Deceived (4 page)

Luke lunged forward and took hold of Sarah's arm, quickly leading her and Eli from the scene before the police could show up.

“Where are we going?” Sarah demanded after a few yards, digging in her heels and pulling him to a stop. “We need to stay here and tell the police what happened! You heard what that nut-job said—more will be coming.”

Luke relaxed his grip and glanced down at her and then into the wide dark eyes of her son. The boy was mute with terror, but tears hovered on the edges of his long black lashes as if he was holding them back with sheer willpower. The last thing the kid needed was to hear his life was in danger, but something about the way Eli looked at him—a mixture of fear, disbelief, and awe—told him the boy could take it.

“It's because more'll be coming that I need to get you two outta here,” Luke told them. “Eli, you think you can hang in there for me, buddy? You're safe right now, but I want to keep it that way. Will you trust me for a little while, help me get your mom somewhere safe?”

Eli nodded. “Yeah.” He blinked a few times, swallowed, and glanced at his mom before squaring his shoulders and nodding again. “Yeah. I'm good. Let's go.”

“Good man.” Luke clapped him lightly on the back before meeting Sarah's gaze. “How about you?”

“I don't even know who you
are
,” she breathed. “Not really. You say my father sent you, but how can I know that for sure? How do I know I can trust you any more than
that
guy?”

Luke sighed. Hell if
he
knew how to convince her to trust him. If she'd met him five years earlier, he would've told her she couldn't. He hadn't been worth trusting back then, and he probably had no right to ask a young mother to put her life and the life of her son in his hands even now. But as he stood there looking into Sarah's gaze, so fierce, so indomitable, and yet frightened and vulnerable, he somehow knew he'd give his very last breath to protect her and the boy.

“You
don't
know you can trust me,” he finally answered. “But if you want to survive, Sarah, you're gonna have to.”

Jacob Stone tore off his headset and slammed it onto his desk. He knew he should've just taken care of grabbing the kid his damned self. But keeping his distance was imperative if he didn't want to blow his cover. He needed those layers of plausible deniability in case things went to shit. And, apparently, if he kept relying upon the more fanatical members of his following to take care of business for him, they were going to.

Those willing to serve him without question had their place, certainly, but they lacked finesse. They were better for broad-stroke missions, not those operations that required secrecy and stealth. He never would've thought a simple kidnapping was beyond their capabilities, but he also hadn't counted on one of the Templars managing to get there before the mission was completed. A miscalculation he wouldn't be repeating.

At least the mission wasn't a total wash. Although the senator hadn't been killed in the assassination attempt, he
was
lying in a coma from which he was unlikely to awaken. As such, everything still would be transferred to the senator's chosen heir as a precaution, just as Stone had intended.

Unfortunately, he had no fucking clue how Blake had actually transferred his knowledge of the treasures to the boy, but protocols dictated that the senator would've had some mechanism in place to ensure that the information was passed on should he become incapacitated, so that his knowledge would not be lost. If there was anything the Alliance had learned from the purge of their leaders during the Middle Ages, it was that they needed to have some redundancies in place.

Fortunately for Stone, his old friend Senator Blake had a guilty conscience about the rift between him and his younger daughter and had been all too eager to accept the advice of his long-time confidant on how to make amends. It had been Stone's idea for Blake to name the boy his heir, insisting that none of the Alliance's enemies would ever suspect Blake would pass on such crucial knowledge to a mere child.

Luckily, with Blake being required to file his succession plan with the Grand Council and leave a record of it at Central Headquarters, there would be at least a dozen suspects for the failed attempt to snatch the boy—not to mention what he imagined would be a panicked investigation when they discovered that their supposedly impenetrable files had been hacked. A nice touch, Stone had to admit, useful to some degree, and just the red herring he needed to keep them scurrying and distracted while he carried out his plan.

Stone smirked, wishing he could share his triumph with someone but contenting himself with a mental pat on the back at his own devious brilliance. He had known Hal Blake his entire life. Blake and his father had grown up together, gone through training together, entered into service together. And when Allister Stone had been killed in Russia during the Cold War, Blake had become like a second father to the young Jacob. Hell, he was one of the few
confreres
who even knew the truth of Blake's identity and mission. And yet despite being one of the most seasoned and respected Templars embedded in the government, Blake was surprisingly trusting when in the company of his ward.

