by Will Jordan
Raising her head to regard herself in the mirror, she wasn’t pleased by what she saw. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes red, her dark hair hanging limp. Fortunately she’d at least managed to keep it out of the way.
She was trembling. Not because of the sudden nausea and vomiting, but because of what it meant.
At first it had been easy enough to brush aside the less obvious symptoms, writing off the uncharacteristic fatigue and the stomach cramps as something women went through every month, or perhaps some minor ailment she’d contracted. But then she’d begun to notice her breasts growing swollen and tender to the touch, and realized suddenly that her period was late. Just a few days at first, then a week, then two.
She’d said and done nothing during this time, hoping she was wrong, hoping that her fears would be revealed as nothing more than foolish worry over nothing.
And then she’d felt the nausea hit her this very evening.
There could be little doubt now. She was no doctor, but even she could read the signs and symptoms, and draw a logical conclusion.
‘Goddamn you,’ she said, staring at her reflection as if she expected it to give her answers, to reassure her that everything would be all right, to tell her what the hell she was supposed to do with an unplanned pregnancy.
It was obvious enough how it had happened, yet of all the things that could have shattered their fragile existence here, she’d never contemplated something like this. Why now? She and Drake had slept together often, but they had always taken precautions. Neither had any interest in starting a family yet, least of all with their own lives still hanging in the balance. But it had happened all the same. Like millions of teenage girls the world over who thought they’d been careful, she’d somehow fallen victim to her own biology.
After everything else they’d been through, what a cruel joke.
Of course, she knew the sensible thing would be to deal with it quickly and discreetly, before it went any further. This was no happy families situation – they were a pair of rogue CIA operatives on the run from the authorities. They’d been able to keep a low profile thus far, but how the hell were they supposed to do that with a child in tow?
Pregnancies needed doctors, scans, tests, all kinds of red tape that would eventually unravel their false identities here. Not to mention the birth itself, or the sheer insanity of bringing a child into the world in which they still lived. No, it had to be taken care of now, before it became an even greater problem.
It wasn’t just the right choice. It was the only choice.
But even as this very logical and pragmatic decision was being made, a voice of doubt and objection resounded in her mind. Where it came from, she couldn’t rightly say. She’d never considered herself a maternal woman, had never felt a pang of longing or emptiness when she saw mothers or infants, and yet something had been stirred up by the realization that a life was growing within her at this very moment. A tiny, unaware, unplanned life to be sure, but a life all the same. A life started not just by her, but by the man she’d been living with for the past year.
Did he not have a right to know? Should she really just arbitrarily make such a decision without even consulting him? Would he even want to know, or would it simply drive a wedge between them?
And most of all, what would it mean for her true purpose here? How could she carry out her mission, knowing that Drake was the father of her child?
Splashing cold water on her face, she looked at her reflection again and mouthed a single word. ‘Shit.’
Her conflicted musings were cut short then by the bang of the front door being thrown open, and the sound of footsteps in the hallway, fast and agitated. Drake had returned from his errand, and by the sounds of things, all was not well.
* * *
Breathing hard, Drake circled the heavy punch bag and laid into it with a flurry of lefts and rights. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat and his dark hair was plastered to his head. The impacts jarred his arms all the way up to his shoulders, the bruised joints of his already injured hand protesting the punishment they were taking, but still he kept on with grim determination.
After emptying out the decades of junk that the villa’s previous owner had accumulated in the basement, he had taken the liberty of setting up some basic exercise equipment, chief among which was the heavy punch bag suspended from one of the more sturdy overhead beams.
It wasn’t much, but it was a useful place to come when he needed time to think, to unwind, or just to let out some frustration. Tonight he needed all three, because Anya’s stinging words from earlier echoed in his mind like the pealing of a bell.
You’re becoming soft, Ryan. Soft and complacent. Too much sun, too much drink… too much rest. You are losing your focus, forgetting the mission. Before you know it, this false life will swallow you up, and you’ll forget who you really are.
He gritted his teeth as his gloved fists slammed into the padded leather bag again and again. The heavy bag lurched and swayed with the impacts, but he paid it no heed. His mind was elsewhere, his thoughts turned to their parting words in Iraq three years ago.
‘I promised Hussam I’d protect you, Anya. Whether or not you think you need it, I’ll be there for you, and I won’t give up on you.’
He saw a change in her eyes then, a lowering of her defences. She looked as she had last night, when they had at last opened up to each other, bared their souls in the flickering light of the camp fire.
Hesitating a moment, she walked towards him and held out her hand, saying nothing, waiting for him to take it. He did so without reservation, without regrets or deception. He accepted her as she had accepted him.
Gripping his hand tight, Anya smiled. But it was a bittersweet smile, tinged with sadness and regret.
‘You know your problem, Ryan? You’re a good man.’
His heart was pounding and his breath coming in gasps as he circled the bag, muscles burning and legs heavy. His knuckles ached from the punishment, blood seeping from the torn flesh to soak the tape and bandages around his hands, but he was indifferent to it.
