The Orphan Factory (The Orphan Trilogy, #2) (46 page)

Seventeen feigned laughter, but deep down she hoped she would never again have to see Nine, or anyone who reminded her of her one-time nemesis. For now, though, she was just happy to know his body was rotting in the Amazon jungle.

The orphan-operative had no doubt if the fall hadn’t killed Nine, the Wapishana trackers would have. She couldn’t help fantasizing about the current state of Nine’s carcass.

Perhaps he was eaten by cannibals
.

She smiled to herself as she imagined Amazonian headhunters eating Nine alive. In her perverted mind she could hear him screaming as the headhunters prepared to roast him alive over their cooking fire.

Naylor mistook Seventeen’s smile and moved even closer to her. He placed his wine glass on the coffee table in front of them and looked at his subordinate gravely. “There’s something important that brought me here tonight.”

A perturbed Seventeen hadn’t a clue what was coming next. She grew worried as Naylor began fishing for something in his jacket pocket.

“Tommy never treated you the way I wanted him to,” Naylor said as he continued to rummage in his pocket. “I believe he always favored Nine over you as he was convinced the boy was his best prodigy.” Now he really had Seventeen’s attention. “Tommy’s a smart guy, but he sure got that one wrong. You were always the best, Jennifer.”

Seventeen was glad Naylor had seen fit to refer to her by her real name. She was also pleased she had been recognized for what, to her mind, she’d become: the best of the Pedemont Orphans.

The best of the best
.

The strict upbringing, the discipline, the grueling training she’d been subjected to over the years at the orphanage all suddenly seemed worthwhile.

She studied Naylor as he gave up on one pocket and began rummaging around in the other pocket of his jacket.

What the hell is he looking for?

“You don’t know me very well, Jennifer, that’s true. But you must be aware I know more about you than maybe even you know yourself.” Naylor finally found what he’d been looking for. He pulled out a small velvet case, placed it on the coffee table then lifted the lid to reveal a ruby ring inside.

A confused Seventeen wondered if Naylor was about to propose to her.

The old bastard must have lost his marbles.

Naylor could see he’d unsettled her. “Take it, Jennifer. It belongs to you now.”

Seventeen hesitantly pulled the ring from its case and studied the ruby.

“It was your mother’s,” Naylor said quietly.

The orphan-operative almost dropped the ring in shock.

“Her name was Annette Hannar.” Naylor knew he was breaking an agreement he’d made with Kentbridge never to tell Seventeen or Nine anything specific about Annette in case one or both of them worked out they shared the same mother. Both men had agreed it would only complicate matters. However, Nine’s reported death had changed all that, and Naylor had decided it was now safe to tell his favorite orphan everything.

Well, almost everything
.

Seventeen was still staring dumbfounded at the ring. She tried to imagine the woman, her mother, who had once worn it.

Naylor gently took the ring from Seventeen and slid it onto the index finger of her left hand. It fitted perfectly. “Ever since Annette died, I’ve felt it was my duty to look out for you.” He placed his hand over Seventeen’s. “That’s what your mother would’ve wanted.”

Seventeen pulled her hand out from under his. “How did she die?”

Naylor looked at the orphan-operative ominously and sighed. Long seconds passed. “A year or two after she gave birth to you, Annette succumbed to her earlier drug addiction. Later, we learnt she died of an overdose on the streets, not too far from this hotel.”

A now sentimental Seventeen looked back down at the ruby ring on her finger. 

“It was a shame,” Naylor added. “She was such a beautiful woman.” He could see he’d gotten through to Seventeen. When she looked back at him, he was suddenly consumed by his desires. He reached out and brushed Seventeen’s long, blonde hair from her face so he could look into her blue eyes. “You have also blossomed into a beautiful woman in your own right, Jennifer.”

The orphan-operative turned her face away from him, making it clear his advances were not welcome.

They both started when Naylor’s cell phone rang. He immediately answered it, thankful for the call which had ended an uncomfortable moment for both of them.

“Andrew Naylor.” He looked at Seventeen as he listened to the caller.

Seventeen could tell by Naylor’s expression the news wasn’t good. His lazy eye was now working overtime.

