by T C Archer
Jesse spun and hurried toward the front door with a crushing emptiness in her chest. Nobody in line or behind the desks broke position. The guard didn’t shift at his post as she pushed open the door and stepped into the stifling heat. She scanned the sidewalk and the upper windows of the buildings across the street for evidence of surveillance as she headed south on Second at a fast clip. She didn’t spot anyone looking out, which didn’t mean they weren’t there.
She hailed a cab, but it whizzed past. She lengthened her stride, waved at a second taxi. The cabbie swerved from the middle lane and halted at the curb ahead of her. She hurried forward. The driver leered with lusty black eyes as she hopped in the back. She gave him the address of an Ethiopian restaurant on the Upper West Side.
Jesse glanced back and memorized the cars, then slumped against the seat. The remainder of the afternoon would be spent taking random cab rides and subway lines to be sure no one was tailing her before she could make another move. Precious time she couldn’t afford to lose. She closed her eyes, picturing the hole that used to be her safe deposit box. Lost, all lost, the Anderson alias Amanda’s papers, and—Jesse opened her eyes, the disc containing the entire Green Team roster.
Her fingers tightened convulsively on her purse. She should have destroyed the disc after finding it in Juanita Pinto’s purse the weekend they’d been in Madrid, then told Tom that the Spanish agent he’d fallen hard for had stolen it from him.
Jesse stared through the windshield at the slowing traffic. Lanton had been looking for evidence he believed would incriminate him but, instead, hit the real jackpot. If her encryption scheme wasn’t good enough, he would crack the code, then take down Tom, the infamous Professor, and use the roster as proof she was a traitor. Dammit, she had played fast and loose with sensitive information…and had been careless with Amanda’s future.
OIA knew about Amanda and the fact Jesse had been her legal guardian the last twelve years. Four months shy of Jesse’s eighteenth birthday, their mother had died. Those months until Jesse became of age had been sheer hell. But the morning she turned eighteen, before the doors to Berkline Hall for Autistic Children opened, Jesse stood at the entrance waiting to bring her sister home.
Berkline Hall for Autistic Children. Jesse mentally sneered. Their mother never minded telling people her daughter lived at Berkline. The title leant respectability to the fact she had abandoned Amanda in an institution. When Jesse joined the military, she found a home, not an institution, for Amanda. Jesse had purposely neglected to inform her bosses the last few times she had moved Amanda. Where Amanda lived was none of their business.
Fear unlike any she’d known since her father’s death settled in Jesse’s gut. Lanton had torn down all but a narrow rope between her and Amanda. Now, with her sister's only identification gone, Jesse would have to perform a balancing act unlike any she’d ever imagined in order to get Amanda to safety. Even then, how easy would falling off the radar really be? Robert Lanton wouldn’t give up looking for Jesse as long as he believed she could hurt him, which meant Amanda would never be safe.
Jesse flipped open her cell phone and dialed her attorney’s number.
“Ms. Evans,” Jason Barrett said once his secretary put her through. Having a four million dollar trust that needed management had its perks. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “We’ve got a problem.”
She tensed. “What problem?”
“Your assets have been frozen by order of a federal district judge.”
Amanda’s trust fund. Jesse choked back a cry. “When?”
“Day before yesterday. They also served a subpoena for the records.”
“Can you file an injunction?”
“Already tried,” he replied. “No go. The records are sealed for reasons of national security. What have you gotten yourself into?”
Jesse cast a glance at the cabbie. His eyes were straight ahead. “I can’t say right now. What else can we do?”
“I’ve filed an appeal, but it’ll take time.”
“Can they seize the assets?”
“Not while appeals are pending. We can keep this tied up in court for years, but you can’t access the funds either.”
Years! Amanda’s ninety thousand dollar yearly bill at Houghton House came due in three months. What if she couldn’t prove Lanton’s guilt before then, or worse, he permanently silenced her? Without the trust fund, the state would stick Amanda in another institution.
