by Juno Rushdan
“Ah, yes. Agent Gideon Stone.” Daedalus sighed, deep, long. Feral. “The man was like a ghost that day. Never even sensed his presence. He’s a problem.”
The simple thing would’ve been to let Stone do his job and eliminate Daedalus.
Simple, but a colossal mistake. If Daedalus was arrested or met an untimely death, he’d taken precautions to ensure everyone connected to him went down. He called it insurance.
“Too bad you weren’t able to take care of Stone when you had the chance.” The disgust in his tone struck a match of outrage in Cobalt.
Daedalus was safe, his identity and his empire protected even though the Gray Box had gotten close enough to destroy him. Not once had he expressed the slightest appreciation.
“You’re alive today because of me.” Cobalt stopped short of saying anything else, already regretting the anger fueling the words.
“Careful. Goad my temper at your own peril.” The threat was issued with cool aplomb. “Your next words will determine the nature of the help I deign to give. I suggest you consider your current position as you choose them wisely.”
Desperation swelled inside. Desperation and enough anxiety to give a person a heart attack. The expectation was clear. If not met, the best Cobalt could hope for was a quick death. “I apologize. I misspoke.”
Stark silence fell. And dragged.
Every nerve pinged. This fiasco would only end in one way—death. But it needed to be Harper’s and Stone’s. Whatever needed to be said, whatever needed to be done to survive. Even beg. “Forgive me, Daedalus. Please.”
A bone-chilling laugh resounded. “Of course I forgive you. After all, aren’t we friends?”
Said the devil to the worm wriggling on the hook. “Yes.”
“You’re one of the most valuable assets I’ve ever had,” Daedalus said. “It’s imperative you stay in place. Lose you, and no guarantee I’d get another asset inside the Gray Box.”
Cobalt drew in a shuddering breath of relief.
“I’ll send a small team,” he continued. “They can be there within three hours. In the meantime, activate the tracking device.”
Daedalus’s empire spread far and deep, giving him access to the black market, politicians, hitmen, classified information, and cutting-edge technology the government didn’t know about. Like the tracker planted on Harper. When in stealth mode, it was undetectable to any scanner, including the one with a six-figure price tag inside the Gray Box.
Once activated, the microchip would emit a signal so powerful, Harper wouldn’t be able to hide underground. The small team being deployed would be able to monitor her movements with a real-time video feed via satellite. Yep, Daedalus had access to one of those as well.
“You need to find a way to delay Harper from fleeing the area,” Daedalus said.
“Why? The tracker will give us her location no matter where she runs.”
“You’ve underestimated Stone twice. A third time wouldn’t be good for your health. He could detect the tracker once it’s active. If they’re in the area, we’ll still have a reasonable shot at finding them. My men will make her death look like an accident or suicide, and we can finally eliminate Stone as well. Make sure they don’t go far.”
No pressure. “How? They’re already on the run.”
“Make it personal. Newsworthy. Does she have family? Anyone she cares about?”
Were there no limits, no acts too low? “Yes.”
Now everything was down to hurting a sick old man confined to a wheelchair?
But that was how Daedalus got you.
First, he found your weakness and exploited it. You gave him little bits of information, which spiraled into lots as he reeled you in tighter. Before long, you were doing anything he asked. Because he had you. He owned you.
“Take care of it, and don’t mess this up,” Daedalus said. “It’d also be good to have leverage over Stone. You dug into him before. Gather everything you have on him, and give the team all the information when they arrive. I’ll send the location via regular protocol.”
Staying in the office meant being able to keep track of the situation, and disappearing for hours would be noticed, but there was no choice. “Okay.”
“Do your part, and I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”
“Thank you.” Cobalt hung up, removed the phone’s battery and SIM card, and started the car. If this didn’t work, Daedalus’s protection could flip into his order to take care of all loose ends. Maybe it’s time to get my own insurance policy.
14
Springfield, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 10:53 a.m. EDT
I’m a fugitive.
Willow sat in the old Ford, staring into the black backpack Gideon had thrown on her lap while he concentrated on the road.
Needing to busy her hands to calm her nerves, she sifted through the contents of the bag. A gun. Four loaded magazines. A black wand thingy. Pack of Parliament cigarettes and a lighter.
“You smoke?” A trivial question, but it beat out agonizing over her situation.
“Not since college.” Everything about him, from his low tone to preternatural composure, was severe. “Traded the habit for chewing gum, but I keep a pack of smokes. Lighting up a cig on the street in plain sight is a good way to keep a low profile while taking in your surroundings.”
She rifled deeper in the bag, finding a standard-issue med kit for operators. But the rest, the earpiece, small electronic scanner, and ENVGs—enhanced night vision goggles with thermal and infrared capability—were expensive, specialized equipment and not standard.
“Why do you have this stuff?”
He glanced at her with a pinning focus that made her shiver. “I like to be prepared.”
She tucked the equipment in the bag and ran her fingers over bundles of major international currency. Must’ve been ten thousand dollars in American bills alone.
