Chapter Eleven
Quinn floated in the gauzy twilight between slumber and wakefulness. She felt wonderfully warm and relaxed. The thought that she shouldn’t be, though, nibbled at her contentment. When she drew in a deep breath, she smelled dust and pine. Had she died and gone to heaven? She burrowed deeper into the coziness with both mind and body.
Why had she wondered if she’d died? All at once, reality yanked her into full consciousness. She bolted upright and struggled to catch her breath.
Dizziness engulfed her. Flashes of the evening exploded in her vision. James. Dinner. The ocean. Intruders. A gunshot. She reached a hand around and touched her shoulder blade. Her fingers probed where she expected to feel a bullet hole and warm, sticky blood. There was no hole, no blood. Her shoulder was only tender to the touch.
A wave of nausea swept over her and it felt as if an ice pick had been jammed through her left eye. The spinning and the nausea and the pain were too much. She flopped back onto a pillow and concentrated on her breathing.
When she first heard the voice calling her name, it was hollow and distant. But as the roiling in her stomach abated and her breathing steadied, the voice drew closer and became more insistent. When she tried to tell the voice she heard it, her slurred words came out as nothing more than low moans.
Quinn wasn’t about to make the mistake of sitting up again. Instead, she decided the best course of action was to merely open her eyes. She drew in a deep breath to steel herself. She cracked her eyes open and blinked at the low light until the two amorphous shapes swimming in her vision melded into one. When the edges of the figure sharpened and she realized it was James, a mortar of fear exploded in her chest. He’d shot her. She had to get away from him and struggled to sit up.
“Shhh, Quinn. Take it easy. It’s okay,” James said.
She managed to right herself. The stabbing pain in her eye was still there, but at least it wasn’t as sharp as before. Quinn squinted at James. His face was pallid and etched with worry. The dark circles under his eyes made her think he didn’t feel much better than she did. His lip had fattened and the bruise on his jaw was purple. His bearing toward her was neither threatening nor hostile. If anything, it was the opposite.
Her fear morphed into anger. She tossed off the blanket and leapt up from a couch she knew was not hers. The pain and dizziness returned. Bubbles of white light formed and popped in her vision. Quinn’s fingernails dug into her palms. The withering glower she fixed on James could have melted the polar ice caps. “You . . . you kidnapped me!” Her words came out strangled.
“Technically, maybe. Actually, though, I saved you.” Despite her furious stare, he smiled and blew out a massive sigh of relief. He reached behind him and picked up a bottle of water. After removing the cap, he held it out to her.
“I don’t want your water!” she shouted, her voice so loud it made her head throb harder. “I don’t want anything from you!”
He winced and set the water on the table.
“You shot me!” The hurt and betrayal mushroomed like a nuclear bomb. “I trusted you, you son of a bitch!” Now trembling, her rage consumed her. She gripped the throw pillow her head had been resting on and walloped James on the side of the head with it. The pillow was surprisingly dense and when it caught him cleanly, the force of it sent him falling to one side.
Wielding the pillow like a club, she rained down blow after blow, trying to beat the living hell out of him. James ducked and raised his arms above his head to protect himself.
“I can’t believe you shot me!”
“Okay! Okay!” he said as she unrelentingly continued to pummel him. “I shot you, but not with a bullet. It was a tranquilizer dart.”
“So you took me down like a rampaging moose!” With a backhand swing, pillow and shoulder connected with a satisfying thump.
“I’m sorry I shot you,” he said from behind a protective arm. “I had no other choice. You were freaking out.”
“Of course I was freaking out, you idiot. You had a gun strapped to your ankle.” She paused for a moment, and when he lowered his arms, she smacked him with the pillow again. “Take me home. Now!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t tell you.”
She snarled in frustration and gave him one last wallop before zinging the pillow past his head with the velocity of a high, inside fastball. “That’s not good enough. I’m outta here.” Despite her dizziness, she stomped across the room and threw open the door. It was pitch-black outside and snowflakes swirled around her, carried in on a gust of cold air.
“Snow?” she said, incredulous. The door slammed and she whirled around. “We’re someplace where it snows?” She stabbed a finger in his direction. “Tell me where the hell I am. Right now!”
“A cabin near Lake Arrowhead.”
