Читать книгу Double Agent - Lisa Phillips - Страница 14

FOUR

Seattle, WA

Friday, 23:00

Windshield wipers valiantly swiped the rain away, but more drops continued to pound on the car. Sabine parked her baby—a paid-in-full black Cadillac CTS—in the garage of her Seattle home. Only when the garage door lowered fully did she get out and pull her suitcase from the trunk.

It was late, and every muscle in her body ached, which was good because it distracted her from the throb in her ankle. Sabine had never been able to sleep on planes, and today was no exception. She tried to tell herself it was because she had felt bad for having ditched Doug. His tears had been genuine, the grief he had felt over Ben’s death right there in his eyes. He clearly wanted to know what had happened as badly as she did—even if his professional manner left something to be desired.

There was still no way she was going to let him question her. She would need clearance from her handler before she could give him any of the details of her mission or tell him what she knew about Christophe Parelli.

The utter disaster the mission had turned out to be weighed on her. Apart from the fact she had the hard drive, everything that could have gone wrong had. Hiding the hard drive from Doug had been necessary, though apparently pointless since he’d known what she was after.

Now she needed to go through the contents before anything else went awry—like being hauled in for questioning by the army.

Christophe’s death played like a movie reel through her mind. Maybe she didn’t need to feel bad since the man was responsible for the deaths of so many others. He had acted without remorse or any consideration for national and international laws. But seeing him gasp his last breath had hit Sabine at the very center of who she was.

Her house was dark and quiet, except for the patter of rain against the windows. That wasn’t anything new—the Seattle weather or the solitude. Even when she was married, Sabine would come home to an empty house and dinner for one.

What she had thought was her husband’s work as an investment banker keeping him busy with “late-night meetings” turned out to be Maxwell having drinks with his twenty-two-year-old secretary. Now Sabine was as alone as ever but with the added bonus of feeling like a chump because her husband had cheated on her with someone younger and prettier. She would think twice about letting anyone else in again.

She punched the first two numbers of her ten-digit code on the panel for the security system and paused. It wasn’t armed. That was weird. She’d set it before she left, hadn’t she? She never forgot something as important as security. Sabine set down her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and stood still for a moment. The house was quiet as always.

After a walk-through of the downstairs rooms yielded nothing, Sabine crept upstairs, keeping to the side so as not to step on the creaky stair halfway up. Cold shimmered through her from head to toe. She had never needed a gun at home before. Her handler’s words from the park came back to her.

Don’t get caught with a gun. Ever. And don’t get caught by the police, not even for a speeding ticket. You do and you’re on your own.

Careful not to look at the pictures of Ben on the wall, Sabine rounded the stairs at the top and studied the upstairs hallway. Her ears strained for...a rustle coming from Ben’s bedroom.

The door to her brother’s room had been closed since his last day of leave and his subsequent return to base. He’d always been sort of juvenile about her going into his room, a response probably from the lack of privacy they’d had in foster homes. She’d respected his wishes and had agreed not to go in there.

Light flashed across the opening, and Sabine crept forward. She peered into the room and eased the door open inch by inch.

A black balaclava covered the intruder’s face, leaving only his eyes visible. It was definitely a guy, judging by the shape of his wiry body. The efficiency with which he worked his way through Ben’s belongings told her that he was a professional. This wasn’t just some teenager looking to score.

He slammed the dresser drawer shut and yanked open the next one. A gun wouldn’t scare off this guy and would likely raise more questions than she was okay with when she had to explain a dead body to the police.

She would have to rely on her CIA training.

Sabine took a deep breath and rushed him. He looked up a split second before she slammed into him with the force of her body and knocked him off balance. The guy twisted so she was the one who hit the floor and the back of her head slammed against the carpet.

Before she could react, his hands were on her neck. She tried to push him off, but his weight and the pressure on her windpipe made her see stars.

The doorbell rang downstairs.

With shaky hands she found his shoulders, then his face, where she applied pressure with her thumbs until he cried out. She kicked off the floor hard enough to dislodge him and dove for the dresser top for something to use as a weapon. Two arms locked around her waist and lifted her off her feet. Sabine cried out and was dragged backward.

A loud thud came from downstairs. “Sabine!”

She struggled against her captor. Strength bled from her like water down the drain but she lifted her legs and slammed until she made contact with the intruder’s shins. He let go of her and collapsed to his knees.

Boots pounded up the stairs.

Sabine spun and caught the intruder with a kick to the side of his head. The pain in her twisted ankle nearly buckled her legs, but she followed up with a solid punch. The guy still hadn’t gone down. In fact, he was regrouping.

The bedroom door swung open, hit the wall and bounced back. Doug filled the doorway. Despite the fact that she’d left him in the Dominican Republic, something inside her leapt at the thought that he’d come to help her, not interrogate her.

