She didn’t see the motorbike that pulled out behind her and threaded innocuously into the traffic.
“She’s on the move,” the biker said into his headpiece. “She’s asked someone at UN headquarters to dig into company structure, covertly. It’s clearly someone she trusts. His name is Harvey. We’ve checked him out. He sometimes goes by the nickname Mobo—abbreviation for motherboard. He’s some kind of techno-guy.”
“We can’t afford a leak now.”
“It’s okay, we’re on it. We’re moving into position to take him down as we speak.”
“Hold off until he gives her the information she wants. It’ll back our case. Take him right after.”
“Affirmative. She also called Venturion. She’s going to see Killinger at eleven. She’s heading south. I’ll keep a visual for as long as I can.”
Jack pursed his lips. “Back off a little, McDonough. Give her the illusion of space. She needs it. We’ll keep tabs via the GPS. I’ll head her off at Venturion Tower before eleven.”
He showered fast, cracked open the small tube he’d been carrying in a pouch in his coat lining, and ran the pitch-black dye quickly through his hair. He dried it using Olivia’s dryer. He leaned forward over the basin and put in the dark-brown, almost-black contacts. He stood back, appraised himself in her bathroom mirror. The minor additions had changed his look in a major way. It was a simple but highly effective disguise, especially to someone who hadn’t seen him in sixteen years—to someone who thought he was dead. Age, hard life, physical exercise, sun and wild weather in extreme environments had wrought the rest.
Jack knew he looked different—harder, older, meaner. He touched his scar with his fingertips, wondering if Olivia thought it looked grim. There was nothing nice about the way it pulled at the corner of his top lip, especially when he smiled. It was one of the reasons he never did.
It felt weird. Tight.
He picked up the empty tube of dye and caught sight of the slim gold chain hanging over the edge of the basin. It was broken. He picked it up, draped it through his fingers. The Saint Catherine’s pendant spun, bouncing light and memories through his mind. He clenched his jaw and slipped the locket into his pocket, wondering what she’d done with the ring.
He walked through her room, the depth of the carpet pile absorbing his tread. He stopped, just to drink it all in—her clothes on the bed, her fragrance in the air, the elegant femininity of her decor. He closed his eyes for a moment, just letting the sensations flow over him, wondering if he would ever be in a room like this again, once this mission was over.
Then he left the apartment.
Olivia stopped at a coffee shop to summon her courage before she crossed the Venturion Tower Plaza and went up to meet her father on the top floor of his shimmering citadel high above most of Manhattan.
She ordered a latte, extra shot, and seated herself on a stool at the counter in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the plaza.
She cradled her coffee in her hands as she ran over potential scenarios in her mind for the zillionth time, a part of her waiting, putting it off.
Why?
Because she didn’t want to know that the man who’d raised her since the death of her mother when she was five, could do something like this—to her, to Jack, to her country.
She didn’t want to find out that he had intentionally killed innocent people in the Congo. She just could not fathom it. She trusted him. This was her dad—the guy who’d been there for her every step of the way after her mum was killed in a terrible car accident. Her dad had been driving that car—too fast. And although he chose never to speak about that fateful night to Olivia, she knew—could see—his feelings of guilt. And he’d done everything in his power to make her life smooth and beautiful because of it, in spite of it or simply because he loved her. It didn’t matter. He’d been there for her. Always. He was the one who’d mended her scraped knees, who had waited outside for her on her first day of school. This was the man who’d left his office to come and help her shop for her prom dress, who’d waited up all night to ensure she got home safe.
He was the only parent she had.
Emotion swelled painfully in her chest. She fingered the silver cuff, maneuvering it around her wrist so that she could look at the pale-gold capsule under the small window of glass. She tried to yank if off again, and again, until she realized the woman next to her was watching with great curiosity.
Olivia shifted on her stool, away from the woman’s line of sight, and rubbed her sore wrist. All she’d done was make it red. She was beginning to think it was a scam, that there was no GPS in this thing. No one had come chasing after her.
She sipped the last of her latte and plopped the cup in the garbage. Caffeine lifting her spirits, she ran lightly up the concrete steps, and made her way across the plaza. The sun was bright and leaves skittered crisply across her path with the cool breeze. Everything was going to be fine, she told herself. She was going to see her father and—
Her phone chimed.
Her heart kicked. She glanced around. There were two men wearing suits and dark glasses standing near the sculpture that dominated the plaza. There was something about their stance that didn’t fit in, the way they didn’t seem to be rushing anywhere. It made her nervous.
Her phone chimed again. She ferreted in her purse, found her cell, put it to her ear. “Hello?” She glanced over her shoulder. There was also someone standing at the base of the stairs. Was he watching her? Suddenly it seemed everyone in the plaza could be a spy, a tail. She was going totally paranoid.
“Hey, it’s me, Harv.”
Relief punched through her. Then tension reared right back up. “You got answers already?”
“Am I good or what?”
“Spill it, Harvey, quick.”
