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- Herausgeber: Paraquel Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Spy-in-training Riley Forte faces off against a lethal criminal mastermind in this white-knuckle sequel to the explosive thriller, Nocturne In Ashes.
Recruited by an elite, under-the-radar security firm, concert pianist Riley Forte trains to go undercover at an ultra-secret spy school in the heart of Bavaria.
Upon her arrival, a shocking revelation shatters her confidence, making the struggle to stay atop the learning curve more challenging than she ever imagined.
Dogged by intrigue, treachery, and the mounting threat of terrorism, can Riley acquire the skills she needs to survive spy school and stop a disaster that could rock the world?
For fans of Jeffery Deaver, Ken Follet, and Iris Johansen. Grab your copy today and clear your schedule—the thrills don’t stop until the very last page.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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STACCATO PASSAGE
A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller
JOSLYN CHASE
Contents
Prologue
Mid-morning.
The sun shone golden on the wide spread of evergreens seven thousand feet below, gilding and lifting them like jewels from dusty velvet, making the lush pools of shadow sink in contrast. Purring vibrations from the sturdy little four-seat Sundowner filled the cabin, muffled by the headset she wore, and the woman at the controls smiled, remembering the days when she had to drop a quarter into a motel bed to get that kind of relaxation.
To the east, the waters of the Atlantic Ocean sparkled deep blue, edged by a rind of white Brazilian beaches along the coast. She glanced at her companion in the seat beside her and gestured toward the distant expanse.
Speaking into the headset mic, she said, “Maybe we can go sailing this afternoon.”
He gave her a look, waggled his head. “I’d prefer a leisurely lunch and a nap.”
She laughed. “Oh ye of little adventure.”
“Little adventure?” Leaning close, he sent her an air kiss. “Just being with you is the adventure of a lifetime.”
She gave his knee a squeeze and checked the gauges. Everything looked fine. Everything was—
Bang!
The plane shuddered and bucked with a sickening shriek of metal.
The explosion had come from the engine compartment, and it sent a plume of greasy black smoke billowing across the Sundowner’s wrap-around windshield, shrouding visibility, throwing a dark cloud over the little plane.
The woman pilot screamed, then clamped her teeth together, holding tight to the yoke. The smoke blew off, leaving behind a grimy film and enough light for her to see the control panel.
All zeroes.
The needle on every gauge lay flat at the bottom of its range.
She tore off her headset and heard the last thing she wanted to hear.
Silence.
The engine was gone.
Next to her, the man had gone sickly pale. He said nothing, but his lips worked soundlessly and his hands dug into his thighs, the knuckles white as bone.
Fumes crept into the cabin, choking and nauseating. The woman stared out at the thick, endless field of tiny, distant pines and eucalyptus, approaching too fast. Relentless.
She gripped the yoke, pulling up, willing the plane to rally and rise. But the controls that had always felt so responsive, so alive under her fingers, now felt cold and dead.
Wings, and the dynamics of flight, kept them aloft. For now.
Despite that knowledge and her experience, she wrestled the panicky notion that they were dead and falling like a brick in the sky. Going down hard and fast.
She fought to keep the nose up, to force the plane into a long, slow turn, buying time. She needed a break. A meadow, a clearing, something to aim for.
There was nothing.
With a desperate burst of hope, she tried starting the engine again.
No use.
The woman tried feathering the controls, straining to eke some altitude out of the plane, slowing its descent.
Nothing responded. Nothing worked.
Heart booming, she peered out the windshield. The looming pines still appeared tiny, but they were close enough now to see stony projections, stark cliffs and diamond-hard rock formations thrusting up between them.
The woman blinked. Sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging.
Beside her, the man let out a series of strangled sobs. She heard frantic breaths—harsh and wheezing—and realized they were her own. She swallowed hard, struggling for control, but felt the fight seeping out of her like air from a spent balloon.
With shaking hands, she activated the GPS emergency beacon and tried the radio.
Static.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore.
The trees grew large, a black sea reaching up to swallow the broken Sundowner.
Fromhisvantagepoint at the top of the highest hill, John Harrigan watched the plane go down.
He followed its decline with his binoculars, noting with interest how the wings sheared off as it hit the inexorable wall of Brazilian forest and how abruptly it came to rest against a jagged crest of rock.
The day was fine, almost too hot for his taste. Screwing the cap off a thermos, he took a long draught of cold water, feeling the chill trace through his chest, tasting the slight metallic tang.
His radio hissed and he picked up.
“The charge went off exactly as planned,” Haagen told him. “And she activated the GPS beacon.”
“Good,” John said. “Move in, and have the ambulance standing by. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
He didn’t hurry as he hiked back to the road where his car waited. Rescue operations took time. His people would have to traverse difficult territory to retrieve the plane crash victims. He could afford to linger.
The heat of the day brought out the smell of pine resin, heavy in the dry air of the Rio Grande do Sul. Not so much different from the forests around Seattle where he’d grown up.
Where he’d blossomed.
The woodlands were full of tiny sounds—insects, birds, an occasional rustling breeze. As he trekked through the carpet of pine needles, John heard another sound, a sort of frenzied sniffling. He slowed his steps, approaching cautiously. He’d once met a bear cub in the Washington woods, and that hadn’t turned out well.
