by Toby Neal
He’d left a legal folder, containing directions for her regarding his estate and affairs, and one of them was that if he was gone with no word for longer than a year, she was to initiate legal proceedings to have his Sheldon Hamilton identity declared dead. She’d begun that process, using the information from the jungle massacre to accelerate the seven-year timeline.
Not that she believed for a minute that he was really dead . . .
Sophie shook her head to return to the present moment, and devote her attention to the woman who was composing a difficult email beside her.
Mel Samson read the email out loud to Sophie. “The diamonds have been discovered missing. My boss found a glitch in the surveillance video, and is threatening me with exposure if the stones are not returned in time for the auction. He’s desperate to cover his ass and has promised that if they are returned, I can keep my job. He does not want any publicity, or for this to be discovered and made public. Please get the diamonds back, and we can return them to the vault prior to the auction. I will be able to keep my job and be in a position to help you in the future. I will wait to hear back with next steps.”
“Do you think I sound suitably desperate?” Samson turned Sophie’s way. Even the woman’s breath was tinged with decay.
Compassion softened Sophie’s heart as she took in Samson’s pallor. “Give me a moment to embed a tracker in the email.” She swiveled the laptop toward herself, and in a few keystrokes, downloaded one of her favorite spy programs from the Cloud. She embedded the tracker in a bit of code at the end of the woman’s email, hidden as a bit of punctuation. “I’ll take the computer with me, and monitor this. This email source is likely masked, but we might get lucky. In any case I will try to lure the thief out of hiding and get him to interact with me.”
Samson nodded. They closed up the laptop and Sophie slid it into her own bag, a backpack she used in lieu of a purse.
“Do you want to tell me about your suicide plan?” Suicide was a dark devil that had sat on Sophie’s own shoulder many a time; there was relief in sharing that uneasy burden. Perhaps she could help Samson out of her own painful experience.
“No. You are responsible for more than enough. I don’t want to make you responsible for that knowledge, too.” Samson gestured to the paintings. “I was going to leave these paintings to a museum, but since you admired them . . . which would you like?”
Sophie stared at the beautiful impressionistic land-and seascapes, each of them an original work likely to appreciate. Giving away one’s possessions was evidence of intention to die by suicide; but nothing Sophie said would talk Samson out of it at this point. The woman was dying, and perhaps it would comfort her to know that something of her collection was appreciated.
Sophie pointed. “That one.” Turquoise waves splashed over black volcanic rocks as an oncoming Hawaiian storm lashed palm trees edging the rocks. Sophie could almost feel the spray and the wind, hear the waves. Energy and passion suffused the painting, and Sophie responded to its visceral power with a feeling of excitement.
“A favorite of mine by an up-and-comer named Michael Clements.” Samson smiled, a brief expression that left Sophie wishing she could see more of it. “Take it with you. And if you talk to Childer, tell him that I will try to resolve this mess before I go.”
“I will tell him. Thank you for helping us. And thank you for the painting. I will treasure it, and remember you when I look at it.” Sophie took the art down off the wall. She wrapped the painting in her jacket and tucked it under her arm as Samson dismissed her assistant on a makeshift errand. When Sophie peeked out into the reception area, the room was empty.
She turned back to the woman behind the desk, feeling a profound sorrow. “It’s going to be okay, Ms. Samson.”
That sad smile switched the woman’s pale lips. “Whatever that means,” she said. “Goodbye.”
“I prefer ‘aloha.’” Sophie returned to the desk and leaned down, offering a hug. Samson awkwardly accepted it. Sophie shut her eyes, accepting the smell and touch of oncoming death as part of touching another, however briefly. Death was what made life so sweet . . .
“Aloha, then,” Samson said, and her smile lingered this time as Sophie exited and pulled the door shut behind her.
She headed down to the car to wait for Raveaux, sending him a text about where she would be. Once in the garage, she stowed the painting in the doggy-smelling back of the vehicle under a blanket she used when she took Momi and Anubis to the beach.
