Abernathy cleared his throat, and they all looked to the front of the van, where the agent was pulling off a headset and frowning. “We’ve lost contact with the surveillance team, sir. Could be a—”
Tom didn’t wait for the man to finish. He lunged for the van exit, sliding the door across and leaping from the vehicle onto the street. Instincts becoming increasingly familiar to him had kicked in, instincts that told him time was of the essence.
His eyes scanned the street for the obvious federal vehicle that the surveillance team would be using, and he decided on a dark, fairly new Chrysler parked on the opposite side of the street. A quick glance into the car showed two operatives, both dead from shots to the head at close range.
Tom ran down the street, spotting a car with a Mama Mia Pizza logo parked not too far away. He felt a sickening pit open up in his stomach and raced toward the house, knowing full well that a delivery was one of the easiest ways to hit a house. He was thinking like a killer, and if he hadn’t been so concerned for Madison’s safety, he probably would have gotten sick right there on the street.
He approached the front door and found it ajar. Saying a silent prayer that he wasn’t too late, he placed his fingertips on the door, slowly pushing it open. He was greeted by the grisly sight of a man, his front spattered with gore, leaning against the wall, a woman lying with her head in his lap.
Tom’s eyes darted around the foyer as he slowly entered the house, heading toward the couple. He noticed a blood-spattered pizza box lying discarded on the floor but thankfully, no sign of Madison.
Her parents looked pretty bad, though. He reached out a hand toward the man to check for a pulse and was startled when he began to cough. The woman remained still, and he laid his fingertips on her wrist. Her pulse was weak, but at least there was one.
They were alive, for now.
He thought about going back outside, meeting the Pandora agents that were sure to be following, but one thought kept him right where he was.
Where’s Madison?
He had to find her. His senses were alive, eyes scanning the living room and adjacent dining room, ears alert. There were two bullet holes in the living room wall and one in the dining room. There was a pursuit, he thought, moving quickly from one room to an area that would either take him into the kitchen to the left or up a stairway. He noticed another bullet hole in the wall going upstairs. Madison must have headed up there.
Tom was amazed at his sense of calm. He felt himself just going along for the ride, allowing the instincts that he had inherited from his opposite persona to flow freely.
The last step before reaching the landing at the top of the stairs creaked loudly, and he pulled his foot away, listening for any sign that his presence was known.
Hearing nothing, he crept onto the landing. At the end of the hallway was a room, its door partially open, a light glowing from within, and he carefully, stealthily moved toward it.
There was an explosion of movement to his left as someone emerged from a linen closet near him, and he caught sight of an aluminum baseball bat careening toward his head. Tom reacted in an instant, one hand reaching up to capture the bat, halting its swing, the other coming around to make a thrust into his attacker’s throat, collapsing the fragile trachea.
And then he froze, seeing the face of his attacker. “Madison,” he said, his hand turning from lethal weapon to just a hand and reaching out to cup her frightened face.
Her expression changed from sheer terror to absolute relief, and she fell into his arms. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said into his chest, and for the briefest of moments, as he held her like that, everything seemed okay.
Madison suddenly tensed in his arms and screamed, “Tom, watch out!”
And he reacted immediately, spinning around, pushing her out of the way so that he was between her and the explosion of gunfire.
The bullet entered the meat of his shoulder and he grunted with pain, but already he was isolating the agony, storing it away where it wouldn’t hinder his actions.
The gunman was ready to fire again, and Tom ran toward him, dropping to the floor and rolling beneath the shot. He sprang to his feet, swatting the pistol from the guy’s hand.
The attacker reacted in an instant, launching a roundhouse kick that connected with the side of Tom’s face. He dropped to his knees, trying to clear the ringing and sudden vertigo that made his head swim, but the attacker was already on the move, retrieving the pistol from the floor and making ready to put a bullet into Tom’s skull.
Tom had tensed to spring when a voice called out.
“Stay where you are!” it screamed, and a series of five shots followed. The first was a head shot, the other four direct hits to the chest and heart. The young man stumbled and fell backward, dead before he hit the floor.
Tom knew that voice and reacted instinctively, diving for the Beretta dropped by his attacker, snatching it up from the ground and spinning around to take aim.
“Hello, Tom,” his mother said. She was standing at the top of the stairs, still squinting down the barrel of the smoldering gun. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Chapter 8
THE KILLER INSTINCT told Tom to fire, to send a bullet into the face of the woman who had so devastatingly betrayed him.
Madison stood frozen by the hallway closet, her eyes flicking between him and his mother. Tom was certain she was wondering the same thing he was.
Can I do it?
His finger stroked the metal trigger of the Beretta as he aimed down the barrel, past the sight.
“What are you doing here, Tom?” The woman lowered her own weapon.
He wanted to shoot her, to make her pay—make her hurt for all the pain that she had caused him. But he couldn’t do it. No matter how loudly part of him screamed for him to fire the weapon, there was another part of him, an even stronger instinct, that recognized the woman as his mother. A mother he’d believed was already dead until this moment.
