The Warrior (12 page)

John wasn't used to being scrutinized to such a degree, or being around a woman who was at ease with being silent.

“If there's something you need to say, spit it out.”

There was a hint of the imp in her voice. “Are we there yet?”

The familiar question all traveling children were prone to ask surprised him. He laughed before he thought, then shook his head and turned away. He was using her for bait, and now that she knew it and hadn't offered to slit his throat, he didn't want to like her.

Satisfied that she'd gotten under his skin, if only for a moment, she settled back into the seat and began concentrating on how she was going to be able to convince Corbin Woodliff that her father was a traitor. If only she had proof, something more than just an overheard conversation. Then she sighed. It wasn't up to her to play detective. That was for someone else to do. It was her responsibility to reveal what she'd heard so she would not be guilty by omission.

 

The trip felt as if it would never end. The farther they flew, the worse she felt. Every now and then, she knew John was looking at her, but she refused to look back,
and the silence between them continued until the crack and static of radio traffic startled them both and John returned to the business of piloting.

They set down once to refuel and get some food. John ate without care or consideration for the tumult her stomach was in, even though she was sure he suspected it when she refused the sandwich he brought her. The scent of the barbecue he was downing was up her nose and in her clothes. She wanted to slap him. When he offered her the extra sandwich again, she snapped. She took it out of his hand, took a great big bite out of the middle, chewed and chewed until she thought she was going to spew, then finally swallowed it.

“Yum,” she said, and handed it back, reached for her cold soda and added insult to injury to her already rolling stomach by downing a big drink.

Then she slumped down in the seat, closed her eyes and promised God that she would give her first child to the priesthood if He would keep her from throwing up. The fact that she wasn't Catholic didn't work into the prayerful equation. She just didn't want to see another smirk on John Nightwalker's face and hoped, if and when the time ever came, that her firstborn would understand. She would rather fail in God's eyes than have John Nightwalker see her weaknesses.

To her undying relief, she finally fell asleep once they were back in the air. She didn't know how long she'd been out when she suddenly felt a shift in motion, which woke her instantly.

She straightened up in the seat, then looked down. The view below was a giant grid of streets and houses, outlined in green from thousands of trees. A long, wind
ing river was a muddy blue ribbon slipping through it all. When she recognized the giant obelisk that was the Washington Monument, she knew they'd arrived.

John's focus was on landing, as he communicated with the tower at Dulles International. He knew she was awake and was once again surprised when she didn't begin talking or plying him with questions. Besides the fact that she was furious with him, he'd figured out that she tended to keep her own counsel and didn't feel the need to talk when there was a lull in conversation. The irony of it was, she was more like him than he wanted to admit.

When they were finally cleared for landing, John competently set the chopper down. Once they were on the ground, he took off his headphones, then turned toward Alicia.

She looked back, waiting for him to make the next move.

“We're taking a cab from here to the hotel,” he said.

“When do I get to talk to Woodliff?”

“Tomorrow morning. I told him we needed privacy. He offered his home.”

Alicia took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “The sooner I get this off my chest, the better. I just hope he believes me.”

John could tell she was nervous. With that kind of information, who wouldn't be? And even if she wasn't close to her father, as she'd claimed, having to give him up still had to be tough.

“He's a journalist. He'll have his own contacts to verify information. What will happen is that the report alone will ignite its own investigation. If there
is
someone in power in D.C. who might have been inclined to
bury the info, the fact that the public knows will keep that from happening.”

She nodded, then unbuckled her seat belt and reached behind the seat for her suitcase.

“Let me,” John said.

Instead of arguing, she shrugged and got out, leaving him to get the luggage, then followed him inside and through the airport itself until they got to a place where they could hail a cab. Alicia immediately felt better with her feet back on solid ground. By the time they reached the hotel, she was almost giddy with relief. When they went to sign in, John pulled her aside.

“I already made a reservation for us while you were asleep. It's under my company name and will be more difficult to trace if your father is so inclined.”

“Thank you,” Alicia said. “I have money. I can pay my own way.”

“We'll deal with that later,” he said. “Let's just get up to the suite first.”

“You reserved a suite? As in…more than one bedroom, right?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Unless you're ready to move our loving relationship to the next level.”

“You are such an egotistical ass,” Alicia mumbled.

“You don't have to like me. But you do have to trust me.”