She was sitting in the driver’s seat, working her phone, when Raveaux reappeared.
“Childer’s superiors gave us a go for the bigger op,” Raveaux said. “It’s all on you, Sophie, to lure the master thief into the open.”
Chapter Fourteen
Sophie: Day Two, Evening
Ginger and Anubis were feisty and ready to run when Sophie got home, so it was a brisk and energizing trip down to the beach and back before she did her evening check-in with Momi and Armita on Skype, showered, and took another of her reheated casseroles next door to the computer lab to follow up on the email situation with the master thief.
Sophie settled herself in front of one of the racks of monitors set up on a long table in Connor’s former office. The cool, orderly space with its two computer stations and workout area in the corner was unchanged from the days when he had set it up and they had worked there together. She was a little superstitious about changing anything about it, as if to do so would ensure that he’d never return.
The only thing she’d done to alter the space was blow up the arty black and white photo Connor had sent her, early in their relationship, of his perfect, naked body doing a pullup at the bar of the workout area. She enjoyed looking at the photo while she did her own workout breaks.
She was just keeping his chair warm for him. She’d tell herself that as many times as she needed to.
Sophie hooked up Samson’s laptop to a write blocker, beginning the process of duplicating the woman’s entire hard drive and online record. She had routinely copied and worked with mirror constructs of computers at her former job as an FBI tech agent, but it had been a while since she had a rig to tear apart personally. Her fingers itched with eagerness to start digging into Samson’s records—but first, she had to see if the master thief had responded to the email lure they’d sent from Samson’s office.
She was logging into the encrypted email address Samson used when her private phone rang. The highly confidential phone was kept plugged in and stored in this locked office, and only a few people in the world had her number. Sophie’s brows drew together as she picked up the slim silver device off the charger—she didn’t recognize the digits on the caller ID.
“This is Sophie Smithson.”
“Sophie. It’s Connor.”
“Connor!” She sagged backward into the office chair. She would’ve recognized that voice anywhere—though she had first gotten to know him speaking with an Australian accent. “I can’t believe it’s you!”
“Yes, it is I. The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.” The subtle mockery that he often employed on himself filled his voice.
“Well, the paperwork associated with having you declared dead is not greatly exaggerated,” Sophie quipped back. “Where are you?”
“Still at the Yām Khûmkạn stronghold. It’s good to hear your voice.”
Sophie’s heart pounded, and she couldn’t tell if the feeling was apprehension or joy. “I have kept everything going for you. The company is doing better than ever.”
“I never had a doubt. And I trust you are enjoying the CEO’s chair?” Connor sounded teasing.
The company and the CEO job were no laughing matter to her, and irritation replaced Sophie’s initial excitement at hearing from him. “Not enjoying it much, no.” She’d been so overwhelmed at first, trying to fill his considerable shoes at the same time as she got used to being a mother. “I’ve taken an actual case for the first time in two years, and I’m enjoying leavi
ng the office and getting out in the field.” She rubbed the old gunshot scar on her cheek with a trembling hand. “Why are you calling me? Why now, and not . . . so much sooner?” Emotion clogged her throat. “I can hardly believe I’m hearing your voice right now.”
“I love you too, Sophie,” Connor said.
She didn’t like his light tone. Anger flushed her, and Sophie shot to her feet, shoving the office chair back. “You left me here to deal with everything, and now, two years later, you call me out of the blue to make fun of me?”
“I’m sorry. We’re getting off on the wrong foot.” He sounded serious now, contrite. “I do have a reason I’m calling now, and not before this.”
“Speak. I have work to do.” Sophie was riding the steepest emotional roller coaster that she remembered in a long time, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t over yet. She flattened a hand over her thumping pulse. “Tell me what you called to tell me.”
Connor cleared his throat. “I graduated from my study under the Master. That’s one thing. Until now I haven’t had any access to communication equipment, but he named me his successor.”
