Sin and Sacrifice

by Danielle Bourdon

  “Rhett.” From the back pocket of his black jeans, he pulled a wallet and flipped it open. On one side was a gold badge with CIA Special Agent stamped on the front. A card decorated the other. Rhett Nichols, Central Intelligence Agency.

  “Rh-ett?” She broke the syllable in half with an astonished laugh and examined the proof of his employment.

  “Is there something wrong with it?” A stern frown creased his forehead. Closing the wallet with a snap, he pushed it back into his pocket.

  “I—no. You just don't look like a Rhett.”

  “What do Rhetts look like?” He shifted his stance, putting more weight onto one leg than the other, gun pointed down against the outside of his thigh.

  “It just doesn't fit you. Not really.”

  “Yes, because you've figured out everything about me after the whole twenty minutes we've known each other,” he said with a caustic snort.

  “You remind me of a Jeremy or a John or something.” She couldn't explain why Rhett didn't seem to fit him. It just didn't.

  “Well it's Rhett. Or Mister Nichols, if you prefer to stand on ceremony. What's yours?”

  “Evelyn.”

  “Evelyn what?”

  “Evelyn Grant.”

  “Nice. A grandmother's name.”

  All her ill subdued humor fled in favor of an inglorious, indignant snort. She drew her posture straighter though it cost her in pain. “It's not a grandmother's name. It's...”

  “Dated. Overused. Brings to mind gray helmet hair and--”

  “I do not have helmet hair!”

  “No, you have a rat's nest,” he said, staring at her hair.

  Self conscious, she lifted a hand and smoothed a palm over the disheveled mess. Dry, matted blood covered the tender lump where the Knight had pistol whipped her. If she was honest, helmet hair would have been an improvement. Combined with her wrecked dress, grimy skin and multitude of bruises, she knew she looked a fright.

  “Ugh.” Using Alexandra's inelegant grunt as dismissal of the subject, she stepped around him and stalked deeper into the house. Evelyn knew, knew that if she turned around, she'd find him grinning. He'd effectively turned the tables and given her a taste of her own medicine.

  The hallway broke open into a large, airy kitchen connected to an equally airy living room. Enormous floor to ceiling windows lined the whole front wall; beyond, the Mediterranean glittered where moonlight reflected off the surface. She thought the view must be spectacular during the daytime. Furniture, in shades of cocoa, cream and deep red, looked new and clean.

  A broad staircase led up to the second floor and, suddenly weary, she trudged up them. Each of the four bedrooms had its own bathroom, large beds and simplistic décor that complimented the classic design.

  Picking one with a baby blue and cream theme, she examined the clothes in the closet, finding a surprisingly large selection of sizes and styles. She guessed they never knew whether they were bringing in men or women or whole families and tried to supply something for everyone. There were even two board games on the top shelf next to a doll and a Nerf football.

  Something soft and gauzy in a shade of barely-there pink drew her fingers to the hanger. The dress reminded her of something Galiana might wear. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks while she let the material slide over her knuckles. Grief took up residence in her chest, a great monster of emotion she was forced to subdue. If she allowed it to overwhelm her, she wouldn't be able to function.

  Too nervous to linger long in the shower, she washed away the grime of captivity with strawberry scented soap and stepped out four minutes later feeling like a new person. Considering her injuries and wounds, that was an achievement.

  Finding an extra wastebasket liner under the sink, she put the wad of ruined clothes inside and tied off the top to keep the smell contained. Drawing on a pair of jeans that almost fit and a cap sleeved shirt the color of plums, she faced the foggy mirror and used the side of her hand to smudge a swath to see by.

  Her face was an atrocious mess. One side looked lumpy and purple. A split that felt as wide as the grand canyon in her lower lip bled off and on around a scab. She tongued it and winced. The ends of her fingers looked like raw meat and burned even when she wasn't touching them. Red rings circled her wrists from the scratchy rope and hand-print bruises marched up her arms.