The noise came from a small deer, a young doe, caught in a jumble of vines. The creature stamped her hind feet as John came near, eyes wide and roving with fear. John watched her struggle, all alone in the big, bad forest.
Coming closer, he saw the doe’s front hooves had become entangled in a trailing mass of vines. A slice of the knife could free the creature.
Reaching for his pocketknife, John opened the Damascus steel blade. Slowly, carefully, he stepped nearer, speaking soothingly, reassuringly. The deer snorted, rearing back, trying frantically to get away before he reached her.
He laid a hand gently on her neck, feeling the pulse beat beneath his palm, her life in his hands. He waited until she went still, until her heartbeat matched his own. Then he leaned in and made a swift cut.
The animal was free.
He watched her bound away, clumsy in her haste, the sound of her flurried escape reaching him for whole seconds after she’d disappeared from view. He knelt in the dirt, touching the place where she’d been. A thrill shuddered through him.
Rising to his feet, he folded the knife. Sun-dappled leaves quivered in the eucalyptus breeze as he tucked it back into his pocket.
He walked on.
At the hospital, John watched the ambulance arrive, saw his men jump out and wheel in two gurneys, each carrying a sheet-swathed figure. He met Haagen in the corridor and they rode the elevator down to the basement together.
“Did she make it?” John asked.
“She’s hurt bad, but I think she’ll recover.” Haagen lifted the sheet off the body on the gurney. The woman pilot lay still and cold, traces of fear frozen on her face. She was dead.
“Good,” John said, offering a grim smile. “Let’s get her into surgery.”
In the basement, they were met by another of John’s men, dressed as a morgue attendant. He stood beside a third gurney with another sheet-covered form. This one sedated but breathing.
The man swapped gurneys with Haagen. Without a word, the attendant began wheeling the DOA crash victims to the morgue.
John watched him for a moment, then returned to the elevator, followed by Haagen steering the newly-acquired gurney. Upstairs, the eminent Dr. Daniel Bernardo awaited their arrival. He was prepped for surgery and John had supplied the nurses and an anesthesiologist.
A discreet team he could trust.
Dr. Bernardo didn’t know the name of his patient. Nor did he want to. He understood that the less he knew, the greater his chances of survival.
John was confident the good doctor would keep silent, a silence guaranteed by the continued wellbeing of his wife and three daughters.
In addition, the money he was being paid would provide critical funding for his medical school to stay open, giving hope to the poor people of his home region.
John knew very well how to find the beating pulse, how to wield a knife.
And precisely when.
The operating theater allowed him to watch from above as Dr. Bernardo raised the scalpel and made his first cut, working from a photograph on the table beside him. They had discussed the changes he would make to the ears, the cheekbones, the shape of the chin.
The skilled surgeon would create a new woman, fashioned in the likeness of the expired pilot. And John would use her. He’d mentor her.
He would teach her how to fly.
Ahundredfeetoff the ground, Riley clung to a narrow crevice of rock.
Heart pounding against the sun-heated stone, she wedged her hand into a crack running vertically along its rough surface. The fleshy part of her palm lodged in the constricted space, allowing her to pull herself another twelve or thirteen inches up the cliff. With her knee angled outward, she found a place to cram her toe sideways into the crack and turned her foot, pushing upward, increasing her progress.
Careful not to look down, knowing how dizzy, how shaky, that made her feel, she concentrated on the stretch ahead. But squinting upward, she saw an endless expanse of sheer rock, broken only by the jagged crack. No end in sight.
A wave of nausea washed over her. The energy reserve she’d tried so hard to foster drained away as if someone had pulled a plug.
She couldn’t move.
Her legs trembled uncontrollably and her hands ached. Sweat poured down from her hairline, bringing the taste of salt and coconut sunscreen but she didn’t dare lift a hand to wipe it clear.
“My foot’s stuck!” she shouted, feeling the rise of panic.
Far below, her partner, Christopher Neville, held her lifeline, belaying her. “Rotate your knee, Riley,” he called. “Reverse the movement.”
His steady voice calmed her. Pulling in a shuddering breath, Riley angled her knee, returning her foot to its sideways position. With a jiggle, she pulled her shoe free but lost her balance. Gasping, she thrust her hand deeper into the crack and felt the pressure of her weight pulling against her wrist and palm.
It hurt.
Gritting her teeth, she jammed her foot back into the crack. “Why are we doing this, Chris?”
She heard the petulance in her voice, but felt it justified. Why had he brought her here? Chris was a friend, and a fellow concert pianist.
Except, his career was blossoming, growing, whereas hers...
Pushing the sour thought aside, Riley yelled, “What are we supposed to be gaining from this? You value your hands as much as I do.”
His voice floated up to her and she heard the smile in his words. “Exhilaration! Inspiration! As needful to feed our souls as to school our fingers, Riley. Your playing will be the better for it. I promise.”
“Not if I snap them off in this horrid crack,” she muttered.
A shadow flitted by on her right, a bird making a clacking sound. It perched somewhere out of her range of vision and continued to scold.
“Are you done?” Chris asked.
Riley lifted her chin, straining her eyes against the sun, looking again for the top of the climb. Still not seeing it.
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, thinking of Jim. Thinking of Tanner.
