Lady Liberty (54 page)
Authors: Vicki Hinze
The edge of his lip curled. “Well, isn’t that flattering?”
She chuckled. “It worked until you brought me the cup of tea. When you set that cup on my desk…” Feeling tender, choking up, she gave herself a second, then went on. “It was like a door opened inside me and all the meaningful things you’ve done for me over the years flooded through”—her voice cracked—“and they just kind of added up until my heart felt full.” She paused to take in a steadying breath, to relive and again appreciate the joy of that moment. “That was the first time I dared to believe that maybe you could love me, too.”
“I’ve always loved you, Sybil.” He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “But then I fell in love with you, and you were already married. No matter how you look at it, that’s a bad combination. I had to walk away”
So he had requested reassignment to get away from her, but because he loved her. She moved closer, held him to her, and stared deeply into his eyes. “But you still love me, and now we’re a good combination, right?”
“Oh, yeah.” He smiled from the heart out and dipped his head to kiss her.
“Thank God.” Sybil met him halfway, opened her heart, and welcomed him.
In the years ahead there would be challenges and trials and probably some healthy disagreements, but there would be joyful times, celebrations, and healthy agreements, too. And whatever came, good or bad, they would face it together.
Stepping off the line hadn’t been easy for either of them, but considering the prize, it had definitely been worth the risks. They’d won. And they’d never again be alone.
Standing there on the cracked sidewalk, with the wind teasing them and their mouths joined, the truth hit her. All her life she had wanted two things: a career in politics and a family to love who loved her. She, who had been carrying hope of ending the crisis before it devastated, had not done the same for herself. Long ago she had given up hope on her dreams for her personal life. And she’d been wrong.
It takes a lot of heat to temper steel.
It did. And it took a lot of heat to temper people, too. To temper Sybil. It took time and trials to get not what she thought she wanted but what she most wanted and needed to the depths of her soul. Now she understood the difference and the value of both.
She wasn’t the woman she had been when she’d created those dreams for her life. She was the woman she had become. And that woman wanted to share her life with Jonathan Westford, to share their dreams. That woman had discovered the lasting treasure of having a man continue to believe in her when she had given up on herself. That woman understood the marriage of souls and the power of hope.
“All right.” Jonathan tapped at the transmitter in his ear.
At a loss, Sybil reared back, stroked his ear. “All right? That’s it? Actually, I thought that kiss was pretty wonderful.”
“It was fantastic.” He nodded toward the limo. “I meant them. Standing out in the open is making them nervous. Easy targets.”
Dreamy, she gazed up at him. “Fantastic, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.” Pure male appreciation crossed with ego.
“I give you fantastic, you give me swamp fever. Now there’s a thorn.”
“You’re going to be lording that over me for the next fifty years. I just know it.”
“Longer,” he promised. But he was smiling when he said it.
Finally she had the love she always had longed for in her life, and they were alive. Alive, and together. “Let’s go home, Jonathan.” She dropped her voice, soft and seductive. “I have a rose petal with your name on it.”
Smiling her special smile, he led her across the sidewalk to the waiting limo, and radioed Home Base. “Lady Liberty is on the move.”
V
ICKI
H
INZE
has published fourteen books and lives with her husband in Florida, where she is working on her next novel,
Lady Justice.
Readers can visit her website at
www.vickihinze.com
.
The most valuable agricultural
crops in the U.S. are dying—and this
is no natural disaster.
Senior Special Agent Gabrielle Kincaid,
best friend to Vice President Sybil Stone
of
Lady Liberty
,
must stop the death
and destruction that threaten to
destabilize the U.S. food supply economy
government and its people—
provided she can convince her partner,
agent Maxwell Grayson, not to carry
out his orders to kill her.
Vicki Hinze’s thrillingly realistic portrayal
of espionage, corporate terrorism,
and covert government operatives will shock
and keep you on the edge of your seat.
Read on for a preview of
Lady Justice
,
on sale in the summer of 2004.
Texas/Mexican Border * Thursday, July 4th
Hundreds of U.S. flags flew on the docked cruise ship.
