by Lisa Hughey
“Did they give you the drugs that turned your skin tone dark?”
Oh, no. I wasn’t giving up what I’d done to get back into this country. Jordan had figured out I was still alive, tracked me to the Bahamas. Found me here in New York. He knew me too well to be trusted. And I still didn’t know exactly why he’d tracked me down. Once I recovered and got that information, I was outta here.
“No drugs.” At least...not that I remembered. I’d had some basic drug resistance training because of the places I traveled to occasionally. You don’t want your first taste of heroin to be when you’re in a stress-filled situation.
“What did they want?”
“Excuse me?”
“What kind of information. Usually when you’re tortured, they want information. Names, dates, plans. What did they want?”
They hadn’t really asked for any specific information. Maybe that’s why I was spared the more intense and damaging forms of torture. They had just seemed to be playing with me.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “They wanted nothing.”
And that’s what they had almost reduced me to.
Nothing.
Some days I felt as insubstantial as a puff of dandelion seed on the wind, being whipped about, blown here and there, without any clear destination laid out for me and an inability to control where I would land.
Forcing myself, I looked at those pictures again. To see, catalog, and then forget what had happened to me.
However, I had to remember Fariya. Her death would not be in vain. She had given her life so I could make a difference.
I would find out who had set me up and why and expose them and their sins to the world.
Then I could continue to fundraise for de-mining, and use my contacts at UNOCHA to work toward eliminating the poppy fields and the unwilling mules.
Maybe I would campaign to stem illegal heroin production by starting a program like we’d done with Turkey in the 1970's, legalizing and managing the production of poppy crops for morphine and other legal opioids.
I noted the fine tremble in my scarred hand as I traced the lines of Fariya’s tortured body.
I’m so sorry.
Unable to stand another moment without some sort of contact, knowing the move was unwise, I rested my hand against Jordan’s chest in a bid for comfort.
The muscles underneath my hand felt solid, real, substantial. The steady thump of his heart against my fingertips was reassuring, reverberating through his muscles, his chest connecting my hand to his energy, vitality.
Jordan’s heat buzzed through my hand, my arm, my heart infusing my body with electricity. Warming my frozen emotions and awakening longing.
The longing to recapture the incredible sense of completeness I’d experienced when we were together flowed over me.
I stared at my hand cupped protectively around his heart, unwilling to look in his eyes, wondering if my sudden fear was for what I wouldn’t see.
Brutally I shoved back the tender sentiments. I had to get my head together and get out. I deliberately forced my gaze to the picture. “You thought this was me?”
“For a few minutes.”
Jordan reached over to the coffee table, picked up his weapon carefully, and put the Glock in his holster.
Away from me. Smart move.
Finally he mentally eased away from me. I saw the distance widening, the subtle but definite way he moved into the chair on my right.
The distance hurt. The burn in my breastbone was psychological rather than physical.
I needed to get my head back into what was going on instead of remembering useless and obsolete emotions.
He’d thought that was me. Despair, sorrow flashed over his face, his hazel eyes serious.
I didn’t want to deal with his emotion, so I redirected the conversation and searched for information I needed. Such as...what a member of the 5491 list was doing with him.
“How does surfer boy fit in to this?”
Jordan didn’t respond.
Zeke Hawthorne. Shit, more of what I'd discovered about Zeke Hawthorne came rushing back. He worked for the NSA. “Why is the NSA looking for me?”
“Because you were injected with an experimental drug and they have access to the antidote.”
I shoved my feet into the cushions pushing up to glare at him. “What?”
“You were injected with a DNA-altering drug.”
I shook my head back and forth while I verbally denied what was coming out of his mouth. “Are you crazy?”
“The NSA has access to an antidote. Which you need,” he said firmly. “I’ve been helping them look for you. Sort of.”
The ‘sort of’ gave me pause. What the hell does 'sort of' mean?
“How’d you hook up with the NSA?” Shouldn’t I be more suspicious since all the people on my 5491 list were being paid with funds from an NSA department, even if they didn’t work for the NSA?
“I was...looking for you. And so were they.”
As I started to rise, Jordan walked to the foyer, and physically blocked my exit. “My investigation crossed with theirs.”
“With the NSA?” I repeated slowly, my body tensing.
He hesitated. “I wouldn’t exactly say I was with the NSA, more like I joined forces with a few of their agents.”
“Zeke?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“Jamie Hunt,” he said.
Another 5491 name.
“I was trying to figure out where you might be hiding.”
“So what you thought you’d ride in and rescue me?”
He looked uncomfortably tense as if I’d nailed his motivation.
“Maybe I just wanted to find out why you didn’t contact me after being captured and escaping an Afghani prison and having numerous people after you,” he blurted with frustration. “We had that last weird email. And then you were gone.”
The uncomfortable truth in his expression convinced me more than pleading or anything else would have. He hadn’t necessarily wanted to discuss things when he tracked me down.
