Lady Liberty

by Vicki Hinze

  “I’m not sure.” Patch dragged a hand through his hair. “Thunderstorms maybe—they are severe in the area—but I doubt that’s all of it.”

  Thunderstorms could slow the team down, but they wouldn’t stop it or a Safety Board from dispatching and investigating. Lance had to have ordered the delay. Gregor scanned the monitor positioned in the northern Everglades. Twilight was settling over the swamp and the storm raged. What Lance needed was a little incentive to get things moving. “Notify the local press.”

  “Eyewitness accounts of the plane exploding have been reported. Local news and police are moving in now.”

  “Good. With an advance jump, they’ll contaminate the area before Search and Rescue arrives. That’ll give our men additional cover.” Considering the terrain—swamp, marsh, and wetlands—it would be impossible for S&R to secure more than a small perimeter. Definitely to Gregors advantage. “Get me an update out of Washington. Let’s see if Sayelle has gone public with the PUSH claim yet.”

  Patch keyed in a status-report request. Their Ballast-member contact had been entrenched on the Hill for over a decade and had proven extremely resourceful. Within moments Gregor watched a response appear on the computer screen. “Nothing announced. Three o’clock briefing canceled without explanation at five P.M. local. Rescheduled for nine A.M. PUSH and Ballast rumors surfacing unofficially. Ballast unsubstantiated, instinct only. PUSH responsibility claim not yet cycling.”

  Seeing nothing more of interest, Gregor turned away.

  “Sayelle’s nose is working,” Patch said. “He’s already checked in with Cap Marlowe. He’ll run with the PUSH claim, and it’ll have legs until after Lady Liberty’s funeral.”

  Once it surfaced, the PUSH claim would top the news for a couple days. As long as it diverted attention from Ballast until midnight Saturday, neither Ballast nor the mission was in jeopardy.

  “Give Sayelle fifteen more minutes, then call him back and threaten to take it to the Post,” Gregor said, then asked, “Does Marlowe know what’s going on?”

  “Not officially, but we’ve cranked up the rumor mill.”

  Cranked up, and likely running in high gear. “What about Lance?”

  “No significant action yet,” Patch said. “We expected him to move quickly—he usually does.” Worry deepened the creases in Patch’s face, nose to mouth. “Lance dragging his heels isn’t in the plan, Gregor. At least, not in my rendition of it.”

  But it had been in Gregors rendition. “He’s waiting for verification of Lady Liberty’s death. Perhaps Westford’s reputed abilities are true and he saved her.” Whether she had survived was of no consequence to Faust. He had made secondary arrangements for what he needed done. If she’s dead, she’s dead.

  “If she’s not dead, Dr. Stone could get out of hand.”

  “Can he?” Gregor opened a file and flipped through the pages of status reports from Ballast members around the globe. “If she survived, Austin Stone will be as disappointed as President Lance will be overjoyed. No more than that.”

  Gregor and Ballast would remain unaffected, provided Austin refrained from going rogue. Of course, he could do it. But surely even he would restrain himself from starting World War III. “Keep an eye on Lance and let me know when he makes his move.”

  “Will do.”

  “In the interim, activate the countdown board. Eastern standard time.” Gregor glanced at his watch and then mentally converted to the First Strike Launch. It was just after 7:00 P.M. in the Florida Everglades and in Washington, D.C. “Fifty-four hours, twelve seconds.” Then President Lance would unleash Armageddon.

  “Saturday?” Patch asked.

  “Saturday,” Gregor verified. “Midnight.”

  Clearly receiving a radio transmission via headset, Patch lifted a fingertip, signaling Gregor to wait. “It’s Alpha Team. About Lady Liberty’s plane.” He listened and then passed on the message. “A civilian witness just reported seeing a man piggyback down on a woman’s chute. No confirmation it was Westford and Liberty, or if they survived impact.”

  It had to be Westford and Liberty. Only he would jump out of a plane without a parachute. “Did our men make it out?”

