Happily Ever Ninja (Knitting in the City #5)

by Penny Reid

  “Yes.” She placed her hand on my back.

  “But what I haven’t yet told you is that the day I was burned was the same day he died.”

  Her arms quickly came around my waist, she pressed her front to my back.

  “I’ve lost everyone,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

  “Greg, I’m not going to die.”

  You don’t know that. You can’t know for sure.

  Without facing her, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Technically, I shouldn’t have told you at all. Since 9/11, all operatives have been disallowed from sharing their status, even with spouses.”

  I had the sudden sensation of a rod being shoved down my spine.

  Turning, I forced her to release me as I examined her, seeing my wife through a new lens.

  A liar.

  And a hero.

  “How long . . . ?” I couldn’t finish the question, because her stricken expression told me everything, and I knew the answer before she admitted the truth.

  “Since my sophomore year of college.”

  “Since your sophomore year?” All the air left my lungs in a whoosh. “How is that possible?”

  “They sought me out. They needed someone with a very specific set of skills, my past as a gymnast, and the research I was doing with the Department of Defense meant that I was an ideal candidate. But I couldn’t tell you then, because we weren’t married.”

  To her credit, what she didn’t say out loud was, And we weren’t married because you wanted to wait.

  Now her constant propositions to elope while we were engaged made complete sense.

  She held her palms face up between us, beseeching. “Right after we were married, I applied for clearance to tell you. And it was denied. 9/11 changed everything. It meant I couldn’t tell you, but it also meant I was needed more than before. My country needed me, and I’ve been able to help in a way few people have. I didn’t want to resign; I wanted to help. But,” she bit her bottom lip and tears shimmered in her eyes, “I hated not telling you.”

  I felt how difficult this had been for her, how she must’ve been tortured by shame and guilt. How she hated herself for lying by omission.

  “I’m so sorry.” The tears spilled over and her throat worked, like she was trying to swallow. “I don’t know how to make this right. Tell me what to do.”

  I wanted to reach out and soothe her, but before I could I needed to know, “Is there anything else? Have you been lying to me about anything else?”

  She shook her head. “No. Everything, all my secrets relate to my operative status.”

  “You mean your spy status.”

  Her eyes dropped to the floor and remorse hit me like a fist to the stomach.

  I can’t lose her.

  Frustrated—with her and with myself—I closed the two steps separating us and gathered her in my arms, saying, “Goddammit.”

  Her arms wrapped around me tentatively, as though she were afraid my embrace was a trick. I hated her reluctance, I hated that—because of her forced and gallant duplicity—trust had been broken between us.

  I was angry.

  I was afraid.

  I would need time to move past this.

  But mostly I felt desperate to ensure she was safe and nothing substantive altered in our commitment to each other. I didn’t want her noble intentions to fracture what we’d built. Nothing was more important to me than her safety and my love for her. I wouldn’t allow anything, not even our country, to ruin our future together.

  “I haven’t yet, because I need time, but eventually—probably sometime today—I’m going to forgive you, Fe.”

  The tension left her muscles and she began crying in earnest, holding on to me as though she’d almost lost me.

  I wasn’t finished.

  “I want to know everything. However, I don’t want you to tell me everything. Tell me only what is necessary, tell me nothing that will jeopardize you or your career.”

  “Oh Greg,” she sobbed, holding me tighter.

  “Also,” I cut her off, needing to finish my thought, “I need you to promise me that you’ll never take crazy risks. You’ll never try to do more than you’re capable of. I need you to promise me that you’ll take us into consideration. Your safety has to be a priority. You don’t need to discuss your assignments with me, as I know you can’t. So I will have to trust you in this.”

  “Okay, okay,” she agreed too quickly; later I would have to ensure she understood. I needed her to consider us before taking any unnecessary (or necessary) risks.

  “And, lastly. Once I forgive you, once we’ve worked through all the issues and ramifications of your decision, I promise you, I will never bring this up again. I promise I will not tuck this away and wave it around whenever we argue, or use it as some secret weapon against you.”

