Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (36 page)

The front door burst open.

A black woman came rushing out the door, her brown eyes wide. “Oh my God.”

Jordan’s weapon swung up to cover the threat.

Carson grabbed the woman with one arm and drew his weapon with the other, holding it steady on Jordan, not blinking as he held the woman tightly.

“My wife.” Carson’s gaze never wavered from Jordan’s weapon, his own hand steady, weapon still aimed at Jordan’s chest. “My wife.”

The standoff, Jordan supporting Staci, and Carson restraining his wife, only lasted mere seconds, but in that time Antoinette Black registered both guns and the danger.

Her wide brown eyes met Jordan’s gaze. “Don’t hurt her.”

FORTY-ONE

I had to diffuse this situation. Fast.

“It’s okay.” My voice came out weak, thready. “I’m okay.”

Jordan and Carson nodded to each other. By silent agreement, both lowered their weapons. Neither put them away.

“Oh, sugar. You don’t look it.” Antoinette ignored both men, reaching her fine-boned hand out to stroke my hair, triggering the memory of the first time we met.

Carson had brought me to this house after my grandparents died. Antoinette was only four years older but I’d been so lost and she'd tried to comfort me.

She’d let me stay here and mourn; even though she had no idea what she was doing, she’d taken care of me. She’d stroked my hair, just like now. With compassion and gentleness.

“Inside,” Carson said calmly.

We filed into the house. Jordan went last, keeping alert until the front door was closed and locked.

He wasn’t letting me go.

He had his arm curved around my waist, even though I was finally steady and could walk without him. Probably. A shiver wracked my body, dew had soaked my clothes. The raw heat of him radiated at my side.

Weapon still ready, Jordan examined the house with the door at his back, looking left toward the kitchen, then right with a line of sight down a hallway with doors leading to bedrooms.

Straight ahead, the great room exuded welcome, a fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace, the television murmured, and a single glass of red wine sat on a Mission-style table next to a plush sofa.

The decor was spare, no hiding places. Carson strode to the giant windows and closed the white Plantation shutters with a snap.

Jordan tested Carson. “I’m surprised you have such open views.”

“Bulletproof glass.”

Jordan nodded, examining the room, checking for threats, searching for hidden combatants, anticipating attack.

It was a side of him I’d rarely seen.

He worked for a think tank, assessing threat levels, examining data, and making recommendations to prevent situations from materializing or escalating.

This camo-painted warrior in skintight, black Under Armour, eyes serious, muscles flexed, ready to do violence for me was exciting a visceral way.

He turned his danger analysis to the Blacks.

I could almost see his eyes pop.

Antoinette was gorgeous. Frappuccino skin, black silky ringlets in a simple bob, French manicured nails. She wore silk lounging pajamas in a pale yellow, which only she could get away with. She dripped with jewelry, large diamond studs at her ears, a trio of thin bands set with diamonds on her right hand and a platinum and diamond ring set with three large stones on her left. She was just the type of woman who would appeal to him.

Sophisticated, elegant, polished.

Everything I used to be. And wasn’t anymore.

I couldn’t help a surge of possessiveness. It was totally stupid. Antoinette was devoted to Carson and we weren’t here for a social call.

I curled my fingers through his belt loop anyway, hanging on tightly.

Jordan shifted his gaze to me, instantly dismissing Antoinette. “You okay.”

I nodded, a flush of pleasure flooding my face.

He transferred his attention back to Carson and inclined his head toward Antoinette. “Is this going to be a problem? Is she going to turn Staci in?”

Antoinette was a civilian. My picture had been plastered all over the media. I hadn’t quite made the FBI’s top ten but close enough. A regular, law-abiding citizen would already be on the phone to the authorities.

Antoinette answered before Carson could open his mouth. “Of course not.” Her stance was pure indignance, hip cocked, hands fisted and planted on her slim waist, elbows canted. “I can’t believe you have to ask. Staci is practically family.”

On that note, she ignored Jordan and zeroed in on me.