“Do what you can,” she said.
“How do I get a hold of you?”
“You can’t. Call Harris.”
“All right.”
She heard the understanding in his voice. Harris was her inside man at Houghton House and had power of attorney if anything happened to her.
“I’ll need you in court to get the order lifted,” he said. “Oh, and keep in mind, don’t touch any of the funds.”
Her heart rate increased. He wasn’t talking about the trust fund, but was covertly warning her away from the endowment she’d set up four years ago to fund research for autistic kids. Barrett had insisted he not be put in charge of the grant in case he was compromised as her attorney. Seems he’d been right.
“You don’t want to lose control,” he said.
So Lanton hadn’t found the endowment fund—yet.
Jesse recalled the two hundred thousand dollar Cayman account under her name—an account that wasn’t hers. She’d discovered the account while digging through Lanton’s financials along with a two million dollar Swiss account in his name. She had yet to connect the two accounts, but there was no doubt he had set up the Cayman account to look like she’d taken a payoff.
“Understood,” she said into the phone.
“Keep in touch,” Barrett said.
“Thanks.” She closed the phone.
Jesse stared out the window as if deep in thought, her attention on the nearby motorists. She had known her covert lifestyle would catch up with her, but hadn’t expected it to be so soon, or so violent. At thirty, she couldn’t imagine doing anything else. That’s what she got for watching all those old spy movies.
“Thank you, Mrs. Peel,” she whispered, remembering all too vividly night after night of late TV with The Avengers. “And how do you propose I get out of this?”
Ah, yes, The Professor. If he couldn’t help, no one could.
CHAPTER FIVE
The padded, red, leather door swung closed behind Jesse, dulling the painful blare of punk music from the West Side club dance floor. She paused on the dimly lit landing and gazed down the stairwell leading to the private room where The Professor said he would be waiting. The narrow tunnel of stairs disappeared into a murky bottom. She had been lucky so far, but luck was like baking a soufflé in a blasting zone. Plus, the hour had just struck midnight; the witching hour.
A dull thump, thump resonated through the walls, and Jesse shook her head in an effort to clear the calamity of music from her mind. She grimaced. The snakes and spiders she’d encountered in Columbia were preferable to the solid wall of skin, leather, and pierced body parts she’d slithered through in order to reach the back of the club.
She started down the worn treads. A lone black light at the bottom landing cast iridescent shadows off purple walls, and her sneaker laces shimmered as if energized. She hesitated before continuing forward. A blind man could spot her shoelaces a mile away. Leave it to The Professor to pick a place like this. She hit the landing and turned left down a narrow hallway. Jesse spotted the door he said she’d find and stopped just short of it. She pressed her back to the wall, reached out, and rapped with her knuckles.
“Come,” he called from within.
Jesse slipped inside. More black lights lit the room. Two white floor lamps were located beside the two stained red leather sofas, and two beanbags sat beneath glowing, florescent-colored posters of Jimmy Hendricks and Bon Jovi. The velvet painting of Elvis that hung behind the sofa where The Professor sat added the finishing touch of t
ackiness to the odor of moldy leather and BO tinged with dried semen.
The Professor reclined on the sofa, a cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger. His eyes exuded sparkling innocence. His nerdy persona didn’t quite hide the good-looking devil lurking behind his dark brown eyes. At forty-four years of age, in three years, he could retire with thirty years in the service. Government intelligence was one place a teenager with three Ph.D.s could get a job. In many ways, he was still a kid.
“What a god-awful place, Tom,” she said.
He chuckled. “Don’t knock it. Anyone following wouldn’t make it past the skinheads upstairs. One is my sister’s husband.”
Jesse strode to the sofa, dropped to a squat in front of him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and kissed his cheek. He returned her kiss with one on the mouth. Affection rippled through her. He was the only Blue Team member she had any real affection for. He was The Professor to her Mary Ann. Or would she be Ginger? She sat beside him and crossed her legs.