Alicia couldn't believe what he'd just said. “No, John Nightwalker, I don't have to trust you. Not for one minute. But I'll use you, just like you're using me, and you'd better trust me when I tell you, if it comes down to you or me winding up in my father's gunsight, I
choose you. We already know you're invincible. I, on the other hand, am not.”

John's eyes narrowed angrily, but he couldn't fault her reasoning or her mood. He'd set himself up for this whole damn mess, and he was willing to do whatever it took to get the soul he sought and bring some sense of peace to what was left of his life.

He shrugged. “Whether we like it or not, for the time being we're stuck with each other. Please wait here,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

Alicia stood with the bags as he checked them in, then quietly followed him to the elevator, then up to their suite.

“Take your pick,” John said, pointing to the bedrooms on opposite sides of the sitting room.

As far as she was concerned, it didn't matter. She took her bag and headed for the one on the right, shutting the door firmly behind her as she entered.

“We'll order dinner from room service,” John called.

She didn't respond.

“I'm having steak. If you want something different, speak now or forever hold your peace,” he added.

Alicia opened the door long enough to put in her order.

“Rib eye, medium well. Steamed vegetables, and cheesecake. No wine. No salad. No potato. Iced tea. I don't care what kind of cheesecake as long as it's a big piece. Thank you very much. I'm going to take a bath now—with bubbles, if they have some. Knock when the food arrives.”

She closed the door, leaving John to deal with the knowledge that she was going to be naked in bubbles and he was going to be ordering room service. Some
thing was wrong with that picture, but he didn't want to explore the possibilities.

He carried his suitcase into the other bedroom, tossed it on the bed, then sat down. The quiet was comforting, something he was used to. Then he heard the sound of running water from across the suite.

He didn't have to like her to get what he wanted. He didn't
want
to like her—but she did have her moments. Then he heard something strange, and stood up and walked all the way across the suite to stand outside her bedroom door.

She was singing. They were on the run from her father, who wanted her dead, and she was
singing
.

He leaned forward, trying to make out the words, and when he recognized the song, a slow smile spread across his face.

“Bridge over troubled waters.”

That was the understatement of the month.

He stood for a moment longer, listening as she hit a high note, then impulsively reached out and put the flat of his hand on the door and made himself a silent promise.

Anyone who could still sing after the kind of day they'd had was worth whatever trouble it took to save her.

He would make sure that Alicia Ponte stayed safe.

No matter what.

R
ichard sat across the table from Jacob Carruthers, his old friend and partner in crime, watching the play of sunshine on the man's face and thinking to himself how old Jacob was starting to look. It didn't occur to him that he was suffering the same fate. Richard felt as young today as he had on his thirty-first birthday, which was the day he'd made his first million, and as invincible.

“Want some more wine?” Jacob asked as he refilled his own glass.

Richard nodded. With everything that had happened in the past few days and what he was about to do, Jacob needed to be forewarned. As soon as his wineglass had been topped up, Richard offered a toast.

“To business,” he said.

Jacob smiled. “To business,” he echoed, then took a sip.

“We need to talk,” Richard said.

Jacob waved an approaching waiter away. As soon as they were assured of privacy, Jacob leaned back in his chair.

“About what?”

“We have a small problem,” Richard said, and then added a wry smile, intending to make sure Jacob knew it was no big deal. His old friend had a tendency to panic, and Richard didn't need the added stress. Not when he had everything under control. So he began.

“Last week, when you were at the house…”

“Yes, what about it?”

“Alicia overheard us.”

Jacob's nostrils flared as he divested himself of the wineglass, then leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you talking about—”

“Yes.”

“Fucking A.”

“It's our fault. We shouldn't have discussed that outside the office.”

“But we did. Now what? What did she say? Is she upset?” Jacob grabbed Richard's arm, his fingers digging through the suit fabric and into the flesh. “Are we okay?”

Richard frowned. This reaction was what he'd expected. Jacob always saw the negative first.

“Hell yes, we're okay. Stop worrying.”

“Don't tell me to stop worrying. We're at war with another country, and what we're doing…Crap. We execute traitors here. These are our lives we're talking about. I want to talk to her. I need to look her in the face and hear her say we're okay.”

Richard glanced away, afraid some of his concern might show. “She's not in Miami at the moment.”

Jacob inhaled sharply. He'd seen that look on Rich
ard's face before and knew he was hiding something. “Then where is she?”

Richard shrugged, then took another sip of his wine. “She panicked. But I have it under control.”