  “Out, yes. But no reports from them since then.” Patch paused to receive more information. “Bravo Team is in D.C. Moving in on Dean’s family now”

  If Captain Dean had miraculously survived, then Gregor wanted assurance he would continue to cooperate. The cooperation hadn’t been in Patch’s plan, either. But it had been in Gregors, and he was growing impatient. His adrenaline was pumping and he was ready to move. “Warn Alpha to be diligent,” he said, referring to the Ballast operatives on the ground in the Florida swamp. “Angry, Westford is bad. Provoked, he’s deadly.”

  “And any time Sybil Stone is involved, Westford is provoked.”

  “Absolutely.” Patch might have missed a few points in the plan, but he had nailed Agent Jonathan Westford’s behavior. Patch rubbed a hand through his hair. “It’s likely they’re both dead. Home Base hasn’t activated her tracker.”

  “That could mean anything.” Gregor squeezed the stress ball flat. His second-in-command still had a lot to learn before he would be ready to take the number-one place in Ballast. “They could know she’s dead, or they could be afraid to give us a fix on her location.” Gregor thought a moment. “There’s only one certainty”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “If there was a way to keep her alive, Westford found it.”

  The possibility that Westford was alive clearly curdled Patch’s blood. He flipped down his headset’s lip mike and transmitted. “ET Three. ET Three. Do you copy?” He paused but heard no response from Alpha. Just in case the contact was in a position where responding would comprise him, Patch relayed his message. “Widow-maker and Liberty evacuated. Survival possible. Proceed with extreme caution. Widow-maker is armed and dangerous. Do not approach without backup. Repeat. Do not approach without backup.”

  Patch immediately shifted attention. “Sir, we’re intercepting a call between President Lance and Dr. Stone. You might want to listen in.”

  Gregor seated the plug in his ear, heard President Lance’s voice. “Are you on a secure line?” he asked Austin.

  “Your people are still requiring one.”

  “There’s been an accident. Sybil was returning from Geneva and her plane went down.”

  “She’s dead?”

  Gregor frowned. No regret, no sadness, not even a curse—and none of Stone’s usual fly-off-the-handle behavior. Lance had to notice it.

  “The plane exploded,” Lance said, his tone withdrawn, flat and unemotional. “We have to assume she’s dead, but we’ve just begun our investigation into the cause and the status of the passengers and crew. At this point, a terrorist attack is no more probable than a mechanical malfunction.”

  Lance paused, but Stone said nothing. Finally Lance went on. “Let me be blunt, Austin. I’m informing you that she’s presumed dead and I’m warning you not to make any slick moves on her assets.”

  Ah, Gregor thought, the real reason for the call: Sybil’s stock.

  “With all due respect, our personal assets are none of your business.”

  “Actually, they are. I’m Sybil’s official next of kin, and I hold all of the legal authority that comes with that. So of course I know her Environet stock reverts to you on her death.”

  “We made that agreement when I founded the company.”

  “You made that agreement as a condition of the divorce, and she financed the founding of Secure Environet. I’m aware of everything, Austin, and I’m watching every move you make. False steps won’t be tolerated. Be clear on that.”

  Gregor squeezed the yellow stress ball, finding nothing new in that declaration. On learning of her husband’s deceit, Sybil had informed the president, met with her attorney, and instructed him to initiate divorce proceedings. Austin Stone had been under surveillance ever since. She also had promised Lance that she would keep he
r own conduct above reproach—to protect his public position on professional integrity. She’d kept that promise and had lived like a nun in the year since the divorce to protect Lance and his office. It had been foolish of Austin to attempt to deceive Lance now.

  “We’ll keep you informed. Don’t make any long-term mistakes. Just walk the line,” Lance told Stone. “Have I made myself clear?”

  Apparently that was as far as Lance was willing to go to warn Stone that Sybil could be alive. Gregor rubbed his temple. “Interesting.”

  “Of course you’re clear.”

  “Good. Inform those you must now. We’re going to press with this. Lastly, I’ll remind you not to discuss our investigation. Any mention of it will be construed as a security breach, and you will be prosecuted.”

