Alone With an Escort

by Angela Claire

  He shook his head, as if it was some kind of personal failure. She shivered, starting with her shoulders until it coursed through her whole body. She was going to lose it. She really was.

  “Shit. We left your parka in the bar. Here.” He shrugged out of his coat and tried to hand it to her, but she shook her head.

  “I shot a man.” She wrapped her arms even more tightly around herself and Jonathon looked sideways at her in surprise.

  “He was a killer. A hired killer. Scum. You did what you had to do. Had to do because I fucked up, Veronica. Don’t go blaming yourself for that.”

  Whereas she had cried so easily, so infuriatingly, back at the other motel, now she felt as if she didn’t have a drop of moisture in her. As if she was dried up and withering. She’d taken a human life.

  Chapter Seven

  #xa0;

  Monica Vale walked at a steady pace down the crowded D.C. street. If anyone noticed her, she knew what they saw. A small, pixie-like woman, of indeterminate age, all in black—not so unusual these days—a black knit cap covering her hair. Only a wisp of her short hair escaped the cap, the color a bright, fierce red that shone even more against her white skin and habitually dark attire.

  Unlike almost everyone else in the crowd, she wasn’t talking into a Bluetooth device or reading an iPhone when she should be looking at the traffic while crossing the street. Monica was always intensely aware of her surroundings. The fact the rest of the world was not was only one of the many things that set her apart. Always had.

  The man next to her at a light was arguing with some unseen conversant on the other end of his ear piece, and she thought of that old television show that had been on when she was a little girl. The one where the goofy secret agent talked into his shoe in an eerie foreshadowing of cell phones. What was the name of that? Get Smart. That was it. And he entered his super-secret workplace through a laundry or some such thing. Or was it a phone booth that acted as an elevator? She couldn’t recall. She was getting old, she supposed.

  In any case, no silly camouflage for the Agency’s headquarters. No laundry. No phone booth. She left the man still talking into his ear piece and veered off onto a side street, walking a few blocks to the entrance. It was there, nondescript, but accessible if one turned down just the right alleyway and opened just the right door. It looked like a fairly empty office building. Nothing more. That part was camouflage. The outer offices and the occasional workers who wandered by the windows—all in casual dress as befitting any modern office atmosphere—were always recent recruits. Green enough not to be trusted for more than window dressing.

  After confirming there was no one on the street in front of the building, she made her way inside. No elaborate security precautions on the walkway. Those would spring into operation if there was a passerby who happened to be watching as an agent entered the building. She didn’t bother to think of what would happen in that event, not that she was squeamish, just not interested. The entrance way to the headquarters was state of the art, however, all manner of face recognition software, fingerprint software—the works. Again, if the wrong person tried to enter, it was a bit like the Willy Wonka movie where a chute opened up and the person disappeared down it.

  Willy Wonka. Why did she keep thinking of old forms of entertainment she had seen as a child? She didn’t know. The mind’s equivalent of comfort food, perhaps.

  And she needed that.

  Once inside the headquarters, she passed the young window-dressing agents without nodding or making eye contact. She stood before the closed elevator door at the center of the building long enough for the facial recognition scan, the eye scan and, she believed, a new DNA scan of some sort that meant when she extended her index finger for a fingerprint, it took a slight nick of her skin. Not enough to bleed, but enough for some preliminary identification. Passing them all, she was granted access to the elevator. There was only one button on the panel inside and, as far as she knew, it was never to be pushed except in an extreme emergency. The elevator whooshed of its own accord down the straight vertical tunnel that was deeper than most mine shafts to the lobby of the Agency. Armed guards greeted her when the door opened. Those she nodded to—two men about Jonathon’s age who she had trained once upon a time. Before she could make it down to her office, one of them said, “You’re wanted in conference room C, Mrs. Vale.”

  She’d never been a Mrs. anything, but she appreciated the courtesy.