“I just...wanted to make sure you were okay.”
TWENTY
His words hit me.
No one bothered to make sure I was okay. No one.
From what I knew of his childhood, he’d feel like he’d have to care for me because of our relationship.
But I could look out for myself. Had been, in fact, since I was eighteen. I’d been alone for fifteen long and lonely years.
When we’d been together, having someone watching my back had started as a foreign concept and grown into a welcome gift.
I knew Jordan was there for me.
I had even come to rely on the surety of his presence, knowing if I needed him, he’d be there.
A quick little knock at the door startled me. Jordan had his weapon out and safety off before I could blink.
Bump-bada-bump-bump.
“One assumes the bad guys wouldn’t knock,” I said drily. Especially with the rhythm of a joke punch line.
Jordan assumed a defensive position right next to the door jamb anyway, listening to the key card slide into the lock and the tumblers click into place.
I tried to ease off the sofa to take cover, but my legs gave out.
He frowned. “I’ve got you.”
Maybe once but not anymore.
“Honey, I’m home.” Zeke’s voice carried into the living area. “And we’ve got problems.”
He bustled in carrying multiple Styrofoam containers. The salty aroma of chicken noodle soup perfumed the air. My stomach gurgled.
“Sit rep?”
“Definitely a deuce in the lobby watching the elevators for this tower. There might have been a single at the elevators to the newer tower.” He peeled the lid off of the container and set the steaming soup in front of me, careful to keep the coffee table between us.
I nodded at him, still uncomfortable with the fact that he worked for the NSA. “Thanks.”
“Uh, yeah.” Zeke popped open another container and dropped into the chair across from the sofa. “They might have been watching me.”
“You’re not sure?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“I’m not a field agent,” he grumped. “I’m a programmer.”
“What are you doing here then?”
“You’re the reason we’re here.”
“Don’t look at me. I’ve been in New York for two days without any problems,” I said sarcastically.
But I’d met with Sergeant Ravini just a few hours earlier. I didn’t have to share that information. I damn well wasn’t sticking around if they had people following them. Of course, I wasn’t sticking around period.
“The big question is why...and how?” Jordan said. “The bicycle surveillance took skill. And why would they be following me? I’m just an analyst for a think tank.”
Big duh. The US government didn’t need a reason, just a directive from someone. “Did you make any secret of the fact you were traveling together?”
Zeke’s eyes widened, revealing a clear ocean blue, his pale lashes blinking slowly. “We booked separately but shared a taxi. Sat next to each other on the plane.”
“We didn’t think there was any need to hide,” Jordan said calmly.
I snorted. “There’s always a need for camouflaging your actions. You don’t know who is watching or why. And you never know who is being paid to pass along information.”
Jordan shot me a startled look.
Yeah, that was how I lived my life.
“Did you register under your real names?” They couldn’t have been that naive–could they?
“Uh, yeah.”
I thunked my forehead into the palm of my hand.
Zeke paused, a fork full of salad halfway to his lips. He was staring off to the left as if he were solving some complex math equation in his head. The fork dropped back into the styrofoam container. “We forgot an important fact.”
“What?” Jordan asked.
Zeke jabbed the fork at us. “Susan Chen’s accomplice had connections. Connections we never did uncover. Susan either doesn’t know who he was working with...or she isn’t saying.”
“Or no one told you about it,” Jordan completed.
Zeke blew out a breath. “Yeah. Dammit.”
“What does this have to do with being followed? Or me?”
“At one point, they used the Secret Service, the FBI, and we think even the Defense Intelligence Agency to try and track Jamie Hunt down.”
“Jesus, to have those kinds of connections....” I trailed off. You had to have a butt load of power. And the crowbar to wield it.
“What if they’re following you?” I pointed at Zeke. “Maybe they picked up Jordan as a person of interest because he is traveling with you and the surveillance has nothing to do with him. Especially if you traveled together openly.”
Zeke shoved a bite of salad into his mouth. “Maybe. Again, you’re looking at multiple surveillance teams, which means manpower and money. Someone with a lot of cojones had to authorize the money and mobilize the agencies. Power.”
Jordan looked perplexed. “To what purpose? Why would the government use so many resources? The only law enforcement subject currently getting that kind of coverage relates directly to terrorism.”
“Holy shit.” Zeke jabbed his fork at me. “You are linked to terrorists.”
“Indirectly, yeah. But I’m dead.” I smirked.
Jordan shoved his food container away, as if the flip comment soured his stomach. “Whoever’s been surveilling your townhouse sure doesn’t think so.”
“And only certain people know that you aren’t really linked indirectly or directly to terrorists.” Then Zeke pointed his fork at Jordan. “Next. What about the fallout from your meeting with the Senator?”
Jordan stiffened imperceptibly. If I hadn’t been observing closely I might have missed it.
“Doesn’t seem likely.” Jordan shrugged. “And why? Following me wouldn’t get him information on the shooting.”
