CHAPTER THREE
Five weeks later
February 8—11:45 A.M.
Denver, Colorado
Alex pressed the video link to her command and waited for her assistant to respond. She sat in her leather office chair in front of the red oak armoire that held her computers and the link to command.
“Name,” her Sergeant said.
“Fey,” Alex replied. She waited while security confirmed her face and voice imprint.
“Sir, you are amazingly popular today.”
“Oh yeah?” Alex asked.
“Seven messages. Would you like me to read them to you?”
“Just send the emails,” Alex said. “Is it . . . ?”
“Eleazar. There’s new intel out of Iraq about him.”
“We go through this every month. The eighth of the month rolls around, and suddenly everyone has something to say about Eleazar. Anything I need to know?”
“Officially?”
She laughed at his sarcasm. She wasn’t sure how they picked him to be her assistant, but he was a perfect counterbalance. She was amazed at his ability to predict her mood and give her exactly what she needed. He even ran interference with brass.
“The Colonel would like to speak with you before you take the call.”
“Can you connect me?”
“He’s in a meeting, but he said he would call you at 1200 hours.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll email the messages. Do you know someone named Olivas?”
“Troy? I went to basic and Special Forces training with him. Why?”
“He’s left three messages saying that he’s at the Fort. He won’t tell me what he wants. He just says, ‘Tell the Fey that I’m at Fort Carson.’ Sir, I ran his profile and . . . Sir, he has a reputation for being wild.”
Alex laughed.
“There’s a new sim at Fort Carson. Afghanistan, I think. He wants me to beat it.”
“Can you do that?” Her Sergeant’s voice held a mixture of surprise and disbelief. “I mean, with your injuries, you can still beat the training simulations?”
“I’ve beaten every one so far.” Alex shrugged. “I’ll call him when I’m done with Eleazar. Have we heard from Trece or the White Boy?”
“They’re off the radar. Last report, they were at working at Camp David.”
Alex nodded. Her friends had a way of showing up on the eighth of the month.
“When Olivas calls again, ask him about Trece. They’re probably at the Fort.”
Her Sergeant nodded.
“Maps? We’re cartographers. And cartographers . . .”
“Work on maps,” they said in unison.
“Yes, sir. The Intelligence Center fixed the map phone.”
When her team arrived in Afghanistan with only aged, inaccurate Russian maps, Alex fixed, redrew, and annotated their maps out of habit. Her team passed their maps on to other teams. Soon soldiers were begging the Intelligence Center for copies of those “fairy maps.”
After fielding international requests for the maps, the Intelligence Center began distributing the Fey map series. In turn, Alex requested a telephone line where soldiers could leave their feedback. Eleazar called the “map phone” every month.
“Just in time to talk to Eleazar.”
“The Intelligence Center expresses its profound apologies for any inconvenience the Fey might have experienced,” her Sergeant read from a letter. “Sir, I’ve never known anyone who received an apology from the Intelligence Center.”
“They make a bundle off the maps,” Alex said.
“And then some. Do they . . . ?”
“Just doing my duty, Sergeant,” Alex answered his unasked question. No, they didn’t pay her for the maps. They were considered intellectual property of the United States Army. Or something like that. “Iraq-Iran border?”
“The map of the Iraq-Iran border has been a great success. We’ve heard from three of the six teams. Their messages are waiting for you on the map phone. You can get them when Homeland returns the line.”
Alex nodded.
“Sir, there’s some question about quadrants four and sixteen. Do you see the overhang near the center of quadrant four? It’s about a foot wider and three feet deeper than marked. Quadrant sixteen has a well marker, but there’s no water there.”
“Let me check,” Alex said.
Alex checked the quadrant in question on her computer and moved to the wide table where she worked on her maps. She pulled out the hard copy of the map from a black wood cubby tucked into the wall. Unrolling the map against the table, she noted the overhang change and searched for the well.
“I made a note on the overhang. But I don’t have a well on my hard or electronic copy.”
“It shows on the GPS copy.”
“God, I hate GPS.”
“It’s an inanimate object, sir.”
Looking up from the map, Alex caught his wry grin. She laughed when he wagged his eyebrows.
