Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2)

by Lisa Hughey

They waved me through, and I made my way to the gate. My insides heaved but I kept down the bile rising in my throat. Acid burned through my esophagus, igniting a sharp pain. I rubbed my breastbone to soothe the ache.

  I couldn’t afford to throw up. If they thought I was sick, they might not let me on that plane.

  Sunlight streamed through intermittent windows. Guards in pairs sat in metal folding chairs at regular intervals, their burnished ebony skin gleamed with sweat as their gazes skimmed with a routine boredom over the passengers herding toward the gates.

  Ceiling fans circled lazily, swishing the oppressive heat in new directions, doing little to cool off the long bare hallway. An occasional gust of wind, a precursor to the approaching tropical storm, would swirl through the windows and grant momentary relief.

  I had my cover story in place. My passport was Bahamian, and I was a fifty-year-old black woman going to visit her sister in Philadelphia.

  From Philly, D.C. is a short two hour drive.

  The sheen of perspiration should be taken for perpetual sweating, not the uncharacteristic nervousness that gripped my stomach.

  I’d planned for one more week of treatments to change the amount of pigment in my skin. Fortunately, I had turned even darker in the past twenty-four hours, because after Jordan’s visit, I decided to step up my timetable and get out of the Bahamas now.

  I’d told Neli to stay permanently away until I figured out what the hell was going on. She was happy to do so after her run-in with Jordan.

  Poor thing. She’d barely recovered. Jordan continued to call Neli every day to check in. Every day he pressed harder.

  He wouldn’t hurt her and I told her so.

  After their altercation, I wasn’t sure whether he’d been involved in my capture, or not. His reaction to Neli, his desperation, had come through with every movement.

  I wanted to hope the desperation was for my safety. Not for my harm.

  I wanted to believe he’d come to the Bahamas to help me. Wanted to believe far more than was wise.

  On one level I couldn’t believe he had anything to do with my imprisonment and torture. On another I knew plenty of operatives before me had been exploited and betrayed and there would be plenty more afterward.

  Any type of physical relationship left an agent vulnerable to undue influence and betrayal.

  If he wasn’t involved, he needed to shut up about me, or someone was going to notice him asking questions.

  First things first, I had to figure out who was after me and why.

  In the brightly woven canvas bag slung casually over my shoulder, a USB flash drive was sewn into a false lining. The information on the drive was the ticket to discovering why I’d been targeted.

  Thank my paranoia for making a copy of the file I’d compiled on Department 5491 and putting the storage device in the bank on my last visit here.

  The file consisted of details on me and eleven other people.

  An unusually high percentage of people on the list were currently in government service. A few with the NSA and CIA. One with the DIA. One college student. One with very little information beyond a name. She’d dropped off the grid several years back.

  And one final person identified only by the initials A.D.A.

  That was all the information I had right now.

  “Passengers may now begin boarding. Please have your passports and tickets ready.”

  I heaved up from the hard plastic chair and shuffled toward the line of passengers, trying to quell my thumping heart. I had two more gauntlets to pass before I was back in the States. Getting on the plane was first. Going through customs in Pennsylvania was second.

  Gripping the cheap metal cane in my uninjured right hand, I dragged my sore leg behind me. My cane had been checked thoroughly by the swabber.

  No explosives on this baby.

  The deep contusions from the wrist manacles looked like age spots on my arms increasing my look of frailty and adding to the image of an older woman.

  I waited patiently in line, pretending to stare out at the shimmering tarmac and watching the airport personnel inspect each passport and person cautiously. When my turn came, I presented the papers to the woman with a steady hand and smiled politely.

  I readied my muscles to run if they challenged me. But I knew that with my damaged toe and scarred leg, I couldn’t outrun even the fat security guards.

  My five-minute mile had clearly suffered in the past month.

  The woman nodded and reached for the next person’s credentials.

  As I walked down the gangway, I kept my pace sedate, almost leisurely, the thump of my cane and the rustle of cotton a steady rhythm. Inside I was singing.

  One step closer.

  One step closer to finding out who set me up.

  One step closer to revenge for the condition of my body after suffering the indignity and agony of torture.

  One step closer to discovering the real meaning of Department 5491.

  One step closer to retribution for Fariya. For her death, for her sacrifice.

  The gangway sweltered as the humid heat seeped through the partial seal to the plane. I picked up my pace, eager to get settled in my seat and get home.

  As the last of the ticket holders straggled onto the plane, I strapped in and observed the other passengers carefully.

  The couple across from me, unabashedly making out, were either on their honeymoon or married to other people. I felt sorry for the guy in seat A who had to sit next to them for the next few hours.

  Unable to bear watching the couple and yearning for something I would never get back, I lounged in my seat, tipped the straw hat down to cover my face, and closed my eyes.

  The spurt of envy surprised me. Jordan and I had never made out in public. We’d never get the chance now. I’d been too cautious, too concerned about the CIA finding out about him.

  Even though we’d conducted our entire relationship in secret, it had still felt damn real. I’d thought we were on the verge of something important, something scary.

  He didn’t understand how much I’d hated to deceive him.

