by Sonja Stone
A flicker of hope sparked in her chest. Maybe her dad was a scout. If he’d filed his reports but the CIA hadn’t moved fast enough, that would explain the trail of bodies.
That made more sense. No way was the man calling himself her father a field-rated officer. He didn’t know how to fight. He didn’t even own a gun.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Jack asked, pulling into the parking lot of the resort.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you flunk.” She applied a fresh coat of lip gloss.
“That’s not what I meant,” Jack said.
Nadia flipped up the visor. “I’m fine. You?”
“Just trying to keep my head in the game.” He surveyed the crowded parking lot. “Here are your comms. Remember to only use code names. Never break protocol. Treat this as an actual mission. I have to file a detailed report, and I want it to be absolutely professional.”
She inserted the device into her ear. “So I shouldn’t hum the Mission Impossible theme song as I’m working?”
Jack smiled tightly. “Right. You’ve got this. Sorry, I just need everything to go smoothly. My final operational report is due tomorrow.”
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?”
“The dates and times were predetermined,” he said.
“Stop worrying. It’ll be fine. See you in a few.” She climbed out of the car and slammed the door.
RIGHT NOW
Minutes from committing her third felony of the semester, Nadia enters the lobby of the Scottsdale Ritz-Carlton, a half hour ahead of schedule. Immediately she turns right, following the predetermined route down the marbled hall. She lowers her chin as she passes reception to avoid the sightline of the cameras mounted above the desk.
At the bank of elevators, she waits for a vacant car. As she’s reaching for the button to the seventh floor, an elderly man in a dark suit catches the door. Nadia stalls as he makes his selection.
He presses eleven, then turns to her. “And for you, miss?”
“Twelve, please,” she says.
Thirty seconds later on the twelfth floor, Nadia steps onto the midnight-blue carpet and moves silently toward the exit sign. Glancing over her shoulder, she enters the stairwell. She jogs down five flights to the seventh floor.
Before leaving the stairwell, she leans against the wall to catch her breath. Her stomach feels like a snarled fishing line, though her nerves have nothing to do with the mission.
The real issue: her father might be an assassin. Her entire life is a lie.
She sighs and pulls open the heavy door leading to the hall. Around the corner, she finds room 760. Nadia slides her keycard into the lock. The lock flashes red and beeps twice. She tries again—still no luck. The third time she slows, carefully inserting the card. A single beep chimes as the light on the lock flashes green. She cracks the door.
“Housekeeping,” she softly calls. No answer, so she slips through.
Inside the room, a thick white duvet covers the king-size bed. A chocolate rests on each pillow. A small toiletries kit sits on the dresser, a metal briefcase on the bed, a half-empty suitcase opened on the valet stand.
Clever details. Whoever staged the mission did a nice job lending authenticity with the personal items.
She touches her ear, bringing her comms to life. “Boy Scout, this is Wolverine. I’m in.”
Jack’s voice resonates in her ear. “Copy, Wolverine. Proceed.”
The light switch by the dresser activates the floor lamp. Nadia retrieves the memory card from her purse. Her op-specs instructed that she hide the tiny device in the target’s possessions, preferably somewhere he’ll never look.
She moves to the suitcase on the valet. The luggage tag reads OLIVER WESTLAKE. Running her fingers along the fabric lining, she finds the perfect spot—between the plastic back and the metal support bar. She unzips the silk, wedges the storage card into place, and reseals the zipper.
After a visual sweep of the surfaces to confirm she’s left nothing behind, Nadia checks the peephole to see if the hall is clear. A man with a shaved head walks toward her room from the direction of the elevators.
Nadia steps away from the door and taps her comms. “Boy Scout, traffic in the hall. I’ll be down in ten.”
“Copy that. See you soon.”
A few seconds later she leans against the door to have another look. The peephole’s gone dark—something obstructs her view. It takes her a moment to realize someone’s at the door.
A keycard slides into the lock. Her heart flies to her throat as the door beeps twice—red light.
