by Juno Rushdan
“Gideon doesn’t care about me, and he doesn’t care about my father. I’m just a mission to him. My dad is in a coma. My house is on fire!” Hearing the words solidified them, made them terribly real. She beat back nausea and struggled to get a hold on her emotions, the only thing in the world she could control right now.
Ken removed the mask. “Calm down, sugar. We’ll talk this through.”
“There’s no time to talk. I have to go to Saint Margaret’s Hospital. Now.”
Willow stormed to the back bedroom. She knew the hospital layout from the last time her father had been admitted after his cancer had recurred. She had to get there and find a way to sneak in. There was always a way.
If she could access the in-house laundry room, maybe steal a dirty lab coat, she could pretend to be a doctor. With her changed hair, it was possible no one would recognize her.
Ken rushed into the room behind her.
She grabbed the black backpack and rifled through it to find money. Exasperation tore through her fraying patience. She dumped the entire bag out onto the bed, plucked three one hundred-dollar bills from a bundle of American cash, and slung the strap of her purse across her body.
“Will you help me, or do I need to find a payphone to call a cab?”
Payphones were disappearing relics. They hadn’t passed a single one on the way to the doughnut shop. If he didn’t help, she’d have to order an Uber through his computer under false pretenses, a digital trail she’d prefer not to leave.
Narrowing his dark eyes, Ken placed a fist on a hip and scratched his smooth chin. Deliberation was better than a flat no. “Passports are almost done, and Gideon will be back soon. Hang on an hour. Your dad will still be there.”
“What if Gideon won’t let me go?” He’d turn his bulldozer force of will on her, and she wouldn’t stand a chance. “I have to see my father and find out if he’s going to be okay.”
She had to leave before Gideon returned. Her dad wasn’t just her parent. He was her best friend, the only person who’d never lied to her, hurt her, or used her for anything. She wouldn’t abandon him when he needed her the most.
“Please, help me. Or I’ll find a cab by myself. But I’m leaving.” She balled the money in her fist and straightened.
“This shit just goes to show, never underestimate the dynamite hidden inside a pretty little package.” Ken sighed. “If I help, you know Gideon’s going to kill me, right?”
20
Springfield, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 2:27 p.m. EDT
With supplies stashed in the back of the stolen car, Gideon parked in the alley on the side of the building, out of view of any video surveillance. He strode through the doughnut shop, nodded at Mariko, and bounded up the stairs to Ken’s apartment.
At the top of the landing, his buddy stood in the doorway, features grim. “You’re earning your guardian angel wings today. Talk about cutting things close.” Ken’s hushed voice was strained. “Your girl is about to bolt.”
“What?” Gideon’s protective instincts fired hot. “Why would she want to leave?”
He should’ve spoken to her before taking off, made sure she was okay after the way he’d left her in the bathroom, but his self-control had been threadbare. One minute longer behind closed doors with her, he would’ve come loose at the seams.
“Something happened to her dad. He’s in a coma at Saint Margaret’s. And her house burned down. Half of it is in ashes. It’s on every news station.”
Dread slushed through Gideon, but he hardened against it. This was crazier than Willow being accused of treason. For it to happen within hours of them getting out of the Gray Box wasn’t coincidence.
“Where is she?” Gideon headed for the threshold.
“Kitchen.” Ken held up a palm, stopping him. “She probably thinks you’re Mariko bringing a set of car keys. I told my sister to stall while I tried to calm your girl down, but she keeps spiraling. Tight, man.” He twirled his index fingers in a circle. “Corkscrew tight. I was about to let her go before she explodes.”
Gideon pushed past Ken, rushing into the apartment. His gaze fixed on Willow, and a crushing weight lifted from his lungs. She sat in a chair with the strap of her purse draped across her body, elbows on the table, wringing her hands.
She caught sight of him. Her eyes slammed shut, shoulders rolling inward as she held her head in her hands. Gideon stilled, his relief curdling. She reacted as though seeing him was the last thing she wanted.