“Can you shoot a message that GPS is always behind? It’s usually at least two months behind a map change.”
“Yes, sir,” her Sergeant said.
“Anything else?”
“There’s a new order to continue in Afghanistan,” he said. “Um, three, no, six, identified zones that need remapping.”
“Oil?”
“Probably,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “I’ve been working on refugee maps of Jordan and Syria. Do you have those changes?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
Alex looked at the clock. She had an hour and four minutes before Eleazar phoned.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
Alex clicked the connection to standby. Pushing back her leather office chair, she wandered across the hardwood floors to the overstuffed green chair that sat in the corner of her secure office. She flicked a remote, and the gas fireplace cast a dancing yellow glow onto the antique map of the world hanging on the opposite wall. Alex closed her eyes, resting for a moment, in the warm, safe room.
Sixty minutes to go.
When Alex traveled, Max, Alex, and John lived in the house next door. After Alex was injured, Max and John purchased and remodeled this house with two guest bedrooms, a spa bathroom, an entertainment room, laundry, and this secure office in the basement. Alex spent most of her time in the basement either working in the office or recovering from more than forty surgeries in one of the guest bedrooms. She felt safe and protected here.
Until Eleazar called.
She went to bed the seventh of every month knowing that she was hours away from speaking with Eleazar. The morning of the eighth evaporated into intelligence details and her own fear. What would he say this month? Would he tell her again about the powerful Mike begging for mercy? Would he laugh at Jax’s futile efforts to save Nathan? Or would he repeat what he’d said over and over again: she killed her friends.
Alex leaned her head back against the chair. She despised the very timbre of his voice, his heavily accented Hebrew or Arabic or Farsi and the distinctive, cruel laugh that turned her stomach. He repulsed the very center of her being.
Not for the first time, she wondered what Jesse would say. Jesse, who had happened to sit next to her in the mess tent a couple of weeks into basic training. Jesse, who had stood next to her when they received their Berets. Jesse, who slept next to her night after night in the field. Jesse, who had celebrated her wedding and had invited her into his family as the godmother to his children.
Jesse, who had forced her to get the tattoo that designated her as the Fey in name and legend. “Just get your essential nature,” he told her before whispering to the tattoo artist in Cairo that she was a fairy. The bright blue, winking fairy tattoo under her left bicep was legendary in Special Forces. Jesse encouraged her to get her belly button pierced. Jesse also designed the green Vivaldi-scripte
d “F” armband that designated the Fey Special Forces team. Many of the people they rescued wore, with immense pride, a black Vivaldi-scripted “F” on their right arm or wrist.
“Eleazar killed Jesse,” Alex said aloud. “He stole Jesse from Maria, from his babies, Jesse, Jr., and Gabriella, and from me.”
Her eyes caught a glimmer of light dancing around her office. She said to the glimmer, “Eleazar killed Jesse. He wants to kill me. I will kill him.”
She sighed.
“I’m just crazy.”
“We knew that was true, love,” John said.
He walked into the office. His curly hair was wet from the snow, and his cobalt-blue eyes flashed while his eyebrows worked at the insinuation. He bent to kiss her.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I won’t let you do it alone,” he said. “I brought lunch—Chinese—if you’d like to come up.”
“I have a quick call to command. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Lifting her from the chair, he crushed her against him.
“Meet me upstairs,” he said. His lips brushed across hers. “I love you, Alex.”
Her fake blue eyes searched his face. She flushed and nodded.
“Sir,” her Sergeant called from the flat screen in the armoire.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Alex sat down in her office chair. John kissed her neck and went upstairs.
“The Colonel is on the line for you.”
“Thanks,” Alex said.
The screen flickered to the bushy hair, bushy eyebrows, and round face of Colonel Howard Gordon. He was talking to someone just off screen. He turned to the webcam.
“Major Drayson,” Colonel Gordon said.
Alex saluted and he returned it.
“It’s just strange to salute the computer screen. At ease, Alex. I wanted to check in to see how you’re holding up. The CIA informs me that they believe they have some good information on Eleazar.”
