Blind Run (13 page)

Callie didn’t look convinced.

Sydney reclaimed the girl’s hands and forced a smile. “It’s about the best way to help you and your brother.”

Callie tilted her head, a myriad of emotions playing across her small features. Doubt, fear, hope, they all flickered on her face. Finally she said, “We need you.”

The simplicity of the statement was Sydney’s undoing. Closing her eyes, she squeezed the child’s hands. “I know.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ETHAN WANTED
to hit something. Hard.

For three long years he’d told himself he was finished with the Agency and its waltz with death, all the while dreaming of hunting down Ramirez and watching him die. Ethan wanted to close his hands around the other man’s throat and feel the life drain away beneath his fingers.

Then a few short hours ago, Ramirez had been within his grasp. Ethan had almost lost it, risking everything for the sake of his revenge. They’d barely escaped. And now Ramirez was still close, so close Ethan could sense him, feel his presence like a foul wind against his skin. But he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Not with Sydney and two runaway orphans depending on him for their lives.

Ethan closed his eyes and fought the need to pummel his fist against the nearest hardwood surface. If he started, he wouldn’t stop. He’d drive himself until he drew blood and shattered the bones of his hand, until he collapsed, pain screaming through him and blotting out all thought, all memory.

What good would he be to any of them then?

He forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly, then fell into the rhythm of tai chi. He needed to forget Ramirez, get his anger under control, and concentrate on the lives in his care. His body moved from one position to the next, smoothly, seamlessly, but his thoughts remained with his son. And the man who’d killed him.

Hate circled within him like a living thing, a force threatening to consume him. He pulled back, blocking out everything but the steady flow of movements, his breathing, and the beat of his heart. Over and over he performed the ritual, as the need to hunt pulled at him, tore at the ties that held him to this place and the three people he’d left sleeping inside.

He couldn’t say how long he repeated the movements, but exhaustion finally dulled his senses. He could still feel the need for revenge within him, buried beneath a lifetime of discipline, but for now, he had it under control. Only then did he dare bring his arms up in a wide, final sweep and press his palms together in front of his chest. As he dropped his hands to his sides, he caught Sydney watching him from the window.

She was so pale. Like she’d been the day of Nicky’s funeral.

The memory stung, but he couldn’t escape it. Not with Sydney so close. Nicky had died in mid-August, when the dry, lifeless heat of the Texas summer had been at its height. Even beneath the live oaks that shaded his final resting place, it had felt like an oven.

The day crystalized in Ethan’s mind.

He and Sydney had ridden to the cemetery in a black limousine. Her parents had wanted to accompany their daughter, but Ethan had consigned them to the second car, and Sydney hadn’t objected. She hadn’t even spoken, even as she stood, her hand placid in his, listening to the ragged voice of the young minister attempting to offer comfort as they buried their five-year-old son.

Around them, the world seemed unnaturally bright. Vivid. Like something not quite real. The sky had a celestial quality, its very blueness a slap, a mockery of the day’s purpose. As was the smell of fresh mown grass and the hum of a distant lawnmower. Insects chattered. A toddler squirmed and whined and was taken off by a flustered adult. Sydney’s mother, standing on the other side of her daughter, sniffed, wiped her eyes, and clung to her husband’s arm. The hole in the earth appeared cavernous, the earth a rich brown. The roses on Nicky’s casket a deep bloodred.

And Sydney.

Her face bleached of color. Her hair pulled severely away from her face. Her swollen eyes hidden behind dark glasses. A part of her had died with Nicky, and Ethan sensed her willingness to crawl into that coffin with their son. He saw himself burying her in the plot next to the boy and slipped an unsteady arm around her shoulders.

He couldn’t allow that.

At least, that’s what he’d told himself, how he’d justified his actions later that day. In truth, he’d simply been helpless in the face of her grief and desperate for something he could do to make her whole again.

He’d made his decision as he watched the small casket descend into the ground. Sydney had choked back a sob, then let go as her mother turned and folded her into maternal arms. Ethan had stepped back, knowing what he had to do. He couldn’t allow his wife to follow their son. He would do whatever it took to keep her safe, to give her a chance at life.

