by Fiona Quinn
“The means to an end are an important part of your ethics as an intelligence officer.”
“They aren’t my laws. Those are Almajid’s laws.”
“But by handing this particular information over to their king, it would be you who is assigning him to death for this specific reason. Does that align with your sense of ethics? Yes or no?”
“No.” I was ashamed. But I was also left without much to work with. “You knew I was taping his recreational activities with the prostitutes in the bar, and some of them happen to be men. Hey, how the heck can you do that? How is it you’re following me?”
“That is not what this lesson is about.”
“Okay, then answer this. Why is it that you’re just watching? Why aren’t you helping me?”
“Have you needed my help?”
“I don’t know… Maybe?”
“When you need my assistance, you will ask for it. In the meantime, ‘That which is yours will not pass you by.’” He smiled gently at me, his eyes warm with fatherly love. “Are you going out again tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The videos of heads bobbing in the back seat are not a fruitful direction.” He stood and left.
Clanging in the kitchen dragged me back to the present, here in the crapola garage apartment. Yeah, meditation wasn’t going to happen today. I’d try again tomorrow.
I wandered into the kitchen to see what Destiny was up to. I needed to build my bond with her.
Destiny had come home with a stock pot yesterday with no explanation.
She double folded wash cloths and had lifted the pot from the stove, carrying it to the sink. I peeked over the rim. It looked Destiny was boiling socks and underwear. Clever.
She tripped over a loose flap of the linoleum, the pot tipped, sloshing the hot water on me.
I shrieked and jumped back.
In reality, the water was overly hot but nowhere near boiling, I discovered. Destiny must have brought the water to a boil and let things cool while getting ready for her day.
But the reality part of my brain was a step behind the survival part of my brain.
My flinch reaction assumed the water was scalding and would burn me. I’d whipped my shirt over my head and threw it toward the sink.
I stood there in my bra and jeans.
Destiny put the pot on the counter and grabbed a towel in one fluid move. “Are you burned? I am so sorry!” Her face turned red as her eyes brimmed with tears.
“I’m fine, Destiny,” I said. “It’s fine. I was just startled and frightened, that’s all.”
She patted over my arm with the washcloths, drying me off. Her focus was on my chest and abdomen, where fine scar lines created lace patterns over my skin.
The Motus Operandi of Serial Killer Wilson was to hold a chloroform-sodden rag over the victim’s nose and mouth, tie her up, sliced her skin with a razor, then Wilson woke her by pouring vinegar or salt on her wounds.
On my wounds.
The plastic surgeon had spent hours in the OR gluing me back together.
Now, Destiny’s finger traced down the scar that ran from ribs to hip, a hundred and fifty stitches, the scar that Striker had painted over with the word “voluptuous,” covering where Wilson had tried to skin me alive the second time he found me.
I let her look. Process. Conclude.
Tugging the washcloth from her hand, I held it over my chest. “I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt. I just…” I exhaled loudly. “I’ve had a rough past, and it makes me jumpy.”
Destiny panted some unpronounced emotion.
“It’s a habit now that I’m trying to unlearn because that was a ridiculous thing for me to do just now. The water was hot but not burning. I found that my abusers wanted me to experience pain. If I tried to be brave or stoic, the punishment got worse. If the moment they touched me, I screamed in pain and sobbed for relief, the abuse was less. They just wanted the power of the reaction. Now I react—overreact—as a habit.”
As I said that, I wondered how much of that was true. All these memories around my dad’s death and the sensation of my parents hovering and warning me to pay attention…
Was that all just my brain pulling a con job, trying to give me a manufactured story to explain away my angst?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Night and day from my undercover job, I was now fluffed, buffed, and dressed in a cute little black dress.
I walked onto the patio with a view of the Potomac, where I was meeting up with Christen and the other bridesmaids. I thought about Steve Finley. He was, for the most part, a desk jockey at the FBI. It’s not where he wanted to be. He had always enjoyed working undercover.
More power to him, I thought ruefully.
He had been working a case where, I guess he’d been under cover too long, his handlers weren’t paying attention…something.
It had all gotten out of hand.
He fell in love with his asset. Like “Let’s get married and live happily ever after,” in love with her. And it had messed up his perceptions and endangered too many people along with the mission.
I liked Destiny. If I was really who I said I was, we would be friends. But I had to learn from Finley’s horror show of an outcome. My relationship with her—from my end—was professional and not at all personal.
I checked my watch. I couldn’t be out too late. If I was back at the apartment by ten—ten-thirty, that might be reasonable. Any later, and Destiny might grow anxious.
Though, maybe she’d be asleep and not notice. She had asked to switch our schedules so she could have my red-eye since I’d be out late.
Fine by me.
Still, the sooner I built trust, the sooner I’d be home in Striker’s bed.
Incentive to get out of here early.
“Hey!” Auralia called with her arm raised.
Gator’s sisters, Auralia and Genevieve, sat at the round table with Lula and Christen. Someone had brought Christen a headband with a four-inch bridal veil that she was wearing in her pixie haircut like a good sport.