The intruder took one look at Doug and sprinted for the window. The smash was deafening. Sabine ran over and looked out, but he was already up on his feet and running across the lawn. Rain sprayed in through the open window and Sabine backed up from the broken glass.

Doug’s phone beeped.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the cops. What do you think I’m doing?”

Sabine tried to grab the phone, but he refused to let go of it. All the warmth she’d felt when he burst in like some kind of knight of yore here to save the princess in distress deflated like a pricked balloon. He was trying to tell her what to do again.

“No cops. There are too many things I don’t care to explain about my life or why someone would break into my home.” She lost her grip on the phone then, probably because it was soaked, like Doug’s leather jacket, jeans and wool hat. “How long were you outside? You’re drenched.”

“How long does it take to cross the street?” He folded his arms.

Sabine loved the sound of leather crackling.

“Nice weather you guys have here.”

“I like it. It discourages lingering.”

He grinned. “Kind of antisocial, aren’t you?”

“Why are you here?”

Instead of answering, he turned away, and Sabine followed him to the garage where he rummaged around her damp Cadillac and came up with a hammer, some spare pieces of two-by-fours Ben had left and a box of nails.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, tapping her foot—even though it hurt. Halfway up he looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’ll accept saving you from an intruder as an answer.”

“Not likely, since I had it handled.” Sort of.

As nice as it would be to believe he’d come here to help, he couldn’t have known she’d need saving from an intruder at that very moment. Since Doug was busy fixing her window, Sabine headed into the kitchen for some water and to raid her stash of painkillers. She didn’t dare sit. What little strength kept her upright now would dissipate, and she’d be asleep in thirty seconds. While she was incapacitated, Doug would probably throw her over his shoulder and take her to whoever he reported to for that questioning he’d threatened her with.

No, it wouldn’t do to let her guard down.

Upstairs she could hear the thud of the hammer. The last time he’d been in this kitchen with her—at Ben’s memorial service—he’d been nice. Now he was being nice again, helping her. He probably thought she couldn’t have fixed it herself. He’d be right. She was so drained it was tough to think straight.

Was he friend or foe? Doug acted like he cared. Then in her hotel room he had seemed so determined to find out what had happened to Ben that he was like a runaway train. Nothing would keep him from getting what he wanted.

She was a workaholic, but it seemed more like Doug lived and breathed the army. Now that this particular mission had become personal, there was nothing he wouldn’t do.

Sticking around was a bad idea.

Sabine had just about summoned up the strength to figure out where her purse was when Doug reappeared, wiping his hands on the leg of his jeans.

“Thinking about running again?”

“I was—” Her voice gave out. Sabine touched her throat. It was tender from the intruder’s grip. She sucked in a deep breath. In that moment it was all she had the strength to accomplish.

“Sabine.”

His voice sounded far away, like he was speaking underwater.

The floor swept up toward her, and Sabine descended into darkness.

* * *

Doug caught her before she hit the floor and lifted her into the cradle of his arms. She weighed more than he thought. Tall and slender, Sabine was lean with muscle. Strong. The woman might have an iron core, but his heart had been in his throat since he’d been on her doorstep and heard her cry out over the sound of wind and rain.

After he had kicked the door in and pounded up the stairs, he’d been scared to death he’d find her dead on the floor. Instead, Sabine had put up a valiant fight against her assailant. Now rather than being outside searching for the guy who’d had the audacity to put his hands on Sabine—Doug had seen the marks on her throat—he carried her upstairs.

Doug set her down on the bed and removed her boots. Her ankle was puffy and swollen, but her breaths were deep and steady. He wrapped her in the comforter, turned on the bedside lamp and left the door ajar in case she cried out.

He sighed and lowered himself to the top step in the dark. He had to get a handle on his emotions. He couldn’t freak out like that every time Sabine was in danger.

Pictures lined the wall, all the way down the stairs. He didn’t need light to see the images of Ben at Little League or Ben wearing a tux as he walked Sabine down the aisle. She was divorced now. Ben had revealed that much about his sister, though none of the actual details—so long as you didn’t count the way his lip curled when he mentioned Sabine’s now ex-husband.

All Doug wanted was to find out who had killed Ben and why. After that he wouldn’t have to wonder where she was or what she was doing...or if she wondered the same thing about him. Or what that sadness behind her eyes was.

His phone hummed. “Richardson.”

“You got her?” The voice was gruff and full of authority, the voice of his commanding officer, Colonel Hiller.

“Found her fighting off an intruder in her house. Soon as she comes around, we’ll be on our way.”

There was a noncommittal noise. “She okay?”

Doug stood. He stretched out his back and made his way down the stairs. “She took some hits, but mostly she’s just exhausted.”

“I’m not surprised. That girl’s one busy little beaver. Been up to all kinds of things since Sergeant Laduca died.”

Doug’s heart clenched at the memory of Ben bleeding out in his arms and forced himself to focus instead on his commanding officer’s words. “She has?”

