Shock (14 page)

TATIANA'S HAND SHOOK VIOLENTLY AS
she attempted for the third time to master the simple act of inserting a key into a lock. She blamed her shivering on the fact that she hadn't expected the sudden shift in the weather and so hadn't dressed for it. She also hadn't expected, however, to see her mother get dragged off by a couple of huge men in black spy gear.

“Damn it. Get a grip,” she said through her teeth. If her mother could see her now, she'd be ashamed. Tatiana had to pull herself together. Her mother was counting on her.

Finally, Tatiana gripped her right hand with her left to steady it, and mercifully, the key slid into the lock. There was a moment of suspense as she turned it, but the lock clicked and the door swung open with a slow, angry creak as if it had just been woken from a deep slumber. Tatiana had the right place. She was home.

She slipped through the door and quickly punched the code her mother had made her memorize into the key pad on the near wall, the red light flashing menacingly as she worked. After hitting all the numbers, Tatiana pressed her thumb into the enter key and squeezed her eyes shut. The alarm let out a loud beep, and when she opened her eyes again, the red light had turned to green. Tatiana closed the door behind her and fastened all five safety locks. She leaned back against the door and allowed herself to breathe. She was safe. Alone, but safe.

Peeling off her lightweight jacket, Tatiana decided to explore her new abode. In the semidarkness she found a light switch and flicked it on, illuminating the small living room with the weak light from a single overhead fixture. She'd been hearing about the Alphabet City safe house ever since she and her mother had arrived in New York City, but she'd never been here. The moment she saw the place in the light, she felt an almost painful longing for the lofty space of the Seventy-second Street apartment.

Your mother is most likely in a jail cell right now,
she told herself.
Quit your whining.

She breathed in the musty, sooty smell of the air and took a few steps into the tiny square living room. The walls where plain and white, and an old but comfortable-looking corduroy couch stood to one side. A table next to it held a single glass lamp with a dingy shade. Tatiana walked over to the one piece of artwork on the wall—a framed print of Renoir's “The Luncheon of the Boating Party,” and lifted it from the nail that held it in place. Just as she'd been told, there was a square gray safe door built into the wall. Tatiana quickly dialed in the combination, which she'd also committed to memory, and the door popped open, letting out a hiss of air.

There were stacks upon stacks of bills inside—American dollars, Canadian dollars, Mexican pesos, British pounds, and Russian rubles. Tatiana slipped a few twenties from one of the bundles of dollars, then pulled out a stack of passports. As she flipped through them—there were at least ten with her picture, each from a different country—she smirked sadly at the names her mother had given her. Annie Whitmore, Corrine Deveneaux, Marianna Alonso, Marcella Tuscano.

I could just disappear,
Tatiana thought, allowing the seduction of such a thought to momentarily wet her lips and send her pulse racing. She gazed at her picture in the Italian passport and imagined it—imagined herself on the white sands of the Mediterranean, sipping something fruity and letting her bare back bathe in the sun. But as quickly as the image came, she squelched it. She wasn't going anywhere without her mother. Not now. Not ever.

She took the last items out of the safe, a nice, sleek .45 pistol and a full clip, then shoved the passports back inside. She shoved the clip into the gun, savoring the menacing click as it locked into place. After making sure the safety was on, Tatiana slipped the gun between her waistband and her back. Then she closed the safe and hung the painting again. She had to check the rest of her provisions.

The kitchen, just to the left of the living room, was lined with avocado green cabinets and held a large brown refrigerator. Tatiana walked over to the pantry and checked inside. The shelves were stocked with canned soups, pasta sauces, packets of instant oatmeal, and cans of soda and juice.

She walked back across the living room to the bedroom, which took all of three steps, and flicked on the light. Two twin-size beds, draped with blue blankets, stood on either side of a single nightstand. Inspection of a small dresser against the far wall revealed drawers filled with plain underwear, bras, T-shirts and sweaters in Tatiana and Natasha's sizes. The closet held a few pairs of jeans, assorted footwear and two heavy winter coats. On the top shelf was a wide array of wigs, hats and sunglasses. Tatiana pulled down a long, dark wig with natural-looking waves and smiled morosely. Her mother had certainly been prepared.

She just hadn't been prepared to be double-crossed by Gaia Moore.

Still fingering the coarse hair of the wig, Tatiana sat down on the closest bed and tried to remain calm. She tried to stop herself from picturing the events of the evening over and over and over again. Reliving the nightmare was not going to help her deal with it. It wasn't going to bring her mother back to her. There was only one thing that would. She had to make Gaia talk. Gaia was the only person who knew where her mother was—who knew who the men were that had taken her.

From their uniform fighting tactics, it was clear they belonged to some government agency, and considering Tom Moore's affiliation with the CIA, Tatiana assumed it was them. But that meant nothing to her. It wasn't as if she were privy to all the CIA's secret interrogation facilities. As much as she hated to admit it, she needed Gaia. Unfortunately, she knew that the self-righteous, egotistical, bitch on a mission was never going to help her.

What Tatiana needed was a plan.

Taking a deep breath, she gathered her blond hair up on top of her head and pulled the wig on over it. It was tight, but all the better. She tugged at the temples, then walked over to the full-length mirror that was attached to the back of the door, suddenly hyperaware of the cold steel against the skin of her back. When she saw her reflection, she smiled slowly. It was perfect—a total transformation.

Tatiana pulled her gun out of her waistband, hoisted it, and aimed it at her reflection, her arms straight and locked at the elbow. She barely even recognized herself. Tatiana smirked, brought the gun to her mouth and blew across the tip of the barrel. Whatever her plan might turn out to be, Gaia would never see her coming.