by Juno Rushdan
A shrill gasp flew from Sybil’s wretched mouth.
Sanborn stood, a reflexive fist clenching at his side. The president intended to screw over the Gray Box to cover his own ass, the lives of innocent officers be damned. And Lee wasn’t going to lift a finger to help. Sanborn wasn’t going to take it sitting down like a paper pusher. He might work behind a desk these days, but he would always be first and foremost an operator.
To this day, you’d never catch him unarmed or out of ammo. In a bind, he could shit bullets if necessary.
“The Gray Box is an unprecedented organization. We do what the other agencies can’t. We plug the hole in the shield that safeguards this nation.”
Not that he had to sell Lee on the merits of the Gray Box. His old friend had recruited Sanborn. More like coerced. The choice had been simple: stand up the Gray Box and run it for at least five years—to the detriment of his marriage—and in return, Sanborn’s CIA team, who had gotten themselves into trouble overseas, would be spared. His history with Lee was long and sticky. Ironic that Lee had been the catalyst to bring the Gray Box into existence and would be the one to oversee its demise.
If it came to that.
“Killing the Gray Box would be a major blow to national security in the long run,” Sanborn said. “I need sufficient time to send a team to France.” Not that he’d waste resources or precious time following a dirty lead meant to divert them from the truth. “Give me seventy-two hours and—”
“Not like you to make excuses.” Lee drained his glass of whiskey. “Hope it’s not an indication that the one man I know with a spine of steel and brass balls is feeling that four-letter word.”
Fear. To Sanborn, those four letters meant Face everything and (motherfucking) rise. “You know me better.”
The DNI poured himself another round. “Good. You have forty-eight hours.”
The videoconference screen went dark.
“Shit!” Sybil slammed her palms on the table, springing to her feet. “You’re going to get us killed.”
Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to end up in a body bag. This wouldn’t be the first whitewash Sanborn had survived, but he’d staked everything he was on the Gray Box. He’d be damned if he abandoned them.
“I’ll handle this.”
His every move was being watched and he couldn’t play his hand too soon. He needed to wait until the last possible minute, then time for a Hail Mary. Gideon wouldn’t like it if he’d gone to such lengths to protect Willow, but his star quarterback, turned into the finest assassin still breathing, better follow the damn play.
“Well, la-di-fucking-da. I guess I’m supposed to feel better. But I don’t!” She stalked around the room, heels stabbing the carpet.
“Oh, come on. You have to have a heart to feel.”
Sybil froze, glaring at him with feigned offense.
It took everything in him not to roll his eyes. “Your conniving”—he pointed an indignant finger her way—“placed our necks in this guillotine, getting the DNI fired up to run to the president after I already had him managed.”
“How was I supposed to know you were besties with the DNI?”
And therein lay the problem. The vanity. The hubris. For her to think she would ever know more than him, much less know everything.
“You’ll shut your mouth and stay out of my lane.” Sanborn crossed the room, drawing so close to her, the fury in his eyes made her cower. “Don’t do anything else to jeopardize this mission. For your sake, I hope this is sinking in. If you don’t do exactly as I’ve said, so help me, Sybil, you won’t have to worry about a whitewash. Because I’ll bury you myself.”
36
Grand Cayman Island
Monday, July 8, 1:45 a.m. EST/2:45 a.m. EDT
The waves crashed on the shoreline in a soothing rhythm, the relaxing sound rolling in through the two open windows. Gideon spooned Willow with his face pressed to her hair, inhaling the heady scent mixed with light florals from the shampoo. They’d cleaned up together in the shower, and she’d let him wash her from her scalp to the soles of her feet.
Hands down, it had been the most intimate thing—without having sex—he’d ever done with a woman. And the sex last night had been different. Still off the charts, but more intense. Although he’d described it as fucking, they’d gone from screwing to something deeper, as if every touch and kiss was an investment of his heart and soul. He’d made love.
With Kelli, he’d had amazing sex, but it’d been just a physical act for pleasure. By the end, screwing had become a chore. She’d never known who he was, and when she’d seen a glimpse of the real him, she’d bailed on their marriage and run straight to another man.
Willow saw him, but the truth hadn’t scared her off. She wanted more of him. Crazy.
The way she touched him, looked at him, said his name, spoon-fed him affection and adoration, told him this was what he’d always craved. What really threw his world spinning off its axis was how he found nourishment in the sight of her, simply holding her.
This was happiness.
He curled his arms tighter around her.
“Tell me why you joined the CIA.” Her gentle voice sent his heart skittering in surprise. She’d been so still, her heartbeat so slow, he would’ve sworn she was asleep.
“The why is tied to unpleasant history.” Bloody. Painful.
Edgy tension trickled through him, but there was no knee-jerk reaction to close off and shut down. Not from her. She had a lovely way of robbing him of his defenses.
“You said to ask another time.” She stroked his forearm, nuzzling close. “Well, it’s another time and I’m asking.” Her voice was light and lazy.
A cool breeze swept in, rustling the curtains. Kissing the back of her head, he buried his face in her hair.
“Tell me, how does a star football player end up working for the CIA?”
