by Tina Folsom
“Don’t stop,” Phoebe begged now.
“I’m not. I’m only making sure you don’t come too quickly. I want this to last.”
Slowly Scott resumed his gentle ministrations, drawing circles around her center of pleasure, teasing the engorged bundle of nerves until again she tensed. And again, he stilled his finger and only moved his erection back and forth, her plentiful juices coating it.
He pressed his lips to her neck, kissing her there, then nibbled on her earlobe. “I wish I could touch you like this all day and all night.”
“Scott, please, you’re killing me.” She thrust her pelvis against his hand in an unmistakable demand that he rub his finger over her sensitive flesh again.
He complied with her demand and now caressed her with more pressure. She moaned out loud.
“Oh yes!”
“Not yet, baby,” he cautioned and slowed again, then he slid his finger lower and pulled back his cock so he could thrust his finger into her.
Phoebe bucked against him, hissing out a breath.
It was a shame they didn’t have any condoms left, because now that he felt her muscles clench around his finger, the urge to take her became overwhelming. But he’d have to exercise restraint. To distract himself, he pulled his finger from her and slid it higher, rubbing the moist digit over her engorged nub again.
This time, he didn’t get a chance to remove it again, because Phoebe pressed her hand over his and imprisoned him there.
“All right, then,” he conceded. “As you wish, baby.”
Scott rubbed her clit, accelerating his tempo and increasing his pressure, while he thrust his cock back and forth in the same rhythm. When he felt Phoebe tense in his arms, her breath hitching in her throat, he doubled his efforts.
A relieved moan rolled off her lips and her sex spasmed underneath his hand. He felt the waves that traveled through her body reach his erection and bounce against it. The sensation nearly robbed him of his control. He clenched his jaw to fight back his orgasm.
Breathing hard, his hand stilled and he simply cupped her sex with it and pressed her to his heaving chest.
When she turned her head to him, he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed her tenderly. Then he looked into her eyes. “See? Much better than just holding you in my arms, don’t you agree?”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
Her cheeks were flushed, and he realized he liked that look on her. He liked it very much. “Why don’t you sleep a bit while I take care of a few things?”
Instantly, an alarmed expression filled her eyes. “Take care of what?”
He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “I’ll be back soon. I promise. There’s virtually nothing in the freezer. I’ll have to get us something to eat.”
She clasped his hand. “But you’ll be back.”
“Phoebe, do you really think I’d just abandon you after this?” This wasn’t a one-night stand anymore. Phoebe meant something to him. What, he wasn’t sure yet. But in any case, he couldn’t leave her until he’d made sure he’d eliminated the threat against her. And even after that—well, he was getting ahead of himself.
First he’d have to put out his feelers to find out who was onto him. And there was one place to start.
18
Few people knew what the Deep Web—or Deepnet, as it was sometimes called—really was. Even fewer had ever accessed it. Scott knew it well. He’d used it many times during his time in the CIA. Though he had never been a true field agent—never been sent out on missions like the regular agents, because he was part of Code Name Stargate—he’d received the same training as all other CIA agents. And he’d made contact with certain underground elements, people who didn’t want to be identified but were happy to trade secrets, sell information or weapons, or cruise the job boards for him. However, for the jobs posted there, the resumes consisted of the number of kills one had under one’s belt. And failing an assignment meant certain death.
When creating the Stargate program, Sheppard had insisted on his agents being trained in all manners of combat and clandestine affairs, though their work didn’t require it. Their training and later their work had consisted of having to watch news and current events, read articles and books on vast and various topics, view images and surf the Web with the idea that these images and input would stimulate the agent’s precognitive gift and show him a premonition. Whenever an agent had a premonition, he had to report it to Sheppard, who would then analyze it and decide whether to act on it.
In the meantime, the men from Code Name Stargate lived regular lives, worked regular jobs. Scott had always repaired motorcycles, a task that calmed him. Whenever he’d had a premonition, he’d reported it to Sheppard, just like he assumed the other Stargate agents had done too. He’d had more contact with the CIA than he believed others of the program had, simply because Sheppard was his father.
Scott was glad now for the training he’d received at The Farm and later from his father. Had Sheppard known that his Stargate agents would one day have to rely on this training to stay alive? Had he had a premonition about it?
After going through the closet in the teenager’s bedroom, Scott picked an outfit he hoped would attract less attention than his motorcycle gear, and dressed quickly. When he stepped out on the street, he could have been mistaken for a college kid out for a run—a baseball cap obstructing half his face, running shoes, baggy shorts, a T-shirt, and a jeans jacket completing the disguise. He didn’t want to take the motorcycle out in plain daylight, concerned about any nosy neighbors being alerted. As a pedestrian he drew much less attention in this neighborhood.
