by Lynn Mason
LYNN MASON
AN ORIGINAL PREQUEL NOVEL BASED ON THE
HIT TV SERIES CREATED BY J. J. ABRAMS
BANTAM BOOKS
NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND
Contents
Title Page
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
Copyright Page
1
The paper airplane soared upward, grazing the bottom branches of the sycamore tree before skidding to a stop on the grass. Sydney raced across the yard to retrieve it, the plaid pleated skirt of her girls' academy uniform swirling about her long, thin legs.
“Daddy! Daddy, look! I made it fly!”
Mr. Bristow's head remained hidden behind the front section of the Los Angeles Register.
“Daddy?” Sydney asked, taking a few steps toward him. “Daddy, you aren't listening to me. I made a good plane! It flew really far! Didn't you see?”
“Yes. I saw,” came a flat response.
“No! You didn't!” she yelled, stamping her burgundy penny loafer. “You weren't watching, you were reading! That's all you do all the time! Read, read, read!”
The paper lowered and Mr. Bristow's blank expression fell on his daughter. “Stop being dramatic, Sydney,” he said. “You're acting like a child.”
But I am a child, she thought, angrily tossing the plane into the air again. It sailed straight up for a few seconds before becoming wedged in a tangle of twigs. She turned back toward her father, hoping he would offer to pull it loose. But his newspaper barrier was raised once again, and all Sydney could see were the large black letters screaming SPACE SHUTTLE EXPLODES!
* * *
“Hey? You awake?” Todd de Rossi's voice penetrated the daydream.
Sydney jerked her head slightly. “Huh? What?” The childhood memory dissolved as she found herself back in her American History seminar, her pen still poised over her spiral notebook. Professor Baldridge was lecturing in his tired drone, his words melding with the steady whir of the old building's air-conditioning system. On the giant screen behind him loomed the famous image of the Challenger exploding high in the atmosphere.
“Sorry,” she whispered, smiling weakly at Todd. “What did you say?”
Todd grinned. “I said it takes a special kind of boring to make a major disaster dull. Guess I made my case. Where were you just now? In orbit?”
“No. I was just . . . I was just remembering where I was when I first heard about the Challenger exploding.” She rubbed her eyes and sat up straight, trying to shake off the residual anguish stirred up by her memory. She could practically smell the olive trees shading the Bristows' old front porch and feel the light weave of her school uniform, as if her body had carefully recorded every sensation for careful replay later on.
It had been one of those pivotal childhood moments: the point when she'd finally understood that her father was lost to her. The tragic car accident that had taken her mother seemed to have completely diminished her father. He had never been the cheerful life force her mother was, and yet Sydney had never doubted his devotion to his family. But that day on the front lawn, all hope that he might someday come back to her shattered like the hull of the ill-fated space shuttle. From then on she stopped consciously trying to please him and began preparing herself for a life alone.
“You know, I don't remember what I was doing when I first heard about the Challenger,” Todd mused, rubbing his chin. “Probably standing in front of my mirror doing my best James Dean.”
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Excuse me? Professor Baldridge?” Sydney glanced up to see a tall guy with shaggy red hair rise from his aisle seat, his left arm high in the air.
“Oh, goody. Burke has something to say,” Todd whispered, leaning forward in his seat. “This ought to be entertaining.”
Most of the other students in the lecture hall were also shifting to get a better look. Sydney let out a small moan of frustration and slouched back in her chair, folding her arms across her striped sweater. Great. Another outburst from Burke Wells, campus radical extraordinaire.
Professor Baldridge's reaction was not unlike her own. “Yes, Mr. Wells?” he asked, his voice sounding more weary than usual.
“Isn't it true, Professor,” Burke began, “that the shuttle blew up due to sabotage and not because of an accident?”
The professor heaved a long, audible sigh. “No, Mr. Wells. I'm afraid that was simply a story a few tabloids used to try to sell papers. As I said earlier, the explosion was caused by a faulty—”
“Excuse me, Professor,” Burke interrupted, waving his arm in the air again. “But it wasn't just in the tabloids, was it? I mean, sure, it wasn't reported in any of the so-called legitimate, corporate-run U.S. papers. But several highly esteemed foreign news agencies reported the existence of a top-secret surveillance satellite aboard, which was the motive behind the sabotage.”
Sydney shook her head in disbelief. “What's up with this guy?” she grumbled.
“Don't know. Isn't he dreamy, though?” Todd's large brown eyes seemed to droop as they beheld Burke. Sydney glanced around the room. Dozens of girls were staring at Burke with the exact same puppy dog expression.
“Full of himself is more like it,” she said.
“No, Burke's cool,” Todd countered. “I've gone to a couple of demonstrations he's organized. The guy knows a lot about human rights violations and government cover-ups. He feels it's his duty to tell people the truth about stuff. Things they don't tell you in college.”
Sydney squinted at Burke. His knit cap and woven Guatemalan shirt were standard-issue hippie radical, although he wore athletic shoes. His arms were lean and well toned, thanks to a regimen of one-hour yoga sessions, a strict vegetarian diet, and lots of dancing to bongos, she guessed. Of course, the most in-your-face thing about Burke Wells was how beautiful he was. His scruffy appearance implied the absence of massive vanity, but it was hard to hide the Green party's version of Brad Pitt.
