Walking The Edge: A Romantic Suspense/Espionage Thriller (Corpus Brides Trilogy Book 1) (20 page)

Surprise, worry, and apprehension—none of which Scott seemed intent on hiding.

His gut instinct kicking in, Gerard walked to the bed and picked up the remote controlling the elevation of the mattress. He brought Scott into a sitting position so the man could have a better view of him and Fey.

“You’ve got one chance that I wouldn’t throw away if I were you,” he said. “Start talking, and fast.”

Scott ignored him, instead staring at her. “What happened to you, Fey?”

“You don’t ask the questions here,” Gerard said in a growl clearly stating he meant business.

“I need to know what happened to her.”

“Why?”

Scott’s jaw clenched, as if he debating how to answer.

Gerard took a threatening turn in his direction.

“Because I’m the only person she can trust.”

“You killed my child, and you think I can trust you?” she said softly.

Gerard went to her side and put his hand on her shoulder, gently pressing it. She brought her hand up and clutched his.

“You forget how often we’ve worked together in the past years. We were a team, Fey.”

She squirmed. “It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered.

Scott shook his head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“She has amnesia,” Gerard replied. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when the words came out of his mouth. His instincts had kicked into overdrive, and they told him to give the other man some leeway, even if he didn’t prove worthy of Gerard’s trust yet. There existed clues and information only Scott could provide them, and for this, they needed to bring him into the picture.

“Say that again?” Scott exclaimed, surprise evident on his face.

Gerard pressed her shoulder in a reassuring squeeze. She looked up at him with questions swirling in her eyes.

They seem haunted
, he couldn’t help but think.
Abysmal and bottomless, too, like when she killed the thug outside my home
. He shivered. Who was she, really?

“Tell him,” he said softly.

She bit her lip, then turned towards Scott. “I was in an accident seven months ago. I had been badly injured and needed lots of surgery. The doctors kept me in a drug-induced coma for weeks so I could heal properly. When I woke up, I didn’t remember who I was.”

“Blimey, Fey. They thought you’d defected. You disappeared all of a sudden.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Gerard asked.

Silence settled in the room, Scott again apparently debating what to tell them.

“Talk,” Gerard said in a deathly calm voice.

The other man finally blinked. “The
Corpus
.”

“The what?” she exclaimed.

“You don’t remember?”

“And you better keep on talking,” Gerard added, impatience getting the better of him in the strange, twisted play enacting itself before his eyes.

Scott sighed. “The
Corpus
is a clandestine agency. We work in the shadows. You, Fey, were one of our best agents, and I was your case officer.”

Gerard’s jaw clenched as the force of a powerful fist hit him straight in the gut.
She was a secret agent?
This would explain the hidden stashes, the passports, and the aliases.

“You had sent her in on the Stepanovic case,” he said, the reckoning staggering in.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “What did I do? I...killed people?”

“Our orders usually aren’t to kill, Fey, even if we do have the license to do so when on a mission.”

“So what did I do?” she asked, lip trembling as she hugged herself with one arm and clasped Gerard’s hand with the other.

Gerard trained his attention fully on the man named Scott, eager to hear the explanation he would provide.

“I need to explain everything?” Scott asked on a sigh.

“You better,” he said.

“Fine.” The other man took a deep breath. “You know what the United Nations is about? Talk, talk, and more talk, and passing resolutions that never get acted upon? The situation is pretty much the same where international crime is concerned. Governments can talk and debate and pass as many laws as they want; it never solves shit.”

He paused and shook his head. “The
Corpus
is the left hand that changes this state of affairs. Its agents have acted for years in the shadows, bringing situations to conditions where something can be done about them.”

“How?” Gerard prompted.

“We’re mostly agents of influence. We can infiltrate anyone’s entourage and in any location by placing a relevant agent inside. Said agent is supposed to subtly tip the balance, at times pass on rumours or other such whispers to influence the circumstances. Sometimes, the involvement gets hands-on, when we have to turn into
agents provocateurs
, intentionally provoking conditions and altering the parameters to get the desired results. There’s a black ops division, but most of us don’t even know much about it.”

