A few minutes later, Alexandra and Dylan joined them in the large dining room around a large table. As they took their seats, Dylan’s eyes darted back and forth between George-Phillip and his daughters.
“Wait a minute, I just thought of something. If he’s your dad,” Dylan said, waving a hand in George-Phillip’s direction. He grinned. “Wouldn’t that make the two of you … Princesses?”
“Dylan,” Carrie said. “That’s … ridiculous.”
“It’s not really,” George-Phillip said. “I’m styled Prince because my grandfather was George VI. But I’m extremely far outside of the line of succession. Jane is not considered a Princess, but she will inherit the title of Duchess. I’m truly not certain where the two of you will fall. To some extent that will be up to Her Majesty to decide when we make your parentage public. You’ll certainly want to come to London.”
Andrea slowly shook her head. “Neither of us are citizens of the United Kingdom.”
George-Phillip smiled. “I promise you, we will sort that out. I’m not sure the time is right to make it public, however.”
“Why not?” Dylan asked.
“I want to ensure that you are all safe first. Andrea and Dylan, I believe you should both remain here for the time being, at least until we can sort out whether or not you’ll be charged in relation to the attack on the condominium.”
Andrea nodded. That made sense.
“Carrie—my understanding is that you’ve lost your Diplomatic Security protection?”
She nodded.
“I intend to discreetly inform the President that the two of you are my children. And I’m going to request that you be provided official protection until all of this is resolved. I may be able to obtain assistance from the Special Escort Group as well, but they’ll need clearance.”
“Thank you,” Carrie responded.
The remainder of the evening seemed to Andrea to be almost … normal. Whatever that was. For the first time since leaving Spain, Andrea found herself laughing and enjoying herself. After dinner, they moved to the parlor, where Jane snuggled in Carrie’s lap as they all talked. George-Phillip told them about his late wife Anne, and Carrie told him about Ray. For a little while, Andrea found herself feeling the warmth of a real family, no matter how odd it was.
George-Phillip sent Jane off to bed at eight. A few minutes later, Carrie said, “I’ll need to get going too. It’s not really fair leaving Rachel with Julia this long. But I wonder … George-Phillip … perhaps Alexandra can stay here with Dylan?”
Alexandra flashed a grateful smile at her, and George-Phillip assented. Soon after, the party broke up, and Andrea returned to her room on the second floor, overlooking the grass she’d run across to break into this building just a day ago.
She rummaged in her bag, pulling out one of the throwaway cell phones she and Dylan had purchased a few days before. She turned out the light and got into bed, then sent text messages to Luis and then Sarah.
A response from Sarah came almost immediately.
Hey, what r u up to? Are you at the Embassy?
Andrea responded, Tired. Still here. Safe. Carrie is on her way back to the condo.
Sarah: I’m not there. Snuck by the guards, I’m at Eddie’s.
Andrea smiled. Eddie was Sarah’s boyfriend, a muscular emergency medical technician who was working his way through med school at George Washington University.
Andrea: Good! Have you heard from Mother? Or Jessica?
Sarah: Jessica’s awake and recovering. Mom’s weird.
Andrea: How?
Sarah: She’s nice. I don’t get it. I don’t get her.
Andrea: We’ve learned a lot from GP. I think he still loves her.
Sarah: Details?
Andrea filled in some of the details George-Phillip had related. As she was typing out the story on the tiny cell phone keys, she was concentrating so hard she didn’t notice the lock turning behind her.
Andrea: So, GP thinks it’s Collins who sent the attackers. And that we might still
Andrea barely had a second to move when she sensed, rather than saw, the door open behind her. She jumped up, tangled in the blankets, but she was too late. Her vision went black, spotted with stars, when a heavy fist hit the back of her neck. She fell forward on the mattress then suddenly felt her own pillow shoved against the back of her head. A knee pressed into the small of her back, the weight of a heavy man on top of her. She struggled to throw him off, pushing to the left, then the right.
