Alone With an Escort

by Angela Claire

  “Well, keep at it. Now go. I want to be alone.”

  The guard bowed and joined the twenty more just like him stationed outside the royal bedroom.

  When he was alone, the old man closed his eyes.

  He may have dozed.

  “Are you awake?” a voice whispered at his bedside.

  He opened his eyes in shock. He must have dozed. He must be asleep even now. “It cannot be,” he mumbled.

  Had he perhaps slipped into the after-life in his sleep? Was he dead even now?

  If he was, he was happy, his country be damned.

  He was looking at the one person he most wanted to see in the whole world.

  And had thought to never see again.

  * * * *

  Monica Vale turned over in her mind the proposition James Conley had made to her. If the Agency thought Jonathon was dirty, there was no outcome from their perspective but a summary execution. Whether it was her or somebody else didn’t matter, except that if it were her, Jonathon wouldn’t feel any pain. If someone else took the job…well, different agents had different methods. One who was skilled enough to actually bring Jonathon down might have…foibles when he bagged his prey. Her own methods, and her son’s, had never involved torture, but there were others in the Agency who had some questionable tastes when it came to doing their job.

  She couldn’t let someone like that even get close to taking down Jonathon. She couldn’t risk it. No, worse, she couldn’t bear it.

  She realized that in the insane logic of the Agency—which she had lived by almost her entire life—the only way to protect her son, in a sense, was to accept the job herself.

  “Can I get you more wine, madam?” The waiter at this swank bar and grill, all dark wood and red leather, hovered at her elbow.

  She shook her head no and, when he departed, cut her rare steak, chewing mechanically, barely tasting it. Nothing tasted good anymore, anyway. It had been so long since she had enjoyed a meal.

  Or a man.

  Not since Jonathon’s father, though she could not believe it had been so long ago.

  As if summoned by her wayward thought, an unfamiliar beep came from her inside jacket pocket.

  For a second, she thought she might have imagined it.

  Uncharacteristically flustered, she dropped her steak knife. The lush carpet absorbed the fall without even a whisper, but the beeping sounded as if it was getting louder, though that was her imagination. The beep was steady, monotonous, insistent.

  It was funny. She brought that old pager with her everywhere. Just as she did the miniature cell that was the dedicated line for her son. For decades, she had the flimsy square thing around her neck or in her pocket or in the rare purse she allowed herself on a night out.

  But she had never ever expected it to beep.

  Did they even service these things anymore? Wouldn’t whatever companies had done so originally have gone out of business by now?

  But of course, if the person sending this message through the pager had wanted to, he could jerry-rig something up himself.

  She reached into her pocket and glanced at the face of the beeper, the red phone number flashing at her in time with the beep. She memorized the number, surprised at what the exchange indicated, where he was, then she clicked it off. This particular beeper would be dead thereafter. It was only meant to be used once. And now after so long, it was.

  He wanted to speak to her. After all these years, he wanted to speak with her.

  She motioned for the waiter. “Check, please.”

  This was one phone call she needed to make in absolute privacy.

  A few hours later, in the silence of her apartment looking out at the D.C. skyline, she reflected on what she had learned from that long-ago voice on the line. The call had lasted only minutes, and she had not been able to move, almost to breathe, in the time since. But enough of this inertia.

  She needed to act, as she always did. She picked up the phone again, her agency cell. This time she dialed not the number on the pager, but Conley’s cell.

  When the acting director picked up the line, she said, “I’ll do it. But not alone.”

  Chapter Nine

  #xa0;

  Monica packed up her sparse belongings and left the D.C. apartment for good.

  When she got to her next destination, she allowed herself a modicum of sleep, and so it was that she found herself dreaming. Something that almost never happened, mostly because it was so rare that she fell into a deep enough sleep to enter the REM phase of the sleep cycle.

  The images were sharp, in full relief, just as she had lived them…

  “This is her?” the director asked. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Her trainer shrugged. “Looks can be deceiving, as you know, sir. She’s the best in our most recent crop. Inexperienced in the field, still, I’ll grant you that, but I’ve never seen such natural talent.”

  The director focused his stare on her, turning his attention away from her trainer. “Fine,” he told him. “Leave us.”

  When they were alone, he continued to stare with those intense green eyes, the rest of his tall, lean frame perfectly still as he sat behind his mammoth desk and she stood before it, the edge almost reaching the waist of her black leggings.

  He was, to use the easiest adjective that came to mind, handsome. In a rugged, startling way she had not expected and which made her dislike him more than she had expected to. She disliked—no hated—handsome men, with their presumptions about manipulating the opposite sex and their smug confidence in their own allure.

  She was sorry the director was so good-looking. She had real ambitions for her position in the Agency. She didn’t need any personnel roadblocks.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” He glanced down at her file, but did not call her by name and did not invite her to address him with his.