“What?” Quinn stormed across the room and stood over him.
He sat motionless, as if afraid to make any sudden movements.
She glowered at him and punched her fists to her hips. “You just toss me in the backseat of your car like a sack of dirty laundry and haul me up to the San Bernardino Mountains?”
“I did not treat you like a sack of dirty laundry. I would never do that,” he said. His voice remained even, but she still picked up on the hurt that seeped through.
His hurt did little to dull the anger that still churned in her gut. She did, however, finally take a moment to study the room. Given her circumstances when she lost consciousness, she assumed she’d wake up dead, in a hospital bed, or strapped to a chair in a dark, dank, windowless warehouse.
It was, in fact, the very opposite of a dank warehouse. Just as James said, they were in a pine log cabin. The couch she woke up on, the coffee table he was currently perched upon, and an armchair were all log framed. A faded, tattered area rug covered the hardwood floor.
Weak flames licked at barely scorched logs set on the grate in the brick fireplace. It was clear it had only recently been lit and had not yet had time to overcome the lingering chill Quinn felt in the air.
Despite the charm of the rustic setting, her aggravation roared back. Her apartment had been broken into, she’d been tranquilized by her date, and dragged off to heaven knew where. Her nostrils flared and she growled, “You turned my life upside down, James. I deserve answers. Now.”
When he stayed silent, she let out a long, frustrated snarl and started to prowl the room like a caged tiger. She slid to a stop in front of the small kitchen when the electronic ring of a phone rent the silence.
James picked up a phone from the cushion of the armchair. It wasn’t the one she’d always seen him with.
“Yes?” He looked directly at Quinn as he listened. “Ms. Ellington is awake and has had no ill effects from the tranquilizer.” He nodded. “So am I.” After more listening—during which time Quinn’s ire rapidly turned into deep curiosity—James said, “You’re correct. She’s quite insistent she be told exactly what’s going on and why.” He stretched and threw his shoulders back. “If I may say, sir, I agree with her. She deserves to know.”
During the ensuing pause, the pressure built in Quinn’s chest until she felt like she was about to explode.
“Can I tell her everything?” he asked. When his shoulders lowered and he smiled and winked at her, she started to breathe again. “Thank you, sir.” The smile faded and James’s eyes grew cloudy with concern. “No, it’s been seven hours since I last heard from him. I tried contacting him during the drive to our current location, but he didn’t answer. I was about to try again when Ms. Ellington woke up.” His smile returned and he nodded. “Yes, sir. It’ll be gone in a minute. Good-bye.”
During James’s phone conversation, she’d been inching closer to him. “What?” she asked cautiously.
He pressed a button and dropped the phone back on the chair’s cushion. “Please, sit,” he said and swept a hand toward the couch.
She narrowed her gaze at him and considered her options. When she realized she didn’t have any, other than listening to whatever it was he had to say, she took her place at one end and folded her legs under her. He sat at the other end and faced her. He swallowed hard and gave her a rueful smile. Finally, he said, “I don’t really work for an insurance company. I work for the United States government.” His British accent was gone and he sounded as American as she.
The room lurched and Quinn gripped the cushions to keep from listing off the couch. She blinked, fighting the sudden sting of tears. “You’ve been lying to me.” Her voice was flat.
Crestfallen, he lowered his head and stared at his hands. “James Lockwood is my cover for this op.”
“You’re a spy?”
His head bobbled from side to side. “Covert operative.”
“So everything is a lie.” The threatening tears spilled over and coursed down her cheeks
He looked completely gutted by her pain. “No, not lies. My cover. And my name really is James.”
She brushed a finger over her wet cheeks and worked to regain her composure. “If you tell me your last name is Bond, I’m gonna punch you in the throat.”
It gave her perverse pleasure to watch him slowly lean back, as if moving out of her reach. “No, not Bond. Anderson. My name is James Anderson.”
Her anger flared again. “Well, James Anderson, I suppose you’re happily married to some former Miss Peach Blossom and have a kid on the way and I’m just some pain in the ass you have to deal with until the op is over?” She felt like a complete fool for believing he cared for her. “You’ve been playing me this whole time.”
