by Jack Mars
Morris had wanted very much to take the shot, but the deputy director’s instructions had been crystal clear: wait. Observe and report. Call back when there’s activity and you can confirm it’s really Steele. On the phone, before the sun had risen, Morris had pretended to be surprised to find Johansson in the apartment. He suspected that was the reason Cartwright had told him to hold off. If Steele had been alone, he’d be dead by now.
That call had been hours ago now, and Morris was bored out of his mind.
He’d been on plenty of long, tedious ops before—days and nights spent watching, waiting, listening in on tapped phone lines and intercepting messengers, but he’d always had at least one other person to shoot the shit with, someone to make the time more bearable. Given his scruples, he’d be out there every day chasing hot leads and detaining criminals, terrorists, dissidents. That was what he enjoyed most. That was the secret-agent lifestyle he’d dreamed about ever since he was a kid, the dream he had promised himself he would never give up on. He had carried that into adulthood. All of those naysayers who told him he was being unrealistic, including his own family, they got to eat major crow the day he was hired by the CIA.
The reality, of course, was that the job was a far cry from Bond movies or impossible missions. But sometimes it was close enough.
Agent Clint Morris had been the youngest person ever admitted to Spec Ops Group. At twenty-nine he had been assigned to Kent Steele’s team, almost four years past now. How excited he had been to work with the legendary Agent Zero. He had liked Steele back then. What others perceived as cockiness and arrogance in Morris, Steele saw as self-assuredness and competence. He treated Morris like an equal.
But then Morris had to kill him.
After his wife’s death, Kent was getting impulsive, heedless. He threw himself into the investigation fully, sacrificing his own physical and mental health in pursuit of Amun (or “the Fraternity,” as the CIA was calling it). He was killing criminals indiscriminately, not listening to orders, and refusing his team’s help.
When the orders came down from Langley that Kent was to be stopped by whatever means necessary, it was Reidigger who volunteered. Morris had always had a soft spot for his round-faced, jovial teammate—but he didn’t actually think for a second that Alan could pull the trigger on Kent, so he volunteered as well, to back him up. Cartwright agreed.
And then came that night on the Hohenzollern Bridge in Cologne, Germany. Morris and Reidigger had spent three weeks trying to catch up to Steele, and when they finally had, it was not the standoff that either of them expected.
They spotted him on the pedestrian footpath of the bridge, overlooking the Rhine pensively. To Morris, it looked like he was thinking about jumping.
And he, cocky and conceited as he was capable of being, he fell for Reidigger’s ploy.
“I’ll do it,” Reidigger had said. “He’s my best friend. I feel responsible. You hang back; we don’t want to spook him or he’ll run again.”
And Morris had agreed. Alan had seemed so sincere, so brokenhearted about what he had to do that Morris held his position, about fifty yards downwind from Kent. Reidigger walked slowly toward him with his hands out, as if he were approaching a wild stallion. Kent didn’t try to run. He and Alan spoke quietly for a few minutes. Just as Morris was getting impatient, Alan drew on him.
Reidigger always was a slow draw. Kent could have defended himself. He could have snatched the gun out of Alan’s hand and taken him apart.
But he didn’t. He didn’t move at all.
A single shot rang out. Morris sprinted ahead, unholstering his Glock 27 as he ran. He wasn’t even halfway there when Kent’s body teetered over the railing and plummeted to the darkness of the river below.
When Morris reached Alan, he was leaning against the rail with both hands, staring down at the Rhine.
He sniffed once. “It’s done,” he said.
The official word from the CIA was that Amun’s assassin, the one Kent was tracking, had killed him.
There was no team after that. Johansson went rogue, trying in vain to chase down the assassin that had killed their captives (and that she believed had killed Kent). Reidigger requested reassignment and was sent to Switzerland to aid in the investigation of a human trafficking ring moving through Zurich. But Morris stayed on the Fraternity case, even going undercover with Special Activities Division to try to infiltrate their ranks.