Then, a voice. Near her left ear, muffled by the pillow, the voice said in a contorted tone, “This is a gift from your father.”
A crushing pain in her back as the man kneed her in the spine. She tried to scream, but the mattress was pressed against her mouth, the pillow crushing her head. She struggled, her hands grasping for something, anything.
Her hand closed on something. It was metal, cylindrical. A pen?
She closed her fist around it and swung downward, as forcefully as she could.
The man howled as the pen connected, gouging into his skin. She pulled back and hit him again, then saw stars when he pummeled her.
“Run away,” he said. “Run fast, or you’ll die.”
Then he was gone, the door shutting behind him. She heard footsteps receding down the hall, and she curled up, gasping for air, her heartbeat racing, the pulse whooshing in her ears.
Whoever it was had a key. Had George-Phillip sent them? Was it all a lie, and he just wanted to lull her into trusting him? Was there something else?
She became aware of a repeated buzzing. Vibrating.
The phone. It was silenced, but vibrating. She grabbed for it, pulling up the messages.
Sarah: You still there? Details?
Sarah: Andrea? Are you okay?
Sarah: Andrea! Call me!
The phone showed two missed calls from Sarah’s number. She dialed without thinking.
“Hello? Andrea? Are you okay?”
“No,” she gasped. “Someone attacked me. In the room.”
“Holy shit,” Sarah said.
Her mind racing, Andrea knew she had to leave. Right now. “I’ve got to wake up Dylan—wait…”
She stopped. Dylan was still wanted by the feds because of the attack on the condo. One of the attackers had been a federal agent after all. He was safe here, with Alexandra.
“No … he’ll be safe here. Can you … can you get a car? Can you come get me? I need to find a place to hide.”
“Where? I’m on my way.”
“There’s a park across the street from the Embassy. Let me know when you’re close. I’m going to have to sneak out somehow.”
“Be there soon, sis. I love you. Stay safe.”
“I will,” Andrea said.
Just to be on the safe side, she pushed and pulled, blocking the doorway with the heavy bed. Then she began to gather her bag, with the cash, spare phones, fake ID and Visa gift cards. She began to get dressed. It was time to go back into hiding.
Then she waited. One minute turned into five, and five into twenty. Thirty-three minutes after she’d called Sarah, her phone vibrated again.
Text message.
Sarah: Five minutes away.
That was it. Andrea came to her feet and threw on the backpack. She unlatched the window and opened it up. A few feet from the window, a long metal gutter ran to the ground. Leaning out the window, she grasped the gutter, then let her body swing onto it. Slowly she slid to the ground.
There would still be guards out here. It was about seventy feet to the fence, which stood in the shadow of a line of trees. But the darkness wouldn’t do her any good—she was certain the Royal Marines guarding the place had night vision equipment. She’d just have to run.
She took a deep breath then sprinted for the line of trees. The good news was they weren’t expecting anyone to try to escape.
She was halfway there when she heard a dog barking, then another. Fifteen more feet and she was under the trees, then fi
fteen more before she reached the tree closest to the fence. She took a running leap and grabbed a branch and pulled herself up. She slid up the trunk, reaching for another branch.
Shouting, and footfalls. A dog, and a man, running toward the fence. A shout. “Who goes there!”
She pulled herself up another branch, then another. She was above the top of the fence now. As quickly as she could, she stood on a branch that leaned toward the fence, and grabbed another one above her head. She worked her way out the branch.
“Stop!” A shout from below. A guard. Two of them, and more coming.
She didn’t have time. She leapt, grabbing the top of the fence and flipping over, then slid down the fence, coming to rest on the outside, facing the two Marines.
“Tell the Prince I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s not safe.” Then she ran.
She ran through the brush, headed toward Massachusetts Avenue as quickly as she could. She could see heavy traffic moving up and down the street. It was close to midnight, she thought. Finally she reached the street. A gap in traffic—she ran through it, stopping on the double yellow line. Horns blasted at her as drivers crossed by her in both directions, then another gap, and she was across. She heard shouts across the street, and a siren in the distance.