Still the anger burned inside him, unquenched by his punishing workout, as he saw himself sitting on a grassy hillside back in the Welsh countryside last year. The day he’d parted company with the Agency and gone on the run. The day he’d been forced to say goodbye to the only family he had left.
He reached out and gently touched Anya’s hand. For once, she didn’t move it away.
‘Remember what I said to you once? I made a promise that I’d be there for you even if you didn’t think you needed me, that I’d do everything I could to help you, and that I’d never give up on you. Because this is my fight now as much as yours. That hasn’t changed. We started this thing together, Anya,’ he said. ‘You and me. That’s how we’re going to finish it. Together.’
The woman said nothing to this, but at that moment he felt it. He felt her squeeze his hand just a little.
With an exhausted sigh, Drake landed one final blow before backing away and doubling over, struggling to draw breath.
‘I think you’ve done enough for one day,’ a voice remarked.
Swallowing, Drake straightened up and glanced over at Samantha, who had descended the basement stairs without him noticing. How long she’d been watching him, he didn’t know, but it was obvious from the look of concern in her eyes that she’d seen enough.
‘I was…’ He trailed off, not sure what to say.
Fortunately, she was ready to jump in. ‘Only one person I know of that can piss you off this much.’ She nodded up the stairs. ‘Come on. Let’s talk.’
* * *
Drake winced as he wrapped a dish cloth filled with ice around his throbbing left hand, waiting while the cold slowly numbed the aching joints. He certainly hadn’t done the old injury any favours tonight.
In the kitchen area nearby, McKnight had laid out a drinking glass. Pulling down a bottle of malt whisky from the cupboard, she poured a generous measure.
‘I don’t know what it is about you, Ryan,’ she said, handing him the glass. ‘Even when we’re not in danger, you seem hell-bent on hurting yourself.’
Drake accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. ‘Not joining me?’
She glanced down, avoiding his gaze. ‘You need it right now. I don’t.’
‘Fair enough.’ Drake tossed back a gulp of the potent drink, closing his eyes for a moment as it lit a blazing path down his throat, the glowing embers settling at last in his stomach.
‘So tell me, what did she want?’ McKnight asked suddenly. ‘Come to demand another mission? Another errand to run with no explanation? That’s how it usually works with her, right?’
He hadn’t told her the real reason for his trip into Marseille earlier. Somehow he felt guilty for meeting with Anya, as if their encounter had been some kind of illicit tryst instead of a fraught, tense confrontation between two estranged allies.
McKnight had never met Anya face to face, but the animosity she felt towards the enigmatic woman was palpable. Not that he blamed her – from her point of view, Anya must have seemed like a tornado swirling through his life, leaving a trail of destruction in her wake before disappearing again. Sometimes he wondered if that wasn’t closer to the truth than he’d like to admit.
‘She came here to remind me of something. In her own way, at least.’
‘Remind you of what?’
Opening his eyes, Drake reached out and gently touched her cheek with his bruised, bandaged hand, reflecting for a moment on how stupidly content they had both been that very morning, how far away their fears had seemed. How it was almost possible to forget everything that had happened.
‘That nothing lasts for ever.’
‘It’s lasted this long,’ she reminded him. ‘What’s changed?’
‘Me.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘When we came here, it was just supposed to be a place to lay low and plan our next move. It was never meant to last this long. But being here with you, just us and this place, it’s been… like a dream, Sam. It was all I ever wanted. And I suppose, after a while, I started wishing it was real.’
‘It is real, Ryan,’ she said, taking his hand and staring hard into his troubled eyes. ‘Don’t you see? We’re here, we’re together, and none of the rest matters. It’s a different world, and the one we left behind… it doesn’t have to be part of our life any more. We can make that choice to leave it behind.’
‘What about Anya?’
Her expression darkened at this. ‘Fighting is all she knows. If she wants to fight this war, then let her. But enough good people have died in her name already. Don’t add to it, Ryan. I know you want to help her, but… some people can’t be helped.’
There it was; the same doubt that Drake had been privately harbouring for some time now. Hearing someone else say it only seemed to add more weight to his fears.
‘I told her I wouldn’t give up on her.’ Drake looked down at his glass, torn between loyalty to the woman whose life he’d saved, and the woman he couldn’t bear to lose. ‘You’re asking me to do exactly that.’
‘I’m asking you to think this through,’ she implored him. ‘We’re on the run from the Agency because we made a mistake in Libya last year. We rushed in without thinking. This isn’t a time to make the same mistake again, especially not after what I saw downstairs.’
She was right. He didn’t want to admit it even to himself, but she was right. Making decisions based on emotion had almost gotten them all killed in Libya. Tonight he was in real danger of doing the same thing again.
‘At least sleep on it, Ryan,’ Samantha went on, sensing her words were reaching him. ‘If you still feel like this tomorrow, then… we can figure it out. Okay?’
Drake looked at her then. Samantha McKnight: always the pragmatist, somehow able to see through the conflicting loyalties and emotions clouding an issue. He knew her advice made sense, that it was the logical thing to do, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was giving up something at the same moment.