  Tomorrow there would be notable improvements. She wondered how to hide them from Rhett. Maybe she wouldn't be in his company then, and it wouldn't matter.

  Drawing on a pair of tennis shoes that were a little snug for her liking, she left the bedroom and went downstairs.

  Rhett stood in front of the tall windows, hand on his hip, a phone at his ear.

  What a strange situation Evelyn found herself in. Did she stay? Go? It wasn't like he was keeping her prisoner here. On the other hand, government agents usually had connections and he might be able to get her and her sisters—if they were still alive—out of the country faster if they thought they were in danger. It didn't hurt to have an extra pair of eyes and ears working on her behalf for the night, either.

  “Just find out what you can. All right.” He snapped the phone closed and turned to face her. “Feeling better? There's coffee or tea if you want some.”

  Evelyn stood at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. The addition of a shoulder holster and another gun kept her attention on his torso even after he asked his question. He looked ready for action. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or unnerved. At least her mood had improved and she replied without sounding annoyed.

  “I can't stand tea, but coffee sounds divine. I'll make it.” Evelyn, far from helpless, wanted to be busy. Stepping behind the counter, she fished around for supplies, taking care not to bump her hands. “And you can tell me how you found me while I do it.”

  “We were staking out another situation, actually, when my partner and I heard screaming further along the parking lot,” he said, coming into the kitchen.

  “So you were there by accident?” She fumbled the box of instant coffee when he invaded her personal space and plucked up one of her hands.

  “A stakeout isn't an accident. We just weren't there for you.” He assessed the wounds to the ends of her fingers like a field doctor. Clinical and experienced.

  “If you were already in the parking lot, then how did they get away with me?” She had to set down the instant coffee and fill a mug all with her other hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Well, since I didn't see the whole thing, I can't answer that. What we saw from our vantage was what looked like a kidnapping in progress, so we ran back to get our car. I managed to get the numbers off the plates of the van before we lost it. We tracked it down and discovered where they were keeping you.” He let go and cupped her chin, turning it an inch one way and an inch the other. Looking right at her mouth.

  Evelyn, disconcerted by the warmth of his skin and his size, sloshed water onto the counter. She managed to get the mug into the microwave and remove her chin from his grip. “But if you knew they'd kidnapped me, then why didn't you arrest them? We wouldn't be on the run right now—do you mind? My lip is fine.”

  “Because, Miss Grant, we didn't get the information until right before I grabbed you. I was alone, we didn't know how many of them there were, or even who they were, or what kind of weapons they might have. I heard shouting and didn't want to wait to extract you. Might have been too late if we'd pulled back and come in a few hours later, armed with warrants.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and added, “It's bleeding.”

  Evelyn didn't want to think what shape she might be in if they'd waited. Her initial disappointment in what she considered a flaw in their strategy vanished. Desperate for information about her sisters, and to distract him from his concern over her well being, she asked, “I'll live. What about...the girl they killed?”

  Rhett arched his brows. He leaned against the counter right next to her and crossed his arms over his chest. “We're trying to identify her.
She didn't have any identification at the scene, although we did find a small purse that apparently belonged to you.”

  Discussing Galiana's death was surreal. Unbelievable. Painful. After adding a scoop of hazelnut crystals, she stirred and took a cautious sip to steady herself. “She was a friend of mine. Galiana Jenkins. We were supposed to meet her there but she never showed up.” As an afterthought, she added, “I'd really like my things back.”

  “Sure, sure. You'll get your belongings. Who is 'we'?”

  “My other friends and I. We all met here to vacation together. I'm not sure what happened to the other three.” Evelyn watched his expression to see if he knew more than he was telling about the fate of her sisters. He looked perplexed.

  “There weren't any other bodies. Forensics hasn't come back with the results of the blood we found yet, so we won't know if it's all Miss Jenkins or not. How many of you were there?” Leaning up, he scratched at the vague layer of whiskers on his jaw.

  “Four, not including Galiana.” Evelyn watched his hand instead of his eyes.

  “I'll see what else I can find out. Did they say what they wanted with you?”

