The Eagle (Spy Girl Book 2)

by Jillian Dodd

  I’m struck in the side by the bookcase door swinging back at me with force.

  “Ugh,” I yell, as pain rips through my side.

  The air is thick with the smell of burning wood, and I can hear the crackling of flames.

  Through everything, the boy has been silent, but now he starts sobbing softly, his big brown eyes filled with tears.

  Once I determine he’s not injured, I pick him up and hug him.

  He clings to me, not wanting to let go.

  Tears stream down my face as I tighten our embrace.

  The fact that his father has not joined us is a bad sign. And even though this is what I wanted, what I prayed for—the assassin dead—I instantly wish I could take it back.

  Lorenzo was right. Revenge doesn’t bring back the dead. It only further adversely affects the living.

  Just like it will affect this little boy for the rest of his life.

  Now he’s an orphan just like me.

  And it’s all my fault.

  The distant sound of sirens takes me out of my reverie. I set the boy down and tell him to stay put, then I move stealthily across the glass-strewn living room to survey what’s going on next door.

  The house is destroyed.

  The helicopter must have gotten in the way of the explosion, caught fire, and crashed into the street. The house is in shambles and on fire, smoke and ash billowing from it. The assault team was close to the explosion. Even though they were wearing body armor, I doubt any survived.

  I watch as a neighbor rushes to what’s left of them, checking for a pulse on one who is mostly intact.

  I want to run next door and check the rubble for The Priest.

  I want to search for clues as to who sent the assault team.

  But I can’t.

  We need to go.

  I run back to the stairs and grab the boy’s hand.

  “What’s your name?” he asks in French.

  I tell him it’s Huntley. I’m not sure where I’m going to take him, but I have to get this child somewhere safe. Somewhere far away from here.

  More than likely, whoever sent these men will be sending a clean-up crew to dispose of evidence of their involvement.

  Not to mention the police and rescue teams that are already on their way.

  “I’m Chauncey,” the boy says. He has dark hair, big brown eyes, and eyelashes so long and thick you’d think he had extensions.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m six.”

  “We have to go on a trip,” I tell him.

  “Trip!” he exclaims. He pulls out of my grip, runs into the small kitchen, and points to the pantry.

  Curious, I open the door.

  Inside are two backpacks. One sized for a child, and one an adult pack.

  He puts his on, so I grab the other and sling it over my shoulder. He takes my hand and leads me out the back door and down the alley until we arrive at a park.

  I expect him to want to play, but curiously, he takes me across the street and points out a bar. “We have to go there.”

  I think about the song Lorenzo’s grandfather taught him to help him escape the castle in a time of danger. About how my parents told me to go to Uncle Sam’s if I was ever in trouble. Is that what this is? Did his father train him to do the same—with or without him?

  As we enter the dark bar, I grip the boy’s hand tightly.

  There are only a few patrons, but they all turn their heads in our direction.

  So, I ask where the bathroom is. Who can turn down a kid who has to pee?

  The bartender gestures toward the back. I keep my head down and lead the boy that way.

  When we get into the bathroom, I ask Chauncey if he needs to use the restroom. He shakes his head no, so I set him up on the counter and have him wash his hands while I open his backpack.

  A sound behind me causes me to stop.

  I turn to see the bartender approaching in a menacing way. When he places his hand on my shoulder and grips it tightly, I grab his hand and spin, sweeping my leg across the man’s kneecap and causing him to fall to the ground.

  I pull the pistol out of my waistband and take aim.

  “Was the explosion for his father?”

  “Yes,” I say, the gun trained on him. “Do you know what he does for a living?”

  “The boy has his special backpack,” the bartender replies. “That means he is on the run. Why are you with him? Although, that is a stupid question based on the way you just handled yourself. Are you in the same line of work?”

  “No, I’m just a friend. A scared friend.” I pretend shake then let the gun fall to my side. “I’m sorry about your leg. It’s the only move I know.”

  I put the gun away and help the man up.

  “In the boy’s backpack are travel documents. Passport. Birth certificate,” he says.

  “Are they real?”

  “Yes, but there are two additional sets of forged ones in the other pack. Tell me what happened.”

  “A helicopter was coming. He sent us down a tunnel and over to the other house. Military men with machine guns came down from the sky.” I purposefully name their weapon incorrectly. “They fired at the house and then it exploded. I got scared. Told the boy we were going on a trip. He got the backpacks and brought me here.”

  “You’re a bright lad,” he says, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Your papa would be proud.” Then he turns to me. “You will care for him?”

  “What about his mother?” I ask in English, hoping he understands.

  The little boy surprises me by speaking in English. “Momma with angels.”

  My heart skips a beat.

  “How?” I ask.

  “In a hit that was meant for him. Four years ago. That is when we came here.”

  “Are you related?”

  “Old friends. We started out in the military together.”

  “Are you in the same line of business?”

  “I brokered his jobs.”