  She titled her head back, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, a silent question.

  I gathered her precious face between my palms and placed a soft, reverent kiss on her mouth before explaining, “I watched my parents gather dossiers of each other’s mistakes for their arsenal, nuclear proliferation of emotional weaponry. You and I . . . we must always forgive and forget. But most importantly, we must never take each other’s forgiveness for granted.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Dear Future Spouse,

  I miss you sometimes. It may be weird, since we haven't met yet, but it's true. I miss you. I miss holding your hand, I miss kissing you, those little, cute, gentle kisses on the tip of the nose. Or the temple. I miss looking into your eyes and feeling like I belong. I miss cuddling under a blanket to watch a movie. I miss just doing my own stuff, knowing that you’re close by and I can come hug you anytime I want. I know I'm lucky to have a really great family, but mom hugs are not the same...

  -Ana

  Letter

  Poland

  ~Present Day~

  *Fiona*

  I freed myself in less than fifteen minutes.

  Determined to catch up with him, I quickly donned my holster, dressed in the scrubs over my bodysuit, and went in search of the truck. But it didn’t matter. I couldn’t find Greg or the mobile clinic unit. The truck was also gone.

  Thirty minutes later, and feeling desperate, I sought out Dr. Evans in the hospital. I found her in the room off the loading dock.

  “Hey.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Do you have a moment?”

  “You haven’t left yet?” Her eyes were wide as they moved over me.

  “No. Greg left without me.”

  “Why would he do that? Aren’t you like an ex-CIA super spy?”

  “Something like that. Listen, I was hoping I could borrow the Ducati I saw parked out back last night.”

  Her eyebrows bounced on her forehead and I could see I’d confused her. “I-well, I mean-I guess so. Yes. Sure. Use the bike. But why did he leave without you? And why didn’t he take the mobile clinic?”

  Her last question blindsided me. “He didn’t take the mobile clinic?”

  “No. He moved it to the hangar at the back and covered it with vinyl tarp.”

  My stare moved beyond her as I considered this new information. “Why wouldn’t he take the mobile clinic . . . ?”

  “I don’t know. I gave him the keys, so I thought he’d taken it. But I saw it a few minutes ago. Like I said, it’s covered with the vinyl tarp. The keys were in the ignition.”

  “So he moved it, covered it, and left it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He must’ve taken the truck.”

  “It appears so.”

  Greg had to have figured out a different way to move the money. That was the only possible explanation. I was relieved—because using the mobile clinic came with many risks—but I was also irritated, because moving two pallets of money was no simple task and he’d opted to do it on his own.

  Idiot.

  “Like I said, take the bike. The helmet is on the handle. It’s good for getting aro
und town, but I wouldn’t take it too far out into the country side.”

  I nodded distractedly, agreeing with her. Taking the bike two hours north to trail Greg was one thing, but I wouldn’t be able to use it to reach the airfield.

  The day’s end had one of three possible outcomes:

  Either I would find him at the sentinel house and help him move the money.

  Or I’d have to return here and wait him out; then we’d leave for the airfield together.

  Or he wouldn’t return. I’d be forced to go to the US consulate and risk being arrested for treason.

  Sigh.

  Life would be a whole lot easier if husbands would just listen to their wives.

  ***

  I hadn’t been on a motorcycle in over ten years; but as I suspected, it was just like riding a bike (no pun intended).

  With a range of less than one hundred and forty miles, I wouldn’t be able to make a return trip unless I brought additional gas. I jimmy-rigged a saddle with bladder bags to carry the extra fuel—double what I needed, just in case—borrowing the necessary gallons by siphoning it from the mobile clinic. I stunk of gasoline and motorcycle grease, and my headache was back as a result.

  I passed a shawarma delicatessen on my way out of town. Aroma of mixed grilled meats and spices made my mouth water, and my stomach growled again, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since the First Strike rations from the night before.