“You called him?” she asked Ken in a hushed voice that was nonetheless sharp with panic. “You swore it was your sister on the phone. You said Mariko was bringing the keys. You promised you’d help me.”
Ken crept into his eye line, brows raised. He lifted both forefingers, repeating the spinning up motion as he mouthed corkscrew tight.
Taking a breath, Gideon kept a grip on his composure. “He didn’t call me.” His tone sounded rough, so he dialed it down. “He had every intention of keeping his word.”
Her head snapped up, her gaze flying to him. The look in her eyes was unguarded and unglued. The raw suffering in her face was a fist to the gut. His first instinct was to go to her, but he didn’t move. Didn’t dare presume she’d accept comfort from him. Didn’t dare imagine he was equipped to make things better.
He knew his own limitations well. This trick bag of emotional flash grenades was beyond his expertise.
“You expect me to believe you happen to show up just as I was leaving?” Her tone was scathing. “You really do take me for the biggest, most gullible fool.”
Jeez, that pain-wrecked face of hers. He’d never been so helpless, but this sudden, hair-trigger rift between them left him confused.
“Yes, I expect you to believe me.” He took a cautious step forward. “Because it’s the truth. Ken told me about your father—”
“I have to go to the hospital.” She drummed her fingers on her leg, almost mindlessly, uncontrollably.
“No.” He shook his head. “Whoever set you up did this. They hurt your father and burned down your house to flush you out. The hospital is a trap. You can’t go.”
“Can’t?” She sprang to her feet. Wildfire incinerated sadness. “I’m not your prisoner. I can do whatever I please.”
This emotional reflex was natural, Willow freaking out about her dad, but going to the hospital was a bad move. Fighting him on it was worse.
“I won’t let you go. It’s suicide.”
She couldn’t outmuscle him, but given the proper motivation and chance, she could outsmart him. She was motivated in spades, so he couldn’t give her the opportunity. Even if he had to zip-tie her to a chair. The hospital was a bad call. He wouldn’t let her make the play.
Lowering her head, she pressed a hand to her mouth. Reason must be sinking in. They had enough to handle without fighting over something that made no sense.
He ate up the gap between them and reached for her.
“It’s not suicide if you’re with me, Gideon.”
He reeled back, dumbstruck by her redirection.
“The firewalls of hospitals aren’t as robust as most people think,” she said. “I can hack into the surveillance system to give us eyes. Your comms equipment gives us ears.”
Determination blazing in her face, Willow closed in on him. The strength radiating from her entirely defied her lean frame as she challenged him. It took everything in him to stand fast and not give her one inch.
“I know your file inside and out,” she said in a low voice. “Every detail. Even the redacted parts.”
He squirmed on the inside but didn’t flinch. Willow came toe-to-toe with him, drawing the air from his lungs, sucking up the space around him until only she existed. She damn near bowled him over, her imposing will turned on full blast.
“You’ve pulled off dangerous jobs. You know ho
w to evade other agents, disappear in the shadows. You even wiped out an entire paramilitary group single-handedly.”
True, but it’d been in the jungle. He’d used the terrain as a weapon. “Willow—”
“You’re good at this sort thing. One of the best. Use your expertise to help me.”
“I already am.”
“If the real traitor was waiting at the hospital to kill me or turn me in, you’d stop them. It’d give you an opportunity to catch them and bring them in. You’ve done this sort of thing for Sanborn plenty of times. Now, I’m asking you to do it for me.”
Breathless. She left him utterly breathless. Listening to her, you’d think he had the power to move heaven and earth, to redirect the orbit of the sun.
For a moment, he believed her. Almost considered how to pull off the impossible and get her out alive. She made him want to be that man. A better man, one capable of all she claimed.
She was dangerous, planting insidious ideas that were sure to get them both killed. Couldn’t she see the truth? He was no savior. Just a man who was good at killing.
