by Kim Baldwin
“Then why don’t you tell me what it is about powerful women that does it for you?”
“That depends on your definition.” Shield struggled to keep her voice low. “If by power you mean I need a president or whoever with a title to get turned on, then you’re very mistaken.”
“What’s your definition?” Thomas asked.
“I like women who know what they want and fight for it. I like survivors—someone who’s not afraid of falling because they know they can get back up.”
The president stood a foot away, her head tilted to the side, staring at her. “What else?”
“Someone I can count on to stick with me when I fail, show me they love me, want me, and not just wait by the sidelines for me to comfort them for my failures because for some obscene reason their pain is way more important than mine.” Shield exhaled a long breath. “In other words, I don’t want powerful women. I want one strong one.” She raised her hands. “Okay? Satisfied?”
Without warning, Thomas closed the distance between them and placed her hands on Shield’s shoulders. On her tiptoes, she gave Shield a soft, almost shy kiss on the lips, then turned around and walked to the adjoining door.
Shield, in disbelief, remained rooted where she was.
“I’m not powerful,” Thomas said without turning around. “But you have no idea just how strong I am or how much I have to fight to survive.” Then she was gone.
Shield didn’t realize she’d licked her lips until the aftertaste hit her senses—wine, with a hint of Thomas’s own sweet flavor.
The situation between them was getting more absurd by the day.
How could Thomas feel such distress concerning Shield’s opinion of her and show absolutely zero sentiment about her husband’s death or the attack?
Shield had witnessed plenty of people in post-death and danger shock and denial, but no matter how strong they acted, she could always see the truth in their eyes. That was where grief could not be hidden or denied. Thomas, however, was so far removed from any emotion she hadn’t even asked why Shield had gone to her husband’s golf club. Come to think of it, Thomas had never shown any distress in regard to anyone, other than Moore.
Then again, she also didn’t seem emotionally inept. On the contrary, the president was a passionate woman, capable of deep sadness. Shield couldn’t remember a moment when Thomas hadn’t had to force a smile, except for the times they were alone.
A dirty political game was going on, but one of the players didn’t fit the profile.
Chapter Twenty-three
Houston, Texas
Jack sat in a comfortable leather armchair that faced away from the massive windows dominating one wall of the spacious apartment. It wasn’t like she could have admired the view, anyway. Retractable, locking window screens blocked any possibility she might be able to recognize where she was, but the amenities of her surroundings were a world away from those of her last captive environment.
The owner had an impressive bankroll and an appreciation for unparalleled excellence in all things. The floor looked like it was Italian marble, the rugs priceless Arabian antiquities, the furniture handcrafted of leather and expensive woods.
The most impressive features were the art and artifacts all around, which looked like originals as far as she could tell. Oil paintings in elaborate frames adorned the walls, and custom glass display cases held a variety of masks, tapestries, coins, and other ancient relics. More glass cases, custom designed with their own ornate stands, had been built to display the heavier and larger objects, which included sculptures, a full suit of armor, and what looked like pieces of an ancient Greek column and Egyptian obelisk.
The opulent apartment was tomb quiet and obsessively immaculate, like no one lived there, as though it had been hermetically sealed away from the likely urban landscape outside.
When they’d come to get her from the white room, they’d finally let Jack use the bathroom and had given her water and a couple of ibuprofen. They’d also returned her clothes and watch, but not her Glock and cell phone. Then they’d blindfolded her and placed her in an elevator that immediately started to ascend when the door shut. After she’d been transferred into a vehicle, they’d injected her with something to knock her out, and she’d awakened here, in the chair, without restraints.
She leaned her head back and shut her eyes, grateful for the dim lighting. Her headache hadn’t completely disappeared, but the painkillers they’d given her were the biggest gift she’d ever received.
Though Jack heard the door open and shut again, she kept her eyes closed. “Evening.” No one answered, but she still didn’t move. “What, no greeting?”
“Proper manners command you look at someone when you greet them.” The now-familiar icy voice rebuked her.
“They also dictate you don’t kill.”
“I have never personally killed anyone.”
“‘Personally’ being the key word.” Jack rubbed her eyes. “Anyway, I was talking about me. Funny how you didn’t seem to have a problem with my savoir-vivre when you asked me to off that guy.”
“And how instinctively and easily you did it.”
Jack lifted her head and opened her eyes. Her captor, dressed in an elegant cerulean-blue business suit, faced her from ten feet away. “I’m flattered you think so.”
TQ was and was not what Jack had anticipated. She hadn’t expected the cold bitch to be a very attractive middle-aged woman. What she had expected were the cold, almost dead eyes and demonic smile. Jack smiled back. “So, who did I kill?” she asked as though she didn’t know.
“Someone who owed me.”
“Money?”
“Don’t be silly. Why guarantee any kind of financial loss, or otherwise, by killing someone who owes me? It’s wiser to keep them alive and suffering one way or another, until they pay or deliver.”
“He disappointed you.”
“And that, Jack, is inexcusable.”