Tonight there would be a fireworks display that would set the American passengers’ spirits soaring, but Jaris Adahan would no longer be aboard to see it. He would, however, enjoy the irony in the Americans celebrating Independence Day on the very day he had helped to make them dependent.
After checking the brim of his white baseball cap to make sure the U.S. flag pin was secure, he tugged it on and then gave himself the injection that would protect him from exposure to the contaminate. He ran a length of thin, clear hose down his sleeve, holstered the canister under his arm at his side, and mentally reviewed his checklist. He had already contaminated the ballast tanks, and the handrails and decks at the ship’s exit points he would not be using to depart the ship. He had bleached his quarters, destroyed all evidence of his ever having been aboard, exchanged his passport and visa for new ones, claiming yet another false identity, and, while still at sea, he had disposed of the empty contaminate canister.
He had three more canisters: one in the holster and two in his backpack. All were full.
After a last look to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he left his cabin, went down two floors to the largest common area on the ship. On the far side, just down from a boutique, he ducked into an obscure alcove and then soaked the soles of his shoes, hoping Cardel Boudreaux hadn’t used all of the Warriors’ luck on his leg of the mission.
Just the idea of explaining to the honchos that they’d royally screwed up on a seventy-million-dollar contract made Jaris nauseous. He could only imagine how the honchos had reacted to the possibility of having to inform the Consortium. The anxiety probably had them all chugging down Xanax and stress-tabs, and drinking Mylanta by the gallon. Jaris sure as hell would be.
Luckily, the kid on Cardel’s plane had lived.
A woman walked by, holding the hands of her twin girls. Remorse pricked at Jaris. They weren’t as young as Cardel’s toddler—thse girls were five, or maybe six—but they were laughing.
Jaris liked the sound, and resented liking it.
Do not notice them. Do not.
Noticing brought nightmares. Nightmares, regret. He’d learned that the hard way.
Irritated by his breach of discipline, he shut out the sights and sounds and smells of all the people in the busy lobby, and then left the alcove. It was time to get off of the ship.
Dispensing a thin film of clear, odorless contaminate through the tubing in his sleeve, he saturated every handrail in his path. And because it happened to be on his way, and because he needed to make restitution for his discipline breach, he sprayed a tempting-looking luncheon buffet set out on deck.
No one stopped him, or slowed his progress. He walked off the ship, then the dock, and made it to the U.S. border without incident.
There, foot traffic was heavy, and people waiting to enter the country stood in long lines. The noon sun beat down on them, raising sweat and tempers. Jaris ignored them and moved line to line, scanning the customs officials’ uniforms, looking for his Consortium contact. Finally, he spotted him. Middle-aged and nondescript, he was wearing a U.S. flag pin on his lapel.
Jaris stepped into the man’s line, shutting out the sounds of a young boy whining for a drink of anything to quench his thirst. When his turn arrived, he handed over his new passport. “Blistering sun today”
“Blistering.” Recognition shone in the man’s eyes. “They say tomorrow will be hotter.”
Certain now he had made the appropriate contact, Jaris passed over the canister from his backpack. A canister the official had been well paid to use to contaminate an imported shipment of fruit. What kind of fruit, Jaris was not told, which meant, in the foreseeable future, he would avoid eating any.
The official waved him through, and he walked onto U.S. soil.
The canister in his holster was now empty, and he had made delivery on another.
Two down, and one to go.
One that required only an afternoon walk through a few maize and cotton fields…
S./Canadian Border * Thursday, July 4th
Sebastian Cabot sat in his car at the Canadian border, too consumed by thoughts of his family and memories of his youth to spare any concern on getting caught.
The trunk of his Chevrolet Impala was filled with contraband cans of pâté. Simply put, he was smuggling. He had made no declarations to the customs official but, if what the Consortium had told him proved true, he wouldn’t be challenged.
After September 11
th
, that alone was enough to scare the hell out of John Q. Public. But because there was more, it made Sebastian sick.
