by JA Huss
I smile as I pull open the screen door and hold it with my hip as I key in another code to gain access to the real door. Another alarm sounds and then I pull all my luggage in and close it behind me so I can make the fifteen-second delay on the real alarm. I key in the final code you must have to enter my home and not have phones ringing all across the world. And believe me, you do not want their attention. James is on a yacht in the middle of the ocean, Merc is at home in the Mojave Desert, and Ford is in New Zealand—but if those phones ring, the shit hits the fan.
It freaks me out, but this is what it takes to keep me safe, I guess. I’ve learned to live with it.
After all that stress is over, I look around my house.
I’ve been gone for months and it smells dusty and stale. But other than that, it looks unchanged. I press another code on the keypad and the metal security shutters begin to lift up from the windows, finally letting in the sunshine. They are mounted on the interior of the house instead of the outside, and my adopted uncle, Spencer, painted the outside-facing panels to look like they are white plantation shutters. You really cannot tell they are sheets of metal. He even painted fake cracks with a view inside, in case anyone got close enough to try to peek in the window.
I press another button and each window in the house slides open six inches. That’s the default setting, just in case I lose power and can’t get them down without attending to each one manually.
I’m used to this by now. They’ve been freakishly overprotective since I was thirteen. Add in a successful kidnapping two years ago, just before I bought this place, and yeah. It just got worse. I’m locked up tight in here, that’s for sure.
My bedroom is on the first floor, even though I have two more floors above me where I keep all my stuff. It’s easier to escape the house from the first floor. But there’s a planned escape route from every room in the house. I have a basement too, a really old, creepy one that no one in their right mind would use. But it’s fitted with access to a storm door that leads outside.
It’s overkill. I know that. And I resented all the security insisted on all through my teen years, but that last incident really shook me up.
It still does.
I drag my suitcase to the laundry room and stuff all the clothes into the hamper, and then put the suitcase away on a top shelf. The rest of my baggage is all little things. Trinkets I collected from the village near the dig site while I was in Peru. Little souvenirs I kept.
Twenty minutes after I arrive home, I’m done. And after an entire summer of meticulous, backbreaking work, I’ve got nothing to do… except think about what just happened.
Nick.
My promise who left me behind. To give me a chance at a regular life, he said back then when I was thirteen. But I didn’t believe that then and I don’t believe it now. In fact, this visit today from that Jax guy is my long-awaited proof.
Because if Nick did leave to give me a new chance, then why is he back? Why come looking for me ten years later when my life is on track, when the stark reality of who I am has faded, when the sting of his rejection is finally dying away to nothing… why come back and open all that stuff up again?
There is only one reason to do that.
He lied. Nick Tate is a liar.
He lied back on that beach in Santa Barbara when he said was there was no us. He said we had no future, even though he and I were promised. In Company terms, that promise is law. I was destined to marry Nick Tate. We were friends—even though he was several years older than me. And we had even talked about it a few times when he first found me back when I was an innocent eleven-year-old with braces.
And I don’t know if that was all a lie to get me to go along with his plan to end the Company and free himself and his sister, but I was a little girl and I took that shit seriously.
Maybe it was just as hard for him to walk away from me that night as it was for me to watch him do it?
Or he was telling the truth back then and now he needs me for something. Some job, probably. He wants me to watch his back as he does something dangerous.
Ford would flip his lid and insist I join him in New Zealand if he knew this was happening.
James would probably just kill Agent Jax, no questions asked.
Merc would kill Nick. And everyone else who stood in front of him. He was never happy about how that ended.
But they see this through the eyes of men. And while I’m quite capable of seeing things that way too, when it comes to Nick, I see what my heart feels.
My phone starts buzzing in my purse, reminding me where I should be right now instead of home.
But she would not call me. She knows better than most that this secret we have cannot leak. We’re on our own.
I grab my purse and fish the phone out, tabbing the lock off with a swipe. It’s a text message from that asshole, Agent Jax.
Wanna get some dinner? We can talk.
I text back, Fuck you.
He does not reply. Wise man. And I don’t need to leave the house for food, anyway. It’s called a freezer. I don’t have anything fresh, but hell, I drank plenty of powdered milk in my day.
I laugh at that as I plop down on the couch. Gross. Some things you just never go back to. And powdered milk is one of them. But I’ve eaten all kinds of shit.
Growing up with my dad—my real dad, not Ford—was an experience like no other. We spent a lot of time just rolling around the West in an RV selling guns at gun shows and supplying weapons to Company men. I learned to camp, shoot, and survive. Once we settled down from the nomadic life, my dad opened up a surplus supply store in an old antiques mall in Cheyenne. I ran a booth there across from his. My booth didn’t have secret weapons for Company assassins though. I sold used books, figurines, jewelry, and various other small things that kids think are valuable.