Bathroom, shower, under the bed. The options race through her mind. Closet.
The plastic card slides into the lock again, then a single beep.
The doorknob turns. He’s coming in.
Nadia slips inside the closet and pulls the slatted doors closed just as he enters the bedroom. She holds her breath as his shadow crosses the door, then curses herself for not throwing the deadbolt.
A thunk as he moves the briefcase from the bed onto the dresser.
Her eyes widen as she strains to hear over the pounding of her heart. She runs through possible scenarios: she’s in this man’s room; he came home earlier than expected. But it’s a mock mission—she assumed the school booked a room just for this exercise, that the suitcase and toiletries kit were props. Why would they have her break into a civilian’s room and plant something in his luggage?
The ironing board hanging in the closet presses painfully against her back. As she shifts her weight, the board brushes the wall. She freezes.
The scent of his cologne hits her a second before his shadow darkens the door. His hand reaches for the knob. He opens the closet.
His face registers surprise, then…what? Recognition?
Six feet, shaved head, broad shoulders, slightly crooked nose. Light eyes—blue, maybe. Black t-shirt, jeans, sneakers. Late twenties, muscular, handsome.
Totally normal.
Except for the gun pointing at her heart.
Damon waits until 1500 hours—the shift change—before entering the ground floor of the Ritz-Carlton through the employee’s entrance. He follows the crew toward the locker rooms, then veers left and through the door marked LAUNDRY. He grabs a bellman’s uniform from the rack and slips into the restroom to change.
A few minutes later, dressed in his freshly pressed uniform and cap, Damon turns his attention to the maids.
He starts looking on the second floor. Hallway after hallway, then up the flight of stairs to the next floor. Finally, on five, he finds a housekeeper’s cart. Damon snatches the clipboard from the cart and goes inside the room.
“Hello?” he calls. The housekeeper comes out from the bathroom with an armload of towels. “I’m sorry to bother you, but today’s my first day. Can you help me?” He moves back so she can access the doorway. Less threatening, which will make him less memorable.
“What do you need?” She steps into the hall and deposits the dirty towels into the canvas bag attached to her cart.
He holds up the clipboard and moves to her side. “This guest, can you tell me if they’re checking out today?” As she reviews the papers, he cuts the plastic coil securing her master key to her apron and palms the keycard.
“Is this mine?” she asks, indicating the clipboard. He nods. “You don’t need this. Just go down to the lobby and ask the head bellman where you should be.”
“Oh, okay.” Damon keeps his eyes on the clipboard, scanning the guest registry until he finds the name listed on McGill’s computer: Oliver Westlake, room 760. “Thanks for your help. The system here is a little different from the last place I worked.”
“Good luck,” she says, taking a stack of fresh towels into the room.
Back in the stairwell, Damon takes the steps two at a time. He stops on the sixth floor; he’ll make it look like he’s working his way up. He knocks on the door closest to the stairwell and, when no one answers, uses his newly acquired master key
to let himself in. A quick search of the drawers nets fifty-seven dollars and a pair of gold earrings. The safe is locked, and he doesn’t bother cracking it. He checks the peephole before moving on to the next room.
All told, Damon hits eight rooms on the sixth floor. Including his take from the Plaza earlier this morning, he’s scored about seven hundred in cash, a few pieces of jewelry, and a gold watch. He doesn’t take the credit cards or passports. He checks the time, then heads back to the stairwell to get to the seventh floor. According to McGill’s calendar, he’s right on schedule. And after striking out in Baton Rouge, saving Nadia is, once again, his top priority.
Damon surveys the hallway, making sure he’s alone. He takes the 9mm from his shoulder holster and tightens the silencer on the muzzle. Out of habit, he drops the magazine, checks that it’s full, reinserts, and racks the slide. He slips the master key into the lock as quietly as possible and pushes open the door.
Nadia lies face down on the navy carpet, fingers interlaced behind her head.
She arrived early.