That was just it. He was almost too handsome. His features were oh-so-perfectly proportioned and symmetrical, his eyes were fairy-tale bright and twinkly, and those thick red waves that grazed the tops of his broad shoulders looked as if they belonged in a shampoo ad. Never mind his ad-libbed approach to history. Sydney always had trouble trusting anyone that perfect-looking.
“I don't buy it. Most of what he says in class sounds like nonsense,” she muttered. “He probably just likes attention.”
Todd shook his head. “I don't think so. Guys who look like Burke don't have to work to make people notice them.”
Sydney frowned. Todd had a point there. But come on! A spy satellite on a space shuttle? That was delusional. Plus, it made the government—the same government she was trained to risk her life for—sound idiotic and devious.
Having made his point, Burke once again took his seat, and Professor Baldridge continued his speech. Students all around them slouched back in their chairs.
“You know,” Todd whispered, leaning toward her, “I think you and Burke would really hit it off. Want me to introduce you?”
“No.” Todd was sweet, but all those Diet Cokes he drank must have reached toxic levels in his blood.
“Aw, come on.”
“No!” She'd been insulted by arrogant pretty boys like Burke before, and she was not going through it again. “I'm serious, Todd. No setups, okay? Promise me
you won't introduce me to that guy.”
Todd crossed his hand over his heart and held up his first three fingers. “Scout's honor,” he said, staring back with his big, soulful eyes. “You can count on me.”
* * *
“Burke!” Todd called as they made their way out into the hall after class.
In the sea of moving faces, Burke's red hair stuck out like a campfire in the crowd. He looked over at them and smiled. “Hey, Todd. What's going on?” he said, altering his path to head toward them.
Sydney clamped her hand tightly on Todd's arm. “Didn't you promise me you wouldn't do this?” she muttered through her teeth.
“Sorry, Sydney,” he replied with an impish grin. “I was never a scout.”
Burke shuffled up to them, still smiling. Sydney was amazed—dismayed, actually, to see he was even better-looking close up. From this distance she could see the faint cleft in his chin. And his almond-shaped hazel eyes held so many colors, she wondered if they'd been tie-dyed.
But in her experience, the better-looking a guy was on the outside, the more of a jerk he was inside. She just might have to kill Todd for his good intentions.
“Hey, that was some great stuff you brought up in class,” Todd said. “Really got me thinking.”
Without meaning to, Sydney let a slight snort escape through her nostrils. Burke raised his eyebrows.
“Um . . . this is my friend Sydney.” Todd said, jabbing her with his elbow. “She's sort of . . . a skeptic.”
“Hi, I'm Burke,” he greeted her, offering his hand. She took it, grudgingly, and gave it a shake. “So what are you skeptical about?”
Sydney pulled back her hand, opened her mouth to say something, and then quickly shut it. Even disregarding Todd's elbow drilling into her rib cage, she really wasn't sure she wanted to get into this. But if she dodged the question, she'd only end up looking cowardly. And she hated to let this guy get away with all his misguided propaganda.
“This whole business about the satellite,” she began. “It's ludicrous. Everyone knows NASA uses unmanned rockets to launch things like that. Besides, the Challenger mission was all about education and good PR for the space program. Why would they allow a spy satellite on board?”
Burke nodded along with her. “You're right. But see, that's precisely why officials wanted to use the mission. Because no one would suspect it.”
She shook her head. “That still makes no sense. Suppose they did have top-secret spy equipment on board. The launch was being closely covered by the media. How could anyone get close enough to sabotage it?”
“Good point,” Burke replied. Sydney searched his voice for any hidden condescension but found none. “Still,” he added, “you have no idea what some of these anti-American groups are capable of.”
A bemused expression flitted across her face. Just try me, pal, she muttered silently. I've seen stuff that would straighten your hair.
“From what I understand,” he went on, “they did manage to penetrate security, probably with inside help. And the media coverage only worked in their favor. They were able to humiliate U.S. officials and send them a loud, obvious message about their spy operations.”
Sydney sighed. She really wished he would wipe that smile off his face. It was just so absurdly warm and friendly and charming, it was completely defusing her aggravation. “Look. You seem like a nice guy,” she said in a tone she typically reserved for children or the mentally imbalanced. “But I've got to say, someone's been feeding you a lot of bogus information.”
“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But have you ever stopped to question the information you've been getting?”
Sydney blinked at him. If he only knew what she did for a living. For his own security!
“Well, I gotta go.” Burke stepped around them and continued down the corridor. “Bye, Todd,” he called over his shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Sydney.”
“Man oh man,” Todd murmured as he watched him walk away. “I'm real sorry, Sydney.”
“That's okay,” she replied. “I know you meant well.”
“No. I don't mean that. I mean about thinking you two would hit it off,” Todd explained. “Boy, was I ever wrong.”
“I told you,” she said, shoving his shoulder.
“But if Burke isn't your type, who the hell is?”
