Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (16 page)

Guess that was a no.

Jordan’s gaze moved constantly, his right hand near his hip. And I realized he was carrying.

He held me up while I clung to him like a helpless little girl. “What are we looking for?”

“Never saw the second guy.” We skidded to a stop at the end of the alley.

Sweat sheened over my entire body. Amazing really, I shouldn’t have any extra hydration because of all the puking.

Jordan assimilated us into the flow of pedestrians at a seemingly leisurely pace, or as leisurely as foot traffic was in New York City. He hugged me close but kept his hand near his belt.

“First guy, bicycle messenger. Black clothes, black helmet, messenger bag over his right shoulder, Bluetooth in his ear.”

“You sure he wasn’t just a messenger?”

He cocked his head at me.

“Okay, sorry. Why is someone tracking you?”

After all, his think tank job wasn’t exactly espionage and he’d been out of the FBI for over a year.

We walked, me plastered against his side, his head bent down as if he were nuzzling my hair while he quartered the street in front of us and continuously glanced behind.

“Not sure.”

 My shoulder rubbed against his chest. The bulk of his body, the heat of his skin, the woodsy scent of his soap and shampoo, the familiarity of his heartbeat, overwhelmed me.

When I had allowed myself to imagine a reunion at all, hot sex had been my favorite fantasy.

I needed my brain to start working properly. Not focusing on things that didn’t matter.

“Damn, you’re bony,” he blurted out.

My heart constricted.

I was a goddamn mess. I knew it. I also never realized how much my appearance mattered to me until taken away.

“Yeah.” I wasn’t going there. “So why is someone following you and why are you carrying?”

He had a permit to carry concealed, but when we were together, I’d only seen him with a weapon when getting some trigger time at the shooting range.

We dodged a slow-moving couple, man with a cane, woman with a blush-pink pillbox hat, playbill coming out of her matching pink purse.

“I was involved in a shooting last week.”

My steps dragged for a minute. “What?”

“Not the place.” He glanced around meaningfully and, really, I knew better.

But I couldn’t wait. “Shooting....” I prompted.

“I helped an agent from the NSA and an old FBI friend recover two teenaged kids after they were kidnapped.”

Startled, I glanced up into his face, set in a hard expression, mouth a thin line, gaze constantly roving.

“I believe you know the boy.”

“I do?”

“John Wishbone.”

I stumbled. John Wishbone. So I’d been right, and the girl had been in danger. “She okay?”

“Bella?” The light turned yellow.

Jordan sprinted across the street, dragging me along. As the light went red, taxis and cars jumped forward in a puff of exhaust.

“Yeah.” Jordan kept his gaze on the traffic, the congestion around us. “She’s fine.”

I’m sure I imagined the censure in his voice.

I wracked my brain for a reason why he would have been involved with John Wishbone and Bella Holden and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how or why he would know either one.

The suspicious part of my nature kicked in. I hadn’t even begun to process that we’d run into each other at Murphy’s. “How’d you hook up with them?”

The sidewalk narrowed under scaffolding covered with a canvas tarp. I didn’t want to be confined. The flat, grim line of Jordan’s mouth confirmed he felt the same.

He held fast to my hand and we hustled through the dark tunnel. “That’s a pretty long story and the reason I’ve been looking for you.”

We emerged from the darkened walkway under the scaffolding and fell into an easy partnership. He checked right while I took left.

Everything appeared ordinary. I breathed a quick sigh of relief. We sprinted across 49
th
Street and I finally realized where he was dragging me.

The Waldorf.

Could be he was heading toward the W, but my luck wouldn’t be that good.

I hadn’t been to the Waldorf-Astoria since my grandparents’ death fifteen years ago. I swallowed hard, this time from the memories.

“The Waldorf?” I didn’t want to go inside.

“Yeah.”

The doorman smiled as he pulled open the ornate brass doors for us, not even blinking at my attire or that we were both sweating.

Jordan hustled me up the intricate Persian runner. The light streaming from the elaborate crystal chandelier felt ultra bright after the onset of dusk outside.