  When she let herself into conference room C, she found two men waiting for her. She had trained them both too once upon a time. O’Reilly, Jonathon’s boss, was seated beside the acting director of the Agency, James Conley. There was always an acting director, who changed every decade or so. To most agents, O’Reilly included, that was who ran the Agency. But Monica wasn’t most agents. She knew Neil Donovan was the power behind the throne. Had been since Monica had killed his predecessor—long story—and a very young acting director, Donovan, had ascended. It didn’t always happen like that, but back then it had. For reasons only she and Donovan, at the Agency, anyway, knew.

  The men were seated at a nondescript chrome table in the nondescript conference room, as all the conference rooms were. No cone of silence—she was still thinking ’60s television—but no windows, either. The room, like all of the rooms at headquarters was soundproof and bulletproof. Guns weren’t allowed to be brought into headquarters, but an agent shouldn’t need them. As she had always told Jonathon, if you need superior gun power at a—

  She cut the thought off. Despite knowing Jonathon was the subject of this impromptu meeting, she wasn’t going to think about him. Not as her son, anyway. The son she had trained much more carefully than she had trained these two men or the armed ones at the elevator. As carefully as she had trained herself.

  As she sat facing them, Conley sighed, a dramatic gesture he followed up on by pushing a slim manila folder across the table toward her with a single finger. In some ways, the Agency was so high tech, and in others, so primitive. Conley in particular was known for having more paper than anyone in their right minds—in their business anyway—should have.

  Because it was expected of her, she opened the file, but declined to read the contents, staring at the two men across from her, waiting for them to speak. In a staring contest, Monica was always the winner. Conley should know that.

  Finally, he said, “I’ll be frank, Monica. It doesn’t look good for Jonathon. He’s being paid off, big time.”

  She deigned to scan the column of numbers on the single piece of paper inside the file, the heading indicating that these were deposits to her son’s bank account from questionable sources. “No. If these are accurate, it doesn’t look good.”

  “They’re accurate,” O’Reilly piped in. “I couldn’t believe it myself when James showed it to me after Jonathon disappeared. I would have staked my reputation on his being clean, but—I mean, do you have any explanation for this, Monica?”

  O’Reilly searched her face, as if he would see anything there. She almost scoffed. “None.”

  He shook his head. “I just can’t believe it.” Then he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, as if to say, Your son!

  O’Reilly had always treated Monica like Agency royalty. Or maybe he was just scared of her. Most people were. Conley, too.

  Donovan, not so much.

  “We don’t have a good read on where he is right now,” Conley continued. “We sent some people in, but ah, well, I assume you can guess what happened.”

  She smiled. Her first in this meeting. O’Reilly dipped a little lower in his chair at the sight of it, though, Conley sat up straighter, as though trying to prove he was the boss of things.

  A little, little man.

  “You, more than anyone, Monica, know how capable he is. It’s not surprising we couldn’t, ah, catch up to him.”

  “Yes.”

  “That makes him very dangerous.”

  “Isn’t that the point?” she asked, no intonation in h
er voice.

  “When it’s not directed at us, it may be. But if he’s been turned, Monica. That’s another issue.”

  She offered no defense. Though he afforded her the appropriate pause, he knew she wouldn’t be mounting any. Monica Vale made her decisions based on the data. And the data said her son Jonathon was a mole, turned at some point toward the dark side. Or the other side, rather. Both sides were pretty dark these days, as everyone in the room knew. Well, maybe not O’Reilly. But he would, eventually.

  “Do you know where Jonathon is?” O’Reilly asked her.

  “No.”

  “Could you?”

  She shrugged. Which really meant yes. An acknowledgment that she was the best. At tracking. At finding.

  At killing.

  “What do you want me to do? Bring him in?”

  O’Reilly started to answer and Conley cut him off. “I’m afraid it’s gone too far for that. He’s stolen some critical information. With what he already has in his head about our operations, I don’t see any deal we can cut.”

