by S A Gardner
Davis jumped on that. “I can recall the team currently in Afghanistan…”
Sir Ashton interrupted him. “I oversaw the training of every combat doctor we have, Steven. I know what they’re capable of. This goes way beyond their capabilities.”
Davis’s silence shouted agreement. He still squirmed. “We can’t entrust such a mission to someone as erratic as St. James.”
Sir Ashton overrode him. “Her very freedom from the limitations of rules is what qualifies her for this mission. It’s what had always made her the most war-ready operative I know.”
Blood rushed to my face, moisture to my eyes. The passion and conviction in his voice, not to mention the content of his words, were at once stunning and gratifying.
So I was still stupid enough to crave his approval. Hell, this had to be what a maiden felt like when a knight defended her honor.
The general’s grunt was eloquent of what he thought of Sir Ashton’s testimony on my behalf. He thought him a soft, besotted fool. “Forgive me if I don’t sanction your opinion of her effectiveness as fact, Sir Ashton. Not when I know she was your pet ward, your pride and joy—until she brought the house down on you.”
“I stepped down, in part in protest of her excessive punishment.”
That brought me up sitting up rod straight.
He had? If this was true, how big a part did said punishment play in his resignation?
Davis’s exclamation overshadowed the momentous revelation. That guy was running a high bill. “She’s still a vigilante who doesn’t care who gets hurt in her crusades.”
Yeah? And did that pompous ass-wipe have statistics of my collateral damages to back those claims? Or was this about the three I’d “killed”? Again?
From our phone conversation, I knew Sir Ashton believed I had control issues, and as such was culpable in the Sudan deaths. But it seemed that had been for my ears only. When he answered, he expressed a totally different opinion.
“If she is the volatile and seditious person you describe, how do you think she could have founded and directed her covert operation without the support and structure of an overseeing organization, for four years now? Not to mention doing it so efficiently her results on the ground surpass yours put together?”
Goose bumps erupted over me again. Anyone hearing him would swear this was his real opinion of me. That he wasn’t just spouting exaggerations to win this debate. But whatever his reasons, hearing him defending me, recognizing my work and worth, was more exhilarating than the first time I skydived.
“So you condone her methods?” Davis said with a sneer.
“No, I don’t.”
Sir Ashton’s snap made me crash land.
Ha. What a gullible duck. To keep falling into the same trap, of believing in him, of needing his validation. Did people ever outgrow their dependencies and idiocies?
“I believe in repairing the system, not in circumventing it, in reinventing the laws, not breaking them.” I was about to yell loud enough for them to hear “Yeah? Good luck with that, Sir Wishful.” when he went on, “But there are times when what I believe in doesn’t matter, or work, or can even cause insupportable damages. This is one of those times when we have to consider the complexity of reality, not the oversimplification of legality. And the reality here is that there’s no one better qualified for the job.”
I melted back against the couch.
Okay. I got it now. He wished I didn’t do what I did. He’d told me as much. He’d stop me if he could. But he was pragmatic enough to accept that sometimes prettier ways weren’t possible. That at times, they could even spell disaster. And though his acceptance of my methods was grudging, he did recognize their value, did consider them the answer in this situation.
The silence following his hardline declarations carried to me louder than anything that had preceded it.
When Davis finally spoke, he sounded cornered. “It remains that GCA doesn’t recruit or collaborate with people who operate outside the law. And no matter what you say about her skills and efficiency, she does.”
“And so does PACT,” Sir Ashton said simply.
“Now wait a minute…” Fitzpatrick barked.
Sir Ashton cut him off. “The only difference between your covert groups is that you have a parent organization, The Order for Peace, and that it spans the world, and most governments let you operate outside of domestic and international laws. You just have more finances, more power, but in the end, you’re both “outlaws” employing any means necessary to get your jobs done. What’s more, in a side by side comparison of funding, resources and manpower in relation to your respective results, Dr. St. James and her team leave PACT in the dust.”
