Shadow Woman: A Novel (38 page)

She’d looked at him, her smile as bright as summer. “Hey! I can do this!”

“I know. Just be careful and don’t let the weight get away from you.”

“I know.”

He kissed her, and she pulled the helmet on. She was his backup. Something hinky was going on, and they hadn’t been able to find out what. Felice’s house was empty, her car gone, and she wasn’t at work. Al had gone to ground, too. Wherever he was, he wasn’t showing his face. But there didn’t seem to be any kill teams looking for him and Lizzy; if there were, they were invisible, because his people hadn’t spotted a thing, and they’d been looking hard.

Now he had this meeting with Al.

Together he and Lizzy had surveilled the meeting place, checked the adjacent businesses, and now he was ready to take his place inside. Lizzy had his back.

He settled in, facing the door, thirty minutes before the agreed-upon time.

Al’s first choice for this meeting had been an off-the-map, rarely used park; Xavier preferred their meeting place to be a bit more public, and Al had agreed. He respected Al Forge, and he trusted Al as much as he trusted anyone else in the business—but at this point in the game that wasn’t saying much.

While he was on guard where Al was concerned, and would continue to be, he was much more worried about Felice. Where the fuck was she? None of his people had been able to get a fix on her, which couldn’t be good. She was fully capable of turning on everyone, Al included. Maybe that was what this meeting was all about.

With a laptop in front of him, as well as two huge cups of
coffee—one for him, one for the man he was waiting for—no one thought twice about him taking up the booth for so long. He was obviously waiting for someone, and he wasn’t the only person in the coffee shop who took his time, sipping on overpriced—and bitter—coffee and taking advantage of the free Internet.

Al arrived right on time, not a minute early, not a minute late. He looked calm but sober, and he’d taken care to dress casually. Xavier couldn’t say with any certainty that Al wasn’t armed, but there was no shoulder holster, no loose jacket to disguise a gun at his spine. And in a crowded place like this one, surely someone was observant enough to spot a weapon, though likely the person would just think Al was a cop.

Ankle holster, maybe—no, almost certainly, because Al was as likely to leave the house unarmed as Xavier was. But he couldn’t get to that ankle holster quickly—not quickly enough, in any case.

It was an indicator of the seriousness of the situation that Xavier even had these thoughts where Al was concerned.

Al slid into the bench seat on the other side of the table. “Is she here?”

“Close,” Xavier said, and sipped his coffee.

“Should I be worried?”

Xavier’s expression didn’t change as he said, “Yes, you should.”

Without responding, Al removed a thumb drive from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Do me a favor and turn the laptop so no one else can see the screen,” he said in a quiet tone. He looked tired, older, and more than a little pissed about the way things had gone down.

Weren’t they all.

Xavier popped the thumb drive into the slot on the side of the laptop and clicked on the icon that immediately popped up. The silent video began to play. The focus was brutally close,
and the players were recorded clearly and cleanly. He could see the surprise in Felice’s eyes when Al swiftly lifted his arm and aimed his weapon at her; then, moments later, he saw the determination that had been on Al’s face as he reached toward the camera and turned it off.

“Jesus, Al.” Xavier ejected the thumb drive—after swiftly saving the file—and shut down his laptop. He slid the damning device back across the table, but Al shook his head. He didn’t take it, just pushed it back toward Xavier.

“It’s yours. That’s the only copy, so for fuck’s sake keep it someplace secure.”

“Someone like Felice can hardly disappear without questions being raised.”

“This afternoon her body will be discovered in a remote area of Virginia, the apparent victim of a violent carjacking.”

Talk about surprises. He narrowly studied the man who’d trained him. “Why?” But he knew, as he asked the question, what the answer would be.

“I’ve got you two by the short hairs, and now you’ve got me in the same position.”

Xavier leaned back. “Mutual assured destruction.”

“Yeah.” Al gestured to the coffee cup in front of him. “Is this safe?”

“I suppose.”

Al wrapped his fingers around the cup. “You suppose?”

