She ripped and tore at his face; he laughed through clenched teeth. His eyes were . . . mad. Merciless. Insane.
She knew better than to scrabble at her attacker’s hands, how futile and wasted any efforts to pry his fingers from her throat were, but the urge, the need, to free herself was desperate.
She had mere moments of consciousness left. While Weiß shouted from somewhere beyond the gray edges of her vision, she scratched and scored Taylor’s hands with one hand. With the other, her injured hand, she reached into her upswept hair and yanked it loose.
The night before leaving Sweden, Laynie had spent an hour stropping the hair stick into a backup weapon. She’d honed the stick into a fine, razor-sharp shiv that glittered in the moonlight between her fingers. Taylor’s maniacal gaze shifted to it too late. Linnéa drove the sharpened stiletto into the hollow between his collarbone and neck.
Shrieks split the night air as Taylor pulled away; Linnéa, teetering upon the railing, somehow managed to fall forward. She stumbled and crashed to her hands and knees, gasping, choking, coughing, then vomiting on the bridge’s frozen sidewalk.
She raised her head, looking for Taylor, preparing to rise and defend herself again.
Her eyes encountered Weiß first. The errant shot from the Beretta had found him; he was kneeling in the street, groaning, holding his side.
She wrenched her eyes away from Weiß, seeking Taylor. Finding him.
He leaned against his car’s hood, staring at her. He had both hands pressed to his neck, but the blood pumping from his wound would not be staunched. Bloody foam burbled on his lips, while crimson rivulets spurted from between his fingers, ran down his arms and onto the hood, then dripped and drizzled upon the road.
As two cars raced onto the bridge and disgorged Marstead operatives, Taylor—his glazed eyes fixed on Linnéa—slid slowly down the hood to the car’s grill and bumper and to the pavement. He sat upright for a moment, then tumbled over, his hands losing their hold on his neck.
Blood seeped from beneath him and pooled. Taylor still stared at Linnéa, but his eyes had lost their focus. He was gone.
Hands reached for her, lifted her up. “Are you all right?”
Linnéa shook them off. “No thanks to you! Where were you? Why were you late?”
“We . . . lost the cab in the fog.” The shamefaced agent, a stranger, held out her pocketbook. “This is yours, I believe? You must be freezing. Come on, get in the car.”
She spat at him—at all of them. “Take care of them, but leave me alone!”
Staggering a step back, she found her shoes and slipped them on, collected her stole, dragged it over her shoulders, and watched. They were “cleaning” the scene with urgent haste, getting done what they could before the police arrived. Two operatives shoved Weiß into the back seat of one car; others piled Taylor’s body into his car’s trunk and drove the vehicle away.
Soon all that remained of those harrowing minutes on the bridge were Linnéa, a single Marstead auto, two operatives, and Taylor’s lifeblood congealing on the icy pavement.
“Let’s go!” the same agent insisted, touching Laynie’s elbow.
She jerked away. She was too angry to go with them. Too filled with sorrow.
“Give me a minute,” she whispered. “Go on ahead. I need . . . I need to walk.”
Postscript
LINNÉA ADJUSTED HER somewhat-bedraggled stole and made for the other side of the bridge. One stocking was torn, her steps in the high heels wobbled, and her body shook—chilled not by the cold but by Taylor’s betrayal and the terror she’d endured, a terror she had beaten only by taking his life . . . the life of another human being.
“But I’m alive,” she whispered. “I’m alive because I killed him. I had no other choice.”
Behind her, she heard the first, faint warbles of police sirens. She would have to get off the bridge and move away from it or risk being picked up for questioning—and that would not do. She had bruises on the tender skin of her neck and Taylor’s blood on her hands and dress, blood that matched the frozen puddles at the center of the bridge.
She picked up her pace, anger and shock beginning to bleed off, replaced by what was necessary and expedient.
