International for short. Adjacent to East Boston and the Boston Harbor. Six runways, and over one hundred gates divided among four terminals. All located on twenty four hundred acres.
Nearly thirty million people pass through those gates each year. Business, pleasure, returning home, going home, and some who fly for the hell of it because they can.
Clarissa Abbot, one of those thirty million passengers, had no choice in the matter. She departed the 777, proceeded through the hot and humid jetway, and walked out into the open gate adorned with blue and white striped seats, and manned by three disinterested airline employees, because Sinclair, her boss, told her to do so.
Or suffer consequences that would induce words such as ‘fatal,’ ‘dismemberment,’ and ‘never to be found again.’
Sinclair hadn’t told her who would carry out the acts. She had no reason to ask. Clarissa knew. They had people in their employ who could do such things without batting an eye, and without leaving a shred of evidence behind. These were the kind of men who didn’t care who it was they were terminating. They lived for their jobs. They got antsy when they went too long without cleaning a scene or ridding the world of a bad seed.
Is that what she had become?
In both her heart and her head, she didn’t think so. Clarissa had done everything she’d been asked. Relationships that meant the world to her at one time were now fading memories, like a paper boat placed on the water as the tide receded. Whether those relationships drifted away or sunk into the abyss, she had no idea, and it did not matter.
Neither did her last assignment. Forget it now, Clarissa. Those had been Sinclair’s final words to her while she worked frantically to eliminate evidence in her room in London. Clarissa destroyed all her belongings, including her cell phone and laptop, in the compound’s incinerator. She left with the clothes on her back, a few thousand in cash, and a passport with a false identity. She boarded the plane and departed from Heathrow shortly after nine in the morning. Her flight flew back in time and arrived at noon Eastern.
Her gate was located at the end of the terminal. Glancing back, a wide window offered a panoramic view of a runway. A plane, she couldn’t tell what style, lifted off. Dust and dirt and exhaust swirled in two sideways mini-tornadoes. She turned her attention forward. A sparse crowd walked away from her, down a hall that split the terminal in two. She joined the other travelers, attempting to blend in. Not an easy task for a woman like her. She was tall. Her dark red hair, pale skin, and looks drew the eyes and attention of most men and some women. Hatred, scorn, lust, curiosity. She saw it all.
She didn’t fear them, though. Her concern laid in the fact that Sinclair had provided no further instructions for her to follow after departing the plane. Unfamiliar faces turned into potential enemies. Throughout her time in Sinclair’s group, she had been exposed to few of the members. It had been in her best interest, he’d said. The fewer people that knew her, the better off she would be.
You never know, he had told her, who might turn on you.
Would Sinclair? Better yet, had he?
A pair of dark eyes fixed their gaze on her. Eyebrows flexed down. The man’s face was cut from steel, handsome, and covered with four day’s growth. His black hair was adorned with flecks of silver. He wore a dark suit and no tie. He left the top two buttons of his white pinstripe shirt unbuttoned.
She had no recollection of ever seeing or meeting the man. He stared at her like they’d been lovers the night before.
Clarissa kept her stride at an even pace. She didn’t deviate to the left or the right. She couldn’t. There wasn’t room on either side. She stayed true on a path that led her right past the man.
He glanced over her head. She resisted the urge to look back. His focus shifted from above, to the left, to the right, then back on her. She watched as his right hand slipped into his pocket. He couldn’t have traveled this far through the airport with a weapon. Even something as discreet as a ceramic knife would be spotted in the new imaging machines they had installed at the security checkpoint.
He pulled a black cylinder from his pocket. Maybe two or three inches in length. Before she could identify the object, he’d tucked it in his palm and passed it off to his other hand. His fingers wrapped around it.
The guy took a step forward. A couple walking along the outer edges of the corridor took two steps in. The man nodded, flashed a smile, and merged into the line. He was three paces in front of her. She glanced down at his shoes. They looked expensive. The soles were hard and thick. The uppers made from leather. A lot of the guys paid for custom shoes, she’d heard. They wanted comfort, the ability to kick ass, and to look good.
The man slowed his pace. He took a step and a half for every two Clarissa made. She saw the object in his left hand. They were almost side by side. He glanced over his shoulder, made eye contact, smiled. They became even with each other. She matched his pace. They stayed close to the outer edges of the walkway. His left hand permeated her peripheral vision. She reached for it with her right. They continued on as if they were a couple reunited aft
er time spent away. Between their hands, the cylinder pressed against both their palms.
