Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (6 page)

The simple measure was probably as effective as the fancy alarm system I had in Alexandria.

Nice stall, Stace
.

I inhaled, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the odors of rotting garbage and refuse of the people too stoned or too tired to care where they defecated.

Afghanistan was hell.

The Bahamas were paradise...if you had enough money and influence.

If not, you were stuck in clusters of houses with amenities from the last century, bacteria-laden water, less-than-ideal refrigeration, and minimal electricity.

“And you’re still stalling, dammit.” My voice came out ill-used and harsh, and my words grated inside my throat like claws trying to tear out of me.

I’d hoped talking to myself would jolt me out of this funk long enough to get the job done. If I didn’t shoot the damn drug, Fariya would have died in vain. That--I couldn’t let happen.

I snatched the syringe and angled the sharp point of the needle at my blue, blood-engorged vein. With a sharp exhale, I jabbed the needle in, pressed the plunger down.

How the drug could be so freaking ice cold in the humid, languid heat of the Caribbean was beyond me.

But it was.

The liquid seared into my blood, working its magic. I pulled the needle out slowly and watched the blood pool into a drop at the crease of my elbow. I turned my hand over slowly. After two injections I already saw the difference in the color of my skin.

My once extremely light, olive skin was a coffee brown. The drug seemed to be working faster than expected, possibly because of my Arab heritage. Just a few more treatments of the pigment-producing drug and I would pass for a mulatto or maybe even a black woman.

Then whoever was looking for Staci Grant, white skin, blond hair with light brown streaks, and blue eyes would pass right over me. My skin would be dark enough, dark brown contacts would shield my blue eye color, and the mahogany brown dye and lack of conditioner would turn my hair into a much rougher and scraggly mop.

With the slight limp I’d acquired getting my butt from Afghanistan to Pakistan, no one should connect urbane, sophisticated, wealthy Staci Grant to the run down, ragged, beat-up woman in a cheap Bahamian cotton sundress.

The toe-popper I’d triggered had ripped off a piece of my right little toe. I know I should be grateful I hadn’t blown up my whole foot, but shit, I’d already lost what felt like everything and right now I didn’t have faith I was ever going to get it back.

A wave of nausea broke over my body, sheening my skin with sweat and rolling through my stomach.

The damn drug.

The nausea hit me at the oddest times. Most of the time it was minor, but every once in a while I’d have to choke the sensation back down.

I wrapped a bright orange, batik-patterned pareo around my head, turban style, and slid the brown contacts into my eyes. Then I rubbed self-tanning gel over my exposed skin to add to the already changing color.

I had one quick mission which couldn’t be put off any longer.

I waded through the pecking chickens and hopped on a bicycle, heading for the other Bahamas. The one where people shelled out big bucks for a week in their own paradise. The difference between the shanty town and the pristine beach was a McDonald’s Big Mac vs. Daniel Boulud’s burger stuffed with foie gras.

I pedaled toward my ‘house of record’ in the Bahamas, ignoring the ache in my left arm, the burn in my right toe, and the ice cold flowing through my veins.

The ride from squalor to extravagance took less time than you might think.

My house was a white, modern triumph of architecture plopped down on the blindingly white sand beach, rimmed by the turquoise ocean, and capped by an Azure blue sky.

The last time I’d been here was with Jordan, in August, before I’d left for Afghanistan.

We’d had a perfect weekend. Peaceful, elegant and easy.

In the evening, the sun had bled pink and yellow across the simple, luxurious furniture, highlighted billowing sheer curtains, and carried the scents of vacation: the salty sea, charred wood from a bonfire, melted butter, savory grilled lobster, and the crisp aroma of a chilled Chardonnay with a hint of apple, pear, maybe a touch of cinnamon. Half-burned candles flickered with the ocean breeze. The staff murmured quietly as they cleared the kitchen for the night.

Even now, I could almost feel Jordan lying beside me, tucked against my back as he cradled me to his hard body, our heads pillowed on plump goose-down cushions as we enjoyed the romantic pleasure of the sunset.

The longing to recapture that one perfect moment unfurled within me.

