by J. Kenner
“Fine, then maybe you can tell me who and what I am. Because I haven’t got a goddamn clue.”
He waited, anticipating an explosive response. A series of verbal slaps to put him in his place for playing such stupid games with someone who was obviously well positioned in the intelligence community. Jack may not know his pass phrase, but he knew the hallmarks of a covert intelligence operation that managed agents in the field.
Whether he was still a soldier or not, he was certain that he was some sort of intelligence officer. What he didn’t know was if this guy was a friend or someone who’d screw him over six ways from Sunday.
“Can you?” he demanded, as the silence lingered—and this time he was certain it was a tactic. “Can you tell me who the hell I am?”
“I think so,” Seagrave said. “I may even know what happened to you. Some of it, anyway.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Hmm. Have you been calling yourself something?”
“Not for long,” he admitted. “As far as I can tell, my world began when I woke up a few hours ago. With a little bit of a prologue before that. The exciting kind with a mystery thrown in.”
“A mystery?”
“I’ve been calling myself Jack,” he said, ignoring Seagrave’s unstated request for the details of Jack’s ignominious dive from the back of the truck. “Jack Sawyer.”
Seagrave burst out laughing, and the sound was so real—and so damn familiar—that Jack found himself chuckling, too.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Seagrave asked.
“Under the circumstances, I’m the wrong one to ask.” He was getting pretty quick with amnesia-laced repartee.
“You were a huge fan of Lost back in the day. Used to watch it with—”
“With?”
“Me,” Seagrave said, though Jack was certain he heard a lie in the man’s voice. “We’d drink beer and watch the absurdity.”
“So we were friends.”
“I hope we still are.”
“Then tell me who I am.”
“I can’t do that. Not right now.”
Jack tensed. “Why not.”
“Because you might not be my friend anymore. And if that’s the case, I don’t want to give you anything more to work with.”
“Fuck.” At some point he’d stood without realizing it and started pacing. Now, he sat. “We need to meet. Face to face. I need to see you to know if I trust you. And apparently you need the same thing.”
“Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just tell me where to go in LA and I’ll meet you.”
“Better if we extract you and bring you in.”
“Not going to happen,” Jack said.
“Why not?”
“Because right now, I’m a man with no friends. I don’t know who I am or who did this to me. So you tell me straight—do you really think that I would trust you with my location?”
“I’m sorry, Jack. And you’re right. I never thought you’d give me your address.”
As Seagrave spoke, a steady thump-thump filled the air, and the cardboard walls of the tiny motel room started to shake.
“Christ,” Jack whispered. “What have you done?”
“I swear no one will harm you. Just let them take you in.”
He didn’t bother answering. Just ended the call, his mind whirring. His hand went to the swathed end of the mirror shard, and he clutched it tight, ready to slice or stab.
But that was a pipe dream. He could already tell from the increasing volume that this wasn’t one lone helicopter. These were military choppers, and his best guess was at least five of them. Probably two in the parking lot, one in the air, and two behind his room.
One bit of a broken mirror and his scathing wit were hardly going to hold them at bay. Which meant he had a choice. He could cower in the room and try to fight them off, or he could open the door, walk out onto the sidewalk, and accept the next step of what was turning into a most unusual adventure.
3
So here’s the salient fact of the day: I, Denise Ellen Marshall Walker, am a horrible person.
Or at least a very screwed up one.
I must be, right? Because here I am soaking up the sunshine in one of the most posh backyards in all of California, and instead of thinking, wow, lucky me to have such amazing friends and colleagues, I’m seething with envy.
Not about the house, although no one could blame me for that. After all, this is Damien Stark’s Malibu property, and that man does nothing half-assed. I can’t prove it, but I’m ninety percent sure he imported the sunshine along with the patio’s gorgeous Italian flagstones.