“You’re in deep,” he said in a conversational tone.
“Uh huh,” she replied.
“You’re lucky I owe you,” he said. “This will square us for Lisbon.” Jesse raised a brow, and he grinned. “All right. I would do it for you anyway.”
He meant it. She had saved his life in Madrid when the gun dealer took him hostage—imprisoned and tortured him, is what the bastard had done. Jesse had gone in for him.
She smiled gently. “I know.”
“I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon,” he said.
“Good. I’m counting on Green Leader thinking the same way. The longer I wait, the deeper he’ll burrow. Not to mention, he’s got his wife’s family connections. The last thing I need is for him to call in favors. He’ll bury me six feet under and piss on my grave if I give him the chance. Right now, it’s still early. He’s got to figure I’m running scared.”
“I don’t know how scared he is. They’re keeping quiet. But I heard he tracked you, and you stayed ahead of him.” Tom put his cigarette in his mouth and clapped softly. “Bravo.”
Jesse frowned. “Those things will kill you.”
He took a long drag, then snuffed out the butt in an ashtray on the floor beside the sofa. “They’re my only vice. Besides, our friends have enough of my DNA to grow me new lungs.”
“They probably could, at that.” Jesse folded her hands on a knee. “As for me, I’m expendable. He cleaned out my safe deposit box.”
The Professor scrutinized her. “I hope the information he’s after is somewhere safe.”
Jesse nodded. She had debated whether or not to tell him about the disc, and decided against it. She'd dragged him into this mess, but wouldn’t take him down if she fell. If Lanton deciphered the encryption, she would never confess that Tom had been involved in it ending up in her possession.
In the meantime, Lanton would drive himself crazy trying to break the encryption, but wouldn’t chance handing it over to anyone for fear it contained evidence that would incriminate him. Too bad she hadn’t saved the article written by DC’s most prominent gossip columnist Zoe Shelby about a certain RL who had been spotted in an off-the-beaten-path restaurant with a swanky uptown escort. The information was public knowledge, but the look on his face when he found the article in her safe deposit box would have been worth a year’s salary.
Gossip columnists thrived on stories that turned a boring marriage between a civil servant and socialite into a debutant done wrong by playboy husband story. They weren’t off the mark this time. The pre-nup Helen Beaumont’s family insisted Lanton sign hadn’t stopped him from squandering her considerable fortune over the past eighteen years on women and fast living that had graduated into BDSM at its best.
Jesse could imagine Helen’s face when she received the first consoling phone call from one of her socialite friends. Pissing away a woman’s fortune was one thing. Being seen about town with prostitutes was another. Lanton’s penchant for BDSM had yet to leak. Would that be enough for Helen Lanton to divorce him?
At five-ten, two hundred pounds, and a balding head, he didn’t fit the profile of a playboy with a rich wife and lovers. High priced hookers and exclusive BDSM clubs would be a thing of the past if his wife cut him off. At best, his GS-13 salary would buy him a back alley fuck.
“How’s Amanda?” Tom asked.
His question pulled her back to the present and the fear that hovered too close to the surface. “No one’s bothered her.” Jesse pictured Amanda’s face as it lit up whenever Jesse appeared. Despite Amanda’s chronological age of thirty-five, her smile was that of an innocent eight-year-old—hell, she was an eight-year-old.
“She’ll be all right,” Tom said.
Jesse smiled with affection. Tom was one of the few people who appreciated Amanda’s special gift of statistical calculus. He would want to help keep her safe, but Jesse wouldn’t drag him any deeper than this one meeting.
“Madrid and Hong Kong convinced me Lanton was dirty, but massacring his own team shocked me.” She blocked the mental picture of the two Green Team members’ deaths before it rose this time. “He deserves a slow death.”
The Professor raised both eyebrows. “Remind me never to piss you off.”
Jesse took a deep breath. “I thought you felt the same way.”
He grinned. “Well, seems I’m going to have the last say, doesn’t it?”