“They’ve said that before,” Alex said. “I’ll review the information when I’m done with the call. We’re hoping to get another location on him. Our guess is that he’s in Jordan.”
“Major . . . Alex . . . I am going to request again that you don’t take this telephone call. In sixteen months, we have learned very little except that you can tolerate psychological torture. You’ve proven your point. Let it be over.”
“Sir, respectfully, we cannot stop him from coming after me. He is coming, sir. This is our opportunity to . . .”
“God damn it, Alex.”
“Sir.” She watched the Colonel, known for fighting for his people, fight with himself. There was a voice behind him, and he turned.
“I was just informed that my job is to support you in the endeavor.”
Alex raised her eyebrows and laughed.
“We’ll go over the transcripts tomorrow in my office, Major.”
“Yes, sir,” Alex said.
The screen flashed dark when Colonel Gordon ended the conversation. Alex turned in her chair to get up, when her Sergeant’s face appeared on the screen.
“Sir there’s a priority message coming in for you from someone named Anderson. It’s nonmilitary, but he has the code.”
“Tom Anderson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you patch him through?”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment before Tom realized the connection was made, Alex saw the flashing dark eyes and rumpled hair of Max’s friend Tom.
“You’ll just have to fucking shoot me, then,” he said to someone off screen.
“What’s up, Tom?”
“Holy fuck, Alex. You have to believe me that I didn’t have anything to do with this. God, Alex never, never would I . . . Homeland fucking Security has shut down our servers. There’s fifty . . .sixty guys in the building with machine guns. Alex, I’m so sorry. Oh, fuck . . .”
“TOM! What are you . . . ?”
There was movement on the stairs to the basement. Rolling her chair to the doorway, Alex saw Homeland Security Agent Arthur “Raz” Rasmussen and his boss, her mentor and the best intelligence agent in the world, Ben, take the stairs two at a time.
Tom continued his espresso-fueled panic.
“Tell me what to do, Alex. The geeks are freaking here. Your brother is going to fucking kill me.”
“Who is that?” Raz asked.
“Tom Anderson,” Alex said. “He runs . . .”
“MySpace.”
“Tom, Homeland just got here. I don’t have any idea . . .”
“Alex,” Tom leaned into the webcam. “I have been Max’s friend for almost fifteen years. I would never endanger you, never. That’s what I wanted you to hear. From me to you.”
“Of course, Tom. Clearly, something is going on. I need to get up to speed, but we’re golden.”
“We’re golden. I will do whatever I have to do to make this right.”
The muzzle of a machine gun moved into the screen and Tom swore at the person.
“I’m getting off the God damn . . .” Tom said, and his screen went blank.
Alex’s screen split as the image of her Sergeant and Colonel Gordon both joined her video feed.
“God damn it, Alex. Homeland . . .” Colonel Gordon said into the screen.
“They just arrived, sir.”
“Then you know,” he said.
“Know what?” Alex asked.
“Eleazar has a photo of you, Max, John, and Erin,” Ben said in slow even tones.
“WHAT?” Alex twirled around in her chair. She raised her finger to Ben. “Wait.” She turned back to her screen.
“Sir, Ben is here to brief me. I . . .”
“We’ve got your back, Alex,” Colonel Gordon said clicking off.
“Major?” her Sergeant asked.
“Sergeant, I need five minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?” Alex turned to Ben.
“Your sister’s fiancé Marcos Ruiz posted a photo of you on his MySpace page. It says, ‘The Fey and family: The Fey, John Drayson, Max Hargreaves, and Erin Hargreaves.’ There’s another picture of you as Alyssa. It looks like it’s taken from a cell phone. It says, ‘The Fey is Alyssa Kreiger and Alexandra Hargreaves.’”
“One of my programs found them less than three minutes after they were posted,” Raz said. “There were four hits before we took the servers down.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Alex asked.
Raz nodded.
Dragging her left leg behind her, she pulled herself to the bathroom, just making it to the toilet before she threw up. Panic rose from the center of her being. Slow flashes of machine gun fire, splashing blood, and the sound of ragged breathing dragged her mind beyond memory. She covered her ears with her hands as Eleazar’s laughter echoed off the bathroom walls. She threw up again.