  As soon as I made it back to Chicago, I was going to eat a giant plate of shrimp and shawarma.

  And then I was going to tie up my husband, because both of us were going to make it back alive; I was determined that this would be the case. Once we were safe at home, I would insist he do all the laundry for six months. And organize Grace’s collection of Barbie doll shoes.

  Perhaps then he’d be more cognizant of my contributions and time.

  I headed south, knowing the greatest obstacle would be finding the turnoff Greg had taken the night before. My suspicions were confirmed when I realized I’d driven a half-hour longer than we had on the previous evening. Every sign I passed looked unfamiliar. Cursing under my breath, I turned around, driving under the speed limit, and kept my eyes peeled for the turn off.

  After another forty-five minutes I knew I wasn’t going to be able to find the road Greg had taken. Resigned, I drove another ten minutes south, pulled off, and backed the Ducati between thick hedgerows. If I couldn’t find him, I’d just have to wait until he passed by.

  I waited. And waited.

  And waited.

  And it was hot.

  My Kevlar-LYCRA bodysuit made sense for flexibility and utility, but it wasn’t as breathable as, let’s say, linen.

  Each minute spent in solo-limbo felt like an eternity. One hour passed. Then another. I rationalized that it would take him several hours to load that much money, by himself, into whichever vehicle he was using. I refilled the gas tank, noting that I still had five gallons of fuel left.

  But when the fourth hour ticked by with no sign of him, my stomach sank to my feet.

  I wasn’t going to find him.

  Gone, out of my reach, and I had no means to communicate—not with him, not with Alex, not with Quinn or Marie or Dan.

  I was on my own.

  And the real kicker was, I hated being on my own.

  I’d always hated being on my own and I didn’t want to be on my own anymore.

  I wanted to share my damn burdens!

  I was married, wasn’t I?

  We’d pledged our troth (or something like it), hadn’t we?

  So why the hell am I doing everything on my own?

  Grinding my teeth and scowling at my watch, I made note of the time. It would take me approximately two hours to make it back to the hospital. If Greg wasn’t there by sundown, then we were going to miss the flight home and I would have to figure out a way to make it to the US consulate in Lagos, several hours west, by car.

  But I refused to think about that or even contemplate the possibility of traveling across Nigeria without Greg.

  He would return by nightfall.

  We would leave Nigeria together.

  And when we returned to Chicago, he was never leaving me again.

  Cursing under my breath, I started the engine and rolled forward so I could see around the thicket. My mouth fell open.

  What looked like our truck—the vehicle Alex had arranged and Greg had absconded with this morning—was approaching from the north. I squinted at the cab, trying to determine who was behind the wheel as it passed.

  A spike of alarm had me straightening my spine when I recognized Greg was driving the truck, but he wasn’t alone. A second man—white male, stocky build, head turned away—was in the cab with him. Greg was driving too fast for me to make out the passenger’s features.

  The man with Greg could be an ally, or an enemy. I had no way of knowing, at least not yet.

  Quickly considering my options, I counted to ten before pushing onto the road, following the truck from an innocuous distance. The bed of the vehicle was empty. He wasn’t using it to move the money, but I wasn’t going to worry about that now. I needed to focus on how to extract Greg from the truck.

  Giving Greg a heads-up that I was behind him and ready to help wasn’t a priority. Based on his earlier behavior—tricking me the night before, his nightmares, tying me up and leaving me—I knew my presence would only serve to distract him. Therefore, with my heart thumping like mad and my throat tight and scratchy with anxious irritation, I stealthily followed from a distance.

  He was taking major roads back to Enugu. Traffic was a problem in the city. Still, I was surprised when he took the bypass route instead of heading directly back to the hospital. Nervously, I checked my gasoline gauge. I only had fifty miles left until I would need to refuel.

