by Jillian Dodd
“Josh! They’re saying you killed the President! Why would they say that?”
“They know that I’m not dead—that I escaped. They’re manipulating the press to try to find me.”
“You think Black X has the power to manipulate the entire country?”
“But it makes sense that I shot the President of the freaking United States? The country I have trained to serve?”
“No. Merda. This is a mess.”
“What am I going to do? If they find me, they’ll kill me.”
“I think I know where we need to go,” I say, a plan coming together in my head.
I check my speed. The last thing we need right now is to get pulled over.
I hold my hand up, thinking, running through all I know and wondering if I’m correct in believing Josh as I drive toward the one man who might be able to help him. Once I’m on the highway and headed to my destination, I put the SIM card back in my phone and turn it on. I don’t know if I’m being tracked, but it’s probably best not to appear off grid right now.
When we arrive at the upscale mall, Josh looks at me like I’m nuts. “I know you’re driving a Ferrari and have loads of money, but maybe now is not the best time for shopping?”
I park near the store’s back exit, grab the business card, run my hands through Josh’s hair so it sticks up artfully, and say, “Just follow my lead.”
“You’re not turning me in, are you?”
“I hope not.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.”
We go into the boutique, where we are immediately greeted. I flash the card. “I have an appointment with Mr. Gallagher at four.”
The sales clerk studies us with a calculating glare, and I’m praying she hasn’t seen the news.
“Follow me,” she finally says, then proceeds to lead us to a dressing room, which she unlocks. “Wait in here.” She shuts the door, inserts the key, and locks us in the room.
“She knows,” he says, looking panicked. “She’s locked us in and is going to call the cops.”
“Shh. Stop worrying. You know we could pick that lock in a heartbeat.”
“Do you still have my gun? Are you armed?” He smiles. The first time since he found me at school. “Not that you need to be.”
We turn when we hear a scraping noise and see the trendy reclaimed wood wall behind us slide open.
“Is this your secret headquarters?” he asks, his eyes getting huge. “How cool.”
The parting of the wall reveals an elevator. We step inside, noticing there are no numbers for us to push. When the doors reopen, Intrepid is waiting.
“You were supposed to come alone,” he chastises.
“I’m going to dinner at the Montrovian Embassy tonight and need a cute clutch to match my gown.”
Gallagher lets out a chuckle, shakes his head at me, and leads us to an office. “So who is your friend?”
“Have you seen the news? Apparently, he killed the President.”
Gallagher’s eyes bulge. “What?”
“Turn on the television.”
He clicks a remote and is immediately rewarded with a photo of Josh. The announcer reports that Josh was sentenced to prison a few years ago but never showed up for his term. That there is an outstanding warrant for his arrest, and he is to be considered armed and dangerous. Then some theory that he made his way to Syria where he was trained by a terror group and sent back to kill the President.
Gallagher twirls a pen in his hand and watches the television with amusement. “That’s all pretty convenient, isn’t it? The evidence all laid out? So how do you know him, and why did you bring him here?”
“Do you remember when I told you I work for Black X?”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about today. I hadn’t heard that name in years.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I believe the case had something to do with the Georgia Guidestones—have you heard of them?”
Josh and I shake our heads.
“How it was erected and who paid for it is a mystery, but the large monument appeared in 1980, is reminiscent of Stonehenge, and is said to be a guide for our future world. The most widely agreed-upon interpretation is that the Stones describe how to rebuild the world after some kind of massive, devastating population reduction, possibly nuclear war. Conspiracy theorists believe it was put up by a group whose goal it is to create this new world.”
“How will they do that?” Josh asks, enthralled.
“That’s where we get into the conspiracy theories. Mostly revolving around the first guide, which is to maintain humanity under five hundred million. Considering the world population is currently at somewhere around seven billion, that would mean a ninety-three percent reduction. Conspiracy theorists say we are being poisoned by fluoride in our water, chem-trails, genetically modified grains, soft drinks, fast food. You name it, there’s a conspiracy theory about it. But most of them lead to something called ‘The Great Culling,’ which is believed to be—now this is where it gets a little crazy—something planned by either Satan, the Illuminati, the Masons, the very wealthy, or aliens—depending on the theory—as a way to wean out the weak gene pool and to allow only the strong, or possibly the very rich, to survive. Black X was the name of a study that was trying to discover if there was any truth to the theories. I couldn’t remember much more or what the outcome was, so I looked it up in our database.”
“What did you find out?”
“Nothing. Not one single thing. Which in and of itself is very odd. We British pride ourselves on our due diligence. If I heard it in the office, someone would have documented it.”
“Are you saying it was purposefully deleted or classified higher than your pay grade?”
“I have the highest security clearance there is. And because I am curious by nature, I had our men hack into the database at Langley. Also, came up empty. How did you come to work for Black X?”