She still missed them so much.
The image of a face shimmered across her mind—the man who’d taken her husband and child from her—and she let it come. It was a rare moment when she allowed herself to think about him. He had been her friend, taking care of her, encouraging her. He’d taught her to kayak, told her the secret of crickets.
And betrayed every trust she’d ever placed in him.
He was dead now too, but the shadow of evil under which he’d crouched still loomed. It was still out there.
Riley moved her head, rubbing her face against her sleeve, trying to wipe away the sweat stinging her eyes. She raised her chin again, but the top of her climb had not materialized. It was no clearer to her now.
Dragging in a deep breath, she shouted down to Chris. “No! I’m moving on.”
Reaching above her, she jammed a hand into the crack and turned her thumb, securing her grasp. She levered herself up, hand over hand, moving her feet up by intervals. Determined. Single-minded. Making progress.
And then, for a fraction of a second, she failed to keep the exhaustion at bay, letting it shatter her concentration, sap her energy. She wavered and her foot skidded down the rock, losing its purchase. She gasped as her hand slipped from the crevice, flailing and finding nothing.
She fell.
Her stomach lurched as she swung back and spun in the air, held by the rope and safe enough, but with the crush of defeat washing over her.
Shaking, exhausted, she finished her descent and slumped in the shade cast by the towering rock, working to catch her breath.
“You did good, Riley,” Chris said, passing her a water bottle. “It’s better than the gym, right? A lot more fun.”
She gulped the water, still blessedly cool in the insulated flask. “I’ll reserve judgment on that for now. Maybe I’ll feel better in hindsight.”
“Of course you will. I know you, Riley.”
Did he? Did she even know herself? It felt like she’d lost everything she’d ever fought to keep. Was there really any point in looking for something new?
A crescendo of chords jangled from the bag beside her. Even out here, in the thin air of the Cascades, her phone picked up a signal. She saw who was calling and answered, feeling the stir of curiosity.
“Riley, it’s Devin Wright.”
Wright was the founder and CEO of Olivero Security, a firm providing private protection and investigative services to clients around the world. He’d been angling to recruit Riley for the better part of a year and she’d finally signed on, making it official.
“I know we talked about sending you out to the academy in June,” he said, “but…”
He paused, and Riley pictured him running his hands through the thinning hair on top of his head as she’d seen him do on previous occasions.
“Things are happening, Riley. I don’t know how closely you’ve been watching the news.” A beat passed. She said nothing. “We’re moving your training forward. You leave day after tomorrow.”
The stirring curiosity in her gut churned into anxiety. “What? So soon?”
“My secretary will email your instructions and travel itinerary.”
Riley’s tongue felt thick in her throat. “I don’t know what—”
“Riley,” Wright interrupted her. “You are important to us. To our mission and the values we hold dear.”
She said nothing.
“I wouldn’t be calling you to come in early like this,” he continued, “if I didn’t feel some urgency.” A pause. “You can do this.”
Her chest felt tight, making it hard to draw breath. Inside her stomach, something moved, slow and greasy. She felt sick with trepidation, and another sensation she couldn’t identify.
She thought it might be excitement.
She gripped the phone in her chalky hand, pressing it against the side of her face.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
She ended the call and took several steps back from the cliff, moving on uneven ground tufted with scrubby brush. Shading her eyes, she looked up. From here, she could see the top of the rocky precipice.
From here, it looked reachable.
A surge of nervous energy rushed through her as she packed her climbing gear into a canvas duffle, making her feel light-headed and anxious to get home.
“That’s it for today,” she told Chris. “I’ve got to get going.”
Rushhourtrafficin Seattle.
Rick hated being on the road at this time of day. The fumes, the noise, the stop and go.
Whenever he could, he avoided the snarl of vehicles vying for pavement, their erratic movements sometimes unpredictable and downright foolish. He hated the squeeze, the feeling of being hemmed in.
He had good reason.
Barely seven months ago he’d been literally sandwiched between two cars on this stretch of freeway, trapped in a crushed metal cage during the worst disaster Seattle had ever seen. The memory of it left him feeling queasy.
Gritting his teeth, he pressed on, watching for his exit and taking it with a sigh of relief. Watery sunlight spilled down from the eastern sky, painting a stripe across the newspaper on the seat beside him. The paper was folded to reveal a news story on page two.
The article wasn’t surprising. Little surprised Rick when it came to the news of the day. Murder, arson, terrorism. Kidnapping, sex trafficking, conspiracies. All of it was too prevalent, too disheartening.
But something about the owner of a local jewelry chain being arrested for homicide and selling stolen merchandise disturbed him beyond the usual. It was the part where the reporter had interviewed the man’s nephew.
“I guess I never really knew him,” the nephew said. “I haven’t seen him in years, but I wouldn’t have believed he’d do something like this.”
A common enough sentiment among friends and family of apprehended wrong-doers, but in this instance it touched an ominous chord at the back of Rick’s mind, not letting go.
He turned off on a side road, following its shaded curves beneath towering evergreens. He was always amazed by how quickly the feel could go from urban congestion to rustic tranquility in the outlying areas of the city.
Olivero Security, a private, high-end and under-the-radar investigative firm, had its headquarters in a tucked away spot, giving it the ambiance of a mountain retreat. Rick enjoyed the effect—found it somehow both calming and energizing—and he relished the work he did for the firm.