A gnawing sensation dropped through her, as if her whole world was getting sucked down a garbage disposal.
Who’d look after her father while she was on the run? The freezer was well-stocked, so he wouldn’t starve, but what if he needed help or had an accident getting in and out of his chair?
One of her sisters would have to pitch in, which meant Laurel. Ivy lived in Paris. When she was working on her PhD at the Sorbonne, she’d fallen in love with a beautiful woman called Delphine and the city. Laurel lived a five-hour drive away in Connecticut with her plastic surgeon husband, twin daughters, and au pair—a young woman who cleaned, cooked, and watched the girls. Willow would rather have root canal surgery without an anesthetic before asking Laurel for help, but she had no choice.
Her gaze fell to a box of hair dye Gideon had picked up for her when he made a pit stop at a drugstore. The color was White Chocolate, a light blond. His wife had been blond. Must be his preference.
“Why did you pick this color?” She held up the box.
He turned into a garage beside a movie theater and parked in a spot shrouded in darkness. “We need to change the color so you look different. Lighter makes more sense. I always think of your hair as chocolate-brown, and when I saw White Chocolate, something clicked. If you want a fiery red, I grabbed one of those too, but I think a subtle shade would work better.”
She glanced at the fire-engine red hair on the other box. Subtle was better.
Gideon pulled on a nondescript ball cap, handed her one, and wiped down the car with a plain white cloth—the steering wheel, dash, console, anything they’d touched. He scanned the garage and adjusted her cap, lowering the bill to cover her face.
His fingers grazed her ears, and she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and thank him for saving her twice. For having the foresight and gumption to risk his life to save hers. But he was already out of the car before she had the chance.
He moved qui
ckly around the front, in that predatory way of his, and opened her door. She slipped on the backpack and hopped out. He did a sweep on her side with the cloth.
“Keep your head down in case we pass any surveillance cameras,” he said.
The Gray Box would be searching for them, using the upgraded facial recognition program she’d designed. If she’d had any idea her program would be used against her one day, she might’ve been less thorough.
Resting a hand on the small of her back, he set a quick pace through the garage. She trotted to keep up, but it was the firm weight of his palm pressed to her spine, not the exercise, that threw off the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The physical contact, like in the car, hadn’t shocked her. Some part of her had probably reached maximum freak-out capacity. Maybe she even expected the grounding feel of his hands at this point, keeping her moving and focused.
They strolled four blocks through an area of northern Virginia she didn’t recognize. Based on the signs they’d passed on the freeway, she suspected they were close to Springfield. Apartment buildings, small businesses, shops, and restaurants dominated the urban area.
Stopping at a doughnut shop, he opened the door. The most delicious aroma hit her. “I thought we were going to see a friend. Why are we getting doughnuts?”
“I’m starving. Aren’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he squired her inside.
Customers occupied three small tables. The rest of the shop was empty other than a couple of employees. They strode to the counter, passing a conveyor belt and deep fryer, where doughnuts were made fresh on the other side of plexiglass.
A young Asian woman stood behind the register. She smiled at Gideon, her eyes lighting up the way Ivy’s did whenever she came home for a visit, but he gave no indication of knowing her. The woman’s gaze swung to Willow, and her smile fell.
“What would you like?” The woman glanced between them.
“A half dozen,” Gideon said. “Ken’s Special.”
The woman hesitated, holding his gaze. “For here or to go?”
“For here.”
Willow glanced at the overhead board. There was one type of doughnut, with an array of glazes and extras to choose from, but she didn’t see any Ken’s Special.
The young woman stared at Willow, then looked back at him. “A name for the order?”
“Gideon Stone.”
Willow flinched so hard, she nearly jumped out of her skin. They were fugitives, and he’d given his real name. In a doughnut shop?
Gideon ushered Willow to the side of the shop where the doughnuts were made.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
The woman behind the register picked up the phone and made a call, staring at them.
Willow tensed. Their names hadn’t been released to the public yet. Unlikely the woman was dialing the police, but the call was definitely about them.
“Patience.” Gideon pointed to the doughnut-making process. White bundles of dough fell into a vat of hot oil. A teenage boy fished them out once they turned golden and dunked them in various glazes. “These are the best doughnuts you’ll ever have.”
How could he act relaxed? Nonchalant?
They’d escaped from the Gray Box and had almost been shot. Actually, he had been shot. Twice. And they’d left Director Sanborn in a precarious position.
“What happens in a whitewash?” On the helicopter ride, she’d been too shell-shocked to ask specifics.
“It’s a twofold process.” His voice was low, smooth. “All paper trails verifying the deep black ops team, division, or agency are erased. Cleaners are sent in. Personnel who have knowledge that poses a threat are eliminated. The rest are disavowed. No government work history, no pension—but they have their lives.”
An icy tingle ran down her spine. “They can’t do that. Not to American citizens.”
“Who is they?”
She was at a loss for an answer.
