by Anna Zaires
“I can start if you’d like,” Peter says when I tell him this. “You know I can do this on my own.”
I do know that. In the year that he’s worked for me, Peter has proven himself more than capable in this area. However, I prefer to be hands-on whenever possible; in my line of work, micromanaging often pays off.
“No, that’s okay,” I say. “Why don’t you take a lunch break as well? We’ll resume this at three.”
Peter nods, then slips out of the shed, not even bothering to wash the blood off his hands. I’m more fastidious about these matters, so I walk over to a bucket of water sitting by the wall and rinse the worst of the gory residue off my hands and face. At least I don’t need to worry about my clothes; I deliberately wore a black T-shirt and shorts today, so the stains wouldn’t be visible. This way, if I run into Nora before I have a chance to change, I won’t give her nightmares. She knows what I’m capable of, but knowing and seeing are two very different things. My little wife is still innocent in some ways, and I want her to keep as much of that innocence as possible.
I don’t see her on my way home, which is probably for the best. I always feel more feral immediately after a kill, edgy and excited at the same time. It used to bother me, this enjoyment I get out of things that would horrify most people, but I no longer worry about it. It’s who I am, who I was trained to be. Self-doubt leads to guilt and regret, and I refuse to entertain those useless emotions.
Once inside the house, I take a thorough shower and change into fresh clothes. Then, feeling much cleaner and calmer, I go down to the kitchen to grab a quick lunch.
Ana isn’t there when I walk in, so I make myself a sandwich and sit down to eat at the kitchen table. I have my iPad with me, and for the next half hour, I deal with manufacturing issues at my factory in Malaysia, catch up with my Hong Kong-based supplier, and shoot an email to my contact in Israel about the upcoming bombing.
When I’m done with lunch, I still have a number of phone calls to make, so I head to my office, where I have secure lines of communication set up.
I run into Nora on the porch as I exit the house.
She’s coming up the stairs, talking and laughing with Rosa. Dressed in a patterned yellow dress, with her hair loose and streaming down her back, she looks like a ray of sunshine, her smile wide and radiant.
Spotting me, she stops in the middle of the stairs, her smile turning a bit shy. I wonder if she’s thinking about last night; my own thoughts certainly turned in that direction as soon as I saw her.
“Hi,” she says softly, looking at me. Rosa stops too, inclining her head at me respectfully. I give her a curt nod of acknowledgment before focusing on Nora.
“Hello, my pet.” The words come out unintentionally husky. Apparently sensing that she’s in the way, Rosa mumbles something about needing to help out in the kitchen and escapes into the house, leaving Nora and me alone on the porch.
Nora grins at her friend’s prompt departure, then walks up the remaining steps to stand next to me. “I got the orientation packet from Stanford this morning and already registered for all the classes,” she says, her voice filled with barely suppressed excitement. “I have to say, they work fast.”
I smile at her, pleased to see her so happy. “Yes, they do.” And they should—given the generous donation one of my shell corporations made to their alumni fund. For three million dollars, I expect the Stanford admissions office to bend over backwards to accommodate my wife.
“I’m going to call my parents tonight.” Her eyes are shining. “Oh, they’re going to be so surprised . . .”
“Yes, I’m sure,” I say dryly, picturing Tony and Gabriela’s reaction to this. I’ve listened to a few more of Nora’s conversations with them, and I know they didn’t believe me when I said that Nora would get a good education. It will be useful for my new in-laws to learn that I keep my promises—that I’m serious when it comes to taking care of their daughter. It won’t change their opinion of me, of course, but at least they’ll be a bit calmer about Nora’s future.
Nora grins again, likely picturing the same thing, but then her expression turns unexpectedly somber. “So did they already arrive?” she asks, and I hear a trace of hesitation in her voice. “The Al-Quadar men you’ve captured?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother to sugarcoat it. I don’t want to traumatize her by letting her see that side of my business, but I’m not going to hide its existence from her either. “I’ve begun interrogating them.”