  “I will be killed.”

  Gregor stiffened, waited, but Lance didn’t deny it. The silence between them stretched. Patch glanced over to his boss, lifted a questioning brow.

  Without another word, Lance hung up the phone. Gregor pulled the plug from his ear.

  Patch swung around in his seat. “Dr. Stone screwed up.”

  He had. No one was that damn cold. In the entire conversation, he hadn’t expressed one word of hope, hadn’t asked once about the chances that she might be alive and just injured or taken hostage, or grasped at one straw. He hadn’t asked what Lance’s people were doing. In fact, he hadn’t asked any of the questions people normally asked. Not where the plane had exploded, when it had happened—nothing.

  “Yes,” Gregor told Patch, fingering a letter opener. Shards of light glinted on its blade. “He screwed up.”

  “Twice.” Patch grunted his disgust. “Lance is bound to come to the same conclusion. What kind of man lies to one who knows the truth and doesn’t ask questions about an accident?”

  “One who already knows the answers.”

  Patch’s eyes gleamed. “Or one whose heart is full of hate.”

  Seeing where Patch was going with this, Gregor felt some of the tension melt from his neck. Was it realistic? Logical? “How would Stone react if he knew that only Sybil could save his life—and the lives of millions of others?”

  “He damn sure wouldn’t be calm or detached. He’d be affected.”

  “Yes.” Gregor smiled. “Yes, he would.”

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, August 8 First-Strike Launch: 52:1041

  “They know we’re alive, Sybil.” Westford joined her under a thick canopy of leaves that hung low enough to give her some shelter from the rain, then passed her what looked like a piece of bark. “Eat.”

  “Seriously?” She took it. It felt like bark, too, rough against her fingertips.

  “Seriously.” He sat down beside her, his back to the tree trunk. “It doesn’t taste like much but it’s better than watching you try to swallow bugs.”

  She did her best not to pull a sour face. “I meant, you’re serious that Home Base knows we’re alive.”

  “Yes, but they’re not publicly retracting your death. Not yet, anyway.”

  She doubted David had retracted it privately to many, either. Shoes reversed, she wouldn’t. Though somewhat relieved, the burden of being responsible for seven deaths still weighed heavily on her shoulders. “Any update on the security-breach infiltration?”

  “Not yet. The engineers are going over the entire system with a fine-tooth comb, but they have to project the impact of every possible move before making any. They need time.”

  Time. The number-one item on everyone’s list. Sybil understood the need for caution, but she also understood that someone at A-267 had committed treason, and, by God, she wanted to know who. Needing to think, she propped an elbow against a flat rock and closed her eyes.

  David and Conlee would remember Westford’s record. He had gotten them both through some hairy times, and he had taken a bullet for the veep—the previous veep. Lucky for her, that wound hadn’t impaired his ability to perform his duties. He had been given the choice of retiring or staying with the agency, and he had stayed. If he hadn’t, she would be dead now.

  Humbling thought, and, yes, David would remember all of that about Westford… and more. “You know most of the other agents think you have some kind of psychic power.”

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” She’d often wondered the same thing herself.

  “There’s nothing psychic about it,” Westford admitted. “Just honed instincts and experience.”

  And acquired knowledge. According to Gabby, he had developed strong skills in nearly every field imaginable. “Did your last commander really send you to survival school to make you less arrogant?” Sybil couldn’t imagine West-ford acting arrogant. The man never boasted, but he never pretended ineptitude either. She loved that about him.

  “He did.” Westford half grinned. “I ended up restructuring the course, which didn’t make him a happy man.”

  Sybil smiled. “You didn’t.”

  “I had to, Sybil.” He straightened. “It didn’t address some significant challenges operatives routinely encounter in the field.”

  “The hell it didn’t,” Sybil said. “I went through that course, Westford.”

  “Three times before you passed it, as I recall.” West-ford looked down his nose at her. “After I restructured it.”