He slung an arm over the steering wheel to cool the sweat from his armpit, and inched the car forward in line. Who would have thought that having a few celebratory drinks after winning the biggest case of his twenty-seven-year-legal career would have led him to this? To Sebastian Cabot, attorney extraordinaire, friend of the court and champion of underdogs, smuggling pâté?
And soon, to worse.
His stomach slid into knots under his ribs. It was a damn tragic end to a life lived with purpose. He knew it, but he was powerless to change it. The Consortium had made that clear—and they’d hired an entire damn cell of Global Warriors to deliver the message proving it.
Sebastian had understood only too well. The Consortium and its Warriors left no unturned stones. He was not safe. His wife and their three children were not safe. Even his
secretary, his second cousin Oscar, whom he hadn’t seen in twenty years, and his damned dog were not safe.
And there was only one way any of them would ever be safe again.
“You’re clear to proceed, sir.” The official nodded.
“Thanks.” Sebastian nodded back. The U.S. flag pin on his white golfing hat bobbed. Driving on, he headed south.
By early afternoon, he was in California’s Napa Valley: the heart of wine country in the United States. He thought about pulling into a truck stop for an artery-clogging meal of the cholesterol-packed, fried foods he had avoided for the last three years under doctor’s orders—today he could eat anything guilt-free—but his stomach churned, and he decided against it. The work he was about to do had his system riled up enough without throwing it a grease-fest. So he drove on, to a vineyard, and then pulled off onto the shoulder of the road.
The tires turning on the loose, dry dirt raised a little dust cloud. He waited a moment for it to settle, looked up and then down the asphalt road. Heat rippled in waves off it. The entire area seemed desolate. No people. No cars, or trucks. Nothing in sight except row upon row of lush grapevines basking in the hot, summer sun.
Sweating profusely, Sebastian gave in to his foul mood. Arrogant bastard, the sun. It should be storming.
Don’t even think about it, Sebe. Do this, and every angel in heaven will weep.
His mother’s voice. She had been dead for ten years, but he still missed her and loved her to distraction. And she still issued him the kind of warnings she had imbedded in his head and heart his whole life. The conscience tugs that had worked to keep him in church on Sundays; in the band in high school, when he wanted nothing more than to quit; off drugs in college, when everyone short of God was experimenting with them; and in law school long after he wanted to drop out. Hands down, she had been the most influential person in his life.
But even she couldn’t help him now.
He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and then the first can of pâté. He didn’t give himself an antidote injection. There wasn’t one. Not that it mattered.
Stooping low, he used his pocketknife to empty the tin onto the ground, amongst the grapevines.
Sebe, think. Think! How many years of sweat and dreams—how many lives are you destroying?
I know, Mom. Don’t you think I know?
His throat went thick and a tear leaked out, rolled down to his chin.
I’m sorry. I hate what I’m doing. Damn it, I love my country and the people in it. You know I do.
Then why? Why become a smuggler and a saboteur? Why become a traitor?
He blinked hard, his chin trembling.
Because as much as I love my country, I love my family more.
But, Sebe. Sebe, this is wrong. This is unforgivable. You can’t—
His chest tight, he closed his mind, shut out her voice, and moved on to the next vineyard. And then to the next, contaminating them one by one with the tainted pâté.
When he had emptied the last tin, he tossed it back into the trunk. It clanged against the others, bled dry and hollow. Sebastian slammed the lid shut, got back into the car, and then drove north, into the Sierra-Nevada Mountains.
His conscience nagged at him. Merciless. Unrelenting. Each tin contained millions of biologically engineered grape louse, which would destroy the grapevines from the roots out. By the time the poor growers realized they had a problem, they’d have lost seventy percent of their plants—and the grape louse would have spread to even more vineyards.
The California wine industry would be crippled, if not destroyed.
And European vineyard and wine stocks would soar, generating significant profits for the Consortium.