But no, it’s not real estate that’s turning me the color of Elphaba. Instead, it's my partner, Quince, and his girlfriend, Eliza, who are holding hands and looking like they could eat each other up. And why not? They’ve finally gotten back together after an interlude long enough for dinosaurs to evolve all the way to extinction. But am I happy for them?
Oh, please. Of course, I am. I’m screwed up, but I’m not a bitch.
I am happy for them.
I’m also sick with jealousy, and hating myself because of it. But the simple truth is that I don’t have the patience to wait for another era to pass. I want my husband back. I haven’t seen Mason in over two years. Not since he left on a deep-cover assignment, and I miss him so much that sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to curl up and die just from the pain of my loneliness.
I’m pushing through, though. My friends help. My work helps. And my certainty that he’s out there—that he still wants and misses me—helps, too.
But none of that helps enough to dull the knife-edge of jealousy when I witness a happy reunion.
And today, I’m pretty much drowning in a sea of happy.
If it were just Quince and Eliza, maybe I wouldn’t be such a basket case. But the point of this day is to celebrate the successful wrap-up of a Stark Security case, along with the impending reunion of a European princess with her extremely relieved royal father.
The Stark Security Agency is a relatively new division of Stark International, a huge conglomerate owned by former tennis player turned entrepreneurial billionaire Damien Stark and operated by Ryan Hunter, who used to head up Stark International’s corporate security.
Formed after Stark’s youngest daughter was kidnapped, the SSA is staffed by some serious badasses, most of whom left other law enforcement or intelligence jobs because they believe in Stark’s mandate of providing help where it’s needed, no matter how big or small the job.
I’m one of those badasses now, having left my covert government job a while back. I’m not feeling particularly tough right now, though. Instead, I’m moody and lonely and jealous. Because everyone else is celebrating, and I just feel lost.
Really not one of my finer moments, and I force myself to look away in case either Eliza or Quince notices my melancholy expression and it puts a damper on their happiness.
Frankly, it’s a good decision, because once I shift my attention to the pool, it becomes much harder to remain melancholy. Not when dark-haired little Lara Stark is splashing water on her giggling younger sister, all while the recently rescued princess tries half-heartedly to interest both Stark girls in the colorful pool noodles.
From the opposite side of the pool, Eliza’s sister, Emma, is watching the girls as well, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She’s in a tank top and shorts, her thigh tightly bandaged after yesterday’s battle.
Only yesterday.
Honestly, it already seems so far away, and the despicable truth is that I want another case. And soon. Even though that means that there’s someone in trouble. I want it, because without it, I don’t know how I can keep my thoughts from wandering back to Mason, or my heart from breaking into pieces all over again.
Damn. I wipe my damp eyes and hope no one notices. I really should have worn my sunglasses…
The thought still lingers when I realize that Quince is coming
my way. I’m desperately in love with my husband, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good-looking man, and Quince definitely qualifies. He’s British, which is really neither here nor there, but that awesome accent definitely adds to the appeal of his dark, lean looks. He has an edgy, dangerous air, but at his core, he’s one of the kindest men I know. And the most loyal.
Most of all, he’s completely smitten with Eliza. Honestly, it’s kind of adorable.
As he approaches, I look past him for her, then realize that she’s disappeared. Probably inside the house where Nikki, Damien, and the rest of this morning’s crew have gone for coffee and a buffet-style breakfast.
“So, we did it,” he says as he sits on the edge of my chaise.
“You and Eliza?” I quip as I scoot over to make room for him. “I should hope so, the way you two have been making puppy dog eyes at each other for the last few days.”
“Funny girl,” he retorts, but he’s grinning so I know that he doesn’t mind me teasing him. He knows perfectly well that I adore Eliza and think they make a terrific couple. “I want to hear it straight from you.”
“Hear what?” I’m genuinely confused.
“That you and I make a great team, and you’re going to stay in the field and not decide this was a one-off and go back to riding a computer.”