“You’re really curious,” he teased, tickling her ribs.
She squirmed against him. “I can’t figure it out. With your all-star looks and talent to match, you could’ve done so many other things.”
Then I never would’ve met you. Every ugly act and dirty deed was worth it to know her.
“Tell me.” She tugged on his fingers with impatience.
Whenever she touched him, he softened, stilled. This casual intimacy with her was anything but casual. And it terrified him.
She was so much more courageous, pouring herself out to him. He couldn’t give her a future, but here, safe with her curled around him like a second skin, he could bare his soul. The one true thing he had to offer.
“My dad left when I was four and never looked back. It broke my mother.”
“A husband deserting his wife and young child is enough to break a heart.”
“No, not just her heart, something deeper. His leaving broke her spirit. She wouldn’t get out of bed, didn’t go to work, stayed up all night crying. I had to fend for myself for a bit, making do with the food in the fridge, ready-made prepackaged stuff in the cabinets. I’d leave dry cereal or cookies and water on her nightstand, hoping she’d snap out of it.”
“Goodness, Gideon.” Willow kissed the back of his hand. “How long did it go on?”
“Weeks.” To the best of his recollection. “When she managed to pull herself together, boyfriends rotated through the house. Dirtbags who drank, did drugs. Some liked to hit.”
“Did they hit you?” She turned, resting her head under his chin, pressing satin curves to his chest, her breath caressing his throat.
He rubbed his knuckles over her spine in tender brushstokes, grounded by her softness, keeping the rage and sorrow of the past from boiling up. “One night, Clint—he was the worst—kicked me out of the living room because he wanted to watch television. I didn’t grab my toys fast enough. These silly Matchbox cars. He knocked me around for bein
g too slow.”
Willow pulled back and caressed his face. He glanced at her eyes. Warmth and kindness shone. No poor-you pity.
“How old were you?”
“Eight.” The year his life changed course. “But I fought back as best I could against a grown man. By the time my mom got in between us, one of my eyes was swollen shut.”
She pressed her head to his chest and hugged him, tight and firm, as if afraid he might slip away.
Sharing his story for the first time, he expected the impulse to detach to take hold of him. It didn’t. He relished the intimate threads drawing him to Willow. Despite the torment of anger and pain roiling inside at dredging up the past, letting her in was giving him something he’d never had but always needed.
“I ran from the house. Had no idea where to go. Ended up sneaking into my neighbor’s garage. A friendly couple with no kids. The husband, Benjamin, found me. Asked questions I refused to answer. He brought me inside, and Hannah, his wife, tended to me.
“She was a nurse. The sweetest lady. Pretty good cook too. Somehow Ben got me to finally answer his questions with a nod or shake of the head. He walked me home and had a chat with Clint. First time I saw a man kick the ass of another without throwing a punch. Ben deflected, turning everything Clint dished out back on him. It was like watching a superhero.”
“What did your mom do?”
“Nothing. I think she was in shock. Clint was so embarrassed, he got on his bike and took off for days.”
“Must’ve been a relief.”
“Should’ve been, but my mom blamed me for driving him off. Told me I was a little shit, like my dad. A spitting image of him, and every day it was harder to stomach the sight of me.”
You’re not enough, Gideon. I need more than just being your mother. I need a kind of love you can’t give me. Don’t ruin this one for me, you little shit! Know how hard it is for a woman with a kid?
Recalling his mother’s cruel words set his heart drumming. He hadn’t expected such acute pain in his chest. Willow caressed his torso and he remembered to breathe.
“Clint eventually came back. When I went to Ben and Hannah the next time with a busted jaw, the cops hit the house a few days later while my mom was at work. Found a bunch of drugs in one of Clint’s bags. My mother swore it wasn’t his, but he was sent to prison. Afterward, my mom wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Losing one parent is hard. I can’t imagine two turning their back on their own child.”
Willow had the biggest heart. Even though she was suffering, not knowing if her father might live or die, she made room for his pain. He was grateful for her tenderness.
“Once my jaw healed, Ben taught me how to defend myself. I had this wild, crazy energy and couldn’t focus. So he used a metronome. Had me concentrate on the beat instead of the movements at first.”
She gazed up at him. “I can see the practicality of a metronome. I overheard you sparring in the gym once with Castle and he couldn’t understand how you beat him. You’d said fighting was all about rhythm and tempo, moving at the proper beat.” Petal-smooth lips brushed his jaw. “For the record, so is dancing.”
Grinning, he held her tighter. “Why am I not surprised you were eavesdropping?” But he was surprised she’d been close enough to overhear a conversation and he hadn’t noticed her. His senses always trained on her if she was in the room.
Willow covered her face with her hands. “More like spellbound by you than eavesdropping. I couldn’t help it.”
He pried her fingers away and looked into her eyes. “I never want you to feel embarrassed around me about anything. Okay?”
A smile lifted her mouth, and it was like the sun rose in his heart. He was the one awestruck.
“Well, if a metronome can increase a musician’s awareness and focus, I imagine it works in regard to fighting,” she said.
“Centered me like nothing else.”
