4 Rainy Days and Monday (7 page)

Her eyes were brimmed with tears and fear when she turned her face up to Hallie.

“When can Frank leave?” Macy asked.

Hallie caught her breath, hesitating. She wanted to say so many things. Nothing she said, however, would assuage her daughter’s fears and concerns.

She softened her voice and held Macy by the shoulders.

“Honey, Frank will be with us for almost a year. That is his assignment.”

Something hard surfaced in Macy’s eyes and her lips pressed firmly together.

“Is that Frank’s assignment or is it Daddy’s?”

Hallie raised her eyebrows in surprise. She was taken aback. She struggled with the temptation to chastise her daughter.

“Both. Macy, I know it is difficult. Frank is a good man. We are going to get used to him before too long and when he leaves, I am sure that you will miss him,” Hallie reasoned.

Macy sniffled. She slid off the bed to the floor and walked to the door. She turned and looked at Hallie with red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m going to be strong because that is what you and Daddy would do. But, I will never truly like Frank. You can’t make me,” Macy announced with a stamp of her foot and a dramatic turn. She marched out.

Hallie could not contain the satisfied smile that came to her face. Her daughter was strong and independent.

Hallie understood that Macy was outwardly rejecting Frank because she felt guilty about liking the man. He was not her father and she felt untrue to Jake. Hallie sighed.

I may be projecting the same feelings toward that poor man
, she thought.

She determined that she would show Frank more gratitude and dig down deep to analyze her feelings from now on.

Soon, they were on their way to the nearest Marble Slab Creamery.

Hallie allowed herself to smile at Frank, to thank him warmly, and even managed to laugh aloud when Frank commented on their “girl talk.” It made her feel better to see that he enjoyed their day out.

Hallie found that she appreciated his protection and watchful eye. She saw Agent McKinley in a new light. When viewed from a lens that did not include the filter of Jake Monday, it was easier to see Frank’s devotion to Macy, his duty to his job, and his true heart. She could appreciate these tangible attributes.

Liar, Liar

G
iselle sat with her hands palms down on a cold stainless steel table. She blinked and squinted at the bright light above. The rest of the room was cast in darkness. Men moved in the shadows.

She was drugged. Of that, she was positive.

She remembered who she was.

She remembered everything, really.

Part of her reluctance to speak, to acknowledge the prying voices, was the shock and horror of these memories. The drugs helped.

The short man walked toward what she thought was a door. She could not be sure.

He had been commanding her to speak. He was getting frustrated.

Giselle did not like him. He smelled of mint chewing gum and coffee grounds.

She breathed in and then out, reminding herself why she could not trust this man.

She could not trust anyone in this room. In point of fact, she could not even trust herself. She had proven this over the past year. She was particularly self-destructive.

The biggest struggle was not to allow her increasingly lucid thoughts to travel to her eyes. They could not know. She hoped they would give up soon.

Or bring her something to eat.

She had noted that her skin was taut at her wrists. Her stomach felt like a leaden thing, detached from her body, but annoyingly needy, like a Third World country begging for charity to run its grubby, corrupted government. Her mind, her body, her family: they had all abandoned her. Even her soul had fled in her time of need.

Giselle fought back the urge to cry. She was surrounded, but lonely. Bone-achingly lonely.

“How long have you known you were a double agent?” the taller man asked. His voice had no urgency to it. It was as if he did not expect her to respond.

I am not falling for that trick, no sir,
she thought.

The worst part of crying was that she knew from experience that she would smile. Not a smile, really, but a grimace. That would be the end of her.

Would that be so bad?
she wondered. The pain in her body and in her soul cried out for relief. None would come.

Something held her back from that particular form of suicide. Perhaps it was the memory of Jake.

Her brother.
Could that be true? Why had her father kept that from her all these years?
It demonstrated an unusual capacity for emotional attachment. It was also a bitter pill to swallow.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. Her throat was dry and scratchy. She winced.