He dropped the gun, and it fell to the hallway floor with a loud clatter. The woman began to move toward him, but Madison stepped around him and blocked her path.
“Tom, there’s something—” his mother started to say, but the hallway was suddenly filled with the screams and yells of Pandora agents.
Like angry bees they swarmed up the stairs, their weapons drawn, hollering for everyone to hit the deck. Tom dropped to his knees, eyes on his mother as the agents bore down on her with their weapons aimed.
Maybe one of them will have the courage, he thought, struggling with rabid emotions flowing through him. He despised her and loved her. She was the last living thing from a life he believed dead, and in her eyes he saw it all. And he wanted it back.
“Are you all right, Tom?” Tremain asked, taking his arm and pulling him to his feet.
Tom watched them drag her down the hallway toward the stairs. She was straining to see him over her shoulder. “What do you think?” he said to Tremain, yanking his arm away. He felt the sudden scream of pain from the bullet wound in his shoulder, but next to everything else, it barely even registered.
The electric buzzer on the door sounded shrilly as its lock disengaged, allowing Tremain access to the interrogation room where the woman, whose last known identity was Victoria Lovett, was being detained.
He was holding two plastic foam cups of coffee and placed one down in front of her, along with two creamers and three packets of sugar.
“Haven’t a clue how you like it,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from her at the plain metal table. He had a file folder under his arm and set it down on the table in front of him.
“Thank you,” she responded politely, pulling the cup of coffee closer.
The director of operations opened the file and slowly perused its contents.
“Is that on me?” the woman asked as she tore open two sugar packets and poured their contents into the hot fluid.
“Mmmm,” he grunted as he continued to
read.
“Can’t imagine it’s all that interesting.” She picked up one of the creamers.
“On the contrary, Ms. …” Tremain paused and looked up from the open file. “Would you like me to use your real name, or would you prefer one of your ten aliases?” He smiled kindly, watching as she finished pouring another creamer into her coffee.
“Victoria will be fine,” she replied. “I’ve become comfortable with the name.” She lifted the coffee to her lips and took a careful sip. “I’ve grown quite fond of it, actually.”
“Then Victoria it is,” he said good-naturedly, turning over a few of the documents within the folder.
The woman was a spy, and a good one at that. She had begun her career in military intelligence, eventually leaving the service of her country and losing herself in the freelance world of espionage.
“Let me start by saying how surprised we are to see you alive.” Tremain looked intensely across the table at her. “We thought you had been killed in the explosions,” he said, referring to the recent events in Hawthorne, Massachusetts.
Victoria shook her head, placing the cup of coffee back on the table. “I made it out through the sliding door in the back of the Arsenaults’ house,” she explained casually. “I got cut up pretty good with some flying glass.” She lifted the sleeve of her shirt to show off various healing cuts and abrasions. “But other than that, I’m fine.”
“And your husband?”
“He wasn’t my husband,” she quickly corrected.
Tremain smiled coldly. “All right, then, did your … partner survive?”
“No,” she replied. “He wasn’t as lucky as I was.”
She’s a cool one; I’ll give her that, Tremain thought, observing her reactions as they spoke. It was as if they were talking about something as casual as the weather.
He flipped past a few more documents, interested to see if he could ruffle some feathers. She had worked for both sides, drifting to whoever would pay her the most. She didn’t appear to have any loyalties, which made this situation even more surprising, for here she sat, apparently still working for Brandon Kavanagh.
“Do you know this young man?” Tremain asked, removing a crime scene photo taken at the Fitzgerald house and sliding it to the center of the table. It was a shot of the teenage deliveryman lying dead on the hallway floor.
Victoria leaned forward for a better look. “I was his handler on this particular assignment,” she answered.
“But from what I understand,” Tremain continued, “you’re the one who killed him.”
She took another careful sip of her coffee. “That’s right.”
“Why?”
“He was going to hurt my son.”
The director stared at her for a moment. “Tom is not your son,” he said, and for the first time he could see that his words had an effect.
She glared at him with a coldness that hinted at what she could be capable of if given the opportunity.
“But he is,” she said, holding the base of her coffee cup and slowly turning it around. “For a while he was my son—and I actually started to believe it.” Victoria looked up, staring directly into Tremain’s eyes. “Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?” she asked him incredulously. “You’re looking at my file. Can you believe it? Because I certainly can’t.”
She fell silent, and Tremain tried to decide if he was witnessing an actual emotional response or simply an Academy Award-winning performance.
“You were this boy’s handler,” he said, removing a picture of Tom from the file and sliding it across the table to her.
“Yes,” she whispered, staring at the photo.
“The young man you shot tonight—were he and Tom alike in any way?”
Victoria looked up from the photo. “Were they both sleeper operatives—products of the Janus Project? Yes, yes, they were. Is that what you want to hear, Mr. Tremain?”
“Then you’re still working for Brandon Kavanagh,” the director stated bluntly.
“As of a few hours ago, yes, but now … I’m not quite so sure,” she answered with a nervous shake of her head.