  “Not really. They thought I was someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone with sisters. I don't have any.” Evelyn tread carefully, sipping at the coffee between answers to buy herself time to think.

  “Did they say any names, specifically?”

  “No. He just kept saying he knew who I was and that he wanted to know where my sisters were.”

  “Do you think they planned to kill you?”

  The cup rattled against the counter when she set it down. She couldn't meet his eyes. Most of what she'd told him was truth, with a lot of other detail omitted.

  “Yes. What do we do now? I mean, what's the plan? Do you even have jurisdiction here?”

  “I think we sit tight until some results and information start rolling in. We're trying to find out who they are. You can try calling your friends to see if they're okay or whether we need to be looking for more missing persons. Don't worry about jurisdiction—we have special clearance to be working here.”

  She wasn't used to leaning on other people in times of crisis. Usually it was just she and her sisters, dealing with the fallout. Evelyn didn't know whether to walk out on Rhett Nichols or stay here until she knew what was going on. The benefits of staying, for now, outweighed her going it alone. He had weapons, seemed capable, and was trying to help her find her siblings. Sometime soon, she was going to pass out from sheer exhaustion whether she wanted to or not and the thought of doing that with no one to watch over her unnerved her.

  The very last thing she wanted to do was wind up back in the hands of the Templars.

  “Okay. Can I borrow your phone? I'll try and get in touch with my friends.” She set down the coffee when he dug the phone out of his pocket and offered it over. Their hands brushed when she took it. Evelyn smiled her thanks and stepped away toward the tall, broad windows. Being a government agent, he could very easily have her calls traced, and giving him access to her sister's phone numbers was dangerous. But she also knew that he could find them just as easy with a simple search once he had their names, and in her mind, it was more important to try and make contact than not.

  On every try, she got answering machines. Genevieve, Minna, Alexandra. They could have lost their phones, like she had. Alexandra didn't always carry it with her when they went out. The ominous whisper in her ear that something more sinister happened forced Evelyn to consider leaving them messages even if she didn't want them contacting Rhett without her knowledge. There were too many secrets to keep.

  “I'm not reaching any of them. Do you think we can get our luggage from the hotel we were staying at? I know one of them left her phone behind that night.” Evelyn decided not to leave any voicemail. She laid his cell next to his elbow and dumped the remains of the coffee in the sink, not as thirsty for it as she'd thought. Her lip throbbed, exacerbated every time she set the rim of the cup there. The steamy brew wasn't worth irritating her wound.

  “Yeah, but I think you should give me the information and let us retrieve it. Whoever these people are, they might be watching your room. In fact, I'd count on it.” He pushed his hands into his pockets, looking thoughtful.

  “The sooner the better then. At least I'll have my own clothes.” What she wanted was Alexandra's netbook. If the girls were safe, they would leave emails with a private account they had set up for this very reason.

  On the counter she found a small pad and a pen. With quick strokes in slanting script, she wrote down the pertinent details: Aphrodite Hotel. Evelyn Grant. Room 220.

  “We'll have it by morning. Maybe you should try and get some rest.”

  “I think I will.” Leaving the pad on the counter, she straightened and made eye contact with him. After a brief hesitation, she added, “Thanks for your help, Mister Nichols.”

  “Just doing my job. You're welcome.” He nodded once, never looking away from her face.

  His intensity made her skin prickle.

  Bone weary, Evelyn trudged up the stairs. Entering the gloomy bedroom she'd chosen for her own, she questioned again the wisdom of spending a night in a strange house, in a strange bed, with a strange man playing guardian below. What did she really know about Rhett Nichols anyway, besides that he was a government agent who happened to be in the right place at the right time?

  Not much.

  Not much at all.

  Except that he had risked his life to extricate her from that subterranean hell. Any normal person in her position would likely cling to whatever kind of help they could get. How suspicious would it seem if she kept trying to deflect him? Probably suspicious enough to make him start digging deeper.