“I don’t know how to respond to that.” Sophie grabbed the chair for support. “His successor? What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure yet, but he’s left me in charge while he went on a mission for an undisclosed amount of time.” He blew out a breath. “The Master has left the compound, and I have reason to believe he means to rescue your mother from Guantánamo.”
A rush of emotions had brought Sophie to her feet; now, with this shock, her legs gave out. She dropped like a sack of rice into her office chair. “I always thought he would,” she whispered. “I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. And why hasn’t that CIA agent Devin McDonald called me to let me know?”
“I don’t know. Actually, I don’t know much of anything. I have spent the last two years in intensive study and training for eight to ten hours a day. No days off, no weekends. I graduated yesterday, and today he’s gone. The only reason I have any idea where he is at all, is that one of his closest men overheard him talking about sending a team to extract Pim Wat.” Connor gusted out a sigh. “I called to warn you.”
Sophie’s last sight of her mother had been of Pim Wat’s broken, bloodied body being loaded onto a door in lieu of a gurney, and that crude support being settled onto the floor of a CIA helicopter. The chopper had taken Pim Wat from her sister’s house in Thailand to the infamous internment camp. Later, Sophie had learned that she had been treated for severe injuries incurred during her fall down some steep stairs. She had been kept in isolation at the outpost. McDonald, Sophie’s CIA contact regarding her mother and other operations, had been disappointed over the years by Pim Wat’s lack of useful intel. She had gone catatonic soon after her arrival at the camp, unresponsive to any attempt to rouse her for information. Photos Sophie had seen showed Pim Wat shrunken, her silky black hair streaked with white, her face misshapen from the fall.
Sophie had felt nothing when she saw the photos.
She’d felt nothing when she heard her mother was on a feeding tube.
She’d felt nothing until now.
And now, fear and anger warred for supremacy in Sophie, making her chest tight. She breathed in short pants. “Pim Wat cannot be allowed out of that place. She’s dangerous,” Sophie said. “I don’t care if McDonald says she’s been catatonic and looks a hundred years old. I know her. I know what she’s capable of.”
“Agreed. But what’s done is done. The Master’s gone, and so is Pim Wat, unless you hear otherwise from McDonald. I’d get in touch with him right away.”
“What else do you know?” Sophie’s fingers flew as she pulled up McDonald’s email.
“Like I said, not much, just what I could get out of the Master’s manservant—which is that he overheard the Master assigning one of his assassin teams to break her out. I don’t know why the CIA hasn’t called you. Haven’t you been working with them?”
“Hardly. I’ve been rather busy running a multi-million-dollar security company,” Sophie snapped. “But we’ve boosted intel we’ve picked up on our various jobs to the CIA on topics they have asked for us to monitor. My debt to the CIA for their help in getting Jake out is discharged, from my perspective at least, though I have no doubt they’d have a different take on it.”
Connor’s voice was thoughtful. “You and I are each sitting on some of the world’s most powerful online search tools, and yet we have very little information to go on at this point. Until today I didn’t have access to the computer lab at all—but, now the Master’s left me in charge of the compound, and that includes communications. I’ll dig in with the Ghost software and see what I can find.”
“In charge of the stronghold?” Sophie had taken a moment to really process what he’d said. She reeled at this disclosure. “You mean like . . . you’re the leader of the Yām Khûmkạn?”
“Not specifically, no, but he did name me his successor, and I’m in charge here.” Connor’s voice was tight with something: satisfaction? Regret? Pride? Sophie couldn’t tell. “I can’t leave.”
“Oh. Kind of like how I can’t leave Security Solutions since you left me in charge.” Had she meant to sound so bitter?
A long beat went by. Connor cleared his throat again. “How are you and Jake?”
“I am fine. Jake is even better. He just moved to California with Felicia,” Sophie said. Yes, bitter was how she sounded.