“Central Parking Garage,” he said. “Level three. Backed into a spot in the middle of the last row. Now close your hand.”
The man unthreaded his fingers from hers. She made a fist around the object, pulled her hand tight to her side, and slipped it into her jean’s pocket beside her cell phone. She left her hand on top of the object. Her index finger traced it. Six buttons, and a hole at the top. Something metal, pointed inside the hole.
“I’ll go back and get it for you, honey,” the guy said, stopping and stepping out of the flow of traffic. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. The stubble around his mouth scratched at her. “I’ll catch up at baggage claim.”
Clarissa looked around, smiled, and continued on. In the end, no one there would care. Unless they did. And if there were someone there who took anything from the interaction other than a husband or boyfriend going back to claim his significant other’s laptop or carry-on, then the rest of the act wouldn’t have fooled them either.
She pulled the object out. It was a car key. Everything was built into the device, the key, alarm, remote start, and lock and unlock buttons.
She continued on, navigating through the airport. At one point she reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of knock-off designer sunglasses. She wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be Gucci or Armani or Prada or some other brand. Clarissa didn’t care about those things anymore.
Baggage claim was packed with hundreds of people. The result of dozens of flights arriving at one time. Midday madness. She stopped and stood on the tips of her toes and looked for the man who handed her the key. Had he meant it when he said he’d catch up at baggage claim, or had he said that to make the act believable? She wandered the snaking area full of travelers, conveyor belts and yet-to-be-claimed bags. A tall man in an airport uniform pulled a red suitcase off a belt that had stopped moving. The bag looked overstuffed. He pulled the extendable handle all the way out and wheeled it to an office.
The land of abandoned luggage, she thought.
Ten minutes later the man from the terminal still had not arrived. She took one final glance around. Two-thirds of the faces had changed over. That was fine with her. The fewer people around to remember her standing there, the better.
It was the middle of June, not even officially summer yet. But when she stepped outside, it felt like North Carolina in August. The temperature was over ninety, as was the humidity. By the time she found the parking garage, the bottom half of her shirt was in danger of sticking to her back. It grew worse in the garage. Airflow was non-existent. The structure reeked of exhaust and gas fumes.
Some idiot honked his horn in tune with a song. Or perhaps he was just a jerk. The sound echoed off the floors and walls and ceiling. The car drove past her. The young man behind the wheel looked over at her and winked. Although her first instinct had been to extend a gesture toward him, Clarissa ignored the guy. There was no point in getting involved in something that could result in her being arrested, especially while using an identity that could have been compromised without her knowledge.
She found the stairs and walked down one flight. The air felt thicker on the third level. It smelled worse. The front of her head ached, and she felt nauseous.
“Keep it together,” she told herself. “A little further is all.”
The last row was visible from where she stood. Rather than following the road to the left or right, then back, she cut through the middle, sidestepping between cars whose owners were incapable of parking in the middle of a spot.
She reached the last row, pulled the key from her pocket and pressed the alarm. A silver G Coupe chirped and screamed and honked and flashed in response. She mashed the lock and unlock buttons with her thumb until the car went silent.
“Not bad, Sinclair,” she muttered, approaching the vehicle from the driver’s side.
She pressed the ignition button on the key. The engine roared to life. She hoped the air conditioning had been left on full blast. She turned to the side in front of the car and shuffled to the door. Voices and laughter and footsteps echoed throughout the concrete structure. She glanced around while pulling the door open and sliding into the driver’s seat. The leather seat and steering wheel felt cool. The vents piped ice-cold air out. She felt the ends of her hair lift and blow in the artificial breeze. The radio had been left on a local classic rock station. She didn’t bother to change it. The navigation unit had a destination pre-programmed. She pressed buttons in an attempt to pan out or display a list of the directions.
She was interrupted before she could figure it out.
Chapter 2
Clarissa jumped at the sound of knuckles rapping against the passenger side window. Her head jerked to the right. She saw the handsome stubbled face from the terminal. The man smiled and pointed toward the door lock. She felt along the armrest with her left hand and located the window and lock controls. She glanced down, then pressed the unlock button.