She stares at me, her earlier excitement nowhere in sight. “Oh, I see.” Her eyes travel over my body, lingering on my clean clothes, and I’m glad that I took the precaution to shower and change earlier.
When she lifts her eyes to meet my gaze, there is a peculiar look on her face. “So did you learn anything useful?” she asks softly. “By interrogating them, I mean?”
“Yes, I did,” I say slowly. It surprises me that she’s curious about this, that she’s not acting as appalled as I would’ve expected. I know she hates Al-Quadar for what they did to Beth, but I still would’ve expected her to cringe at the thought of torture. A smile tugs at my lips as I wonder just how dark my pet is willing to go these days. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”
She surprises me again by nodding. “Yes,” she says quietly, holding my gaze. “Tell me, Julian. I want to know.”
Chapter 13
Nora
I don’t know what demon prompted me to say that, and I hold my breath, waiting for Julian to laugh at me and refuse. He has never been keen on telling me much about his business, and though he has opened up to me since his return, I get the sense that he’s still trying to shield me from the uglier parts of his world.
To my shock, he doesn’t refuse or mock me in any way. Instead he offers me his hand. “All right, my pet,” he says, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips. “If you’d like to learn, come with me. I have some calls to make.”
My heart pounding, I tentatively put my hand in his and let him lead me down the stairs. As we walk toward the small building that serves as Julian’s office, I can’t help wondering if I’m making a mistake. Am I ready to give up the questionable comfort of ignorance and dive head first into the murky cesspool of Julian’s empire? Truthfully, I have no idea.
Yet I don’t stop, don’t tell Julian that I changed my mind . . . because I haven’t. Because deep inside, I know that burying my head in the sand changes nothing. My husband is a dangerous, powerful criminal, and my lack of knowledge about his activities doesn’t alter the fact that I’m dirty by association. By willingly going into his arms every night—by loving him despite everything he’s done—I am implicitly condoning his actions, and I’m not naïve enough to think otherwise. I might have started off as Julian’s victim, but I don’t know if I can claim that dubious distinction anymore. Syringe or not, I went with him knowing full well what he was and what kind of life I was signing up for.
Besides, a dark curiosity is riding me now. I want to know what he learned this morning, what kind of information his brutal methods availed him. I want to know what phone calls he’s planning to make and to whom he’s planning to speak. I want to know everything there is to know about Julian, no matter how much the reality of his life horrifies me.
When we come up to the office building, I see that the door is made of metal. Just like on the island, Julian opens it by submitting to a retina scan—a security measure that no longer surprises me. Given what I now know about the types of weapons Julian’s company produces, his paranoia appears quite justified.
We go inside, and I see that it’s all one big room, with a large oval table near the entrance and a wide desk with a bunch of computer screens at the back. Flatscreen TV monitors line the walls, and there are comfortable-looking leather chairs around the table. Everything seems very high-tech and luxurious. To me, Julian’s office looks like a cross between an executive conference room and some place I imagine the CIA might meet to strategize.
As I st
and there, gaping at everything, Julian places his hands on my shoulders from behind. “Welcome to my lair,” he murmurs, his fingers tightening for a brief moment. Then he lets go of me and walks over to sit down behind the desk.
I follow him there, driven by burning curiosity.
There are six computer monitors sitting on the table. Three of them are showing what appears to be a live feed from various surveillance cameras, and two are filled with different charts and blinking numbers. The last computer is the one closest to Julian, and it’s displaying some type of unusual-looking email program.
Intrigued, I take a closer look, trying to figure out what I’m seeing. “Are you monitoring your investments?” I ask, peering at the two computers with the blinking numbers. I’m far from a stock guru, but I’ve seen a couple of movies about Wall Street, and Julian’s setup reminds me of the traders’ desks they had there.