I didn’t make much money, but it kept me out of trouble and gave me a routine. I liked it there. It’s a time filled with good memories. Reading Little House books and playing dress-up with the lady who sold vintage clothing in the booth near mine. Those antiques people were almost like family. Of course, everything that came out of my mouth was a lie. But I liked those lies. Liked that pretend life I was living. It was fun before Nick showed up and everything started to change.
I never went to school. Not until Ford got a hold of me and put me in Saint Joseph’s in Fort Collins for eighth grade. But I’m not stupid, obviously. My real dad did OK with me. I’m not wild anymore. I’ve been living a very civilized life for ten years now. And maybe it took me a while to get the hang of things like boys, and hair, and clothes, but I came around.
I graduated from a private Jesuit high school down in Denver—the same one Ford went to—and studied geological engineering at The School of Mines for my undergrad. So those things aren’t exactly typical. But eventually I fit in. In a grad school kind of way. I mean, people who go into research aren’t normal anyway. They live in the lab or on the dig site. They get excited over data and results. They have little time for socializing.
I spend my time teaching undergrads, studying fossils, and running experiments. So maybe I planned it this way? Maybe I chose this field not because I was a dinosaur freak when I was growing up with my real dad, but to isolate myself from the rest of the world?
It works, that’s for sure. Because while I know all my fellow research freaks here at KU, and I know plenty of undergrads from the classes I teach, I have no real friends.
I had Jimmy up until last summer. I look at the only photograph I have on display in my home and smile. I miss that stupid dog. He was just too old to stay here at home by himself while I worked. And even though he has a service vest that will get him into any place in the US, my department here at school made it clear they did not want one of my dad’s face-eaters trailing me around everywhere. So I took him home to Fort Collins.
And now I live in this secure house alone.
That’s exactly how I feel right now. Alone.
I ha
d that side project planned before school started and now that’s all fucked up too. And even though no one in their right mind would consider that a social activity, I was looking forward to it.
Fucking Jax ruined it by showing up at the airport.
And Nick. I do want to see him. I’d like to know why he left. I’d like to know if he ever loved me or if he was just using me to take people down in the Company.
I want to punch him in the face and fall into his arms at the same time. I feel like he is the last piece of the puzzle that is me. The one thing in my past that is unresolved.
I lie down on the couch holding my phone. Maybe he will call? Maybe he’s watching me right now?
I don’t close the windows or the shutters. I’m hoping that he will slip into my house and wake me up with some declaration of his undying love. Apologize for leaving behind the only girl he ever loved. Insist that he did it all for me. To give me a chance, and make my life good, and get me away from the death and destruction that we grew up with as Company kids.
But I don’t even get that in a dream. I wake up the next morning cold, and just as alone as I was the night before.
Chapter Five - Jax
FOUR MONTHS LATER
“Yeah,” I croak into my cell phone.
“You awake?”
Adam. I take the phone away from my ear and check the time. Two AM. “Do I sound awake?”
“Max called me. Said you’re taking too long. Something’s going down a couple days from now and he wants you to put things in motion.”
I sit up in bed. “What? Since when?”
“I dunno. I’m just the messenger.”
I sit there thinking about this for a moment.
“You got any ideas?”
“About?”
“Sasha Cherlin, who else.”
I have a lot of ideas about that girl, I chuckle to myself. But none of them have to do with this job. “Maybe one or two.”
“Then do it. Call me if you need anything.”
I get the hang-up beeps from Adam and fall back into my pillows. Sasha Cherlin. What an enigma. I’ve thought of nothing else but this girl since the moment I laid eyes on her. I’m glad Max is getting restless. I’ve been restless for months. I’m tired of waiting around for something to happen. And I might have a way to get her to move.
I set my alarm and close my eyes so I can picture it in my head. And then I fall back asleep wondering what it would be like to kiss her.
Sasha Aston—AKA Sasha Cherlin
Place of birth—unknown. No official birth certificate for Sasha Cherlin exists. Sasha Aston, however, was born in Denver, CO to parents unknown.
Age—twenty-four
Blonde hair, blue eyes, five-six
Attended and graduated from Regis Jesuit High School, Aurora, Colorado
BS in Geological Engineering from Colorado School of Mines, Golden, Colorado
Current position—PhD student at University of Kansas in anthropology, Lawrence, KS
Job history—none
Criminal history—none
That’s it. After four months of digging, surveillance, and greasing palms with favors and promises to gain access to files I have no clearance for, this is the extent of my information about Sasha Cherlin. No parents, not even her real ones, are listed. But I know she was a Company kid.
I have my sources, and she admitted it in that one encounter we had at DIA when she acknowledged she knew Nicholas Tate. She never went to an elementary or middle school before she moved in with Ford Aston from what I can tell. I’ve checked every school in the west and found nothing.
But I’ve known one other kid with this very same background. The pattern fits—with one exception. Sasha is still alive.
I’d like to know how she managed that, to be honest. I’d like to know who raised her, what secrets she’s keeping, how she got inducted into a makeshift family of con men and killers. I’d like to get inside her house. Turn over every mattress, pry up every floorboard, and peek into every crevice. But that place is locked up tight unless she’s entering or exiting.
