by Daco
When the clock struck midnight, Sigfred, who’d been sitting at her side the entire evening, discreetly reached under the tablecloth and squeezed her hand. She never wanted him to let go.
She put her lips to his ear and whispered, “We belong together. We always have.”
He looked deeply into her eyes. “The future is ours. But it won’t be easy. There’s all too much evil in this world, and it’s our responsibility to fight it.”
“There’s nothing we can’t overcome together. That’s how powerful our love is.”
She knew that he would love her and protect her forever, and she would do the same for him. As Alexa Manchester and Sigfred Sawyer. As Electromancer and Blue Arrow.
Acknowledgments
When Tara Gelsomino, my executive editor, asked me to write a superhero romance novel, I was absolutely thrilled to have the chance to cross genres and create a romantic yet comic-book-like world. The superheroes of my time were the fun, save-the-world types like Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and Spiderman, who fought evil but comic villains like Lex Luther, The Joker, Dr. Doom, and the slinky, mysterious Cat Woman. And so, when I wrote Electromancer, I strove to create an over-the-top, zany world that is nevertheless fraught with danger and full of romance. Thank you, Tara, for giving me this wonderful opportunity. You’ve opened up new avenues in my life, and that is truly a gift.
I’d also like to thank those who contributed their talents in creating the world of Electromancer. First, I must thank Robert Rotstein for all his insights. Having a fellow writer love your project as much as you do is priceless; I don’t know which of us laughed more as the story unfolded. Thank you, Robert: “I love everything about you.” I also want to thank my sweetest, most brilliant daughter, Isabella, for sharing her thoughts and expert wisdom about superheroes. And my gallant son, Andrew, who marveled at the characters and sometimes seemed to know them better than I did. I also very much appreciate the cover design and illustration work of Fred Machuca of FMThree, and Rickey Ostendi. Fred and Rickey are amazing. Thanks also to the gracious, talented Olivia Elery for her beautiful artistic contributions.
I’m so happy to be a part of the Crimson Romance family and am grateful for the hard work and dedication of Julie Sturgeon, Jess Verdi, and Brianne Bardusch.
And last, but not least, a heartfelt thank you to all of my readers!
About the Author
Daco is an award-winning author of the espionage thriller series featuring CIA operative Jordan Jakes. Her debut novel, The Libra Affair, was a 2013 #1 best seller. Of The Libra Affair, Publishers Weekly said, “The keenly sharp intelligent female characters soar in this edge-of-your-seat adventure...”
Her short story The Pisces Affair was a 2015 Global Ebook Awards double gold medalist (Best Thriller Fiction and Best Science Fiction), a 2015 Shelf Unbound Notable 100, a 2015 Royal Palm Literary Award winner, and a Publishers Weekly “PW Pick.” In its review of The Pisces Affair, Publishers Weekly wrote, “Jakes is a lively and witty narrator with the wits and skills of James Bond, and readers will savor her fresh perspective on being a woman in the male-dominated spy world.”
Daco’s story “The Virgo Affair” is part of Killer Nashville Noir: Cold-Blooded (October 2015), an anthology that includes numerous New York Times best-selling authors.
Upcoming works include The Scorpio Affair, a Jordan Jakes novel, and The Ophiuchus Affair, another Jordan Jakes short story.
Electromancer is Daco’s first superhero novel.
Daco holds a B.A. and M.A.S. from The University of Alabama in Huntsville and a J.D. from the Cumberland School of Law. She is a member of the International Thriller Writers, Mystery Writers of America, Romance Writers of America, Authors Guild, Alabama Writers Forum, Florida Writers, and Alabama State Bar.
Feel free to connect with Daco on her Facebook page “Daco” or Twitter @AuthorDaco. Her website is www.authordaco.com.
More from This Author
The Libra Affair
Daco
“But you kissed that guy.”
“It was a game. A stupid bar game.” Jordan’s heart began to race, but she spoke in a calm, deliberate voice as she gripped the phone in her hand. “You were working, remember?” This was the hardest breakup speech she’d ever delivered, but it wasn’t her choice. It was time for Jordan Jakes to go to work.
He struggled to speak. “Jordan, I — ”
“Ben,” she interrupted him, “let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be.” She knew he was trying to tell her that he loved her, but he was paralyzed by fear of rejection. It was better this way. If he actually said the words, she knew she’d drop to her knees and sob.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was soft, emotional. “I overreacted … ”
“A relationship is built on trust.” Her stomach clenched. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me.” As she said the words, she felt the sting of irony in her lie.
Why couldn’t her target have been the typical lab coat scientist? Why’d he have to be Isle of Mann’s perfect blend of Scotch and Nordic served with a twist of dark brown curls? And why’d he have to look at her that way with those melancholy eyes of his?
“That guy you saw going crazy, that wasn’t me,” he tried even harder.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Her heart was breaking and there was nothing in the world she could do about it.
That first night at the bar when he’d sauntered over to her like he didn’t have a care in the world and asked, “What will you have?” the only answer that came to her mind was you. I want you … forever. But that was a dream, a dream that lasted exactly one year, and now the dream was ending; she had accomplished exactly what she’d been sent to do. There was never going to be a forever, no matter how much she wanted it.
