Alone (13 page)

BENT OVER THE WOODEN TABLE,
her butt still stinging from the injection and with the cold hard steel of a major firearm pressed to her temple,-Heather was definitely treading in some new territory. Yet she wasn't scared. Her mind calculated the entire situation with smooth precision:
This guy could kill me right now. I don't want to die today. If I do nothing, he can kill me, and if I try to do something, he might not. So I'd better do something now

As soon as the thought was complete, Heather reached up with her right hand and jerked the barrel of
the gun up toward the roof. She twisted around so she had some leverage, and before Oliver could object, she was on her back with her arm straight up, holding the gun in Oliver's hand well away from her head. It fired into the air, leaving a dent the size of a fist in the brick wall.

“Hey, Doctor, that's not a hypodermic needle,” she said.

“And that's not your head,” Oliver responded, nodding toward the pulverized brick of the wall.

“Fancy that,” Heather said, and laughed. “I think you've proved your point. May I let go of this gun now, or are you going to destroy me before you have a chance to see what I can do?”

Oliver opened his hand so that the gun hung loosely from his index finger. “Experiment ended,” he said, giving her a knowing smile. “Subject seems to possess an absolute lack of fear.”

“Subject is fearless,” she said, letting go of the gun. She sat up slowly, warily, a smile still playing across her face. She knew she should be cautious, just in case. But scared? She didn't feel a twinge.

“So if you aren't afraid, why did you defend yourself?” Oliver asked.

“I don't want to die,” Heather told him. “It was pure self-preservation. I saw there was a threat and acted on it, and defended myself more efficiently than I would have if I'd been all startled and terrified, if I do say so myself.”

“God, Oliver,” Josh said in a wavery voice.

Only then did Heather turn around to see her superhot savior plastered against the back of his chair. Heather thought
he looked remarkably like Bugs Bunny,
in that one cartoon where his plane is going down and he sort of melts into the pilot's chair—with his hands clutching the armrests. Josh's eyes were wide with shock, and he had actually broken out into a sweat.

“Heather, are you all right?” he asked.

“I'm better than I've ever been,” Heather said. “You don't look so hot, though.”

“Indeed, Josh,” Oliver said. “Is anything wrong?”

Heather saw Josh's expression change. His concern faded and was replaced by—ugh! Fear! He was
afraid
of Oliver. Heather's opinion of her boyfriend dropped a few notches. All of a sudden
he seemed a little wimpy.

She looked back at Oliver, who was regarding her with a satisfied smile. Josh might be freaked out, but this guy was clearly proud of her—and of what he'd done to her. Heather felt satisfied and content,
as if someone had flicked on a switch inside her and she was now working better.
She felt good. Because an awful lot of things seemed to go along with fear. Anxiety about the AP biology exam? That was gone, replaced by a cool-as-a-cucumber assessment of how much she needed to study, with no
ohmigod-I-can't-do-this freak-outs to interrupt her progress. The desperate need for control that had led her sister to starve herself almost to death? Heather could see that was fear, too—and she'd never fall victim to it now.

What she had now was the ultimate power. And she planned to use it—to the absolute limit of her imagination.

THE MANSION WAS EASY ENOUGH TO
find. After tooling around through the impoverished tin shacks that dotted the landscape outside of the resort area, Tom could see the gleaming white structure from miles away. And in a stroke of luck, it sat at the bottom of a long hill, so he could cut the purring Harley engine and coast right up to it in complete silence.

It was magnificent. Blew the hotel away, in fact. Resorts were built with the public in mind, but this mansion was clearly designed for total and complete privacy and to very specific—and fine—taste. Luminous white columns stood out against the gleaming sapphire of the water and the elegant beige
sand. Smooth grass, meticulously manicured, gave way to the beach in the distance. But all Tom saw was evil. He had to get inside and find Loki. This was the culmination of years of bitter rivalry, and it was all about to pay off.