Then she heard Sarah’s voice. “Andrea! Over here!”
She turned that way. Twenty yards away, the park was dominated by a memorial, a stone wall with an oddly disembodied head attached to it. She saw the name Khalil Gibran as she ran toward Sarah, who was comically straddling a huge Harley Davidson motorcycle. Her tiny legs barely reached the gearshift, and the helmet she wore seemed badly oversized.
“Are you kidding me?” Andrea shrieked. “How did you even drive that thing?”
“Can you drive one?”
“Yeah. Slide back!”
Sarah handed her another helmet off the back. “It’s Eddie’s,” she said. “He kinda doesn’t know I took his bike. I left him a note. Let’s go! I hear sirens!”
Andrea got the helmet fastened and straddled the bike. She cranked it, the machine roaring to life underneath her.
“Ready?” Andrea asked. At Sarah’s nod, Andrea eased the bike into the traffic, headed north away from the Embassy.
“Where are we going?” Sarah shouted.
Andrea paused for just a second. Then she said, “Want to come with me to see Mom and Jessica? I’ve got questions I need answered.”
Sarah thought for just a second. Then she shouted. “Hell, yes!”
Andrea nodded. “Let’s go!”
Anthony. May 6.
“I think you should let me do the talking,” Bear said, his voice low. “I’m a cop. I know these guys, even if I don’t know them personally.”
Anthony shook his head as he eased the rental car into the parking station of the Whatcom County Sheriff’s Department. “Listen—you may know cops, but I know Sergeant Coyle.”
“How?” Bear asked.
“81st Brigade Combat Team. Coyle was National Guard, gunner on a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. I was embedded with his unit. It was my first overseas assignment.”
“Yeah? What year?”
“2004. They lost a lot of guys during their tour there. I spent three months humping around Iraq with Coyle’s company.”
“Gotcha. Okay, you do the talking.”
Anthony nodded, reaching to turn the key to the off position. He pulled the key out and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ve kept in touch with those guys over the years. Coyle went back again in 2009.”
Anthony got out of the car. It was chilly out, and the sun wasn’t up yet. Their flight had arrived at Bellingham International Airport at 6 am after a flight featuring vomit-worthy turbulence, and then Bear had insisted on a search for a newspaper stand. He still didn’t feel completely steady as he locked the car and crossed the street, Bear beside him.
At the front, Anthony opened the door for Bear, who walked in and immediately flashed a badge at the cop at the entrance. “Bear Wyden. US Diplomatic Security Service. This is my partner, Anthony Walker. We’re here to see Sergeant Coyle.”
The cop at the desk, who looked not a day older than 18, appeared rattled when Bear mentioned DSS. Good move, Anthony thought. The young cop picked up the phone on his desk and dialed.
Five minutes later a door opened to the rear of the lobby, and a large man, completely bald, walked out. He wore the brown uniform of a sheriff’s deputy.
“Walker!” he shouted. He walked over and grabbed Anthony in a bear hug. Anthony returned the hug, slapping Coyle on the back. “Get in here!” Coyle said. The kid at the desk looked bewildered.
Two minutes later, Coyle had ushered the two men to his desk and put two cups of coffee in front of them without asking. He leaned close enough to Anthony that he could smell the pungent tang of Coyle’s chewing tobacco.
“First things first,” Anthony said. “How’s Rogue?”
Coyle shook his head. “Shit. He’s not good. He was in the VA hospital for a couple months earlier this year. He got in a fistfight with a cop.”