“How?”
“He molested a donor.”
“Involuntary donor.”
“I don’t believe in discrimination.”
“Why would you care if the donor was molested? I mean, an organ is an organ.”
“An organ is a profitable organ when the donor isn’t dead longer than two hours.”
“What took him so long?”
“The donor died during the molestation.”
“You mean because of it.” Jack regretted not having shot that piece of shit a third time. She’d recognized the tattoo on his thigh—BJC: a club of pedophiles that kidnapped or bought young kids for sex and then disposed of them. She’d first seen the insignia years earlier, when some Czech hired her to go after the guy who’d killed his brother in a private nightclub. The killer bore a BJC tattoo, and her search for him put her into the filthiest, most disgusting possible company of men. If she thought she’d have had even one chance in a million to survive, she would have killed them all.
TQ waved her comment away. “Either way, my employee didn’t have the dignity to stop and prioritize, so he continued with whatever he was doing until it was too late.” In other words, he continued to rape the victim after they were dead.
“I see,” Jack said.
“Do you know who I am, Jack?”
“A megalomaniac gone awry.” Jack looked around the room. “And this museum you call home proves it.”
TQ’s content expression evaporated. “That’s a crude way to phrase your perception of me.”
“Call ’em like I see ’em.”
“I rarely if ever let anyone in my home, so show respect.”
“To what do I owe the honor of being the chosen one?”
“You intrigue me.”
“I overwhelm you.” Jack smiled. “And you hope this vulgar display of wealth will exhibit your power and put me in my place. Show me how inferior I am.” She laughed. “Yup. Me-ga-lo-ma-ni-ac.”
“We’re going to have to work on your manners.”
“Speaki
ng of which,” Jack replied, “are you going to offer me a beverage?”
“You’re absolutely right. What would you like?”
“Do you have whiskey in house?”
TQ clapped, and Jack heard a sound from behind her. She jumped up, in an efficiency of movement, and grabbed the person behind her by the throat before they could react.
“Nice.” TQ clapped.
As soon as Jack realized she was holding a young Asian woman with an eye patch, she let go. “I’m sorry,” she told the terrified girl.
The woman rubbed her throat and nodded.
“Tell her what you want,” TQ said.
“Johnnie Black,” Jack replied, and the girl disappeared into another room. “I hadn’t seen her.”
“I keep her next to the bookcase in the corner,” TQ explained, like she was talking about one of the antiquities on display.
“You must trust her a lot if she can be present during your conversations.”
TQ shrugged. “It’s not like she can run to anyone with information.”
“You keep her imprisoned.”
“For you, a prison. For her, a home. It was either this or a lifetime in a Chinese penitentiary.”
“And we all know what that means.” Many Chinese prisoners were executed for their organs.
“Indeed. So I kept two alive for myself and saved their lives in the process.”
“A true philanthropist.”
“I know,” TQ replied with a serious expression.
This woman was more disturbed than Jack even dared imagine.
The Asian girl came back with Jack’s drink in a heavy crystal glass and placed it on a coaster on the table in front of her.
“Thank you.”
The girl nodded.
“You don’t have to thank her,” TQ said, annoyed. “She’s doing her job.”
“Thank you,” Jack said again, and the young woman smiled.
“Remember what I did to your eye?” TQ glared at the girl. “You have only one left.”
The young woman quickly bowed her head, clearly horrified, and took her place next to the bookcase.
TQ kept staring at her with pure hate.
Jack cleared her throat. “So, why am I here?” she asked, to pull TQ’s attention away from the girl.
TQ turned her head slowly in Jack’s direction. “I’ve told you. I want you to work for me.”
“Do what?”
“Like I said, whatever I ask you to.”
“Steal organs?”
“You need medical expertise for that, and as talented as you are, I doubt you have the knowledge. For now, I want you to prove you can be an asset.”
“Explain.” Jack took a sip of whiskey.
“I need someone eradicated and I want you to do it.”
“If I refuse, then…?”
“Then I also refuse to let your beautiful girlfriend live.”
“Fair enough.” Jack tried to sound cool and businesslike.
TQ smiled a reptilian smile. “I’m always fair.”
“Who do you want me to off?”
“Two people. Ryden Wagner and Harper Kennedy. They have to be dealt with simultaneously.”
“Who are they?” In the past when Jack took jobs like this, she specifically refrained from asking anything about her targets because it made her job and objectifying easier. But that was then. She wasn’t about to go back to being a ruthless killer. If there was such a thing as a hell, Jack was certain she’d already bought a one-way ticket to it, but she wasn’t about to disappoint Cass and herself by returning to that life. She’d had to justify killing someone less than an hour ago by telling herself the guy deserved it.
“I don’t accept questions concerning my orders,” TQ replied, “but this warrants an exception.”
“Because?”
“One of your targets, Harper Kennedy, works for a privately contracted organization called the EOO. They have very capable and highly trained operatives. You will need all your skills to destroy that one.”