We headed for the elevators. The piano tinkled from the lobby bar for the hotel guests seated on the curved sofa. A distinguished man in a tux and an older woman, perfectly coiffed, in a bronze beaded gown, sauntered around a large round mahogany table, laden with a flower arrangement so huge, the top almost touched the smaller crystal chandelier in the elevator lobby. But not everything was so formal. A couple of younger guys in jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes hurried past us with Starbucks cups.

The elevator doors were sliding closed. Jordan took two long strides forward, and put his hand out to stop the doors from closing.

We stepped into the empty elevator. He punched the number for the fourth floor.

“Hate elevators. Ambush waiting to happen.” His tension was contagious.

When the elevator dinged for our floor, we instinctively moved to separate sides, almost pressed up against the wood paneling of the wall where the doors opened.

If anyone was waiting, they’d think we’d gotten off earlier.

The doors slid open.

No one moved.

A vacuum cleaner droned nearby. I peered out, looking at the mirror across from the elevator bank as Jordan pressed the button to keep the doors open.

The foyer was empty.

As if choreographed, we exited quickly. “What room?”

 “Service elevator.”

He strode toward the center of the tower, clearly already having done reconnaissance. Expecting trouble?

Jordan glanced at his watch. “We’ve got two minutes before any of the other elevators could get back here, assuming they didn’t stop along the way.”

“Stairs?”

“That’s why we’re using the service elevator.”

He stepped through a door marked ‘private’, and punched the elevator call button. We held perfectly still, listening for any kind of pursuit.

We jumped inside, and I jabbed the ‘door closed’ button. Jordan hit the button for the eighth floor, then pulled out his cell phone and pressed speed dial.

“Who are you calling?”

“A friend.” Jordan spoke quickly and quietly into his phone. “I’m coming. I need you to be at the door, ready to let me in. Someone is following me.”

We made it to the room without incident. The door swung open and Jordan jerked me inside.

“Dude. Can’t believe you were followed.”

As the door slammed shut behind us, a guy with a mop of curly blond hair stood in the suite's foyer and looked at me with total surprise.

“Holy shit, Staci Grant. You found her.” A big smile lit his face showing a line of straight white teeth. “What, you just wandered around New York City until you ran into her?”

"Uh, sort of," Jordan replied.

He beamed at me. The whole situation felt surreal. We stood in a small foyer that reminded me more of the entry to an apartment than a hotel room.

I knew this little foyer. We’d always gotten a suite when we’d come to the Waldorf. My grandmother insisted we have a formal flower arrangement for the little key table so every time we walked into the room we saw and smelled roses.

A lump formed in my throat.

I hadn’t been back here for a reason, dammit.

Jordan still had my right hand in his left. I used the distraction of the surfer guy to reach into Jordan’s holster with my left hand and grab his weapon.

The weight of the gun in my weakened hands and arms was almost too much. “Who the hell are you?”

“Whoa.” Surfer dude’s hands went up.

Jordan released my right hand so I could steady the weapon.

“The safety’s on. Let’s keep it that way.” He was calm as he stepped in front of the surfer guy. “Staci, meet Zeke Hawthorne.”

Wait a minute. I knew that name. I’d studied every name and situation in that damn file so many times I could recite the information in my sleep.

“Dude. You didn’t tell me she was crazy.”

Jordan said, “She’s feeling off balance and threatened right now. Cut her a break.”

“Maybe if she freakin’ lowers that weapon.”

Jordan spoke to Hawthorne but didn’t take his gaze from mine. His hazel eyes, steady and confident, stared back at me, waiting for what I’d do next.

“Give her a second to process. She knows what she’s doing. She won’t shoot by accident.”

They calmly sat there discussing whether or not I would shoot them. As I swayed slowly, I realized either one of them could disarm me without breaking a sweat. They were giving me control of the situation.

“Zeke Hawthorne. Grandfather killed in a climbing accident.” My skin was slick with sweat and the weight of the Glock was starting to seriously affect my weak muscles.

“Yeah. That’s me.” Zeke peered over Jordan’s shoulder, looking somber. “Staci Grant, grandparents killed in a mugging, homeless man found two days later with wallets, etc., case closed. Staci Grant. Presumed dead.”

I glanced at Jordan, he didn’t look surprised, or confused, by our conversation, which was something I’d have to explore later. I stated the obvious. “They weren’t accidents.”