He flinched. “I’m not married, I don’t have to ‘deal’ with you, and I’m not playing you. I really do like spending time with you.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?” She scowled at him. “You could be feeding me a load of crap right now.”
“I could be, but I’m not.”
She dismissively waved a hand. “You’re trained to say anything to get me to go along with whatever the hell all this is.”
“No, that’s not what this is,” he said with a deep frown. “Look, your dad’s a Marine, right? I’m sure there are lots of things he knows, things he does, places he goes he can’t talk about to anyone, even to your mom.”
“He would never lie to her,” she shot back.
“He’d maintain his cover if he was in the middle of a covert op and she was someone he’d never met before. It’s nothing personal. It’s part of my job.” When she didn’t have a response, he said, “Let me explain everything and when I’m done, hopefully you’ll understand.”
Against her better judgment, and because her curiosity was actually going to kill her, she said, “Okay, tell me. Which agency do you work for? NSA? FBI? CIA? Homeland Security? DEA? Why me? Why am I mixed up in all of this? Was it just a fluke I was at the reference desk the day you came in? Is this connected with Mysterious Art Collector Guy?”
“Whoa, slow down,” he said. “On our way up here, I called my boss and my boss called his boss to get approval to tell you everything. That phone call was my boss saying I’ve got permission to do just that.”
When she opened her mouth to speak, he raised a hand to stop her. “The thing is, this is the U.S. government and it wants to ensure secrecy and protect itself from any liability. So, before I tell you anything else, they’re sending a document for you to sign that says you’re willing to be monitored twenty-four/seven to make sure you don’t leak anything I tell you, and I mean anything, including what you learn about me, to anyone.”
“Watch me twenty-four/seven? How are they gonna do that?” The minute the words passed through her lips, she said, “Stupid question. Forget I asked.”
James’s face remained inscrutable, although Quinn thought she saw a flash of humor in his eyes. “Secondly,” he said, pressing on, “if you get hurt in any way because of what you hear, it’s not the government’s fault.”
“CYA,” she said, referring to the abbreviation for covering one’s backside.
“The greatest acronym of them all.”
“What if I refuse to sign it? Let me guess. You’ve got a neuralyzer in your pocket and I’ll inexplicably feel a desperate need to go to Cambodia and get a lobster dinner for a dollar?”
“Sorry, I don’t track down rogue extraterrestrial aliens. That’s a different agency,” he deadpanned. “Seriously, Quinn, even if you don’t sign and walk away, the danger doesn’t disappear. We can keep you safe.”
“All of the phone calls, all of this”—she waved a hand around, indicating the cabin—“has been happening in the middle of the night?” She glanced at her watch. It was 2:30 in the morning.
“Yes.”
“Am I really this important?”
“Yeah, you are. And you’re especially important to me.”
She wanted to believe him and the look in his eyes seemed so sincere. But she knew James had been lying to her and she had no way of knowing if what he said now was the truth or a lie.
He stood and walked to where his briefcase sat open on the floor. He retrieved a tablet much like an iPad, only sturdier. He swiped his finger over a scanner at the bottom of the device and tapped at the screen. Then he held it out for her to take. “Here, read this.”
On the screen was a cover letter. The letterhead prominently featured a round seal that included a shield and eagle’s head. “CIA, huh?” She took the tablet and set it on her lap.
The letter acknowledged—but didn’t apologize for—her current circumstances and outlined what James had told her: sign or she’d be on her own. The document itself was peppered with words like indemnification, liability, obligation, and confidentiality. The phrases “bodily injury or death,” “national security,” “act of treason,” and “federal detention and/or imprisonment,” also caught her eye. “They sure know how to paint a rosy picture,” she said.
“They like to be thorough.”
She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “How do I know all of this isn’t some kind of elaborate scam? People make stuff up with Photoshop all the time.”
“No offense, Quinn, but why would we scam you? You yourself implied you live paycheck to paycheck.”
“You could be trying to scam Mysterious Art Collector Guy.” She dragged a hand over her face. “And now I’m an accessory.”
“You’re not an accessory to anything.” He shook his head and huffed a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid it might be impossible to convince you I’m telling you the truth no matter what I do. But I’m going to try one more thing.”