“What Senator?” That’s what caused him to tense up.
Waiting for his answer, I took a sip of the chicken noodle soup and nearly moaned. Warm and smooth, the salty broth exploded on my taste buds. “God, this is good.”
“Anything tastes good when you’re starving yourself to death,” Jordan said acidly.
“It’s all the rage in Africa.”
Zeke’s head swiveled back and forth between the two of us for a minute. “Children. Can we focus, please?” His mouth turned down, lines of tension bracketing his lips.
“Right. What Senator?”
“It’s irrelevant.” Jordan finally popped open his container.
“Senator Jordan,” Zeke replied. “He tried to shake down our buddy here for information.”
He didn’t want to talk about Senator Jordan. I ran through what I knew of the man. Distinguished and established senator from Virginia. On the Senate Select Committee for Intelligence.
“He’d have the power.”
“Again, to what purpose?” Jordan’s question seemed more angry than defensive.
“We don’t need to know his purpose. Right now, we just need to figure out the target.” The edge in Zeke’s voice was unmistakable now, drawing my attention back to him.
I suddenly wondered, again, what Zeke’s angle was and why he was here.
“Why aren’t you working?”
“I’m on administrative leave, pending an investigation to see whether I compromised National Security.” Zeke looked pissed. “As if.”
My brain started firing synapses I think had been in semi-permanent hibernation.
“If you are the target,” I gestured at Zeke, “then I need to get out of this room.”
“If I’m the target,” he looked pointedly at me. “I’m fucked.”
I poured a large gulp of the soup into my mouth, running through scenarios and possibilities until I came up with one that suited my needs.
“We need to separate. You need to start doing vacation stuff.”
“I don’t take vacations.”
I ignored him. “Draw them off, whether they are looking for me or checking you two out. If you go do typical touristy things, then they’ll be convinced you don’t have anything going on.”
“I’m going home. I accomplished my mission.”
I tensed up again. “What mission?”
Jordan slathered butter on a still warm roll and handed it to me.
“Help this guy here find you. And look.” Zeke lifted his hands up beside his face as if surprised. “You’re found.”
I took a bite and tried not to moan at how good the yeasty warm bread tasted.
They’d accomplished their mission.
They could go.
I could go.
We’d all go. They could go back to figuring out who was following them. And I would go back to figuring out who wanted me dead.
Alone.
I flicked the crumbs of the bread from my thighs and stood up. “Thanks for the information about...everything.”
I tried to brush away heaviness in my chest and throat as easily as the crumbs.
I looked around for my cardigan, smiling benignly. Then I wrapped the warm sweater around my shoulders, grabbed my messenger bag, and headed for the door.
Shit. It was beyond hard to get my throat working properly. I had to use all of my acting skills so that good bye would come out nonchalantly and slightly cool.
“Jordan.” I only half turned my head, hoping he’d let me leave without a confrontation, dimly noting the dropped jaw from Zeke as his gaze shifted back and forth between Jordan and me. For an infinitesimal moment, I thought my exit would be successful.
Then, Jordan barred the door, narrowed his gaze.
I took a step closer to the exit.
The subtle scent, uniquely his, drifted toward me, warm and musky as his temperature and blood pressure rose.
He didn’t yell. Didn’t chastise. Just shifted his shoulder to completely block the door. “I don’t think so.”
“You found me. You delivered the information.” I didn’t touch him, but the urge to reach out and just lightly skim over the hard, firm muscles of his shoulder tempted me.
Something about the position of our bodies, standing just a hair’s breadth away, one small sway from our bodies melding and molding to each other, reminded me of a time when we’d have been making up and halfway to bed by now.
The longing to go back to that easier time struck at my heart.
Definitely not a memory to have while trying to leave.
“I need to get out of here.”
“You need the antidote.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell anyone you...located me.”
“You need the antidote.”
“I’m fine.” I felt fine. Sort of.
“Yeah. You look great.” He hadn’t moved forward at all and yet his posture was stronger, bigger, and somehow more menacing.
“I don’t want any more drugs.” Why take an antidote when I didn’t feel any different? Besides, until I figured out who wanted me dead, I couldn't trust anyone.
“You need the antidote,” Zeke said.
Okay. Play this out and see what they were going for.
“And how would the antidote be delivered?”
At that, Zeke looked uncomfortable, looked to Jordan. “You want to take this one?”
Jordan straightened his shoulders. “I have to take you to the NSA.”
No fucking way. So not happening.
I believed Jordan believed what he was saying but he wouldn’t be the first to be manipulated by false information.
“Has it ever occurred to you that this is some elaborate scheme to get you to bring me in?” I directed my question to Jordan. “They’ve concocted this whole drug pretense to get your aid and bring me in.”
“Why?”
The Department 5491 I’d been investigating had been top secret and hidden deep. Once I’d discovered the connection, it had taken months of painstaking research and dead ends to dig up more information to relate the twelve names on the list into a cohesive structure.
