by Cate Noble
Could she do this?
Once upon a time she’d been one of the best. She had been trained by a master: Remi. And she’d loved a master: Dante.
Dante was now her opponent and this was the final episode.
Damn it, she could do this. She was a pro. She would win.
A cool steeliness took over.
“Let the games begin.”
Dante returned to his hotel thoroughly disgusted with himself. It was almost six o’clock. More than six hours had passed since Cat had bolted. That was one hellacious head start.
That the airports were being watched would matter only if Cat used a known alias.
If she used a different name, if she left Rio by car, or train, or boat—she could be anywhere. Her head start would grow exponentially with each minute, each mile.
But he also couldn’t eliminate the possibility that she was still right here in the city. Right under his nose. If she had burrowed into one of Rio’s hundreds of favelas, he’d never find her.
Favelas had a strong social code. Communities were tight knit, protecting their own while rejecting outsiders. Most had their own system of justice and even protection, courtesy of whichever crime cartel controlled the area.
Even the brothel owner, Ernesto, who seemed willing to do anything for money, refused to violate favela sanctity, claiming to keep no records on employees, or expendable day workers, as he called them. Ernesto’s reticence likely had more to do with his fear of reprisal than loyalty to the community.
Since Dante wasn’t in Rio in any official capacity, there was a limit to how far he could push his irate-customer jag. Ernesto had tried to cajole him with a substitute prostitute. Failing that, the slimy bastard had offered another cleaning lady. A pregnant cleaning lady. Ernesto’s final gesture had been to return half of Dante’s money before basically throwing him out.
After that, Dante had tried to locate the squatter who’d first tipped him off about Luzia, but the man was gone. And the few other people he’d approached in the area had regarded him suspiciously and said nothing.
The rest of the afternoon had been spent hitting brick walls. The addresses Travis had forwarded on Giselle’s alias turned up dry. He’d even ditched his disguise and returned to Pouca Flor, mingling with the crowds outside as he tried to keep an eye on the brothel in case Cat came back to the scene of the crime. But he couldn’t watch both the front and the back.
Now his hotel room closed in. He finished the meal he’d ordered from room service and checked e-mail. Rocco had forwarded his itinerary but couldn’t get there fast enough.
Dante decided to return to the brothel’s neighborhood. Maybe by now the old drunk had returned to his place in the ruins.
But just as he was leaving, Travis called. Dante slipped back inside his room, hoping that Travis had found a local connection.
“Luzia Gomez boarded a flight out of Rio less than thirty minutes ago,” Travis said. “Cash ticket, purchased last minute.”
Shit. Dante fired up his laptop. “Destination?”
“Mexico City. ETA eighty-thirty a.m. local time, with a three-hour layover in Buenos Aires.”
Dante did a quick calculation. That was sixteen hours from now. A private charter was the only way he could possibly make it to Mexico City before Cat. And even that was pushing it. Besides, there was no guarantee she’d continue on from Buenos Aires. Beating her to Argentina at this point would be impossible.
“If I take off for Mexico City, can you have Buenos Aires watched in case she bolts from there?” Dante asked.
“I’ll work it. But there’s another problem you need to be aware of,” Travis said. “MI6 has picked up on our interest. I don’t have specifics, but they’ve gone from raised antenna to full hard-on. I know these phones are still secure, but consider everything else potentially problematic for now.”
“And if British intelligence is on this, then the Israelis won’t be far behind,” Dante said. If MI6 or the Mossad got to Cat first he’d never get to question her.
“It limits what I can do through the usual channels without tipping my hand.” Travis was pissed. “As soon as you get this job wrapped, I’ve got another waiting in the wings.”
Dante hung up without commenting on Travis’s assumption that he’d continue working for the Agency. In Dante’s book, everything hinged on finding Cat. And knowing that others searched for her as well sharpened his obsession.
