by Fiona Quinn
“Christen,” Lula said. “This party is for you and Gator. Why don’t I go get Mrs. Rochambeau?”
“Because,” Christen said, still glaring, “this party has zero to do with Gator and me. This is schmoozy Assembly crap. It’s so my dad can say during negotiations, ‘You came to my daughter’s wedding celebration. We’re like family. Let’s line up our interests.’” She turned her attention back to Lula. “It’s only about business. And I can imagine London, never having met Gator’s family, assuming that because they live in the Louisiana Bayou that they would come and act like hicks.”
“Christen,” Gator started, but whatever he was going to say fell off.
I thought Christen was probably right on that account. London probably gave the Rochambeaus the wrong address, so they’d come in late when no one would notice when the toasts were made, and they wouldn’t need to be identified and welcomed to the family.
So ugly.
“I’m coming with you.” Christen slid her hand down Gator’s arm, lacing their fingers together. “And we’re going to eat while we’re out instead of this food. Then we’re going to take the longest, slowest way back. And when London asks where her honored couple is, Lula, you can tell them the truth, we went to get Gator’s family.”
“Sorry.” Lula frowned. “That’s pretty crappy behavior.”
“We’ll be back,” Gator said.
“Maybe,” Christen added, and they walked away.
“Awkward.” Lula scratched at the side of her head.
“Hey, White!”
Both Lula and Axel turned and looked for the person that had called out. I watched a man slap another on the back of a guy, then they shook hands.
Axel—Dr. Axel White Ph.D.—I understood why he turned.
Up until this point, I’d had to pretend that I didn’t know that Lula LaRoe was also Johnna White, CIA. What just occurred to me, though, was that she was also the woman walking up the hallway toward the elevator bank at Langley. She was the tiny woman in the white pantsuit and the tall red heels walking next to John Black.
It was her. I knew it in my bones.
As the rest of our group peeled off to get drinks or mingle, I snagged Lula’s arm. From her expression, she knew she’d messed up.
“Good to see you again.”
“Yeah, it was fun getting to know you at the dinner.” Lula smiled.
“I obviously just put the puzzle pieces together. As you well know, I was on the team that helped pull Gator and Christen out of the ocean when Christen’s brother Karl threw her overboard, trying to kill her. I was on the team that offered support to get you off the island when you were stuck there when homicidal psycho Karl was trying to kill Christen’s dad last summer.”
“Christen’s dad doesn’t believe that his son wanted him dead.”
“Delusional in his old age.” I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Karl’s hiding out in Saudi Arabia, well away from here. I guess what matters to me right now is that you warned John Black that I was there in the hallway when we were at Langley.”
She said nothing.
“You know why I needed to speak with him.”
She rolled her lips in.
“It’s a problem that needs fixing.”
Nothing.
“Can you get a message to my husband?”
Nothing.
“Or to John Grey?”
Lula scanned the room to make sure no one was overhearing these names. She exhaled. I could see her mind racing at full gallop.
Her eyes came back and fixed on mine, but I was pulled away from the conversation.
Holy moly!
There was Vincent Toone in the flesh. He’d aged terribly. But, yes, it was him. And I knew for certain because I could feel the agitation of my parents just over my shoulder.
My sixth-sense systems were going off all at once.
Heebie-jeebies sparked my electrical grid. It was my run! Run now! Run fast! Sensation. I scanned the room for Striker as my jaw dropped to pull in more air.
London Bridges falling down! Circulated the knowing. Whatever had been flowing through my system these last few days was now overflowing.
Warning. Warning.
But I couldn’t see a single thing that was wrong with this picture.
I spun when the double doors opened.
A man walked in dressed as plastic army soldiers kitted out in a WWII uniform. He was green from head to foot, including one of those green face hoods used in the movies as green screens. The door shut behind him. Moving to the top of the room, he found a place on the dais.
His arms spread wide to gain everyone’s attention.
Everyone turned with polite welcome clapping.
The guy on the mic called out, “Ladies and Gentlemen, an homage to our brave soldiers from the greatest generation.”
As the MC made a gestural flourish, the double doors opened. Two of the green soldiers stood on either side, holding the doors wide.
A green soldier with a professional movie camera backed into the room.
Pay attention! My parents pressed on me. To what?! I felt like screaming out.
My eyes landed on Vincent, opening his phone with the typical Z pattern. And as I stood there all by myself, watching him, I felt a great push from behind me, forcing me to stumble forward in Vincent’s direction, though no one was anywhere near me.
The phone! The phone!
Fine, I said in my head, the phone.
The music blared, This is the Army, Mr. Jones.
Through the doors came parallel lines of the green puddles that allowed the toy soldiers to stand while kids positioned them were approximated by the green hoverboards they rode in on.
The party-goers moved to the edges of the room to make space for this new entertainment.
I turned back to watch Vincent Toone slide his phone into his pocket. He looked expectant and nervous. His eyes scanned the room and stuck when they found mine.
