In the Wind: Out of the Box, Book 2 (11 page)

I want to jump right to the idea that this is a metaphor for my life, but it feels too easy. There are doors in my face, sure, but if my sister were here, she wouldn’t be despairing. Hell, she’s probably off on an adventure of her own at this very moment. Craziness is abounding, souls are being drained, enemies are mounting an attack on her, old friends are betraying—

Okay, I’m projecting.

Even I’m aware of my inner monologue gaining a disproportionate amount of angst. We won the battle against the worst enemy metakind had ever seen, and now I’m left to deal with the fallout of some slackers who have betrayed everything I stood for when I joined this fight. I may have navigated a long path since the day I first started working for Alpha, but it stings, even without a bro-close relationship with Fintan or Lorenzo. They’ve pissed on everything I believed in, and I’m taking it personally. Ever have someone say something that just goes against everything you believe? It feels even worse when it’s not on the internet.

I’m stewing in my own juices when the bedroom door opens again. I start to say something to Perugini and then shut up when I realize she’s not wearing a stitch. Nothing. Nada.

She stares at me coolly, long fingers against the door frame, and one leg crossed over the other, arms positioned just so in order to leave an aura of mystery that is not lost on me even as my brain defaults to teenage-boy mode. “Well,” I say, articulating the first and only thought that comes to mind, “you’re not getting into the Sistine Chapel like
that
.”

She smiles and makes a sound in the back of her throat that feels almost like the beginnings of a laugh. Then she makes a beckoning gesture with her forefinger, and I realize I’m standing at attention. Then the rest of me stands a moment later, and then my brain shows up to ruin the day.

“Wait,” I say, shaking my head. “This is … it’s … I mean, look,” and I’m trying not to—look, I mean, “it’s not that I couldn’t use—”

She sighs, exasperated. “Who said anything about you?” This might qualify as pouty, but she has way too much gravitas for it to come off as anything other than commanding and sexy. “I am on vacation. This is what I want to do on vacation. You are here, you are clearly of a mind to participate,” she gestures vaguely at my lower body—which, yes, is still at attention— “and I am going to use you since you have dragged me here and continue to take advantage of my help.”

I blink a few times. “So, really, I’d be repaying you for your assistance.” I take a couple tentative steps toward her, almost running my shin into a coffee table and my thigh into the arm of the couch. “I’d be failing to—uh—fulfill my end of the bargain if I don’t—uh—assist you with—”

I wander close enough to her for her to spare an arm—giving me a hell of a view of her upper body—to put a finger across my lips. “Let's not spoil the moment by talking,” she says.

She kisses me, and I return her kiss wholeheartedly, feeling her warm flesh press against me. I put all thoughts of organized crime, of betrayal, of all this maddening stuff out of my head as she runs fingers through my hair and clutches, pulling my lips to hers. Her kisses are hungry, enticing, and she practically rips my shirt off. I press against her, skin to skin, as we stumble backward toward the bed. My questions about sleeping arrangements are irrelevant, I realize, and my worries are all dissolved and forgotten in the moments that follow, as I remember how much fun it can be to just go along with the wind as it blows.

I awaken to sunlight streaming through the edges of the curtains. Perugini is on her side of the bed, I’m on mine. She’s facing away from me, her dark hair against the white sheets a pleasant change from the empty space I usually wake to. I realize with surprise I’ve slept the sleep of the dead. With the exception of one middle-of-the-night awakening in which she tempted me once more, I don’t recall waking even once.

I tiptoe to the bathroom to find a marble-appointed monstrosity that has mirrors everywhere, including just above the toilet. I stare at myself as I pee, feeling a little awkward and self-conscious about it all. If I really were Alpha Male, I’d probably be congratulating my junk on a successful night.
Way to go, champ, you were a real clinch player,
I refrain from saying.

This sparks some guilty feelings that remind me—yet again—that I am apparently not the most confident dude in the world. I mean, what if Dr. Perugini was just feeling sorry for me? That’s a nasty little thought, and it makes me feel more than a little sick as I stare at myself in about twenty different mirrors. Who the hell owns this place, and how much do they like looking at themselves naked?