“Results desired by whom?” she asked.

“By the head of the organization.”

“And that’s not you?” She further questioned.

Scott chuckled. “No one knows the man, Fey.”

A shadowy group deliberating the fate of the world. Did it get any less complicated?

“What’s my name?” she asked.

“Fey.”

“Fey what?”

“Just Fey. It’s your operative name. The only identity you have after joining the
Corpus
. Each one of us has a personal story with our name, but that’s a secret we keep close to our chests.”

Gerard stifled a curse. So they still weren’t anywhere close to her true identity.

“Was there something between us?” she continued.

“I was your case officer, the agent who trained you and whom you reported to,” Scott answered.

“We never had an affair?”

A sad smile settled on his face. “We did. But in the end, we realized it was a mistake.”

“And then at some point, you took my child from me the minute he was born, and you killed him.”

A sigh escaped Scott. “I did what I had to do.”

Tension sizzled in the room. She had retreated into herself on the chair. Gerard released her shoulder and ran his fingers through her short hair. He then crouched by her side. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

He took in her braced shoulders, her erect spine. The fighting stance had returned, and as much as he grew relieved to see she appeared in control, it also made him apprehensive of what she could do in such a condition. The deadly, restless edge had wormed itself under her skin again, and she positively teemed with the contained energy.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she whispered.

“What?”

Her blue gaze locked with his.

“The man in the hospital, Peter, and the whole sham of us being married.” She blinked. “The craziest thing is, he looked exactly like Scott. At first, I thought they must be one and the same, but that cannot be true now.”

“What did you say?” Scott asked from the bed.

“
Nothing
.” She tossed him a glare.

“Don’t give me such shite, Fey. You know I heard every word and saw your lips moving. Who’s supposed to look like me?”

She peered at Gerard, as if to ask what she should do. He nodded, urging her to explain.

“When I woke up in the hospital in Switzerland, a man sat there with me. He convinced me he was my husband, and he looked like a spitting image of you.”

“Bloody hell! Max?”

“Who’s Max?” Gerard asked, but before he could pursue his query, the door burst open and in stormed the doctor in charge of the ICU, and of Scott’s recovery—a short, balding man in his fifties.

Gerard shot to his feet.

“
Commissaire
, this is really shocking.” The doctor’s voice rumbled inside the room.

Physically, he would be no match for Gerard’s height and strength, but he surely banked on his aura of authority to win control of the game.

“It’s none of your business, Doctor,” Gerard replied curtly.

“This man has just come out of surgery, narrowly escaping death after you shot him. This may be your case, but I won’t have you putting my patient’s life and recovery in jeopardy in my hospital.”

Gerard knew when he had to plough on; he also knew when he should retreat. Right then proved one such occurrence—he’d win himself nothing good by pitching the whole medical personnel against him and his service. He glimpsed Rashid standing right outside the doorway. They’d also received a huge amount of information in a relatively small window of time. They needed to bring some order to the chaos before adding new data to the tally.

“You’re right, Doctor,” he said, acquiescing. “I’m sorry. We’re leaving.” He placed his hand on Fey’s arm and helped her stand.

“Wait—” She started to argue.

He silenced her with a narrowed look and a subtle shake of his head, then turned to the doctor. “I’ll be back in the morning, but in the meantime, I want this man knocked out under heavy sedation.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting into,” Scott said.

“Shut up,” he replied without a glance. “Do it,” he told the doctor.

The doctor shuffled on his feet, seeming all of a sudden deflated when Gerard switched to the deathly cold, impersonal, and lethal-sounding bad guy.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” the doctor ventured to say, his voice having lost all its booming presence.

“Either you do it, or I haul him to the
commissariat,
where it’ll be something worse than medication that will have him unconscious.”

No mistaking the certainty he’d fully carry out his threat.

The doctor went to the cabinet in the corner and returned with a syringe, injecting the drug into the IV line. Scott’s eyes closed; he slumped against the mattress as the medication took effect.

They left, the doctor going back to the nurses’ station while turning back to look at them with every other step. In another situation, Gerard would’ve laughed, but there existed more pressing and disturbing matters to deal with.