Something he might regret later.
‘All right, Sam,’ he conceded, though the issue was far from resolved. ‘All right.’
She brightened a little at this, offering a tentative smile as she reached out and pulled him close. The war might still be in doubt, but for tonight the battle was over.
Chapter 6
Munich, Germany
‘Another brew, dude!’ Keira Frost said, slapping her empty beer bottle and a ten euro note down on the bar. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the thumping techno music that reverberated around the crowded bar, but she didn’t really care. She’d never had a problem making her wishes known.
The bartender, a tall, skinny-looking guy in his early twenties, regarded the diminutive young woman standing before him with a mixture of irritation and uncertainty. This was her third beer in the past fifteen minutes.
Sensing his doubts, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp and challenging. ‘Got a problem with that?’
He shrugged, apparently seeing the wisdom of not antagonizing her further, and quickly popped the lid from another bottle of Beck’s.
‘No problem,’ he said, scooping up the money.
‘Didn’t think so,’ she mumbled, tipping back the bottle and gulping down a mouthful. She could hold her drink about as well as anyone, but even she was starting to feel the effects of the previous three. And that was just fine by her. If she didn’t walk out of here wasted, she was doing something wrong.
Like Drake, she had been forced to abandon her job with the Agency as a Shepherd team specialist and go on the run after their doomed attempt to take down Marcus Cain. They had gambled and lost, believing the evidence of arms smuggling and terrorist backing they’d uncovered could destroy Cain’s career. Instead they had found themselves manipulated by the very man they sought to destroy, their failure placing them openly at war with both Cain and the shadowy group he represented.
After splitting with the others, Frost had ended up taking refuge in Germany’s third largest city. With over 1.5 million inhabitants and a big migrant community, it seemed as good a place as any to disappear for the time being. With no work to occupy her, she’d found herself slowly drinking away the nights and sleeping away the days while she waited for orders from Drake.
Orders that never came.
She’d never expected to find herself wishing for the old days when Drake regularly presented her with daunting challenges and impossible deadlines, but there it was. Inactivity was eating away at her; lack of purpose causing her to dwell on the past and brood over what might have been.
She felt rather than saw someone sidle up next to her at the bar, interrupting her grim train of thought. ‘Hey. Wo warst du mein ganzes Leben lang, schön?’ a male voice spoke in her ear.
‘No sprechen sie Deutsch, buddy,’ Frost replied without turning around. She wasn’t unreceptive to male company tonight if it helped work out some of her frustration, but she intended to put away a few more beers first.
‘Ah, English then,’ her new companion said, switching languages as smoothly as changing gears in a car. ‘You’re American, right?’
‘Got it in one, Sherlock.’
He chuckled in amusement at her not entirely good-natured jibe. ‘It’s strange. I see this beautiful girl sitting all alone at the bar, and I ask myself, how can this be?’
‘Maybe I’m waiting for someone,’ she suggested.
‘Not after four beers, I think.’
Intrigued, Frost spun around in her seat to regard this new arrival, and immediately reconsidered her options. Tall, blonde haired and well built judging by the sinewy muscles in his exposed arms, he was nothing like the lecherous, overweight older men that regularly tried their luck with her. The face that regarded her was good looking and youthful, his jaw coated with a couple of days’ worth of growth, his dark eyes shining with attraction in the red lights glowing overhead.
Her thoughts must have shown in her
facial expression, because she saw that handsome face brighten in a smile as he looked her up and down.
‘You notice things, huh?’ she said, not sure whether to feel flattered or irritated by the attention.
‘I notice you. I’m surprised no one else did.’ He shrugged. ‘Their loss, I think.’
As far as opening gambits went, she had to admit his wasn’t bad.
‘So what should I call you?’ she asked, deciding tonight might not be a bust after all. ‘Sherlock doesn’t quite fit.’
‘Anton.’
She held up her bottle. ‘Kate.’
She liked this guy, but no way was she giving her real name.
‘I like that name. It suits you,’ he decided. ‘What brings you to Munich, Kate?’
‘You mean business or pleasure?’ she asked with a wry grin. ‘Started out as the first…’
‘Maybe it will end with the second.’
Ballsy, she thought. A little cheesy, but ballsy all the same. She liked that in a guy. ‘Depends how good the company is.’
With that, they clinked their drinks together and drank. They only needed a mouthful to finish the toast, but a childish sense of competition meant neither was willing to stop first. As it was, they carried on until they’d drained their bottles dry, slamming them down almost in unison. Anton beat her by a second or so, but she could live with that. He likely hadn’t polished off three others in short order first.
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to get me drunk,’ she said with a playful grin. ‘Planning to take advantage?’
Good luck to him, if so. One handy bonus of being a former covert operative in one of the world’s elite intelligence services was that she generally had little to fear from drunken assholes who didn’t like the word ‘no’.
‘Hey, I’m a nice guy.’
‘Really?’ She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice as much as possible given their raucous surroundings. ‘Well I’m not a nice girl.’