I make a scoffing noise, as if he’s saying the most ridiculous thing. But he’s not. After all, that’s what I’d done right before we met. I’d been so morose at Mason’s long absence that I’d left my government assignment and taken Ryan up on his offer to recruit me over to his security team. But I’d refused field assignments.
Quince is the one who convinced me to get back in the field. We worked a bit together during the Stark kidnapping investigation and hit it off, probably because both of us were walking around under the same dark cloud. Whatever the reason, we ended up as friends, and the assignment that we just wrapped marked our first official job as partners.
“No way you’re getting rid of me now,” I tell him honestly.
His brows rise. “Now?”
“Sure.” I flash a mischievous smile. “Now that you’re with Eliza. That means I have someone I can gossip to about all your annoying habits.”
“Ah, well, then I guess it’s lucky that there’s not a single bloody thing about me that’s annoying.”
“Yeah,” I say, deadpan. “Lucky.”
We share a grin, and then I reach out and put my hand over his, which is resting on the chaise cushion. “I’m so glad you two are together,” I tell him sincerely. “You were meant to be, you know.”
“I do,” he said. “And I’m determined not to blow it. We’re even doing counseling. First session next Thursday.”
“Good for you,” I say, wondering if maybe I should try that, too. Maybe I could learn how to fill this cavern that’s growing in my soul. I shake the thought away; this moment isn’t about me.
He shifts his hand so that he can close his fingers around mine and gives them a gentle squeeze. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Such a simple question, but it’s said with so much genuine concern that my eyes water, and I have to blink away tears. “Just melancholy. I love you, and you’re one of my best friends, so don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m so goddamn jealous I can’t see straight.”
“I’m sorry, Denny. I wish I could give him back to you.”
“I know,” I say with a nod, and even though Quince has always called me by the nickname that Mason tagged me with, this morning, that name makes me want to burst into tears.
Over Quince’s shoulder, I see Eliza step through the open doorway, a tray full of coffee cups in her hands. I point toward her, suddenly desperate for a few moments alone. “Looks like she brought coffee for everyone. You should give her a hand.”
“I’ll bring you a cup.”
I shake my head as he stands, and his brows rise in surprise because he knows damn well I’m addicted to the stuff. “I think I caught a bug. My stomach’s been rebelling when I have coffee on an empty stomach. I’ll grab some food soon,” I say before he can offer to bring me that as well.
“Fair enough,” he says, obviously hearing my underlying plea that he leave. Most of the time I’m doing just fine—truly. But today, with the celebration and the love and—
I sniff and blink and will myself not to cry as I watch him stride toward Eliza, and my breath hitches at the way she lights up upon seeing him.
I swallow. Must. Stop. This.
Seriously, I have got to stop feeling sorry for myself. But, dammit, I don’t know what’s happened to him. I don’t know if he’s safe. I don’t even know if he’s alive, although surely I’d feel the pain in my heart if he’d already left this world.
The only thing I know—or think I know—is that four months ago, I thought—
“Born in the USA…”
My phone’s ringtone is both loud and totally unexpected—because that particular Springsteen song is assigned to my former boss, Colonel Anderson Seagrave. I snatch my phone up eagerly, then answer with a mix of hope and trepidation. Because Seagrave is still Mason’s boss.
“Have you heard anything?” I ask without preamble. I know it’s not his assistant making the call. Anderson’s a busy man, but he wouldn’t do that to me; he knows too well that I’m desperate for news about my husband.
“Denise.” He clears his throat. “We need to talk.”
“Where is he?” I see no sign of my husband as I peer into what looks like a nice studio apartment, but is really a secure, government hospital room. The walls are painted a soothing beige, made even calmer by framed landscape paintings that are artfully arranged on the walls.
“He’ll be back soon,” Seagrave assures me, but all I can do is shake my head. Mason might come back into the room, but he won’t really be back. Not if what Seagrave told me on the phone is true.
“This will be hard for you to hear,” he’d said, and my body had turned to ice.