Our easy camaraderie and heated passion had made me feel closer to him than ever. I’d yearned for our closeness to deepen and our relationship to strengthen.

A truck blew its horn and startled me out of my memory. I blinked against the stark, hot daylight.

I pedaled right past my house, not even looking at the structure. As we planned, my housekeeper Neli should already be at the Pearsons'...my sometime neighbors.

I’d met them once or twice throughout the years I’d owned my house although we rarely spent the same weekends on island. We shared the same housekeeper, Neli, and she often helped me out on the side.

I pedaled up the Pearsons' grand circular driveway and around to the servant’s side entrance, then knocked politely, in case anyone was watching.

Neli came to the door with a bucket of cleaning supplies in hand. “Come on den, let’s get to work.”

Just as I’d requested, she treated me like extra help, going so far as to speak to me in her native Bahamian Creole when I knew perfectly well she spoke excellent English.

But the look of horror on her face told me my appearance had shocked her. I wasn’t real fond of looking in the mirror these days myself.

“Good God, look at yuh,” she whispered as she dragged me to the Pearsons' living room.

“Just a little beat up.”

I tried to grin, but she’d yanked on my bad arm and I really needed a moment to stop from spewing all over the highly-polished Brazilian cherry floors.

“Yuh look half dead.”

“Better half than all.”

“Yuh and yorn tings.” Neli tut-tutted all the way through the expansive elaborate kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances and a river of black granite.

In the living room, with furnishings more suited to a manor on the East Coast of the U.S., she plopped down the bucket.

“Did you bring the bag?” I made the request softly, trying to act casual but not feeling it.

Neli handed me my emergency bolt bag.

The bag had i.d. and the key to a safe deposit box that held the information I’d collected on 5491. The last time I’d come I’d put the information in the bank. Information I thought just might be why someone wanted me dead.

Then she handed me the pair of binoculars I’d requested. Focusing on my beach house, I surveyed the damage through the lenses.

The curtains had been shredded...literally. I guess they’d been looking for a microchip hidden there, but I wouldn’t have been so stupid as to put something so fragile in fabric the housekeeper could pull down and wash any day. The chip would be ruined.

“I never realized how unbelievably well the Pearsons' could see into my house,” I murmured.

“Curtains. Dey used to hide everythin’.” Neli stood with her hands balled and fisted at her rounded hips. “Dat’s one big mess.”

I peered through the binoculars. A thick layer of goose feathers covered the floor, concealing the tan bamboo. The sofas were turned upside down, violent slashes ripped apart the muslin under-upholstery, and tufts of cotton pouffed out like giant marshmallow vomit in a sea of feathers.

I could even see that all of the switch plates had been unscrewed and discarded, probably somewhere beneath the feathers.

Sea-scented candles had been dropped like matchsticks on the bamboo coffee table, their holders in pieces next to them.

Fury trembled through Neli's body with little indignant tremors. “Dis bad juju.”

“Calm down. It’s just stuff,” I replied mildly. “And you can cut out the Creole. We’re alone.”

“Ruined stuff. They done ripped that beautiful paintin’ right from the frame.”

I took another look. She was right. The expensive beach scene lay on the fireplace hearth, the canvas stripped from the frame, the stretchers smashed.

“Yeah,” I confirmed absently. The more Zen I channeled, the more Neli’s ire rose.

“I have to clean.” She grabbed a dust cloth and started intently cleaning the objets d’art the Pearsons' had scattered around the ornately furnished, immaculately clean room.

I raised the binoculars again and scanned the damage and looked for some clue as to who had ransacked my house, but nothing seemed clear or in focus.

The destruction of my serene retreat annoyed and disturbed me on some level I wasn’t even aware of. Why would they be so stupid as to believe I would leave anything of importance in a house of record? That seemed naive.

The destruction was systematic and brutal, but I sensed no anger, no malicious intent--just a determination not to miss anything.

It looked like my instincts had been right.

When things started going to hell in Afghanistan, I’d called Neli on my Sat phone and told her to stay away from my house.

“You haven’t been back there, have you?”

“No. I listened to your instructions, but it’s killin’ me to leave your beautiful house like that.”

