Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4)

by Carolyn Crane

  She shut and locked the door. With nothing else to do but wait, she turned back the covers and slipped into the cool, smooth sheets.

  She was oh, so tired.

  Back in New York, she’d always bring her phone and computer to bed in order to get the latest reports, often waking up at intervals.

  Not tonight.

  She gazed up at the moon and guessed it to be a few minutes before ten. Ten at night in Valencia would be three in the morning in Algiers and ten in the morning in Bangkok.

  She wondered how Dax was faring alone. Not well, she imagined. They needed each other. She needed Dax’s foresight, and Dax needed her understanding of the field. He couldn’t tell when Associates were getting dangerously overworked. He didn’t know how to put them into teams. He couldn’t recognize a high-performance agent like she could. She was the one who’d recognized the use they could make of the linguist Peter Maxwell, hunting him and verifying his story before sending in Rio for an extraction.

  And Dax had serious blind spots. The loftier capabilities of the human heart could mystify him at times. And he was ignorant of his own heart in many ways. Like when he’d lost objectivity with Thorne—he’d been blindsided when he realized Thorne regarded him as a father. She’d had to talk him down from that. And then there were the demons that drove Dax to his sex addiction. He thought he had a handle on them. Yeah, he had a handle on them. The way you have a handle on the tip of an iceberg. Dax was absolutely brilliant and absolutely fucked up.

  She lay in bed with just the night birds and bugs for noise—no horns, no planes, and no random yells out on the street, like in Manhattan. And the near total darkness—the moon was just a glow behind the clouds. She hadn’t experienced this level of darkness and silence—not to mention tech silence—since she was out in the desert. Like a fucking sensory deprivation chamber, and she didn’t like it. The Friar Hovde nightmares were bad enough back home in a sea of noise and gadgets. She felt more vulnerable to them in the quiet, as though they might get hold of her, and she’d be trapped inside that nightmarish loop of trying desperately to get free from the ropes Friar Hovde had bound her with, trying over and over to kill Friar Hovde and save Agent Randall. Save the man whose death she’d so shamefully ensured.

  Trying over and over to kill Friar Hovde.

  She never could.

  She decided to allow herself one hour of sleep, which had her waking at 11:30. She could do that—sleep at precise intervals and tell time by the moon. Some field skills never left you.

  Chapter Twelve

  Zelda rose exactly two hours later and changed into the dead man’s coveralls. She used a selection of knives she’d nicked from the kitchen to loosen the grate over the window. Minutes later, she was out front retrieving the weapon and the flashlight. She set off, jogging down the mountain road, moving at a slow, controlled pace, slowing to a walk as the way got steep, staying to the inside, sometimes touching the walls of stone, dodging rocks and snakes, catching the eyes of night creatures here and there with her flashlight. It was hard going, but the way back up would be harder.

  It took over an hour to travel the five or six miles to the village ruins. She rounded a corner, panting, making her way down the dark, dusty street toward the little store, her best candidate for a com setup—that’s where she’d seen the antenna. The abandoned place was even eerier at night. Dogs barked nearby. Wind rustled leaves and papers.

  She picked the lock and slipped into the store, stepping carefully over downed racks. Animals had been in the stock—she heard a few scurrying off.

  She found what she was looking for in the far back—the satellite phone terminal. Its casing was destroyed, but all in all, it wasn’t so bad. She’d seen repeaters down the mountain when they drove in—they’d go to this. She pulled apart the pieces and began to twist wires, wishing she had her glasses instead of Liza’s uncomfortable contacts.

  After a half hour, she had a signal. It cut in and out, but she got hold of Dax.

  “Zelda, thank God,” Dax said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, but I got relocated before I could get Brujos’s files. They pulled me out of there so fast, dammit. Too fast. I’m in Buena Vista—it’s on the southern slope of the Verde Sirca, about seventy miles north of Bumcara.”

  “Wait—you’re in Valencia?”

  “I got traded down—Brujos’s woman freaked. It’s fine. I’m safe. Are the pirates still quiet?”

  Dax filled her in—they were still sitting tight. Good. She told him about the Brujos guard, Sal, who might be turned. It wasn’t as good as having the files in hand, but Dax got right on it. She could picture him at his desk in his condo overlooking Central Park, could see his thumbs flying over his keyboard, sending out instructions to check out Sal’s family ASAP. You needed to know about a man’s family to know how to turn him.

  “What’s your immediate situation?” Dax asked. “I could have a team in Bumcara by lunch.”

  “Hold off.”

  “We have a team ready—” The line began to crackle, and then it cut out.

  Fuck.

  A team. It would be Riley the strategist he’d send in, along with Cole, all smarts and muscle.

  She found the break, bared a new length of wire, and re-twisted. The last thing she needed was a helicopter coming down. Ten minutes later, she had Dax again. “You have to leave me here,” she said quickly. “I’m on a farm north of Buena Vista. I’m the help. I’ve got my own thing going.”

  “You’re the what?”

  “Maid, governess. Perfectly safe. Dax, listen,” she said. “This is probably nothing, but there’s a tiny possibility I’ve found Kabakas.”