Sydney shrugged. She couldn't tell Todd about another pivotal moment in her life . . . the moment she had first laid eyes on Noah Hicks.
2
Sydney pulled her white Mustang into her usual space in the SD-6 parking garage, turned off the engine, and angled the rearview mirror toward her. Her long chestnut hair tumbled about her shoulders in subtle waves. Lip-gloss shone on her plump lips. And her deep-set brown eyes glittered with anticipation—even if they did dart around nervously a bit. She was as ready as she'd ever be. Ready to see him.
It had been four days since their parting at the Paris airport, and she hadn't been able to stop thinking about Noah Hicks: his rough-hewn good looks, his rumbly voice, and that walk—equal parts prowl and glide. She even found his name irresistible. Noah. No-ahhh. Like a long, contented sigh.
She'd been desperately trying to recategorize these feelings, telling herself that Noah was a coworker—a superior, in fact. Totally off limits. But no mental Post-its could stem the warm, quivery sensations that flooded her whenever he entered her thoughts, which lately was all the time.
A little teleplay of how their next meeting would proceed had already been written in her mind. She would say something witty. He would laugh that sexy, growly laugh of his. Their gazes would lock and an unspoken communiqué would pass between them, a silent promise they could hold on to until they could hold each other again. Music would swell. Young girls would weep into their popcorn. People everywhere would clutch their chests and sigh. . . .
Or at least, that's what she hoped would happen.
Their time in Paris, while not exactly romantic, had been full of potential. And the mission had been a complete success. She and Noah had managed to completely dismantle a K-Directorate money-laundering operation, using a plan she devised herself. The experience helped her feel capable as an agent, and it felt good to know she'd thwarted some of her country's enemies. But highlighting it all was the closeness she had developed with Noah. They really seemed to bond as friends and comrades in battle, if nothing else. But, of course, there had also been that kiss. . . .
She'd replayed the scene a thousand times. Their frantic embrace in the dark alcove, their bodies still wet and slippery from their swim through the Seine. His mouth searching hers, her hands exploring his muscular chest . . .
It had only been a cover to throw off the stranger that had surprised them, in case he'd been an enemy agent. But it had felt real.
Sydney had never experienced such emotions. Oh, she'd had crushes before—horrible, silly infatuations with guys who'd ended up being nothing like she imagined. But with Noah it was something more real. Deeper. Crazier. Scarier. The hardest thing was, she had no idea how he felt about her. There were times—a long gaze, a mysterious grin—when she seemed to pick up a definite vibe. And then there were times when she was certain it was all wishful thinking. Not that it mattered. The main thing was that they'd really connected. You can't risk your life with someone and not become intimate.
“Okay, Syd.” She took a deep breath and nodded at her reflection. “Get a grip.” She grabbed her leather attaché, leaped from the car, and went up the stairwell to the bank's ground floor, her suppressed nervousness powering her long legs at a furious pace. After spending most of the week taking care of some final details in Europe, Noah had flown back early this morning. In a few minutes she'd be face to face with him at their debriefing with Wilson.
As soon as she stepped into the lobby, she saw Noah standing in front of the elevators. A buzz of electricity surged through her, accelerating her breath and heartbeat. For a moment she stood rooted to the polished marble floor. Even in his freshly pressed
suit he stood out from the rest of the neatly dressed business types scurrying through the foyer. For one thing, he was the only one not wearing a tie. But beyond that, there was always something innately rough and unkempt about Noah Hicks that no Armani suit could hide. She loved that about him.
The elevator doors opened, and Noah turned and loped into the shiny metal lift. Sydney suddenly snapped to attention. “Noah!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the vast lobby. People stared. Noah craned his neck, searching the room. She raised her hand and ran forward. “Hey, Noah! Wait up!”
As she hurried toward the elevator, she thought she perceived a small grin wash across his face. His uneven features softened slightly and then reset themselves. A second later she entered the elevator, and the doors slid shut behind her.
“Hey,” she said, gasping for breath. “You're back.” Duh, Syd, she thought, wincing inwardly. Not exactly the smart opening she'd been hoping for.
Noah gave a brisk nod and stared up at the number panel. “I got in this morning. Wilson wants my final report on our mission,” he added, tapping his black leather briefcase.
Sydney's lips curved automatically at his use of the phrase “our mission.” That's exactly what it had been. Theirs. Just the two of them, united in the face of danger.
“Yeah, what a mission,” she began, shaking her head. “It was amazing. Really awesome.” Awesome? Wasn't that the type of thing a preteen with glitter nail polish would say? Noah was over seven years older than she was. No reason to call further attention to that minor detail.
She glanced over at him and studied his profile. Judging by the extra lift above his cheekbone, he seemed to be smiling. Or was it a grimace?
The subbasement floors lit up one after the other as the elevator continued to descend. Sydney felt a rush of panic. The ride seemed much too short. She wanted time to pick things up where they'd left them in Paris, to recapture that chummy intimacy that brewed between them.
She wished he would say something. Flash her one of those impish smiles and start up some playful banter. Instead, he just stood there, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his trousers, casually rocking in his loafers.