It had been about a year and a half since Kent Steele had fallen off Hohenzollern Bridge. And now he was alive. Morris had no idea how they had managed it, he and Reidigger. There was no doubt that Alan had been in on it, especially since Amun had gotten Kent’s location from him. Now he was dead, too. Morris did feel awful about that; Alan had always been a good person. But he was no stranger to death, and such things were a means to an end.
Morris peered through the scope again. Still no movement through the window. He could clearly see the white curtains, tied back with sashes, the stainless steel sink of the kitchen, a marble countertop, and a corner of a small dining table. That was his view, his opportunity to take a shot—if Cartwright would allow it. He hoped he would. Morris really didn’t want Amun’s dog on this.
The assassin had not been very pleased to hear the news that Kent was alive. Morris didn’t know him, had never met him—he didn’t even know his name, nor the assassin his. He hated having to speak to the assassin; he knew that he was the one that killed their captives at the black sites. He was the one that Amun called in to do the dirtiest of dirty work, to take care of traitors, turncoats, and anyone who failed to do their job.
Morris sincerely regretted even mentioning, over the phone, having another way to lure Kent Steele out of hiding. He had momentarily forgotten who he was talking to—not an agent, who lives by rules and protocol, but a man who kills because someone whispered a name in his ear. There was no way that he would ever tell Amun about Kent’s kids. It was definitely a way to get to him, but Morris was absolutely not going to allow that. He had already said too much just by mentioning another way.
But soon he wouldn’t have to worry about that. Once Cartwright gave the word, he and Betsy would take care of Kent, and Johansson too, if need be, and the whole mess would be over. Morris would go back to his UC op—as far as the CIA was concerned, anyway.
He had been supplying Amun with intel for about seven months. His undercover attempts to infiltrate a lesser faction of the organization had gone fruitless for a year; none of them would let an American anywhere near them. With superiors breathing down his neck and threatening to pull him back to Langley, Morris got desperate, and he got himself captured.
His captors did not kill him, as he suspected they might. They didn’t even torture him. Instead, when they discovered he was CIA, they brought him before a man with a strange mark burned into his neck. The man called himself Amun, and he gave Morris a choice.
One option was to provide their group with information and feed the CIA false leads. In return, he would be rewarded handsomely.
The other option was to die very slowly.
Morris chose door number one. It was a win-win in his book. To the CIA, it appeared that his UC op was suddenly successful; he gave them leads in the form of scapegoats, lesser factions of dissidents that looked like a trail of bread crumbs that might lead to the top. They never would, of course. Amun, as promised, funneled money into his offshore account. When he spoke to them, they referred to him only as Agent One.
But Morris was no Judas. He had agreed only so he could stay alive, and he had a plan. He was close to surmising Amun’s endgame. It was happening soon, that much he knew, and once he had the full picture, he would organize a massive strike against the terrorist organization and take them out in one fell swoop. He would stop them and become a true American hero.
Once they were gone, he’d continue on with the CIA for another two or three years, to avoid scrutiny, and then retire in his mid-thirties to a tropical paradise and live on the two
point five million he had accrued in his Swiss bank. Maybe he would buy himself a villa on the beach.
He considered it to be a very good plan. There was only one hitch, one stick in his spokes, one thorn in his side—Kent Steele was still alive.
It would be dark again soon. Morris stretched and yawned. He had been up half the night and the whole day. He peered through Betsy’s scope, adjusting his view with the changing daylight… and he saw them. Kent. Johansson. There they were, standing in the small kitchen, talking while she poured a drink.
He quickly made the call, reaching for his phone and pressing the button without taking his eye from the scope.
“Cartwright.”
“Sir,” said Morris, “I’ve got Steele and Johansson in my crosshairs. Say the word and they’ll both be stains faster than you can ask me what she’s wearing.”