  Even over the shitty connection, she could hear the breath whoosh out of him. “What?”

  She enjoyed his amazement, but something twisted in her stomach. “It’s probably nothing—just a skilled impersonator. And really smart how he did it. Effective.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “It’s probably not him. A lot of things don’t add up.”

  “But some things do.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I also haven’t slept for two days. I just need to rule him out. It’ll bug me if I don’t rule this guy out before I leave. He feels like Kabakas.”

  “Kabakas brutally massacred dozens of unarmed civilians,” Dax said. “Does this guy feel like that? Because if this guy feels like that—”

  “Stop. I’m fine. And, there’s a way where he doesn’t feel right. It’s hard to explain…” She didn’t know how to explain about the moments where he’d felt like Kabakas from before the Yacon fields massacre. The Kabakas she’d profiled and hunted and obsessed over. Out there on that field, he’d felt like the shining warrior from that photo above her desk. “I’m in a position to investigate the fuck out of him, but you need to give me time.”

  “You’re not on his fucking staff, are you? I thought you said you were safe—”

  “I am safe,” she insisted, deciding to leave the whole captive angle out of it. That was just a little too 300 bc for Dax to handle.

  “I’m sending somebody. I’ve got your location.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, regretting she’d said anything at all now.

  “Wait,” he said. “Wait.”

  A sick feeling came over her.

  “Who was it that put up that bounty? The Valencian vice president, right? Juarez? Right? He’s in the ministry now. He has influence with the delegation. Jesus, if the pirates could deliver Kabakas—”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Juarez could put pressure on the right people…” Dax named off a string of people, one affecting another and then another, complex horse trades that could end with the pirate situation getting solved. “We could use Kabakas. He would work as a bargaining chip…”

  Bargaining chip. A euphemism for giving Hugo up to be tortured and killed. What had she done? “It’s very likely not him.”

  “What name is he using? I
’ll work it from here. We’ll take him down and get the proof.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m telling you, the guard will flip. Sal. Sal will flip. I know the sound of a man ready to flip. Check it out. This guy may not be Kabakas—a really smart agent witnessed Kabakas’s death nine years ago. I just need to rule him out for myself. It’s a personal thing.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Her words came low and slow. “Hands off. This is my personal thing.”

  The silence on the line was loud as hell now because of the question that hung in the air—if Dax moved in on Hugo, would she stand in the way? Would she work against a team?

  “Sal is the better angle,” she said. “You have people in place down there.”

  “Both angles are the better angle.”

  “This is my thing, my call.”

  “Question,” Dax said after a silence. “What does the Bigfoot hunter hunt?”

  Heat rode up her neck. “Dax—” she warned.

  “Do you know?”

  “I’m not playing this with you.” She’d heard Dax turn people inside out. He’d never done it to her.

  “Most Bigfoot hunters, Loch Ness Monster hunters, they’re not hunting a monster at all,” he said. “They don’t give a fuck about a monster. They’re hunting for something more. Something more than this. Something magical, special. They need to see that there’s something more than this body that wrinkles and dies. Something more than poor, starving jamokes in some war-town country. Something more than suffering assholes tied up in basements getting their flesh cut up until they give up a name. A passageway out of the shame, the guilt—”

  “How dare you,” she hissed. “How dare you, Dax.”

  “Is he powerful enough to blot out the pain?”

  “Don’t—”

  “Tell me how you feel when you imagine it might be him. How do you feel inside?”

  She took a breath, collecting herself, forcing a casual tone. The worst thing you could do with Dax was to react. “So let me get this straight. Are you suggesting I’m protecting him? Or are you questioning my objectivity in general? Or do I just have some big fucking death wish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She sighed, loudly. “Look, I have a mountain to climb before I sleep, so if we’re done here—”

  “Do you still have the Friar Hovde nightmares? You try and try to kill him, but you can’t.”

  “How about you jack off on your own time?” she said coolly. “Bottom line, you will not send in a team. Bottom line, we don’t commit Associates until I’m convinced of his identity. You’re going to give me a week to do this right. More if I need it. You will lay off until then. You will work on Sal. Sal is the hot option.” She let the or else go unspoken.

  “Five days,” he said.

  “A week. This is social engineering, Dax.”

  “Fine.”

  “I need to get back.”

  “Zelda—”

  “Work on Sal. I’ll get back to you.” She yanked out the wire and sat in the dark, listening to the night animals. It was so like Dax to hook up Kabakas and Friar Hovde. Throw in the pirates and Mickey Mouse, and they’d have a party.

  It stung that he’d question her objectivity like that. Blind spots, she told herself. And the closer to home, the larger Dax’s blind spots were. Still, it stung.

  She stood and picked through the debris of the little shop. She’d seen mouthwash near an overturned rack; contact solution was too much to hope for, but she did find saline solution. She took it and left, jogging slowly upward, wishing to hell that she hadn’t told him about Kabakas or the Friar Hovde nightmares. But Dax was her partner, her best friend.

  God, she’d always been content to let him run the show. It was part of their vision of cells and secrecy—destroy part of the Association, and other parts would still stand.