A shadow moves around the corner by the bed. The dim lamplight catches the glint of gunmetal.
Damon fires two shots before he’s taken a full step into the room. Both bullets land near the man’s heart. A fraction of a second later, the assassin hits the floor. Damon quickly crosses the room and kicks the gun from the man’s hand. The hitman gurgles as his lungs fight for air. He looks at Damon, utter surprise on his face.
Behind him, Nadia stirs. “Stay down,” he says gruffly, attempting to alter his voice.
The gunman struggles, gasping for life. Damon points his weapon at the man’s shaved head and fires again. The wheezing stops. Damon searches the hitman’s pockets until he finds what he needs: the photograph of Nadia that McGill provided. Blood smears the edges.
In the now-empty pocket, Damon places a wad of cash and a few pieces of the stolen jewelry. He moves toward Nadia, stops just behind her. He’s about to yank her up, drag her out the door, when he notices the tiny comms device tucked into her ear. Dammit.
Jack.
Has she bugged the room? Is anyone else listening? The comms in her ear might be on a live-feed. Jack might’ve heard everything. Damon shakes his head—he doubts it, she probably turns them on as needed. But if she doesn’t check in, Jack will come looking for her. Damon briefly considers destroying the comms, but that’ll result in a stream of static, which will certainly attract Jack’s attention. He might assume the equipment malfunctioned, nothing more, but that’s a gamble Damon can’t afford.
Make a decision. Damon plucks the device from her ear. He presses his foot against her shoulder. Using the same altered tone as before, he says, “Count to one hundred.”
She starts counting and Damon leaves the room. He drops her comms by the door.
He sprints down four flights of stairs before she bursts into the stairwell and yells after him. He pushes himself harder to reach ground level, silently willing her to follow. If she doesn’t, Damon will miss his last chance to save his mother.
He hits the landing and pushes open the side door to the parking lot. Damon tosses the remaining jewelry and the watch inside the dumpster by the door, then shoots back inside, tucking himself beneath the stairs.
Then he waits.
For a few seconds it seems like part of the drill, part of the mock mission. Plans go sideways all the time. She needs to train for situations like this. But then she remembers this is Jack’s mission, not hers, and comms are off, and unless he saw this guy enter the room—which she knows he hasn’t, because he’s parked at the far end of the lot—something has gone terribly wrong.
Blood roars through her ears—she barely hears the man say, “Face down on the floor, hands behind your head.”
Nadia kneels on the carpet. Even if he didn’t have a gun pointed at her, he isn’t close enough to strike. She lowers herself onto her stomach and laces her fingers behind her head. Her heart pounds against her ribs like a hummingbird. She puts her head to the ground.
This has to be about her father. His lies have gotten her killed.
Metal scrapes metal as he racks the slide on his gun.
A soft beep filters through the noise in her head—is that the door? Then two muffled chirps—shots from a silenced gun. She holds her breath and waits for the searing pain.
It never comes.
A thud as a body hits the ground.
Nadia lifts her head an inch off the carpet.
The man with the gun lies crumpled on the floor. The wet wheezing of his breath churns her stomach. A second man stands in front of him: bellman’s pants, black leather loafers. Before she raises her head further, the second man says, “Stay down.”
Her eyelids close against the soft light of the room. The cloying floral smell of the carpet cleaner overpowers the odor of burnt smoke from the fired gun. She wonders if Jack will fail his mission, or if she’ll see him again.
This shouldn’t have happened. He should’ve had her back.
Seconds, minutes, hours later, a weight presses into her shoulders. Then the second man speaks again. His voice has changed, softened. “Count to one hundred.”
It sounds like an old friend, like something from a dream.
“One, two, three,” she begins. The bedroom door closes. The voice, its gentleness, reminds her of something, but the memory is elusive and the room is closing in and the dead body lies a few feet away and she can’t breathe.
She focuses on the numbers.
