Gray could only imagine the family’s worry. First the ambassador is murdered, then her daughter is attacked at the airport and on the run. Then again, maybe he didn’t need to imagine the family’s terror and fear. He tried his best to compartmentalize his own anxiety for Seichan, his child, Monk’s girls, but it was like trying to crate a feral dog. An ache persisted in his heart, not just figuratively but literally. He felt the tension in his chest with every breath.
He knew Monk was just as agonized—likely worse—balancing on a razor’s edge. Director Crowe had updated Gray’s team on the situation back in the States, about that pale witch Valya Mikhailov’s involvement and about Kat’s failing condition.
Unable to do anything else, Monk was already en route to Portugal, flying as a passenger aboard a supersonic F-15, zipping at twice the speed of sound. Even with a midair refueling, he’d be touching down here a mere ninety minutes from now.
Gray intended to have answers before his friend landed.
As they set off into the airport, Jason checked his phone. “No further update from Painter. But someone from the Carsons’ protection detail will meet us in Terminal One and escort us to the family.”
They headed at a brisk pace toward the rendezvous point. Gray led the way, doing his best not to attract undue attention from the bustle of late-afternoon travelers. Still, several heads swiveled as they passed, tracking their group—or rather, eyeballing the giant behind Gray. Kowalski could never blend in. It didn’t help that the man kept trying to unwrap a cigar as they maneuvered through the crowd.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Jason warned. The young analyst looked like a mouse scolding an elephant.
“I friggin’ know that.” Kowalski finally got the cellophane off and clamped the stogie between his molars. “Nothing says I can’t taste this sweet beauty.”
Gray knew better than to come between the big man and his love of dried tobacco leaves. Up ahead, an arm lifted above the crowd. His name was called, the voice full of authority.
“Commander Pierce.”
Gray directed the group over there. The speaker wore a crisp dark navy suit, white starched shirt, thin black tie, the no-nonsense uniform of a security officer, down to the earpiece trailing a wire under the jacket.
“Agent Bailey,” the man said with a slight Irish brogue. “Head of the Carsons’ DSS detail.”
Gray shook the Diplomatic Security Service agent’s hand. Their contact’s black hair was as polished as his suit, trimmed near to the scalp over the ears, longer on top, but combed with every hair in place. His skin was ruddy, with a tan that looked worn into his skin. His green eyes sparked with intelligence. His lips quirked slightly with amusement, maybe because the man’s gaze ran up and down Kowalski’s tall form.
After years in the field, Gray was good at sizing up an opponent in a glance. He sensed both the agent’s confidence and competence, already respecting the man who looked to be his same age. Even the amused twinkle felt familiar, comfortable, as if Gray had known the agent for years.
Still, he kept his guard up, noting everything around him.
“I don’t know if you were informed,” Bailey said, “but we moved Laura and Derek Carson twenty minutes ago.”
Gray glanced to Jason, who shook his head. This was new intel.
“After the attempted attack here, the agency thought it best to change locations, get the family somewhere safer. We have other agents sticking here in case the two girls return.”
Smart.
The man knew how to run an operation.
“I have a car idling curbside. We can be at the safe house in ten.”
Gray appreciated the brevity and efficiency of their escort. He preferred to hit the ground running, especially now. “Let’s go.”
Bailey led them out of the terminal and into the dying daylight. The sun sat sullenly on the horizon, as if disappointed by the end of Christmas. A white unmarked Ford Econoline van sat at the curb. Gray pictured the lush appointments of the Citation jet. The DSS plainly did not have the deep pockets of Sigma.
Bailey tugged the side door open, gave a thumbs-up to the driver, then waved the trio inside. Kowalski took the back bench, struggling both with his size and the hidden rifle. Gray and Jason took the two captain chairs behind the driver.
Bailey strode around the van to climb in next to the driver. Once settled, he swung around and pointed a large pistol at their group. The amused glint in his eye twinkled brighter.
“Do not move.”
5:14 P.M.
Mara paced their luxurious cell. While she couldn’t escape, the movement helped keep her terror at bay—but just barely.
Carly sat on the edge of a wide four-poster bed piled with pillows and covered with a silk duvet. Her only sign of agitation was a knee popping up and down. Her friend’s gaze swept the room. “At least they sprang for the penthouse.”
Mara took in their surroundings, noting the antique chairs, a small French desk, and the expensive paintings on the wall. One oil appeared to be the work of a famous local artist, Pedro Alexandrino de Carvalho. It depicted Saint Thomas testing the wound in Christ’s side, his face agonized with doubt.
That raw suspicion and distrust spoke to her, to their current predicament.
Are we going to survive this?
After being forced at gunpoint off the street and back into the bar, the two of them had been manhandled over to the establishment’s back door. The bartender had ignored their kidnapping, merely wiping a glass. Plainly he had been paid to look the other way. Still, Mara had noted his grimace of guilt—but apparently his remorse was not great enough for him to do anything to stop them from being led away and shoved into a van parked in the alley.
Cooperate and no harm will come to you, the gunman had warned before slamming the door.
With no other choice, they obeyed.
A short ride later, they stopped in another alley off Pra?a de S?o Paulo. Mara caught a glimpse of the fountain of Saint Paul’s Square, heard its tinkling waters, beyond which rose the twin square towers of the church to the same saint. She had cast out a silent plea to Saint Paul for intercession, to save them.
With her prayer unanswered, she and Carly were taken into a tall house bordering the square. Its architecture was typical Pombaline, named after the Marquês de Pombal, who rebuilt much of Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake. The style’s efficient neoclassical design was born of a cost-cutting necessity. Still, the simple lines with little embellishments spoke to the new era of enlightenment, as Europe grew out of the extravagances of the Rococo period into something more rational and practical. Pombaline architecture was typified by an arcade of shops below and three or four levels of living space above.
Mara knew all about this period because her local mentor—Eliza Guerra, the head of the Joanina Library in Coimbra—had insisted on a well-rounded education, including history, especially of Portugal and the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, of which the librarian was rightfully proud.
It was Mara’s memory of Eliza’s bottomless enthusiasm—for knowledge, for life in all its splendor and mystery—that gave her the strength to follow Carly up the flights of stairs to the topmost apartment, where they were sequestered in a back bedroom. A guard had been posted at the door and on the balcony outside a set of French doors.
That had been more than an hour ago.
“Mara,” Carly said, “please stop wearing a rut in the rug. It looks expensive. We don’t want to piss off our hosts.”
Mara crossed her arms, stepped over to the bed, and sat down next to Carly. “What do you think they’re doing?”
Carly stared at the door. “Probably trying to decide what to do with us. Judging if there’s any worth in keeping us.”
In other words, keeping us alive.
Mara unfolded her arms and took Carly’s hand. It wasn’t done out of fear or out of a need for reassurance. It just felt . . . right, the natural thing to do in this moment.
Carly gently gripped her palm, a thumb absently rubbing Mara’s wrist. “They’re probably examining what’s in your case. All those hard drives. They must’ve hoped we had the Xénese with us. Our best chance of staying alive is to make them think we could re-create it.”
Earlier, both of them had concluded their captors were some other faction, not the same ones who had killed Carly’s mother and the other women of Bruxas, but a competitor. Word must have spread of the prize Mara had stolen from the university.
Other vultures had closed in.
“Do you think they’ll torture us?” Mara asked.
“No.”
Mara was relieved, but Carly wasn’t done.
“They’ll torture me,” her friend said. “To force you to cooperate.”
Mara tightened her fingers on Carly’s hand.
Carly stared over, her eyes glassy with suppressed tears. She licked her lips, looking like she wanted to say something.