  Sixty-two minutes later, just after Greg took the turn off for the main highway leading to Lagos, the Ducati ran out of gas. I rushed to refill the tank and quickly did the math in my head. If Greg was heading to Lagos instead of returning to Enugu, then I had another five and a half hours of riding ahead of me.

  And I was at least four gallons short on gas.

  ***

  Six hours later my body ached.

  I felt every one of my thirty-six years—in my joints, in my bones, in my muscles—and my thoughts were narrowed on two goals: rescuing Greg and murdering Greg.

  My fuel problem turned out to be easily remedied. Between the westbound and eastbound lanes of traffic on many major highways in Nigeria are dirt paths, which are used mostly by commercial motorcyclists. Also, traffic in the country and road upkeep are a real problem.

  Both the dirt motorcycle paths and the shoddy civil infrastructure worked to my advantage.

  We encountered a traffic jam in Benin City just as I was starting to sweat my dwindling supply of gasoline. Greg and his companion were stuck on the road. I was not. I considered attempting a rescue, but decided against it. I wasn’t rescuing anyone without more fuel.

  I used their delayed status to weave through traffic and exit the highway in search of a gas station. Keeping my helmet and gloves on, and thankful for the baggy scrubs covering my black bodysuit and holster, I used one of the stolen hundred-dollar bills Greg had left for me at the hospital to pay for the gas.

  I told the attendant to keep the change after showing him my gun. Doubled the incentive to not fuck with me.

  Once I topped up the tank and bladder bags, I sped back to the highway, spotting Greg’s truck just two miles farther along, amidst traffic just beginning to clear. My anxiety eased considerably now I’d secured enough fuel should Greg and his companion be leading me to Lagos.

  Now, hours later, that’s where we were headed. And once we exited on to the Lekki-Epe Expressway for Victoria Island, a nagging feeling prickled my hot skin and made the hairs on the back of my neck rise in warning.

  I’d studied the cities of Enugu and Lagos in great detail while en-route to Nigeria, so I knew the
US consulate was at the western end of Victoria Island.

  But what I couldn’t fathom was why Greg would be headed there, especially if his companion was a hostile.

  This realization—that his car mate was on our side, someone Greg trusted—made me feel both better and worse. Obviously better because he was safe. But worse because he’d left me in Enugu. He’d accepted help from someone else. He’d cut me out, made plans without me. The sun was going down. He would never have made it back to Enugu in time for us to leave.

  Now was not the time for me to feel hurt by all this, but I was. As inconvenient, and perhaps irrational, as the feelings were, hurt and anger settled like a granite boulder in my chest, making it difficult to breathe and focus.

  However, much like baseball, there is no crying in espionage. So I remained focused.

  The Lekki-Epe Expressway became Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue, and swanky buildings rose before me, the sign for the Radisson Blu Anchorage Hotel visible in the distance. The waterfront was an oasis of clean white buildings and well-maintained roads on a shimmering blue lagoon, and the sight made my stomach turn sour.

  I tailed Greg as he exited Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue for a side street, still keeping my distance, but perhaps not as diligently as before. Both the truck and the old Ducati stuck out like sore thumbs, hugely conspicuous against the surrounding backdrop of privilege and wealth.

  Greg pulled onto the road adjacent to the consulate, and I was relieved. Now that we were both here, we might as well walk into the building together. I didn’t even care at this point if I were arrested. So be it.

  I might even yell upon entering, Arrest me for treason! And please point me toward a bath and a blessedly air-conditioned jail cell.

  I was so tired. He was safe. I was in one piece. The adrenaline I’d been running on for the last twenty-four hours—heck, the last four days—was almost depleted.

  Therefore, imagine my confused astonishment when, instead of parking near the consulate, he parked three blocks away. I switched off the ignition and eyeballed my husband as he exited the truck and stood stretching in front of it. He then glanced back and forth down the road. He sauntered in the opposite direction of the consulate, crossing to the wrong side of the road, then leaned against a lamppost.