Taking a second to get her bearings, Sydney immediately spotted Stephanie and Paul. The two agents were having an out-and-out war on the steps that led to the boat's upper level. Frightened tourists in rain ponchos were hurriedly shoving each other to get out of their way.
“Stay out of this,” Paul snarled over his shoulder at Sydney. He had cornered Stephanie at the prow of the boat. His blond hair was stuck in wet clumps on his forehead, and his face was flushed red with anger. In his hands was an oar, which he menaced in front of Stephanie.
Stephanie's face was white. “Please, don't do this. I—”
Wham! Before Sydney could make a move, Paul smashed the oar into the side of Stephanie's head. She crumpled like a rag doll onto the steps.
“Stephanie!” Sydney gasped, stepping toward her. Then she darted quickly back as Paul turned toward her. Anger surged through her chilled veins. She'd already had one battle with Paul that afternoon. A battle I would have lost if he hadn't gone after Stephanie.
There was no way she could back down now. But how was she going to win?
The watch! Sydney had forgotten all about the watch! She pulled it out of her pocket, aimed it at Paul, and then pushed the hand.
Paul let out a cry, then slumped over.
“Graham, you really had my back on this one,” she said as she took down a piece of rope from the side of the boat and began expertly binding Paul's hands together. She had five minutes before the laser wore off.
“Who are you?” asked two middle-school-age girls who had been anxiously watching the whole thing, raising their voices to be heard over the falls. “You're either a superhero or really bad, and we can't tell which.”
“I'm a good guy,” Sydney promised, smiling up at them. “If I had my badge with me, I'd show you. And if you want to help me, go find some more rope.” Sydney used the rope she had left to tie Paul's feet together. He wasn't completely secured—she'd need a few feet more to be safe.
Leaving Paul where he was, Sydney ran over to a glass-enclosed area, where a man she assumed was the captain stood inside. She banged on the glass. He held what appeared to be a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. He looked very upset.
“Turn this boat around!” Sydney ordered, water streaming down her face. “I am a federal agent!”
The captain didn't move. Instead, he glared at her through the smudged glass. “Yeah, and I'm Brad Pitt. Listen, young lady, you have put this boat and the hundreds of passengers who are on it in terrible danger!” he scolded. “We are finishing our course, which will take approximately ten more minutes to navigate.”
“We don't have ten minutes!” Sydney pointed frantically back at Paul. “See that guy over there? When he wakes up, and he will, in, oh, two minutes, your boat is going to be in serious danger.”
“And when we finish our course,” the captain said, ignoring her, “the United States Coast Guard and Canadian police will be escorting you and your friends off my boat.”
“I'm going to be escorting you into the falls if you don't divert this boat!” Sydney yelled, giving the glass a frustrated slap. Obviously she wasn't getting anywhere with him. She decided to turn her attention to her fellow passengers.
All of them looked terrified.
The two young girls were nowhere to be found—and neither was their rope. Sydney glanced up and saw Paul stirring slightly. “Get me some more rope!” she barked to a bewildered group of German tourists, using their native tongue. As they scurried off, she waved her hands at a couple that was peering curiously at Paul. “Stay away from him!”
By this point, no one was paying any attention to the canned voice-over, which still continued to extol the virtues of the falls, complete with stories of daredevil rescues. The show on the boat was much more interesting.
“We found this,” one of the young girls said, suddenly appearing in front of her. She held out a jump rope. “It was in my little brother's backpack.”
“This will do just fine,” Sydney said, turning toward Paul.
But he was gone.
Some misguided Good Samaritan had untied Paul's hands, and when the stun gun had worn off, he had hobbled over to Stephanie. He loomed over her now, his feet still loosely bound.
Sydney watched in horror as he gathered Stephanie in his arms, then glanced up at the roaring American Falls. Paul was going to throw her overboard!
“No!” Sydney cried. She grabbed a blue and white life preserver and slid across the boat toward him. The boat pitched forward and Sydney rammed into Paul full force.
