Chapter 3

3

They were hiding something from her. All of them. Jack’s mother was the worst actress. Frances could barely look her in the eye whenever Maia mentioned how Jack had lost so much weight.

“He was so worried about you, dear,” she had said. “He could barely eat and sleep.”

Maia woke up three days earlier from the medically-induced coma. She woke up to a husband who looked like he’d been sent to a concentration camp. His cheeks were sunken; his hair was dull—Jack’s hair was never dull, ever—and his eyes held an underlying torment. Maia could understand why Jack’s eyes would look that way—she almost died, and she lost their baby.

Their baby.

She knew her miscarriage had hit Jack harder because he had hinted about wanting to start a family. The loss was painful for her as well, but she had felt guilt for that fleeting feeling of relief. She wasn’t ready to be a mother and might never be.

Trying to escape the conflict within her, Maia refocused her energy to the puzzle of her husband losing close to fifteen pounds. She was being kept in the dark about something, and she intended to find out. Right now.

Maia contemplated how to broach the subject while she waited for Jack to finish unpacking the food from their favorite dim sum place. And if he told her again that he was too worried about her, she was going to call bullshit. Kid gloves were never for her. Viktor trained her well. Thinking of Viktor got her wondering where he was for he had not shown up in the past three days.

Viktor Baran was more than her mentor. She owed him her life. Nineteen years before, Viktor and his black ops team defied CIA orders and intervened after the Russian mob killed her parents in front of her. Russian henchmen were about to rape her when Viktor and his men burst into the house and killed them all. Her memory was as clear as yesterday: the big man who crouched down in front of her, gently coaxing her to come out from under the table. Viktor had removed his head gear, revealing light blond hair, his equally light blue eyes showing none of the malevolence of the men who tried to harm her. At that moment, she trusted him implicitly as she reached out to the man who had saved her. She was sent to an orphanage, but after a few weeks, Viktor came for her. Twelve-year-old Katerina Luski ceased to exist, and she became Maia Pierce.

“Rice porridge should be perfect for you,” Jack broke into her thoughts as he laid the bowl on the swivel table.

“What did you get for yourself?” Maia asked slyly.

“Rice porridge,” Jack answered. “I kind of like it too.”

“Rice porridge is for sick people, Jack,” Maia said. “And you need to gain weight.”

A look of annoyance flashed through Jack’s face. “I’ll gain it back. Going to start on protein shakes tomorrow.”

“Why not right now?”

“Maia, what’s up with you?” Jack asked. “Why are you being so argumentative? ”

“Because I’m sick and tired of people lying to me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Something happened to you . . . something more than this supposed lack of appetite,” Maia said angrily. “Did you get sick?”

Jack’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, Maia, I had a bad case of bronchitis. I didn’t want you to worry, babe.”

Maia’s nostrils flared. “Wrong answer. Pull up your shirt.”

“What? Why?”

“Pull up your shirt.”

“No. What the hell is wrong with you, Maia?” Jack said. But his body language spoke of an uneasiness.

“What’s wrong with me?” Maia repeated. “You’re scared to come near me. You wouldn’t let me hug you, or have my hands under your shirt.”

“I’m afraid to hurt you.”

“Bull!”

“Goddamn it, Maia.”

“Raise your fucking shirt.”

“NO!”

“What are you hiding?” Maia demanded. “And if you say nothing again, you can leave this room and never come back.”

Maia glared at her husband, who stood scowling at her. A nurse appeared by the doorway, alarmed by the sudden spike in her heart rate.

“You need to calm down, babe,” Jack said gently. He looked at the nurse. “I got this.”

The nurse looked at him disapprovingly before huffing off.

Jack exhaled sharply. “I got abducted the day you were shot.”

“What?”

“I was scrambling to get to AGS after I heard about the attack on your convoy. They got the jump on me in the MDI parking garage. Shot me with tranq darts.”

Maia felt a lump forming in her throat. “How long? ”

“Three weeks.”

Maia’s eyes filled with tears.

“Aw, hell,” Jack muttered. “See that’s exactly why—”

“Let me see, Jack,” Maia whispered.

Her husband’s lips pressed into a straight line; he regarded her for a beat before lifting his shirt. Maia’s throat burned and she started crying. Jack’s torso was black and blue with splotches of yellow from older bruises. It was also riddled with burn marks. Tortured. Her husband had been tortured.