It made him feel effective and useful in the world.
The complex spread out over a dozen acres and included three main structures joined by breezeways and several outbuildings. The muted gray exteriors with forest green trim blended well into the landscape, giving the place a harmonious feel while still maintaining a business-like impression.
To the outside world, the company simply ran a crack team of private investigators and bodyguards. To those who knew, Olivero’s scope encompassed so much more and ran so much deeper.
Rick pulled his Mustang in next to a copper-colored Mini and set the parking brake. Scooping up his messenger bag, he shoved the newspaper inside and hustled for the building’s entrance, breathing in the pine-scented air.
Inside, he headed straight for Devin Wright’s office. Wright was the founder and chief executive officer of Olivero Security. He’d poured everything he had—money, time, energy, integrity, personal commitment—into the company, and was rightly proud of what he’d built, ever vigilant to safeguard it.
More than a full-time job.
“Right on time, Rick,” Wright greeted him. “Let’s get started.”
The chief’s face was grim, almost gray beneath the sparse hair at his temples. Rick took a seat at the conference table between a large, well-tanned man and a diminutive woman in a green dress. The woman, a top-notch analyst named Sophie Alvarez, had a copy of the morning paper on the table in front of her. It lay open at the same article Rick had flagged.
Wright paced the room, hands folded together beneath his chin. “I have some startling news,” he announced. Halting, he pivoted, pinning the assorted group around the table with his eyes. “Hugh Jenkins turned up yesterday.”
Rick took in the gasps and raised eyebrows, but he didn’t know anything about Hugh Jenkins.
“Alive?” someone asked.
Wright dropped into his chair at the head of the table. “Barely.”
Directing his attention to Rick, the newbie of the group, he explained. “Hugh Jenkins is an agent we sent undercover in Argentina a few years back. He disappeared, presumed dead.”
Turning back to the table at large, he said, “Hugh showed up at one of our safe houses in Costa Rica. My man there, James Holloway, tells me he was sick, exhausted. He’d been kept in a sort of prison camp and subjected to hard labor. Somehow, he managed to escape.”
“Is he okay?” asked Daniel Escobar, the man at Rick’s side, one of the best IT investigative specialists in the country. Wright didn’t answer his question directly.
“Holloway said Hugh could barely talk, but he had some incredible things to say. A lot of it he picked up in the prison camp—”
“Of dubious validity, then,” Daniel stated.
“But disturbing nonetheless,” Wright continued. “Anyone here ever seen the movie The Princess Bride?”
Everyone had.
“Anyone here ever heard of a criminal puppet master called The Cincher?”
Frederick Yates, head of the Personnel Department, snorted. “Cincher is a myth, chief.”
Nods around the table agreed with him.
“So I always thought as well,” Wright said. “I may be re-evaluating that position. According to Hugh, The Cincher leads an international criminal syndicate called The Knot. And according to Hugh, it’s a position of power passed down from one mastermind to the next, much like the Dread Pirate Roberts in The Princess Bride.”
Rick looked around at the group. Most faces held skepticism or even scorn. He thought his own face must look the same. It was an improbable idea.
Ramona Reed adjusted her glasses, looking doubtfully at Wright over their rims.
“Sounds far-fetched, Devin.”
A former DARPA scientist, she headed up the Research and Development arm of the company. She wore her graying, thick blonde hair piled haphazardly atop her head, secured by a pencil. Every time Rick saw her he had to fight an urge to pull out the pencil and watch the hair tumble down around her shoulders.
“I would concur,” Wright said. “Except that someone killed Hugh to keep him from saying anything more.”
A small, shocked silence fell over the room.
“What happened?” Sophie asked.
“Hugh told Holloway about Cincher and The Knot, said they were involved in coordinated attacks around the world—targeted robberies, terrorist actions, orchestrations of rioting and looting. A tangled network of powerful, well-funded mischief makers.”
Wright gestured to the newspaper in front of Sophie Alvarez. “I wonder if you’ve been thinking what I’ve been thinking. Hugh suggested part of The Knot organization specializes in placing imposters in key positions by secretly replacing players with their own people.”
“Creepy,” Ramona said. “Like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.”
“A bit like that maybe, but before Holloway could get any details, he was called away for an important phone call.”
“Oh no,” Daniel said. “I see where this is going.”
“Yes,” Wright confirmed. “It was a ploy. When Holloway returned, Hugh was choking on his own tongue.”
“How did it happen?” Rick asked.
“I spoke to a witness who saw a nurse bring Hugh a cup of tea. A few sips into it, Hugh was dead and the nurse had disappeared.”
“Damn.” Daniel slumped back in his chair. “We need more information.” He pointed to the newspaper. “What’s the deal?”
“It may be nothing,” Sophie said.
“It probably is nothing,” Rick piped up. “But I had the same idea when I read the story. A jewelry store owner arrested for homicide and trafficking in stolen merchandise. The jeweler had no close friends or family. The report quotes a nephew hadn’t seen the man in years, but swears he acted out of character.”
“Almost as if it wasn’t even the same guy,” Sophie agreed.