She had rounded the far base of the bridge so that she was walking parallel to the river when something stirred down deep within her. Whatever it was, it uncurled and settled there. Linnéa stopped, stared out at the water, and dared to touch that “thing” in her soul, to know it and put a name to it.
It was a conviction, cold and solid. It was an unalterable decision.
She would remain with Marstead and serve as they asked her—she would continue on, push and claw her way forward, exceed her handlers’ and superiors’ expectations, defeat trepidation and self-doubt, and win at this “game” of espionage.
“Whatever the cost,” she whispered.
I have killed now. To go forward, I must overcome narrowmindedness, set aside the squeamish morals of my youth—those things that bind me, that make me ineffective, a danger to my craft.
She would embrace and, without qualms or further guilt, use the power her body gave her over men, even strong, powerful men . . . and their secrets.
The love she had felt for Black?
Extinguished.
Dead.
She would never offer it to another.
I must harden myself, become whatever and whomever I must become . . . to steal what I must steal.
Linnéa nodded to herself, acknowledging her resolve. She walked on, calm and steady.
Wiser in the ways of the world.
Mama, Dad, and Sammie must never know what I really do, what I have become. They cannot know what I’ve traded for the greater good.
“‘For the greater good’?” another Voice whispered.
Such a tender, gentle Voice it was! So gentle, that its next words did not immediately bite or sting.
“Have you convinced yourself that sin can be ‘good,’ under some circumstances? Or are you employing ‘the greater good’ as justification for your sins—so that you will feel righteous in your own eyes? So you might avoid admitting how lost you are?
Come to me, child. I will find you and take you home.”
Home.
The whispered caress flew Linnéa Olander from Hamburg across oceans and continents; it conveyed her back in time, two decades and more.
Three-year-old Laynie Portland nestled in her mama’s sweet, chocolate-hued embrace. Polly’s comforting arms held her close and rocked her back and forth. Little Laynie snuggled against Polly’s bosom. She even felt the drowsy tug of sleep as her mama sang to her.
“Yes, Jesus loves me,” Mama crooned in Laynie’s ear. “Yes, Jesus loves me.”
Mama’s warm breath kissed her forehead. “Do you know how much Jesus loves you, sugar? He loves you so much that he will wash you clean, give you a new heart, take away all your shame, and never, ever leave you . . .”
Linnéa hummed the chorus; her memories filled in the lyrics, “Yes, Jesus loves me, yes, Jesus loves me.”
Does Jesus love me? Is that true? Did he ever love me?
No. I have never been worth it.
She shuddered and shook herself, continued walking until she reached the next corner. Ahead and to the right a car drew to the curb. She recognized the agent in the passenger seat attempting to make eye contact with her.
Marstead. They’d arrived too late to save her; now they wanted to whisk her away.
“Jesus will never leave you, Laynie, sugar. He done made that a promise.”
“I don’t think that promise applies to me, Mama.”
Linnéa moved her hand an inch or two, a twitch only, signaling the agent that she’d seen him. The car eased down the street and turned left to a less conspicuous pickup location. A minute later, Linnéa crossed the street and turned left, too.
As she reached for the car’s door handle, her mother’s voice, denying the frigid night, warmed her cheeks like a waft
of balmy air.
It breathed into her heart, “Do you know how much Jesus loves you, sugar?”
No Mama, it’s far too late for me—and perhaps it always has been. I’m set on this course. There’s no turning back now.
She slid into the rear seat.
“Drive,” she ordered.
The End
(What’s Next?)
MY DEAR READERS,
I hope you enjoyed this introduction to the Laynie Portland series. Click here to explore the beginnings of the next book in the series, Laynie Portland, Retired Spy. This full-length novel is filled with more twists and turns than the tallest, fastest roller coaster in North America, Six Flags’ Kingda Ka, and its epic Zumanjaro: Drop of Doom. (*Grin* Yes, I love roller coasters!)