“Are you going to document what I tell you in your database?”
“No. Our conversation is off the record.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Josh interrupts. “More than likely everything we’ve said so far has been recorded. Don’t tell him, X. We shouldn’t trust him.”
“Did he just call you X?”
I nod. “Are you recording us?”
“No. You have my word.”
“I don’t trust him,” Josh says.
I level my gaze at Intrepid then turn to Josh. “You have no choice but to trust him. Because I already do.”
I know I should hold back and tell him only what he needs to know, but I don’t. I give him the condensed version of everything from my mother’s death forward, ending with the massacre at our school, what I overheard the Director of the CIA say, and the conspiracy theories on my mother’s locket.
He listens intently, clearly absorbing it all and combining his knowledge to come to a conclusion. I expect him to have something profound to say, some way to figure this all out.
Instead, he says, “Was your mother Charlotte Cassleberry?”
“Yes, did you know her?”
“I did not know her personally, but I do remember hearing about an American agent being assassinated and how they never found her daughter. It was heartbreaking to those of us in the business.” He studies the ceiling. “The CIA couldn’t find you and presumed you were dead. They didn’t want to admit two of their best agents were killed on their home turf, so they covered it up by saying you all died in an automobile accident.”
“I think so.”
“So let me get this straight—a man who was a friend of your father sent you to this school and trained you—”
“He didn’t train me. He just sent me there. I only saw him a few times.”
He keeps going. He’s on a roll now. “Your call sign was X, and you now work for Black X, who just killed off all the students at your school, so as not to blow your cover and when they realized Josh, here, was still alive
they framed him for the murder of the President?”
“Sounds crazy, but yes, that’s correct.”
“What is your current mission?”
“I was told a mission was forthcoming, but I’ll be going after the man who assassinated the President.”
“How will you be notified?”
“I’m not sure. Protecting Lorenzo was my very first mission, and I received that in writing at my school.”
My phone buzzes, causing me to glance down. An unknown number has sent me a text containing only a link. I double check that my secure network is enabled and click on it.
A blank page with no apparent web address appears. When I scroll down the page, there is a message.
Your mission, should you choose to accept it:
Track down the assassin who killed the President of the United States, uncover who paid for the hit, and eliminate the assassin.
When I hold it up for Intrepid to read, the message disappears.
“What did it say?” he asks.
“They want me to find out who paid for the hit on the President and eliminate the assassin. Does that mean they want me to find Josh and kill him?”
“That’s awkward,” Josh deadpans.
“I need to get in touch with them.”
I call my emergency protocol number, and after a series of clicks, someone answers. The voice is distorted, so I have no idea if it’s a man or woman.
“Your authentication code?”
I recite it.
“What do you need?”
“I received a mission and need clarification.”
“Please hold.”
I put the phone on speaker so Josh and Intrepid can hear.
A slightly different mechanical voice fills the room. “X, your mission is clear.”
“So, I’m supposed to kill Josh?”
“That was a bit of misdirection. Don’t worry about Josh. We have him safely hidden away. We want to give you time to get to the assassin without interference from other agencies.”
“So other agencies don’t know who the real assassin is?”
“Not yet.”
“It feels like there is something you aren’t telling me. What aren’t you saying?”
“I’m saying it’s in your best interest to follow orders.”
“Yes, but I can’t do my job if I don’t have the necessary background information.”
“In this business, it’s always wise to watch your back. As I taught you, the business is built on lies.” No shit. He’s already lied to me twice during our very short conversation.
“You taught me? Is this the Dean?”
“Yes.”
“What if I want to stop being Huntley? What if I refuse this mission?”
“I’m afraid that role is now your destiny.” Meaning if I don’t keep being Huntley, they’ll kill me too?
“Did Black X kill Ares Von Allister so we could become his heirs?”
“No.”
“Can I trust you?”
“What did I teach you?”
“To never trust anyone.”
“And with that I will end our call.”
“Wait. The assassin who killed the President, does he have a name?”
“The Priest.”
“You made me study him.”
“With good reason.”
“Because he killed my mother?”
“Yes,” he says. The phone beeps indicating that he ended our call.
“Obviously, I’m being lied to,” I state. “What if I’m working for the bad guys?”
“I don’t think you are,” he says. “Our agency intercepted a call. The call that sent me to Montrovia in the first place.”
“What did it say?” Josh asks.
“It starts in Montrovia.”
“What starts?” I ask.
“That’s what I was tasked to find out. Whoever you work for could very well be trying to stop a threat that is much bigger than the Prince of a small country.”
“So should I go after the assassin?”
“Of course you should. That’s what you wanted, right? To exact revenge.”
“Yes, but I didn’t expect it to be my second mission. What if I can’t do it? He’s supposed to be the best.”
“Will your brother receive the same mission?”