Anthony shook his head. During the tour in 2004, Rogue—his actual name was Manfred, of all things—had been the youngest member of the unit, at seventeen years old. His mother had to give him written permission to join the National Guard. Six months into the deployment, he’d been riding in the back of a hummer when it hit an IED—an improvised explosive device. The incident had earned Anthony the trust of the soldiers in the platoon. While they fanned out in a protective circle around the Humvee to fend off attacking insurgents, Anthony dropped his camera in the dirt, bandaged Rogue, then held his hand keeping him calm while the insurgents were shooting at them. He’d never forget the moment Sergeant Mumsford walked up to him, balled a fist and tapped him on the chest. “You may be a reporter but … that was okay, man.”
Unfortunately, Rogue’s extensive injuries required immediate massive painkillers. Morphine, and later valium in the hospital, Oxycontin on his return to the states, and when the Army cut that off, he moved on to illegally purchased drugs. When he got caught, the Army threw him out with a bad conduct discharge, which made him ineligible for veterans’ benefits.
Mumsford—by then retired—and Coyle contacted Anthony, which resulted in a front page profile of Rogue and how he’d been screwed by the Army. His veterans’ benefits were restored, but his psychological health was still a disaster.
“Oh, man,” Anthony responded. “How’d he stay out of jail?”
Coyle shook his head and jerked a thumb toward his face. “I know the guy. We talked it out, no charges pressed, but we drove him down to the VA and checked him in. He’d said several times he wanted to kill himself.”
“Jesus,” Anthony said. He wished there was something he could do for the poor kid.
“All right. So what’s the scoop about this guy Larsden? Why do you need to see him? Why does everybody else on earth want him?”
Anthony and Bear looked at each other. Bear shrugged. Anthony said, “All right, this has got to stay close, Coyle, okay? People’s lives are on the line.”
“Go for it.”
“Did you hear the news last week? When the Secretary of Defense’s daughter was kidnapped? Then his house got blown up, and his daughter’s condo attacked, and now this guy here is your suspect for shooting at his wife?”
Coyle nodded.
“We’re trying to track down who he’s working for.”
“News said it was rival drug lords or some crap like that.”
Anthony shook his head. “You of all people know how the news gets things wrong.”
Coyle nodded, thoughtfully. It had taken months before anyone in the unit had trusted Anthony, primarily because previous reporters they’d worked with got so many facts wrong.
“If it isn’t drug lords, who is it?”
Bear leaned forward and said, “You know who I am?”
“Diplomatic Security. State Department, right?”
Bear nodded. “We�
��re pretty sure the person behind all this works for a three letter agency.”
Coyle’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? It’s a fed?” He looked at Anthony for confirmation.
Anthony nodded. “CIA.”
“All right. So the FBI’s going to be here at ten am to question him. So you’ve got until eight, then I need you out of here. All right? I kinda want to keep my job.”
Anthony sighed in relief. Finally they might get some answers. Coyle stood and led them down the hall. Halfway down, he opened a door.
“You two can wait in here. We’ll have him here in 5 minutes.”
So they waited. Bear laid the newspaper on the table with the banner face down then sat down in one of the four small wood chairs arrayed around a table. He leaned the chair back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. Anthony felt unreasonable irritation. How could he possibly go to sleep that easily? Instead, he stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet and pacing. The room didn’t look like he would have expected—a large one-way glass mirror. Instead, high in the ceiling, a black bubble was mounted in the ceiling—a camera.
After two minutes, Bear said, “Anthony, chill. You don’t wanna be all nervous when Larsden gets in here. You’re in command of the situation. Not the perp.”
Anthony intellectually recognized the good sense of Bear’s statement, but emotionally he was still tense. He wanted answers. He wanted to know who was gunning for Carrie and her family. Larsden had those answers.
His brow furrowed. Interesting that his mind had focused in on Carrie and her family.
Not that he disliked Carrie. He didn’t. And she was the caretaker of what seemed to be an infinite number of sisters. But she was also a fairly recent widow, which made her off limits, and the subject of an ongoing investigation, which made her doubly off limits, and seriously what was he doing thinking about her when he was supposed to be thinking about—
Girl of Vengeance Page 10