The man stepped back. The door swung open. He stuck his left leg in, lowered himself into the seat, then dragged his right leg in and shut the door. His cologne blew past her. She hadn’t noticed it in the terminal.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“You can call me Beck,” he said.
“That your first name or last name?”
“Who says it’s my name at all?” The right side of his mouth lifted upward. A small dimple formed under his cheek.
“Then you can call me Sally,” she said.
His smile broadened. “You should know it doesn’t work that way, Clarissa. If you were sent to meet me, you know you would have been provided with all the necessary information. Think about it for a moment. What would he have told you about me?”
“At a minimum, your name,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Go on.”
“Possibly any combination of birth date, social, current and former addresses, recent operations to assess threat and experience level. Perhaps he’d include any living family members in case the target was uncooperative.”
“And maybe even the names of those who are closer than family?”
She nodded. “Good thing I don’t have any of those.”
Beck grabbed his seatbelt and pulled it across his chest. It locked with a solid click.
“I only know your name, Ms. Abbot. The rest of your secrets are safe with you, and Sinclair.”
She reached for the shifter. Her hand brushed his. She pulled back like a crocodile had lunged out of the water at her.
This drew a laugh from Beck. “If I were here to kill you, you wouldn’t be driving this car, Ms. Abbot.” He made a show out of lifting his hand and dropping it on his lap. “That better?”
Clarissa said nothing. With her left hand she lowered her sunglasses, fixing them on the bridge of her nose. She made a fist around the shifter with her other hand, slammed it into first and peeled out of the parking spot while spinning the wheel to the left. She expected the maneuver to be met with calls for her to be careful with Beck’s vehicle.
He had no reaction.
She slammed the brakes at the end of the aisle. People fifteen feet away jumped and sprinted away from her.
Still, Beck said and did nothing.
Clarissa rolled her eyes. Otherwise, she showed no outward reaction to his failure to display any reaction. She turned right and remained under the speed limit until she reached the exit. Beck extended his hand in front of her. He dangled a twenty in front of her. She passed the money onto a woman reading a book inside a bulletproof enclosure. The woman never made eye contact. Clarissa collected the change, set it in between her and Beck, and followed the curved ramp. The guided navigation spat out directions. She followed them to I-90 and the Ted Williams Tunnel.
The tunnel was close to a half-mile long. A sign hung at the entrance and said, “No passing,” in all caps and bold, black letters. She ignored the warning. She took advantage of
every break in the double-wide line of cars, weaving left to right to left again. She glanced at Beck. His eyes were closed.
They emerged from the tunnel. Though there were no clouds, the sky looked anything but blue. Hazy smog filled the space between the horizon and the sun, which glared from overhead. The air blowing through the vents, while cold, smelled like an ashtray that hadn’t been emptied in a week. The car appeared to be new. Didn’t it come with some kind of filter to protect against poor air quality?
“Beck?” she said.
He lifted his chin from his chest and turned his head toward her. “Yeah?”
“Where are we going?”
“Wherever that GPS tells us to go.”
She glanced at the LCD screen. A number was fixed to the upper right corner. Four hundred thirty-five miles to go. In her head, Clarissa pictured the eastern seaboard. That distance would put them close to Philadelphia or D.C. if she continued south. The tension in her muscles slipped away like a dying man’s last breath. Sinclair wouldn’t bring her home if he were going to kill her. He might have her arrested, but not terminated.
Why not have her fly directly to Reagan or Dulles?
She glanced to her right. Beck had his head down and eyes closed again. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Either he’d fallen asleep, or he was deeply relaxed. Either way, he didn’t pose an immediate threat to her. She did wonder whether he knew the reason for them to travel together. Perhaps the man lived in the Boston area. Or maybe it was a mutual dependence thing. She knew she could drive herself crazy trying to figure it out. She worked through possible reasons and explanations, but none of them reached a conclusion she deemed plausible. And none of it mattered. The only one who truly knew was Sinclair.
And there was little chance he’d tell her until he had to. If he had to.
They continued southwest. The sun continued its westward trajectory. It would be hours before its light no longer benefited them. The longest day of the year was close. Only a few days away.
Three hours into a seven hour drive, Beck woke. He lifted his arms over his head and twisted at the waist. Something popped in his back or his shoulders.