“Damn it,” Jack swore. “I’m okay, Maia. I’m here now, aren’t I? Nothing is broken, and I’m not the one who fucking nearly died.”

He got close to her this time and hugged her. Maia continued crying.

“You should leave me,” Maia said through her tears. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you. What was I thinking?”

“Stop talking that way before I beat the crap out of you,” Jack mumbled into her hair.

Maia had to laugh at that. “What?”

“I’m serious, Maia. Stop thinking that way. I’m in love with you. For better or worse, remember?”

“I’m certain this wasn’t the worse those vows were talking about. Me shot in the gut; you abducted and beaten up,” Maia said.

Jack pulled away from her. His eyes were back to normal now—warm, tender, and loving her. Maybe the weight of keeping that secret from her was the one taking its toll on him.

“Regardless, Mrs. McCord.” Jack started peppering her face with little kisses. “I’m here. In love. Deeply. Irrevocably.”

He straightened up and grabbed the bowl of porridge and began feeding her. “Now eat.”

“Were you eating rice porridge too because your stomach couldn’t digest well? ”

“Yes,” Jack said. “But it’s better. I ate some chicken yesterday. I wasn’t lying when I said I really liked rice porridge.”

Maia scrunched her nose, not really believing her husband.

She was happy to see that Jack had eaten two servings of the boiled dish. It broke her heart to imagine what he’d been through. But he seemed quite resilient. Maia’s lips quirked. How could she forget? Her husband was an ex-Navy SEAL. It was believed if one could survive “Hell Week” during SEALs training, one could survive anything.

“Jack, do you know why Viktor has not come to see me?” Maia asked.

Her husband froze, his jaw clenching.

Maia sighed. “You didn’t blame him for me getting hurt, did you?”

“It was his fault more than you could imagine, Maia,” Jack said.

“If he withheld information and did not warn us, he had a valid reason,” Maia said. “The greater good, remember?”

“Well, the greater good nearly got you killed!” Jack snapped.

“I knew it. You two had a falling out.”

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive him, Maia.”

“Jack, you married me. Personal reasons aside, you know what it means to be married to me,” Maia said. “I miss him, Jack. Please let him visit me.”

“I didn’t tell him not to come,” Jack said. “But I’ll call him for you, babe.”

Maia smiled as her husband leaned in to kiss her.

He pulled away, sat on the chair, and started removing his boots.

“What are you doing?”

“I miss sleeping beside you, I can’t take it anymore,” Jack said as he stood up and pulled off his jeans.

Maia’s eyes widened. “You think the nurse will allow it? ”

“I’d like to see her try and kick me out.” Jack smirked as he crawled in beside her.

The status reports lay idly in front of her. Marissa’s mind wasn’t on them because her Sec-phone had been buzzing for the last few hours. Viktor wanted his answer, and she wasn’t ready to move in with him for protection or otherwise. She was team lead for CIA black ops for heaven’s sake. Besides, the agency had contingencies in place to protect their agents in case their cover was compromised. Viktor was treating her like some damsel-in-distress and it infuriated her. She didn’t need him. So she was avoiding him for as long as she could.

Allison Guthrie, her thirty-year-old analyst, swept by her desk and dropped a folder labeled “classified” in front of her.

“Latest from Damascus,” Allison said between chewing her gum. They’d been on the same team for two years. Marissa depended on her to sift through the pile of information to formulate cohesive and actionable intelligence. “They’re in concurrence that Rafiq Shadid is indeed in the U.S.”

“How did he make it through our borders?” Marissa demanded.

“They believe he crossed into the U.S. via Canada with a Canadian passport.”

“How long ago?”

“Three weeks.”

When the shit first hit the fan, Marissa thought. This solidified her theory that Shadid was, indeed, behind McCord’s abduction and torture. But who was behind the Paris ambush? Shadid was a well-known assassin-for-hire, but he couldn’t be in two places at the same time.

The door to her office opened, and another analyst stuck his head in. “Director is calling an emergency meeting with our team.”

Marissa’s brows furrowed. “I thought Director Yeager was in New York?”

“He flew back this morning. Something came up.”

That something sounded ominous.