“Holy—” Paul screeched as the body slam knocked him into the railing. He tossed Stephanie aside and raised his fist to punch Sydney in the face.
Without a moment's hesitation, Sydney clutched the life preserver and walloped him in the gut with every ounce of strength she had. This was one fight she had to win. He stumbled back, his feet still bound, and she whacked him with the preserver again. But this time he didn't just stumble backward.
He toppled over the edge of the boat.
Sydney gaped in disbelief as Paul clung to the front railing of the Maid of the Mist, his fingers clutching desperately to the cold, wet metal. His eyes bore into hers. Cold, angry, frightened eyes.
Should I grab his hand and help him back up? Sydney wondered in a daze, not sure how to react. But that would be too risky. He was likely to pull her over if she did that. Next to her, Stephanie let out a groggy moan.
“Somebody do something!” someone cried behind her. Several passengers gasped. But this time no Good Samaritans stepped forward.
“Man overboard! Man overboard!” shouted the captain over the loudspeaker.
And then, in slow motion, Sydney watched in dismay as Agent Paul Riley's fingers slid off the railing, and he plummeted silently into the thundering water of Niagara Falls.
15
THE BOAT LOOKED LIKE a child's bathtub toy from where Sydney and Stephanie stood on the main viewing area of the Niagara Parkway. Helicopters swarmed overhead, and a few hundred yards away sat two parked ambulances, their lights whirring. Policemen bustled importantly around them, speaking brusquely into walkie-talkies.
“That is some goose egg,” Sydney said, cautiously touching the large tender lump that had formed on Stephanie's forehead. “You've got to see a doctor immediately.”
“I will,” Stephanie said, flinching. “Believe me, my head has seen worse.”
They were quiet for a moment, the buzz of the helicopters drowning out their voices.
“I still can't believe we slipped away,” Stephanie said, staring down at the water. In the confusion after Paul had gone overboard, the distraught captain had quickly returned the boat to the departure dock. Sydney had roused Stephanie and the two of them had managed to flee the area undetected. They'd quickly purchased souvenir T-shirts and cheap sunglasses, ditching their soaked clothes in a Dumpster behind the visitors' center. Now they easily blended in with the confused crowd of onlookers gaping down at the accident scene below.
“I can't believe he tried to kill me,” Sydney said, reaching up to rub her sore neck. Her body felt bruised and beaten, but for the most part, she was okay. “The look in his eyes—” She broke off, not sure what was the right thing to say. After all, her friend had just lost someone who had at one time meant a great deal to her—not to mention someone who had once been a trusted fellow agent.
Stephanie reached over and squeezed Sydney's hand. “I can't thank you enough for what you just did, Sydney. You saved my life.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “It's just so hard to believe that he hated me that much. Enough to want to kill me. And you.”
Sydney squeezed Stephanie's hand back. “I don't think it was you he hated, Stephanie. Paul was a traitor to the CIA and to the United States. And you were the one unlucky enough to catch him. You're the one the agency should be proud of.”
Sydney's initial shock at watching Paul plunge to almost-certain death had been replaced by resolute acceptance. There was no doubt in her mind th
at he had caused his own death. He was a traitor. And she was an agent of the CIA, doing her job.
Well, it wasn't exactly an official assignment, her nagging conscience reminded her. SD-6 hadn't sanctioned today's events—they didn't even know about them. Graham only had a few kernels of information—and after calling in on a borrowed cell phone to assure him that she was okay, Sydney had decided not to give him any more. Why get more people involved than she needed to? She would let her handler know that she had assisted an agent from SD-2 on a mission while she was in Niagara Falls, and if Sloane wanted to follow up with Stephanie's handler at SD-2, that was his business.
I've done nothing wrong, she told herself firmly, watching as the rescue boats navigated the choppy water in search of Paul's body. She looked over at Stephanie. For the first time in days, her friend's body language looked relaxed. In fact, I did everything right.
