Queen of Humbolt

by Tagan Shepard

  “Go,” Marisol croaked, then cleared her throat. “Get yourself to safety.”

  “You too. Please?”

  “As fast as I can.”

  “I’ll see you in Chicago,” Sloane said, her eyes demanding rather than questioning.

  “Yep,” Marisol said, looking over her shoulder.

  “Hey.” Sloane dragged Marisol’s face down to look at her. “I’ll see you in Chicago.”

  “You know you will.”

  Even before she finished the words, Marisol had turned and jogged away. She knew she should go, but she just wanted one more glimpse. When shadows from nearby awnings hid Marisol, Sloane emerged into bright daylight. Wasting no time, she marched across the courtyard to the gate.

  “Can I help you ma’am?” one of the soldiers asked. The way his eyes traveled over her reminded her of how she must look after her harrowing weekend. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay. I’m a United States citizen and I was kidnapped… What day is it?”

  “Monday.”

  “I was kidnapped three days ago.” The soldier looked over at his partner, shock clear on both their faces. “I’m in danger. Will you please help me?”

  “Of course, ma’am. What’s your name?”

  “Sabrina Sloane, Governor of Illinois.”

  “Governor?” The soldier reached out for her shoulder. “Come inside.”

  Just before she crossed over the threshold of the gate, Sloane turned. She peered into the shadows of the street, looking for any sign of Marisol. She thought she’d heard the pound of boots on pavement, but the street behind her was deserted. She looked for a moment longer, but couldn’t see Marisol anywhere. With a smile, she stepped into safety.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  A chill spread through Sloane not long after the Ambassador left. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, but this cold wasn’t something warmth could fix. It was inside her, made worse each time she blinked and one of the many terrible images she’d collected over the last 48 hours flashed in her mind’s eye. The spray of blood when the first bullet struck Murphy in the chest. Jordan’s face leering over her, her fingers wrapped around Sloane’s throat. Marisol’s skin, bruised and broken, while she smeared green paste over endless wounds.

  “Marisol,” Sloane whispered to the empty room.

  The sound of her name helped. The cold didn’t disappear, but Sloane’s teeth weren’t chattering anymore. She touched her cracked lips with trembling fingers, remembering the brush of Marisol’s against her.

  During the interview, Sloane had not mentioned her name once. She had explained that she’d been rescued from the assassin and that she and her rescuer had both been taken captive, but she had left the identity of her rescuer unspoken. The Ambassador, his incredulity showing plainer on his face the more Sloane spoke, had assumed her rescuer had been one of the officers assigned to her protection and she hadn’t corrected him.

  “And where is the officer now?” he had asked in a squeaking, hesitant voice.

  “We…got separated.”

  She’d expected more questions. Perhaps even a spluttering refusal to accept such a benign and obviously dubious answer. The Ambassador, a political appointee with no obvious qualifications, clearly had no interest in delving deeper. It was obvious he wanted nothing to do with what would surely become a major international incident. His secretary had entered to whisper in his ear and he followed her out of the room with barely enough time to mutter his apologies. Sloane had been happy to see him go, but rather less happy to be left alone with her thoughts.

  They weren’t so much thoughts as an endless stream of worries. Hours had passed since she’d last seen Marisol. Plenty of time for her to cross Bogota on foot and board an airplane. If the plane had arrived. If she hadn’t been stopped by The Bishop’s men. If the plane had been allowed to depart carrying a woman with no passport and no documented arrival in the country. If she hadn’t collapsed in the heat from her myriad injuries. The last, at least, was less of a concern. Whatever had been in the green paste had obviously been effective. She’d shown little discomfort in the time they’d spent in each other’s arms.

  Sloane sucked in a breath at the memory, closing her eyes willingly this time, allowing those images and sensations overwhelm her. For ten years she had told herself that Marisol had used her during that wonderful weekend. That Marisol had callously seduced her and had felt nothing for her. She’d hated herself for the way that weekend had snuck into all of her fantasies since. She’d tried to wash it away in the arms of other women and she had failed utterly.