  “Now, wait a minute here,” O’Reilly said, but they both ignored him.

  “If Jonathon has been turned”—Monica closed the file—“what about valuable information he may have for us? About the targets he is—or you say he is—working for?”

  Conley shook his head. “He’s like a dirty bomb. We can’t use it. We have to disarm it.”

  “Disarm. That’s an interesting euphemism.”

  “There’s only one alternative. You know that, Monica.”

  “Are you asking me to assassinate my own son?”

  There was a heavy silence and O’Reilly shifted, about to say something when their boss silenced him with a look.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, getting up.

  “Don’t think too long. This needs to be handled. If you don’t do it, I’ll give it to someone else. They won’t be as good as you and it might be a lot bloodier for both sides. Painful, too,” he added. “For all involved. Especially once they catch up to him. But I’ll do it.”

  “I understand.”

  “We need evidence of it as well. For, ah, well, we do. Photographic evidence.”

  “Now, you’re being a little demanding, James.”

  “You’ve never had your loyalty questioned.”

  “Is it questioned now?”

  “Not if you take care of this.”

  “I said I’ll think about it,” she said. “I’ll give you my answer within twenty-four hours.”

  “Fine. In the meantime, we’ll put some serious resources on the problem. We’ve put feelers out, but you know they’re not always very clean. Mistakes are made. Messy all around and, well, as you know a little imprecise. But we’ll keep trying to locate him and the Barrett woman.”

  “And her role in this?”

  “A casualty.”

  “I understand. And don’t bother trying to locate Jonathon. He called me. I know where he is.”

  O’Reilly sputtered, “But you said you hadn’t!”

  “I lied.” She allowed herself her second rare smile of the meeting. “I do that sometimes.”

  She wasn’t lying about being able to locate her son, though. At least as of the time he called her. The number she had for him to call her triggered a satellite signal she could trace. And had. At the time he called her, he was in a tiny town in Montana. Computer programs using a myriad of possible routes, and her knowledge of her own son, gave her a pretty good idea of where he might go after that point. And of course, if he called her again, she could be sure.

  Part of her wished he would not.

  When she left the room, O’Reilly said, “Are we sure this is necessary?”

  “What? The hit or using her?”

  “Jonathon Vale is, was, a very good agent. I don’t like jumping on this so quickly. We should take some time to digest the developments.”

  Conley stood. “That’s why you’re where you are and I’m where I am. If you ever want to get any further here, you won’t hesitate on decisions like this. Because they’ll only come back to haunt you.”

  O’Reilly didn’t look convinced, but he added, “In any case, calling in Monica, laying it out for her, I’m not sure that was advisable.”

  “I’m not sure you were asked.”

  “It’s just…I mean, she may warn Vale.”

  “Vale’s off the radar. When he didn’t bring the good doctor back here, that was made very clear. He’s already been warned.”

  “You really think she’d consider taking out her own son?”

  Conley laughed. “Monica Vale was practically born into this agency. She doesn’t know anything but it. She’d never turn against it.”

  “Even for her son?”

  “She’s as cold as they come. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you some of the things she’s done in the name of the Agency. Believe me, she’ll consider it. Not sure she’ll agree to it, but she could feel that by betraying the Agency, her son betrayed her. And it’s very dangerous to cross Monica Vale. So, if she takes the job, that’s the most expeditious conclusion. The mole eliminated.”

  “So…we’re sure Jonathon Vale is the mole.” There was no question mark at the end of that, but it was still a question.

  They stared at each other.

  “Completely,” Conley said after a moment.

  * * * *

  Jonathon was going the speed limit. Something he made a habit of as long as no one was chasing him. And no one had been for the last two hours. An empty stretch of road, heading northeast now, with his own headlights the only illumination ahead for miles. A fathomless expanse of black behind him.

  He needed to sleep. He was functioning, but just barely. Pulling over at the side of the road to rest—which was in itself a very bad idea—was starting to look like the only alternative.