“You could say that.” When I turn to look at him, Julian leans back in his chair and smiles at me. “One of my subsidiaries is a hedge fund of sorts. It dabbles in everything from currencies to oil, with a focus on special situations and geopolitical events. I have some very qualified people running it, but I find that stuff quite interesting and occasionally like to play with it myself.”
“Oh, I see . . .” I stare at him, fascinated. This is yet another side of Julian I knew nothing about before. It makes me wonder how many more layers I’m going to uncover with time. “So who are you planning to call?” I ask, remembering the phone calls he mentioned earlier.
Julian’s smile widens. “Come here, baby, have a seat,” he says, reaching out to grab my wrist. Before I know it, he’s got me sitting on his lap, his arms effectively caging me between his chest and the edge of the desk. “Just sit here and be quiet,” he whispers in my ear, and quickly types something on his keyboard while I sit there, breathing in his warm scent and feeling his hard body all around me.
I hear a few beeps, then a man’s voice comes from the computer. “Esguerra. I was wondering when you would be in touch.” The speaker has an American accent and sounds well educated, if a bit stuffy. I immediately picture a middle-aged man in a suit. A bureaucrat of some kind, but a senior one, judging from the confidence in his voice. One of Julian’s government contacts, perhaps?
“I assume our Israeli friends filled you in already,” Julian says.
Holding my breath, I listen intently, not wanting to miss anything. I don’t know why Julian decided to let me learn this way, but I’m not about to quibble.
“I don’t have much to add,” Julian continues. “As you already know, the operation was a success, and I now have a couple of detainees that I’m milking for information.”
“Yes, so we’ve heard.” There is silence for a second, then the man says, “We would appreciate hearing this kind of news first next time. It would’ve been nice if the Israelis had heard about the bus from us, rather than the other way around.”
“Oh, Frank . . .” Julian sighs, wrapping his arm around my waist and shifting me slightly to the left. Feeling off-balance, I clutch at Julian’s arm, trying not to make any sounds as he settles me more comfortably on his leg. “You know how these things work. If you’d like to be the one spoon-feeding the Israelis, I need a little something to sweeten the deal.”
“We already wiped away all traces of your misadventure with the girl,” Frank says evenly, and I tense, realizing he’s referring to my abduction.
A misadventure? Really? For a second, irrational fury spikes through me, but then I take a calming breath and remind myself that I don’t actually want Julian punished for what he did to me—not if it means being separated from him again. Still, it would’ve been nice if they had at least acknowledged that Julian committed a crime instead of calling it a fucking ‘misadventure.’ It’s stupid, but I feel disrespected somehow—like I don’t even matter.
Oblivious to my stewing over his word choice, Frank continues, “There’s nothing more we can give you at this point—”
“Actually, you can,” Julian interrupts. Still holding me tightly, he strokes my arm in a proprietary, soothing gesture. As usual, his touch warms me from within, takes away some of my tension. He probably understands why I’m upset; no matter how you slice it, it’s insulting to have your kidnapping talked about so casually.
“How about a little tit for tat?” Julian continues softly, addressing Frank. “I let you be the heroes next time, and you let me in on some back-channel action with Syria. I’m sure there are a few tidbits you’d like to leak . . . and I’d love to be the one to help you out.”
There is another moment of silence, then Frank says gruffly, “Fine. Consider it done.”
“Excellent. Until next time then,” Julian says and, reaching forward, clicks on the corner of the screen to disconnect the call.
As soon as he’s done, I twist around in Julian’s arms to look at him. “Who was that man?”
“Frank is one of my contacts at the CIA,” Julian replies, confirming my earlier supposition. “A paper pusher, but one who’s quite good at his job.”
“Ah, I thought so.” Beginning to feel restless, I push at Julian’s chest, needing to get up. He releases me, watching with a faint smile as I back up a couple of steps, then prop my hip against the desk and give him a questioning look. “What was that about Israelis and the bus? And Syria?”