  I hadn’t explained. There were rules to be followed, and I’d taken care to not break those rules while treasuring him as my own personal secret.

  Maybe keeping him a secret and keeping secrets from him had been the wrong thing to do, but for once I’d wanted someone, something just for me. I’d been fighting the good damn fight for so long, and by the time I met Jordan, I wondered if I’d made the right choices.

  I was so very tired.

  The toll of the last few weeks had beaten down my natural energy. My left arm lay on the arm rest, the bone and muscle throbbing with the exertion I’d used to get my bag to the airport.

  The murmur of passengers, the scuff and slide of luggage being moved in the overhead bins, people shifting in their upholstered seats lulled me into a slight doze.

  A passenger rolled a carry-on down the aisle, one of the wheels squeaking in stops and starts. The passenger bumped into my seat, jarring my still-healing arm. I stifled a small scream.

  “Bless my soul,” the woman said in a soft, Southern drawl. “I’m so sorry.”

  I waved away her concern, but the pain kept my back jammed against the seat. I held in a hot ball of pain in my throat and pressed my lips into a thin, fake smile.

  Suddenly I swore I could smell Jordan, and I looked out the little window, longing to see him. When I first met Jordan, I’d been attracted to the package. The very muscled body in the very personally-tailored GQ clothes and the very intelligent brain behind the very attractive face.

  He’d been put together well enough I thought maybe he played for the other team. But as soon as I’d gotten close to him, the scent he put out was all hetero. The hint of sweat, the hint of spice, a touch of shaving cream, and the indefinable scent that made him...him.

  I smelled that scent now. My heart ka-thunked in my chest. I was having an olfactory hallucination. It was the only explanation
.

  He had to have left by now. It had been two days since he’d been at my house. No way was he still in the Bahamas. We’re talking the original workaholic. I’d had to practically sever him from the office a few hours early for our quick weekend trips down here.

  “Let me help you with that, ma’am.” The hand attached to that husky voice reached into my line of vision through the tilted hat.

  He effortlessly lifted the woman's carry-on into the overhead compartment with long elegant fingers, tendons in his wrist in sharp relief, and the dusky skin of a half-Hispanic, half-White, all male arm flexed in exertion.

  I knew that hand, that voice.

  Jordan.

  As if my imagination had conjured him. I wanted to reach out, just touch his wrist, his hand. The urge was so strong, I forced myself to relax.

  Instinctively, I tilted my head down just a little further, hiding the curve of my jaw as best I could. There was no way, no way he would recognize me.

  I was black. I had a cane. A hideous scar on my right leg and another on my left arm.

  I wanted him to notice me and I wanted him to walk past.

  I wanted him to see me and wondered why he couldn’t.

  Torn between longing and practicality, I didn’t know what I wanted.

  TEN

  September 15

  Nassau, Bahamas

  He was losing it.

  On the fast train to Crazyville.

  Jordan rubbed a hand over his breastbone, in the region of his heart, and slid into his seat. He saw Staci everywhere.

  When he’d lifted the suitcase, he’d been distracted by the woman in the aisle seat. The slant of her head and the way she held her arms lightly against her body, right hand crossed over left, reminded him so much of Staci....

  He’d been tempted to knock the woman’s hat off so he could see her face. Totally illogical.

  Staci was white.

  The woman was clearly black. Not the true black of the islanders, definitely some mixed blood.

  Even with a heavy tan, Staci wouldn’t be that dark.

  Also, she was far thinner than Staci. Staci prided herself on an athletic and fit body, but she wasn’t a stick. The woman on the plane was one step up from emaciated.

  And...he was obsessing about a stranger. Anything to keep his mind off of his real problem.

  Staci was gone. Missing. Believed dead.

  He’d stuck around the Bahamas far longer than planned, watching, waiting, hoping, for a sign. Something to indicate Staci was here. In the end, he’d had nothing but a low-level feeling she was close.

  If he could just see her, talk to her, hold her, breathe the same air...everything would be okay again.

  Until the end, being with her had been easy. Maybe too easy.

  They had both avoided the hard stuff, and their relationship stayed on the surface. They’d hovered on the precipice of something bigger than both of them. Better than both of them. But their link existed.

  Silent, unspoken.

  Damn, he missed her.

  He missed their arguments, excuse him, discussions about government policy and world affairs and the best handgun for target shooting. Even though she hated shooting.

  He missed sparring with her, their hot, sweaty martial arts practice frequently degenerating into a round of energetic sex on the mat.

  He missed making up with her. He even freaking missed waking up with her.

  Jordan recalled the last time he’d woken up with her....

  He’d woken to an empty bed. After their fight, they’d had the most explosive sex ever, but the moment he opened his eyes he’d known.

  She was still leaving.

  A part of him, a big part, admired her. She had conviction. She had guts. She was tough. And she was doing something she believed in absolutely.

  She was also vulnerable.

  The protective part of him, the one nurtured by his mother and his aunt, wanted to pull her back into his house and keep her safe from the harm in the world.

  Harm he knew intimately.

  Jordan lay in the bed a moment longer, listening, testing the air for movement or sound. Where was she? This was her house so he knew she had to be here. Tactically he’d played it smart and spent the night in her bed.