“So, I'm going to do it,” Stephanie blurted out, her chin jutting outward defiantly. “I'm going to enter the witness protection program the higher-ups at SD-2 have offered me. Not even Paul's father will know where I am.”
“But—but you're such a good agent,” Sydney protested as they sat down on a newly vacated bench. “The Agency needs people like you. People who care.”
Stephanie shook her head. “I've cared enough to last a lifetime.” She scuffed the ground with her still-damp shoe. “Nope, I'm ready to leave my SD-2 days behind me. Do something completely normal, like become a manager at Banana Republic. Great discounts on cashmere sweaters, I hear.” Stephanie laughed. “Or who knows? Maybe I really will look for a job in insurance.” Then she grew quiet. “Be somebody who can look her roommates in the eye and tell them the truth about what I do for a living. Look myself in the eye too.”
Sydney bit her lip. When the CIA had first recruited her back in September, she had been filled with doubt. With her genius-level IQ, her predilection for languages, and her natural interest in government and history, she had been an obvious candidate for the CIA. Obvious to everyone but her. Becoming a CIA officer had never occurred to her as a career choice until Wilson had approached her that day in the quad, handing over his business card.
Now, all these months later, despite all the danger and potential anguish, despite all the lies to the people she cared about, Sydney couldn't imagine a life without SD-6. She told lies, to be sure, but she told them for a very good reason: they protected her loved ones. They were necessary.
As was SD-6. It had given her life a purpose.
And for that, she'd be eternally grateful.
“I hope you aren't getting any ideas about quitting your day job,” Stephanie said suddenly, her timing making Sydney blink in surprise. “Because seeing you in action—you are one incredible agent. How you climbed down that cord onto the boat—” She shook her head in disbelief. “That was totally amazing. I hope you guys get a patent on that thing.”
“I have to give credit to Graham back at HQ,” Sydney said, wishing Graham could have seen his devices in action. Maybe someday. She grinned. “Don't worry. I might have gotten a bit shaken up out there today, but I have no intention of leaving SD-6.” She shrugged. “It's weird, but it's in my blood.”
Stephanie leaned over and gave her an impulsive hug. “I'll never forget you, Sydney,” she said softly. “You were a real friend to me today.”
Sydney hugged her back, a lump forming in her throat at the thought of saying good-bye. She hadn't been a friend to Stephanie just for today.
She would be her friend forever.
16
A RUSH OF COOL air greeted Sydney as she pulled open the dorm door, wheeling her suitcase behind her, and walked into the lobby. Brightly colored advertisements for used books and announcements for events that had long since passed still hung haphazardly on the bulletin board, and a tired-looking janitor was pushing the furniture to the walls as he prepared to mop the residence hall floor.
Except for a guy Sydney didn't know walking by listening to his Discman, it was deserted. It was obviously very different here at UCLA during the summer session. Gone was the hustle and bustle of people on their way to class or the gym or, on a good day, the beach. No clusters of students were hanging out in front of the coffee cart, which was closed; no music was playing; and the smell of popcorn that inevitably was being popped somewhere in the high-rise had been replaced by lemon-scented cleaning solution.
As she waited for the elevator doors to open, Sydney felt a tingle of the old familiar dread. Back to UCLA meant back to lying. Back to trying to cover up every time SD-6 called her with an urgent mission. She hoped she could still do it. Lie, that was. Now that she was home, she couldn't hide her emotions so easily. Francie could always tell in an instant when something was terribly wrong just by looking at Sydney's face.
The elevator doors opened and Sydney stepped inside. Duh. Francie's not going to be here. She was out in New Mexico solving some major crisis like mopping up spilled apple juice or regulating how many Elmo videos her young charges could watch before the entire family, including Francie, went crazy.
When the elevator arrived on her floor, Sydney walked down the empty hallway, past an occasional gum wrapper and a few crumpled-up flyers. The air inside her room felt hot and stuffy, and she flipped the air-conditioning on high, then kicked off her shoes and sat down heavily on her bed.
