September 19, 1988
I WAKE AROUND NINE THIRTY, make myself a cup of coffee, then sit down at the computer. Once the computer’s booted, I check my emails. There’s nothing for me, but I need to send an email to the Company. I’m sure my handler’s already told Daniel everything, but I want to cross my T’s and dot my I’s.
Making sure not to incriminate myself via email, I ensure my message is encrypted. The last thing I need is for another agency to hack into the email and use it as blackmail. I tell Daniel about the man who chased me the first night here and the one in my apartment, making sure to mention neither will bother me again. Once I’ve finished, I hit send. Now, to get ready for my work date.
After a long shower, I dress and head out an hour early. Besides needing breakfast, I want to survey where I’ll be spending the day. I don’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try to kill me during a festival full of witnesses, but stranger things have happened.
I pick up a cheese danish from a local bakery and canvas my surroundings, looking for any areas up high a sniper could hide. It might be paranoia, but after the last two attempts, I’m not taking any chances.
Surrounding the square are tall buildings, some of them nine stories high. Most are boutiques with apartments upstairs, but there are also a few bars. The festival stretches down Main Street, so the stores along the road are less of a threat. The heart of the festival is in the square, and at the end of the square is a parking garage, housing three floors of cars.
Too much exposure.
Vendors buzz with excitement as they set up their tents. There’s pumpkin carving on the far end of the park, and a pumpkin weigh off closest to me. In the center are hundreds of children crafting art projects for the fall.
Checking my watch, I take a seat on a bench. I still have about ten minutes before he gets here. So, I do what I do best.
Watch.
Watch couples with their children sampling pumpkin donuts.
Watch huge pumpkins being placed on giant scales.
Watch for anything out of the ordinary.
Out the corner of my eye, I catch a figure coming toward me. Turning, I smile. Ethan’s here early. “Well, you’re not just early for work,” he teases as he approaches.
“No,” I chuckle. “My motto is: early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable.”
“That’s a good motto to live by,” he admits. “Come, there’s much to show you.” Taking my hand, he leads me toward the other end of the park. “We need to start at the beginning,” he says, motioning to the first tent.
My eyes are in constant surveillance mode.
We walk past vendor after vendor, all peddling something involving pumpkins.
Pumpkin Bread.
Pumpkin dog treats.
Pumpkin candles.
Row after row of pumpkin paraphernalia. Stopping short, he leads me into a booth with some local art. I’ll admit, they’re pretty well done, and there are paintings of things other than pumpkins. Like sunflowers—another fall staple. “Do you like?” he asks, catching me looking at a small painting of the flowers.
“It’s pretty,” I admit.
“Would you like it?” he asks, his blue eyes sparkling with some unnamed emotion.
“No, thank you. I’m in an apartment and don’t want to put holes in the wall.”
Shrugging, we walk on. “So, you’ve lived here all your life?” I ask, remembering what he told me the other night.
“Born and raised,” he admits with a nod.
“Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?” I ask, peeking into the booths as we stroll past.
“I never really thought about it. I’ve traveled to the East Coast a few times for work, but didn’t fall in love with anywhere,” he says, a twinge of melancholy lacing his words.
“You said it’s boring here. You like boring?” I challenge, twirling my index finger through one of my dark curls.
“I’m comfortable. I like my job. It has its perks,” he points out, skimming his fingers across my ass.
“How long have you worked at Black Mountain?” I ask, leaning into his hand. I know the answer, but I want to see if he’s full of shit.
“Since I graduated from Black Hills State University two years ago. I was hired right out of grad school.” So far, he’s being honest.
As we walk, I listen to his stories about college life and things he did before landing his dream job. Nothing about Al-Qaeda, but I didn’t expect it to be brought up. He’s not going to just blurt it out. This is about getting to know the man behind the betrayal. Trying to figure out why he’d do such a horrendous thing.
Money?
Power?
Hatred?
So far, I can’t find a motive.