“What are they doing?” Cartwright asked.
Morris was thrown by the question. “Doing? Uh… they’re in a kitchen, talking.”
“Stand down.”
“Sir?” Morris asked.
“Stand down,” Cartwright said firmly. “Kent may have intel on the Fraternity. If he does, Johansson will get it out of him. Give them time.”
What? Morris thought. Johansson was disavowed. Wasn’t she? Unless… He almost scoffed. He wouldn’t put it past anyone in the agency to make such a claim just to keep tabs on field agents. I really need to stop taking people at their word, he thought.
But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he just asked, “Orders, sir?”
“Hold your position. Observe and report. If Steele tries to leave, use whatever force necessary. At first light, infiltrate and take him out.”
Morris smirked. “Yes, sir.”
“Quietly, Morris. No shooting out of hotel windows. You got that?”
He frowned. “Yes, sir.”
“And Morris—take him out. Only him.” Cartwright ended the call.
Morris groaned. “Looks like it’s going to be a long night, Betsy.” He stroked the gun’s butt stock. Then he snapped to attention with a sudden realization. If Kent did have info on Amun, and he gave it to Johansson, and if Johansson really was still an agent… that could spell a lot of trouble for him, with all his false leads and misinformation.
He shook his head. He didn’t like it, and Cartwright definitely wouldn’t like it, but he would have to take them both out. And he’d have to do it in such a way that made it look like Johansson was caught in the crossfire.
But he had all night to plan. And though he was already tired, he was certain the thought of killing Kent Steele in the morning would sustain him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
You hold her in your arms. You breathe in her scent. You feel her skin on yours. It’s so familiar, like a part of you. Like slipping into your favorite sweater.
She smiles. She tells you she loves you.
Kate.
You’ve never been this happy. But when you look into her eyes, they grow wide, fearful. Her mouth stretches into a gaping, silent scream.
She slips from your grasp. She’s falling away. You try to catch her, to get to her, but the darkness around you is thick, viscous. You claw at the air but you’re barely moving.
Desperate, you push and you strain and you reach… and your fingers find hers. You grab tightly. Pull her close. Tell her she’s safe. Nothing can hurt her.
But the scent, it’s different now. The feeling isn’t as familiar. You look into her eyes—they’re gray, the color of slate.
Maria holds you firmly. “Stay,” she says softly. “Just stay awhile…”
Reid woke. For a moment, he forgot where he was. Slanted daylight streamed in through the apartment windows as the sun rose on the piazza outside. Right—Rome. The safe house. The remnants of the dream still echoed through his head. Just a dream, he thought. It doesn’t mean anything. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He had opted to sleep on the beige sofa. It was a bit cramped, but still some of the best rest he’d ever gotten. He’d slept all through the night and half the day before.
A spoon clinked against a ceramic mug. Maria was in the kitchen, stirring a cup. “Morning, Zero.” She smiled. “You still take your coffee the same? Two sugars, no milk?”
“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t like that she knew so much about him while he knew so little, almost nothing, about her. “Zero,” he murmured. “Why do they call me that?”
“It’s a call sign. A codename. At least that’s how it started.” She set the steaming mug down on the coffee table. “You led our team, and you had a knack for going after the worst of the worst. We often had to go dark. So we had codes, and names, to avoid any scrutiny. Yours was Zero. And Zero has gained quite a bit of infamy with the criminal underground.”
He sipped the coffee. It was exactly how he liked it. “What was yours?”
She smiled. “Marigold.”
He couldn’t help but notice that she was already dressed, in jeans and a white V-neck shirt and sneakers. She wore small silver hoops in her ears and a thin watch around her right wrist.
“Are you going somewhere?” he asked.
“There’s a market nearby,” she said. “I was going to pop down there, grab a few things, something to eat… or if you’d prefer, there’s a lovely little café down the street—”
“I’m not here to play house with you,” he said. She frowned. He hadn’t meant it to sound as irritable as it had come off. He was still a bit disoriented; the bizarre dream had his head jumbled. “I mean, I need to stay focused on the task at hand.”