Now, how could I stay angry at that guy? After that speech, if he’d been within arm’s reach, I would have dragged him by his Salvatore Ferragamo cashmere tie and slobbered a kiss over his lean cheek.
The two other men’s reaction wasn’t as favorable. Fitzpatrick grunted something exasperated. Davis exhaled his mounting nervousness.
Sir Ashton went on. “Another fact is that we don’t live in the same world that saw the birth of GCA twenty-five years ago. It is time GCA grew beyond its original constitution, Steven. If we don’t evolve, we might as well admit we’ve failed.”
“And our next step in evolution is the monster you’ve created?” Davis scoffed. “Is this what you’re after? To prove that the woman who was your greatest failure is our only salvation?”
All right. Heard enough. Time to make my move. From now on they’d just bicker.
And they say women talk too much.
I jumped up from the camel-colored, too soft leather couch—hated those, made me slouch and end up with misaligned vertebrae—sauntered across to the ajar door and gave it a tiny shove. It swung fully open.
I paused at the threshold, savoring the moment as the three men turned to me and realized I hadn’t opened the door, just pushed it wider.
Another mega-delicious moment was always to be had when men saw me for the first time, after all the sensational advance reports.
Davis had eyes reminiscent of his namesake, Bette. They bulged even more at my appearance. I could almost hear his mind’s wheels grinding to a screeching halt.
This is Calista St. James?
Five
I knew what this looked like.
A cute but unremarkable young woman. If I wanted, I could pass for the teenager I definitely wasn’t.
At five foot five inches, my height was average even with three-inch heels. The ill-fitting skirt suit barely hinted at the assets and totally hid the power of my honed body. My face was more distinctive if you cared to look. I made sure no one did. Bangs and a placid expression hid a lot. An unusual bone structure still made disguising my features tough. And my honey and silver-streaked hair, still in that braid I could sit on, was hell to brush or to shove beneath wigs. Every time I struggled with it, I wished I’d get it cut. I couldn’t and wouldn’t. Dad liked it.
But my standout feature was my eyes. Exotic, indigo that was almost black, intense. A jarring contrast with my coloring and the rest of me, which was the diluted version of my stunningly angelic mother. Those were my hellraiser Dad’s. Their only hope of obscurity was colored contacts and heavy-duty makeup.
They were what gave men pause, Jake had told me. He’d always talked about my eyes. Waxed poetic even. I’d learned to use them. For misdirection. For fascination. For intimidation.
Apart from that, I was nothing special. It helped me get underestimated, even dismissed. Which suited me fine.
I met Sir Ashton’s eyes. Mid-ocean blue and just as fathomless. Astute, arrogant, amused. And was that a tinge of anxiety, too? Good. He should be anxious. I intended to make them all pay. For then. For now.
“General Fitzpatrick.” I advanced into the room toward him, my hand extended, smile full on, the heels and skirt lending my steps that feminine prowl that made men take notice.
His matte brown eyes round
ed in confusion. And embarrassment. Cowboy, ex-soldier and still sort-of-a-soldier, there was no excuse in his books for not jumping to his feet when a lady entered the room. He struggled up from another slouching couch, a hulk of a man, still in top shape at past fifty, another superior specimen of PACT’s chosen.
I’d been too trivial to notice in the past, had only registered to him when I’d “killed” his agents. That had confused him back then, too. He’d been unable to reconcile the extent of the damages with this irrelevant “li’l lady.” Even so, he’d considered me a liability to be terminated. He’d been the one who’d spearheaded the push for maximum punishment. He’d gotten it.
I shook his impressive hand, held his gaze with an insipid glance that made him even more baffled. When he started to open his mouth, I transferred my focus to Davis. Fitzpatrick had nothing to say that I wanted to hear.