Kyle Yeager had been the Director of the Clandestine Service division of the CIA for the past ten years. He was not a particularly handsome man, but he had a presence. Medium-height, stockily built, and always impeccably dressed in expensive suits, he ruled with sharp intellect and street smarts and had no time for political bullshit. Which was why Marissa liked working for him, and she believed he was also the reason why Viktor continued to accept assignments from the CIA.

The Director looked particularly troubled as he sat at the head of the conference table in one of the smaller briefing rooms at Langley.

There were other team leads and analysts present, but Yeager was looking at Marissa when he stated flatly, “Harry Matthews committed suicide last night.”

The news stunned everyone. Some sat with their heads bowed in dejected resignation. Marissa felt a slight queasiness in the pit of her stomach. Matthews’s death indicated one thing; the bodies were piling up.

“Foul play?” Allison asked quietly.

“Probably,” Yeager said. “Too much of a coincidence. AGS confirmed the death of one of their retired agents three weeks ago. Another one barely survived. But I don’t see a connection between Matthews and this string of assassinations. Marissa?”

She shook her head. “I don’t.” But Harry Matthews played a pivotal role in getting Viktor and his men discharged from the Army for insubordination more than eighteen years ago. That mission was to extract Russian scientist Luski, his wife, and daughter in exchange for information regarding a plutonium cache. The CIA reneged on their deal with Luski, and instead, decided to go for the bigger fish when the Russian mob turned up at the Luski house. Viktor paid Matthews back—from Deputy Director of Clandestine Service demoted to case officer. Marissa wasn’t aware of the details of Harry Matthews’s fall from grace, but she knew that Viktor had everything to do with it. Her eyes widened. “Unless—”

No. It wasn’t possible. He wouldn’t.

“What is it, Marissa?”

“I need to speak with you privately, Sir,” Marissa requested.

Yeager's eyes narrowed, but he nodded for everyone else to leave.

“Allison. You stay,” Marissa informed her analyst.

After the final person left the room, Marissa said, “We need to find out what files Matthews had accessed in the last three months.”

“What are you alluding to?”

“I have a hunch,” Marissa said. “But if proven—it could get ugly.”

Yeager cursed under his breath. “Matthews hasn’t been very happy with the agency for a long time. I was surprised he hadn’t retired sooner. But I don’t think he’d sell us out, Cole.”

“I don’t either, Director,” Marissa said. “But the NOC on the agents on Operation Smokescreen had been leaked. Matthews’s suicide reeks of conspiracy to silence the source.”

“Why?”

Marissa scowled.

Yeager took a deep breath and said, “Viktor Baran. It’s not far-fetched, but the last thing this agency needs is a scandal when our agents are being targeted. This may still be a simple suicide. Do this under the radar. You got me? ”

“Understood.” Marissa turned to Allison. “The Smokescreen files reside on Argus and have been monitored these past three weeks for access. But we haven’t considered what was stored in the Cellar. I want you to track every item Matthews had checked out from there. Any questions?”

Allison shook her head.

Argus was one of the giant super-computers at the agency that contained highly classified and encrypted information. The Cellar, as the name implied, was a warehouse several floors below CIA HQS where any physical item related to an op or case—files, evidence, reports, disks —was stored.

“I hope you’re wrong about this, Cole,” Yeager said.

“Same here.” However, if she was wrong, they wouldn’t be any closer to finding who was intent on killing Guardians and CIA agents. And something told her the clock was ticking on the next target.

Parking! Marissa thought and swerved immediately to snag the coveted space. It was a few blocks from her house, but parking near Dupont Circle had always been a nightmare. Still, she loved her Victorian row house on T Street, although, she hadn’t had much opportunity to enjoy it lately. Marissa sent Allison home after laying out the strategy to handle the influx of information from their assets in Damascus and the CIA station in Lebanon. There was no movement on the money trail on the hit in Paris, and her analyst had been working non-stop for a month and deserved some semblance of a weekend. So she gave Allison firm orders to take a Saturday night and the whole of Sunday off because it looked like another hellish month ahead. When hitting a dead end, it was always helpful to take a step back and have a break before diving back in. A good rest might just turn the tide toward gaining a new perspective .