“Okay, okay, the FDS was established ten years ago, by four men—Jacques Sauvage, Hunter McBride, Rafiq Zayed and December Ngomo. The force is about five hundred strong, and they hire freelance professionals when they need them. Sauvage is their lead man. I’m sending his mug to your cell as we speak. These guys have built a phenomenal rep in the last decade, Olivia. If you read between the lines, they’ve contracted to a covert arm of the CIA, among other high-profile organizations. Black-ops stuff. It’s a lean force, but they’re clean and they’re heavy hitters.” He paused. “You want to know something real funky?”
“Sure.” She wasn’t sure at all. Olivia glanced at the bench. She had a sense she was going to need to sit down.
“This Zayed guy, he’s a bona fide Sultan. He is the missing heir to the Sultanate of Hamān—the guy who’s causing all that mayhem in the Middle East right now. He’s been hiding in the Legion, and then in the FDS under a new name for all these years. And now he’s back to claim his throne.”
Olivia was quiet. She seated herself on the bench. Cold nosed into her coat. The breeze ruffled her hair.
“You still there?”
“Go on.”
“You already know this stuff, don’t you, Olivia? You’re onto something major here.”
“I…I just needed some kind of third-party confirmation. And, Harvey, this…this is highly confidential, okay? I can’t stress that enough.”
He was silent for a while. When he spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically serious. “I hear you, Olivia. But if you need help—”
“I will call, I promise. Did you get anything on Dr. Sterling?”
“Yeah, and I’m guessing this is not a coincidence, either. She was working for Nexus—one of the companies you asked me to look into.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, she’s deceased, apparently. She had a freak car accident. Her vehicle went clean over the cliff into the Red Sea a few days ago. She was one of their top scientists.”
We brought her out of Hamān three days ago. She’s working in a level-four lab we have set up on São Diogo.
“Did…did she have this accident around the time this Zayed guy appea
red in Hamān?”
“Maybe two or three days before he hit the radar. You think there’s a link?”
“Tell me about Nexus.”
“Clandestine drug development and research company. The entire lab compound was burned to the ground, ostensibly by rebels during the coup. All records have vanished.”
Olivia put her hand to her temple, pressed.
“Strange set of coincidences…or not.”
She cleared her throat. “Harvey, is Nexus linked in any way to Science Reach International or BioMed?”
“Yep. Science Reach International apparently funds field research that is further developed in labs by the Nexus group. Science Reach underwrote a research project conducted on Bonobos—pygmy chimps—by Dr. Sterling’s parents in the Congo. Curiously enough, they vanished in the jungle when their daughter was fifteen. It was a big mystery in the papers back then, still unsolved from what I can see. I’m not one hundred percent clear on the BioMed links yet, but so far it looks as if grant money for Science Reach research comes from the pharma corporation, and that Nexus drug patents are picked up by BioMed. I’ll have to dig further to get anything definitive.”
“How easy was it get this information?”
“The only reason I have this stuff is because you showed me where to look, provided me with the connections. Without that knowledge I’d probably still have zip. You want me to keep digging?”
Heaviness swamped her like a wet cloud. She glanced up at the shimmering tower of glass spearing into the sky. “No, not right now. I owe you big-time. I really do.”
“You sure you don’t want to talk about this, Olivia?”
“No, it’s okay, thank you.”
“Look, I’m going to give you my private cell number. Call me anytime, day or night, I’ll answer.”
She took it down, and then studied the digital photo Harvey had sent to her phone. Jacques—Jack—stared back at her, his Arctic eyes cool, his scar a stark warning to those who dare cross him. There was no question—it was him all right.
If Jack had done work for CIA, it was conceivable Elliot might have turned to him if all else failed him at home. A secret part of her was thrilled at the notion of her old lover leading an army, fighting for the under-dog from the dark shadows of society; while at the very same time a tightness gripped her chest and strangled her throat at the notion her father was his target.
And she was smack in the middle.
Olivia closed her phone slowly, looked up. The city looked different. The air felt colder.
Dad, what have you done?
She shook herself. Nothing. He’d done nothing. He was innocent until proven guilty, just like everyone else. She thought of Jack…and felt gray. She hadn’t done Jack that same small service all those years ago. She’d believed in his guilt because he’d run, because he hadn’t stood up against the charges, because her father, his lawyers, the police and the evidence had all indicated he was guilty.
Suddenly she was sure of nothing.
All she knew was that Jack’s information checked out with Harvey’s. It appeared he was telling the truth on those counts. But it still just didn’t make sense. A president didn’t just stand down, unless he was sick or incapable of governing in some way. And what if Elliot did stand down, in spite of what Jack said? He would still be around. He could still talk about what he’d been forced to do.
Olivia pushed her windblown hair off her face. Was it because of this threat that Elliot had moved to exclude Grayson from his ticket? The official message was divergent policies, views on governing. How long had Elliot really known about this?
The more she thought about it, the more questions she had. Her phone rang again and her pace quickened.
She flipped it open, glanced around the plaza, put it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Olivia, it’s Pria.” There was fear in her voice
Nerves whipped through Olivia. “Pria, what is it?”
“I…I’m not sure. I just thought you should know.”
“What?”
“There were two guys here…they came for Harvey. He was working on our floor. I saw him leave with them. They…took him.”