“What the hell is going on?” Rashid followed them down the corridor.

“You don’t want to know,” Gerard replied on a sigh. “Can you meet me at my place in one hour?”

Rashid’s gaze went from Gerard to Mirka.
No, Fey.
That’s what they should call her. Her name was Fey.

Or rather, the operative moniker given to a secret agent.

“Don’t mention any of this to anyone,” he told Rashid. “I’ll see you at the garage.”

“Come,” Gerard said as he led her down the corridor. “I’m taking you home.”

She remained strangely quiet all through the walk to his car, and she didn’t even seem to realize when he took the road leading to the
corniche
and her hotel. He glanced at her, noticing she had her handbag with her. Good, her key must be in there.

A part of him couldn’t believe he’d drop her off there, but another part, the one most screaming for attention, couldn’t be more adamant that he needed to be away from her.

Even if only for a short while, he begged for the distance to clear through all the information crowding and swirling in his brain like debris caught in a raging storm.

Only when he led her into the lift at the hotel did she seem to realize where they were. She tensed under his grip, her whole body going rigid. At the same time, he felt the burn of her big, blue-eyed gaze on him.

He didn’t look at her, though, keeping his gaze focused on a point in front of him. He
couldn’t
look at her; if he did, he’d lose himself in those crystal depths that would make him think of Mirka.

Mirka, who had never existed; who’d simply been a secret agent operating under a synthetic legend and who’d had a tryst with him while on her mission.

It came down to this, in the end. She wasn’t what he’d thought,
who
he’d thought.

He opened the door to her room with his own key and gently pushed her inside.

Gerard remained on the other side of the threshold. He thought he heard a sob, but he couldn’t be sure.

He turned to leave, and one word made him freeze.

“Matthias,” she softly whispered.

There lay the problem. He wasn’t Matthias, but Gerard.

Matthias and Mirka had been the biggest lie this side of the Mediterranean had known.

Without a backward glance, he walked on, away from her and everything she’d symbolized in his mind, heart, and soul.

Chapter Eleven

Marseille.
Quartier de Saint-Giniez
in the
8ème arrondissement

Wednesday, December 19. 4:52 a.m.

Gerard sighed when he stopped in front of his flat. Must be what a zombie felt like—heavy, weighed down, without purpose or direction... He got out of the car and lifted the sliding garage door. He’d parked the vehicle by the time Rashid walked in.

“Where is she?” Rashid lowered the door, then turned to Gerard.

“At her hotel.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, making him wince. He still couldn’t believe he’d left her there, when he wanted nothing else but to hold her to him, feel her alive and well. Somehow, only losing himself inside her warm body would bring him some solace, but for how long? Reality wouldn’t melt into a void simply because he willed it to disappear. He sighed again and cursed.

“Want a beer?” he asked his best friend. He could do with something to numb his brain right then.

Rashid shook his head. “Now I know you’re a goner. I don’t drink, remember?”

“Yeah. That’s right.” How could he have forgotten? Rashid paid due diligence to his Muslim religion. He slumped on the couch, bringing his hands up to cover his face. “
Putain
,” he mumbled.

The sofa sagged next to him.

“I could say the same thing,” Rashid started. “What the hell is going on, man? Two guys try to kill you in the space of a few days, and every time, there’s this same woman there who points a gun at them. What have you gotten yourself into?”

Where did he start? Better yet, what did he say? “It’s a fucking mire.”

“Who is she, really?” Rashid asked.

The million-Euro question.
“Her name is Fey. She’s an agent from a secret agency. I met her as Stepanovic’s mistress on that case. She’s had plastic surgery to change her appearance since then, and she also lost her memory somewhere along the way.”

His friend whistled softly. “Say that again?”

Gerard groaned. “Yeah. I know.” It sounded totally convoluted.

“Secret agency? What are they? CIA? MI6? Definitely not DGSE, since she isn’t French by a long shot.”

“Something called
Corpus
.”

“Never heard of.”

“Same here.” Gerard sighed. “Stepanovic was one of their targets, though, and they had sent her, Fey, to be their eyes and ears in his entourage.”