“He’s dead.” I was sure of it. Seagrave’s the commander of the Western Division of the ultra-secret Sensitive Operations Command. He’s a good man, but highly placed. And he doesn’t have time to call about routine matters.
“No, no,” Seagrave’s rebuttal spilled out, breaking through the rising hum in my ears. “He’s alive. But he’s lost his memory.”
I made a strangled sound, then immediately looked down at the flagstone patio, not wanting Quince or anyone else at the party to notice my expression. “His—what? What exactly do you mean?”
“He doesn’t know who he is. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“And me?” My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear his response.
“I’m sorry, Agent Marshall,” he’d said, the reference to my professional title obviously intended to shore me up emotionally. “But he doesn’t know you, either.”
I don’t remember ending the call. I don’t remember talking to anyone, but I must have, because Quince and Eliza drove me into downtown Los Angeles.
I’d managed to gather myself during the drive, but I’m still in shock. Slightly queasy. Cold, despite Quince loaning me an oversized sweat jacket that he’d found in the back of his immaculate black Range Rover.
Most of all, I’m in denial.
Because despite what Seagrave told me about Mason remembering nothing about his life or me, I’m absolutely, one hundred percent certain that the moment he sees me, it will all flood back. Maybe not work. But me. Him. Us.
Considering what he and I share—the intensity of our relationship, the strength of our bond—how could any other result be possible?
And yet doubt still niggles at my soul…
Now, I draw a deep breath and focus on the room that has been my husband’s home for almost a week. I’m still angry that Seagrave didn’t contact me right away, but those emotions will get me nowhere, and I’ve pushed them out of sight, hidden them in the trash can of my mind where I store all useless facts.
Instead, I let my gaze play hopscotch around the room, wishing that he were in there at this moment. But all I see are the furnishings. A dresser, a small writing desk, a kitchenette, a bed. The IV rack and monitors mark the only clue that this room is anything out of the ordinary.
That, and this window made of one-way glass. From Mason’s perspective, it’s a full-length mirror next to the bathroom. I wonder if Mason remembers enough about his past life and career to realize that’s total bullshit.
The thought makes me frown, and I glance at Seagrave. He’s looking into the room, too, but he must feel my eyes on him because he tilts his head up, then wheels himself slightly backward so that we can face each other more directly.
He’s in his mid-forties with an easy smile and dark hair that’s already graying at the temples. I don’t know how he lost the use of his legs, but I heard through the grapevine that it wasn’t in battle, though he’s seen more than his share of action.
He’s efficient, fair, and a natural leader. I would have happily worked under him forever had it not been for Mason’s disappearance. I’d wanted to head up an extraction team. Seagrave not only flatly refused to authorize the mission, but also denied me any lead or clue as to Mason’s whereabouts. Continent. Country. City. I had no clue where to start, which meant that even a vigilante-style extraction would have been impossible.
I respected his decision—truly. But I resented it, too. And as the months dragged on, I couldn’t stay with the SOC. Not with my fears and memories beating down on me every damn day.
“How are you doing?” he asks me now.
“Stupid question,” I mutter.
“Is it?”
I shrug, wishing that Quince and Eliza were still with me. But this is an authorized personnel only situation, and they have no connection with my former government job.
“You were one of my best agents, Denise. And you handled everything I threw at you. You’ll get through this, too.”
I look away from him, because I think we may have just found my limit. Because I’m not handling this well at all. Instead of facing reality, I’m clinging to the scenario I’ve been playing out in my head. Me walking into that room. Mason standing politely, his head cocked in that way he has when he’s trying to work out a puzzle. For a terrifying moment, his expression will be blank. Then a smile will spread across his face and sunshine will fill those chestnut eyes. “Denny,” he’ll say, as I slide into his arms. “Christ, Denny, I thought I’d lost both of us.” “Never,” I’ll whisper. “I’ll always see you home.”