  That or waking up a very shaken Veronica and asking her to drive so he could sleep a spell. Also, a very bad idea. He was supposed to be protecting her, not sleeping and leaving her, for all purposes, on her own.

  Of course, crashing into a tree or side barrier because he was too tired to drive was the worst idea he could come up with.

  He glanced over to the passenger seat where Veronica was dozing, her head resting against the window. In sleep, she looked relaxed, no slight narrowing of her eyes, as he’d so often seen when she considered something. No frown, which he’d seen even more often. No shaky smile as she’d given him when they’d gotten through the first motel fiasco. Not to be confused with the second motel fiasco, the bar-motel fiasco.

  He hated like hell to interfere with the sliver of peace she was snatching by sleeping.

  As he considered it, he noticed a pinprick of light in his rear-view mirror, and with the time it took to look away at the road in front of him, it got brighter the next time he checked. Another car, gaining on them fast.

  In an almost automatic move, he felt for his gun, but realized it was in the pocket of his leather jacket on the back seat.

  The car was even closer now.

  Not that he was thinking too clearly, but there were a couple things he could do. Accelerate and try to outrun the car behind them. But there was nowhere to run. This stretch of highway had very few exits. He couldn’t even think of the last one they had passed.

  He could drive the truck off the road and try to make it through terrain that was too dark for him to see, but was likely to be brush at best and trees with no road at worst. Even that would involve plowing through the steel bands which were on the side of the highway for great stretches. The truck he had stolen for them was America’s Truck per the advertising campaign for it, but in reality, it was not sturdy enough to be a true off-road vehicle. Jumping the road barriers, or trying to, and facing whatever lay beyond them was not a very good strategy.

  Or he could stay at the same speed and see if the car passed them, or rammed them. That was quickly becoming the default choice as the pinprick in the mirror became distinct headlights. Wh
en the police siren went on as well, Jonathon couldn’t decide if that was good news or bad.

  It would be good news if it were just a local cop taking advantage of the rare vehicle on his stretch of the road to bolster his ticket tally. It would be bad news if it was a corrupt cop who had been one of the people told to look out for a couple with Jonathon and Veronica’s description. But the cop couldn’t know that was who was in the car he was stopping. No one had followed them after the Winsome Cowboy. He was sure of it. Not unless they were so far back that in his exhaustion he hadn’t noticed them.

  He was overthinking the choice and the cop car was fast catching up to them.

  He made a snap decision and pulled over to the side of the road. The cessation of motion jolted Veronica awake. She rubbed her eyes. “What is it? Why are we stopping?”

  “A cop is flagging us down.”

  She twisted in her seat to see the flashing lights. “What if they’re looking for us?”

  “Better just to find out.” He took the gun out of the pocket of his leather jacket from the back seat and placed it between them, underneath a newspaper that had been in the truck when they hijacked it. At the slightest wrong move from the cop, he would draw on him.

  Assuming the cop didn’t approach the car, gun drawn, himself. If he did that, Jonathon would draw right away, taking him by surprise, and shoot his gun hand. If it was just some local cop, he’d feel bad about it later. But not now. Now, just as dear old mom had taught him, he’d do what he had to do.

  At the last minute, as the police car parked behind them, he realized the driver-side window was broken from when they’d gotten into the truck. Back in the parking lot of the Winsome Cowboy, he hadn’t taken the time to pick the door lock. Just an elbow through the window and brushing the glass off the seat. The gush of air through the window as he drove was part of what had helped to keep him awake. But it would look suspicious, even if the cop was honest.

  A bright light shone behind them straight into their back window. It took a minute for him to react. Much longer than it would have under normal circumstances. But then he pushed Veronica to the truck floor, hunching over her. He could be wrong, it could be standard procedure, but that light felt as if someone was framing their target. If the cop wasn’t, then it would, again, be damned suspicious that they dove to the floor, but fuck it.