“I highly doubt this jeweler has anything to do with The Knot,” Wright said. “But it caught my attention as the kind of situation we need to be thinking about—where key people can be subbed out for doubles and no one the wiser. Apparently, it’s worked before for The Knot, and if it ain’t broke…”
“It’s a sinister idea,” Ramona said. She turned to Frederick. “I’m very sorry to hear about Hugh. I know he was a particular friend of yours.”
“Yes, from way back. I recruited him.”
Rick was used to seeing Frederick brimming with vitality, always smiling and full of bonhomie. The man now looked like a popped paper bag, wrinkled and flat.
“That’s all, everyone,” Wright said. “I just wanted to pass on Hugh’s information. He paid a high cost to get it to us.”
Murmured agreement rippled around the room as people rose to leave.
“Rick?” Chief Wright motioned him back into his chair. “I’d like you to stay.”
When the room had emptied, Wright closed the door and pulled a chair close to Rick, leaning forward, hands clasped, elbows on knees. He grimaced.
“I had some of my operatives in Europe dig a little deeper on this Cincher thing. It appears there may be some truth to this Dread Pirate Roberts type of passage. They’re saying a new guy has recently taken command. By all accounts, a more brutal and innovative leader than his predecessor.”
Rick shifted in his seat. Bad news, of course, but it didn’t explain why Wright was telling him, specifically. The chief paused, something delicate and unsaid suspended in the air between them. Rick wished he’d just take a breath and say it.
“There’s some indication that Cincher could be the man we know as John Harrigan.”
Now Rick wished he hadn’t said it.
“Are you going to tell Riley?” he asked.
Riley Forte was not only a good friend, but Rick had been the one to recruit her. Like Frederick had recruited Hugh Jenkins.
“I’m sending her to the academy in Bavaria tomorrow. I haven’t decided whether or not to tell her our suspicions about Cincher. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“I thought her training was scheduled for June.”
“It was.”
“Then why now?”
“Two reasons. First, I don’t want to delay any longer on getting her the skills she needs to protect herself and to be useful to us.”
“And the second reason?” Rick asked.
“The second reason is that she’ll be safer at the academy, surrounded by some of our best people than most anywhere I can think of.”
Rick nodded. He saw the logic.
“But are you going to tell her about John?” he asked again. “She survived his attack. She’s seen his face. She’s definitely a person of interest to him. And if he is this Cincher…”
“I know.” Wright straightened in his chair, balled his fists in his lap. “I just don’t think she needs the added stress right now. She’ll be somewhat insulated at the academy and she’ll be concentrating on her training.”
“Yes…” Rick said, letting the word hang.
“And,” Wright continued, “as an added measure, I’m sending you in as an instructor. To be there on the premises for her. Watching over her.”
“Okay, good.”
Chief Wright stood and straightened his tie.
“Go pack a bag, Rick. You leave in three hours.”
TazSalihstaredthrough the glass, sweat breaking out beneath his gas mask.
Two canisters, nestled in a clear acrylic holder, waited beyond the unbreakable glass. Two canisters, more deadly than anything he’d ever encountered.
Over the years, his work had brought him face to face with some of the most lethal substances known to man. Here, operating in Nuremberg, he was part of an underground laboratory team tasked with engineering a new, particularly vicious variant of Sarin gas. Commissioned by an ultra-secret international research committee, the project was intended to provide data useful in the prevention and defense against chemical attack.
But Taz had recognized in it another potential.
In his eyes, the nerve agent had become a calling card. A way to send a message of terror and awe.
Beside him, Aludra tapped at her mobile phone, focusing and resizing the image sent from Raul’s screen in the van outside. Their control center and getaway car.
A chill passed along the back of Taz’s neck, partly due to the frigid temperature in the lab and partly due to the cocktail of dread and elation that coursed through his veins. He threw a nervous glance behind him. The low, constant hum of the ventilation system provided camouflage for the tiny noises he and Aludra might make, but they would also muffle the sound of someone approaching.
They were still alone.
Taz had used his credentials to get through the gate while Aludra and Marcos huddled in the trunk of his car, shielded from backscatter x-ray detection by a lead blanket stolen from the radiology lab. At 3:00 am, the facility was deserted, other than a periodic sweep of armed patrols.
But Taz knew a tactical team was kept on standby in a small barracks at the back of the property.
While Marcos kept watch at the lab’s entrance, Aludra brought the high-resolution image of Dr. Klossner’s eye into sharp focus. She looked at Taz and crossed her gloved fingers in a bid for luck.
Taz watched her place the screen of her phone in front of the retinal scanner which controlled the lock protecting the canisters. They’d tested this method with good results, but this was the only time that really mattered. He held his breath.
Nothing happened.
Taz trembled through four long empty seconds before the lock finally clicked, releasing with a faint whooshing sound. He snatched one of the canisters, gripping it hard to calm his shaking hands. Aludra seized the second canister.
Their eyes met through the gas masks they wore and Taz saw her excitement and triumph, echoing the emotions rocketing through his own breast. He snapped open the airtight titanium case designed to carry the canisters and pressed the one he held into the foam-lined space, feeling it settle into place.
An alarm blared, shrill and sudden, shattering the silence of the lab into a thousand dangerous pieces. Pulse throbbing in his eardrums, Taz nearly dropped the case. Fumbling it open, he held it out for Aludra’s canister, but she was running to Marcos at the door, still holding the vessel of toxic gas cradled to her chest.