“Come on, sugar, let’s get you something warm to drink.” She held out her hand, but Jordan still had a firm grip on my waist.

“She needs to sit.”

I wanted to be annoyed at his high-handed treatment, except, he was right.

Antoinette stared hard at Jordan’s arm, then nodded. “How about some coffee?”

The thought made me want to hurl. “Tea?” I croaked.

“You want tea?”

The package with the herbs from Jordan’s aunt was in Jordan’s small backpack. I slipped behind Jordan and unsnapped the pack. Removing clip after clip, I held them tightly in my left hand while I dug around in the bottom.

Antoinette’s eyes grew rounder and rounder at the amount of firepower I continued to extract from the backpack.

I wiggled my fingers until I closed over the paper bag, then pulled out a tea bag triumphantly. “Here.”

She shot a wide-eyed glance at Carson. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Jordan escorted me to the sectional sofa, got me settled into a corner of plump cushions, then returned to lounge against the front door, arms crossed over his chest, weapon held loosely in his shooting hand and at the ready.

I sank into the sofa and Carson stood with his back to the fire making it impossible to look at him for too long without the firelight affecting our vision.

Deliberately, I’m sure.

“I’m assuming you want something from me,” Carson said softly.

Already we’d gambled with the facts and his offer to help, and we had agreed to come here. We’d laid out a specific strategy for requesting his help. But before we could move into the next phase of our plan, Jordan asked abruptly, “Why were the sleepers activated?”

He’d deviated from our plan and yet, the question was perfect.

Carson was shocked, but he hid his surprise behind a bemused, benign expression. He kept his gaze steady on Jordan and if I hadn’t seen that split second of dismay I would have been fooled.

“Isn’t that out of left field?” A small half-smile played over his thin lips. “You think there are sleepers after you?”

As an evasive answer, his response was perfect. A denial on several levels. “In October of 1995, sleepers killed people from ten families. Their descendants are listed in Department 5491,” I said.

His face a serene mask, Carson shifted his attention to me. “I oversee Field Ops.”

Not a denial, a misdirection.

“Someone ordered a hit on my grandparents.”

The muscles around his eyes tightened. I’d touched a nerve there.

“I need to know.”

Carson had to have the answers. He was the goddamn Director of Field Ops now. He’d been working for the NSA then. I’d asked him about 5491 before, when I’d first started investigating, and he’d brushed me off. I wouldn’t be brushed off now. “I think that’s why someone is after me now.”

“Extremely unlikely.” Carson was firm. “No one knows about the Department.”

“You’ve got leaks all over the place,” I said thinking of Jordan and the senator. “How can you be sure no one knows?”

“I can’t discuss it. It was, and still is, a matter of national security.”

I blinked. My whole adult life had been given to service for a country that had betrayed me, and betrayed my family. “Screw national security. Why were they killed?”

If I knew why, then maybe I could figure out who.

“Carson, someone is after me. It started after I began investigating Department 5491.” I paused. “I’ve been imprisoned, beaten, tortured, starved, followed, chased, and vilified by the media.”

Jordan flinched at each escalation. Carson just listened.

“I’m considered armed and dangerous, which you know means any law enforcement officer in the freaking country who identifies me has the option to shoot to kill without any input from me.”

“She has a right to know,” Jordan said.

I wanted to throw up my hands in disgust. “Maybe the only way to get answers is to go public, expose Department 5491.” Disclose the information to the media and see where the clues led. If someone was after me because of that information, I would take away the benefit of silencing me.

“You’re playing hardball.” Sports analogies. Never a good sign where Carson was involved. “Would you really go to the media?”

Assuming we could get out of here, yeah. “I have no choice.”

Carson waited another beat.

“You need to understand the background. Relations with Russia were very tense back then.” Carson rubbed his hand over his breastbone. “Boris Yeltsin was coming in late October for a summit meeting with President Clinton, but things were strained. Clinton had refused to go to Russia earlier in the year.”

“What does that have to do with my grandparents?” I glanced toward Jordan, his face impassive, his gaze constantly moving.