She was leaving him and it was time to make this final.
The bell hanging on the front door to the dry cleaners jingled. She’d worked as a clerk in this lousy job for the past year, too. But it was the perfect cover for her: no stress, no brainer, no suspicions.
“Can’t we talk about it?” he said. “Over dinner? A bowl of beef barley?”
“No.” All Ben needed now was closure — to hear her say it was over and beyond repair. Not a dot, dot, dot.
“I don’t want you to go,” he said.
She didn’t want to go either, but when Chou, her Chinese handler, called a week ago and said, “It’s time,” any fantasy of her sticking around vanished. It had taken the American Central Intelligence Agency and Jordan three long years to get into bed with the Chinese National Security Bureau, and now that the Chinese trusted her, a boyfriend who had been solicited as no more than a pawn in an international game of espionage and cold war could not stand in the way of accomplishing the rest of this mission.
The customer who’d just entered the dry cleaners moved toward the counter, only he stopped short of it and waited.
Without eyeing him directly, but glancing at his reflection on a metallic strip lining the corner of the wall, Jordan quickly ascertained by the man’s lanky physique and cautious stride that Chou had arrived. She’d never actually seen the man’s face, but there was no doubt in her mind — it was Chou.
“You know, it’s over,” Jordan spoke into the receiver. She wouldn’t allow this charade to continue a moment longer.
The front door to the shop opened again. Another man entered, young, thirtyish.
“What about your things?” Ben asked. “What should I — ?”
“I didn’t leave anything.” It was the truth. Two nights ago after she staged their fight at the bar, Jordan had secretly returned to Ben’s place. She removed her toothbrush, a spare change of clothes, and the photograph in the picture frame he kept at his bedside. With it gone — out of sight, out of mind — it must not have occurred to him that she’d taken it. The snapshot was her favorite, one that a stranger passing along the beach offered to take of them when they were in Nantucket last fall. But that wasn’t why
she’d taken it. No, she’d taken it because she couldn’t leave any trace of herself.
The young man standing at the counter cleared his throat.
Jordan glanced at the men. “Be right with you,” she said and took a step closer to the wall where the telephone was attached. “I have customers,” she said to Ben.
“Ma’am?” The young man thumped a nervous fist on the countertop. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m late for work and I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Wait,” Ben said. “I’ll be at my NASA lab all day. The bar tonight. Let’s meet. We can talk about this.”
“I’m sorry, Ben. It’s over. I have to go.” Jordan hung up the receiver, telling herself that she would not look back. She stepped to the computer terminal and said, “Okay. Who was first?” as she pulled the pencil from the bun she had knotted her hair into that morning.
Chou nodded to the young man in a hurry. “Go ahead,” he said.
The young man tipped his head appreciatively and said to Jordan, “Frank Taylor, picking up.”
“Nothing to drop off?” she asked as she plugged his name into the computer. How many times had she said that line over the last year? Enough was how many.
Mr. Taylor shook his head no and tapped the counter relentlessly as if saying, Get on with it, lady.
Another day, she might have told the jerk his cleaning wasn’t ready and that he’d have to come back, but with Chou in her presence, she had no time for idle games.
She placed the hangers on a hook and told him, “It’ll be twenty-one even,” glad to conclude her last transaction.
“Wait a minute,” he said as he combed through the contents. “Seems the pants are missing.” He looked at Jordan with a concerned expression. “My jeans.”
A sick feeling hit Jordan in the gut.
“Yeah,” he said, “a pair of Levi button-fly jeans. Pressed down the center.”
“Let me have another look,” Jordan said as she turned and started toward the rack. She knew exactly where his jeans were — she was wearing them.
“You know,” the young man called over to her, “they kind of look like the pair you’re wearing.”
“Give me a second.”
“Hold on just a minute,” he said loudly. “Yeah. They’re just like the ones you have on.”
This wasn’t the time for confrontation — not with Chou standing there — so she said in a sympathetic voice, “I’m sorry, sir, you must be mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. I think I know my own pants.”
The service door to the drive-through opened and Jordan’s coworker Jolie entered.
“It must be a mistake,” Jordan said. “I can’t imagine such a thing.”
“Need some help?” Jolie asked, approaching the counter.
“I do,” said Mr. Taylor. “This chick’s got my pants on.”
Jolie eyed Jordan. “Sir, I’m sure there’s some mistake,” she said.
“I know my own pants,” he said. “And let me tell you, those are vintage jeans. I paid a small fortune for them.”
“Jordan?” Jolie said, looking for help.
Then Chou announced, “I’ll come back.”
When the door closed, Jordan glanced at Mr. Taylor and said, “I can explain.”
The young man scoffed.
“Mr. Taylor,” Jordan said, “if these are your pants, then somehow they ended up in my cleaning. I have the same pair.” She glanced out the front window and tracked Chou as he made his way across the parking lot. She knew exactly where he was going and had less than five minutes to get herself over there.
Mr. Taylor shook his head in disgust. “I need those jeans tonight.”
“Let me go check the rack again.” This time Jordan didn’t stop. She made her way to the back of the shop and then over to the side door, where she slipped out and into the parking lot.