“No telling what’s waiting for us at the hospital,” he said. Baiting her by using her father was a smart move. “Gray Box operatives could be lurking in an ambush. Circumventing our own is possible.” He knew what to anticipate from them and had an advantage with comms. “But the X factor might be in play. That’d be worse. We’ve no idea who or what we’re up against. Going to the hospital is reckless. Your father is in a coma. There’s nothing you can do for him.”
Her lip curled in disgust or disappointment—he couldn’t be sure. Both were bad. “I expected you’d say that.”
Ken winced at her harsh words and slunk away to the makeshift office in the dining area, but moving ten feet didn’t give them privacy. Gideon’s gut burned.
“You’d never jeopardize a mission,” she said. “Even if it was the right thing to do.”
“The right thing is to protect you.” He was risking everything for her, and she was acting as if he were the enemy. “If anything happened to you, I…”
He clenched his jaw at the flare-up of weakness and beat down the thought of losing her. Nothing was going to happen to Willow. Not while he was breathing.
“If anything happened to me, it’d ruin your chances to catch the traitor.” She wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold and glanced at the television. The flames consuming her house dominated the screen, while a ticker about an elderly man in a coma scrolled across the bottom. “Finding the mole is all you care about. Not me. Not my father.”
“They’re one and the same.” To help her and keep her safe, they had to find the mole. Were they even talking about the same thing? “Whoever is framing you is capable of anything. Nothing is off-limits. You can’t help your father. The risk of going to the hospital isn’t worth it.”
“My dad has always been there for me, no matter how difficult it was at times.” Her tone softened, but pain packed her voice with enough power to grip him by the jugular.
Rubbing her arms, she paced in the kitchen.
“He’s never let me down. He’s taken on ignorant parents, battled principals who wanted to stick me in classes where the IQ was 75 instead of 145. Had a public showdown with the president of Bettie’s Brownies because they said I wasn’t the right fit. Took out a second mortgage on that house so I graduated college without debt. He’s all I have. Don’t you dare tell me he’s not worth the risk!”
Gideon went to put a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her from prowling in circles, but their eyes locked, pinning him in place.
“Have you ever felt that way about anyone?” Her voice was a whisper of cool steel.
His father had run off when Gideon was too young to remember him. His mother had been so desperate for the affection of any man—even alcoholics and druggies who’d preferred to communicate with fists—that he’d endured bruises, broken bones, and countless sleepless nights with pain as his best friend.
The only person in the world he’d ever truly had, who’d never let him down, was himself.
“Then how could you possibly understand?” she asked in the wake of his silence.
He couldn’t. Might never.
When he buried Kelli, he’d laid to rest hope for something more. Some people were meant to have love and kids and puppies. Happily-ever-after shit.
He was meant to be hard, detached. To clean up the trash, eliminate threats, do whatever dirty work was necessary to make the world a better, safer place. Even if he’d never enjoy the luxury of the happiness he safeguarded.
“I know your father wants you to stay alive.” He curled his fingers around her arms and drew her close, hoping she’d soften at the nearness. “Not risk getting hurt to see him when he’s laid up in a coma.”
Her body stayed taut, muscles tense. “I can’t abandon him.”
Smoothing her hair from her face, he stared into her glassy eyes, longing to make this all better. One step at a time. He might, if she let him. But first they had to clear her name.
“Uh, guys.” Ken stared at the four monitors mounted on the wall. “We’ve got company.”
The red beacon light flashed above the door.
“Cops?” Gideon asked, turning toward him.
“Oh no.” Ken’s voice dropped, and his body went rigid. “Mariko…” Raking both hands through his hair, he straightened. “Not cops.”
Gideon went to look at the screen. “How many?”
“Four. Five. Maybe.”
“Where are they?” Gideon peered over Ken’s shoulder at the monitors.
“Everywhere.”