“I don’t know. In Montrovia, I was told to eliminate the people responsible for the threat. He was not. I’m their assassin, not Ari.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” both Josh and Intrepid ask at the same time.
I shake my head. “No. I studied The Priest. He works alone. And I probably need to face him alone.” I turn to Intrepid. “Can you keep Josh safe?”
“Absolutely.” He stands and says to Josh, “You look like you could use food, a shower, and some shut eye.”
He escorts Josh out of the room then comes back and sits down across the table from me.
“Is Josh as well-trained as you are?”
“Josh is a daredevil, seemingly not afraid of anything. But today at school, he was very afraid—which is understandable—but I overtook him easily. At school, he was more of a challenge. He also told me his real name, something we weren’t ever supposed to do. I think he could be a good agent, but I’m not sure I’d want him out in the field with me yet. What will you do with him?”
“Until the manhunt is over, we’ll keep him hidden away and safe. After that, I was thinking about offering him a job. He’d start at the bottom, like we all do. I suspect he has a lot of potential.”
“I can’t believe they killed everyone. I feel so guilty.”
“Whoever Black X is, they have gone all in on you and your brother. That’s quite the gamble.” He studies me. “Although after seeing what you are capable of, I understand why. What I don’t understand is the high profile.”
“Me either.”
“And why would someone hire an assassin to kill the President? Less than five minutes after he died there was another President to take his place. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Your new President was in on it.”
Daniel’s father is a bad guy? No way.
But then I wonder.
“Daniel introduced me to Lorenzo, but he also tried to keep me away from him. He showed up at my villa at random times and showed up on the yacht without an invite.”
Intrepid tilts his head, thinking. “Let me make some inquiries and get back to you.”
“Okay,” I say. “Do you think Lorenzo is still in danger?”
“I would say absolutely.”
“Do you know any talented men who would be interested in being one of the King of Montrovia’s bodyguards?”
“I might, actually.”
“Get in touch with Juan. He’s going to start looking for a new team.” I check the clock on my phone. “Crap. I gotta go. I have an Embassy dinner tonight.”
“The wheels of the political machine keep spinning even on the day of the President’s funeral, huh?”
I shrug. “Apparently.”
“I’ll walk you out. We need to pick you out a bag on the way, otherwise your trip here may seem suspicious.”
We exit from the dressing room, and Gallagher takes me through the store, chooses two evening bags from the store’s extensive collection, pays for them himself, and then walks me to my car.
“Seriously, Huntley, if you need anything, let me know.”
“I brought you Josh.”
“Does that mean you trust me?”
“Spies aren’t supposed to trust each other,” I state.
“True. But you’re different from most spies I know.”
I roll my eyes at him and get in the car. I start it and then roll down the window. “You’re right, I am.”
I get home, quickly freshen up, and meet Lorenzo down in the study.
He’s wearing a trim-fit suit and his hair is slicked back.
“You look beautiful,” he says, taking in my red A-lin
e cocktail dress with almost regal looking gold metallic embellishments.
“Thank you. You look beautiful yourself.”
He puts his head down and blushes slightly. It’s adorable.
“I have a gift for you.”
“What for?”
“To celebrate your knighthood.” He hands me a white box tied with a lush, black velvet ribbon.
I open it.
“Is this a crown?”
“Actually, it’s a coronet.”
“It looks like a crown.”
“It’s not a crown. A crown is what I wore at my coronation. Crowns have high arches and are worn only by royalty. A coronet symbolizes nobility.”
“What about tiaras?”
“Tiaras are a type of crown, as is a coronet, but a tiara has a semi-circular base as opposed to a full one. And there are different styles of tiaras for different occasions. When we are back in Montrovia, we can revisit the Royal Vault where I will show you the intricate variations. But for now—may I?”
I nod, so he places it on my head, then stands back and takes me in. “Perfection.”
“You shouldn’t have bought me this.”
“Oh, I didn’t,” he says with a grin. “It’s a tradition. The country gives them out to its newest nobility.”
“You forget I am trained in deception indicators. You paused your speech and touched your eyebrow. You’re lying to me.”
He gives me a smirk. “Fine. It is a gift from me, Contessa.” He holds out his elbow. “Shall we go?”
The Montrovian Embassy is gorgeous and screams old world wealth. After cocktails and introductions in the main floor salon, we are taken to the fifth floor ballroom for dinner. The room features what must be centuries-old chandeliers, lush gold velvet draperies, and a domed, stained glass ceiling.
Lorenzo and I are seated in a place of honor with the Montrovian Ambassador and the Danish Prince. There is just one long table set up in the middle of the room as there are only about thirty in attendance, one of whom is not Aleksandr Nikolaevich. Guess the CIA doesn’t know everything.
After a wonderful five-course dinner, a dessert station is rolled into the room, featuring handmade crepes with numerous fillings.