Panic turned to terror, and she rocked herself. Her eyes focused on the toilet, but her vision filled with death. Death everywhere. John . . . Max . . . Erin . . . Everyone she loved died. Everyone dead. Jiminy Cricket took them all to heaven while she lived alone in a blood-red hell.
He appeared from nowhere. John dropped to his knees beside her. His strong arms slipped around her. She knew he was talking, saying something while he rocked her back and forth, but she only heard the ragged breathing brought on by panic. She buried her head into John’s muscular chest.
Like a speaker being turned on, soft at first, then gradually louder, she heard John’s voice.
“Shh, shh . . . We’re in Denver. We’re in our own safe home. Nothing’s happening. You’re safe. Shh.”
“I’m in Denver, Colorado, sitting in the basement bathroom on the floor,” she said. She forced her attention to the present. “You are my husband. You are John Drayson.”
“You sure?” he chuckled.
They learned this technique when Alex was studying for her Ph.D. in psychology. What once was a joke now served as the only thing that b
roke through the wall of sight and sound when her brain seized in flashback. John still laughed every time.
“What are you wearing?”
“I’m Alexandra Hargreaves Drayson. I’m sitting on the floor of the basement bathroom of my home in Denver, Colorado. I’m wearing blue jeans, body armor, and a T-shirt.”
“Ah love, did you forget panties again?” he laughed. He reached to flush the toilet.
“Yep, no bra, either.”
“That’s odd because I can feel it right here.” He flicked her bra strap through the armholes in her body armor. He slipped his hands into the back of her pants. “Maybe you’re flashing on not wearing the bra and panties last night. That’s probably why you were moaning.”
Alex smiled.
“Come on. The spies want to speak to you, and you have a phone call in a few minutes.”
She nodded.
“I can’t get up,” she said.
“Let me,” he said.
John lifted her to his arms. With his free hand, he opened the cabinet to retrieve a washcloth. At the sink, he wet the washcloth, and she wiped her face and hands. He carried her back to the secure office, where Raz was working on the computer and Ben was talking on his cell phone. They looked up when she returned.
“How much did they pay him?” Alex asked.
“Two hundred thousand dollars,” Raz said. “How did you know?”
“Matthew said that he reminded him of his father. Mattie’s father would sell his soul for a dollar.”
“Matthew’s father sold his soul for a lot less than a dollar,” Ben said, closing his cell phone. “We have fourteen minutes.”
“Why is the photo a big deal, Ben?” John asked. He smiled at Alex, “Want down?”
She nodded. He nuzzled her neck and set her down.
“A picture is not such a big deal. He probably has a least one of Alex already. It’s the combination of the picture and your names. It’s only a matter of time before . . .”
“He’s coming for me. That’s what it means. Now he knows where and who. It’s only a matter of when.”
“But not today,” John said.
Alex shot him a look and then laughed.
“No,” Ben said. “Not today. Today, we need to get through the phone call. Alexandra, we need a strategy.”
“What does that mean?” John asked.
“Alex is good at coming up with strategies. She’s better than we are,” Raz said.
Alex nodded.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Ben asked. “I believe your friend Ben left some espresso here.”
“Then drank it all,” Alex said. “Did you . . . ?”
“I spoke with your Sergeant,” Raz said. He kissed her cheek. “You OK?”
She nodded. “Go on. I’ll close up.”
While Alex closed the office, the men went upstairs. She heard Max in the entryway when she closed the door to the office. Checking her watch, she had eleven minutes. She took the stairs one at a time, pausing at the landing, then working her way up to the hallway and the main floor of the house. She saw the men talking in the kitchen and made her way to the living-room.
Clearing her head, Alex watched the snow fall in drifts through the living-room window. She pressed all emotion out of her body. John floated in front of her eyes to light a fire in the fireplace. A cup of espresso appeared in her hand. Max’s head rested on her shoulder sometime after he sat almost on top of her on the couch. Her mind was silent. Her body was clear. Somewhere, in a corner of her mind, a plan began to form. Keeping her attention on the blank space in her head, the plan grew.
“Alex, you have one minute,” Raz said.