He knew he wouldn’t have to run far. There was a mall just two blocks down the road, and downtown was only a mile away. The house wasn’t in the suburbs, where he would have been more concerned with neighbors knowing their neighbors and therefore watching out for anything unusual while a family was on vacation. While he knew he still had to be careful, there was a certain anonymity in a neighborhood this close to downtown and the mall. The fact that there was an apartment building on the end of the block and another one on the next cross street told him there was enough turnover in this neighborhood that he would blend in easily.
Scott ran past the mall and continued toward the city center, keeping his head down while scanning the streets from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t have to look for long. Next to a laundromat there was an internet café. He could, of course, have used the computer and internet at the house he’d broken into, but he didn’t like to take unnecessary risks. Sure, supposedly IP addresses couldn’t be traced on the Deep Web, but he preferred to be paranoid rather than dead. Having seen the kind of technology the CIA had at their disposal, about which the general public didn’t have the faintest clue, he had to suspect the people hunting him had access to the same technology. Besides, he’d been out of the game for over three years, and three years was an eternity when it came to technology. Who knew what they’d developed in the meantime?
Scott entered the internet café and ordered an iced tea plus one hour of internet access, paying cash and leaving the amount of tip on the iced tea he figured a college kid would have left. He chose a computer in a corner, where he could have his back to the wall and monitor the front door. He took a sip from the tea, feeling warm from his leisurely run in the late morning heat, and went to work.
Navigating the Deep Web was difficult if you didn’t know where to start. Luckily, Scott did. He didn’t waste time and logged into a private area message board, searching for one of his previous contacts. None of them was online, but it didn’t matter. He knew some of them were monitoring the message board under user names he didn’t know. Once he posted his message and used the right phrases and trigger words, the right contact would log in and respond to him. He just had to be patient.
While he waited for a reply, he navigated to the job board and scanned the listings. The way they were phrased was subtle, but Scott knew the codes for assassination,
for kidnapping, and other heinous crimes. He shuddered at the number of jobs posted. Once the orders were matched to a taker, lives would be impacted. Families would be destroyed, loved ones would be lost. He didn’t want to think about it.
There was a movement in the corner of the screen. He widened the window. A user had logged off. In its place another user’s name now showed. His contact.
Moments later, a window popped up. The cursor moved, and a message appeared.
Assignment? Scott read.
Tail suspected, confirm signs of breach, Scott typed back.
Tracing now.
The cursor blinked. Scott tapped his fingers on the wooden surface of the table and sipped from his drink, his eyes drifting away from the screen and gliding over the few customers in the café. Nobody looked at him. Everybody was busy staring at their respective monitors.
The seconds stretched to minutes, while the cursor kept blinking, the last message still on the screen. His contact was a skilled hacker, one who knew how to find if somebody had made inquiries about others.
A movement on the screen made Scott snap his head back to it. His contact had an answer for him. One Scott didn’t like.
Confirmed. Multiple breaches detected.
A list of acronyms followed. Scott had no difficulty deciphering them: somebody had found his apartment and ransacked it. His new license plate had been entered into an online database and was now compromised. Somebody was onto him.
The last acronym, though, confirmed his worst suspicion: there was a contract out on Scott, and somebody had accepted it.
Location of last known breach? Scott typed.
Missouri.
“Shit!” The assassin was closer than Scott had suspected.
Identity of subject?
Subjects unidentified, the response came.
Scott stared more closely at the screen.
Subjects? Plural?
Positive.
Scott ran a hand through his hair. Exactly how many people were after him? But why? Nobody sent two assassins out on the same job.
Action to take? his contact now asked.
For a moment, Scott paused. If the assassin was already on his tail, there was only one thing he could do: face him head-on, but on his own terms. Scott composed a message to his contact to set out the bait. He hit enter and waited.
Price: fifteen, was the reply.
Fifteen. He wasn’t in the mood to haggle.
Transfer.
In ten; execute at 6pm, Scott replied.
Execute order at 6pm. In the next line, a skull appeared. His contact had always had a flair for the macabre.
Then the small window closed by itself. His contact had accepted the job he’d posted.
Scott shut down the browser window and logged into a different area of the Web, completing the transfer in less than three minutes, before downing the remainder of the iced tea and clearing the browser history from the computer.
Then he rose without haste and walked to the exit.
Once his contact planted the bait for Scott’s enemy, it wouldn’t take long until whoever was chasing him would be led into the trap he was about to set.
At the mall he stopped off to buy food and a few other supplies, before returning to the house. When he reached his motorcycle he used some of the supplies to alter the license plate. It took ten minutes, some electrical tape, colored markers, and clear plastic film to create an entirely new license plate number. Satisfied with his work, he went into the house.
Phoebe was asleep when he entered the bedroom, but stirred when she heard him undress.
“Scott?” she asked with a sleepy voice.
He set the alarm of his watch to four p.m. and slid under the covers. This would give him enough time to get prepared before his contact set out the bait.
“I’m here, baby.” He put his arms around Phoebe and closed his eyes.
Soon he would have to be fully alert again, but right now he needed to garner his strength to be ready for the coming fight.
19
“You’re going to send me away?”