“She panicked? Panicked how? Like I'm panicking now, or panicking as in…hit the ceiling?”

Jacob set his glass down abruptly, sloshing some of it over onto the tablecloth. The stain spread rapidly, a dark ruby stain—like blood.

“I said, I'm handling it. I'm holding a press conference this afternoon. Harold will be there.”

Jacob's eyes widened, and his voice rose in opposition. “Harold as in Harold Parsons, Deputy Director of the FBI? You've involved the FBI? Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Shut up!” Richard snapped. “This is the way it's going to be. I will be issuing a statement that Alicia suffered a nervous breakdown a few days ago, and that on the way to a hospital, she was kidnapped. That way the man she's with will be—”

“She's
with
someone? Who? Is he a cop? I can't believe we're sitting here waiting for lunch to arrive and drinking wine like idiots when our world is falling down around us. I'm out of here.”

Richard looked around nervously. People were beginning to stare. “Sit down and listen, damn it! I don't know who the man is. I don't know where they hooked up, but announcing her nervous breakdown will negate anything she might say to the wrong people, and saying she's been kidnapped will put the man she's with on the defensive.”

“This is a nightmare,” Jacob said, swiping his face
with his hands. He downed his wine in one inelegant gulp. “Where's Dieter? Why isn't he on top of this?”

“He's following orders,” Richard said, refusing to reveal that, at the moment, his cleanup man was sitting in jail, accused of attempted murder. The news conference this afternoon and Richard's team of lawyers would take care of that.

“You'd better make this go away,” Jacob said. “I'm not going down for this just because your daughter got religion. If you need me, I'll be back in Boston by tonight.” Then he stormed out of the restaurant.

Richard was worried. Jacob's behavior was erratic—too erratic to be trustworthy. If he found out Dieter was in jail and that Richard had no idea where his daughter was or what she was doing, there was no telling what he would do.

Richard needed to regain control. He glanced at his watch. No need to eat a meal he wouldn't be able to swallow. He called to tell his driver that he was on the way out, signaled the waiter and canceled their order, then left a handful of bills on the table as he hurried out of the restaurant. There were a few details he needed to deal with before the press conference. Now was not the time for any more slipups. The Miami sun was warm on his face as his driver pulled up to the curb. He got in, barking orders even before he was seated.

“Take me back to the office, and make it quick. I need to pick up a file before we head to the courthouse for the press conference.”

“Yes, Mr. Ponte,” the driver said, and put the car in gear.

Richard took a deep breath as he leaned back in the seat, too bothered to appreciate the ebb and flow of the
ocean, which he usually enjoyed, or the sun-drenched palms lining the streets. His mind was racing, trying not to let Jacob's panic derail his carefully laid plans. Although Dieter was, for the moment, out of pocket, he wasn't the only shark in Ponte's food chain. He took a cell phone out of his briefcase, along with a scrap of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. The cell was a disposable—one he would toss once this call was made. And this was a number he would never put on speed dial—a number he would never want to be traced back to him.

He punched in the numbers, then waited. The man who answered was rude and abrupt, which didn't matter, because Richard wasn't in the market for manners.

“What do you want?”

The growl sounded feral. Richard hesitated as an image flashed into his mind of his daughter when she was five, running toward him, crying. He'd picked her up and kissed the finger she'd just mashed. He remembered the feel of her little arms around his neck, and her tears, wet against his cheek. Could he do this?

“Talk, damn it, or hang up. I don't have all day.”

“I have a job for you,” Richard said, the decision made.

 

Alicia was still in the tub when she heard a knock on her door.

“Food's here,” John called.

“Don't wait on me,” she said, then flipped the drain with her toe before getting out of the water.

Suddenly hungry, she toweled off quickly, then chose to wear what she normally wore to work out in, instead of street clothes. Her hair was still damp and her feet
were bare when she came out of her room in a pair of gray sweat pants and a blue cotton T-shirt.

She noticed John had showered. His short, spiky hair was seal-black and still damp, and he'd changed into jeans and a polo shirt. Silently admiring the copper tone of his skin against the pure white of the shirt, she slid into the other chair at the table and lifted the dome from her plate, sniffing appreciatively at the perfectly done steak. She poked at the steamed broccoli and carrots with her finger, then took the dab of whipped cream from the top of her cheesecake and ate it first.

“Umm,” she said.