Colorful drinks sweated in glasses. Platters of ooey-gooey hors d’oeuvres had been picked at. Everything was so normal. The smiles so wide.
This is about Gator and Christen, not about you, I reminded myself.
While Lula and Christen were besties from childhood, they’d each gone their own way. Christen into the Army. Lula to law school—and into her covert job at the CIA, where she was one of the color code. Johnna White.
The problem was, that was top secret.
I shouldn’t know.
Unless and until Lula was the one who told me that information. I had to act as if that information didn’t exist in my brain.
Lula was not responsible for my issues getting a divorce from Angel.
I wasn’t going to let that beast rear its head here.
This was about fun. Friendship. And last-minute details for the wedding.
And I would play nice.
“Yay! You’re here!” Genevieve was up from her seat, giving me a massive hug. Followed by Auralia.
The waiter showed up. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Perrier and lemon, please.”
“What, you’re not drinking?” Auralia asked.
“I have work later tonight. And I’m driving. Besides, my stress fell off the minute I walked into this place. Hey, Christen. Welcome home.”
She raised her glass of champagne. “I’ve been looking forward to this for so long. Glad to finally be here.”
Chapter Thirty
As fun as it had been to hang out at the bar, it made it that much harder to pull on my “Esther” outfit of jeans, a T-shirt, and beat-up tennis shoes.
My back was sore—my shoulders. My feet throbbed.
I could say for sure that being a server wasn’t my happy place. I was exhausted and yet felt like I hadn’t had exercise in days.
Bed would feel excellent, even if it was an air mattress, a couple of crappy pillows, and a
sleeping bag. Right now, I’d be fine curled up on the back seat of my car.
All I needed was some darkness and some quiet.
I’d left my shift this afternoon at the diner and met up with Prescott and Finley. They debriefed me. Checked to see how I was handling the situation. Reviewed the tapes and videos and pronounced things to be on track.
Fast track, I hoped.
I needed to come up with excuses for being away Thursday night for the Davidson’s reception. Then, of course, Friday, everyone in the bridal party would be hanging out at my house. And Saturday I’d be gone all day for the wedding.
Fake an illness?
Tell Destiny I was going on another bucket list adventure?
I already had off Friday and Saturday, so that might work. I could say I was going to Hershey, Pennsylvania, to see how kisses were made or something.
Next time I talked to Finley, I’d see if he had a better game plan.
Climbing the rickety wooden stairs to the upstairs door on the side of the garage, I noticed the bedroom light was on.
As I reached my key toward for deadbolt, heebie-jeebies lit my nerves.
I stilled.
A long, slow inhale quieted my mind as I expanded my senses, trying to understand the threat.
I hadn’t seen anything on my way up the street, my car was parked around the corner, and no other vehicles seemed to be in this area.
Just this morning, I’d talked to Destiny about heightened reflexive actions, but this was heebie-jeebies, and they had never been wrong before.
Resting my ear against the door, I held my breath to listen.
Nothing.
I turned to put my back to the wall. With one hand shielding my eyes from the overhead light, I searched. Too late, my night vision had been corrupted. Around me, the night sky was moonless.
Pulling the door toward me and slowly turning the knob, so there would be no squeak or rasp, the door gave.
Unlocked.
Unusual.
My heart thrummed.
Now, I exhaled. Reprocessing, I released the knob slowly so that it made no sound.
Stepping back, Striker flashed into my awareness. After I jumped into the fight in the parking lot, I’d have to be very careful here.
Calling in backup was the right thing to do, even if it felt a little like overkill.
I sidled soundlessly down the steps to the ground. Hugging the shadows, I wound my way around the garage.
No dogs barked in the neighborhood.
The guy who owned the house was elderly and hard of hearing. He usually fell asleep in his recliner in front of the TV, and then around ten, he’d make his way to his bed.
When I drove past to go park a moment ago, the blue light of the television had been flashing in his curtainless picture window. By the time I parked and hiked back, the front room was dark.
All of that was normal.
So far, the only abnormal thing going on in the tiny apartment above the garage was the lights on, and the locks weren’t engaged.
To be honest, the few days that I had “lived” here weren’t enough to get a baseline for behavior.
But Destiny was fairly paranoid and systematic.
I had seen the bedroom and bathroom lights on as I walked through the yard earlier. And here was the window in our main room with the lights ablaze.
Destiny had hung sheets as curtains, and usually, the thin flat surface meant I could see shadows moving around if someone were walking inside.
I thought about our schedule for tomorrow. Destiny had the red-eye breakfast shift. She would normally have gone to bed around eight with a sleep mask over her eyes to protect her from the sunset’s last gasp, sending the rays straight into the western-facing window.
Why were lights on in the bedroom now that it was ten?
I sent a text to Iniquus Control. Closest available. Stage in yard at the garage.
‘Closest available’ was a designation of extreme need. If I were wrong, I’d do my mea culpas later.