  Now she knew she’d been wrong. That Marisol loved her and always had. The revelation made her lightheaded, but it also intensified her fear. How could they possibly make a relationship work? A law-and-order Governor in love with her state’s most ruthless gang leader? It was impossible, and yet Sloane had done the impossible before. She had sacrificed and worked and made a career for herself when powerful forces had tried to thwart her. She could put the same determination into her love life. She had to. There was nothing and no one in this world she wanted more than she wanted Marisol and she would find a way to make it work.

  The office door opened behind her and Sloane worked to force Marisol from her mind. She slipped her politician mask back in place and turned to face the Ambassador. The man she found smiling back at her could not have been more different from the US Ambassador to Colombia.

  “Good evening, Governor Sloane,” he said in a rich, low voice. “I’ve ordered a pot of coffee for us. How do you take it?”

  “Cream, no sugar,” she responded automatically.

  “Me too.”

  He crossed to the Ambassador’s desk and reached beneath the front edge. The electronic device he removed was about the size of a box of paperclips and had a small antenna extending from one side. The man smiled and shook his head, sliding open the back cover and removing a coin battery. Tossing the powerless device on the desktop, he crossed to the bookshelf between the two large windows. He tapped on the spine of three books, the last one giving a distinctly hollow reply. This device was clearly a camera and this battery was larger, but after disabling it the man returned the book to the shelf, this time with the false pages facing out.

  “That’s better.” He propped one leg on the desk and smiled down at her. “No one listening or watching.”

  Sloane’s breath came in short, rapid bursts. She tried hard not to let her fear show, but she had the distinct impression that this man could read her far better than Jordan had been able. If he was one of The Bishop’s men, she would never escape. If he could penetrate even the American Embassy, it wouldn’t matter anyway. Sloane would never be free from his grip.

  The man’s eyes flicked over her face and his smile melted. “Forgive me. I’ve frightened you.”

  He reached into his breast pocket and Sloane pressed herself back into the chair, waiting for the bullet to hit. She deserved this. After all, she’d killed Jordan. Perhaps The Bishop was justified in sending someone in here to kill her. It wasn’t a gun he removed from his pocket, however. It was a badge.

  “I don’t usually show this to people,” he said, flipping the leather wallet open to reveal a bland photograph. “My name is Anderson. I’m with the National Security Agency.”

  Now her heart was racing for an entirely new reason. She leaned forward in her chair, nearly leaping out of it. “Is she safe? Did you pick M…”

  She snapped her teeth shut on the name when he held up an admonishing hand.

  “Let’s not be too specific.” His eyes flicked to the device on the desk, making Sloane wonder if he was sure he’d gotten all of them. “I will say that a certain private aircraft took off from a certain airfield two hours ago. They’ve left Colombian airspace headed north. We have a mutual friend on board who is none the worse for wear.”

  Sloane slumped in her chair, letting her head fall back. Closing her eyes she whispered, “Thank god.”
>
  “Let’s not bring her into this yet.”

  She opened her eyes to see his smile back in place. It was the sort of smile she was all too familiar with. A calculated smile that hid more than it revealed. She had used the same one every day in the Governor’s Mansion and even more often in the State’s Attorney’s office.

  “She’s still in danger,” Sloane said as the chill returned.

  “Yes, she is, and she needs your help.”

  Sloane looked into his gray eyes and watched them harden. Now that she studied him closer, she saw evidence of his age. Fine crow’s feet in the dark skin around his eyes. The whisper of gray in his closely shaven temples. His palms, two shades lighter than backs of his hands, rasped against each other. If he’d been the one to bring Marisol into the fold at the NSA, he must’ve been at this a long time. Sloane realized with a jolt that she had no idea how long Marisol had been working as a spy. What sort of life expectancy did an undercover operative have anyway? When you cross men like The Bishop, it couldn’t be too long.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  * * *

  The ache of pressure in Marisol’s ears woke her. She yawned and they popped, though the plane’s descent made the pressure build again. She pushed herself upright in her seat, expecting the cuts and bruises covering her body to scream in protest. Only a few did and she touched the nearly empty jar of green paste in her pocket. Maybe she would track down the gas station owner’s wife one day and thank her for the miracle drug. She’d have to wait until after she’d sorted The Bishop out, however. Travelling back to Colombia now would be monumentally unwise.