Logging on to e-mail again, Dante reread Rocco’s itinerary. Rocco had picked up a flight to Rio from L.A. with a change of planes in Mexico City. Yes! Dante dialed his friend’s cell phone, which went directly to voice mail.
“Major changes here. Stay in Mexico City. I’ll meet you there.”
He looked up a few more things online, then he started calling private jet services, purposely avoiding the one the Agency favored. If MI6 and the Mossad had an ear to the ground, he had to tread lightly.
Chapter 30
Buenos Aires, Argentina
July 12
(Present Day)
Cat’s layover in Buenos Aires stretched her nerves to spun glass.
That she hadn’t been nabbed at Rio Airport had encouraged her. That courage had faltered when she’d deplaned here. She fully expected to be arrested and had already decided to cling to her alias, not to waver in her assertion that she was a Brazilian national.
Argentina’s government would hand her over to Brazil before they surrendered her to the United States. But if Argentina knew it was the CIA who wanted her, Brazil could kiss her good-bye.
When no one appeared to give her a second thought, a new worry bloomed. Did Dante know she’d left Rio yet? The thought of him discovering her connection to the orphanage wasn’t as scary now that Sister Dores had been warned. The nun would never give her away. Marco’s name couldn’t be traced to Cat…unless Dante actually saw the child. There was no denying Marco’s Y chromosome donor.
Inside the terminal, Cat ate a sandwich, but got sick shortly thereafter. Nerves, she told herself. She purchased an antinausea medication and ibuprofen, hoping the combination stayed in her stomach as she moved to a different gate.
The sensation that she was being watched grew with each step she took. She studied the crowd, suspicious of a tall red headed woman wearing Dolce & Gabbana. Until the woman boarded a flight to London.
As the departure time for Mexico City drew close, Cat once again felt sick. Waiting until the last call to board, she approached the stewardess. No one rushed forward or shouted out an order to “freeze!”
Memorizing faces as she moved down the plane’s aisle, Cat found a teenaged girl in her window seat. The girl tugged out her earphones long enough to ask, “Do you mind switching?”
Too tired to argue, Cat stowed her backpack under the seat in front of her. Then she offered a quick prayer of gratitude. She knew the anxiety would build anew as they approached Mexico City. The next few hours would be her best chance for sleep.
Still, she didn’t close her eyes until she felt the plane pull away from the terminal. God, she felt awful and—
The plane slowed and a male voice came across the speakers. “This is the captain. We have encountered a mechanical problem and have to return to the terminal. Please remain in your seats. We will not be disembarking and hope to get back under way shortly.”
He’s lying. Cat gripped the armrests.
“Oh, crap,” the girl beside her said. “My boyfriend is waiting for me in Mexico City.”
Cat released her seat belt. The plane jerked to a stop again. She tried to peer around the sulking girl, to see out the window. It was dark outside, but in the glare of the terminal’s bright lights she saw the walkway shift forward. If they weren’t disembarking, why extend steps to the passenger door?
She started to rise, to head toward the bathroom. But four men, dressed in black SWAT gear, rushed into the front of the plane. Two of the men carried compact submachine guns. The passengers gasped in unison.
&n
bsp; “Airport security!” the man in charge barked.
It was over. Cat’s heart sank. She tried to formulate her response, but thoughts of her son intruded. Marco! Would she ever see him again?
The man was showing a piece of paper to the stewardess. The woman shrugged. Cat knew it was her photograph, probably not a recent one.
Two of the men had started down the aisle slowly. They paused at each row and scanned every face. As terrifying as it must have seemed for the other passengers, Cat refused to make it easy for them. To resist arrest would be foolish, but why volunteer?
A cell phone rang. The man up front answered.
Cat strained to read his lips. The men conducting the search were now two rows away. When they stepped forward, Cat looked up, prepared to meet their gaze.
“Paulo! Curtis!” The man clipped his cell phone back onto his belt and tipped his head toward the door.
Immediately, the men closest to Cat turned and rushed off the plane. All the passengers started talking at once. Several demanded an explanation from the captain.