By typing ‘closest available,’ the monitors in Iniquus overwatch would figure out where I was on their master board and find a force operator in my area not actively engaged with a different mission and deploy them to my situation.
It was the seven-alarm blaze of calls. No one wanted to drop everything for a nothing burger.
Blowing my cover by having some operator showing up would be bad.
I didn’t know what else to do. My heebie-jeebies meter was pinging brightly, but other than that… I had nothing.
If Destiny was in trouble, she needed help.
Closest six-minute ETA. En Route Ridge and K9 Zeus, Cerberus Tactical K9. Advise.
Ridge was a retired Delta Force Operator. And Zeus… Well, Zeus was a highly trained tactical K9. Zeus and I had a special bond. He was the K9 that helped me escape my kidnappers.
Having this duo at my back would be excellent.
Outside perimeter, pretend to be walking the dog to blend. Weapons ready, I texted.
I rounded back to the side. Clinging to the edges of the steps up next to the handrail, I used my shadow walking skills to climb back to the door.
I didn’t like the light shining on me.
“I said lift higher.” It was a male voice raised loud enough that I could make out the words.
I didn’t hear a response. Was he talking to Destiny?
Destiny insisted on no visitors at the apartment and absolutely no men.
This could be the owner doing some maintenance. But at ten o’clock? That was improbable.
Besides the folks at the diner, did she even know any men in the area? I never met that guy she’d said was a short-order cook. They seemed friendly from our conversation. Maybe it was him, and he was helping Destiny with some issue?
That would explain the locks…
Licking my fingers, I reached up to turn the lightbulb, listening to my spittle hiss as it evaporated from my fingertips.
I pressed my back against the wall where I wouldn’t be seen immediately if the male voice popped the door open to investigate.
Shadow walking in the black of night would be easier if I weren’t wearing a bright white T-shirt.
A long minute passed, and I decided to edge the door open. Maybe I could hear what was happening inside and determine if I could call Ridge and tell him it was a false alarm. He was still about three minutes out.
I put my ear to the crack.
“Stop. Is she breathing? Did you check?”
Ice slid down my spine.
“How do I do that?”
“Put her in the bathtub and spray her with cold water. See if that brings her around.”
Drugs? Alcohol?
This all seemed wrong.
But if there was a chance that Destiny wasn’t breathing, she needed an immediate intervention to save her life.
I pressed the door open just a smidge and looked in.
With the roar of an engine, and headlights bouncing along the road, I could see the Iniquus Hummer pulling up on the street in front of the bar just on the other side of the copse of trees.
I pulled out my phone: Garage apartment. Second floor. Intruders. Two male voices. Possible life-threatening medical emergency. Move in.
From my vantage point, I saw the back of a man. Destiny’s bare feet were tucked under his arm as he disappeared into the bathroom.
In my mind’s eye, Ridge had gotten his new information, and he was climbing from the cab, gathering the medical bags and defibrillator, releasing Zeus from the kennel in the back.
Iniquus wouldn’t mess around with this, they’d send an ambulance, and they’d call our client to find out whom they should send in as support—the police or would the FBI go themselves?
Inside the door, five gallon-sized jugs of muriatic acid had been lined up. I had seen them inside of the garage the other day. It was the kind of acid that one used to clean the driveway.
Why would anyone have brought these jugs ups
tairs?
“Just turn on the cold shower. If she’s not dead, she’s gonna scream her head off when we douse her.”
A man moved into the living room, and I froze.
“You left the damned door open.” He stalked over.
“I didn’t. The wind must have blown it.”
The guy leaned out. “You think someone came up here and saw what was going on?”
“Like who?”
“The roommate?”
I froze where I was. Push come to shove, I could leap over the side, drop, and roll.
“Stop being a chicken shit. Check and see if she’s dead and let’s get this over with. I wanta collect the money and…”
I was shadow walking. But shadow walking has its limitations, and I just pressed up against a major one. Shadow walking doesn’t hide my shadow. If he looked down…
With the door swung open wide and the interior lights beaming outward, a man stepped out past me.
He looked down the steps and saw nothing.
He leaned over the rail to the ground, and there was nothing.
Get here, Ridge!
How many times had I sent out that kind of psychic call for action to an Iniquus team member?
It never worked on humans. But Zeus and I communicated in the ether all the time. This time when I sent out my thought waves, Zeus barked his frustration, furious that he couldn’t do just that.
When the man turned to go back in, he focused on the platform outside the door where my shadow stretched.
The guy reached out and grabbed me by my shirt, turning me and thrusting me into the apartment.
The thought that was foremost in my mind was, don’t let him hit you in the head.
A ridiculous concern since he was reaching under his shirt in his back waistband.
A gun?
He now stood between me and the only other exit in this fire hazard of an illegal apartment. With a snarl, he slammed the door shut.
Reaching to the side table, I picked up a drinking glass, half filled with water, and I threw it with all my might at his head. It bounced off and clattered to the floor, leaving a bleeding welt near his temple.