“Where is he?” Tremain asked.
She was staring at him again, her eyes boring into his. “Why was Tom with you tonight?” She countered with her own question.
“Where is Brandon Kavanagh?” Tremain repeated, ignoring her question.
“Answer me first,” Victoria demanded. “Why was Tom there?”
Tremain stared at her for a moment. “I believed he would be an asset to the mission,” he said flatly. “Now, you tell me, where is Kavanagh?”
“I want to speak with Tom.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Brandon Kavanagh?” Tremain repeated the words slowly, his voice rising, loud in the confines of the tiny room.
“I need to speak with my son.”
He slammed his hands down on the tabletop, causing the nearly empty plastic coffee cups to dance. “Tell me where he is!” he shouted.
Victoria matched his steely stare, unaffected by his loss of composure. “Let me speak with my son and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Tremain stood, gathering his papers and photos and placing them back inside the folder. His mind raced. This could be the opportunity he’d been waiting for, but it would again require the boy to be involved, and could he really trust this woman?
Silently he walked to the door, rapping three times as a signal to the guards on the other side.
He would need to give this deal some serious consideration.
The door unlocked with an irritating buzz, and he was just about to step out of the interrogation room when she called to him.
“Mr. Tremain?”
He turned to look at her. She appeared perfectly calm—in control.
“Thank you for the coffee,” she said.
“Thank you,” Tom said to Agent Mayer as they walked down the hallway toward the room that Madison Fitzgerald had vacated just a few short days ago.
Agent Mayer looked conflicted, and Tom felt a momentary pang of regret. He did like her; she was the only one who seemed human, not just a Pandora drone. He hated knowing that helping him out like this would probably land her in major trouble. But they had kept him away from Madison since they’d come back from Chicago, and he was desperate to see her.
Another agent was posted outside Madison’s room, and Mayer approached her. The two women began an animated conversation, and Tom could tell that the other agent wasn’t thrilled about disobeying orders either, but Mayer exerted her authority and the woman buckled.
Mayer looked in Tom’s direction, gesturing for him to approach. The other agent refused to look at him.
“Let’s make this quick,” Mayer told him as he knocked on the door.
He agreed with a nod, again thanking her with his eyes.
“Madison, it’s me,” he called out, and heard the sound of hurried movement from within.
The door was pulled open, and Madison stood there. Tom was shocked by her appearance. She was pale, her eyes swollen and red, her cheeks blotchy with tears. She took his hand and pulled him inside the room, closing the door, then throwing her trembling body into his. He didn’t know what to say, but clearly words weren’t what she needed anyway. He tentatively put his arms around her, holding her, allowing her to cry, saying nothing. It felt good, being there for her. He would give her as much of his strength as she wanted. It was the least he could do for her.
Gradually Madison stopped trembling and finally pulled away from him, her face damp with tears. “I don’t even know if they’re alive,” she said, her voice sounding on the verge of tears again.
“They are,” he said quickly, and went on to tell her the information that Agent Mayer had shared with him earlier. Madison’s parents had been brought to the Pandora medical facility. It had been touch-and-go for a while, especially for Madison’s mother, but even though both were still in critical condition, they were now stable.
&n
bsp; Madison’s hands went to her face, wiping the tears away, her strength returning as a glimmer of hope appeared. “So they’re going to be all right?” she asked.
Tom nodded, watching as the information began to sink in.
Madison’s whole expression relaxed, her eyes the brightest green Tom had ever seen.
“Thank you, thank you,” she repeated over and over. She grabbed him again and held him tight, kissing his neck and the side of his face.
Then she pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. Her lips were just inches from his, and Tom looked down at her, wanting nothing more than to finally show her how much she meant to him. And suddenly their lips met, and she was kissing him, a full-on kiss. All Tom could think about was her in his arms, their lips pressed together. It was everything he’d imagined—except better.
Madison was the first to break away. She smiled at him, her expression seeming to communicate something so much deeper than gratitude as she stroked the back of his head. He bent to kiss her again.
“Thank you,” she whispered softly against his neck. “Thank you for coming to my rescue—for being here.”
A lead weight suddenly dropped into the pit of Tom’s stomach. None of this would even have happened to her if it wasn’t for him. He pulled away from her.
“What is it?” she asked him. “I don’t want to sound needy; I just really appreciate what you’ve done and—”
He shook his head. “No, no, it’s not that.”
“Tom, what’s wrong?” she asked again.
“It’s me,” he said, feeling his anger build. “This is all about me.”
“I don’t understand…”
“If it wasn’t for me, everything in your life would be fine. Your parents would be fine—your aunt and uncle would be fine. For Christ’s sake, their house would still be standing.” He backed up, completely ashamed. “Your life wouldn’t be in danger. It’s all because of me.”
He felt like a yawning void had suddenly formed between them—a powerful blackness pushing them apart.
“Tom, I—” Madison began, but she never got the opportunity to finish.
Sleeper Agenda Page 7