Now he saw that he’d chosen the easy way out. She’d managed to go on living these last three years, pulling herself and her life together, while he’d wallowed in his guilt, telling himself it was all for her. Instead, he should have told her the truth and gone after Ramirez.

She moved away from the window and stepped outside. As she walked toward him, he had the urge to walk away—from her, from those two kids, and from the memories both evoked. But, he held his ground, and she stopped a few feet away.

“Were you able to sleep?” he asked.

“A few hours.” Her voice was cool, polite. “You?”

“I had some things to take care of. What about the kids?”

“Callie’s awake, but Danny’s still sleeping.” Sydney folded her arms and glanced back toward the empty parking lot. “Where’s your truck?”

He reminded himself to tread carefully. Beneath her civility was a brittle edge he couldn’t quite read. “I parked it in town behind an auto-body shop. It will be a while before anyone questions what it’s doing there.” Then, before she could ask any more questions, he added, “I rented a car. It’s in back.”

“Wasn’t that risky?” she said. “I mean, can’t they trace your credit card or something?”

“I used a different name. I have several, courtesy of the Agency.” And a couple they knew nothing about. It was another precaution he and his team had taken, like their desert hideaway. They’d acquired identification, credit cards, and passports that not even the Agency could trace, at least not right away. “We have at least forty-eight hours before anyone picks up anything unusual, maybe longer.”

“But someone in town could have recognized you from the news report.” She seemed more curious than concerned, and he figured she probably wished someone
had
spotted him and called the police.

“I had to chance it. The truck was too visible, if someone saw us drive away from your condo . . .” He let the comment trail off. She could fill in the blanks herself. He bent to pick up his jacket and slipped it on, suppressing a wince at the sudden needle of pain.

She noticed anyway. “Are you bleeding again?”

Funny, he’d forgotten the injury while going through his routine. He supposed he had his anger at Ramirez to thank for that. The bullet’s trail on his arm was nothing in comparison. “It’s just sore.”

“That’s not surprising. You need to get some rest, Ethan.” She’d switched to her best doctor voice. “And you need to give that arm time to heal.”

“I
need
to keep limber.”

She looked ready to argue, but evidently thought better of it. Her politeness was beginning to unnerve him, as was his own. They were dancing around each other, both avoiding more pressing questions, like what to do with those two kids.

After they’d seen the news report earlier and listened to Danny’s story, they’d reached an impasse. Sydney wasn’t the type of woman who dealt well with uncertainty, but the morning’s events had depleted her. Ethan had seen it before. When someone whose life fell within traditional boundaries was suddenly forced into dangerous circumstances, they could only take so much before their minds shut down. That was the case with Sydney. Too much had happened too quickly for her to make any rational choices. She was out of her element, and she wasn’t the only one. The children were strung out as well. He’d hoped a few hours’ sleep would do all of them a lot of good and help Sydney see things clearly.

“So, what now?” she said, finally braving the question on both their minds. “What do we do about Danny and Callie?”

“We find Timothy Mulligan.”

“We’re not even sure he’s Danny’s father. What if he’s wrong, what if—”

“That’s why we need to talk to Mulligan. Look,”—he rubbed a weary hand over his face—“I don’t like this any more than you do, but at the very least, we need to find out what’s going on at that school. And Mulligan is the place to start.”

“I’m not sure about this, Ethan.”

“It’s the only choice we have.”

“That’s not true, we could—”

“What? Turn them over to the authorities? You want to do that, Sydney?” He’d known she would question his decision about Mulligan and was prepared to convince her, even if it meant playing on her maternal instincts. “After what Danny told us a few hours ago about that place they came from? Do you want to take a chance they’ll end up missing like their friends?”

She shook her head. “We don’t know—”

“That’s right, we don’t.”

He knew her instinct to help those kids was battling her reluctance to trust him. He couldn’t blame her, and if he could leave her out of this without risking her life, he would. But Ramirez was still out there, and Ethan couldn’t rely on the assassin’s interest in Danny and Callie to keep him from going after Sydney.

Although it made him feel like a heel, he played his last card. “And don’t forget, Anna died delivering them to me.”