“It’s how you met her.”

He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. Should he come clean? But if not to the man he trusted above all else, then to who could he turn? This matter would eat him alive if he kept it bottled in. In the end, he took the plunge.

“I did more than meet her. We got involved, and I even told her I was a cop.”

Rashid stared at him with wide eyes. “Were you fucking out of your mind or what?

He remained silent.

“You fell for her,” his friend added softly.

He nodded. “Remember the crash where the car had burnt completely, on the road to Aix? It was supposed to be her.”

Rashid leaned forward, mirroring Gerard’s position. “I remember how you got yourself pissed for a week after that.” He paused. “You’d thought she’d died.”

Gerard jumped to his feet. “And all this time, it was nothing but a lie! She claims to have lost her memory after.”

Rashid frowned. “Wait a second. Then who was in that car?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed at his aching forehead. “I fucking don’t know anymore.”

Rashid stood. “Listen, man. When was the last time you slept?”

Last night, after making love to Mirka.
No, not Mirka. Had it only been a little more than twenty-four hours ago when she’d woken up from her dream that had set them on the road to the hidden key?

Rashid placed both hands on his shoulders. “Get some rest. Then come to the
commissariat
when you’re refreshed and able to think clearly. You won’t resolve anything unless you get some sleep.”

“You’re right.” He sighed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Want me to crack open the Stepanovic file until you get there?”

He clasped Rashid’s hand. “Thanks. You’re a mate, indeed,” he said with a small smile.

Rashid thumped him softly on the shoulder. “Rest. We need you with a clear head. Take your time to get back. I’ll have the bases covered should anyone ask for you.”

After his friend left, Gerard dragged his feet up the stairs, then paused on the edge of the mezzanine. The sheets on the bed looked rumpled.

She’d been in the bed last, the imprint of her body still slightly visible in the crush of the heavy comforter.

With a soft curse, he stripped the thick cover off the mattress and threw it over the railing. Damn her, for making his life so miserable.

What is she doing back at the hotel?

Punching the pillows, he vowed he wouldn’t think of her. Not now.

***

Marseille.
Corniche
JF Kennedy

Wednesday, December 19. 7:30 a.m.

He must’ve given up on her...

The cold certainty that he had walked out of her life remained with her like a numbing chill refusing to leave even when she crawled into bed and pulled the heavy covers over her.

Tears she had repressed for too long gathered and spilled from her eyes, wetting the pillow under her cheek, but she didn’t bother. Couldn’t be bothered, really. In the space of a day, her life had tumbled over and over until she no longer knew who or what she was.

A secret agent, apparently; one trained to manipulate lies and people, and kill if need be.

A mother who’d had her child seized from her after she’d only had one glance at the crying newborn baby.

A woman who had fallen in love with a man who would never be hers, because they’d based their relationship on lies and deceit.

Agony seared through her, making pain radiate from every cell of her body.

Feelings.
Damn, bloody feelings
. It would be so easy if she could block them. Hadn’t they taught her some technique during her training? Hadn’t they shown her how to disconnect from any situation so nothing would get to her? Damn it all—she should know how to do all this. Thus, she wouldn’t feel the despair and the loss tearing at her again and again.

Why hadn’t she perished in that crash? At least, then, she would have died without knowing what would be missing in her existence. She wouldn’t have had a glimpse of what life could be like in Gerard’s—not Matthias’—arms. She wouldn’t have had to further experience the slow death of recalling she had lost her son at the hands of a man she had once trusted with her very existence.

Good could be attributed to pain, though, because when combined with sheer exhaustion and emotional suffering, it worked like a knockout punch. The fingers of overcoming numbness began diffusing like spreading anaesthesia, and, if only to be rid of the torture of emotions rolling in turmoil inside her, she gave in to the darkness creeping in on her.

She fell asleep, to awaken with the sensation of something hot and sticky running down the inside of her thighs while spasms racked her lower abdomen. Her throat closed when she recalled experiencing the same disturbing sensation in a hospital corridor while Scott walked away from her—

No. It can’t be.
She refused to relive that episode.

Pushing the sheets away, she gasped at the blood staining the linen.