Before exiting the BMW, she clocked any possible threats. Situational awareness was deeply ingrained in her training; the man standing across the street idly fiddling with his phone, the person in the parked vehicle a few cars behind her, or the woman crossing the street in front of her. She double-checked the 9mm in her purse, making sure the safety was off. In an emergency, an engaged safety on a gun could make the difference between life and death.

Her heels clicked noisily on the sidewalk, and she winced at the damage that the intricately paved walkway would inflict on her pumps. Shoes and clothes were her guilty pleasure. Besides, she wanted to keep up her cover as a successful architect. Marissa’s face lit up when she spotted her neighbor, Brian, grinning at her. His dog, Bruiser, a Bullmastiff mix, was sitting beside him, drooling all over the ancient mildew-stained concrete steps that led up to the house.

“Hey, stranger,” Brian drawled in that sexy Southern accent that used to make her melt. He had moved in next door three years ago after his divorce. As an aide to a congressman, he was well versed in Beltway politics and had a personality of charm and tenacity. Add in the mesmerizing pull of those baby-blue eyes, a lean, muscular body, and a busy schedule, he’d been perfect as her once-upon-a-time fuck buddy. Heck, she hadn’t had sex in six months—although, Brian had always made it known that he was available. “Haven’t seen you around.”

Marissa grimaced. “Tough project. Boss is a slave driver.”

“So quit. You don’t need the money,” Brian said. “Have some fun.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Marissa laughed. This was why she liked Brian. He wasn’t complicated—he wasn’t after commitment. There was no awkwardness between them. They knew what they wanted out of their friendship. He wasn’t demanding or autocratic like one other man she knew.

“Hey, boy.” She bent slightly to pet Bruiser. Big mistake. The gigantic dog rose up on his hind legs and nearly knocked her off her feet. She avoided that disaster, but her suit ended up with a gooey streak of disgusting dog drool.

“Bruiser!” Brian exclaimed. “Aw, fuck! I’m so sorry!”

Marissa laughed harder. “No, it’s all right. I’ll just send it for dry cleaning.”

“Send me the bill.” Brian’s face was flushed with embarrassment.

“Seriously, Bri, it’s fine.” Marissa went up a few steps so that she was eye level with him. Leaning in, she planted a friendly peck near his lips. “Don’t worry about it.”

“How about I bring some pizza over for dinner?” Brian suggested. “You staying in?”

“Really, Brian. You don’t have to,” Marissa said. “Kinda tired and thinking of just spending some time alone. No offense.”

“None taken. But I insist,” Brian pressed. “You don’t have to do anything. I don’t care if you fall asleep on me.”

Marissa shook her head, grinning. “Flirt. You’re still the master of double-meanings. But really, I’m not up for company.”

Brian looked disappointed, but being around her right now was not safe. In fact, she shouldn’t have conversed with him too long outside. But sometimes, the life of a spook was so lonely. She just craved some semblance of normalcy, such as hot sex with a hot neighbor. Except right now, her libido was channelled toward someone else.

“I really need to turn in and just laze around for the rest of the day,” Marissa stated with finality. It was 4:00 p.m., and there was nothing she wanted more than to sleep until the next morning. She grinned at Brian, and ascended the remaining steps and entered her house.

Marissa dropped her bag on the dining table and headed for the kitchen to check the contents of her fridge. Shaking her head at the sparse supply, she tried to remember the last time she went to the grocery. Looked like she was having instant ramen for dinner. Her gaze dropped to her landline and sighed. Time to return some personal calls.

“I’m telling you, Trent, it’s not going to make any difference,” Marissa told her brother. “It’s only going to be his way or the highway. Dad will never change.”

“Have you talked to him lately?” Her brother’s baritone voice challenged her over the phone.

Marissa huffed in annoyance. Her father was disappointed in both his children for choosing a life outside their family business. Trenton Cole III was old money from Maryland and was the principal owner of Cole Nauticals, a shipping conglomerate. Her brother, Trent, chose to join the United States Army and was right now in Special Forces. He was coming home from God knows what after his eighth tour in Afghanistan, and was staying in Northern Virginia for a couple of months.

“It’ll be good business with both of us in this, sis,” Trent added when she did not respond. “I’d like to quit the Army and go into private security. A group of us just needs the capital. Dad might listen to you. Just back me up, please?”

“What is it with you ex-Army guys and private military companies anyway?” Marissa grumbled.