“Okay, see you in ten,” Naylor said as he ended the call. He returned the cell phone to his pocket then turned back to Seventeen. “That was Tommy. He’s received word that Nine’s alive.”

Seventeen was shocked. She’d been almost certain Nine had been killed by the fall in the ravine. And she was one hundred percent sure even if he had survived the fall she’d left him with no possible escape route and zero chance of survival. “But that can’t be--”

“He crossed the border into Brazil,” Naylor interrupted. His tone sounded almost accusing. “Tommy said he’s badly wounded, but he believes Nine will survive.” Naylor stood abruptly as he prepared to depart.

“Where is Nine now?” Seventeen asked.

“A British MI6 asset in Brazil found him and is taking him to a hospital as we speak.” Naylor was already heading for the door. He looked back to see Seventeen was shaking. “I have to meet Kentbridge now. I’ll find my own way out.”

Seventeen could only manage a curt nod. She was so consumed with rage she hardly heard the door slam shut as Naylor left.

Now alone in the penthouse, she unclenched her fist and glanced down at the ruby ring Naylor had slipped onto her index finger. It brought her little comfort.

86

Marcia Wilson handled the wheel of the late model Jaguar she was driving with the practiced ease of a rally car driver as she sped along a gravel road on the outskirts of Washington D.C. Ahead of her, the decommissioned cement factory she was looking for came into view. The tops of its now obsolete cement towers were just visible above the early morning mist that clung to the surrounding farmland like a blanket.

Fifty yards behind the Jaguar, Seventeen followed in her brand new Mercedes Sports – yet another gift from the ever-grateful Naylor. Seventeen watched as Marcia put the Jaguar into a controlled slide as she turned off the road into a driveway leading to the cement factory’s gates.

As she followed Marcia, Seventeen went over in her mind why they’d come all this way.

They’d arranged to meet with an Omegan mole who worked in the Clinton administration. He was helping them with a new Omega Agency operation involving the Kosovo War, which had just broken out in Europe. Naylor and his cronies were seeking to use Kosovo as a transit route for Afghan heroin bound for EU countries. Despite the official news stories being circulated by mainstream media, Omega knew the extremely lucrative heroin trade was behind the war.

The honking of the Jaguar’s horn interrupted Seventeen’s thoughts. She and Marcia watched as a stooped, bespectacled, middle-aged security guard emerged from the factory office and hurried to unlock the gates. Both women couldn’t help thinking the guard appeared past his use-by date. A low level Omega associate, his long, curly, gray hair and moustache looked bedraggled and his uniform unkempt.  

Fumbling with his keys, the guard seemed to take an age before he managed to unlock the gates and swing them open.

Marcia floored the accelerator and the Jaguar shot through the opening, almost colliding with the security guard in the process. Seventeen followed a little more sedately. The two Omegans scarcely gave the guard a second glance as they drove past him.

Seventeen parked alongside Marcia outside the factory’s vacant office. She climbed out of the Mercedes Sports and joined the senior agent in the Jaguar. “What now?” she asked.

“Now we wait.” Marcia glanced in her rear view mirror. It gave her a clear view of the driveway, so she’d see the mole as soon as he arrived.

Currently, the only person in sight was the security guard who remained on duty at the open gate. He’d been advised to await the arrival of someone else, though he hadn’t been advised who. Marcia noted he was in the process of lighting up a cigarette. She shook her head in mock despair.

“Something wrong?” Seventeen asked.

“No. I was just thinking you really can’t get good help these days.”

If the two Omegans had known who the bumbling guard behind them was, they’d have been highly perturbed. The guard wasn’t who they thought he was, but he knew exactly who they were, who they were waiting for and what the secret meeting was all about.

Another vehicle came into view in Marcia’s rear vision mirror. “It’s him,” she said.

Seventeen glanced in the side mirror and saw a Jeep approaching. It slowed as it neared the open gates. The guard waved the Jeep and its sole occupant through.

The two Omegans climbed out of the Jaguar as the new arrival pulled up behind them. They greeted the Omega mole, a thirtysomething politician in a pinstripe suit, with curt nods as he jumped out of the Jeep. Behind them, the guard observed them beneath his bushy eyebrows as the trio disappeared into the factory office. 