He audibly gasped.
My gaze shifted as I did a quick search for Striker. He was over near London. London was sporting a plastic “what the heck?” look. I wasn’t sure if it was because Striker was reaming her a new one or if the entertainment took her by surprise.
I sent a barbed look at the back of Striker’s head and glared.
He turned. Smacking Blaze across the chest, they headed my way.
Vincent grabbed my arm and tugged. “Are you Alexis Rueben? You are, aren’t you?” he asked. “Your dad was a friend of my brother’s. My brother won’t have anything to do with me anymore. He doesn’t know, but he knows, you know?”
I shook my head and looked back to see Striker’s progress was impeded by Army men.
“I didn’t intend to kill him,” Vincent said so quietly that his words were almost lost in the music.
The phone! The phone! Pay attention!
“I don’t know what I meant to do. I mean, it’s one thing when you’re high as shit. Angry as shit. Just fucking pissed at the world. I heard your mom had brain cancer.” His grip tightened on my arm as he pulled me away from the green men.
“She’s dead,” I said it exactly as I had to his brother Seth at the CIA.
“Hell of a thing.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck.
I took advantage of the move to reach out and do a sleight of hand trick, removing his phone from his pocket, sliding it into my bodice.
“I didn’t know she was sick. All right? I’m sorry, all right? I was messed up. It’s all messed up. I didn’t mean it, okay?”
Things were getting weird. Where was Striker? My whole system was in flames.
“But now my nuts are in a vice, you know? They’re screwed down so tight, I can’t make a move. You see?”
“I…”
“Yeah. You pull something like that. And Karma bites you. Hanasal died, you know? In a car accident. Just desserts. For him. Not me. But when they figured it out. And man, Hanasal had some friends in some very high places. I mean. Wow.
Right? Yeah. Nuts. Nuts in a vice.” He was dragging me back to the wall.
I wasn’t sure if I should be fighting him. Maybe he was just trying to get us out of the way of the entertainers.
I tried to keep my face neutral. It wasn’t easy. This was the man who murdered my dad.
The green army men made a circle in the center of the room. They lifted their guns to their shoulders. The MC announced, “And the enemy is defeated!”
“Get out. Get out now. This is your chance!” Vincent spat as he turned and grabbed my shoulder. He opened a door that was hidden as part of the wall. He thrust me through.
“Consider yourselves conquered by the invading army,” the MC called as the door slammed in my face.
Through the wall, I could hear muffled clapping.
I tried the handle, but it was locked. I looked around me. This seemed to be a staging room of some kind.
I didn’t see another way out.
The clapping turned to screams.
Striker was in there!
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A strafe of gunfire sounded.
I flung myself to the ground as pieces of the plaster wall rained down on my back.
Screams erupted from the reception hall.
Looking up at the holes left behind as quiet descended anew, I noticed that they traced along the top of the wall.
Cover fire.
It was meant to send a message, to gain compliance, to shock the shit out of the people in the room. It wasn’t meant to kill.
I crawled to the door and tried the handle a second time. Locked.
My team was inside.
What was happening?
I scrambled toward an open door at the other end of this space. Dressing room. Not much here of use. A sink, a makeup table and mirror, an empty costume rack with metal hangers. Some janitorial equipment. My purse was back at the table in my clutch where I had been standing when I confronted Lula—Johnna White.
Patting at my bodice, Vincent’s phone was gone.
Crawling on all fours, I scrambled back to where it had fallen out during my dive to safety.
Then back again to the dressing room. From what I could tell, this was behind the dais, so I should be relatively safe from flying bullets.
With my back against the cinderblock wall, I drew the Z that I had seen Vincent draw moments ago. Boom, the phone’s security allowed me in. What was he texting when I got the psychic message of my own?
Greg: Karl, everything’s in place. We’re a go. They’re coming through the doors now.
Karl Davidson?
Karl: He he he. I’m watching on my computer. We have a good feed. It’s worth getting up at the crack of dawn. Enjoy the show. I’d say break a leg, but what I really mean is break some necks.
Karl. He was in Saudi Arabia, where, indeed, it would be the early hours of the morning.
Holy hell. I was pretty clear on who was in that room, Omega Security. After all, William and Karl Davidson had sat on their board prior to the info dump that Spyder had set off last winter, driving their organization out of the country.
Not to say everyone left.
Management had changed locations.
I used every trick in my book to calm my nerves to stay focused and rational. Work the problem. Stay out of the emotional cascade that would drown me in inability. My team needed me.
What this text told me was that Karl was making another run at a billion-dollar inheritance.
Last summer, Karl the psychopath had drugged his sister and thrown her over the rails of the Davidson’s yacht, trying to kill her.
He had headed right for his father’s private island with a vial of poison in his pocket destined for his dad’s evening cocktail.
Instead, Christen, with Gator’s help, survived. She showed up in time to scoop her dad up in her helicopter and get a shot off, aiming for her psychopathic brother. The bullet pierced Karl’s leg, and he was now an amputee with a lot of rage.