I open the bathroom door to find Dr. Perugini stirring. Her hair is as messy as I’ve ever seen it, because she’s usually totally put together. Her sleepy eyes find me as she rolls over in bed and kicks the sheets off as she sits up. She looks damned lovely, but I hold back, standing against the bathroom door. Naked. Yeah. Still.

“Good morning,” she says, and it just sounds sexy.

“Morning,” I say. I do not sound sexy so much as hideously unsure of myself.

She catches my insecurity, and there’s a subtle waver in her eyes as she straightens her posture. “What?”

“I just … I don’t want to feel like I’m using you,” I say, and I realize that every man at the agency would probably be ready to drag me out back and put a bullet in my head right now to put me out of my misery. This is sad. I slept with a beautiful woman last night and I feel guilty. WHY? What is wrong with me?

She doesn’t seem to be as affected as I am. “You aren’t. I told you, I was using you.” She shrugs lightly. “If you were using me in return, this seems fair.” Like it’s no big deal.

“I just …”

She sighs. “Listen. You are a grown man. You act like a boy sometimes, but men do this. This is understood.” She smiles, just slightly. “I am a grown woman. I do what I want. Did you not want to do what we did?” She sweeps a hand down her body, and I’m keenly aware that indeed, I do want to do … that. Her. Because she’s a person, not a thing. The act is a thing. Ah, hell. Whatever.

“No, I did,” I say. “Still do.” I gulp a little. “I just … ugh.” I let my head fall down. “I just …”

“You don’t like my Brazilian wax?” she asks, and I blush for no good reason.

“I think the Brazilians do a great many things very well,” I say, “including steakhouses and waxing.” I catch a glimmer of amusement in her eye at this. “I feel guilty, like I dragged you into this and I’m exposing you to danger and … I just feel completely lost.” I throw my arms up a little. “How sad is that? I feel completely out of control, like I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

She stares at me and nods subtly. “I know one area in which you appear to know what you’re doing.”

“Heh.” That elicits a muted laugh from me. “Well, that’s a relief, because it’s been a while.”

She shrugs lightly again. “Not so long.” She slips out of bed and starts toward me. “You worry too much.”

“I usually don’t,” I say, a little troubled by this. When someone else is in charge, I kinda just go with the flow. I’m a great lieutenant, able to take charge and get things done when the final responsibility lies elsewhere.

So why do I suddenly feel like I’m a kid in my bedroom, trying not to feel completely lost as my father says goodbye?

“Come back to bed,” she says and takes my hand. I don’t really resist, and she pulls me closer to her, back to the bed. We fall upon the sheets, silken and cool, welcoming. She runs fingers through my hair again, and lays my head upon her chest. I lie there, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, listening to her heart beating.

I lie there for a while longer, just listening, just feeling her against me, until my eyes close and I drift back to sleep.

It has been a while since Anselmo has taken the train to Rome, he realizes as he sits in the first-class car with his drink in hand. The rattle of the tracks, the tunnels that pass in the blink of an eye, the sprawling countryside, these are all things that he vaguely recalls from countless cross-country journeys. He barely notices them anymore, though, even when he travels, he thinks as he swirls the cognac in his glass while the green fields streak by.

“Capo,”
Lorenzo says, causing him to turn his head. Lorenzo sits across the aisle from him, the little treats the cabin attendant has brought resting on the tray before him. “
Capo,
what do we do?”

“I told you,” Anselmo says with the patient air of one who is used to giving instruction. “We will settle your problems.”

“Yes, but how?” Lorenzo says, and the nerves are obvious on the boy’s face. The smell of the cognac is strong in Anselmo’s nose, the weight of the glass in his hand feels insignificant, and the flash of another tunnel passing by outside the window is irritating. They have the cabin to themselves, the attendant having already moved back to the next car. “We do not know where Reed Treston is.”

“You think like a boy,” Anselmo says, taking a sip of the cognac. It is weak, weak like Lorenzo. Given time, perhaps, it would become stronger. Like Lorenzo. “I must teach you to think like a man.”

Anselmo sees the flush. The insult hits home, the pride flares. He buries the smile, knowing he has hit Lorenzo where any man would feel it, as surely as if he’d slapped the boy in his groin. “What do you mean,
Capo
?” Lorenzo squeezes out, voice an octave lower, like his balls just dropped. Good. Anselmo hopes they will, and soon.