“A whitewash only happens to an organization or unit that isn’t supposed to exist. One that can’t see the light of day or subvert its purpose of safeguarding national security. They can and will, if deemed necessary.”
Her breath hitched in her throat. It was all too startling and grim to be real.
The teenager approached them and proffered the box of doughnuts.
Gideon took it and strolled to the register. “How much?”
“It’s on the house.” The young woman winked.
“Thanks, Mariko.”
The woman didn’t wear a nametag. Gideon knew her.
“Why the ruse?” Willow asked.
“In the event I’m being coerced, I could warn them without anyone being the wiser.”
He put a hand to her lower back in the comforting manner that was growing on her. His masculine heat teased her skin, anchoring her in a way that took the edge off the pervasive dread.
They passed an Employees Only sign and stopped at an unmarked door. He looked up at a security camera. After a soft buzz, Gideon opened the door to a staircase.
He bounded up the steps two at a time, agile power rippling through him. She jogged up behind him until they reached a metal door. A series of deadbolts unlocked, a heavy latch slid on the other side, and the door swung open to the outside.
A guy who looked like a male version of Mariko—midtwenties, long, glossy black hair—gave Gideon a one-armed hug. “I take it this isn’t a social visit.”
“Afraid not.”
The guy waved them inside.
The lavish upstairs apartment had an inviting open-concept layout. A high-end sofa and club chairs comprised a cozy living room. Concrete countertops graced the eat-in kitchen, where a steel table was adorned with laptop and shotgun. The dining-area-turned-makeshift-office had a table with a lightbox on top, and a black photo background hung on the wall.
A red beacon light was mounted high above the doorframe.
“Ken, this is Willow,” Gideon said. “Willow, Ken. I helped him out of a hairy situation once.”
She didn’t recall any Ken from Gideon’s case files.
“Hairy?” Ken scoffed, closing the door. “You saved my life. I owe you big time.”
“I need to collect on the favor,” Gideon said.
“What do you need?”
“Passports and a place to crash until they’re ready.”
“Done,” Ken said. “Take the third bedroom at the far end. It’s got an en suite. Should take about three hours. Four, tops.”
There was a hall off either end of the main living area. Toward the kitchen, Willow spotted one door. On the other side, where Ken had indicated, were two more doors.
“Willow needs to dye her hair first.”
“If I know the color, I can digitally alter the picture to match. While I’m working on the passports, she can dye her hair. It’ll save time.” Ken glanced at Willow. “What’s the color?”
She pulled out the light blond dye box.
“Oh, sweetie,” Ken said, grimacing, “that’ll make you look like a fried pumpkin if you don’t bleach carefully first. You’ve got great hair. Don’t ruin it.” He reached out and felt the strands that’d fallen loose from her bun.
She stiffened and jerked away. “Don’t touch me.” Based on their expressions—she’d seen them many times on others—her reaction made them uncomfortable, even though she’d been the one touched without consent. “I’m sorry.”
“My bad. I’m too friendly for my own good.” Ken smiled. “Any other options?”
She showed him the ghastly red.
“Perfect. That’ll turn you from brunette into a bright auburn and make my bathroom look like a crime scene, but I’m willing to sacrifice for Gideon. And since you’re a friend, I’ll hook you up with the best conditioner for silky smooth locks. Let’s get cracking.”
&n
bsp; 15
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 11:31 a.m. EDT
Cobalt parked down the street from Willow Harper’s home.
The Gray Box quick response force had surely hit the airports and Stone’s place by now, in the hopes he’d try to retrieve his go bag. Personnel could be here any minute.
Cobalt switched on the portable multiband jammer and slipped it inside the messenger bag. There was no way to be certain, but it was safe to assume the black ops team had wireless surveillance in every suspect’s home. The Wi-Fi jammer would block all signals, video and audio, within a seventy-meter radius.
After pulling on clear vinyl gloves, Cobalt ensured the syringe—filled with a mixture of methyl iodide and sodium chloride—was within quick reach in the bag, then got out of the car.
Six months after recruitment, Daedalus arranged for Cobalt to spend a week in Montana. The cover story had been a romantic trip with a significant other, fishing and horseback riding.
Turned out to be a week-long course in learning how to do evil shit. Detonating and disarming explosive devices. How to administer various poisons and what easy-to-get materials to use in a pinch. The essentials of beating a polygraph. Tampering with a car to make it look like an accident.
The job on Stone’s truck had been precise, the brake line set to trickle slowly, requiring the brakes to be pumped numerous times before complete failure.
Rigging Harper’s car at the Gray Box had been rushed, spurred on by the arrival of the forensic accountants. Cobalt hadn’t expected them so quickly and especially not to pop up on a holiday. It was tidier for Harper to have an accident before the offshore account was discovered.
Fear of getting caught red-handed sabotaging Harper’s car had kept Cobalt on edge. A good thing too, since someone had come out into the parking lot.
A detail Daedalus didn’t need to know. Not if Cobalt wanted to keep breathing.