From a distance, she heard Jolie making their apologies and promising to have the jeans cleaned and ready within the hour. It was the least she could do; she was the ditz who’d spilled half the container of liquid detergent on Jordan’s clothes. But Jolie was a good kid; she didn’t mean any harm.
Sprinting across the parking lot, Jordan stopped at the entrance to the corner coffee shop. She drew in a breath before walking inside and over to the counter, where she ordered a coffee black.
The shop was next to empty save two workers engaged in conversation. Seated at a corner table, Chou had his back to the wall and a newspaper drawn. She knew he spied her.
With coffee in hand, Jordan walked casually across the room as if looking for a seat before claiming the chair next to his table.
She sipped her coffee before picking up the newspaper that Chou had planted in the chair next to her. Thirty seconds passed before she spoke. “Excuse me?” she said to him as though addressing a stranger.
Chou lowered the newspaper in his hand without speaking.
“You wouldn’t happen to have Section C of the paper, would you? Seems it’s missing from mine,” she said.
“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” he asked without the slightest hint of his native accent.
“Local events, horoscopes.”
He glanced at the paper. “Any one in particular?”
Giving him the code name, she said, “I heard it was a good day to be a Libra.”
Chou folded the paper in half and set it aside. “Did you upload the application?” he asked.
“Done.”
“When?”
“Friday night during the cocktail reception at NASA headquarters.”
“Any complications?”
“None.”
“And David Dunn?” he asked, referring to the head of NASA.
“Never the wiser. I was in and out of his office in less than five.”
Chou reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He tucked it inside a portion of the newspaper and handed it to her. “Your flight to Frankfurt leaves out of Dulles tonight at 7:05. They’ll be plenty of time to make the connection to Tehran.”
“Where am I meeting the contact?” she asked.
“Magazine stand across from Gucci. Code him in. His name is Farrokh Okhovat. You’ll know it’s him when you see his left prosthetic hand. He’ll get you in and out of the missile silo. He has the launch codes; you know the rest. If anything goes wrong — if he turns on us — take him out and set it off manually. And another thing, after detonation, don’t let Farrokh take you any further. He’s a liability. You’ll have to clean up and make your way into Turkmenistan and on to China without him. Understood?”
She nodded.
“Any questions?” he asked.
“Tools?” she said, referring to weapons and equipment.
“You’ll find a weapon stashed inside the mattress of your room in Tehran. The rest of the equipment will be delivered to your room in Mashhad. Don’t carry anything with you except your new papers; you’ll be naked, but buried. As soon as the missile launches, get out of the country. Your plane is stashed at the Ashgabat airport. Once you’re in Turkmenistan, make contact before you fly it out. Use a pay phone and call the number Fat Su gave you. One of us will answer.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to carry a phone?”
“No. No trails. Fat Su and I will be monitoring your progress via satellite. Let me be clear, from here on out, you’re off the grid.” Chou stopped. With his instructions delivered, there was nothing else to discuss.
“Leave the boy alone,” Jordan said, referring to Ben.
“You know I can’t make a promise like that,” Chou replied.
“We may need him again.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Your fall man is David Dunn, not the boy,” she said calmly. For Ben’s sake, there was no way she could show any emotion. Not to Chou. “You’ll need him to make a case against Dunn if anything goes wrong.”
“I think the problem is you got too close to your boy.”
“No, I didn’t. I did w
hat I had to, to get next to Dunn. To access his computer.”
He looked at her without revealing his thoughts. He had a cold solemnity about him that was hard to read; she’d detected as much by speaking with him over the phone, but seeing him up close amplified the fact. She knew without any doubt that if she made one wrong move, he’d hack her to pieces.
Realizing her mistake, she pushed ahead. “Take him out if you have to,” she said and then suppressed any potential micro-expression she might have revealed. Chou would not miss a sign of weakness and a broken heart was a definite sign.
“Don’t worry about the boy,” he said, then released a smug little laugh. “And get rid of those jeans.”
She returned a sneering smile, but only for the show of understanding the game. “I can hardly wait,” she said. If there was anything she learned about Chou from this meeting, it was his weakness — he was arrogant.
He reached for the newspaper lying on his table. “You just worry about the missile,” he said as he unfolded the paper. “And one more thing — don’t go home. The cleaners are already on their way. The package in your car is all you need.” He gave her a knowing look before diverting his eyes toward his paper.
She rose from her chair, thinking back to Friday night. Her job had been simple over the past year: plant an application inside the program that guided Ben’s laser, so she could use the laser to destroy the missile once it was in flight. The only hard part of this mission had been waiting a full year to access Dunn’s computer at the right place and time. If she loaded her application too soon, it was sure to be discovered. By using Dunn’s computer to transfer the program to Payload Operations Control Center to be uplinked to the Space Station Control Center, she’d avoid any suspicion of tampering.
Once the program was uplinked, all she had to do was head to Iran to set off the ICBM, which she’d aim at Germany. This would give the world the appearance that Iran was waging war against Germany. She’d make her escape, report back to the Chinese, and when the time was right, return home to the U.S. And that was basically it for her.