“Dr. Davis.” The man automatically shook my extended hand, and I resisted the urge to squash his soft, sweaty one. Wonder how he delivered babies with those butterfingers. Or held the reins of GCA. Close up, my opinion of him through research, and from the past fifteen minutes was confirmed. What a poor substitute for Sir Ashton. I could be wrong. Nah. Didn’t think so.
Bottle-green eyes filled with curiosity. With the relief of believing I’d pretend I hadn’t heard him calling me names and accusing me of every crime under the sun. My mollifying smile led him on. His sagging, red lips parted in a flaccid smile. Dream on, bub.
“So, Dr. Davis, ready to take notes?”
His lips sagged even more. “Notes?”
“I seem to have scared off your secretary. And since I’m all for guarding against future misunderstandings, it’s a good idea to write down my demands.”
“Demands?”
I turned my eyes on the other two men. Fitzpatrick frowned. Sir Ashton’s eyes flared with interest, his aristocratic head canting to one side. “You hear an echo? Must be the acoustics in this room. If you’re not up to writing, I’ll just give you the bones now. I’m sure among the three of you, you have enough brains to remember their specifics. I’ll send you the contract later.”
Davis’s lips curled. He’d caught on. That I was laughing at his expense. And not joking.
Before any of the three men could say anything, in my best affable expression and sweetest voice I said, “My terms for heading the aid-slash-extraction mission are: One, reinstatement of my medical license, with an APB dispatched to all authorities, in case I have need of my original identity again. Two, renewal of my GCA affiliation, authorizing me to use the organization’s leverage to further my own operations. Three, TOP will get all efforts to investigate my operations ended, any evidence that could lead to them sealed, and any previous or future charges against my manufactured identities or against any member of my team dropped. And four, TOP will facilitate my operations on demand, to my specs, and ‘in perpetuity.’”
Not waiting for a response, I bypassed the two gaping men and an inscrutable Sir Ashton and strolled toward the door.
Once there, I made a half pirouette, then dropped the big one. “Silly me. There’s a five. A tiny financial incentive of say—twenty-five million dollars?”
I got two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
And a fifty-thousand dollar additional “donation.”
No, not from my stuffed-shirt, reluctant recruiters. I’d gotten my supplier after all. Poor guy had had to abort his Caribbean vacation. The arson of his main warehouse and the total destruction of his extensive inventory of “refurbished” equipment had sent him running back. Then I’d welcomed him home.
It had been clear my supplier had thought I’d never catch up with him. But once he’d realized I had—what could I say? It was great once in a while to have such an easy victory. I hadn’t even had to resort to my prepared punishment. Man. I just loved seeing slimeballs shitting themselves in gibbering terror. I lived for those moments.
Now I was headed home. Dank, decaying home.
As usual, the stairs felt they’d crumble beneath my feet as I shuffled my exhausted way up. But their creaking got lost in the noises blaring through the cardboard walls and doors of my dilapidated residence.
On the first floor, Luther’s bone-shattering hip-hop music dominated. On the second, it was Lisa’s and Juan’s usual screeching marathon as their TV blared a sitcom with a manic laughing track. On the third, a family of nine with the oldest kid a twelve year old inhabited a two bedroom apartment, the largest model in the building, and redefined the word cacophony. And so on.
My brain was a cowering mess at the bottom of my skull by the time I neared the fifth floor and my one-bedroom thimble. Why did they do that to themselves?
Themselves? To hell with them. They’d probably inflicted a hearing impairment on themselves long ago. Only that explained their ability to withstand that level of noise pollution. It was those of us with respect for others’ auditory rights and intact hearing who suffered.
It was their good luck that I avoided the police at all costs, or I would have reported them on my first day here. And since I also avoided drawing attention of any sort to me, I could bet good money no one realized I lived here.
A huge thud jarred through my nerves. Groaning, I fished for my sealing wax earplugs. My neighbors were still warming up for the night and I needed my five-hour coma, now.