Sebastian didn’t personally know any of the Consortium members, but he hated them all. They considered themselves a profit-seeking, strategic alliance of international businessmen, but they were a self-serving group of terrorists who would manipulate anyone by any means necessary to achieve their financial goals. What they were forcing him to do proved there was no limit to the amount of damage, or to the number of lives they were willing to destroy. The bastards had no consciences, no morals or ethics, and no mercy.
And most terrifying of all, they had forced him to be just like them.
Sebastian swiped at his throbbing forehead with a shaky hand. If only he could go back to that night …
How many times had he wished it? Hundreds? Millions? What did it matter? There was no going back.
Resentment and regret burned deep in his gut. He hadn’t had a single drink since that night, yet his abstinence changed nothing.
Nothing.
He had tried everything; there was no way out.
The Consortium had him by the short hairs and they had offered him only one option that kept his family alive. Only one. And though it went against everything he had believed in and had worked for all his life, he had taken it.
God forgive him, he had taken it.
And in his mind’s eye, the angels had wept.
Near Lake Tahoe, the temperature plunged. He cranked down the air-conditioner to warm up, pulled out his digital phone, and then dialed the number he’d been instructed to call.
“Yes?” A man with a thick European accent answered in a clipped tone that grated on Sebastian’s raw nerves.
He clamped down on the steering wheel, glared into the taillights of an eighteen-wheeler on the road in front of him. “It’s done.”
“Very well.”
“My family—”
“Will be safe, Mr. Cabot. In our line of work, keeping one’s word is essential. Your debt is paid—provided you stick to the terms of the agreement.”
Sebastian broke into a cold sweat. “Done.” He disconnected, drove on for twenty minutes, and then dialed a second number.
A Cayman woman answered in a crisp voice. “First Island Bank.”
“I need to verify a deposit, please.” He waited until she put him through to a second woman, and then made his request, adding the account number.
“And the account owner’s name, sir?”
“G. D. Cabot.” Sebastian revealed his wife, Glenna’s
name and then added the additional personal information that would be requested to prove he had authority on this account.
“Yes, Mr. Cabot,” the woman said. “A five million dollar deposit was credited to your account today. Certified funds.”
That was it, then. “Thank you.” Sebastian hit the end button on the phone, considered calling his wife and kids, but then thought better of it. A call home wasn’t on the list, and who knew what dangers the Consortium or their Global Warriors would attribute to an unscheduled call. They could feel Glenna or the kids were a threat.
No, as much as he craved hearing Glenna’s voice, Sebastian couldn’t risk it.
But he wished he could. She had the most soothing voice he had ever heard. He had married her for that voice. When nothing else could, it relaxed him. They’d had a good marriage. A good marriage, good kids, good everything. And he’d lost it all because of one night. One damn night, and one too many martinis …
Remorse gnawed at him. Sebastian stiffened in his seat, drove on down the winding roadway. Steep cliffs lined the road. Twice, so far, he had seen pretty waterfalls. The next one he saw—
Bridal falls. Off to his right. At least a hundred-foot drop. Perfect.
He pulled an image of Glenna and the kids on the sailboat last summer from his memory. Holding it fast in his mine’s eye, he stomped down on the accelerator.
The car lurched, ripped through the guardrail. Metal crunched, glass shattered, and the car sailed out, over the gorge.
Sebe! Oh, God, no! No! Sebe … !
Moments stretched into lifetimes and a strange noise filled his ears. Weeping. The angels really were weeping. For him. Humbled, awed, he cried out, “I’m coming, Mama.”
The Impala plunged and tumbled, crashed into tree branches and trunks and sharp rocks. It burst into flames.
The Consortium had issued an ultimatum.
Sebastian Cabot had followed his orders explicitly.
Including the order to die on impact.
“You’re busted, Lieutenant Gibson.”
Senior Special Agent Gabrielle Kincaid stalked around the conference table, as rigid and tense as only the infuriated queen bitch of the highly skilled Special Detail Unit of the Secret Service could stalk. She stopped behind him, just off his left shoulder, and then bent low and whispered in his ear. “How does it feel to know you killed seventeen civilians, three seasoned SDU operatives, and two FBI agents?”