“Wait. What? Jake is . . . with Felicia?” Connor’s voice sounded hollow with shock. Dimly, Sophie remembered he’d believed she and Jake were still together during that last, fateful phone call, when he told her he was staying at the Yām Khûmkạn. She hadn’t had the strength back then to explain.
“Jake broke up with me almost as soon as he escaped the compound,” Sophie said, her voice crisp and matter of fact. “He felt betrayed by discovering that you weren’t who you said you were. He—accused me of divided loyalties, of keeping secrets from him. And of course, he was right.” Connor had not only broken her heart once, but again by causing her breakup with Jake. “Thanks for the warning about my mother. I will see what I can find out about Pim Wat from McDonald. I assume this number is a good one to reach you at; I’ll be in touch if necessary.”
Sophie ended the call with a push of a button, and turned off the phone in case he tried to call back. She set the device back on its charger and stared blankly at the wall of monitors.
Pim Wat had been set free by the Master, and Connor was in charge of the Yām Khûmkạn. “What fresh hell is next?” Sophie heard her friend Marcella’s voice in her head.
Marcella. It had been too long since she called her FBI agent friend—they were both so busy. They sparred on occasion at the gym Alika owned in downtown Honolulu; perhaps her friend was available for a workout—and a catch up. Unfortunately, she still couldn’t talk with anyone but Dr. Wilson, her therapist, about the fact that Connor was still alive and well.
Sophie used her regular phone this time. “Marcella. Want to meet me at Fight Club?”
Chapter Fifteen
Connor: Day Two
Sophie had hung up on him.
Connor stared at the phone in his hand. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to get up and punch a wall, drop to the ground and do push-ups, or try to master his rioting feelings through meditation.
He was in control of his mind, body, will, and emotions.
He had just made his body endure unspeakable things in the last days; he could control the pain of this emotional blow, too—but the shock of adrenaline surging through him right now was too powerful to be suppressed.
Connor dropped the phone onto the desk and threw himself to the ground, his fingers spread on the cold stone floor. He powered through push-ups, his arms pistoning like a machine, his body taut as a bowstring.
Down, exhale, up, inhale, down, exhale, up, inhale, down, exhale . . . the rhythm became a meditation that calmed and centered him.
A
long time later, angst discharged, Connor stood back up.
His body was telling him it was hungry and tired, and that he was pushing the limits of his ability to master himself by letting things get too far out of balance.
He hadn’t submitted to the Master for two years to lose so easily what he’d learned.
Connor sat back down at the desk and picked up the latest bowl of food, long gone cold, that Nine had brought in. Closing his eyes, he infused the contents of the bowl with warmth, and allowed his senses to open up and smell the flavors, taste the textures. He scooped the curry and vegetables over rice into his mouth deftly, using chopsticks. “Life is all we have. Time is all we have. How is it of any benefit if we are living in the past, or projecting into the future? If we squander these precious moments with bitterness, judgment, or regret?” The Master’s voice rang in his mind.
Slowly, Connor regained his equilibrium. The food steadied him. Being grounded in the moment centered him.
But every time he thought of the illusion he had lived for, the sacrifice he had made for nothing . . . his belly tightened, threatening to reject the food.
No. It was time for him to admit to himself that he had been drawn to this journey; that he had wanted an excuse to join the Yām Khûmkạn, to study under the Master, and to change his life completely.
Talking to Sophie and feeling guilty about burdening her with the leadership of his company . . . All of that had reminded him that he’d felt trapped when he came to the compound. He had been surrounded by enemies of all kinds, the FBI watching his every move, and he’d been strained by continually living a lie—boxed in by the false identity of Sheldon Hamilton, that fake hipster CEO with his brown contact lenses, immaculate suits, and dyed hair.
The Master had provided him a way out, and had even allowed him to hold onto the illusion that he was a hostage, that he was a hero, giving up his liberty so Sophie and Jake could be together. The Master had known that Connor needed that illusion to justify his selfishness.