“It’s gotta be cold by now and it tastes like shit, but I didn’t put anything in it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Al lifted the cup and took a long swallow, then returned the cup to the table. “You’re right. It is cold and it does taste like shit.” He took another long drink. “But I need the caffeine, and frankly, I’ve had worse.”

They didn’t talk for a moment, as a young employee walked by—too close—and cleaned the booth directly behind Al. When the kid returned to the counter Al asked, his voice low,

“Is she listening?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to make it to my car alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know. If I was in her shoes, I’m not sure I’d be able to say the same. We did what had to be done, all of us …” Al shook his head and took another long drink of the cold, crappy coffee. “But that’s not why I’m here. The information I’ve shared with you puts us on even terms, as I see it. I hope you see things the same way.”

“I’m surprised,” Xavier said softly. Not surprised that Al had killed Felice, but that he’d trust the evidence in anyone else’s hands. She might have just disappeared. That would have left him and Lizzy looking over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, but Al would have been a lot safer if no one knew.

Perhaps. None of them was truly safe, and they never would be.

“Mind if an old man gives you some advice?” Al asked, his voice gruff but a lot more relaxed than it had been when he’d first sat down.

“Can’t promise I’ll take it, but sure. Shoot.”

“Get a new job.”

Not what he’d expected to hear. “A
job
?”

“I’m sure you have some sort of marketable skills.”

He’d hear about that line later, when Al was gone and he met up with Lizzy. She was listening in; she was watching his back. She was probably laughing her ass off, right about now. No—she’d laugh later. Right now, she was looking down a barrel at the back of Al’s head.

“Disappear,” Al said quietly. “Change your name, change
her
name, move to Bora Bora, or Paris, or fucking Omaha, for all I care. Open a bakery or a tackle store, or hell, I don’t know. A driving school, maybe.” That made him smile. “Well, maybe not a driving school. Stay in one place for a while, make a few babies. Live, like a normal person.”

“This advice from a man who’s been married … how many times?”

Al shrugged his shoulders. “I could’ve made it work with the second ex-wife if I’d lived in Omaha and run a bookstore or a doughnut shop.” His eyes darkened, deepened. “Get out. That’s my last bit of advice to you. Just walk away. Live your life.”

And with that he took his own advice. Al Forge stood and walked away without looking back.

Almost a year later, with the hot Texas summer sun scorching her skin, Lizzy braced herself on the shooting range of their security-training firm and sighted down the barrel of the big Glock in her hand. She wore ear protectors, which she hated because they added another level of heat to the already almost unbearable temperatures, and steadily pulled the trigger until the clip was empty. Then she reloaded and did it again.

Suddenly her heart began beating with a slow, heavy rhythm.

The hot, seared landscape blurred, and images began forming in her mind.

For the past year she’d been recovering bits and snippets, here and there, but never the central event itself. Most of what she’d remembered had centered around Xavier, the giddy delirium of their relationship and the uncertainty that had plagued her because he was—well, he was
Xavier
, skilled and lethal to an incredible degree, dark and sexy and sometimes scary, but always exciting. She’d have died rather than admit it, but on a professional level she’d felt completely out of her
league with him, while in their personal relationship she’d demanded they meet as equals. In the end, though, when she was dealing with the shock and grief at what she’d done, it was his personal commitment that she’d doubted.

He was right. She’d been a mess. If the situation had been less dire, if they’d been able to give her a month to come to grips with everything, maybe the whole situation could have been avoided.

Xavier didn’t think so. He thought that, no matter what, Felice would eventually have turned on them all. Maybe he was right. They’d never know, because beyond a doubt it was Lizzy beginning to recover her memory that had pushed Felice over the edge.

She did remember some things about Felice, and part of her mourned for the woman she’d known while they were training.

Now, perhaps because of the familiar weight of the pistol, the way it bucked in her hand, even the smell of burnt gunpowder, the protective curtain came down.

She remembered the high-heeled shoes she’d worn, the blue-gray suit with the darker blue silk blouse, an exact match of Natalie Thorndike’s clothes that day.

She remembered Charlie Dankins giving her the signal, ushering her into the President’s suite.