“We love what we do, Reesee. Just need to get paid more money for our skills.”

Loads of money, judging from what Marissa could see from what it cost to run AGS operations. Viktor had close to forty full-time agents and they were always deployed somewhere, not to mention any number of contractors who chose to work with them. Paid top-dollar, but non-official covers ( NOC), therefore, Uncle Sam or any other client could disavow them if shit hit the fan. It was part of the contract.

“Are you going NOC or official?” Marissa asked.

“Not sure yet. What do you suggest, Ms. CIA?” her brother drawled.

“Damn it, Trent, this line is not secure.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.”

“You just failed Security 101, baby brother.”

Just then, there was a sound of scuffing near the front door. Her alertness shifted into high gear.

“Hey, I need to go. Call me when you’re back stateside.”

When Marissa ended the call, she immediately reached for her gun. Gripping the weapon with both hands, muzzle pointing down, she slowly approached the door. A few steps before she reached the foyer, the doorbell rang.

“Who is it?”

“Your friendly neighbor.”

Brian.

Exhaling deeply, Marissa hid her gun in the credenza near the entrance. Out of habit, she peeked through the peephole, spying Brian’s distorted face.

“Brian,” Marissa said in exasperation as she opened the door. He walked in with a box of pizza and a six-pack of beer.

“I told you—”

“You have to eat anyway,” Brian cut in. “Look, I’ll leave in an hour.” He shrugged. “Or two.”

Marissa glowered at him. He grinned, laid the pizza and beer on the table, and raised both hands to appease her. “I just miss my friend and want to catch up.”

“Brian—”

“I’m not here for a booty-call.”

“Hey, I’ve never accused you of that,” Marissa retorted. “Well then, let’s eat. The pizza is getting cold.”

“You’re so strung-up,” Brian observed .

“I told you I wasn’t good company,” she replied, a bit apologetically. “Too much stuff going on at work.”

Brian regarded her thoughtfully, but didn’t say anything else; instead, he flicked the tab on a beer and handed it to her.

She took a hearty gulp and realized the cold beverage was exactly what she needed. “Ahhh, that tastes so good.”

“So, I got half-pepperoni and half the works,” Brian said as he flipped the pizza box open. They ate their pizza in silence. Pepperoni pizza was all Marissa ever ate and was gratified that her neighbor remembered because it saved her from picking at her pizza until there was nothing left except cheese and crust.

“I know architects can work ridiculously long hours,” Brian said over a bite of pizza, “but don’t you think you’re running yourself to the ground? I’m just speaking as a friend here, so if I cross the line—smack me.”

Her lips tipped up. See—easygoing which made him not relationship material because he couldn’t bring himself to care deeply enough. He’d test the waters and then pull back. No risk. She was accustomed to reading people, which was probably why she knew she could be comfortable with Brian.

“Pay’s good,” Marissa mumbled. “Now shut up and tell me what’s the newest scandal on the Hill?”

She probably knew more than he did, so she tried not to glaze over as he told her about the infighting in Congress regarding the spending bill. After two hours of conversation, Brian noticed her head nodding and mentioned that he should probably leave. She didn’t stop him because after beer and pizza, she was definitely ready to turn in.

A sharp rap on the door made them freeze. The rap was followed by more urgent pounding.

“What the hell?” Brian muttered furiously, getting up to see who it was.

Marissa leaped into action, all sleepiness vanishing. She thrust an arm out to stop him and whispered urgently, “No, Brian.”

Damn it. She was going to blow her cover, but she had no choice because if that was an assassin out there, Brian was in mortal danger.

Her neighbor stared at her incredulously. “This is DC, Marissa. Great city, but plenty of psychos. Let me handle this.”

“Brian,” Marissa said impatiently when there was another banging on the door. “Stay in the kitchen, and if anything happens, don’t look back—just run out the back door and hide.”

“What the fuck, Marissa?”

Not bothering to explain further, Marissa quickly slithered along the wall, praying whoever was outside wouldn’t just spray her door with assault rifle rounds. But her instincts told her that this wasn’t an assassin. She had a pretty good idea who it was, but she still wasn’t taking any chances when Brian was with her.

She pulled out her gun from the credenza, ignoring the curse from her neighbor, and leaned in to look through the peephole.

Her blood pressure shot straight to her head.