Of course, Karl would show up in some manner and try to destroy her wedding.
Thank goodness for London’s pettiness. It kept Christen and Gator safe. If they’d stay away.
A lot had gone on for the Davidson’s last year. William had faced a possible natural death with a tumor scare. London had given birth to a fourth son/fifth heir. And …
London. Oh no.
Karl needed London dead. Was that what was happening here? I tried to think that through. If William and London were killed, there might be an inquiry that might hold up the distribution of the inheritance, but if many were dead in a criminal event…
After London gave birth to their son Archie, William Davidson had significantly adjusted his will. While he said he didn’t believe Karl was trying to kill him, a seed of truth must have been planted.
Christen insisted she wanted nothing to do with the Davidson wealth.
Gator told me that while she was still stationed in the forward operating base in Iraq, she’d had a lawyer draw up papers saying that if anything came her way, she would immediately liquidate the assets and distribute them to charity. She would take no control and have nothing to do with the Davidson wealth.
It was after she presented those papers to her father that the will changed.
Gator told me that William Davidson had sent the new will to Christen, showing her that she was no longer listed as a recipient. Christen's role in the last will would have given her control of her share and that of all of her siblings under the age of thirty. She was supposed to balance Karl’s hot-headed ideas until such time the younger siblings were full adults.
We had all surmised that this would keep Christen safe from a murderous brother.
But what it did was move the crosshairs from Christen to London.
Man!
Okay.
I was here on this side of the wall. They were there on the other.
I had been “saved” by the man who had tried to kill me and who had taken my beloved father.
My brain was working on overdrive, searching for anything that would help me puzzle out a way through.
This was a lot. There was a lot going on.
And I didn’t have time to mull.
I had time for action.
What action could I take in this odd space with no exit…well…?
Shit.
I pushed against emotions that wanted to burst through the barriers of logic.
Stop freaking out and think. Your team needs you.
Outside, Christen and Gator. They wouldn’t be back for, say, an hour. Would they realize something was wrong? Or would they just walk through the doors and be caught up in this horror?
Inside, there were men with skills, Strike Force. Kira’s date, Ty Newcomb, Delta Force Operator. But they weren’t strapped with weapons: eight men and the seven women they loved.
A gun was a gun was a gun.
And while there were indeed superheroes in that room, they were not superhuman.
A bullet could stop them cold.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
That room was full of people I love. My team. My heart, Striker.
I went back to the door, hoping it would give, if even an inch, so that I might see what was happening. Or even if there was a wide enough crack at the bottom so I could shove Vincent’s phone underneath to video like I had when I was surveilling Hanasal.
The answer was an emphatic “no” to both.
Though, from this angle, I could now see a square vent in a strange placement on the wall. Two foot by two foot, it must have been nestled between studs. The metal covering was ornate, I guessed, so that it would blend into the opulence of the ballroom.
I crouched to the height of someone sitting in a chair to look through.
Ah, I knew what this was for.
With no wings on the stage. This space must be where performers prepped and exited to climb the three steps up to the dais. Someone sitting in a chair and monitoring could see the stage and tell folks back he
re when it was their turn to go on.
Taking a knee, I could observe in a limited way. I needed information so I could “work the problem,” as Striker would say. Slow and steady saves her team. Be smart, Lexi. Do it right.
“Where is Christen Davidson?” The MC asked. The fabric stretched across his face obfuscating his features.
My brain pinged back to the CIA, where I had learned about the artist’s use of DNA to create a likeness. There would be nothing to go on once these men left. Their gloved hands would leave no prints, their costume would allow for no accidentally left behind genetic material.
They would get away with this.
“Where is Christen Davidson?” He raised his voice.
Kira timidly raised her hand.
Ty’s face hardened. I had known Ty Newcomb for a while now. But he had just met Kira last week. From the looks of things, the love bug had bitten him hard. Where most people wouldn’t see the subtle shift in his demeanor, I lived amongst men who were or had been special forces operators. Ty was expanding his systems like a bull pawing at the ground, ready to lunge.
Calm. Wait. I sent him soothing vibes, knowing they wouldn’t reach him.
“Christen isn’t here. She went to pick up her mother-in-law and and and and her sisters-in-law. They aren’t here.”
There was a stillness amongst the green Army. This was blowing a hole in their plans.
“Who are you?” MC snarled.
“Me? I’m Kira.”
Steady, Ty.
“And what is your role here?”
“I’m… I’m a guest.”
“You’re Christen’s friend?”
“I met her the other day. She’s not here,” Kira said.
“All right. I’m going to call out names. When you hear your name, you will come forward and form a line.”
“Lexi Sobado.”
I was second up. That was information.
Omega had a score to settle with me. And it had nothing to do with Spyder’s data dump. Omega had come after me two years ago, and in the fight, several of their operators had been killed.