Chase (15 page)

Pulse pounding in her ears, Tatiana risked a peek around the side of the newsstand, and her jaw clenched. There she was, listening intently, her perfect brow wrinkled in concentration like that of a good little reporter. Oh, how Tatiana hated her. Hated her for her condescension, for her abilities, for her fearlessness, for the fact that she always had the edge. Her fingers curled into fists, and she saw herself stepping out of her hiding place,
saw herself running down the sidewalk and launching herself at Gaia, saw the look of surprise in those always-in-control, ever-superior eyes.

What she wouldn't give to be able to kick the living crap out of the girl right here and now.

Tatiana took a long breath and fought it. She fought the urge that was overwhelming every cell in her body. Because if she did what she wanted to do, it was her own ass that would get kicked. It wasn't fair, but it was true. It was just one more edge that belonged to Gaia.

Ever so slowly Tatiana pulled herself behind the newsstand again, her anger rushing out of her, leaving nothing but a sucking hole of loneliness in its place. Loneliness and fear—something Gaia would never have to face.

Tatiana thought of her mother. She was out there somewhere right now, probably in pain, probably scared and being as brave as possible, probably worried for Tatiana's life. And here Tatiana was, doing everything she could, but Gaia was still going to win. She was already well on her way.

It's not fair
, Tatiana thought, feeling her resolve slipping away—feeling her strength escape her.
It's just not fair . . . .

She knew that she needed to stay strong. She knew that the situation demanded it. But no one was here. Not a soul would witness it if she cracked. And for the moment she couldn't do it anymore.
Not alone.
It was too much.

And so while Gaia questioned every person on the street, coming closer and closer to her mark, Tatiana slid down the wall of the newsstand, pulled her knees up under her chin, and wept.

Two and Two

CURIOSITY KILLED THE MORON
, JAKE
told himself as he approached the door to Café Mille Lucci, his brain trying to convince him one last time that this was a bad idea. But he couldn't help it. All he'd done all afternoon was go over and over his last conversations with Gaia and Tatiana, trying to put
two and two
together. The only problem was, he had yet to come up with four.

Someone was going to explain what was going on, and they were going to do it now. It was their choice to suck him into their little drama, so one of them was going to have to talk. And since he had a feeling it wasn't going to be Gaia, he'd decided to start with Tatiana.

He yanked open the door and readied himself for an inquisition, but the moment he saw Tatiana, he faltered. She was slouched in a booth, her back up against the wall and one leg up on the vinyl bench. Streaks of dried tears cut rivers down her face, and there were circles of smudged makeup beneath her eyes. Her gaze was unfocused and staring, and
her skin looked sallow under the fluorescent lights.

Jake's mind flashed on an image of his mother before she died, when she was weak and tired and helpless and he couldn't do anything for her. When she would just lie there in that hospital bed, looking at him with those sorrowful eyes, and he was just a little
kid who could do nothing. Suddenly every muscle in his body tensed up. He had to do something.

“Tatiana?” he said, walking over to the edge of her bench.

Her eyes slowly traveled up to meet his face, but she showed no sign of recognition. Okay, this was worse than he thought.

“Hey! Tatiana!” he said a bit louder, crouching by her sneaker that hung over the edge of the bench. “Are you okay?”

She inhaled, the breath choppy through an obviously stuffy nose. She looked off past his ear at some distant, probably nonexistent point.

“Hey! Can I get some cold water over here?” Jake called out over his shoulder.

An elderly waitress heaved a sigh and left her magazine at the counter to go wrangle up some ice water. Jake watched her progress with an ever-growing swell of impatience in his chest. When she finally handed him the glass, ice cubes tinkling, he gave her a sarcastic smile.

“Thanks a lot,” he said tonelessly.

He dipped his fingers into the water, reached over, and flicked it into Tatiana's face. She blinked and shook her head and seemed to wake up.

“Jake!” she said, finally focusing. Then she sat up and started to cry.