She’d gone straight to the First Lady’s bedroom, to the elegant handbag that had been tossed on the bed. She had a small hand-held computer that could read the thumb drive, then copy the data to another thumb drive. She had just inserted the second thumb drive in the USB port when the bedroom door opened.

For a second they’d simply stared at each other, the President, the First Lady, and herself. Then the First Lady had lifted her hand, and Lizzy had seen the gun.

She lunged toward the First Lady, coming in low, catching her gun hand and shoving it upward.

The First Lady shoved her, surprising strength behind the move. The President leaped at her, trying to wrap her up and take her down, but Lizzy had rolled into the First Lady’s feet and sent her staggering in an effort to keep her balance.

The First Lady rounded on her again with the weapon. Lizzy surged again, got her hand on the pistol, trying to jerk it away. Her finger slipped inside the trigger guard. The First Lady slung her hard against a table, and the impact made her hand jerk. Both of them had their fingers on the trigger when they staggered hard against a table, and the impact made her pull the trigger. Three shots. They all hit the President.

She saw the First Lady freeze, staring in horror at her husband.

Moving swiftly, Lizzy pounced. She grabbed the First Lady by the hair and slammed her head into the wall. The woman staggered, her eyes half-rolling back in her head.

“Here,” Lizzy said, and gave her the pistol. Then she turned her so she was facing the President, and Lizzy herself grabbed up the dead-giveaway little hand-held computer, as well as the thumb drive lying beside it, and bolted for the closet. It was the only place she could think to go.

It was stupid. It was inevitable that she’d be found there, but she had no other place to go. Already the door was being kicked down. There was a connecting room, but it would be locked.

There, in the dark closet, she listened to the uproar outside. She heard more shots. She stood frozen, her stomach knotted in panic, trying to fight through the horror of what had just happened. They were caught. There was no way out. All of them would be executed. And she’d killed the President.

She had very little clear memory of being gotten out of the suite. She knew it was through the connecting room, that the door had been unlocked. She remembered Xavier, everyone, moving fast, someone all but dressing her … dear God, that had been Felice.

After that … grief. Pain. Tears. The feeling that she didn’t deserve to get away with what she’d done. Nothing they’d said had made much of an impact on her, not the proof of the President’s guilt; all she felt was the rawness of her emotions that she didn’t think would ever heal.

Except now … standing in the hot Texas sun … she suddenly realized that she
had
healed. The memory wipe had given her three peaceful years in which she had recovered. That hadn’t been the purpose, but nevertheless that was the result.

And now she’d remembered the act itself.

She heard Xavier coming up behind her. She turned a little to watch him, because she couldn’t
not
watch him. Black boots, jeans, olive-drab tee shirt. A thigh holster was strapped to his right leg.

He eyed the target. The shots were all grouped in the tattered center. “You killed the fuck out of that one,” he said.

She flinched a little, tried to hide the movement, but nothing concerning her escaped him. He frowned, gripped her shoulders, and turned her to face him. His dark gaze bored into her blue one, and his grip tightened.

“You remember.” It was a statement.

“Yeah.” She got the one word out, but it was a struggle; her throat felt thick, clogged with the tears she refused to cry. The time for crying was long past. She’d done what had to be done, and the knowledge was a burden she’d always carry. She would always grieve at what had been necessary.

Xavier wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, lending her the support of his big body. The added heat was one more level of hell, and yet having him there was all she needed.

“I’m okay,” she said a few minutes later, because if it wasn’t quite true now, one day it would be.

“You sure?”

“Sure enough,” she said, and slipped her arm around her
husband’s waist. A small fuzzy dog began racing through the red dust toward them, yapping like crazy. She leaned down and scooped him up, held him the way Maggie had with her arm under his belly. “Roosevelt,” she said, “stop that infernal yapping.” Even though she knew the answer she asked again, “Exactly when is Maggie coming back?”

“Another two weeks, maybe.” Xavier looked around at the facility they’d designed and constructed. Security people already came from all over the nation for advanced training. It was challenging enough that he didn’t miss black-ops work much at all. Besides, he had Lizzy. That made up for losing the excitement of getting shot at.