John removed the cover from his food, as well, without commenting on her inspection of her dinner. At this point, he figured the less he said to her, the better off they both would be. But to his surprise, she initiated a conversation soon after taking her first bite of steak.

“This is very good. Thank you for ordering. I want you to know that I have money and will be paying my own way.”

“That's not necessary,” he said.

Alicia pointed her fork at him. “I didn't say it was necessary. I just said I'll be doing it. Would you pass the salt, please?”

“It's right in front of you,” he fired back as he cut another piece of steak and popped it in his mouth, then reached for the remote. If this was the way it was going to be, he wasn't in the mood to fight about it. He flipped through the channels until he found CNN, then returned to his meal.

Alicia frowned when the TV came on but didn't say anything, and so they continued, listening to the news
rather than each other. She was in the middle of dessert when an announcer broke in with a news flash. She didn't pay much attention until she heard the name Ponte. At that point she dropped her fork and spun her chair around to face the screen.

“Turn it up!” she said, but it was an unnecessary request. John was already reaching for the remote.

They sat in silence, their food forgotten, as the anchor kept speaking.

“As you can see, Deputy Director Harold Parsons of the FBI is, at this moment, at the courthouse in Miami, Florida, awaiting the arrival of world-renowned armament and munitions magnate Richard Ponte. Rumor has it that Ponte's daughter, twenty-seven-year-old Alicia Ponte, has been kidnapped, and that he is about to make a public plea for her safe return.”

Alicia jumped up from her chair. “You bastard. You sorry bastard.” She looked at John, trying to gauge his reaction. “Don't you have anything to say?” When he didn't answer, she rolled her eyes and dropped back into her chair. “Oh God…why did I think I could get away with this?”

John felt Alicia's fear, and a part of him acknowledged her concern. Hell, he'd just been branded a kidnapper, but he couldn't think past the fact that he was about to see the face of his enemy. He knew the face would not look the same, but it was impossible to hide the truth of a human soul, and this soul was dark—and had continued to choose darkness over and over each time it had been reborn. He would know his enemy at last. He would
feel
his presence.

The pitch of the news anchor's voice deepened in
accordance with the seriousness of the moment as he continued to narrate over the live shots being broadcast.

“Richard Ponte is arriving now. That's him in the white linen suit and yellow shirt, coming down the steps. He and Deputy Director Parsons have been friends since college, so the deputy director's presence at the podium obviously goes beyond what his position demands. Ponte is coming forward. It appears that he's going to speak first. We're now going live to the courthouse—”

 

Richard felt as if he were on roller skates. He strode down the steps toward the bank of microphones with what he hoped was a serious expression and not one of panic. He accepted Harold's handshake, then impulsively gave him a brief, manly hug, setting the stage for what he hoped was an “in your face” to his daughter, reminding her that, with his connections, how dare she threaten to bring him down? Then he turned to face the cameras.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. And I must thank my old friend, Deputy Director Parsons, for standing with me on this difficult day. I've been putting this off, hoping against hope that I would not have to make this announcement, but I can't wait any longer. The safety—even the life—of my daughter, Alicia, is at stake. Several days ago, Alicia suffered a nervous breakdown. After an unsuccessful attempt to treat her within the safety of our home, I was forced to seek care for her at a private institution. On the way there, she was kidnapped.”

He paused, reveling in the collective gasp he heard from the reporters, and felt a returning sense of power before he continued.

“There has not been a ransom demand, which, in itself, is even more frightening. All we know is that she was last seen in Georgia in the company of a man named John Nightwalker, who is believed to be of Native American heritage. I am offering a million-dollar reward for information leading to the safe recovery of my daughter.”

 

“Oh, perfect,” Alicia muttered. She was so wrapped up in her own disbelief that she missed the fact that John's breathing had sped up, and that he was standing with his fists doubled and a look on his face that, had she seen it, would have sent her running.

John was so full of rage that hearing his name being broadcast across the world in such a way—and by a mortal enemy—didn't even faze him. After the phone conversation they'd had, he read it as an out-and-out dare.

Alicia's hands were shaking. “John, John, I'm so sorry. I didn't expect him to—”

“
I
did,” he said. “Let it go.”

“People saw us in the lobby. It won't take long for someone to put two and two together. Corbin Woodliff won't talk to us now, and with the deputy director of the FBI standing beside my father, going to the authorities is impossible. They wouldn't believe a thing I said. Not when I've just been branded a cuckoo. God…oh God…we're dead.”