He rose from the couch and lifted out the false bottom of his briefcase to reveal a cache of currencies and passports from different countries. He picked up a black leather wallet and returned the briefcase to its normal state. He held the wallet toward her and said, “I hope this is enough to prove I’m not a scoundrel. If you’re still not convinced, I’ll get the agency director on video chat.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The director of the entire Central Intelligence Agency? You can do that?”
“It’ll take some time, but yes, I can. And will.” The confidence on his face gave her the impression he really could make such a thing happen. “Like I said, you’re that important.”
She had no idea why. She took the proffered wallet and opened it. A gold badge with the words Central Intelligence Agency was clipped to one side. The heft of it told her it hadn’t been stamped out of an old pineapple tin. A rather run-of-the-mill picture ID with the name James Anderson was secured under clear plastic opposite the badge. It was no more interesting than a driver’s license. She had to really scrutinize it to see where it indicated that James worked for the “Directorate of Operations.” Neither the badge nor the ID screamed, “This man is a secret agent!” which, she supposed, was kind of the point.
There was still a part of her that was wary, but it was hard to argue with the evidence. She decided to sign. If it turned out to be a scam, she would claim she was as much a victim of it as Mysterious Art Collector Guy. She had nothing to lose.
She set the wallet on the table and picked up the tablet. She scrolled to the bottom of the document to the signature page. With the tip of her finger, she signed her name on the line. “There,” she said and handed the tablet back to James.
He took the device and said, “Just a couple more things.” He turned it toward her again. “Swipe your thumb over the scanner.” After she did, he said, “Hold still,” and aimed the small lens on the back of the tablet at her right eye. A blue light filled her vision. Then he touched the screen, presumably sending the document and accompanying biometrics to his superiors. When he finished, he looked at her and said, “All set.”
“That’s it? You don’t need me to pee in a cup, too? Pledge my firstborn to the agency?” An eyebrow rose. “Pinky swear?”
He smiled. “We save the pinky swears for the super top secret stuff.” The smile turned wistful when his gaze lingered on her face. He flicked a finger at a piece of lint on his jeans. “You still don’t trust me.”
“I’m sure you understand why.”
His head jerked in a halting nod. “I do.” With renewed vigor, he straightened and looked her dead in the eyes. “That’s why I’m going to make sure you speak directly with the director as soon as possible. Then you’ll know for sure I’m not playing you, Quinn.”
Her breath caught at the intensity in his eyes and the vehemence of his tone. In that moment, she almost believed him. Almost. She didn’t know what to say, so she picked up the bottle of water and took several long pulls.
He cleared his throat and asked, “Are you tired? It is the middle of the night. You should sleep. You can take the bedroom. Your stuff is already in there.” He pointed toward a short hallway.
“My stuff?”
“I grabbed some clothes and threw them in a bag I found in your closet. I’m not sure how long we’ll be up here, so . . .” He shrugged as his voice trailed off.
She blushed at the thought of him going through her underwear drawer. While most of her things were tame and utilitarian, she did own a few items Nicole had talked her into buying that were on the racier—and lacier—end of the spectrum. “Thanks.” All at once, a terrible thought hit her. She slapped her hand over her mouth and gasped, “Rasputin! Did they hurt—? Is he—?”
“No! No, they didn’t hurt him,” James said in a rush. “He’s fine. He was hiding under your bed the entire time. I coaxed him out and took him to your neighbor’s place.”
She heaved a huge sigh in relief. “Thank you. That poor cat. He must have been terrified.”
“I wish I could tell you he wasn’t, but he was pretty freaked out. His eyes were huge. I hope he’ll be okay.”
“I’m sure he will. He’s a pretty tough guy. What did you tell Rick?”
“I told him you were busy packing and asked me to bring Rasputin over. I said we got a lead on one of the items we’ve been researching and needed to go out of town for a few days to track it down.” A corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile. “I don’t think Rick believed me. When I handed over Rasputin, he said, ‘I’m happy for you two. I hope you and Quinn have a great time researching,’ and went like this.” James proceeded to demonstrate by bouncing his eyebrows up and down.
She chuckled. “I can imagine. He was already about to come out of his skin when we left for dinner.” It seemed like days had passed since they’d eaten at that little Italian place. “How did you explain the, um . . .” She pointed first to her lip and then her jaw, mirroring where James had been hurt.