“The EOO,” Jack repeated, to make certain she’d heard right.
“You’ve heard of them.”
“Yeah, but all I know is what you’ve already mentioned.” Jack had never met this Harper Kennedy, but the name fit because of the distinctive surname. “I don’t know if I want to get involved with killing one of their people.”
“You can’t handle it?”
“I can handle a contractor,” Jack said. “I don’t want to deal with the wrath of the organization.”
“No one does. You’ll have to make sure they never find out who did it. Should they link you or me to Kennedy’s death, I will spare them the trouble of killing you.”
“Goes without saying.” Jack took another sip of whiskey. “Business is business, and any business must be protected.”
“Wise beyond your humble means.”
“Why is this Kennedy a problem for you?”
“She’s been hired to protect Wagner, who belongs to me.”
“Protect her from who?”
“Me,” TQ replied cryptically, “but Kennedy doesn’t know that.”
“Is Wagner a deserter? Is that why you want her dead?”
“Wagner is a means to end. She was hired for one specific purpose, and once her job is done, she is ineffectual.”
“I still don’t see why Kennedy is a problem.”
“I’ve invested a lot in Wagner, and it’s paid off,” TQ said. “She is doing a marvelous job. But she is getting increasingly emotionally unstable and too close to Kennedy—her security guard—who is already suspicious about certain affairs of mine.”
If an EOO op was hired to babysit someone, that individual was either a major threat who warranted constant surveillance or a VIP who needed constant protection. This Wagner was probably in the first category. She couldn’t imagine why any op would choose or accept to become a bodyguard. Personally, she couldn’t see throwing herself in front of a bullet to protect anyone besides Cass. “When?”
“Not long anymore. A few days.”
“What happens after this hit?” Jack asked.
“You wait until I need you again.”
“And in the meantime?”
“I’ve made arrangements for you.”
“How long do you want to keep me here?”
“Until I trust you to come to me when I call. And yes, of course you could entertain the idea of notifying Ms. Monroe or running away while out on this job. But you won’t be alone or have a cell phone. And should you upset me for any reason, I will—”
“Yeah, I get it.” Jack didn’t want to hear another threat on Cass’s life.
“Good. Now, I need to get my beauty sleep, and you need to leave me to it.” TQ clapped her hands and the Asian woman came to stand in front of her. “Take her to the men waiting outside.”
*
Southwestern Colorado
Montgomery Pierce sat in his well-used, comfortable armchair and looked out at the mountains, some of the highest peaks still dotted with snow. The secluded two-story brick home he’d purchased when he became chief administrator was just down the road from the EOO campus. At sixty-three, he was more content with life than he had ever been, and if it weren’t for the doctor’s orders to avoid exertion, stress, and most of the foods he loved, things would be damn near perfect. The woman he’d loved since his twenties was finally at his side, the organization was blooming both with profit and new talent, and Jaclyn was alive and happy with a wonderful woman.
Although his relationship with her was based on frustration, mostly on Jaclyn’s side, Monty was happy enough to share any moments he could with her. Joanne insisted they have a good talk, and although he was tempted after Jaclyn found her mother in France, he frankly wouldn’t know where to start or how to end a truthful conversation without another blowup between them. Some things were better left unsaid, he insisted, especially since Jaclyn had very little tolerance and understanding for anything that had to do with h
im.
The phone rang once, jarring him from his reverie.
“Monty, it’s Cassady.” Joanne came out of the bedroom and handed him the phone. “She sounds worried.”
Ops never called his private number unless it was a dire situation. “Cassady?”
“Sorry to bother you at home, but I’m worried about Jack.”
Monty sat up straight. “Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. I’m in Boston preparing for the concert, and Jack hasn’t called me once in three days.”
“Maybe—”
“Monty, three days. She normally calls me several times a day. She didn’t even want me to go to Boston alone. I had to convince her to stay home.” Cassady spoke unusually fast, and Monty could hear the anxiety in her voice. She’d been through a lot of stress in recent months, but Cassady Monroe was a top operative and not one to raise an alarm without good reason.
“I see.”
“The performance is tomorrow, and if she doesn’t show up then, either, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know how I’m supposed to sit there and perform if—”
“Cassady, I know you’re worried, but try not to jump to conclusions.” Only when Joanne touched his hand did he realize how hard he was squeezing the armrest.
“I don’t know what to do,” Cassady repeated. “I’m coming back tonight. Screw the concert.”
“There’s probably a good explanation. Stay where you are and I’ll look into it.” He turned to Joanne. “Get David.”
“What are you going to do?” Cassady asked.
“Check your place.” Monty glanced at his watch. Cassady’s house near Colorado Springs was about three hours by car.
“She’d answer the phone if she were home.”
“Maybe—”
“Oh, my God. You don’t think she fell in the shower or something. Or… She’s dangerous in the kitchen, you know.” Cassady was rambling now. “Maybe she blew the place up, but…no, that can’t be. They would’ve called me if the house had gone up in flames.”
“Get a hold of yourself. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