I heard a car pulling up to my driveway. They wouldn’t be so bold as to come back to the house in broad daylight, would they? It seemed inconceivable, but everything about the last few weeks was skewed in a pattern I couldn’t seem to intuit.

As if information had been coded in an unfamiliar key.

I trained the binoculars on my front door, wondering if they’d have the chutzpah to walk right in.

“Has anyone shown any interest in me lately?”

“Your man called my house and my cell ‘bout every day since last Monday.”

A few days after I escaped. Something to consider...why then?

Neli continued, “I always told him what you said. Told him I hadn’t seen you since the last time you were here.” Neli swiped over the wood floor, while gently chiding me. “He sounded near frantic yesterday.”

Jordan. Regret poured through me. I’d left on uncertain terms. Our last night together had been the best and the worst of our relationship.

The fight was a relationship buster.

He’d been angry, I’d been angry.

We hadn’t even really come to any resolution, and the next instant we were on the bed, ripping each others’ clothes off, and the sex had been amazing and hot and surprisingly intense all at the same time.

And then...I’d left.

We’d emailed a few times, but the messages had been stilted and too formal. I’d known this secret, wonderful person I treasured was on the way out of my life. I couldn't blame him. Too many secrets, too many lies already between us, and too many yet to come.

We couldn’t ever hope to achieve that sense of coupleness my grandparents had. But the sorrow, the loss had stunned me with its intensity. I had wanted our relationship to work.

I think, in his heart, so did he. But we wouldn’t be able to move past the deceptions and the lies. Even if he had cared enough to check on me.

I sighed, heavy and despondent.

“You need to call him,” she admonished again. “Let him know you’re....”

“I’m...what?” A mess? Under some sort of death threat?

When I’d hit Pakistan, I’d thought about calling Jordan. Just to hear the sound of his voice. And then I realized...I had no idea who had engineered my capture, or my ransom. The CIA had chosen to leave me in that prison for a reason. I had no idea why.

I couldn’t take the risk of contacting Jordan. I didn’t want any link, any connection between us. I didn’t want whatever was dogging me to spread to him.

It was the only way I could protect him.

I trained the binoculars on my house, waited for whoever was at my door to show themselves, and pushed Jordan to the back of my mind.

Assuming whoever set me up and wanted me dead didn’t get their way, I would have years to analyze how our relationship went wrong.

The front door to my house swung open slowly. The angle of the sun backlit the figure, shadowing his face and casting his body in darkness.

But I didn’t need light to identify the intruder. I’d recognize his form, his shape, his body anywhere. I jerked my head away from the binocs, with a stiff neck.

“What is it?” Neli asked.

I shook my head. That couldn’t be right. Resolutely I put my eyes back to the binoculars.

My heart sped up and the sorrow I tried to keep buried welled up inside of me. The sharp prick of tears burned my eyes. I rapidly blinked the moisture away, hardened my heart.

I’d known I would see him again. After all, back in D.C., we lived next door to each other. I knew one day I would return to my life there. But I’d thought our next meet would be on my terms. When I was ready.

My only consolation: he couldn’t see me. My real concern...what the hell was he doing here? “It’s Jordan.”

He took one more step into the light. The sun struck the side of his face, highlighted the stark lines of his cheekbones and poured down the rest of his body.

Greedily, I catalogued his broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, and muscled thighs. He’d dressed down in jeans and a black polo shirt. When he turned slightly, the sun glinted off the Franklin Group logo.

On the black interlock, the white kite embroidery shimmered in the sunlight.

I’d seen that logo before.

SEVEN

Images freeze-framed in my mind.

Guard slumped in his chair
.

Wine bottle lying drunkenly on the hard-packed dirt.

A blue logo on a white mug clasped loosely, fingers hiding most of the design.

The guards had been drinking out of Franklin Group mugs.

The Franklin Group.
Where Jordan worked. Another connection flashed as my brain clicked into gear.

My final email to Jordan.

In the email, I’d referenced the area I was in. We’d gone off plan, shifted to the East because there’d been insurgent fighting to the South near the village we’d been scheduled to visit.