Focus will carry you all the way, Gideon. All the way. Ben’s words were ingrained. His tutelage enabled Gideon to survive, taught him to cauterize pain and overcome anything.
“Ben and Hannah used to take camping trips and would bring me along.”
“Your mom didn’t mind?”
He kissed her forehead, wondering what kind of mother she’d make. Loving, patient, fiercely protective most likely. “I think my mom was secretly thrilled to have the house to herself and her latest boyfriend.”
“Did you learn to fish and hunt?”
“Ben showed me a bold new world. At nine, I thought it was normal to use a SIG Sauer SSG 3000 tactical sniper rifle to kill a deer. Normal to use a 9mm with a silencer.”
Willow stiffened in his arms, but he continued spilling the details he’d held secret for more than twenty years. “To break down a weapon, clean it, and put it back together blindfolded. Normal to learn how to defend myself with a fixed blade or fishing pole, take someone down with tackle line, or maneuver out of any hold. Skinning a deer always shifted into how to stop an attacker with a knife and practicing how to use a blade.”
Sounded odd hearing it out loud, but his time with them had been the best days of his youth. The bowie knife he kept in his go bag had been a gift from Ben, and he cherished it.
Willow reeled in his arms, nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed. “What did Ben do?”
“He said he worked in insurance, traveled a lot for business.” Gideon had simply soaked everything in and hadn’t asked questions that might have messed up the one safe space he’d found. “Ben did a stint in the army when he was younger, where he picked up the Arabic, Farsi, and German, all of which he taught me. He was big into politics and foreign affairs. Talked about the importance of national security, the greater good, protecting one’s family and home by eliminating any threats. No matter what was required.”
“Did Hannah think that was normal?”
He shrugged. “Ben sprinkled his rhetoric like seeds when I’d tag along to run errands, helped with house repairs. Until one day, my belief system grew into an ideological garden of his making.” He caressed Willow’s head, running his fingers through her hair. “Hannah never went hunting. She hung out at the campsite and was never around for any training, except when we played CHAOS.”
“What’s chaos?”
Gideon chuckled. “Conscious honed awareness of surroundings—the CHAOS game. We’d go to a restaurant. Before we ordered, Ben had Hannah and me close our eyes and answer questions. How many waitresses were inside, if there were any white cars in the parking lot, the location of every exit, to describe the people at the tables around us. That sort of thing.”
Snuggling into his body, she slipped her thigh in between his, tangling their legs. “How long were they a part of your life?”
“Years. When I started high school, Ben encouraged—more like ordered—me to pick a sport and stick with it. He said I had natural athleticism and could parlay it into a scholarship. He was right. About lots of things. In my junior year, Ben got transferred overseas and they moved.”
“Overseas for an insurance job? Hmm. Did you stay in touch?”
“No.” He heard the bitter upsurge of pain in his own voice, and Willow brushed her lips across his sternum. He wrestled between the gloriousness of the present and agonizing disappointment of the past.
Ben and Hannah had given him a home, shown him love, and he’d come to rely on them for support, for his abnormal sense of normalcy. Then they were gone.
“Losing them felt like abandonment.”
The anger had burned him up for years, even though Hannah had reached out with emails he declined to answer out of childish spite.
“My senior year in college, agency recruiters approached me. Their spiel about duty and patriotism, safeguarding the greater good…it all hit home.” Like a bullet to the heart.
There was no way he could’ve said no. He’d bee
n called and he was ready to serve.
“After my time at the Farm, I was at headquarters, Langley. Found out I’d been selected for a deep black program.” Where the CIA trained him to be an assassin. “In the hall, I ran into Ben.”
She shot up, leaning on her forearm. “Were you shocked? Do you think running into him was an accident?”
“Yes and no. He’d just gotten transferred back stateside. When I saw him, everything made sense. Who I’d become, why, how. Pieces of my life, sort of an unsolved puzzle, fell into place. I was grateful to know the truth and for a second chance to have them in my life.”
“Did you ask him if he’d trained you for this?”
“No.” They’d smiled, shaken hands, and shot the breeze in their abnormal everything-was-normal way. “We never said a word about it.”
“Do you still see them? Or your mom?”
“I haven’t spoken to my mom since I left for college. She remarried and gave me the impression it’d be easier for her if I stayed gone.”
The emptiness of how his mother had discarded him never waned, but he no longer wanted it to eat away at him, defining his value.
“I didn’t waste time renewing my friendship with Ben and Hannah.” Friendship was such a shallow word. Family was better, yet still wrong. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told about my childhood or the truth about Ben.”
“You never told your wife?”
“No.” He hadn’t told Kelli so many things, and the stockpile of omissions and lies had doomed their marriage. “She didn’t know how much they meant to me or how they’d saved me. She just saw them as friendly childhood neighbors. Right before I transferred to the Gray Box, I learned Ben died on a mission.”
Shutting his eyes, Gideon wished he’d had more time with him after learning the truth. Not taken for granted that one day, they’d have the conversation instead of pretending there was nothing to discuss.
“I’m sorry, Gideon. Sounds as if he was the closest thing you had to a father.”