Cat was stunned, uncertain of what trick they were playing.
“What is happening?” the girl asked.
“I’m not certain,” said Cat.
The stewardess had been speaking with one passenger, but moved away to answer the cabin phone. The noise dropped as everyone tried to eavesdrop. Then a whispered explanation spread from row to row.
The man across the aisle from Cat leaned toward her. “They thought some international terrorist was on this flight,” he repeated. “But they called back the wrong plane.”
The wrong plane…Sweet Jesus! She was okay. Marco was okay.
The captain came on with an apology, making a joke. But no one laughed, especially when they learned all outbound traffic had been temporarily halted.
Three hours later, Cat was still clenching the armrests as the plane finally ascended into the night sky.
Cat was getting sicker by the hour. No more telling herself it was stress, nerves. She’d bullied her psyche into blind obedience one too many times. The hypervigilance of the past year suddenly seemed to catch up.
Once the plane left Argentina, her body started shutting down. Chills blanketed her. The antinausea medicine seemed to work, but so far the ibuprofen wasn’t helping her fever or aches.
She remembered how ill the two nuns had been. Was this what poor little Marco had felt like when he was sick? God, she missed him even as she was grateful he wasn’t with her right now.
Sister Dores’s admonition to think of Marco first was never far from Cat’s mind. Was this existence fair to her son?
No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t fair for either of them. But damn if Cat could ever bring herself to willingly give him up. There had to be another way. A safe place. Somewhere…Someplace…
She nearly jumped out of her skin when the plane touched down in Mexico City, unaware that she’d fallen asleep.
Her primary concern, that someone would be waiting to grab her inside the terminal, mushroomed. But with fear came the gift of adrenaline.
Another hour was all she needed. She had to book a ticket to Amsterdam. For her plan to have the best chance at success, Dante needed to think Luzia Gomez had headed to Europe.
Cat would take a cab to the closest bus station and find a willing runaway to take her flight. And right after that Cat would find a cheap room, lock herself in, and let this sickness run its course.
The plane had stopped, and everyone started moving. Cat stood, swayed, and grabbed the seat in front of her until the dizziness passed.
Please, just a little longer.
Walking took energy. Thinking took effort. That the wig she wore felt hot and heavy didn’t help. Struggling to keep up with the crowd as they jostled down the jetway, Cat fell in behind an older, heavyset man who struggled with carrying two bags.
“Here. I’ll help you.” Forcing a smile through gritted teeth, Cat took one of his suitcases and linked her arm through his. “You lead the way.”
The man called her a Good Samaritan and then started talking about his upcoming visit with a grandson. They walked as a couple into the terminal.
Cat scanned the crowd. The passengers milling around, waiting to board this flight as it continued on, looked unhappy. The unexpected delay in Argentina had caused an international ripple.
A severe wave of nausea hit Cat as they moved into the main terminal walkway. She spotted the restroom sign and stopped. Tugging her arm free, she gave the man back his bag.
“This is as far as I’m going,” she said.
The man squeezed her fingers, asking for her name as he thanked her again. Pretending not to hear, Cat rushed into the ladies’ room and barricaded herself in a corner stall.
Thanks to Travis’s help, Dante had arrived in Mexico City four hours before Cat’s flight arrived. He wasn’t sure how Travis had managed to delay the flight in Buenos Aires, but Dante used the extra time to plan.
Rocco had arrived six hours before Dante and had already made the initial arrangements, tapping into local underground sources to secure the items they needed.
“The rest we’ll play by ear once we have her,” Rocco said.
“Provided she is on the plane.”
Staying off the radar sometimes meant flying blind. While Luzia Gomez had reboarded in Buenos Aires, Dante wouldn’t believe it was Cat until he’d visually confirmed it for himself.
Hell, at this point he wasn’t certain Cat had even boarded in Rio. She could have given her tickets and passport away and remained in Rio. Or booked a flight elsewhere under another name. He recalled the cologne, the telltale sign. The thought that she was boldly taunting him again shortened his fuse.