At the gate, the guard finished his cigarette then strolled over to the Mercedes Sports. Keeping it between himself and the office windows, he casually bent down as if to tie a wayward shoelace. Now hidden from prying eyes, he unscrewed the air nozzle cap in the car’s rear tire and quickly deflated the tire before screwing the cap back on and strolling back to the gate.

The guard was Nine in disguise. As for the guard he’d replaced, he was currently gagged and tied up in a canteen at the rear of the factory.

Nine had spent the past few weeks recovering from his Guyana ordeal in a hospital in Santarém, in northern Brazil. Apart from a few lingering aches and pains, he was now fully recovered. One reminder of his brush with death was a recurring rash which appeared on his thigh – a legacy of the poison-tipped arrow he’d been skewered by.

Lying in a hospital bed and waiting until he was strong enough to return to America, he’d had plenty of time to stew over what had gone down in the Amazon jungle and how Seventeen had tried to kill him. Upon returning to Chicago, he’d told Kentbridge about Seventeen’s treachery. His mentor had believed him, but warned him not to lodge an official complaint because, without proof, Naylor and the others would write it off as sour grapes.

Kentbridge had also told him that Seventeen was now the agency’s golden girl and Naylor would tolerate no criticism of her – especially criticism not backed with proof.

Fuelled by rage, and knowing the agency wouldn’t help him get justice, Nine had decided to take matters into his own hands. However, he wasn’t quite alone. After getting nowhere with Kentbridge, he’d found a willing listener in Ten. His good friend believed him. Ten knew what Seventeen was capable of. More importantly, he was also part of the Kosovo operation. When Nine had confided he wanted to get Seventeen alone and preferably away from Chicago, Ten told him about today’s meeting at the old cement factory.

Now, as he waited by the factory gates, Nine could feel his anger building. The memory of how Seventeen had cut through the vine that sent him plummeting down the ravine, and then thrown away his survival gear, was still fresh on his mind. He glanced at his watch, willing the meeting to finish.

Nine went over and over in his mind the things he’d do to Seventeen when he finally got her alone.

The sound of voices signaled to him the meeting was over. He looked up as the trio emerged from the factory office. After a brief discussion, all three went to their respective vehicles and prepared to drive off.

Observing them surreptitiously, Nine saw that Seventeen had spotted her flat tire. She bent down to inspect it, cursing.

“Problem?” Marcia called out. She had to shout to make herself heard above the sound of the Jeep as the Omega mole drove off.

“Flattie,” Seventeen said. “It’ll only take me a minute to change it. You go.”

Marcia climbed into the Jaguar and drove off, leaving Seventeen alone with Nine as he’d intended.

Nine wandered over to Seventeen as she retrieved her scissor jack and spare tire from the boot. “Do you need any help, ma’am?” he asked in a strong Southern drawl.

“No.” She didn’t even look at him as she knelt down to fit the jack beneath the chassis.

Nine noted she’d answered in a tone that said
Shut the hell up, you old fool
.

The hovering presence of the guard irked Seventeen as she began pumping the jack to raise the car above the ground, though she never said anything. As she pumped, she noticed imprints of ripple-soled boots in the soft ground around the deflated tire. Glancing at the guard’s boots, she saw his were ripple-soled.

As casually as she could, she reached for her holstered pistol.

Seventeen never saw the blow. The butt of Nine’s Magnum revolver struck her across the back of her head. It wasn’t hard enough to knock her out, but it stunned her.

As she regained her senses, she couldn’t understand why she was having trouble breathing. Then she realized her assailant had his boot on her throat. The pressure wasn’t enough to crush her larynx, but it was sufficient to starve her of air. She could feel herself starting to black out.

Her assailant mercifully removed his boot and Seventeen was able to gulp in a few deep breaths before he savagely kicked her in the ribs. She screamed in pain as she felt a couple of ribs crack.

Through the pain, Seventeen remembered the lug wrench she’d left beside the jack after she’d removed the lug nuts from the wheel. She reached for it, but her assailant grasped her by the ankles and pulled her away from the car. Before she could react, he placed his boot on her throat again. Panic overcame her as she realized he meant to kill her.

Who the hell is he?