“Sure,” she said simply. “Even so, you should eat something…”
“What were we?” he asked point-blank.
She blinked. “What?”
Reid reached for his T-shirt and pulled it on. “I know we were colleagues. Teammates. Friends. But was there more?” It certainly felt like there was more. The day before, she had kissed him. He had kissed her. He’d stayed the night, but slept on the sofa. He didn’t know her. And yet he had the distinct impression that the two of them had indeed been more.
She drew a long sigh. “You could say there’s always been a sort of, uh, tension between us. We both wanted there to be more.”
He nodded slightly. It seemed that each time she was close—close enough to smell her scent, to look in her gray eyes—a brief vision would flash. The two of them on a beach. In a bar, laughing and going shot for shot. Racing Vespas along Italian avenues.
But each time a vision flashed, it would blur quickly and spur a headache in his forehead. He found himself forcing his mind to avoid thinking about her, to actively try not to recall memories.
Even so, he needed to ask the one question on his mind. “So we never…?” He very nearly said “hooked up,” a phrase he’d picked up from his students, but it didn’t seem at all appropriate for the situation.
She smiled thinly. “I didn’t say that.”
“Oh.” It was a vague response, and he didn’t like it much. At least that would explain why Maria had felt so familiar to him. “When?”
She shrugged coyly with one shoulder. “Is that really what you want to talk about?”
Reid wasn’t sure. He had other questions—if it had happened, where did it happen? Was Kate still alive at the time? If not, how long did they wait after her death to act on their impulses? Was it accidental, fueled by passion or alcohol, or was it a mutual acknowledgment of a long time coming? As trivial as those things might ordinarily seem, it was suddenly important to him to know the details of an intimate encounter—because it would give him some sort of insight into what sort of person Kent Steele was. What sort of person he had once been.
But at the same time, without the details or the memory of them, it might as well have never happened. He didn’t ask anything further, partly because he was afraid of recalling a memory that he wouldn’t like—and partly because he wasn’t sure he could recall the memory, and he’d have to take Maria at her word. He wasn’t sure he’d like the answ
ers.
His internal scuffle must have been etched on his face, because Maria gently offered, “You were always loyal to her, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Reid said nothing. He was fully aware that Maria could have just been telling him what he wanted to hear, but still, he felt a little better for it. Kate had been the love of his life. He couldn’t bear the thought of having wronged her.
She took a seat on the sofa beside him. Their thighs nearly touched. “Do you… You remember her, right?”
“Of course I do.”
“And, the… uh… the end?”
“Yes. Of course,” he said. He had been afraid to say it aloud, to talk about it, for so long. But now it felt necessary to face it. “Kate died of an embolism in her brain that caused a massive stroke. Yes, I remember all of that.”
“Right,” Maria murmured. “A stroke.”
The sudden discomfort in the air was palpable. The room felt several degrees too warm. Reid stood and pulled on his jeans, his socks, and his boots. “You’re right,” he said a little too loudly. “We should eat. But first, I want you to tell me what leads you found when you were tracking the assassin.”
Maria furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about?”
“Yesterday, when we talked, you said that you were tracking the Fraternity assassin, but didn’t find anything substantial. You were lying.” He didn’t actually know that for sure, but he had decided to call her bluff. He couldn’t keep staying there with her and sharing what he knew unless he believed he could trust her—and at the moment, he didn’t. Not fully.
Maria chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “I was lying,” she admitted. “But only because I don’t want you to follow it. There’s a reason I gave up the chase.”
Reid waited for her to continue, but she remained quiet. “Are you going to tell me what that was?” he asked impatiently.
“I thought you were dead,” she murmured. “We all did. Now you’re here. But I’m afraid that if you keep going like this, you will die.”