Her period. Of all the times to have the darn thing. Without realizing why, her gaze landed on the table in the middle of the room.

The small plastic bag Gerard had brought in with him that first night still sat there, the flat pillbox inside. She’d never gotten round to taking the second tablet of that morning-after pill. No need to worry any longer, because she clearly hadn’t gotten pregnant from their unprotected encounter.

She closed her eyes and recalled the passion invariably blazing to life from simmering embers between them when they got together. The remembrance sent more shards of pain through her body, making her heart clutch; her throat closed and fresh tears welled in her eyes.

Stop being such a sappy idiot
, she berated herself.

A gush of warm blood between her legs brought her back to the present. Blasted bugger of all. As if she didn’t have enough reason to be peeved with life and her current situation. She had to have her period on top of it. She gingerly stood and clenched her thighs while she made her way to the bathroom. She sighed; the sweatpants on her were ruined.

Gerard’s clothes. She’d worn one of his T-shirts and a pair of his sweats when she’d woken up the previous day; the skimpy dress from the nightclub trip had been ruined during their ardent lovemaking.

The memory of that passionate encounter flickered to life inside her mind, and a small howl of misery escaped her when she tried hard, and failed, to put a lid on it all.

She couldn’t think of those moments. In fact, she had to stop remembering him. He wouldn’t come back.

After washing up and using thick wads of toilet paper as a makeshift pad, she stepped into one of her tailored trouser suits and went down to the hotel shop.
Please have them sell tampons
, she prayed as the lift took her to the foyer.

She found a box of tampons in the personal care section of the shop and brought her purchase to the counter, only to realize she had forgotten her money upstairs.

“I can charge it to your room,” the salesgirl said.

“Do that, please. Room 327.”

“Just sign the tab, please,
Mademoiselle
.”

She scribbled her signature, and then with a small smile, clutched the box to her and turned to leave.

“
Mademoiselle?
”

“Yes?”

“Excuse me for prying, but are you okay?” the young, pretty salesgirl with the tiny diamond stud in her nose asked.

How do I start telling you how much everything is not okay?
“I’m fine.” She forced herself to lie.

“Is there anything we can do? Maybe have room service send up some
tisane
.
Chamomille
, or
lavande
, why not?”

Did she really look so bad? Probably. Her red eyes, from all the crying, and her blotchy face would surely induce fright. She could also look hysterical, for why else would the girl offer calming chamomile and lavender infusions?

“It’s very nice of you, but I’ll be fine.” With a smile, she nodded and left the shop. She’d deal with her misery alone, thank you. More crying in the cards, for sure—she better get it all out of her system. Then she’d pick up the pieces of her broken life.

***

Marseille.
Vieux Port

Wednesday, December 19. 8:35 a.m.

Across town the next morning, in the vicinity of the
Vieux Port
, a dark man who’d dressed in a dashing, distinguished-looking tailored coat, suit, and tie walked up the steps to the
commissariat
.

He strolled across the lobby to the front desk, nodded at the young officer there, and displayed his agent’s card for inspection. “Who’s in charge here?”

“
Commissaire
Besson,” the officer replied.

“Is he in?”

“Not yet, but I can call his second in command—”

“It is imperative I meet with the
commissaire
ASAP. Do you have an address where I can go see him?”

“Wait a minute, sir. I’ll provide you with all this shortly.”

He waited until the officer came back with a piece of paper on which lay an address: C
ommissaire
Besson’s house in the
8ème arrondissement
. He stifled a gasp; posh location. Could the man love his money and status? An avenue to look into, so he could get the
commissaire
on his side. After thanking the officer, he pocketed the little sheet and exited the building.

He paused on the last step when his mobile rang.

“Where are you?” the woman on the other end asked.

“At the
commissariat
. Thought I’d get the name of the person responsible for the new flare-up of activity in the case that interests us.”

“Leave it,” she said. “Go find her. She’s more important.”

He tightened his jaw and waited out five seconds. Her bossy ways made him lose all his legendary patience. “Who told me to kill two birds with one stone?”

“And who fucked up in the first place, letting Fey escape?”