  Alexandra, talented in the hacking department, could only cover their tracks so far. A determined person, with the right access, would start to uncover anomalies with enough research.

  Ten minutes after stretching out on the bed, fully clothed, she went out like a light.

  The firm pressure of a hand over her mouth jerked Evelyn awake. A body loomed above her, so close she could feel its breath on her cheek. Slow to adjust to the pitch black state of the bedroom, Evelyn couldn't see who it was. It didn't matter; she struck out with a fist and twisted under the hulking shadow. The blow glanced off a muscled shoulder.

  Somehow, the Templars had found her. Fear licked sharp and hot along her spine.

  “Shhh. Miss Grant. It's me.” Rhett used his body to pin her to the mattress. Strong, firm, but not rough. He whispered, “Someone's in the house.”

  Sudden understanding replaced the fight or flight instinct; he was there to help her. She stilled, fingers gripping his arm so hard fresh pain shot up her wrists and forearms. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw him staring at her so they could communicate without speaking. Intent, his eyes bored into hers, face tense. She nodded.

  He drew back with slow precision, switched his hand from her mouth to her arm, and helped her off the bed. Rhett moved like a predatory animal, sleek and controlled, drawing her with him to the wall. He pressed his back flush and gave her a look that expected her to do the same. She needed no second bidding. Any remaining cobwebs of sleep were seared away by terror, leaving her hyper-aware and alert.

  He stopped at the edge of the door frame. Gun leveled upward at his side, he peered around the corner into the hallway. When he rounded out of the bedroom, Evelyn crept after him. Right on his heels. There were two doorways they needed to pass before hitting the top of the staircase. Faint illumination spilled forth from each, creating a rectangular glow. Rhett paused before the first, listening.

  Evelyn paused, too, and held her breath. The house was deathly quiet. She understood his signal to stay against the wall while he cleared the room. It wasn't an optimal situation, staying in the hallway, but it was riskier to bypass the room without checking and leave their backs exposed. Even she knew that.

  He swerved
with the gun raised and went in fast. Evelyn pressed her spine and palms flat against the wall. Motion through the spindles on the banister snapped her gaze to a black shadow creeping up the staircase. Rising parallel to the hall, he didn't have a clear vantage of her position.

  Panic seized her. She didn't know if she should scream, follow Rhett into the room, or wait for him to return. The man stalked up another handful of stairs. Any second he was going to hit the landing and see her. Faced with a situation she couldn't control, forced to confront her nemesis and her psychological fear, Evelyn fought down nausea while gathering herself for action.

  She could do this.

  A decorative vase filled with Pampass grass sat on the floor five feet away. It was much heavier than she thought when she crept over and picked it up. Pain burned up her fingers, into her wrists. Adrenaline motivated her and she hurled it over the railing with a war cry, aiming for the assailant's head. She sought to catch the intruder off guard, with any luck, before he took whatever small advantage she had away from her.

  The vase crashed off the arm the man threw up to protect his head. He must have lost his balance because she watched his gun go flying when he pitched backwards, grasping for the banister. In the frozen second when Evelyn wondered whether she had the guts to go for the gun, Rhett swooped in, took stock of it all in a heartbeat, and hauled her back into the room he'd just left with an arm around her waist. With the back of a boot, he slammed the door closed. Without wasting time on questions, he bulled a heavy dresser across the floor and tipped it into the door, denting the wood.

  “The window!” he whispered.

  She hated how time seemed to slow down, how her footsteps felt mired in sludge. The eleven feet to the window might as well have been eleven miles. Shoving the sheer curtains aside, she fumbled for the latch. The house, a newer model, thankfully had an easy sash to lift. It slid up with a hiss.

  Like she was some kind of action hero, she kicked out the screen. Moonlight gleamed off the terracotta tiles that sloped down the short section of roof. Evelyn went out head first, scrambling through the window frame, grasping onto anything she could to keep herself from falling. The tiles were more slippery than she thought they would be. The lower half of her body slid around, stretching her out, leaving her facing the window again on her stomach.