  She nibbled at the bark, annoyed because she liked him. Few had the brass to contradict her these days, and it appealed to her more than it should. “So it’s true then,” she said, studying him. “You are arrogant.”

  “When arrogance can save some operative’s life, you’re damn right I am.”

  He didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. But he thought he might. Substance over show. She liked that, too, and resented liking it as much as everything else she liked about him.

  Having lousy judgment about men, and being reminded of it often, wasn’t a pleasing thing to a woman. But seeing the way his playful tone transformed his face was pleasing. Westford was always attractive, but when playful, he looked downright gorgeous—and irresistible to tease. “Is it also true your hunches are impressively accurate? They say you can smell danger. Does it really have a scent?”

  “Yes, it does. It’s bitter.” He propped his arm on his knee, obviously uncomfortable that the discussion centered on him. “But it’s not an uncommon skill for covert operatives, Sybil.”

  “It seems unique to me.” He seemed unique. Genuine. She munched down on a bite of bark. God, she positively hated liking that.

  “It’s not. But it comes in handy”

  “I expect it does.” When he shifted again, water dropped through the canopy and sprinkled them. Sensing he’d had about enough teasing and prying, she changed the subject. “So the White House has gone public with the position that all persons on board the flight are presumed dead.”

  Westford stiffened, silently rebelling. “Yes.”

  “Do you think that’s our wisest course of action?” Revulsion surged up acid from deep down in Sybil’s stomach.

  “It gives us our best shot of getting out of this swamp alive.”

  “Only if the mosquitoes don’t carry us off.” At least she had been spared her worst fear—snakes. “What’s our weather status?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  She stared and waited.

  “Remnants of a tropical system are parked over our heads,” he said. Sybil groaned, and he added, “I told you, you didn’t want to know.”

  She ignored him, again shifted topics. “I’m concerned about David. He promised to restore integrity to his office and he meant it. Lying to the public about us has to grate at him.”

  “I’m sure it’s had him on his knees in the Oval Office. But if it can keep us alive, then he has to do it.”

  His meaning escaped her, but a fearful shudder rippled through her chest. “On his knees in the Oval Office?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No way” No one had forgotten the events that previously
had occurred in the Oval Office, and if David had broken his promise to the people, then she damn well needed to know. “Tell me what you meant.”

  Jonathan picked up on the distrust in her tone and gave her a look laced with reprimand. “He prays there often. Privately”

  She felt shame for doubting David, and for the first time she understood that restoring faith to people whose trust had been broken took time and evidence of innocence. It shouldn’t be that way but it was, even for her, and she couldn’t expect more from others than she was capable of giving herself.

  This incident also proved something else she wished it hadn’t. It wasn’t only the men in her private life she thought she knew well but didn’t, it was the men in her professional life, too. Fear twisted her stomach in knots. Did realizing that mean she now needed to doubt all her personal and professional judgments? Second-guess all her decisions? Good God, she’d be crippled. Hamstrung. Anything but effective.

  “Sybil, why do you look so upset? The man was praying, not selling state secrets.”

  There was no way she could voice her thoughts out loud. “I wish he didn’t have to lie. That’s all.”

  “He has no choice.”

  Her empty stomach grumbled and ached. She rubbed it, swearing she’d trade her fortune for a cheeseburger. “Why?”

  “Sam Sayelle received a call from PUSH claiming responsibility for your assassination. He confronted Barber, but our favorite senior advisor ducked him. That was a big mistake.”

  Barber was part of Cap Marlowe’s pack, and he had a penchant for making convenient-for-Cap mistakes. “How big a mistake?” A heavy cloud moved over them. Sybil strained to see Westford through the deep shadows.

  “Huge.” He swallowed a bite of bark, then another. “Sayelle got ticked at being shut out of the info loop and called the commander.”

  Commander Conlee? “How?” Sayelle shouldn’t know Home Base existed, much less about Conlee or how to reach him.

  “Obviously, someone told him. Intel suspects Cap Marlowe, but Sayelle refused to confirm or deny it. Needless to say, Cap’s become a mute amnesiac on the matter.”