“Yeah. I pretty much got that from the file you started.” Zeke dropped his hands slightly.

I lowered the weapon cautiously. I couldn’t figure out why they would be here or how he’d seen that file. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for one Staci Grant, pronounced dead in an Afghan prison, according to an intel report complete with graphic photographs. Considered dead by everyone except this guy.” He jerked his head toward Jordan.

I blinked. There was a weird rushing sound. The gun drooped. “Do you hear that?”

The lights flickered. A single trail of sweat trickled down the side of my face. The sound was getting louder. Suddenly my vision went white and then....

Nothing.

EIGHTEEN

“Shit. Catch her.” Zeke went for the Glock.

Jordan twisted to scoop one arm around Staci’s back and the other around her knees while Zeke carefully supported the weapon from a safe position if her finger accidentally pulled the trigger.

Jordan lifted her higher into his arms completely freaked by how light she felt. They’d done enough physical engagement through Krav Maga and some fairly energetic sex for him to recognize her condition had deteriorated significantly.

“Jesus, she’s skin and bones.”

Zeke pried her fingers from around the grip of the weapon very gingerly. “Got to give her snaps, she didn’t let go.”

Jordan strode into the living area of the suite and headed for the sofa. “She needs to eat.”

“Judging by the condition of her skin, she’s dehydrated,” Zeke said analytically.

Jordan lay her down gently on the sofa, and with more reluctance than he would like, let go. The urge to just sit and hold her jacked through him.

He situated her, propping her feet with the throw pillows, smoothing the hair away from her face. “She threw up at Murphy’s and then I set a pretty hard pace to get here.”

“Cut yourself a break.”

Zeke paced behind him, around the coffee table, through the two chairs, in front of the business desk, and past the television that he had on low.

“I’ll go get carry out from Oscars downstairs. I can assess if we’ve got any unusual activity in the lobby or lower level at the same time.”

Jordan pressed his fingers to her neck, feeling for her pulse. “Slow and steady.”

“Maybe she’s just worn out.”

“Yeah.” She was more than worn out. She looked like life had kicked her in the ass.

“Wonder where the hell she’s been for the past six weeks.”

Jordan surveyed her, brushed the neckline of the wool away from her neck, and noticed the fresh scars. Small, raised circular marks marred her neck.

“Hell.”

“Cigarette burns,” Zeke said in a hushed voice.

“That would be my guess.”

She’d been tortured. He should have been prepared for the possibility. She’d been in the prison where the woman had been beheaded. With excruciating clarity, all the marks on the unknown woman’s body came back to him.

He pushed up her sleeve to find deep tissue bruises braceleting her bony wrists. Now the wicked scar and clear signs of an unset break on her left arm took on a more sinister meaning.

“Fuck.”

Zeke pulled a Glock 17 from his suitcase, activated the internal locking system, and placed the weapon cautiously in an ankle holster above his Saucony’s. “What do you want me to get from the restaurant?”

Probably to cover the sound of Jordan’s harsh breathing.

He forced himself to focus on what he could do rather than on things he couldn’t change. The past was over and done. Focus on the future.

“Bland food. Hot tea. And carbs. Lots and lots of carbs.”

“Later.”

“Watch your back.”

“You know it, man.” Zeke hesitated at the door, staring hard at the unconscious woman. “You gonna be okay?”

Jordan clenched his fists, knew what Zeke asked.

“She’s fine.” He deliberately opened his hands and gestured to her frail form. “She’s harmless. Look at her.”

“Dude. You don’t know where she’s been.” With his hand on the doorknob, Zeke peered through the security viewer.

Jordan pushed back the anger, kept his mouth shut. As much as he wanted to argue, Zeke had a point.

“And she pulled a gun on us.” With that parting shot, Zeke let himself out.

Jordan pulled her necklace from his pocket, dangling the carved stone from his fingers, staring at the eye of Horus, the ancient symbol of protection.

Jordan grieved for the ways he hadn’t protected her and the ways she hadn’t let him. His lungs seized, banding together refusing to allow in air. Grief wrapped like a boa constrictor around his heart, squeezing.