“According to one of my Al-Quadar guests, there is an attack planned on a tour bus in Tel-Aviv,” Julian explains, leaning back in his chair. “I notified the Mossad—the Israeli intelligence agency—about it earlier today.”
“Oh.” I frown. “So why did Frank object to that?”
“Because the Americans have a savior complex—or would like the Israelis to think they do. They want this information to be coming from them instead of me, so that the Mossad owes them a favor.”
“Ah, I see.” And I do. I’m beginning to understand how this game works. In the shadowy world of intelligence agencies and off-the-record politics, favors are like currency—and my husband is rich in more ways than one. Rich enough to ensure that he would never be prosecuted for petty crimes like kidnapping or illegal arms dealing. “And you want Frank to give you some info to leak to Syria, so they owe you a favor, right?”
Julian grins at me, white teeth flashing. “Yes, indeed. You’re a quick study, my pet.”
“Why did you decide to let me listen in today?” I ask, eyeing him curiously. “Why today of all days?”
Instead of responding, he rises to his feet and comes toward me. Stopping next to me, he bends forward and places his hands on the desk on both sides of my body, trapping me again. “Why do you think, Nora?” he murmurs, leaning closer. His breath is warm against my cheek, and his arms are like steel beams surrounding me. It makes me feel like a small animal caught in a hunter’s snare—an unsettling sensation that nonetheless turns me on.
“Because we’re married?” I guess in an uneven voice. His face is mere inches from mine, and my lower belly tightens with a strong surge of arousal as he nudges his hips forward, letting me feel his hardening erection.
“Yes, baby, because we’re married,” he says huskily, his eyes darkening with lust as my peaked nipples brush against his chest, “and because I think you’re no longer as fragile as you seem . . .”
And lowering his head, he captures my mouth in a hungry, possessive kiss, his hands sliding up my thighs with familiar intent.
* * *
Over the next few days, I learn more about Julian’s dark empire, and I begin to understand how little most people know about what goes on behind the scenes. None of what I hear in Julian’s office ever shows up on the news . . . because if it did, heads would roll, and some very important people would end up in jail.
Amused by my continued interest, Julian lets me listen in on more conversations. Once I even get to watch a video conference from the back of the room, where I can’t be seen by the camera. To my shock, I recognize one of the men on the video feed. It’
s a prominent US general—someone I’ve seen a couple of times on popular talk shows. He wants Julian to move his manufacturing operations from Thailand out of fear that political instability in the region could derail the next shipment of the new explosive—the shipment that’s supposed to go to the US government.
My former captor hadn’t been lying when he said he has connections; if anything, he’d understated the extent of his reach.
Of course, politicians, military leaders, and others of their ilk are but a small fraction of the people Julian deals with on a daily basis. The majority of his interactions are with clients, suppliers, and various intermediaries—shady and usually frightening individuals from all over the world. His acquaintances range from Russian mafia and Libyan rebels to dictators in obscure African countries. When it comes to selling weapons, my husband is very egalitarian. Terrorists, drug lords, legitimate governments—he does business with them all.
It turns my stomach, but I can’t bring myself to stay out of Julian’s office. Every day I follow him there, driven by morbid curiosity. It’s like watching some kind of undercover exposé; the things I learn are both fascinating and disturbing.
It takes Julian three days, but he manages to break the last Al-Quadar prisoner. How, he doesn’t tell me and I don’t ask. I know it’s through torture, but I don’t know the particulars. I just know that the information he extracts results in Julian locating two more Al-Quadar cells—and the CIA owing him another favor.
Now that Julian has decided to let me into that portion of his life, we spend even more time together. He likes having me in his office. Not only is it convenient for when he wants sex—which is at least once during the day—but he also seems to enjoy the speed with which I’m learning. I’m sharp, he says. Intuitive. I see things as they are instead of as I want them to be—a rare gift, according to Julian.
“Most people wear blinders,” he tells me over lunch one day, “but not you, my pet. You face reality head-on . . . and that’s what lets you see beneath the surface.”