Sydney’s eyes locked on his, irritated at his manipulation attempt. But there was also the recognition that he was right. “So what do you suggest?”

“We wait until full dark,” he said, “then head to Illinois. It’s about eight hundred miles. If we drive straight through, we can make it before noon tomorrow.” He broke off, one more secret nudging at him. “But there’s something else you need to know,” he said and lowered himself to a log at the edge of the trees. “Sit down. It’s not just Ramirez I’m worried about.”

She stared at him without moving.

“Come on,”—he nodded toward the log—“sit.”

She did finally, keeping her distance, as if getting too close would hurt. And maybe it would.

Meanwhile, he searched for the words to explain, though he knew of no easy way to tell her he’d been lying to her since they’d met. He picked up a twig from the dirt, snapped it in two and tossed it down. “When we were together, I didn’t tell you the truth about what I did for the Agency.”

She went very still. “Go on.”

God, how he hated this. “I didn’t work in DI.” The DI, or Directorate of Intelligence, was the analytical arm of the CIA. “And I wasn’t an analyst.” He paused, bracing for her reaction. “I was an operation officer for SCTC, the Strategic Counter-Terrorism Center.”

“Operations?”

He kept going, afraid if he stopped he wouldn’t get it all out. “Not many people know about SCTC, even within the Agency.” He shifted on the log, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees. “It’s a highly classified division, fashioned after the old Counter-Terrorism Center but with more anonymity and clout. But like its predecessor, the SCTC draws its people from all the other directorates. Intelligence, operations, science and technology.” He checked his stream of words, searching her face for a reaction, and realized he hadn’t answered her single-word question.

“Yeah,” he said, “I was in Operations.” The clandestine intelligence-gathering division of the Agency most people thought comprised the whole of the CIA. But Sydney knew it was only a part of a much larger organization.

“My team specialized in finding and bringing in fugitives,” he said. “And sometimes we conducted rescue missions, but mostly we pursued international renegades, the kind of people who operate outside the mainstream: terrorists, revolutionaries, whoever the-powers-that-be determined was a threat.”

Again he stopped, waiting, hoping she’d say something, anything. But she didn’t oblige him. They may as well have been talking about the weather for all the reaction he got. Except her hands, which she’d wadded into tight fists.

He kept talking because he didn’t know what else to do. “Officially, my team was called the Strategic Rescue and Retrieval Unit.” They’d been so damn cocky, and he’d been the worst of all. “We referred to ourselves as Hunters.”

This time when he finished speaking, he let his words settle between them. Now it was up to her to go or stay, trust him or not. At least now, she knew the kind of man she’d married.

“So, everything you told me about the Agency, about your job there . . .” Her voice broke, then hardened. “Was a lie.”

He wished he could deny it. “Yes.”

She turned away, her body a study of rigid lines. He reached out to touch her but changed his mind, thinking she might shatter at the contact.

When she spoke again, he heard the first stirring of anger in her voice. “How long?”

“From the beginning.” He’d joined the Agency after Desert Storm, two years before they’d met. “I was recruited into SCTC straight out of training.”

She looked back at him, understanding flickering in her eyes, the recognition of a hundred untruths, a thousand incidents which he’d explained with lies.

“I couldn’t tell you— No, that’s not true.”

“By all means, Ethan, don’t lie to me now.”

He ignored her sarcasm. “I was discouraged from telling you, but the final decision was mine.” And he could have walked away, resigned, or asked for a transfer to one of the other divisions. But he hadn’t wanted to quit. He’d loved the work, reveled in his own skill. “I thought it was better that you didn’t know.”

“Better for whom?” she snapped. “And who gave you the right to make that decision for me?” She met his gaze with accusing eyes, then pushed to her feet. “You always were so sure you knew what was best for everyone else.”

He followed her. “I was protecting you, Sydney, both you and Nicky.” And he’d failed miserably. Would she have been better off knowing the truth? Would Nicky still be alive? They were questions he’d asked himself a million times in the desert.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? My God, Ethan, you lied to me for six years.”

They fell into silence again, facing each other from a distance that had nothing to do with the space between them. Finally, she sighed and looked away, the anger draining from her features, revealing a deep exhaustion.