“Hey! What the hell is going on?” Jake asked, sitting down next to her. Tatiana collapsed into him like a
marionette whose strings had just been severed, crying quietly. Before he knew it, he found himself wrapping his arms around her, stroking her hair, and whispering a repetitive mantra of “It's going to be all right. . . . It's going to be all right. . . . It's going to be all right.”

“You have to help me, Jake,” she choked out through her tears. “Please. You're the only one who can.”

Against his will, Jake was moved by Tatiana's total transformation from together,
über
-social queen bee to
helpless victim.
Whatever was going on between Gaia and Tatiana, this girl needed help.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I'll do whatever I can.”

Guys
are so easy. They fall for sex, they fall for tears, they fall for the silent treatment, they fall for jealousy, they fall for disinterest. There are any number of things you can do to manipulate a guy. The key is knowing the guy well enough. Is he a knight in shining armor, a child, a lecher, a man who needs a challenge? Not all of the above tactics will work on all men–you have to mix and match.

Brendan, for example, is clearly the sex type. He isn't going to be swooping in to save any damsels in distress–he'd probably think that blubbering was funny. And he's not the type to waste his time with someone who isn't giving him the proper signals. So sex it was. And it worked.

Jake, on the other hand, is a total hero. He may put on a tough act, but he so wants to be the savior guy. It's written all over his face. So tears, of course, worked.

That's the difference between
me and Gaia–I understand guys. Think she would ever break down in front of Jake? Please. She'd sooner die than admit she needed to be saved.

And so I do still have an edge. A small one, but an important one.

He was trying to make Gaia jealous. . . . Unfortunately, it was working.

Undergarment Action

BRENDAN WAS HUNCHED ON THE LAST
bar stool, one beefy arm resting along the edge of the bar, the other curled around a mug of beer like it was a bunny rabbit or a kitten—something to be cuddled and protected. From the lolling of his head and the constant movement of his lips, Tatiana could tell that he was sloshed, three sheets to the wind, completely blasted.

She clenched her fists and told herself to remain calm. These were the pitfalls of aligning oneself with shady characters like Brendan. All she could do was hope that he was cognizant enough to hear what she had to say and remember it. She unbuttoned the third button on her white blouse, exposing a hint of the lace bra underneath. Maybe a little
undergarment action
would rouse him enough to pay attention.

Tatiana walked over to Brendan and slipped onto the stool next to his, making sure her leg brushed his. He swung his big head to the left and grinned stupidly when he saw her.

“It's the siren,” he said, lifting his beer mug and downing half the contents. He slammed it back down onto the bar, and Tatiana slid it away from him, placing it at arm's reach on her other side. He swiveled his
bar stool so he could better see her. Tatiana watched, careful to control all visceral reaction, as his eyes slid down her neck to her cleavage. She leaned forward slightly to give him a better look.

“The plan is on,” she said. She placed her hands on either side of his grizzly chin and lifted his face so that he'd have to look at her. It took a couple of extra seconds for his eyes to catch up with his chin. Tatiana smiled. “I need you to bring as much firepower as possible to the Hiro Dojo on West Eleventh Street tonight, nine o'clock.”

Brendan's red-rimmed eyes swam. “That's where we're doing this?” he said, spitting a bit. “A freakin' dojo? What is this,
Karate Kid?”
He leaned back on his stool precariously and waved his hands around in the air. “Wax on! Wax off!” Then he collapsed on the bar, laughing at
his own stupid joke.

Tatiana pressed her teeth together, waiting for him to finish convulsing.

“It's a believable location for my bait to lure our mark to,” she said when he finally lifted his eyes. She raised one shoulder, thereby exposing a bit more breast, then reached over and trailed a fingertip along the back of his hand. “He's setting it all up. It'll be deserted, and he has a key.” She looked flirtatiously into his eyes. “I'm good at what I do, Brendan.”

He leered predictably. “I'll bet you are.”

“So, you'll be where, when?” she asked him.

“Hiro Dojo, West Eleventh, nine o'clock tonight,” he replied, looming so close, she could pick out the various alcoholic substances on his breath.