“Stuck her nose into classified records, for one thing. Girl’s got a lot to answer for. The least of which being who she works for.”

Doug found a diet soda in the fridge. It would have to do. “She’s CIA.”

“Not according to anyone I spoke to. Once upon a time, sure. They hired her, trained her and sent her on missions. A half dozen years ago she went off the grid. Disappeared, and the only thing she left behind was a pool of blood.”

“She’s some kind of rogue ex-CIA agent? Are you serious?” Then he remembered who he was talking to. “Excuse me, Colonel. I’m just having trouble assimilating this. She was kind of stuck-up about the CIA thing. If she works for someone else, she must be the best actress in the world.” He thought for a second. “Did you tell the CIA we found her?”

“They’re not stupid. Mostly. They’ll figure out why I was asking about her, even though I did my best to keep it to vague questions. Hopefully it’ll buy us time.”

Doug tapped his finger on the side of the sweating can of soda. He wasn’t going to tell Sabine what they’d found out. He’d probe instead with the hope that she would share of her own volition. Had Ben known she was a rogue agent? Doug had to get to the bottom of this before it all broke loose.

If she had betrayed the CIA and gone to work for the enemy six years ago, the CIA would have her on all kinds of watch lists. To have hidden her location and still be going on missions, fooling everyone left, right and center, meant she must be an exceptional spy. That or she worked for some very bad people...with very deep pockets.

A rogue CIA agent?

Doug sighed and ran a hand down his face.

“Get some answers, Sergeant Major. I expect to hear from you bright and early.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And call your dad.”

Doug groaned.

“The old man knows you’re back in the States. He’s expecting your call.”

The line went dead. Colonel Hiller wasn’t one for goodbyes or any kind of politeness that could be expected from a fellow human being, but his record as an officer was so impressive; he was already a legend at forty-six. He’d earned his rank the hard way, from the ground up—ground soaked with his own sweat and blood.

Doug found a can of soup in the cupboard and set about heating it up on the stove. He scrolled through his contacts, found “Andrew” and pressed Send, intending to leave a voice mail.

“General Richardson’s residence.”

Doug smiled at the sound of the housekeeper’s voice. “Hey, Jean. I take it he’s still up since it’s after midnight, yet you’re answering the phone.”

The fluffy middle-aged lady laughed like Doug’s old Sunday school teacher. “How are you, honey?”

“I’m doing fine, Jean. Thank you.”

“Well, you know I worry about you. Did you get those cookies I sent?”

“I did, yeah. They were good. The guys loved them.” He’d made sure to set aside some of the two dozen for himself.

“I should think so.”

Doug laughed. The lightness in him stretched and grew, even with such a small connection with someone who had nothing to do with the war he seemed to always be fighting.

“My grandmother’s secret recipe. Did you know she fought her way out of Nazi Germany with nothing but her recipe card box and her knitting needles?”

Laughter built up in his chest but didn’t spill out. “That’s a good story. You should stick with it.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll put you through to your dad now, honey.”

“Thanks, Jean.”

There was a pause, and then a man’s voice came over the line. “That you, son?” It was a voice that had both commanded troops and yelled at his teenage boy to straighten his room.

Doug sighed. “Yeah, Dad, it’s me.”

“It’s about time. Did you think I’d settle for you checking in over voice mail forever?”

Doug’s chest tightened until it ached. He should pay the old man a visit soon. “It’s late. I should probably let you get to bed.”

“Don’t even try it. This is a momentous occasion. I actually got you on the phone. You think I’m just going to let you say goodbye in two seconds? Besides, isn’t there something you want to tell me?”

Doug sighed, loud enough for his dad to hear. Of course he’d make him say it. “Happy birthday.”

“You want to make it happy? You show up at my birthday party on Saturday. You wear a tux. You smile. You tell me that you’re letting this whole business go.” His voice broke. “I want to see you get on with your life, Douglas. Find a woman. Get married, and make me a grandfather already. I’m getting old.”

Before the general was finished, Doug was already shaking his head. “I would if I could, but I can’t. Not until I find out who killed Ben.”

“It’s not just me. You know it’s what your mother would have wanted.”

“Oh, sure.” Doug sighed. “Bring up Mom and how she’d be so disappointed in my behavior.” His dad did it because it worked. Doug would never have willingly disappointed his mother.

The general huffed. “Always were too hard on yourself.”

“This isn’t just about me.”

“I get it, son. I do.” Fatigue clouded the old man’s voice. “You want justice for your friend so your team can go on.”

“And for his sister.”

“You want to protect her.”

“She’s strong, but she still seems so...fragile.”

There was quiet for a moment and then the general asked, “Is she pretty?”

“Dad.”

“Fine, fine. You do what you need to do, son. But when you’re done, you come see me, you hear?” The general waited a beat. “I miss you.”

Doug pressed End and lowered the phone. “I miss you, too.”