It was almost sad, really. He actually felt a twinge of regret that things had taken such a turn. But he had his own agenda, and sacrifices—while unfortunate—were required.

Now he just had to make sure the gears continued to turn in spite of the little setback in Bakersville. The boy and his mother had gone underground, but it was only a matter of time before they resurfaced. He'd lay odds that they were headed to the home base in Chicago, but the commander there would tell them to stay away for a little while and let the rest of them look into who could be behind the attempted assassination and kidnapping. He wouldn't want them drawing the enemy straight to headquarters.

Will Asher, the leader of the Chicago commandery, was far too smart and savvy for that. So, fine, let the Templar take the woman and her son to some hole-in-the-wall for a while, get all snug and cozy thinking they were safe from his reach. He was a patient man. He could wait things out a while longer, wait for the perfect moment to strike again. He'd been waiting twenty years to make his move, to rectify the wrongs committed against his family. What were a few more days?

He still had a few of his most reliable followers attempting to pick up their trail and had no doubt they would. But it had become clear to him from this little snafu that he needed someone more dependable to actually extract the boy, someone he could trust to finish the job, who wouldn't let fervor for the cause interfere.

He paced the floor of his office, mulling over his options. Hiring mercs was out of the question. They had
no
loyalty. Whoever paid them the most was their boss for the day, and as vast as his own personal wealth was, it was nothing compared to what the Alliance could provide. No, if he was going to hire out, he needed someone as jaded and bitter about the Alliance as he, someone who wouldn't think twice about taking them on but who could match their level of training and experience.

What he needed was one of the very people from the Alliance he was trying to take down. But their loyalty was renowned. Infiltrating their current ranks, ferreting out a Templar who was carrying a grudge significant enough to make him want to turn against those he'd been indoctrinated to fight alongside, could take years of sowing seeds of bitterness and dissent.

He continued to walk the floor, finally pausing at the window that looked out over the city.
His
city. At least, it
should've
been. He was the right man to run this town, the only one with the vision to see it rise out of mediocrity and take its rightful place in the world order. And yet the obstacles to his rise to power remained. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his need for power rushing upon him as it did sometimes in the middle of the night when his long-awaited glory still seemed so out of reach.

Soon, the simpering, indolent morons of this country would know his name, would curse him for his strong hand and righteous mission, but in the end, they would understand that they owed all they had to the One True Master. History would sing his praises for centuries to come and look upon him as the great savior of the nation, the man who had delivered them.

In his mind, he pictured the throngs of people who would eventually attend his funeral decades from now, the thousands upon thousands who would wait in line for hours for a glimpse of their savior.

He grinned and closed his eyes, soaking it in, reveling in the adoration that would one day be his. He took a deep, cleansing breath and blew it out slowly, letting his hands uncurl. He wiggled his fingers, allowing the blood flow to return.

All he needed was the right man to retrieve the boy and set the final stages of his plan in motion. He had heard of such a person, a Templar by the name of Eric Evans who'd been drummed out of the Alliance a few years before for conduct unbecoming. By all accounts, the confrontation between Evans and Will Asher had left Evans near to death, but Will had shown mercy—a mistake Will would no doubt soon regret.

Last he heard, the former Templar was in Cuba. Perhaps, for the right price, he could be persuaded to return to the United States. And if their partnership worked out well, then maybe he would consider offering a more long-term association. One never knew when one might need a highly trained killer at one's disposal.

He turned to his desk and pressed the SPEAKER button on his cell before dialing his assistant.

“Yes, Mr. Stone?”

“Allison, my dear, I'm sorry to bother you on a Saturday, but I'm going to need you to make some flight arrangements for me.”

“Of course, Mr. Stone. Just give me a moment to get to my laptop.” A few seconds later, he could hear Allison typing swiftly. “Where will you be traveling, sir?”

Stone grinned. “Havana.”

There was a slight pause. He could hear the lovely Allison Holt inhale as if about to ask him why in the world he would want to visit that particular country, but she had been with him long enough not to question his activities. “Of course, sir. When will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow, if possible.”