The image of a winged dragon with three heads formed in her mind. A dragon breathed fire at a helmed warrior with medieval armor. The knight held a shield emblazed with a cross in one hand and in the other a gleaming sword that refracted the light from the dragon’s fire.

The image allowed her to focus, to float above herself.

She knew now why it gave her such comfort. It was her family’s crest. Her mother’s family. A legacy of power and corruption. She was certain that Clarence had known all along. Giselle was just as sure that Jake still did not know the whole truth. She hoped he never would.

The metallic click of a lock sounded beside her and brought her out of her trance. She did not open her eyes. Someone shuffled in. Giselle could feel the eyes in the room leave her for a moment.

“How is she responding?” a gruff voice asked.

“She is still unresponsive,” the short man said.

A hesitation. The tension in the air was thick.

“I do not see any visible signs of interrogation, men. Are we afraid to hit a woman?”

“Dr. Forsythe said that physical contact would only drive the memories and consciousness deeper. It would be counter-productive,” the taller man explained.

“Poor excuse.”

Giselle wanted desperately to open her eyes. She knew that voice. She had heard it once. She wanted to hear the voice say the word. The word that meant it was all right to hide within herself.

“Dr. Forsythe no longer is in charge here. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

She felt as much as heard him come forward, closing the gap toward her. She resisted the temptation to cringe in preparation for the physical contact she knew would come. He would be interested in setting an example. It was going to hurt. She remained still.

Pain would be all right. She could deal with pain. She could lose herself there in the place where the needs of her body overruled the need of her mind to
think
.

Rough, thick hands grabbed her beneath her chin and brought her face up to the light.

“Open your eyes, Giselle.” His breath was hot on her face. It smelled like butterscotch.

Giselle inhaled quickly and obeyed.

“Such beautiful eyes,” Lars said.

She swallowed. He would know the word. She prayed silently that her eyes did not give her away.

In the glaring light of the bulb, the shadows of Lars’ face were pronounced. They made him seem even more intimidating than usual. Her father had orchestrated his position at Galbraith. Only, Clarence had discovered his duplicity. Had also offered to help, it seemed.

Ah, treachery knew no bounds.

The thread of truth was slippery with the oil of deceit. It was like those pictures that changed the closer you inspected them, revealing patterns and images that were hidden in plain sight. Galbraith. Sinegem. ViVeri. The Mystery Man. Jake. Her mother. Eiliff. The faces and images melded, swirled and coalesced into a different image.

Her programming had rendered her powerless, had assisted in the delusion. The depth of the betrayal, the extent of the deception, was monumental. She could not breathe.

Above her, Lars blinked slowly.

Behind him, just outside the ring of light, Giselle noted the form of his assistant, Violet. Of course she was there. It all made sense.

Where was the coin? If only they can give it to me, I can escape this,
Giselle thought, desperate.

“I know you recognize me. Perhaps you are hoping I will say the word.” He smirked at her, his eyes twinkling with malicious mirth. He turned his head back to Violet. “That was Calvin’s idea, you know?”

Giselle said nothing.

He squeezed the base of her chin hard. She blinked once. It felt like he could crush the delicate bones there with his bare hands. He was so strong. Like a Russian bear.

“Your mother would be disappointed, I am sure. She thought you were her secret weapon. You have been used, Giselle. Used by your father. Used by your employer. Used even by your own mother. You were her hidden queen, a chess piece she hoped to use to create an historical checkmate when the time came. It is a shame, really.”

She blinked, a tear running down her cheek. Giselle felt her breathing get shallow as she succumbed to sadness.

Madness or great pain shone in Lars’ eyes.

“So you
can
process what we are saying. Good. Know this: we are not just here to retrieve our hardware. We are here for a much greater purpose. We need to know that you are ready to play a new role.”

She steeled herself, knowing that she could not resist. He knew. He knew all her secrets.