“I told him we were walking around the Third Street Promenade and a rogue Santa tried to steal your purse. I protected you.” James sat up straight and puffed out his chest. “Rick was quite impressed with my bravery.”
“My hero,” she said drily.
He smiled and leaned against the back cushion again.
“Rick didn’t hear anything? Not even the gunshot when you hit me with the dart? No one called the police?”
“No. He and the family had a movie playing pretty loud and wouldn’t have heard it. My guess is your other neighbors were out or if they did hear something, didn’t want to get involved.”
“What happened after you tranquilized me? What did you do with the two guys who broke in?”
“I put some of your book tape across their mouths to keep them quiet and used it to tape their wrists and ankles together. I called a couple associates who took them into custody. They’ll make sure your apartment gets cleaned up, too.”
“Ask if they can clean under the refrigerator while they’re at it.” She returned James’s smile before asking, “You think my two burglars have something to do with your mission?”
“Yes. After what happened at your apartment, the agency sent people to my hotel room. It’d been tossed, too.”
“Your cover’s been blown,” she stated.
“It looks that way, yeah. I don’t know how it happened since everything was okay until tonight. But now you’ve been compromised, too. Whoever it is knows where you live. I had to get you out of there to someplace safe. That’s why we’re here.”
“Thank you for that, even if you did shoot me with a tranquilizer,” she said, and rolled her sore shoulder.
He frowned. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”
“Yeah, about that. Why would you even go to a public library for help? You must have lots of researchers at the CIA who can help you.”
“I’m undercover. I can’t have any contact with the agency while I’m in L.A. I only did today because I needed backup. James Lockwood, British insurance guy, would absolutely go to a public library for help.”
“So my library was close and it was random when you came up to me?”
Her heart flopped like a fish out of water when he hesitated.
“It wasn’t random?”
“No.”
“What?” she yelped. “Why me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I was told by my boss to go to you, specifically you, for help.”
She slumped back against the couch, flabbergasted. “I don’t know anybody at the CIA. How am I even on their radar?”
James shrugged. “I have no idea. I did what I was directed to do and went to you for help.”
“That’s so weird.”
“We have a library at headquarters in Langley. Maybe there’s a librarian there who knows you.”
“You have a library? With librarians and everything?”
He nodded and smiled. “Cool job, right?”
“Okay, yeah, that’s a really cool job.” She scowled at him, but in a teasing way. “Don’t change the subject. You still haven’t told me anything about this op of yours. What’s the deal with Mysterious Art Collector Guy? It has something to do with the collection we’ve been researching, doesn’t it?” When he unsuccessfully stifled a yawn, she noticed the thin red veins in the whites of his eyes. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m okay,” he replied. “If you need to know about the op before you sleep, I’m ready to tell you. If you want to go get some sleep and talk in the morning, that’s okay, too. It’s up to you.”
“I hate to make you stay up, but I’ll never be able to sleep until I know.”
“That’s fine.”
“But I need a pit stop before we continue.”
“Yeah, sure. The bathroom is across the hall from the bedroom.”
It pleased her to know the cabin wasn’t so rustic that she’d be hiking to an outhouse. She padded across the floor and peeked into the tiny bedroom. It was sparsely furnished, with only a quilt-covered bed with a log headboard and a lamp on a small nightstand. Her overnight bag was at the foot of the bed.
She turned around, went into the cramped bathroom, and practically had to stand on the toilet seat to make enough room to swing the door closed.
As she washed her hands in ice-cold water, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink. She nearly shrieked in horror. The mascara Nicole had talked her into using may have made her lashes look longer and thicker, but the black smudges rimming her eyes proved it was not waterproof. She bent over the sink and caught the frigid water in her hands. The cold stung her cheeks as she splashed it onto her face and scrubbed her fingers over her eyes. She lifted her head and rechecked herself in the mirror. Much better. She turned off the water and patted her face dry with a small hand towel. The water had refreshed her and at 2:45 in the morning, she felt more alert than she did most days at 2:45 in the afternoon.
Quinn inhaled and expelled the air in a gust, bracing for what was to come. She opened the door and strode into the sitting room, ready to hear why she was currently squirreled away in a government safe house.