  Gray held his phone out and she took it from him. He looked tired and on edge. And not too pleased with me at the moment, she thought. The phone displayed an article from the Chicago Sun-Times which Marisol read as they landed. It was an interesting read to say the least, full of incredible spin.

  Chicago, IL- Three State Police officers assigned to the protection of Governor Sabrina Sloane were found dead in the Gold Coast neighborhood last night. Chicago Police responded to multiple 911 calls reporting gunshots and found the officers outside Governor Sloane’s Chicago residence. There are no reported injuries to Governor Sloane who was not home at the time. An investigation into the murders is ongoing.

  When the article devolved into background on Brin and her career, Marisol stopped reading. The article was indeed interesting, the angle more impressive than she’d expect from the State of Illinois’s press office. And why hadn’t the newspaper pressed for more information? Surely they didn’t believe a full protective detail was assigned to Brin’s empty condo? But then the public had believed far more ludicrous claims from government officials.

  “Now can we talk about the situation at Governor’s Sloane’s place?”

  The plane bumped its way down the runway toward the hangar. She jammed her thumb into the power switch and tossed the phone back to Gray.

  “No.”

  He spluttered angrily as she leapt from her seat and waited for the pilot to open the bulkhead door. The drive back to Humboldt was quiet. She had nothing to say and Gray was sulking. She’d come up with a better answer for him, but it would have to wait. Night had fallen over the city by the time they neared home. It wasn’t until Gray drove them beneath the metal Puerto Rican flag spanning Division Street that Marisol considered her next move.

  Dominque was waiting in her apartment over Club Alhambra. She needed to check in with Washington and strategize their next move against The Bishop. Her cover was blown with him and they’d have to neutralize him soon or risk everything they’d built over the last fifteen years. Then there was The Hotel. No doubt The Bishop’s goons had been keeping tabs on her. They’d be watching even more closely now. She needed to check on The Hotel, but it wasn’t safe to go there yet.

  Then there was Brin. For all her assurances they’d meet again soon, Marisol needed to be sure. Going to watch over Brin’s condo would be almost as dangerous as checking on The Hotel though.

  “Give me the keys,” Marisol growled when Gray killed the engine.

  He looked around the alley behind Club Alhambra, his eyes needling into every shadow. The music from inside the club rattled the car windows. “I’ll walk you upstairs before I go park it.”

  She turned on him, a twinge of pain shooting through her neck at the movement. “I said give me the keys, Gray.”

  “Boss…”

  “Now!”

  He waited until the echo of her shout died before he slapped them into her hand. Slipping around the car, she watched him disappear through the club’s back door. The two guards released the grips of their pistols when they saw him. The door slammed shut and she slid into the driver’s seat, taking three long breaths before firing the engine back into life.

  She parked the car in a long-term garage near The Concrete Beach and forced herself to walk casually, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her leather jacket. Her Ducati was exactly where she’d left it three days ago, though the helmet had rolled off the seat. She slid it over her head and reveled in the opportunity to see without being seen. She fired up the engine and circled the block until she found an inconspicuous spot that afforded her a view of Brin’s front door. Fortunately, the media vans provided ample concealment. The vultures were all just standing around, playing on their phones rather than watching the street, so clearly Brin hadn’t landed yet.

  Marisol settled more comfortably into the seat, letting her mind wander back while she waited to the taste of Brin’s lips. She’d plan her next stop after she saw her love safely home.

  Bella Books, Inc.

  Women. Books. Even Better Together.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  Phone: 800-729-4992

  www.bellabooks.com