“Very good,” she replied, smiling through her disgust.

“And when the job's done, I get my promised payment, right?” he asked, his hand falling clumsily on her upper thigh.

“Definitely,” Tatiana replied. Holding her breath, she leaned in and kissed Brendan. His tongue fought its way into her mouth as he kissed her back violently. Tatiana silently counted to ten, then pulled away with some effort. Brendan nearly fell off his bar stool.

“I never break a promise,” Tatiana said, the sour taste of him all over her. She passed him his beer in an effort to distract him, and he tilted his head over it, staring into its coppery depths. Tatiana headed for the door, fishing a roll of breath mints out of her bag.

322

“OKAY, OLD MAN,” OLIVER SAID UNDER
his breath, stopping his hands from trembling by stuffing them into the pockets of his gray trench coat. “Okay. You're fine. You can pull this off.”

He stood in the darkest corner of the alleyway between Kavlav's Gyros and Song's House of Nails, trying to avoid breathing in the acrid mix of frying lamb and nail polish remover. The height of the buildings blocked out the sun, and the extra shadow cast by the Dumpster next to him provided a perfect haven. He had arrived fifteen minutes early for his meet in order to be there when
322
arrived. This was what Loki had always done to keep his operatives on their toes, so this was what Oliver had to do.

He heard a footstep, a crunch of gravel, and held his breath, telling himself not to peek. If it was his operative, he would know the protocol. There was no need to reveal himself if it was anyone else.

Noisy rustling in the garbage cans down the alley ensued, and Oliver knew he had time. Agent 322 wouldn't enter if there was a homeless person rooting through the trash. He would have to wait it out.

Naturally, his thoughts turned to Gaia. He knew she didn't fully trust him yet—had seen the way she looked at him with a protective veil over her eyes. She was probably wondering when Loki would resurface, whether she'd be able to tell the difference when he did, whether he already had. Oliver knew these suspicions were well founded—ingrained, even. He knew they were justified.

All he had to do now was erase them forever. He needed Gaia to trust him. She was all he had.

The banging and rustling stopped, and the footsteps gradually moved away. Oliver knew that the next few moments would decide his fate. If he could convince 322 that he was Loki, he would gain the information that would help Gaia. And once he had the information, she would know he was good. She would know that he lived to help her—that he was worthy of being called “uncle.”

If 322 didn't believe him, however, all was lost.

More footsteps, quieter this time but authoritative. No timorous sneaking around. This was it. Oliver could feel it.
A cold tingling sensation ran down his back.
And there it was.

Scrape . . . scrape . . . scrape. The sound of a shoe sole being dragged carefully back and forth. The signal.

Oliver steeled himself and stepped out into the light.

“Boss,” 322 said. He stood a few yards away, dressed in head-to-toe black, a baseball cap pulled down over his brow, exposing nary a hair on his head. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses.

“The file,” Oliver said flatly.

322 produced a large envelope from behind his back. He took the few steps necessary to close the distance between him and Oliver and handed over the envelope. He then took two respectful steps back and stood at ease.

Loki slipped open the envelope and glanced
inside. A few sheets of paper, an eight-by-ten photograph. A computer disk. He could hardly restrain himself from shaking the items out into his hand, but he found the strength. He cleared his throat and resealed the envelope.

“Good work,” he said.

His words seemed to open a floodgate within the operative. “Where've you been, boss? The organization is a wreck. There have been so many defections. . . . How did you escape?”

Oliver's mind spun with possible explanations, lies, details. He could weave a plausible story in no time—one aspect of his CIA training that hadn't deserted him. He was about to unleash a web of deceit when he caught himself. No. Wrong.

“That's none of your concern,” he snapped, causing 322 to go pale. “There may have been defections, but you have proved your loyalty here today.” He tucked the envelope under his arm. “Your work will not go unnoticed. Now go.”

The operative let a bit of a smile escape his lips, then he nodded once and slipped out of the alley. Oliver breathed a long sigh of relief.
He'd pulled it off.