  She was starting to regret that. Allowing herself to be the silent partner. As if she wasn’t worthy to be seen as a leader. Dax had never moved against her, but it wasn’t out of the question. Nothing was out of the question for Dax. Dax did the hard things that nobody else would do. He was ruthless—ruthless for good causes, yes—but ruthless all the same.

  Well, she could be ruthless, too.

  She kept on, huffing and puffing, a little bleary. And fuck, she was so tired of all the problems.

  She was actually looking forward to sleeping in that barren little room in that simple, austere home in the middle of nowhere. No phones, no buzzers. No need, even, to choose what to wear, because she had four gray uniforms. Just the gray uniform and the thwup-thwup of an arrow. A troubled kid and a dark warrior who could very well be Kabakas.

  The mountainside was rich with scent, more so going back up, because her progress was slow. She could smell every layer of soil and decomposition. Decomposition had been a specialty, of course, as a forensic botanist.

  At one point, she thought she heard a light crank and flap overhead—something mechanical—a glider. She looked up and saw nothing. Probably nothing. Overtired, overwrought people often fell into sensory hallucinations. It had been a fuck of a day…or two.

  Tell me how you feel when you imagine it might be Kabakas. How do you feel inside?

  Better—that’s how she felt when she thought he might be Kabakas. She felt better in a strange way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She reached the house sweaty and out of breath. She slipped in her bedroom window, stripped off the smelly jumpsuit, and collapsed on her bed. She didn’t even get under the covers; she just lay there. This was all she wanted. Just to close her eyes. Just to stop.

  Just to sleep.

  But like so many times she was overtired, sleep didn’t come. She gazed out at the night sky, thinking about Hugo. She needed to find proof that he wasn’t Kabakas, and then she needed to get the hell out. She could quiz Paolo. Interview the villagers. Hugo himself could tell her. She could coldfuck it out of him. She’d done it to dozens of targets over the years; why not Hugo? He already thought she was a prostitute.

  But coldfucking Hugo…it might not be so easy. The point of coldfucking was that you had to stay cold and remote. Hugo, had her nearly in tears just putting a few stitches in her arm—and it hadn’t been about the pain.

  Never mind. She was in the man’s home. Evidence was everywhere in a man’s home—if you opened your eyes. There would be something—receipts, records. Her mind went back to the cabinet. That was her best bet.

  She sat up. Screw sleep. She had to know.

  She splashed water over her face and body, toweled off, and pulled on the crisp maid’s uniform. Moments later, she was prowling through the darkness, bare feet on cool tiles, flashlight and picking tools in her apron pockets. She slipped through the main rooms, feeling her way along at times—slowly, so as not to knock into anything. Not that there was much to knock into, being that the place was so barren.

  She made it to the living room and stopped.

  The light from a fire beyond flashed on the fanciful ironwork covering the far windows. A fire—not surprising on a cool night such as this. It smelled good. But then another scent came to her; something slightly flowery, there then gone, so faint that she wondered if she’d imagined it. She crept farther.

  One door was closed, but another was open. The origin of the fire—and the flowery smell.

  Lavender, but not just lavender. Opium.

  She stilled. She hadn’t had to drug him after all—he’d done it for her.

  It was then that she heard it—a soft grunt of effort. Very male, very distressed. She crept nearer. Foolish, maybe, but she had to see. She slipped nearer and kept going until she stood in the doorway.

  And froze.

  There he was—Hugo with his shirt off, bent forward in a chair, elbows on his knees, looking almost defeated. His thick, muscular form was lit by the ambient glow of the flames.

  But it wasn’t his posture or his mountainous physique that froze her.

  It was
his burns—deep, extensive burns up and down his side and his back, from hip to shoulder. Mottled, disfiguring wounds of a man who’d gone through fire. Scar tissue pulled tight around what looked like skin grafts.

  She swallowed.

  He sucked in a ragged breath. She couldn’t hear it, but she could see it. His pain was very nearly visible. All day he’d seemed the ultimate opponent, aware of her every mood, but he’d lost himself fully to his pain now. She’d seen it in agents before—you hold out, then you collapse. God, the way he’d been moving today—twisting, rolling, fighting—it had to have stretched and torn that fragile skin. He was in agony, this man. The agony you cut with opium.

  She eyed a small glass jar—that would be the source of the lavender scent. Some sort of concoction; the Valencians were great ones for concoctions. Some parts of his side and back were shiny, but some weren’t. He hadn’t reached all of the spots. Had that been the grunt of distress? Was he trying to reach all of the painful spots, and couldn’t?

  She remembered the way his eyes had looked after dinner—flat—and it came to her now that this was the look of pain. Yet he’d still been out there doing archery with Paolo and overseeing his lessons. Because he loved that kid in his fucked-up way.

  He couldn’t call him by name, but he loved him.

  His voice boomed. “I told you to stay in your room.”

  She jumped. “I-I needed to get a glass of water.”

  The fire crackled as Hugo’s massive shoulders rose and fell. An injured bull, wall-to-wall muscle, and wall-to-wall agony. Her gaze fell to the belt around the waist of his khakis, which seemed to expand fitfully with his labored breaths.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “Come here.”