Stuffing my ears, I sighed my instant relief as the world receded. I zipped my bag of tricks, gave it a loving pat. It contained the check for the quarter mil I’d paid for the angio machine—and another fifty thousand in cash, my supplier’s apology for his “oversight.” I’d graciously accepted it.
By the time I was done with him, he’d probably be poor enough to warrant our services. It was a good idea to get something off of him before lawyers and debtors took it all. Lucia and Ishmael had done a great job setting up the arson. I hadn’t been bad myself.
I grinned in the dimness. All in a day’s work.
Opening my door, I stepped inside, wading in that surreal dimension of exhaustion and hearing deprivation. I decided to go for broke, complete the sensory stasis. Without turning on the lights, I crossed the clear path from my bare-necessities sitting room to my likewise lone bedroom. I needed darkness. Vacuum. Cessation of all stimuli.
Yeah. Good luck with that, when the neighborhood shops’ on-off neon lights were conquering my shoddy shutters even from five levels down.
My sigh was amplified in my ears as I bent to my nightstand for a sleep mask. I hated sleep masks. I lived with them anyway.
Putting it on, I exhaled in excruciating relief.
Ah, alone. For real. At last.
Next moment, freed from all distractions, I felt it.
I was not alone.
Six
My heart gave my ribs one brutal kick.
I almost gasped with the pain. I bit down hard on the burst of panic. No time for it.
No time to regain my vision, either. Not advisable. Snatching off the sleep mask would lose me my only edge, his security that I didn’t know he was there.
Yes, he. It was a man. In the singular. Hard not to know that with his male aura deluging me. It told me a lot about him. Vigorous, huge, not too young. Angry.
It said much about my priorities that my main alarm was that someone had found me out. Not that I had a hulking intruder I’d pissed off that much, who could do me serious bodily harm, or worse. Nightmarish scenarios of exposure shrieked in my mind. My team’s. If someone had found out who I was and where I lived, they’d be next. I had to end this threat. Even if I died doing it.
But no need to write my epitaph just yet. Since he hadn’t blown my brains yet, no doubt to terrorize and toy with me first, I’d turn this around. This guy would regret coming here. Would regret not killing me outright. While he survived, that was.
To survive myself, I had to act, now. Couldn’t waste time. Hadn’t yet. Only seconds had passed since I’d realized he was here. Time always slowed down for me in
potentially lethal situations. I’d been in too many to know the pattern.
Now focus. Pinpoint his location.
Didn’t need to see to do that. Not after the long, brutal training in simulations of all possible ambush and combat situations. Total darkness had been one sim I’d excelled in. Colleagues had accused me of having bat genes.
But it wasn’t that radar-like sense that showed me his exact position. It was something else other senses recognized, a vibe, overpowering and pure…
Shut up. Just put that knowledge to use.
Forcing my body to relax, to flow in the unguarded movements of someone secure in her solitude, I went through the motions of preparing for bed. Started with taking off the wig and mini dress. Double-edged move. Freeing my self of their hampering and trapping at least a part of his focus on my body.
But even distracted by so much exposed female flesh, if I reached for my bag with my mask on, he’d wise up. Even if he didn’t, and I could pull my gun, he could shoot me first….
Stop. Do what you always do when the odds are against you. Just do it.
Pretending to stretch, I breathed in then out, let instinct and ingrained conditioning blank mental process, hop into the driver’s seat. I had no idea what I’d do next.
I knew just what I’d do next.
From total inertia, I exploded into a forward somersault, landed in a tight ball on my bed, unfolded, launched with the completion of the motion and the hard spring of the mattress. I expended the momentum of my violent move just where I’d directed it. A double-footed ram, right at his crotch level.
The collision with what felt like a brick wall rebounded up my feet, through my every bone, clattering my teeth. I bit my tongue.
“Shit.”
That was what I thought he’d shouted through the earplugs. Not that I could hear much beyond the harsh breathing filling my head like an electric saw, and the heartbeats spiking into body-rattling booms.