Without a word, he and Natasha looked at each other and agreed on a plan. Of course they couldn't go charging into the inner sanctum of their enemy. They would first make a reconnaissance trip, each taking a side of the building, looking for any breach of security that would allow them to enter, and meet back at the bike to debrief. It was standard procedure. And the rules and regulations of the Agency were designed for moments like this—moments that required absolute silence and secrecy.

With practiced movements Tom snuck around his side of the mansion, moving quietly through the thickets of scrubby shrubs and trees that protected the area from the prying eyes of locals. It was slow going, but patience was a necessary skill, and he had mastered it. Before too long he had made it almost down to the beach, taking an optical inventory of the various security systems, gated entrances, and external cameras that dotted the compound. He made notes of several places where he could cut wires or approach in a blind spot. This was going to be easier than he'd thought. In fact, everything was going remarkably smoothly.

Suddenly his attention was caught by movement on the beach. The architect had really done his work: The columns that made the house look so grand were duplicated here, reaching up to nowhere in a surrealistic nod to the total magnificence of the ocean. Between those columns a young woman was strolling hand in hand with a tall, well-built man. The girl was obviously very young—a teenager—yet her body was as muscled as a professional athlete's. Her blond hair hung almost to her waist. And despite the lush surroundings, she was dressed with total casual ease, in cutoff shorts and a worn red T-shirt.

Her attention was completely focused on the young man, and soon his hand wandered from her hand to her waist, and then both of his hands snaked around her athletic frame to fondle her entire body. She clearly welcomed the attention: leaning back against one of the columns, she guided his hands along her body and then put her own hands on his shoulders, his back, his. . .

It was Gaia. Tom realized it with a shock. Loki had somehow brought Gaia here, and she was being seduced by this filthy-minded dirtbag. Was there no depth to which he would not sink? His innocent daughter—he could see it clear as day: that was her favorite T-shirt, from Jerry's Crab House. Tom was so shocked and horrified, he couldn't look away.

Gaia laughed, pushed the boy away from her, then
ran down toward the beach, the boy following her. He was lean, muscled, with jet black hair—a predator, a shark on the sand instead of in the water. Gaia ran in and out of the surf, reaching down to scoop up water and splashing him. What was she doing here? What lies had Loki told her?

It dawned on him that he had never seen her so carefree. At least, not since she was twelve. Gaia was laughing, playing, frolicking in the sand like a high-school kid who didn't have a care in the world. Despite himself—despite his knowledge that she was in the gravest danger, that this beautiful mansion was nothing but a prison, that her life could end at any moment, that the boy she was running with was using her—despite all of it, he wished, for a fleeting moment, that this were all real and that she could really be as untroubled as she now seemed.

She stopped splashing and stood in the low surf, suddenly quiet as she approached the boy, her red shirt soaked and clinging to her body. She threw her arms around him and wrestled him (expertly, of course) to the sand, then stood over him, one leg on either side of his hips. She leaned over, putting her hands on the sand, and kissed his upturned face, first on each cheek, then deeply on the mouth. Then she lowered her body so she was straddling him—still clothed, but with a writhing action that was all too clear in its intention. . . .

Tom burned with anger. And he knew what he had to do next. Whatever the consequences, he had to protect his daughter.

He stepped out of his shrubbery cover and raced down to the beach. “Gaia!” he called out. “Gaia, get away from him. Get away from him!”

The sand gave way beneath his feet and he stumbled, but Tom kept moving, propelled forward by a parent's protective instinct. Finally he reached her and pulled her up by the arm, yanking her out of the sand and away from the demented horndog who'd been feeling her up.

Only the girl who turned around to face him wasn't Gaia. With a rush of relief and then of horror, he realized he'd been tricked.

She looked like Gaia but was older—some sort of trained assassin playing a part. The boy looked remarkably like Josh, who Tom knew had been killed in New York City weeks earlier. What on earth was going on?