Raul’s voice rasped in his earpiece. “Trouble’s coming. Get out.”
Marcos, armed with a rifle, nosed into the hallway, clearing it and motioning them forward. Taz ran, his heart pounding, Aludra at his heels. Before they’d gone five meters, four uniformed gunmen turned the corner and fired.
Marcos shot back. The clattering racket filled the corridor, multiplied by the canyon-like walls, a torrent of noise and confusion. Taz saw two of their attackers go down and then Marcos spun, hit in the chest.
He fell.
His rifle skittered on the tile and Taz made a grab for it, but was driven back by a rain of gunfire. He retreated into the lab and Aludra slammed the door, locking them inside.
“That will hold them for thirty seconds,” she said. “No longer. What do we do now?”
“There’s another door. On the other side of this divider. Help me!”
Taz shoved the carrying case under his arm and struggled with the locking mechanism holding the accordion divider in place. He knew it hadn’t been used in years and it didn’t want to budge. Aludra still clung to her canister, using her free hand to claw at the divider.
It did no good.
The door to the lab burst open with a crack like a rifle shot, spilling men into the room.
“Halt!” one of them shouted. “Nicht bewegen!”
Taz gave a final tug on the lock and it popped open, creating an instant gap three inches wide. As he punched his fist into the breach, straining to push the divider along its rusty track, one of the tac team men leaped forward and dragged Aludra back, pulling off her gas mask.
Taz turned, saw the grim, determined look on Aludra's face. He screamed, “No!”
Before anyone could stop her, Aludra sprang the cap on the canister, breaking the seal. A slight hiss, as if she’d popped the top on a can of soda, was the only perceptible indicator that something had happened.
The gas was invisible and odorless.
Taz watched in horror as Aludra doubled over, vomiting onto the immaculate tile floor of the lab. She collapsed, writhing with the effort to breathe but unable to do so. The two men dropped beside her.
A pool of urine spread from beneath one of them, reaching to Aludra’s flailing legs, soaking her pants.
It was too late. Too late for him to do anything, even if he’d known of something to do.
He gripped the case and ran.
“Raul!” He shouted into his mouthpiece, reaching out to the last remaining member of his team. “Raul, can you hear me? Aludra and Marcos are down. I’m alone now, heading to the rendezvous. Meet me there.”
He heard only a crackle, then silence.
Taz burst out of the building. Raul was blown. His bridges were burned. He’d have to think on the fly as he ran.
His car was no good. He wouldn’t get three blocks in it. But he remembered a little-used gate at the far end of the research complex. A rugged galvanized steel turnstile. You could get out that way, but not in.
That worked for him.
Keeping to the shadows, Taz made his way to the turnstile and crouched low, scanning the area. He saw no one.
The longer he waited, the more time lab security would have to summon men and implement a planned response. Once outside the gate, he could get his hands on another car and proceed with the contingency plan put in place by the man in charge.
Someone they called The Cincher.
Taz grasped the handle of the titanium case and sprinted for the gate.
Rileylethershoulders relax and pull back, opening her posture and feeling the tension release as her fingers moved across the keyboard of her piano. She finished running through the scales and Hanon exercises that had honed her technique over years of practice. They were no problem for her to execute with precision, even when her mind was a million miles away. Muscle memory prevailed and her fingers found the keys without conscious thought.
But she owed more than thoughtless automatic movement to her performance pieces.
Natural sunlight poured through the high clerestory windows above the mahogany grand piano, burnishing its varnish to a glowing, translucent red. Riley loved the piano and normally she cherished the time she spent with it, letting her fingers dance over the keys, delighting in their rich and mellow tone.
But very little about today felt normal.
She dug into a Mendelssohn agitato, felt the heaviness in her forearms bringing out the depth and volume of the tempestuous music. It suited her mood and she let it roar beneath her fingers, filling the room, feeding her irritated, restless temper.
Pressing her lips together, she tasted the peppermint of her favorite lip balm, savoring the subtle burning sensation as she rolled through the last crashing chords of the Mendelssohn. She sat for a moment on the bench, eyes closed, breathing deeply in and out, before turning her attention to the Bach Prelude she’d been studying. She started working through the complicated fingering, trying to find the patience and focus the task required.
And failing.
She pushed away from the piano in frustration. On her way into the kitchen for a glass of water, she indulged in a primal scream, letting it echo around the house where she lived. Alone.
How had her life become this fragile, this empty? Less than three years ago, she’d had a husband, a son. She had a promising concert career and a bulldog agent helping to make it happen. She was on track for the life she’d always dreamed of.
And somehow, it had all derailed.
She’d lost Jim and Tanner in a horrendous fire, set by a man she’d believed to be her friend.
Her ability to perform had shattered, robbing her of everything she had left and plunging her into a deep mire of depression. It had taken the better part of two years and every ounce of courage she had to thrash free from that sucking hole.
She’d struggled to rebuild her career through slow, painful effort, believing it could be her lifeline, a slender thread to happiness.
Only to have her comeback tour destroyed by a spurting volcano and a fiendish killer.
And now, out of these ashes, she’d been given a small burning ember of hope.