“What do you want?” she asked through her teeth. His grip rendered the delivery of her question more bluntly than she had intended.

Lars smiled. In his eyes, Giselle could see the fires of the dragon, the truth behind its three heads, and the hopelessness of the brave knight.

“Dear, we want you to destroy ViVeri,” he said. “You are our Trojan Horse.”

Born to Rage for My Father’s Pain

T
he television was a distraction. The new President of the United States was speaking. Jake listened, but his mind was wandering. He had spoken with her just moments ago. It seemed surreal to see her at her desk in a secure location.

Vivian Walker seemed composed. Focused. Pissed off.

From what he understood, the Democrats were grooming her for the ticket in the next election. The DNC was scheduled for the following September. After talking to Vivian, Jake would be surprised if she ran for office again.

It was not that she was scared. She was disgusted.

Jake sighed.

He wondered for the hundredth time why he had distrusted his father. Was it a sixth sense? Was it something instilled by his mother? Instinct?

According to Vivian, his suspicions had been accurate. Yet, she respected Gabriel. Mourned his passing. Expressed her regrets. Paid her respects to Jake and his family. Said she understood how hard this would be on his family. She would do all in her ability to protect Jake, Hallie, and Macy.

He had nodded numbly.

Then, she had handed him the manila folder that he held in his hand now.

He did not want to look at it. The contents of the folder were explosive. Poisonous. Destructive. They could tear down his perceptions of his family. They could confirm all of his fears about his past. His legacy.

To know that he was a pawn in all the evil that gripped the world at the moment made Jake feel as though he would vomit. Against his will, against his conscience, he had killed in cold blood. On the other hand, had he?

Doubt was perhaps the most corrosive of the emotions that the folder evoked.

“This country will stand strong in our grief. We are committed to protecting the citizens of this great nation from the terror of those who wish to harm our leaders, ravage our communities, and destroy our way of life. We will not stand for it. We will fight back,” Vivian was saying. “Corruption, treason, and treachery will not be tolerated. We must all come together in these trying times. We must hold firm to our values of freedom, equality, and moral behavior. It is time for those who believe in the guiding light of liberty to hold her torch high.”

A stirring speech delivered from a secure bunker underground with a green-screen. On the television, President Walker appeared seated in the Oval Office. The desk was a replica. The view out to the gardens from a stock film. It was actually raining in Washington right now. Jake wondered who would note these things first.

He flicked the edges of the folder, contemplating opening the contents, and dumping them in the bin at the end of the hall.

A door opened with a click. Senator Robert Swane leaned out with a quick appraisal.

“You should get some sleep. You look awful,” he said.

“Can’t sleep, Robert. Have you heard from Hallie?”

Robert smiled.

“Playing ‘house’ with one of our best field agents. Last I checked, they are fine, Jake.” He sat heavily into the chair beside Jake.

“I miss her.”

Swane leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“Me, too.”

They sat like that for several minutes. Jake held the folder, hoping Robert would ask about it. He seemed to ignore it.

“Tell me about China,” Jake said.

Swane scoffed.

“What’s to say? Two team members dead. Our first mission failed right out of the gate. Team chemistry was wrong. We rushed it. The only good news is that we know where Lin-Xia is now.”

“Good,” Jake said.

“Don’t take the mission too hard, Jake. It was a failure from the start. We suspect that Fin Zhou was murdered by the head of his security team the moment the helicopters crested the mountain range. We have some more ops lined up in the next few weeks. Better intel. Closer to home. Less variables.”

Jake shook his head. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not concerned about the mission, Robert.”

Swane turned and looked him in the face.

“What’s wrong, Jake?”

He furrowed his brow.

“I prefer to work alone.”

Robert nodded.

“Of course. Less chance of collateral damage. I get that. One thing you learn in politics is that if the country would just leave it all up to you, cut out all the committees, the incessant voting on things, all the back-door deals, et cetera, the country would run much smoother. It makes it messy to be part of something larger.”