Phoebe tensed involuntarily and dropped her fork back onto the nearly empty plate. Across from her at the kitchen table, Scott looked at her.
“It’s not for long. Just a few hours.”
“But why can’t I stay here? Didn’t you say just last night that I have to stay with you to be safe? I believed you.”
Scott reached across the table and captured her hand in his. “I promise you that you’ll be safe. But you won’t be if you stay here with me.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “You’re not just going to take my word for it, are you?”
She shook her head.
“I’ve put events in motion to draw out the person who’s after me.”
“But, that’s—”
“Crazy? No. Crazy would be to let him chase us all over the States. I have a better chance at defeating him if I get to choose where and when I encounter him. I’ll be on the offensive and have the element of surprise on my side.”
Phoebe rose from the table. “But you don’t even know that he’s after you. You said yourself you’ve been careful.”
“I know he’s coming,” Scott insisted.
She placed her plate in the sink and turned back to him. “No, you can’t know that. You’re just paranoid.”
Scott stood and walked toward her, his gait calm and determined. He stopped a few feet from her. “I saw him.”
Her breath hitched in her throat and involuntarily her eyes darted to the kitchen window. The blinds were drawn, just like in the rest of the house. “Oh my God, where? Why didn’t you tell me?” Panic slithered down her back like a snake, making her shiver.
“I didn’t tell you because you’ll have a very hard time believing what I’m going to say now. I want you to keep an open mind. And I want you to trust me.”
His words made her take a step back until she felt the sink press into her lower back. “What are you saying?”
“I have a gift, Phoebe.” He cupped her shoulders. “The gift of foresight. People call it premonitions. Second sight. A precognitive skill. But whatever you want to call it, I can see events in the future. And I’ve seen the assassin. He’s coming.”
Phoebe felt her head go from side to side as if by this motion she could erase the strange words that had come out of Scott’s mouth. “You’re a psychic?” Her eyes narrowed. “Of all the rotten things to try to pacify me, this one takes the cake.”
He smirked. “I believe you said the same thing when I left you that note in my apartment.”
Phoebe pulled free of his grip and tried to squeeze past him, but he blocked her with his body. She glared at him. “After all that’s happened between us, I didn’t expect you to lie to me so blatantly. Well, that just goes to show that it didn’t mean anything to you.”
Before she could sidestep him, Scott’s hands were clamping around her biceps, pulling her closer so her chest pressed against his.
“It meant something,” Scott gritted out. “More than I wanted it to mean. Damn it, Phoebe, I care about you. I find myself thinking about you, about what could be if circumstances were different. I find myself wanting a…”
She stared at his lips, waiting for his next words. Did he really care about her?
“…a relationship,” he continued and looked away. “Even though I know it’s impossible.”
Stunned by his words, she was speechless for a moment. “Why is it impossible?”
Slowly he turned his head back to her and faced her inquisitive gaze. “Because of what I am and what I do. What I used to do,” he corrected himself. “I told you I was a member of a top secret program at the CIA. The group my father was spearheading. Somebody didn’t want the program to exist. That’s why they killed my father. The rest of us scattered. We went underground. But what I didn’t tell you is what we really are. What I am. We were all selected because we have a form of ESP, extrasensory perceptio
n. We see things. We have visions of events that will occur in the future.”
Phoebe’s chin dropped.
“That’s how I knew the school bus would get hit by the train. That’s how I was able to save you and the kids. I had a premonition about it that same morning.”
Her head spun. CIA. Top secret program. ESP. Visions. Premonitions. The words bounced around in her head like a bullet ricocheting in a confined space. The things he was telling her were impossible, but she couldn’t help but look at one piece of irrefutable evidence: Scott had saved her and the kids. He’d known what was going to happen and he’d acted accordingly. Barring any lucky coincidences, only a man with advance knowledge would have been able to do what Scott had done.
“This wasn’t the first time, was it?”
Scott shook his head.
Phoebe remembered the news report from a few days earlier. “Two years ago, a motorcyclist saved a man out of a taxi before a truck—”
“I know.”
She didn’t need to ask him. His face said everything. “It was you.”
“I was lucky back then. Nobody took a photo with their iPhone. I got away before anybody could plaster my face all over the news.”
Phoebe found herself nodding. Scott was telling the truth. She knew it. In fact, she felt it.
“Please, will you trust me?”
“I trust you.”
He released her. “Then let me take you to a safe place.”
She reached for his arm. “But there’s so much I don’t know yet. How do these premonitions happen? How early do you know? How many do you get? Where did you see the person who’s after you?”
“There’s no time, Phoebe. I will tell you everything when this is over. But right now you’ll need to trust me. I’m doing this to keep you safe. To keep us both safe.”
It appeared as if he wanted to add something, but he fell silent. Nevertheless she knew what he couldn’t say: he was trying to keep her safe so they could be together. Or at least that was what she wanted him to say. And for now, she was going to hold on to that belief.