As you begin the next leg of your journey with Laynie in Retired Spy (and if you are new to my writing), you may also begin to realize that Laynie’s “backstory” is not complete. If you are interested in the very first glimpse of Laynie in my books, check out my series, A Prairie Heritage. This eight-book series follows the same family across many generations. Laynie does not make her entrance until Book 7; however, as my guests, I invite you to enjoy the first three full-length books in the series without cost by downloading A Prairie Heritage: The Early Years from your preferred eBook retailer.
If you would like to keep abreast of my publication schedule and receive notices when new releases go on preorder, I invite you to sign up for my newsletter. (I send between two and four emails a year; I promise not to spam you or sell your email addresses.)
Interested in viewing all of my books? Click here to see a complete list of all my books further on in this eBook.
Thank you. I appreciate your readership and the fellowship we share in Jesus.
Many hugs,
Vikki
Author’s note: The Soviet Union officially dissolved on December 26, 1991. Its former Soviet republics became independent nations, including Russia, which emerged as the Russian Federation.
A Preview of
Laynie Portland,
Retired Spy
Prologue
Stockholm, Sweden, August 1994
“YOU WANT TO TAKE A leave of absence? What, now? No. Absolutely not.”
“I put in for the time weeks ago, sir; I was told my request was approved.”
“Well, this letter changes everything: Petroff is the payoff for your years of work, Linnéa: He’s not just a ‘big fish’; he’s the catch of the century. We lost our last opportunity to hook him—as I shouldn’t have to remind you. I can’t allow you to screw it up a second time.”
Lars Alvarsson studied the woman standing before his desk: She was tall, slim but shapely in all the right places, even for a woman on the far end of her thirties. Milky-soft blue eyes appraised him from beneath a graceful upsweep of dark blonde hair.
She projected intelligence. Composure. Confidence.
But it was the rare glimpse—only a hint—of vulnerability that set her apart in a room of beautiful women; it was the allure that drew intelligent and powerful men to her.
Alvarsson had never been able to decide if the intimation of fragility was her natural personality surfacing or if it was yet another facet of her skills—for this woman was, by far, the best actor he’d worked with in his professional capacity.
Dressed in tasteful simplicity, she could have posed for a photo layout titled, “Today’s Consummate Female Swedish Professional”—except that she was not Swedish. Few individuals in the world knew that she was born an American, recruited straight out of the University of Washington in her early twenties, transplanted to Sweden, and “attached” through her mother to a family that had lived generations in a village not far from Uppsala.
Her real name was not Linnéa Olander.
It was Helena Portland—Helena, pronounced heh-LAY-nuh—although she had always insisted that she be called “Laynie.”
Laynie Portland.
The woman lifted her chin and met Alvarsson’s gaze. “I would not ask, but it is important. A family matter, sir.”
My only sister is getting married in two weeks. In a rural, backwater, American farming community, of all places. I need to be with her on her wedding day.
I promised.
But she did not speak those words aloud. She had kept her boss and his superiors ignorant of her sister’s existence. Alvarsson knew of Laynie’s adoptive parents in Seattle. He knew that her only brother and his wife had died in a car crash eight months ago, orphaning their two little ones. And, as far as he knew or cared, the children’s maternal grandparents had assumed guardianship of the children.
He did not know about Kari or that the children, Shannon and Robbie, were with her now.
Kari, my sister. You searched for me; you hunted high and low, and you found me—after a lifetime apart!
No, her watchful, jealous employers did not know about her sister.
Kari was safer that way.
The scowl Alvarsson turned on her was as unsympathetic as it was unyielding. “You don’t have a family, Linnéa, remember? With the exception of a single, covert holiday in the U.S. once a year, you gave them up. That was the deal, and it hasn’t changed.”
“Sir—”
“No. Regardless of how careful we are, returning you to the States hazards blowing your cover and exposing the Company. And the risks don’t even speak to the expense. To transition you from Stockholm to the U.S. in your previous identity requires the allocation and coordination of many resources, and each operation sets Marstead back something in the realm of a hundred thousand dollars.”