“It’s time for the chef challenge,” he announces, tugging on my arm. “They have to use pumpkin in their dish.”
I’ve never been a huge pumpkin fan. Don’t get me wrong, pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving is a necessity, but using it in other dishes is a big no.
We stand and watch the chefs whisking and chopping for a little while, then I get bored. Looking around the area, I see a sign for a pub crawl.
I might be able to open him up there.
“That sounds like fun,” I mention, pointing toward the board tacked on to the pole behind him.
Turning to see what I’m looking at, he laughs, then spins back to face me. “You want to go on a pub crawl?” he asks, surprised.
“What?” I place my hands on my chest, mocking offense. “I don’t look like the pub type to you?”
“No,” he answers, shaking his head as he continues to chuckle. “I figured you for the wine bar type.”
“Why can’t I be both?” Chewing on my bottom lip, I toy with him. It works, and he leads me to the first bar on the crawl.
We go from bar to bar, drinking, of all things, pumpkin beer. By the fourth pint, I’m starting to enjoy the flavor. The cinnamon-sugar rim does help. Ethan’s a lightweight and starts loosening up, allowing me the opportunity to see which side he plays on.
“So, I wasn’t completely honest with you yesterday, about my ex-boyfriend,” I mutter, looking down at my glass, pretending to be ashamed.
“What do you mean?” he asks, lifting my chin so we’re looking into each other’s eyes.
“He did beat me, it wasn’t that. It’s just . . .” I sigh.
I need to reel him in.
Slow.
“What?” he pushes. “You can tell me.” Leaning in, he waits. I have his full focus. His eyes are fixed on mine, waiting for my confession.
“He wasn’t always like that. He was kind and loving before . . .”
“Before what?” His jaw ticks, and I know I have him.
“Before he came back from Iraq. He . . . changed,” I start, watching his eyes widen. “He was part of Desert Strike and came back a different man.”
“No one comes back the same,” he mutters, “but that’s no excuse to strike a woman.” Not the response of a patriot, but not the response of a terrorist either.
“He said he saw things . . . horrible things.” Taking a sip of my beer, I let that sink in for a minute. His hands curl into fists, but he says nothing. “Anyway, he needed help—help I couldn’t give him—so I left.” Something shifts, triggering a reaction from him. His eyes flare with anger, then soften to a flicker.
“It was smart that you did,” he murmurs, shifting forward to stroke my cheek. “I’m glad you’re safe.” Ethan moves his head closer to mine, cupping his hand under my chin. Knowing this is the first step to learning what I need, I play along and don’t stop his lips when they land on mine.
His lips are soft, yet demanding. Closing my eyes, I absorb his kiss, letting him believe it’s real. Ethan’s hand rests below my ear, his thumb caressing my cheek as our breaths mingle. After a beat, I pull away, breathless.
I’ve been kissed quite a few times in my life, but on a scale of one to ten, this was an eleven.
If we’d met under different circumstances, I might have given him a chance.
Too bad he’s a mark.
“We should hop to the next bar,” I whisper, trying to keep him on the hook just a little longer.
“Yes, the next bar,” he repeats, his wits scattered around the room.
Later that afternoon, after we’ve been to every bar participating in the hop, we walk back to the square. “You hungry?” he asks.
“No, between the beer and snacks at the multiple bars, I’m full,” I admit. Disappointment swims in his eyes, so I try to soften the blow. “However, I promised you a dinner. What about Monday night?”
His lips twist into a smile, his eyes sparking with hope. “Monday sounds perfect.”
“Thank you for a fun afternoon. I had an amazing time,” I whisper close to his ear, my lips skimming his lobe.
“I’ll be looking forward to Monday,” he answers, running his hands up my shoulders, then pulling me into his arms. Once again, his lips find mine. Reaching around, he moves his hand to the back of my head and holds me steady. I place my hands on his face, caressing his cheeks. He groans as his tongue dances with mine. Nipping my bottom lip, he releases me. “Until Monday,” he breathes.