Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

K ira tucked the paperback spy novel she'd picked up at Dulles airport into her carry-on bag. She'd actually managed to read about half of it, which was a testament to the writing given how tired, frazzled, and scared she was.

She'd wandered into the store looking for a light romance to distract her, but in the moment, she didn't want to read about some other woman landing the man of her dreams. She usually loved those books, but today, she was thinking about life and death and family and danger and lies.

She didn't even know if she was asking herself the right questions about her parents.

She found herself drawn to the mystery and thriller section, and the cover of the book grabbed her. It promised to be a sharp departure from her current reality. Sure, there were guns, but it was more tactical military than random-lone-gunman terrorism. Spy games in north and east Africa.

There was even a little romance between the Green Beret hero and the Moroccan woman who'd turned informant to save her younger brother. Kira suspected the woman would either end up dead or on the wrong side with the final reveal, because the book read like the first in a series with the same hero, and James Bond never crossed paths with the same heroine twice.

It had been the escape she needed for the lengthy travel day, which—given that she'd arrived at Dulles three full hours before her scheduled departure then her flight had been very late doing the actual departing—had lasted exactly twenty-four hours. It was now Thursday, less than forty-eight hours since the shooting on Little Creek. Three p.m. in DC and nine p.m. in Malta.

She followed her fellow passengers off the plane and onto a bus that delivered them to the terminal. The line for passport control was long. She shuffled forward with the crowd in a waiting room that wavered between hot and manageable on the sweltering early summer night. Thirty minutes after arriving, she presented her shiny new blue book and got her first stamp.

It was a moment she'd dreamed of for decades. There should be fanfare. But it was late here, and even though her body was still on DC time, she was tired. Still, she took the passport book and pressed it to her heart, pausing—literally—for a beat.

She was here. In Malta.

Her first international trip.

She claimed her bag from the carousel, crossed through customs using the "nothing to declare" corridor, and made her way to the taxi desk. Five minutes later, she was in a cab, on her way to her Valletta hotel overlooking Grand Harbor.

She waited until the car was underway before turning on her cell phone, which immediately lit up with incoming text messages and voice mail notifications.

Her belly clenched as she read, then listened, to the messages from Freya.

The shooter knew about her trip. That was…a tad alarming.

The only people who'd known prior to Monday had been in Germany or Malta. She hadn't told any clients—including FMV—because she'd put all her clients on hold since her father's stroke. There'd been no reason to share her vacation plans with anyone in the US.

She had no employer to answer to and few friends she could share this with. Family secrets ran deep, and she had yet to determine what the repercussions would be for opening this particular Pandora's box.

Had the shooter—Ben Kinder—been stalking her? Was it possible he saw an opportunity when she visited the military base where he worked as a civilian Navy employee?

If he was working for Rafiq or one of the others facing trial, it made sense. The base wasn't far from where she'd been taken when she'd been abducted. The family who'd brought Rafiq into the US had their business headquarters nearby, and they'd have more minions in the area.

She replied to Freya's latest text.

Kira

Just landed. On way to the hotel. Message received. I'll be careful.

Really, this news just made her more certain she'd been smart to leave Virginia and DC. Freya's reply showed she didn't share Kira's assessment.

Freya

They could plan to follow you to Malta. To catch you off guard.

Don't worry. I am on guard.

You aren't a Valkyrie, Kira. You need to be extra vigilant.

She frowned at the screen. Everyone was so damn eager to tell her what she couldn't do. What she wasn't capable of.

Get kidnapped once and you're a victim forever.

Maybe she wasn't being fair, but she was pushing forty and being treated like a child who needed to travel with a guardian. Yes, she'd been immature in high school when she and Freya knew each other, but that had been more than twenty years ago.

Not for the first time, she wondered if Freya had seen the letter she wrote to Apollo back then. Was Kira forever locked in Freya's mind as the pathetic teenager who was so easily manipulated and fooled?

Again, twenty years had passed. But some things were so bitter, so painful, that she could still feel the sharp bite of betrayal to her young heart.

She was about to tuck away her phone when another message landed.

Freya

I want to send someone to protect you. I might be able to get an operative from Raptor. We also have a few FMV assets in the region.

Kira

I'm fine. This isn't work for FMV.

But aren't you looking into your dad's work hunting down missing WWII art?

Maybe. If I get lucky.

Let me send someone.

Anyone you send will just get in the way. People won't talk to me if I've got a bodyguard hanging around.

What about a client? Someone interested in Maltese art. Or a collector of some kind. If you're facilitating a deal, you could get better access to sellers.

That might work, but we'd need time to set up. Maybe next week we can try that if I'm getting nowhere.

At least tell me what meetings and events you've lined up. I can vet the people you're meeting.

The extra vetting would be useful. Kira had done what she could ahead of time, but she'd have more to go on now that she was here.

Tomorrow evening, I'm attending a private reception at an art gallery where my father was a consultant and client.

She gave the name of the gallery, then closed the conversation with Freya and moved on to the last unread message, this one from her step-cousin who lived in Germany but would be arriving in Valletta tomorrow, in time to attend the reception with her.

In all the years her father had been traveling to Europe, he'd never mentioned relatives from his stepfather's family. Just his parents' extended families. The cousin's father had been stepbrother to Kira's dad, but the two hadn't grown up together. Conrad Hanson's widowed mother—Kira's grandmother, whom she'd never met—had remarried when he was in his twenties.

Still, it was odd that he kept in regular touch with his deceased stepfather's family but never mentioned them. He had far too many secrets. Just about the only thing she knew for certain was he'd been born in Pennsylvania in 1951. Because it was on his passport.