The room looked exactly the same. Same minifridge. Same woolly cream-colored Pottery Barn rug she and Francie had selected together. Same stack of used textbooks on her desk. Same string of jalapeño lights Francie had strewn across her side of the room. Same James Dean poster. Same campus view out of the same dusty windows.
Sydney sighed.
And the same lonely girl.
After taking a long, hot shower, Sydney put on a clean pair of shorts and a white tank top and slipped on a pair of flip-flops. She combed her wet hair behind her ears and dabbed on some gel in hopes that it would stay that way. Then she put on a light coat of mascara, dusted some blush across her cheekbones, and stuck her sunglasses and her wallet in her leather satchel.
After all the planes, taxis, and harrowing boat rides, it was going to feel great to get behind the wheel of her Mustang and be in control. It was going to feel even better once she reached the beach and felt the warm sand under her toes and the late June afternoon sunshine on her face.
Sydney pulled the door shut behind her and reached in her satchel for her cell phone. There was just one phone call she was going to have to make before she reached her destination.
Maybe she wouldn't have to be a lonely girl forever.
“So . . . I thought you were in Asia,” Sydney said to Noah Hicks two hours later. They sat side by side, shoulders almost touching, on a faded floral blanket on the sand, the surf crashing a hundred yards in front of them. Most of the beachgoers had packed up for the day, leaving only a few random Frisbee players and a couple of dog walkers to enjoy what Sydney considered the best part of the day to be at the beach.
She toyed with the fringe on the blanket, not meeting his gaze. He had met her there, no questions asked, an hour after she had phoned, which was something considering L.A. traffic. Knowing that made her happier than she could have predicted.
“Then why did you call?” Noah asked, looking over at her. His straight hair was tousled and the small lines around his eyes crinkled in the sun. Noah looked like a normal guy at the beach with his faded khaki shorts and navy Abercrombie shirt . . . except Sydney was convinced that normal and Noah didn't belong in the same sentence.
Why had she called him? That was a good question. The truth was that from the time she had stood with Stephanie at the top of the falls, the helicopters swarming overhead as Paul Riley's lifeless body was pulled from the water, to the moment her plane had landed at LAX, the only person Sydney had wanted to see was Noah.
Not that she was going to tell him that.
Sydney had learned something on this trip. Something more than how to scale a wall, debug a room, and
conjugate verbs in French. For the first time, she really, truly understood that everyone—everyone at SD-6, SD-2, SD-5, whatever—had a hidden, secret life.
Did it matter that she had been told Noah was in Asia when he actually was going to happy hours in Marina del Rey? Or did she need to grill him to find out that he had gone to Asia but had returned ahead of schedule?
Or does it simply matter that I had someone to call—and that he showed up when I did?
No one in Sydney's personal life knew about SD-6—not her professors, not Todd, not Francie. Not even my dad! Noah didn't know about Burke. . . . At least, she didn't think so, and if he did, he didn't know much. Emily Sloane didn't know about her husband's real world. Sydney hadn't known that her former handler, Wilson, had been a traitor to their country.
As she wiggled her toes into the sand, Sydney decided that she didn't need to tell Sloane or Noah or anyone at SD-6 what had happened between Stephanie and Paul.
It was over. She knew in her heart that she had done the right thing. She had handled it professionally, as expected of someone in her position at SD-6.
And, her brain reiterated, it was over.
“Sometimes you do things in this job that surprise you,” Noah said out of the blue.
Sydney gaped at him. It was as if he could read her mind.
“Don't be so hard on yourself, Sydney,” Noah said, his fingertips grazing her bare shoulders. “You're definitely Herculean, but you aren't strong enough to carry the weight of the world.” He lightly kissed her collarbone, sending a tiny shiver down her spine. “Besides, these shoulders are much too attractive for that.”
“I don't know what's going on, but somehow you are saying all the right things today,” Sydney said, letting her head rest against Noah's shoulder. She breathed in his soapy, musky smell as the beach slowly began to darken into twilight.
Noah leaned into her. “I might not always say the right things, but it's not because I don't know what they are, Syd.”
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