“Your grandfather was a German codebreaker in World War II.”

“German?” Not Polish, like the census indicated.

“Yes.” Carson nodded. “Have you heard of TICOM?”

Jordan perked up, shot me an unreadable look. “Lucas Goodman once asked me about a connection between Staci and TICOM but I thought they were reaching.”

“During the World War II, Britain and the United States formed the Target Intelligence Committee specifically to find and capture German codebreakers. We wanted the Russian code the German’s had deciphered.”

“Again. Why my family?”

“In 1945 we invaded a castle in Saxony, Germany, and confiscated their cipher machines and personnel. Before the Russians could get there, we hid the codebreakers.”

“1945?” I made the jump. “So all of the people killed in 1995 were....”

“German codebreakers plus one Russian double agent.”

I sank further into the fluffy, plump cushions, the soft down pillows enfolding me like a giant pair of welcoming arms. I processed information that finally gave me some clue as to why my grandparents had a hard time showing me affection. Their reticence and reserve were more understandable. The ability to open their hearts to anyone had been shunted by the reality that they could be gone in an instant, suddenly snatched away.

“I still don’t understand why the hits were ordered.”

"We had sleepers in place in case the codebreakers ever decided to talk about TICOM or return to Germany. These people had information about the U.S. and U.K. intelligence that, to this day, we cannot allow the Russians to get their hands on. The information is still classified."

"But October of 1995 was fifty years later," I argued as if I could change the outcome.

“In July of 1995, the CIA released cable transcripts of Soviet cables that we had intercepted and translated in the 1940's. The cables included names and cover names of over two hundred people who spied against U.S., some of whom were double agents and spied for us against Russia. In the documents released there was one code name, a Russian agent who was undercover in Germany. When we captured the Germans, we captured him and he chose to defect to the United States. According to our intel, the Russians had never discovered that he was a double agent.”

I aimed a look at Jordan. He remembered reading about that information.

“What was the name?”

“Even I don’t know which person was the double agent. He was only listed by his code name in the cable transcripts."

"Then why kill everyone?" I asked again.

"Because we didn't know which codebreaker was the spy. My guess is keeping his true name out of the records was done to protect him but all we knew was that one of the codebreakers was a double agent. We couldn't take the chance that the Russians would realize the double agent was alive and go after him." Carson said tightly, "Our relations would have become even more strained."

“Still the transcripts were released in July.”

“The irony is that many critics actually questioned the credibility of the cables.” Carson sighed, his mouth an unhappy line. “We tried, secretly using the media, to foster the idea that the information was false.”

“What was the point of eliminating all of those people?”

“The point was nothing. An over-reaction.” Carson started pacing. “But by the time I realized it, the damage was done.”

I. Had he just said, I?

Jordan shifted, pushing off the door to stand at attention.

“I?” I repeated softly.

Carson stopped, straightened, shoulders back, like a soldier awaiting punishment. His gaze was tortured as he met mine. “I carried out orders. But I didn’t know anything about who the hits were on. I just knew there were sleepers in place.”

My brain couldn’t process, my body immobile, held in place by an invisible force field of disbelief, denial. Was he telling me that he ordered the hit on my grandparents?

“I was a junior director. I ignored my instincts. Ignored my gut and followed orders.” Carson reached toward me. “I should have asked more questions.”

I shrank away from his hand, forcing myself to ask the next question, forcing the images, the pain out of my body, into a tiny little box in my mind where I could take it out later and feel the hurt cut into my heart. Right now I needed to finish this.

“Where did the order come from?” I asked through bloodless lips. I couldn’t imagine he could tell me anything worse.

Carson’s gaze cut to Jordan. And I knew I’d been wrong. Something worse was coming. “The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”

Shit. I recalled our research.

“I shouldn’t tell you. But in light of the current circumstances...I’m sorry.” Carson sighed. “Senator Jordan gave the order.”

FORTY-TWO

Jordan lounged against the six-paneled, steel-reinforced door. His face unbelievably still and smooth like polished marble. Nothing to indicate Carson had just gutted him.