21
Springfield, Virginia
Friday, July 5, 3:02 p.m. EDT
Gideon glanced at the screens. Three dead bodies in the doughnut shop. A customer, the teenage kid who worked there and…Mariko. His heart sank, but he couldn’t afford to feel.
There’d been no sound of gunfire. Silencers.
Two men wearing serious tactical gear and armed with assault weapons, black balaclavas covering their faces, circled the back and side of the building. A hulking bruiser sized up the heavy metal door of the apartment, which swung out to prevent forced entry with a battering ram.
Another two nosed around on the roof.
They moved in controlled, coordinated bursts. Vigilant surveillance of their six. Highly skilled. Technical. Even the way they held their weapons pointed to paramilitary training. They were either no-bullshit operators from a special black ops unit or had come from one and served anyone willing to pay enough. Mercs.
But how in the hell did they find Willow and Gideon?
“Is it the Gray Box?” Willow came up beside him.
“No. Mercenaries.”
The metronome ticking in his head set the controlled beat he’d learned to operate under. Not at the Farm, where the CIA had formally trained him. Not at the Gray Box, where he had refined his skills to a new level. Much earlier, when his path had first been forged and he’d been taught to follow through—all the way.
Gideon glanced at Ken. Guilt rolled through him. Mariko wouldn’t be lying in a pool of blood if they hadn’t come here. “I’m sorry about your sister, but we need to leave.”
His friend stared at the rotating images on the screen as if in a trance.
“Pull it together.” Gideon sharpened his voice to flint. “Is there another exit?”
Ken blinked, coming back online. “Uh, yeah.”
“Grab our stuff while I make sure the exit is safe,” Gideon said to Willow as he followed Ken toward the master bedroom on the other side of the kitchen.
“I dumped everything out of the bag. I need a minute to gather it up.”
“Thirty seconds.”
She took off for the third bedroom, and he hustled into the master. Ken pointed at the metal ladder
flush against the wall that led to a steel hatch in the ceiling for rooftop access.
One problem. Tangos were already up there. And he couldn’t jump from a second-story window with Willow. “Other options?”
The locked hatch door rattled. Ping. Ping. Bullets struck metal. Steady gunfire would rain down until those guys got in.
Drawing his Maxim 9, Gideon motioned Ken away from the hatch with a nod. Instinctively, Gideon’s hand went to his pocket, checking for extra clips. The rest of the ammo was in the backpack. He patted the extra 9mm pressed against his kidney under his shirt.
Ken dropped to a knee, grabbing a bag from under his bed, and flew to his feet, backing toward the door. They exchanged a knowing glance.
Digging in and fighting was the only way out. They hurried to the living room.
Ken scooped up passports from the table and tossed them to Gideon. “I didn’t get to finish the one with her fake name.”
Shit. They’d have to evade customs going into the Cayman Islands and figure out how to get back into the United States later. Problems were mounting.
First things first—kill every baddie gunning for them.
More bullets struck the hatch door. Gideon lunged to check the cameras again. The two on the ground were gone. No sign of them on the other screens. Damn.
The fifth guy outside the apartment door unzipped a pouch, removing a wad of plastic explosives. The dude was going to blow the door. The ones on the roof just breached the hatch.
Splendid. Shit kept getting better. “Willow, hurry.”
“Almost finished,” she called from the third bedroom.
Gideon shoved the sofa to the side to provide cover as Ken grabbed the shotgun, situating himself in the kitchen. Locked and loaded to stop anyone coming down the hall from the master bedroom.
Glass shattered from the second bedroom. A thud—something hitting carpet. Footfalls crunched glass. Heavy. Quick. They were inside.
Willow. Gideon surged up and forward.
A hot spray of bullets from behind him riddled the wall and furniture, forcing him to drop to the ground. The mercs from the hatch door had a prime position in the hall off the kitchen. Under the fusillade of shots, bits of drywall, glass, and sofa padding kicked into the air.