But could she do it? Did she have the grit, the stamina, to do what Devin Wright and his Olivero agency expected of her?
They wanted her to go undercover, to use her identity as a concert pianist to move in certain circles and gain access to key people and locations. They wanted her to uncover secret information, to pass along messages and critical communications.
They wanted her to be a spy.
She’d spent enough time with Rick, with Chief Wright, and inside the annals of the agency to be convinced their values coincided with her own, that they supported the cause of freedom and justice.
But could she accomplish what they asked of her?
Would it be enough?
Could she build a new life with substance and meaning sufficiently deep to bring her—if not happiness—a sense of fulfillment?
Riley looked down at the glass of water in her hands. She didn’t remember pouring it. Tipping the tumbler, she gulped the water, nearly choking as her throat closed, thick with tears.
She slammed the glass down on the granite countertop, watching a crack spread up from the heavy base to the delicate rim. Dragging in a ragged breath, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, standing with eyes closed, feeling the cool of the tile spread across the soles of her bare feet.
Just breathing.
She was made of rugged material. She had steel in her DNA.
She reached for it now.
Her great-great-grandfather had gone down on the Titanic, still playing with the orchestra as frantic passengers stormed the life boats.
As a young man, her granddad—Zach Riley, for whom she was named—had traveled with the USO, giving battle zone performances during WWII. More than once, he’d been wounded in the course of his duty but that hadn’t stopped him from returning.
Her own parents had braved hazardous situations to bring music where it was most needed and Riley had once or twice gone with them. She’d played charity concerts in war-torn nations and to benefit the victims of the September 11th attack and other terrorist actions.
Not only could she do this, she needed to do this. She needed to rise above the forces crushing her down. To make something meaningful of her life.
To honor those who had gone before, and give hope to those yet to come.
Hell, yes!
She would ace her spy school training and become the best damn agent Olivero ever produced.
Riley shook herself and headed for the bedroom. She pulled a suitcase out of the closet and opened it on the bed, making sure it still contained the large laundry bag she used as a hamper for dirty clothes while traveling.
She pulled blouses from hangers, took down folded pairs of pants from the overhead shelf, arranging them on the bed for packing. Tossing toiletries into the zippered compartment, she wondered what kind of shoes she ought to bring.
She paused, absently running her fingers over the hard, pebbled surface of the suitcase while her mind wandered. Lifting her shoulders, she pulled in a deep, cleansing breath, letting the oxygen flow through her, willing herself into serenity. Into strength.
She’d faced her fear and anger, made peace with it and chosen to use it as an impetus rather than an obstacle. Yet her heart continued to beat with a trace of agitation. There was still something niggling at her and she knew she’d have to take it out and examine it before she’d truly be ready to go.
Nate.
Over the past months, the police detective she’d teamed up with to catch a killer, had become a significant part of her life. She and Nate had grown close and in some ways she’d come to depend on him—his cheery optimism, his talent for having fun, his expertise and encouragement. They were friends.
And maybe something more.
But he had a daughter, Sammy. And an ex-wife named Marilyn. Marilyn wanted them to be a family again, and Riley knew Nate wanted that too. She couldn’t blame him.
Family was everything.
She and Nate had talked about it, but left things between them up in the air. One way or the other, Riley would have preferred to settle the situation before she left.
She couldn’t help feeling that by the time she got back, Nate would be lost to her.
Just one more precious part of her life…gone.
AntonForsttrudgedup the wide, dusty mountain trail. The spring air was cool, not yet warmed by the rising sun, and it nipped at the lobes of his ears below the knit cap he wore. The scent of insect repellent traveled with him, overpowering the fragrant budding wildflowers growing thick along both sides of the trail. He’d rubbed the bug spray over every exposed inch of skin, hating the smell and feel of it.
Hating what mosquito bites did to him even more.
As he walked, his hiking boots crunched on loose pebbles and stones, sending them skittering across the dirt. A noise from behind made him turn his head and he watched a mountain biker pedal up the path. A native Berliner, Forst was used to the German enthusiasm for cycling through nature but found it more prevalent here, in Bavaria, than anywhere else he’d lived.
While he applauded the practice in theory, at times it posed a potential hazard for him.
Like now.
However, at the turnoff up to the Rauher Kulm, a long-dormant volcano, the rider continued on, leaving the path less traveled by free and clear. As Forst started up its rocky incline, he understood why. It was more suited to a mountain goat than a bicycle.
Fortunately, he didn’t need to follow it to the top. Using an app on his phone, he clocked off half a kilometer and found a faintly delineated trail, following it into thick pine and oak coverage as he’d instructed his contact to do.
The man was there, waiting for him.
‘Were you followed?” Forst asked. “Did anyone see you come?”
“No, I made certain of it.”
Forst studied the man, judging his sincerity, his competency, measuring the look and stature of him. Weighing it against certain data points and details.
He would do.
“Have you brought all your documents as I instructed?” Forst asked, holding out his hand to receive them.
“They’re all here,” the man said. “My passport, driving license, birth records, social security and residency cards.”
Forst opened the packet and checked that everything was in order. “And you’ve told no one about this?” he asked.
The man laughed bitterly. “Who would I tell?” he said. “I no longer have colleagues. My family is gone. My last friend left months ago. Everyone believes I am scum.”