He heard her typing again and pictured her long, slender fingers, which were always manicured with such precision. Everything she did was calculated for maximum effectiveness and efficiency. He was quite lucky to have her at his beck and call, eager and willing to please. And with her luxurious blond hair, perky ass, and ample tits, she was damn fine to look at, too. He should've boned her long ago.

It wasn't like she would've said no. Hell, she was throwing out signals like a bitch in heat. He'd seen the way she looked at him, noticed how her blouse was always unbuttoned just a little too much for propriety when they held their weekly meetings. And why wouldn't she be throwing herself at him? At forty, he was in the best shape of his life and had the prowess of a man half his age. And he was never naïve enough to underestimate the allure of his bank account. He would've been shocked if she
hadn't
wanted him.

On more than one occasion, he'd fantasized about throwing her down on his desk and fucking her blind. Perhaps with his goals within reach, it was finally time to seal the deal and add a tasty bit of arm candy to his suntanned, corn-fed all-American boy image.

He felt his dick growing hard at the thought of it.

In an uncharacteristically impulsive move, he drawled, “On second thought, Allison, go ahead and make that flight for two. I will be requiring your presence on this trip.”

He heard her quick little intake of breath and could tell she was smiling when she replied, “Of course, Mr. Stone. Is there anything else you'll be requiring today?”

He shifted his weight, not sure how it was possible that his dick was growing even harder as he began to picture what he was going to do to her on the private jet during the long flight to Havana, how he was going to make her take it every way humanly possible and leave her begging for more. “No, not today. I think we'll have plenty of time to discuss my needs on the flight tomorrow.”

He disconnected the line and hastily unzipped his slacks, freeing his cock and taking it roughly into his hand. As he pumped it furiously and felt an explosive release building, he squeezed his eyes shut. But it wasn't just images of the lovely Allison sucking him off that raced through his mind. He saw her with her head in his lap while he sat in the coveted chair in the Oval Office, as the world's most powerful leader and savior of humanity. Soon it wouldn't be just his assistant who was on her knees before him.

* * *

Will Asher strode through the underground tunnels that connected the buildings of the Alliance's compound. To the casual observer, the complex looked like any other exclusive gated community in the quiet Chicago suburb where the Alliance had set up its regional command center.

The custom homes were veritable fortresses of security, each one a private residence for the highest-ranking Templars in the region, appropriately extravagant to maintain their front as businessmen who ran one of the most lucrative investment firms in the world. Those who were still initiates, or who were still proving themselves, lived in the building that appeared to be a town hall at the center of the self-contained community.

But the vast majority of their operations took place in the underground high-tech ops center that made the fallout shelters built by NORAD look like a kid's dollhouse. The facility was a stronghold that could withstand any physical attack and would continue to operate even in the event of an electromagnetic pulse or other terrorist activity that would disable the most advanced operations elsewhere.

But not even the most impenetrable fortress could protect Will now.

He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin a notch higher as he stormed into the situation room, catching the startled faces of the rest of his team. They sat around the table at the center of the room, awaiting their briefing on the emergency that had called them in from the field at such short notice, but Will continued past them and toward his office. The briefing would have to wait. He was due on a call in less than a minute, and he was not going to risk pissing off the Grand Council any more than they already were.

His ass was already in a sling for not having better control of his men. And Jack Grayson, of all people, was the one who was behind this colossal cluster-fuck. Jack Grayson—his most dependable lieutenant and most trusted friend—had gone rogue, putting himself and his partner at risk for personal reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with Alliance business and everything to do with assuaging his own guilt.

Of course, it wasn't like Will was going to tell the Grand Council that their golden boy had shit on protocol because he was thinking with his dick. They'd see it as just making excuses. Ultimately, as commander of the Chicago commandery and thereby of the North American province, all ops were Will's responsibility. So if they went to shit, it was on his shoulders. Period.

Will slammed the door to his office and snatched up the remote that operated the flat-screen monitor hanging on his wall. He had seconds to spare when he joined the teleconference.

“Good evening, Commanders,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. “I'm sorry to keep you waiting. Thank you for joining me on this call.”

Each of the members inclined his head, but it was the high commander who spoke. “Commander Asher,” he said, his voice taut with disapproval. “We are curious to hear what has necessitated this emergency meeting.”