  “Because I’m the best in my class.” She had no problems with confidence herself.

  “Yes. But I mean the job. Do you know why you’re here?”

  “No. I assume you’re the only one who knows that.”

  He got up from his desk and came around, crowding her, but she did not move even a fraction. She maintained eye contact, though it almost hurt her neck to do so, to stare up so high when he was right in front of her.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  He gestured to the black cap covering her goddamn hair. “Take that off.”

  Reluctantly, she obeyed. At least her hair was restrained, innumerable bobby-pins and elastic rubber bands all joining in the effort to pull it back into a sleek knot at the base of her neck.

  There was still the excruciatingly bright color. She had tried once to dye it plain brown, but something about the texture of her hair wouldn’t retain the dye. It had rinsed right out in a few days. She swore that one day she would shave it all off, though she would stand out even more if she was bald.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Red.”

  “Brilliant observation.” If she could have slapped her palm over her mouth at the words, she would have. Her smart-mouthing would be the death of her.

  In the Agency, perhaps literally.

  But he smiled in a half-smile. “Is it natural?”

  “Yes.”

  His smile widened. “Hmm.”

  “But you’re welcome to check.”

  Monica bolted upright from the dream, drenched in sweat. Like dreaming, perspiring was something she did not do very much. Never had.

  She pulled off the T-shirt she had slept in, black, of course, and now wet, and threw it to the floor.

  No, she would not remember that time period in her life.

  It would not do for that kind of thing to be insinuating itself into her subconscious. She had enough trouble reining in her conscious thoughts on that subject.

  She kicked off the blue silk covers of the king-size bed. Not her style, but she had ditched the high-rise apartment with the killer view of the D
.C. skyline for a house-sitting gig. The owners of the house, who were away on a cruise, did not know about the arrangement. But no matter. Monica would be gone well before they ever came home from their trip.

  And until then, she had a furnished three thousand, five hundred square foot colonial to herself, dropped in the middle of a rural Pennsylvania area where the neighbors, such as they were, minded their own business.

  Or, she had it to herself for another hour or so, she corrected, noting the time.

  She felt as nervous as the twenty-one-year-old girl she’d been when she had first met this man.

  Which was rather stunning, given all she had been through since then.

  She took a quick cold shower, which helped to restore her equilibrium so that she was completely calm when her visitor arrived.

  She left the front door open for him, though in the day he would be able to gain entrance even if she hadn’t. But he was probably out of practice.

  She was seated in a straight-backed dining room chair in the cavernous foyer, facing the door and so waiting for him when he arrived.

  He walked in as if he owned the place, so not much different there.

  He didn’t look very different either. Some gray in the thick black hair, but it only made him look more distinguished. A deep tan indicating where he had been all these years.

  “Hello, Monica.”

  She was afraid to speak. Afraid her voice would come out at the high pitch it had been thirty years before. She nodded and stood.

  “It might be bad manners to mention this right off, my dear, when we have so many other pressing matters to discuss,” he continued, “but I can’t help observing that it seems there was something you forgot to mention during our last encounter.”

  She straightened her spine. “I thought it best.”

  Good. Her voice was at its normal strong tone. She tilted her chin up a touch.

  Those so very familiar green eyes stared back at her. “Best for whom?”

  “For you. It was nothing to do with you.”

  “I’m told by a very reputable source that’s not the case. Which means at least some small part of me was involved, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “It had nothing to do with you because I wasn’t going to—I was planning to—I thought I would—” She could not get the words out. He had often had this effect on her.

  Like before, though, he seemed to know what she meant. “Did you? You considered doing that?”

  “Of course. You know me.”

  This time, he nodded. “I do, which is why I’m not surprised that you didn’t follow through with your plans. But we’ll talk about that later. For now—”

  “Yes, more pressing matters.” She was glad to be back on familiar ground. Not the past. Not emotion. There was no place for that in her life.

  Especially now.

  “Do you know where they are?” he asked.

  “No, I haven’t heard from him again.”

  “That could pose a problem, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Not at all. Because his failure to contact me means he knows I wouldn’t approve, which in turn means I know where he’s headed.”

  “And where is that?”

  “Shangri-La.”

  He couldn’t cover his surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes, but his, not yours. And I’ll know when he’s arrived. I installed something.”

  “I bet you did.”

  “In the meantime, we have a lot of work to do.”

  “Lead the way.”

  * * * *

  It took Jonathon less than five minutes to hot wire the blue Pontiac in the sheriff’s yard. Luckily, it was still operational. “We’ll be driving without plates, though, so we’ll have to stick to back roads for a bit. I don’t want to take the sheriff’s plate.”

  They drove an hour or so, weaving in and out of dirt roads for the most part until they hit a town in Nebraska. Jonathon found an isolated car in an alley and lifted the plates, attaching them after to the old Pontiac. When they were on the highway once more, she asked, “So where to now?”