What kind of grad student has security like that? What kind of person, period?
I’ve looked into her adopted father’s personal history, and it almost reads as true. He has parents, at least. Very rich family with a long history in Denver and the surrounding areas. He has children, a home, and a job. Two, actually. A semi-famous television producer of reality shows and one long-running science-fiction series on a major cable network. And he’s on a CIA watchlist for criminal hackers. That guy’s history is a case all its own.
But I don’t care about her adopted father’s indiscretions. I want more info on Sasha and the only way to get that info is through Sasha.
Max is right. We need to move this case forward and I need to do whatever it takes to make that happen. We can’t afford to wait until Nick makes a move. If we let this opportunity slip by we’ll lose any ground we’ve gained over the past four years.
But Sasha does not seem to be on the same timeline as us. I’ve followed her relentlessly. I’ve bugged her office phone. I’ve even gotten two students to spy on her. One asked her out on a date, which she declined. She does not party, she does not have friends, she does not do anything even remotely suspicious.
But I know who she is. So I’m not falling for any of it.
Sasha Cherlin might be the most dangerous woman in this entire country. She has no weapons registered to her, but if my sources are right—and I believe they are—she has guns. She possibly has explosives. And she knows how to use them. Furthermore, just the fact that she admitted to being Sasha Cherlin is enough to put her on every watchlist in the country. Probably every watchlist in the world.
But the fact that she is not on any of these lists—even though her adopted father is—tells me something I can’t ignore.
The Company is still taking care of her.
It all adds up to something and even though I can think of a few scenarios that might involve the Company reasserting their claim on this girl, none of them are good for her.
They want her skills for a job. They want information. Or they want to kill her. These are the only three possible reasons for Nick’s renewed interest in Sasha Cherlin.
I want her for all those things too. I don’t want to kill her, but if she’s working for them again—if that meeting I interrupted when I approached her at DIA has something to do with the Company—then I will.
They have a serious blood debt with me and I’ve waited a long time to get even. I’ve lost a lot trying to get to this moment in time. I’ve put things on the line. People on the line. And Sasha Cherlin will not yank the only opportunity I have for payback away from me because she’s careful.
She has to fuck up sometime. And I need that fuckup to happen soon or years of waiting and work will all go down the drain. Hell, I might lose my position at the FBI over this if anyone finds out. And that’s not all. I could be charged with treason just for looking at the information Max gave me.
And Madrid. She’s been professional and she was sent by Max. He’s one of the only people I can trust, so I accept her as a partner. But who is she? Why is she here? Why is she on this case that isn’t even a case? How did she manage to get assigned to a top-secret mission like this?
There’s only one answer for that.
She’s involved.
Like me. Like my brother. Like Sasha.
Madrid and I don’t work the same shift. She takes days, trailing Sasha discreetly at school using campus cameras from a remote location. And I take nights watching her house. No one comes. No one goes. At school, she’s an exemplary student, teacher, and citizen. No parties, no drugs, no drinking, no friends, no men, no nothing.
Sasha is a living, walking ghost.
I check my watch from the front room of the apartment across the street from her. She leaves every day at seven-fifty and walks to school. That’s in three minutes. So I grab my keys and walk out the door.
Today, she will have company.
I paid the student who rented this place four months’ rent to get him to move out and let me have it, still under his name. And my four months are just about over. We need to change the course of things and I plan on doing that today.
When I get out onto the street it’s seven forty-nine. I wait in the front-door vestibule until she exits and pushes through into the rain, locks up that fortress she lives in, and crosses the street.
I take her in as I exit the building. She has a look to her. A style specifically for school. When she came home from Peru she was casual class. But she’s changed since last summer. At least on the outside. She started school wearing slacks and blouses. Kinda nerdy, if you ask me. But as the weeks went on her style morphed into jeans and grungy t-shirts. She wears a coat that one might find on a cowboy—those short jackets made out of tan canvas. Her hair started the semester in a tidy up-do, but now it hangs, covering her face. When she turns and sees me, I catch a moment of surprise. But it only lasts a moment, and her expression never changes. I’m just very good at reading people.
She walks down her front steps and turns left, towards the main street that leads to campus. I join her on the sidewalk as she opens her umbrella. “Miss Aston. May I walk with you?”
She smiles without turning her head. “I doubt I can stop you.” She gives me a one-second onceover. “I’ve been wondering when you’d show up again.”
“Oh, I never left.”
“I know.” She snorts. “I see you.”
Hmm. “How’s school going? Anything going on I should know about?”
“Well, if you like hearing about lab results, student teaching woes, and plans for winter break, I’m happy to tell you all about it. These are the only thing I’m enjoying these days.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She sighs, like I’m boring her. And I probably am.
“I mean, lab results, I don’t know what you’re doing as far as that goes. I can see you enjoy your field of study, so the joy you get from teaching seems in line, and the fact that you have no plans for your break pretty much sums up the rest of your social life here on campus.”