Marstead International: “the Company.” A respected and flourishing enterprise with a global reach but, unknown to a large slice of its employees, Marstead was also a well-developed front for a joint American and NATO Alliance intelligence agency with its largest office located in Stockholm, Sweden—even though Sweden was not a member of NATO, preferring a neutral position in the world’s conflicts. Basing many of its operations out of Stockholm had been intentional on Marstead’s part, a means of functioning in plain sight and close proximity to the Soviet Union (now the Russian Federation).
“We permitted you to take emergency leave to attend your brother’s funeral back in January, and that was your vacation for the year. You aren’t owed more leave at this time—we’re still paying the price of your last one! During that unscheduled, three-week absence, Petroff’s ardor cooled, and we lost our window, our opportunity to intercept the Russians’ new laser schematics.”
“I am aware, sir.”
As if I weren’t conscious of the setback; it has taken six months of tedious, cautious maneuvering to reignite Petroff’s interest.
Alvarsson raised one eyebrow. “Are you, Linnéa? Do you grasp the long-term implications? If you do, if you care so much about those people in the States you call ‘family’—and if you are concerned at all for your own skin—then you know exactly why we cannot have you jaunting off to the States at this crucial juncture.”
Alvarsson steepled his hands in a judicious manner. “Hear me on this, Olander: Our sources tell us that your Russian ‘friend’ already has his people doing a deep dive into your background. Right now—at this very moment—his people are scouring your family tree, your education, your work history, your travel records. We cannot afford to take any chances.”
He added, almost as an afterthought, “You don’t become the exclusive plaything of a formidable, highly placed Russian politician without coming under great scrutiny first.”
Exclusive plaything.
Inwardly, Linnéa flinched, but she never flicked an eye or moved a muscle. She understood her role. It was the daily bread of her work—guiding the selected “man of the hour” through the phases of infatuation, romance, affection, love, and trust. Followed by betrayal.
Linnéa had accrued her sordid skills through the Company’s rigorous tradecraft training program. She had learned well; she was good, very good, at her job.
My life may have no value, but the information I gather does.
With the dissolution of the Soviet Union came the end of the Cold war. In the vacuum that followed, the city of St. Petersburg—Russia’s gateway to the Baltic Sea—became a thriving hub of Russian scientific discovery and technological innovation. St. Petersburg was rich in culture, and it was burgeoning with opportunity.
St. Petersburg was Linnéa’s hunting ground.
Marstead operated a branch office in St. Petersburg, and Linnéa traveled from Stockholm to St. Petersburg each month, ostensibly to work her Russian Marstead accounts. In reality, she spent her evenings trolling the night clubs and hot spots where bored, overworked scientists, engineers, and inventors came to refresh themselves.
She was cautious, and she chose her marks herself—until Petroff arrived.
Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff, brilliant scientist, wealthy Russian powerbroker and politician, lived in Moscow and normally worked there. He breathed the rarified air of the Russian Federation’s Security Council on a daily basis, serving as Secretary Rushailo’s personal technology advisor.
Petroff was a man whose access to state secrets could satisfy Marstead’s intelligence needs for years. He possessed every quality Marstead desired, rolled into a single mark, but he was a man beyond Marstead’s reach until, just over a year ago, Petroff’s official duties required his occasional, ad hoc presence in St Petersburg.
With Petroff’s appearance, Marstead’s interests shifted. They pulled Linnéa off her other assignment and ordered her to focus her attentions on Petroff. Linnéa was to be the bait at the end of the hook; she was to win her way into a long-term relationship with the man. If Linnéa conducted herself well, if she ingratiated herself into the Russian’s life, Petroff was to be her next (and possibly her last) mark.
Laynie Portland, Spy Rising—The Prequel Page 20