Tom reached for his gun, still secured in its holster, but before he could pull it out, he heard another one being cocked. He froze and felt himself being tackled by an overgrown ape of a man, a steroid-enhanced supersized member of Loki's security force.

He let go of the bait and realized with a flood of regret that he'd been had. Lured to this compound by false information—fakery that he'd been totally blind
to because of his obsession with Loki. Someone had gotten the best of him, and he had put Natasha at risk because of it.

Even as he was dragged with tremendous force by four men both bigger and more well armed than he was, Tom's mind began making lightning-fast connections, working backward through the entire previous day. How had this happened? How had he been duped into coming here? Where was the hole in his tiny cadre of trusted sources?

Could it have been Nick, the pilot? He didn't think so; Nick hadn't told him not to leave the islands. Was it Natasha? Possibly—as inconceivable as it seemed, he knew she might have a hand in this. That would certainly explain the mysterious phone call earlier. He needed to figure out exactly when things had gone south, who knew where he was. . . .

Oh, no.

God, no. Was it possible?

The warnings against Natasha. The sudden interest in where Gaia lived. The final phone call, faint but firm in its directive to come to this address, just when he'd been about to leave the Caymans. . .

Tom had been betrayed by the only person he truly trusted. Not by his wife, not as the victim of poor judgment, but as a result of malicious, double-crossing duplicity. After years of risking his life for the Agency, after pulling himself and Tom out of tough
spots that threatened both their lives, he had called Tom, told him to come here, and then said what—”Good-bye, old friend”?

There was only one person who could be responsible, and the shock of it shattered Tom's heart in ways he'd never realized it could break.

The deadly blow had come from George Niven.

When
I was young and joined the Agency—boy, was I green. I mean, I was more serious than the other students at Columbia, sure; I was more serious than anyone. While they were doing bong hits and arguing over the true meaning of “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” I was quietly studying, training, and never mentioning what I wanted my vocation to be. It would have sounded strange in the midst of the groovy seventies to admit I wanted to be a spy. Like saying I'd always dreamed of becoming a piston engine. Completely impossible, and even if it were possible, it was just not done.

Except I did it. And George was the first man I worked with.

He was so unbelievably prescient. I swore at first that he had ESP, he could read my mind. I thought I was so slick, and he broke me down within moments of meeting me: after a quarter hour of conversation about nothing more telling than the weather and
my course requirements, he knew I had a fear of dogs that I'd barely overcome. He knew every chink in my armor.

I hated him for that. It felt like emotional root canal. I was laid bare, but in the end it made me much stronger. Because I had to root out my weaknesses in order to conquer them.

I don't know how many times he saved my life. His own life seemed to be of no consequence to him. More than once he made a decision that was almost guaranteed to kill him and went forward with it for the greater good. He was a soldier. He put the Agency's needs above his own.

And this was the man who taught me.

When Katia died, I had no one to turn to. I didn't
want
to turn to anyone, but George found me, and instead of berating me for being weak, he somehow filled me with the strength to go on living. For Gaia. Even if I couldn't be with her, even if I had to
make her hate me for her own good, I had to be out here, protecting her. Watching over her. Whatever loss I felt over Katia, I had to transcend. I had to be both parents. And I had to do it from afar. An impossible task. Except George had a knack for impossibilities.

I wonder what happened to him? I wonder what part of his brain gave in first? And what exactly it gave in to? You could not threaten his life; he wouldn't betray a friend for that. He had no one; Ella was his last human connection, besides me. Maybe losing Ella broke him. Maybe it all goes back to her betrayal.

Or maybe he allowed her to betray him because he was already becoming feeble. And I was too loving, too in awe of him, to see it.

All I know is, I have lost George. He's dead to me. He's dead to himself. And something tells me he's dead, period, if not now, then as good as dead. That he'll be gone before I can
ask him any of these questions. Something tells me that I'll never be able to satisfy my curiosity about his ultimate betrayal not just of me, but of Gaia.

No more George.

Damn you, old friend.