“If we can track the source of the two million dollar Swiss account you will. That has to be the money Amadeo Perez paid for Green Team’s slaughter.” She paused. “What do you know about them, Tom?”
“Nothing. Sorry. You didn’t ask—”
“No.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
He paused for a long moment, then added in a hushed voice, “Those men aren’t the only ones who died as a result of Lanton’s double-cross.”
Jesse remembered Martinez, and started to agree, then realized what he meant. “No!” she cried. but saw the truth in his eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
“How—I didn’t hear—she was twelve years old,” Jesse choked.
She had seen pictures of Maria Hamilton. The girl shared her mother’s Ecuadorian dark hair and brown eyes. She would—should—have grown up to be a real beauty.
“Tom.”
Jesse reached toward him, half blind. His fingers closed warm around her hand as her mind flashed back to the moment she’d turned away from the village and Green Team. She’d decided she had to stay alive so that she could prove Lanton’s guilt and save Amanda. She’d told herself that Amadeo Perez wouldn’t chance losing such a valuable hostage as Maria Hamilton by leaving her in the village where U.S. agents could find her. Maria wasn’t there. There wasn’t a thing Jesse could do to help her.
“What is it?” Tom demanded.
Jesse shook her head. “I could have gone in for her. I left her behind to be butchered by those animals.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ll kill the mother-fucker.” She started to stand.
Tom seized her shoulders. “You didn’t kill her.”
“The hell I didn’t.”
“Jesse, she—”
Jesse tried to pull free.
He held fast. “You didn’t kill her. She was sighted in southern Columbia, Florencia, an hour after Green Team went in.”
Jesse stared.
“Wasn’t that about the time you were at the village?” he asked.
She wanted to believe. “You’re lying, that’s too easy.”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
He hadn’t.
“You couldn’t save her any more than you could have saved Green Team.”
She pulled free. “Don’t lecture me about Green Team, Tom.”
He leaned back against the cushion. “All right. How about Amanda, then?”
Jesse hadn’t forgotten Amanda. For the thousandth time she wondered how she could get her autistic sister underground and keep her there unnoticed. Amanda couldn’t live just anywhere.
She needed medical and behavioral specialists, and around-the-clock care.
She’d checked with Harris that morning and he’d reported she was fine at Houghton House. If anyone could take care of Amanda, Harris could. For the thousandth time, Jesse sent a prayer of thanks for the night she’d saved Harris’ ass in that Boston bar. The Vietnam vet was the best thing that had ever happened to Amanda.
“How did it happen?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Tom.”
She winced, then jammed her eyes shut in hopes of damming up the tears that had a long way to go before hitting dry ground. He sighed, and she steeled herself as he said, “They delivered her to the Senator in pieces.” Jesse gasped, but he went on, “OIA didn’t want to give FARC anymore ammunition, so they kept it out of the papers.”
“FARC,” Jesse sneered. She snapped open her eyes. “The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia. What a fucking joke. They’re nothing but a terrorist group selling to the highest bidder, and right now that’s Perez and the cocaine trade.”
“Too bad the Senator didn’t keep out of it,” Tom said. “Nothing’s changed as a result of his efforts to curtail the cocaine trade. The only reason the U. S. government set up Plan Columbia in the first place was to pacify the bleeding hearts here in the States. They had no intention of burning the cocoa fields, and the Columbian government's efforts to fumigate the fields have done more harm to legal crops than to the Columbian drug trade.”
Jesse frowned. She liked Senator Hamilton. When he’d gotten wind of the Columbian cartels’ construction of a submarine beyond that of the supersub discovered last year in Ecuador, she’d felt the U. S. was going to do step up their efforts to stop the drugs making their way into even the elementary schools.
She forced back the memory of the day her father died of a drug dealer’s bullet in the schoolyard where he taught seventh grade history, and said, “Senator Hamilton's discovery of the cartel’s submarine is important.”