  I let out a sigh. “Okay, I lied before. I am in the same line of work and was sent here to kill him. We were able to get the location of the hit in Paris. I followed him home. It’s only a matter of time before they discover the location of your computer—if they haven’t already. You’re in danger, too.”

  “I have my own escape plan. You must leave now with the boy and get him somewhere safe. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can,” I say, remembering that Lorenzo was traveling to his home in London today and knowing that’s where I need to go.

  The man gives us both hugs, leads us to a back door, and hands me a set of keys. “Take my car.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Once I get the boy and the bags loaded up, the bartender slams me against the car. “If you think I’m going to let you take the boy, you’re wrong.” He pulls a gun on me and shoves it into my temple.

  “Put the gun away, please. You’re going to scare the child. I should know. Six years ago, The Priest shot and killed my mother in front of me.”

  The bartender backs away in shock. “You are the girl who shot him? Who escaped from him?”

  “Yes, I am. And I’ve been training since then. I was sent here for retribution—for my mother and for the President of the United States, but I couldn’t do it. Not with his son there—probably not at all.”

  “Then I understand why he allowed you to take the boy. You will fiercely defend him, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, then break down, the tears I’ve been trying to hold in coming at me like a tidal wave.

  “You are a beautiful young woman,” he says solemnly. “Forget about this life. Take the boy and retire. In the backpack is a key to a safety deposit box in Zurich. There is enough money for whatever you could possibly need. Give him a normal life.”

  “There were two parts to my mission. One was to find out who ordered the hits.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “But you don’t understand. I can’t possibly have a no
rmal life unless I find out.”

  “If I tell you, do you promise to take care of the boy?”

  “You have my word.”

  He contemplates this for a few seconds. “Normally, I do not know who hires us. That is part of the business. Someone orders a hit. The hit is completed. Money is wired. It is all done covertly, anonymously. We don’t care who hires us or their reason for it—only that we are paid.”

  “So you don’t know?”

  “At first he turned down the hit on the President. The job was too big and not worth the risk. Then a message came back with a higher offer and something more important. Information. Six years ago, after he took the hit on your mother, he was double-crossed. A team of men was sent to kill him and he and his family barely escaped. We learned the man who ordered that hit was John Hillford, Senior.”

  “But how could that be? My mother worked for the government!”

  “I don’t know why. And I don’t know who ordered the hit on the President. It came through a middleman. The money man.”

  “I need to know his actual name.”

  “Fine,” he says, quickly sprawling the name across my hand. “But I must warn you. He is a very bad man.” The bartender hugs me. “Please, you must go now.”

  I get into the car in stunned silence, putting the key in the ignition and starting the car.

  When I do, I notice my watch.

  I pull it off, not wanting to be tracked, and hand it to the bartender. I explain how it works and tell him that there is a tracking device in it.

  He nods in understanding. “I’ll take care of this for you. Now, go.” He pats the top of the car as we drive off.

  Once we are out of town, I stop and call my emergency number.

  “Is your mission complete?” the distorted voice asks.

  “Yes. The Priest is dead. I killed him. But while I was still in his house a team of eight men rappelled out of a military chopper. Thankfully, I heard the chopper coming and prepared. When they started firing, the house exploded and the men perished. I was lucky to have escaped.”

  “Did you put metal in the microwave and turn on the gas, like you were taught?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Good girl.”

  “Were the men sent to kill me?”

  “They were not.” The Dean’s true voice comes on the line. “I suspect that others may have discovered the whereabouts of the assassin and sent a team.”

  “Because they are tracking me?”

  “No—they don’t know about you.”

  “Well, I’m lucky to have escaped. I’ll be taking a few days off. Going off grid.”

  “Back to Montrovia?”

  “Honestly, it’s none of your business.”

  “We can track your phone.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m throwing it out the window as soon as I end this call. I just killed my mother’s assassin. I need some time to figure out if I want to continue in this line of work.”

  “Just remember, X. The assassin may have killed your mother, but someone hired him to do so. You must find out who ordered the hit.”

  “I already know the answer to that. It was John Hillford, Senior.”

  “What?” he replies with shock. “That can’t be.”

  “Well, it is. What I want to know is why the government my mother worked for wanted her dead.”

  “You know?”

  “Yes, I know that my mother worked for the CIA. And I know you’ve been lying to me. Goodbye.” I toss the phone out of the window.

  “Where are we going?” the boy asks.

  “London,” I reply.

  “Yipee!” He claps. “Does that mean we can get bangers and mash?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I drive aimlessly, making sure I’m not being followed.

  My mind is numb.

  Not only did I not complete my mission, I am now responsible for a child. On a positive note, I did discover who ordered the hit on my mother and the name of the money man.

  Before I threw my phone away, I memorized three important people’s numbers: William Gallagher—AKA Intrepid, Juan, and Mike Burnes. I contemplate who I should call.