  If they’d been at his place next door, she’d have left in the middle of the night. The pattern had happened frequently enough for him to predict her behavior.

  Especially when they connected so completely on a physical level.

  Usually after the kind of sex they'd had last night, she pulled back for a few days. Since she was leaving the country this morning, the pull back could be permanent. So he shoved the tangled sheets off and headed toward the bathroom where he’d heard her moving about.

  Steam coated the mirrors and potted ferns perched on the edge of her Jacuzzi. Her back to the door, she sat on the white porcelain one leg propped up on the ledge, rubbing cream into the satiny skin of her calf.

  “Smells good.” He opened with a non-argument starter, knowing the next few minutes were critical.

  “Gardenia,” she replied, seemingly engrossed in spreading the lotion evenly over her already moist skin.

  He sat down, carefully, next to her. His bare shoulder rubbed against her back as he traced a rough finger along the curve of her neck and the soft terry of her robe.

  She stiffened, rejecting the gentle caress and the intent behind the light touch.

  The only thing left was surrender.

  “What time does your flight leave?” Not what he wanted to say.

  He wanted to say, Don’t go.

  Logically he knew she could protect herself. The absolute knowledge drew him.

  But he had a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  He wanted to explain that this urge to wrap her up and protect her was ingrained. From the time he was old enough to understand, he’d been raised with the responsibility of protecting the women in his life.

  But explaining his upbringing would open up avenues of conversation he wasn’t ready to deal with yet. Especially if this relationship was on its way out. So, he didn't really want to expose more of himself to her.

  She relaxed infinitesimally. “About five hours.”

  She began rubbing cream into the skin of her thigh, and the short hem of her robe parted, hinting at the cluster of blond curls he knew were just beyond his sight.

  Gardenia-scented steam hung in the air, still thick from her hot shower. The languid, almost sultry sweep of her fingers mesmerized him.

  He brushed a feather light kiss over the curve of her bent neck. “You want a ride to the airport?” Don’t go.

  She softened a little more, her hand stilled. “You sure you want to take me?”

  He dipped his fingers into the pot of cream and scooped some out. Then, slowly, tentatively, a little unsure of her response, he flicked aside her robe and began working the scented cream into the firm skin of her inner thigh. He swept his fingers closer and closer to those curls he still couldn’t see.

  Jordan shifted his body, slid one leg into the tub and planted the other firmly on the tile floor, inviting Staci to relax into the V he’d created.

  “I want to take you.” A lie, if he meant to the airport. Truth, if he skewed the meaning.

  The graceful curve of her spine softened even more, and she leaned back into the hard cradle of his arms and chest as his fingers swept lightly over the concave hollow of her belly.

  The brush of his fingers was like the spell to a magic kingdom, her legs drifted open, falling languidly apart to rest on the rock hard muscles of his thighs, granting him better access.

  “Okay,” she whispered into the hushed, expectant air.

  He wrapped his other arm around her waist and slid his hand between the flaps of her loosened robe. Fingers spread wide, tips pointing down, his hand glided gently on the path between her belly button and pubic bone, massaging the sensitive area with the heel and at the same time urging h
er back toward his throbbing erection.

  He licked at the warm skin of her neck and ignored all the reasons why this was a really bad idea.

  “God, you get me so hot.”

  “Feeling is mutual.” Staci arched against the press of his hands and fingers, urging him farther.

  She brought one arm up and around to cup the back of his neck and insinuated her other hand between their bodies, arrowing down to rub the engorged head of his penis.

  The movement pushed her ass into him, the combination of her hand stroking the head and her ass cheeks enveloping the thick staff of his erection caused more blood to rush south.

  Her loosely tied robe gave up its fight to conceal and her breasts swung free of the soft terry to jut out, waiting, pouting as if impatient for his touch. Her nipples, rosy with arousal, enticed him.

  They might be at odds over her leaving...but physically, they synced perfectly. He would make her think about this, about them. Not about leaving.

  His middle finger just barely entered her slick passage, teasing her with a small circular caress.

  He squeezed her breast firmly then plucked at her nipple as he pushed his middle finger in to the hilt and used his palm to press on her clitoris while the rest of his fingers stroked her aroused and swollen lips.

  He continued to play with her nipples but left his other hand exactly where it was, feeling the muscles inside her swell and clutch at his finger.

  “Oh, God.” She panted.

  “Call me Jordan.”

  She snickered, then gasped as the contractions from her laugh echoed throughout her body. “That feels....”

  Her hand squeezed his cock, her thumb pressing on the extremely sensitive spot below the head.

  And he moaned. “Back at you, babe.”

  They needed to move, needed to shift but he waited, in the back of his mind knowing this could be goodbye. As her hips pulsed in the tiny range of motion he allowed her, he wondered if maybe this was too good.

  She wasn’t thinking about goodbye.

  She pulled her hands away from his body, and leaned forward to reach for the drawer where she kept the condoms. She whimpered as the movement pressed her pubic bone down toward the ledge of the tub, but his hands and fingers were there, pressing harder.