Yes, they would. After the rumors and allegations of extreme sexual deviancy and child pornography Forst had engineered and strategically planted, destroying the man’s career as a schoolteacher. His wife deserted him soon after, leaving him desperate and ready to grasp at the chance for a new beginning when Forst offered it.
As he had. Confidentially. In the guise of a friend.
“Good. Are you ready, then?” Forst asked.
“More than you can possibly know.”
Forst stepped closer, running a finger along the man’s jawline, lifting a hank of hair off his forehead.
“We’ll have to make some changes to your appearance,” he said, edging behind the man.
With swift, practiced movements, Forst wrapped one arm around the narrow chest, using his other arm to grasp and wrench the head in one sharp, abrupt motion, breaking the man’s neck.
The crack of it echoed in the silence of the forest.
The body flopped heavily at Forst’s feet. He kicked it over so that it fell supine, the pale face staring blank-eyed at the lacework of branches overhead. He searched through the pockets, removing everything, even the lint. He took off the shoes and socks, checking them carefully. In his experience, people often hid important items in their footwear.
Concealing the body under a pile of brown, crackling leaves, Forst surveyed the area and made sure it was ready for his disposal team. They would move in after dark.
He scooped up the packet of documents, tucking it inside his jacket, and made his way through the trees and foliage. Back to the rugged path, this time leading him down the basalt mountain.
A nice payday awaited him, but he had work yet to do. Running a service such as his—securing new identities for hunted criminals—was indeed lucrative. But also demanding and dangerous.
Some days, his work never ended.
As he neared the place where his car was parked, well back and hidden from the road, his mobile phone rang. He picked up.
“Forst.”
“You got one coming in hot. The lab gig in Nürnberg didn’t go off as planned.”
“Only one?”
“Marcos and the girl are down. Police nabbed Raul.”
Forst swore. “Not good,” he said. “What about the chemical? Did they get it?”
“That’s unclear at this point.”
Forst ground his teeth and stared off into the trees. “This guy coming in,” he asked, “is he the one? The one with the key?”
“Yeah, he’s the one. Cincher said to take care of him until the next op. And make sure his exfil docs are ready to go.”
“I copy,” Forst said, ending the call.
He had one more important appointment that took precedence even over these orders. He’d take care of it before returning to base and preparing to receive the fugitive.
Letting himself into the car, he started the engine and pulled out onto the narrow, winding road. He used one hand to rub at the knot forming along the base of his neck.
It was going to be one of those days.
LieslSaundersdescendedthe staircase from the apartment where she lived with her son and parents and entered the mezzanine surrounding the lobby of the Swanhilde convention center. Like she did every morning, she stopped and pinched herself.
Literally.
Astounded, amazed, and so utterly grateful to be living and working in this spectacular place.
The sun coming in the eastern windows tinted the massive towering fireplace that served as the lobby centerpiece, turning its stones to pale gold. Liesl stood at the balcony rail, flanked by enormous picture windows, and gazed out over the rolling fields and forests of the Upper Palatinate, spread like a patchwork quilt over the surrounding hillsides. Deep greens and rich browns alternated with squares of bright yellow rapeseed just coming into bloom.
Breathtaking.
From here, she could see two more basalt mountains in the distance, little sisters to the one on which the Swanhilde center was built. All part of a long-extinct chain of volcanic fissures. An old but still functioning church sat atop one of the sisters. The other was crowned by the ruins of a castle dating back to the Middle Ages and destroyed during the Second Margrave War. She’d hiked to the top and been as enchanted by that vista as the one laid out before her now.
Here, on her basalt mountain, the Swanhilde Sammelplatz had pride of place, a small private convention center which hosted anything from family reunions and weddings to diplomatic talks and peace summits.
Like the one she was organizing now.
Leaders from seven Eastern European countries, lately torn by high-tension relations, would be meeting to discuss and negotiate arrangements between their governments, with an eye toward cooperation and greater transparency.
General expectations for the outcome were optimistic. But, like anything political, that optimism rested on a knife edge and could teeter one way or the other into disaster.
Her job depended on the smooth and successful completion of the summit.
Liesl heard the snap of a heavy door closing and the click of heels on the polished marble of the floor below her. Margaret Vonnegut, the facilities manager, moved into view, running her hand along the surfaces of the lobby counters and furniture, checking for dust and seeming satisfied with her inspection.
“Guten Morgen,” Liesl called down to her.
Margaret turned, looking up, squinting against the streaming sunlight. “Morgen, Liesl. Were you able to finish those estimates for the banquet?”
“Oh, yes. I did them last night and they look good. I left the file in my apartment, but I’ll bring it down to your office.”
“Thanks. Just leave it with Gisa.”
Liesl turned and climbed the stairs, re-entering her apartment, still scented with the morning coffee and breakfast rolls. Her parents, Peter and Ingrid, sat at the table with her son, Max, the remnants of the meal laid out before them.
“Mama,” Max said, surprise and delight spreading across his face. “Are you home?”
Liesl felt the familiar wrench at her heart, the surge of fierce love she often knew when looking at her child. She drank in his simple, open and honest face, made a bit owl-like by the glasses he wore and the blinking hazel eyes behind them.