“If she’s not here, we’ll just keep hunting,” said Rocco. “The fact she’s on the run is good. She’ll screw up and we’ll nail her.”
“We just have to make damn sure we get her before anyone else.”
“I’d like five minutes alone with whoever’s broadcasting our business.”
“I’d settle for two,” Dante said.
“I’m betting that whoever it is contributed heavily to your smear campaign,” Rocco went on. “Think about it. The circumstances of your return would have been a great opportunity to offload and defuse suspicions.”
Now, as the flight from Buenos Aires pulled into the gate, Rocco and Dante split up.
Dante stood off to the side, hidden in a crowd. He watched the passengers stream forward and focused on the first knot of people, methodically scanning each and every face.
“Excúseme, por favor.” A man pushed in front of Dante, blocking his view. Dante shifted left, but so did the man.
Shoving to the right, Dante regained a clear view but now he’d lost track. Shit! He glanced down the corridor at the retreating bodies then back to the passengers still coming forth.
Damn it, Cat, where are you?
He felt his concentration heighten, like it had at the brothel when his hypersensitivity had literally pinged in her presence. That only happens when I think of Cat. Could he replicate that phenomenon now?
He pictured her with dagger in hand, when she’d cut him, when she’d escaped. Sure enough, something inside his head seemed to spark. Then his senses burst to life, shimmering outside his body like an aura.
Oh, yeah. She was here. He could feel it.
Following his instincts, he hurried after the people he’d just missed. The drumbeats in his head grew louder. Ba-bam, ba-bam. He started focusing on the women, felt a tug in his brain.
The sensation grew stronger when he focused on one woman with short gray hair. A wig. Bingo.
She had been walking beside an older man, but now stopped.
For a second, Dante thought she was headed back toward him. Instead she abruptly dashed into the ladies’ room.
Had she known she was being followed?
Dante’s phone vibrated.
“You got her?” asked Rocco.
“She’s in th
e restroom. Get over here.”
The realization that he’d found Cat again sank in. He’d blown it last time. Now he was ready.
She’d be armed—somehow—and she’d change her disguise. But he was prepared for all her tricks. All he needed was twenty seconds.
Dante took up a position outside the restroom. He made eye contact with Rocco and marked the time. He’d give it two minutes, tops. Then he’d go in after her.
Cat peeled off the wig. Beneath it her hair was soaked. The sudden contrast of cooler air was delicious.
Feeling revived, she left the stall. Within seconds she felt lightheaded again. Lurching forward, she caught herself on the sink. Twisting the faucet, she scooped water into her mouth. Then she splashed it on her face and her wrists.
The restroom grew eerily quiet. Cat became aware that people stared at her. A glance at her reflection revealed why. She had no color, her eyes overly bright. And she was shaking. Sweating profusely. She had another flashback of Giselle…
Jesus. These women thought Cat was a junkie. Maybe desperate for a fix. Concerned someone might report her to security, she grabbed her backpack and moved to leave.
A line had formed, but the women clustered near the door gave her a wide berth. Where two seconds ago Cat had been freezing, she now felt too warm. The stuffy air made her feel claustrophobic.
Eager to be free of the close quarters, Cat shifted sideways and squeezed out of the restroom.
She turned sharply into the corridor and ran straight into a man. Balance lost, she wove sideways as her backpack slid off her shoulder. The man’s hand shot forward, steadying her. Grateful he’d prevented her from falling, she mumbled an apology.
“Excuse me.” She bent to retrieve her pack.
Too late she felt something brush her neck. There was a prick, a sting. She straightened, clamping her hand to her neck as she rounded on the man.
“Dante.”
Slinging her bag in front of her took more effort than it should have. Her legs wobbled as her knees began to soften. “What did you…”
Her tongue tingled, going numb. Mute. She met his eyes and knew. He’d drugged her.