  As long as I’m in France, I don’t have to worry about being found. We can cross most European borders without showing our passports—unless the rules suddenly change, and with the recent terrorist attacks in France that could happen at any minute.

  Telling the Dean that I need time to think will buy me a few days off. After that, I think they will come looking for me. Someone has invested too much time, money, and blood in me. They won’t allow me to quit.

  They will kill me first.

  The fact that they were able to get Ari and I transported to France on a fighter jet, says whomever I am working for has serious clout.

  But first things first.

  I need to get the child somewhere safe.

  Then I need to return to Montrovia as Huntley and keep pretending.

  I’m starting to come down from the adrenaline rush that’s been going since we set foot on the airbase. I pull off the side of the road, park the car, and close my eyes for a few moments. Just as I start to drift to sleep, I remember the backpacks.

  I open my eyes with a start and grab them from the backseat, careful not to wake the boy, who dozed off.

  Starting with the boy’s pack, I discover a passport for Chauncey Durand. There are a couple changes of clothing, a stuffed tiger, a soft blanket, and a photo of a woman holding the boy when he was about two. In another pouch, there are typical travel items—snacks and a tablet loaded with video games along with a set of headphones.

  In the bigger pack, I find the two additional sets of passports along with corresponding credit cards, a buck knife, a handgun with spare clips, two grenades, three throwaway cell phones, a charger, a wad of Euros, and the key to the safety deposit box in Zurich.

  I study the key, realizing it looks familiar—exactly like the one I retrieved from Blackwood.

  Which is in my handbag along with my Huntley Von Allister passport.

  I drive the ten kilometers back to Cannes. I can still see the smoke rising over the boy’s house. When I arrive at the designer’s home, I park the car just down the street and wake the boy up.

  “Papa?” he says, then he sees me and smiles. “Are we there yet?”

  “Not yet. I have to pick up my bag.” I grab the tablet from the backpack and hand it to him. “If you promise to stay in the car, I’ll let you play a game.”

  “Angry Birds?” he asks with a grin.

  “Yes, you can play whatever you want. I’ll be right back.”

  I crack the windows, take the keys, and lock the boy in the car. Since I’m still wearing workout clothes, I jog up the street, taking note of a black SUV. I drop down behind a hedge, following it around to the side of the designer’s cottage, where I left the French door to the terrace unlocked.

  Not ready to commit yet, I sneak back to check on the SUV. As I pop my head up from the hedge, I see a man wearing a captain’s hat pulling a wheeled suitcase down the driveway, followed by a distinguished looking elderly woman.

  I let out a sigh of relief, thankful it’s not an assault team searching for me.

  I run back to the house, sneak in the door, retrieve my bags without incident, and race back to the car.

  The boy is still where I left him, happily playing his game. I grab one of the phones, call Juan, and ask to speak to Lorenzo.

  “Are you safe?” he asks.

  “Lorenzo, are you in London?” I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. I just lied to one of the most elite covert operations in the world. I have to be very careful about what I say and do next.

  “Yes, we arrived this afternoon. Where are you?” He lowers his voice. “And are you safe?”

  I know what he’s asking. And even though no one can trace this burner because I’ll be tossing it out the window the second I finish the call, I don’t know who’s listening in on his
end. It probably wouldn’t surprise Black X if I took a few days off to be with the Prince, but I don’t dare say anything else.

  “Yes, I am. Where are you staying?”

  “We have a lovely place in Notting Hill.”

  “Could you text the address to this number?”

  “Of course, and I shall be awaiting your arrival on bated breath.”

  “Lorenzo, I’ll be there late. Will you meet me alone?”

  “Of course, my darling,” he replies. I feel bad for giving him the wrong impression, but I didn’t have a choice.

  I have no idea what I’ll tell him when I get there. Or, quite frankly, how I’m going to get there.

  I toss the phone out the window, make sure the boy is buckled in, and drive north toward Le Cannet.

  Then I use another burner phone.

  “Gallagher,” he answers.

  “This is bag girl, I need your help.”

  “You must have the wrong number.” He hangs up on me.

  I hold my phone out in front of me, staring at it, not sure what to do.

  When he doesn’t call back, I tell the boy we’re going to drive for a while.

  “Can I keep playing my game?” he asks.

  “For as long as you want.”

  A few minutes later, the phone rings.

  “It’s Gallagher. I wasn’t in a secure environment,” he explains when I answer. “I don’t know if you’ve heard the reports, but the assassin who killed the President is dead.”

  “I heard that,” I say. “However, there was a complication. I may need you to, like, smuggle me and possibly someone else into your country.”

  “You couldn’t do it, could you? Did you kidnap him instead? Did you lie about his death?”

  “I don’t have a lot of time to explain. Can you help me?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Close to where he was killed. Where are you?”

  “Monaco.”

  “Vacation?”

  “I brought our mutual friend here.”

  “Can I meet you?”

  “Go to the Colline du Chateau in Nice. Walk around the grounds. I’ll find you.”