Her eyes shot around the plaza. “What two guys, Pria? Where did they go?”
“I don’t know! They came to your office first. I…got a bad feeling. I know he was just talking to you, and I thought you might want to know.”
Nausea swooped through her. “Thanks, Pria. I…I’ll be in touch. I’m going to try and reach him on his cell.”
With shaking fingers she punched in Harvey’s number. It rang. And rang. And rang.
Pick up, Harv.
No answer. No voice mail. Nothing.
Day or night, I’ll answer.
Something was stopping him from answering.
They’re heavy hitters.
Oh God, had she put him in trouble? Had Jack’s men done this? She glanced wildly around. Who was watching, listening? Was her cell being monitored? She felt naked, exposed, way out of her depth. Frightened.
She stood, her knees weak. Her dad, she had to see her dad. She started to walk woodenly toward the revolving glass doors that opened like a mouth at the base of the glass tower. Her vision narrowed to a tunnel, and a buzz filled her head. She focused on getting to those doors.
But before she could reach them, movement blurred darkly to her left.
She gasped, started to run.
But a hand grabbed her shoulder, jerked her back. She opened her mouth to scream, but before sound could escape her throat, she was flung around and a mouth pressed down hard over hers.
Chapter 7
10:45 Romeo. Venturion Plaza.
Manhattan. Wednesday, October 8.
Shock weakened her knees, and Olivia felt her body sag. But he held her up, his hand firm at the small of her back, pulling her body hard up against his. He deepened his kiss and she knew the taste and feel of him instantly.
Jack.
“Don’t fight,” he murmured against her lips. “They’re watching us.” He moved his hand lower down her back, drew her into his coat, closer, pressing her breasts against the solidness of his chest. “You are my lover, Olivia,” he whispered over her mouth, his breath warm, mingling with hers in the cold fall air. “That’s how it must look to them.”
She stilled in his arms, her heart kicking hard against her ribs. “Who…who is watching?” she whispered against his lips.
“Your father’s men.”
“Where?” Her words were coming out breathy.
“Behind me,” he murmured over her mouth, “in front of the sculpture.”
So she’d been right about them. Her heart began to palpitate.
“And over to our right, at the hotdog stand.”
She felt trapped. She was trapped—in the iron grip of his loving arms, his big black coat swirling about them, the chill fall wind blowing her hair about their faces in an intimate curtain.
He pulled her closer, into the warmth of his big wool coat, nuzzled her neck, his stubble harsh against her skin, his breath soft against her ear, his scent enveloping her. Heat diffused through her stomach. “What are you doing, Jack?”
“My job,” he whispered.
He caressed her hair, making like a lover, adoring her in public, and she felt her heart melt—not because of the sensuality in his caress, but because of the tenderness, the care, the sense of male proprietorship. Her eyes filled with emotion. No one had touched her like that since he left. Not with that kind of…love.
“And,” he whispered under her hair, “may I remind you of the consequences of revealing my identity to your father.”
The reality of their situation slapped back. He really was just doing his job, giving her a final warning before she went into that building and up that elevator. “You’ve made it quite clear, Jack,” she said, trying to pull back.
But he held her tight. “Olivia—” The sound of gravel rolled through his French accent. “I want you to inform you
r father you are seeing someone other than Forbes and have been for some time, exclusively, in Europe, until now.”
“Why?”
“It’ll explain my sudden presence and our intimacy to those men watching us right now. It will enable us to move freely, together, as a couple,” he whispered against her ear.
She swallowed. A couple? Lovers, he’d said earlier. The idea sent both fear and anticipation rippling through her. What would it be like, to feel him again inside her again, to feel so alive again?
His lips brushed her earlobe, twisting ribbons of tension through her stomach. “Your lover, Olivia, is Belgian. His name is Henri Devilliers. You met him through your UN work in Den Hague.”
He moved his mouth along her cheek to the corner of her lips. “You’ve seen him on each of your European trips for the past three years. You think you love him. He’s come to America on business and to visit you. You think it is time you tell your father about him. Your father’s men have seen me in your apartment already. They are watching us now. The cover will fit.”
The warmth of his voice sent molten fire spearing through her middle. “Kiss me now, Olivia, before you go up to see your father.”
Her heart hammered against her chest. She turned her face to his, her lips finding his, and her brain spun into a maelstrom of sensations. He held back, waiting for her to make the moves, to accept the charade. But was it a charade? It didn’t feel like a pretense—every molecule in her body was suddenly screaming for him to touch her, open her, love her. Like he used to. She feathered her lips softly over his, and his breathing became hard. It made her mind blank, her body suddenly wild inside. She ran her tongue over his lips, testing, tasting. They were firm, tasted of salt and a wild foreignness. She found the corner where his scar met his mouth, let her tongue explore, gently, softly, before parting his lips, and letting herself in.
A low, soft moan escaped his chest. He yanked her hard into himself, thrust his tongue deep, and Olivia felt herself explode into sensation deep in places she had long forgotten. She was coming alive, combusting into a thousand burning flames of sensation that screamed for more fuel.
Rules of Re-engagement Page 8