When Nadia reaches ten, she looks up at her lifeless companion. Dark liquid seeps into the carpet, spreading from his body like spilled ink. Still counting, she pulls herself up and crawls toward him. His open eyes are fixed on the ceiling, unmoving. His head is turned away from her; he has a bullet hole behind his ear.
Somewhere in the corner of her thoughts, she realizes she should be more upset. The body, though…it looks fake. Like in the movies. Again she considers that this is part of the drill.
But two tentative fingers on his neck confirm death.
This guy had been ready to kill her. He’d pointed his gun, ordered her down, and racked his slide.
Then the bellman saved her life.
Nadia stops counting and pushes herself off the floor. If the bellman wanted her dead, she’d be dead. Without checking the peephole, she throws open the door—elevators to the left, stairs around the corner to the right.
She turns right and sprints down the hall, reaching the corner just as the stairwell door closes. Nadia follows the bellman down the stairs; he hugs tight to the inside, his gloved hand gripping the railing. Something about him seems familiar. His concise, deliberate movements, the smooth speed he uses to navigate the stairs. No. It can’t be.
“Hey!” she yells.
He gains speed, increasing the distance between them. When she reaches the third floor landing, a flash of light from the streetlamp outside floods the stairwell as he pushes through the exterior door and out into the night.
Taking the steps two at a time, Nadia forces herself to move faster.
As she hits ground level at full velocity, someone tackles her from behind. She’s thrown to the ground under the weight of her assailant. Nadia fights against his force before she registers what’s happened.
“Stop it,” Damon says. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Said the spider to the fly.” She struggles against him, tries to free an elbow, a knee, anything to land a blow. He wraps his legs around hers, pins her arms against her torso. Even at maximum exertion, she can’t move an inch. She feels Damon relax slightly, just enough so she’s not crushed.
“When you settle, I’ll let go,” he says.
“You just killed someone!” She keeps fighting, more out of spite than any thought she can overpower him. Her muscles fatigue rapidly. After a few minutes she sighs, and then relaxes her body.
“That’s better,” he says.
“I see you’re still alive.”
�
��Nothing gets past you.”
“Get off me,” she demands.
He slowly releases his grip, and she scrambles to her feet. He rolls onto his knees. “And you’re welcome for saving your life, by the way.”
She opens her mouth to argue but stops herself. Reluctantly, she says, “Thank you.” Then, after a beat, “Was that about my father? Did you know about my family? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t I tell you? Because I care about you. I never wanted you to see that. I was hoping to spare you.” He sighs. “And no, that had nothing to do with your family.”
“Then who—”
“Here.” Damon pulls a stack of pictures from his jacket pocket. He hands her the one on top, a couple sitting in the window at a restaurant. It’s taken from outside, like a surveillance photo. Ms. McGill and the dead man upstairs. Nadia glances at Damon.
“She ordered a hit on you. I followed her and she met with this guy.” He gestures to the picture. “She paid him for the contract on your life. I watched her do it. See?” Damon passes her the remaining pictures.
She flips through three more of McGill and the hitman. But the last is a close-up of Nadia, the picture taken on her first day at school—the day she met Dean Wolfe and learned the truth about the Academy. McGill must’ve found it in Nadia’s recruit file. The edges are smeared with blood.
Damon continues. “McGill gave that one to the assassin. I just took it off his body. That’s his blood.”
Nadia drops the stack and wipes her hands on her hips. “I don’t understand. Why would McGill want to kill me? And how did you know about it?” Is this another one of his manipulations?
“Dean Wolfe,” he says, as though that clarifies everything.
“What about him?”
“Look.” Damon flips through the stack. “Here—it’s stuck.” He peels two pictures apart and holds one up. Wolfe and McGill on the deck of a cruise ship, arms around each other. “I went to the hospital in Tucson to try and wake him. I thought he might know where my mom’s being held. Let’s just say it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. McGill came to sit vigil as he died. I could tell they were together, so I followed her, figuring if she was anything like me, you’d be in big trouble.”