  “Remember how I said you weren’t going to like it?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “We’re going to fly again.”

  “How can we do that without I.D.?”

  “Not commercial. Private. But it’ll take a few hours to get where we’re going, so just relax.”

  She had no idea how he knew where a private airport even was. Apparently, that was what the GPS in the sheriff’s car was for.

  “Where will we be flying?”

  “Remember Plan B? At the gas station that time?”

  It had seemed so long ago. “Yes, I remember you quoted some movie.”

  “Shangri-La. No, that’s just what I call it.”

  “Is it your mother’s house?”

  “No, definitely not. In fact, I thought about calling her again to see if she had any update, but decided against it. She’ll try to talk me into bringing you in again and one thing I know is that that’s not a good idea.”

  He seemed so refreshed since the last time they had driven that she did feel herself relax, not inclined to push him further for details. He was in complete control again.

  And, dope that she was, that made her feel so much better.

  After more weathered red barns and empty silos than she could count, she did fall asleep and sure enough, when he nudged her awake, they were at an isolated airstrip. She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept, but it was still daytime.

  Veronica followed Jonathon without comment as he broke into the modest shack that served as the airplane hangar. Unfortunately for her, the plane inside was a bare-bones two-seater that freaked her out even more than the helicopter had.

  But what else could she do? Wherever Jonathon Vale wanted to lead her at this point, she was sure as hell going. Even if that was into the clouds again.

  Once inside the plane, she propped her head against the window. Jonathon started the engine up—he was as adept with plane stealing as he was with car stealing it appeared—but this time he checked the gas gauge.

  “Shit! There’s not enough gas for what I have in mind.”

  The ramifications of not having enough fuel were rather more serious in a plane than a car. He switched off the engine and hopped out, rooting around the hangar. After a minute or two, and the sound of some vivid swearing, although no throwing things as of yet, she climbed down, too.

  “No fucking gas cans,” he was muttering as he checked in every cupboard and closet.

  Veronica poked her nose behind him, checking out the contents, and he gave her a slight smile over his shoulder.

  “We need at least ten more gallons than what we have in the tank there. Looks like you may not have to be traumatized into a second flight after all.”

  Her lack of hesitancy surprised her, but she went right to the shelf where she saw the necessary ingredients. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  She spread what she needed out and got a huge vat, the biggest she could find, wondering if this was what the actual owner of the plane did.

  “What are you doing?”

  Pouring the first solution in, she said, “I’m a chemist, remember? I’m making you some gas.”

  He grinned. “You are one handy partner to have around, you know that?”

  She warmed to the compliment.

  “Extremely capable,” he added.

  It almost made up for the fact she was going to have to fly again. A few minutes later, appropriately fueled, they were back in the plane, the engine started. She closed her eyes and felt them leave the ground.

  “It might be better if you opened your eyes.”

  “No chance. Just let me know when we land.”

  “You’ll know,” he muttered.

  It wasn’t so bad. Not with her eyes closed. She may have even fallen asleep again. But then a vibration, like the plane was splitting apart, made her open her eyes in horror just as they were going into
a mountain—almost. The plane dipped and soared and dipped again and a hurried glance at Jonathon showed him to be perfectly calm through it all until he dipped once more and brought the plane to a screeching halt.

  Only then did he look at her, a sheepish smile on his face. “We’ve landed.”

  On the shortest landing strip she had ever imagined. It was more like a driveway.

  They were in a canyon, mountains all around them, with a glass and wood house right in the center. She gazed around, incredulous.

  “Where are we?”

  He got out of the plane and came around to lift her down.

  “Is this some kind of a safe house?”

  “Yeah. You could say that. It’s my house.”

  He held her elbow as he led her to the house, punching a code into a panel by the steel front door. Then he slipped his whole right hand, fingers spread out, into a shelf of some kind beside the panel that beeped. The door popped open and she followed him in, looking around in awe.

  It was as if someone had dropped a house from the cover of Architectural Digest right down smack in the middle of a canyon. Massive picture windows looked out to reddish mountains, giving her only the faintest of clues as to what state they were in. The gorgeous scenery outside was matched by pristine polished oak and luxurious furnishings inside. He led her into a massive kitchen.

  “I always bring groceries in when I come here, but as you recall, we were a little pressed for time. Luckily for you, I happened to be here last weekend and was planning on coming back after this assignment, so we do have food.”

  Jonathon extracted a block of yellow cheese and a bag of rolls from the stainless-steel refrigerator to prove it. He laid the provisions down on the forest-green granite counter and took a knife from a drawer. Perched on a tan leather bar stool, she could only look at the high ceilings and stone fireplace and state-of-the-art appliances with a kind of wonder.

  “What?” he asked as he started to cut the cheese on a wooden board. “You live out in the middle of nowhere, don’t you? At least I have a reason for it.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I don’t want to be found.”