The Doll
Page 36
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the help of many who love me, this story would never have seen the light of day—and certainly not in the polished format it is in now, so to my children, who begrudgingly allow me to work, and to my family and friends, who don’t take it personally when I drop off the map for months at a time, thank you for still being there when I surface for air.
To all of my wonderful teammates within Crown Publishers, thank you for your tireless efforts on my behalf. A particular shout-out to Zack Wagman, my editor, who forced me to think far harder than I wanted to, and my publicist, Sarah Breivogel, who I’m convinced knows the secrets of magic.
To the individual who helped me get the Croatian and Hungarian details right (at least I hope I got them right) and who didn’t want to be named, you have my appreciation.
And last, my agent, Anne Hawkins, to whom I owe my entire career and at least half of my sanity: you have become my champion, confidante, therapist, surrogate family, and wonderful friend. I wish every author could be as fortunate as I have been to have you in my life. Thank you.
Read on for an excerpt
from New York Times bestselling author
Taylor Stevens’s latest book
THE CATCH
Available wherever books are sold
CHAPTER 1
DJIBOUTI, DJIBOUTI
On the rooftop edge, she waited, eyes tracking down the length of the street while she sat with one knee dropped over the side, the other tucked under her chin, ears attuned to the small sounds that marked the climber’s progress toward her.
Here, four stories up, the smell of rotting garbage was a little less putrid, the air a little cooler, and if she chose to stand and stretch, she could see beyond the expanse of treetops and dusty low-slung houses, through to the port, a barely visible patch of primary colors against the ocean. This was Djibouti. Dirty. Quiet. Corrupt: a world far removed from the rainforests and humidity and familiarity of equatorial Africa where she’d been born, yet so much the same: pinprick on the map between Somalia and Ethiopia, a desert nation of less than a million that bottlenecked the mouth of the Red Sea. This, the capital, was where half the population lived.
Chatter rose from below as women, heads wrapped in colorful scarves and dressed in ankle-length sheaths, passed by with their bundles, and scratching from behind told her that the climber had pulled himself over the ledge, that he’d stood and dusted his hands off on his pants, that he made a slow, deliberate stride in her direction.
Vanessa Michael Munroe didn’t turn to look. Didn’t acknowledge him when he stopped beside her to peer down at the street. Ignored him when he sat a few feet away and with a satisfied sigh dropped his legs over the side, leaned back, and surveyed the area.
Most of what surrounded them was single- and double-storied buildings, mostly residential and strung along in both directions, some nestled within dirt-strewn walled compounds, and some not.
“It’s a good view,” Leo said. “Better breeze up top. Not so much smell.”
She didn’t answer; continued to ignore his presence. He could have spared himself the effort of the climb—spared her the effort of small talk—if he’d simply waited until she’d returned. Instead, he’d come for her, which was his way of marking territory: a reminder that he was familiar with her routines and could invade them if he cared to. She allowed him to believe it, just as she allowed him to believe that he knew who she was, where she’d come from, and why she was here.
They sat in silence, and in spite of the lowering sun and the evening breeze that had begun to cool the air, sweat still trickled down her back and neck, soaking her shirt. The heat didn’t bother her the way it would him, so she let him have the discomfort and the lengthening quiet until finally he broke and said, “We board at two this morning.”
His English was thickly accented, and that he chose to use her language instead of the French with which they typically conversed was more of his pointless point-making.
She said, “I’m still not interested.”
He nodded, as if contemplating her defiance, then stood and, with his toes poking over the edge, studied the ground. Wiped his hands on his pants again and took a step back. “It’s for you to decide,” he said. “But if you don’t board, I want you out by tonight.”
Chin still to her knee, focus out over the dirt alleys, rooftops, and laundry flapping on many lines, she said, “Why? If I come, I’ll just get in your way.”
“That may be,” he said. “But still you come. Or you leave.”
She glanced up, the first she’d deigned to look at him. “And then who’ll be your fixer?”
He took another step away from the ledge. “I managed before you got here,” he said, and began to walk away. “I’ll manage after you’re gone.”
She straightened and her gaze followed him. “It’s not you who has to manage without me,” she said. “You shouldn’t be the one to make the decision.”
Leo paused but kept his back toward her.
She studied his posture, counted seconds, readied to slide out of the way if in response to her provocation he moved to shove her off the building.
“You’d have been better off making arrangements to board in the afternoon,” she said, “when the khat trucks come into town.”
His hands, which had tightened into fists, loosened a little. He turned toward her, and she watched him just long enough for him to catch her eye, then she shied away in that guilty manner people caught staring often did.
This was part of her persona here, hesitant and non-confrontational. Made it easier for the men to dismiss and underestimate her, kept her beneath the radar, though for how much longer was up for debate. Like the rest of the guys, Leo had lived more life than his forty-something years indicated; he wasn’t stupid. But he was often gone, and when he was around she went out of her way to avoid him to keep from giving him enough access to her that he grew curious.
With her back still to him, and his eyes boring into her, Munroe said, “Who’re you trying to avoid by boarding so early? Ship’s agent?”
“Yes.”
“Even if he’s not there, he’ll hear about it. If you go when the khat trucks arrive, every man in the port is going to be focused on getting his fix—no one will pay attention to you.”
“To us.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ll come, Michael.”
Not a request or a question, an order.
“Maybe,” she said.
Leo turned again and strode toward the portion of roof they’d both climbed over, the part where there was less of an overhang and it was possible to get from ledge to balcony and down to the dividing wall without as much risk of slipping and breaking a neck. Louder, Munroe said, “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even get into the port tonight.”
Leo didn’t answer, waved her off and kept walking. He lowered himself over the edge and, at some point on the way down, let out a grunt. Munroe stood. A thud marked his drop from the wall to the ground of the compound next door and so she turned and followed the rooftop edge to the opposite corner, where she caught the colors of the port’s shipping containers stacked four and five high.
Somewhere near there the freighter Favorita would soon dock, if she hadn’t already, and Leo expected Munroe to be on it. He forced her to pick between poisons: board the ship as part of his team of armed transit guards, risking her life on the water to defend his client’s ship if attacked by pirates, or leave the crew—and it wasn’t difficult to guess why. No matter what she chose, he got her out from under his roof and away from his wife.
ALSO BY
TAYLOR STEVENS
“Vanessa Munroe is the book world’s
newest tough-girl action hero.”
—NEW YORK POST
“If you haven’t joined the Munroe bandwagon,
now’s the time to climb aboard.”
—DALLAS MORNING NEWS
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