“There are many ways to compel a man to do that which you wish,” Anselmo says, taking another sip of his cognac. “You can bribe him. A flash of euros, an offer of smuggled cigarettes, drugs, women. Men have weaknesses. Failing that, there is threatening. Every man responds to threats, though in different ways.” Anselmo ponders his glass. “You have threatened this boy twice—”

“I did not threaten him,” Lorenzo says, and there is a hue on his skin that suggests rage. Anselmo finds some great joy in this. “I was ready to kill him.”

“But you failed,” Anselmo says with a shrug. “And so it is all threat. And he responds, running, hiding, instead of facing his problems as a man.” Anselmo grabs his own balls with his free hand, shaking his arm. “Threats, they fail. He runs, he hides. I presume that if your contacts in the airports and train stations knew he was leaving town, you would already be aware of this, yes?” He waits for the nod, and continues. “So he hides. He hides in Rome.”

“He could have taken a car—”

“He has no car,” Anselmo dismisses this foolishness. “He hides, as boys do, like a child from his father, to avoid the fearsome anger.” He makes a wave to take in the countryside. “He hides. But he cannot escape the anger. Threats, bribery … the last solution is the simplest.” Anselmo snaps his fingers. “Now you must find something to threaten him with. A weak point. Something that he fears. Some loyalty that can be exploited.” He grabs his own crotch again. “You get him by the balls, and you drag him out of his little hiding hole.”

Lorenzo’s face is all practiced skepticism. “But how,
Capo
? How do you find this man when he is hiding? He was alone, he has no friends left in the town now that—”

Anselmo takes a sip of the cognac. “He is hiding somewhere. This should tell you that he is with friends.” He turned to look Lorenzo right in the eye. “Or allies, perhaps?”

“But who?” Lorenzo asks. “The woman archer?”

Anselmo nods. “Diana.” He thinks back to their last meeting, those stunning green eyes, so full of anger. “Yes … I think she is just the place to start.”

I awake to an empty room and an empty bed, and I feel better than I have in some time. I can hear movement in the next room, and the bedroom door is drawn closed so that only a crack of light is visible. I yawn and stretch, feeling a clarity and certainty that doesn’t just come from getting laid last night. It comes from knowing what I need to do next.

I find my phone next to the bed and dial J.J. I glance at the clock as it’s ringing. I’m hoping he’s awake and moving around by now, because it’s like afternoon here. There’s a faint roar of a crowd somewhere outside my window, but it’s background noise under the static of the phone.

“Reed Indeed,” J.J. answers, a little sleepy. “What’s the haps, dude?”

“Sorry if I woke you up, man,” I say by way of apology. “Things are moving here, and I need some knowledge.”

“You called the right guy,” he says, and I can hear him puffing up over the miles between us. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you get anything else on what I asked you about last night?” I ask.

“Mmmm.” I hear him moving, then the faint click of a computer. “Nada so far, but the NSA’s gears tend to move a little slow sometimes when it comes to granting other agencies’ requests.”

“Damn,” I mutter. “I need details on a guy named Lorenzo Benedetti. He was with me in Alpha back in the day, but he looks like he’s crossed over to the dark side.”

There is a moment’s pause before he replies. “Not to mix your movie metaphor, but do you guys have like a Sean Bean-Pierce Brosnan thing going on?”

“Huh?” My mind sprints to catch up, making the connection a few seconds later. “Oh,
GoldenEye
. Yeah, kinda, I guess.” I pause as something occurs to me. “Except I only wish I had Bond’s level of self-confidence. Also, I wouldn’t say no to an Aston-Martin right now.”

“You should try morning affirmations,” J.J. says, and I can hear a cat purring in the background.

“For the self-confidence?”

“And the Aston Martin,” he says. “You never get what you don’t ask the universe for.”

“Right,” I say. Now is not the time to argue about the law of attraction. “Can you get back to me once you have something?”

“Can do,” he says. “I suspect the NSA will come back with something on those emails first—”

“Oh,” I say, “I think Lorenzo is ‘Axis,’ and a guy named Fintan O’Niall is ‘Wrench.’ Just FYI.”

“That’s helpful,” J.J. says. “I might be able to do something with that in other areas of the intelligence community. I’ll give you a call in a few hours. Peace out.” He hangs up, saving me the trouble of finding an excuse to do the same.