“I have a private plane waiting,” I tell her. And then I take the backpack off her drooping shoulder and grab the handle of her roll-away suitcase and turn away.
I walk by myself for a few moments, but then I hear her reluctant footsteps and smile to myself. Sasha Cherlin has a secret. I will get that out of her before we get to Kansas, that’s for sure.
She’s good. I’ve read all about her upbringing in the Company. That insane massacre she helped orchestrate out in Santa Barbara ten years ago. I admit, I had trouble imagining that until I met her today.
When you imagine a thirteen-year-old girl you picture them thinking about boys, parties, school, and friends. You do not picture Sasha Cherlin with a gun, a mastermind plan to take down a network of people who make grown men tremble, and the skills to actually carry it out.
Granted, her partners—all other Company-trained assassins—helped. But without this one girl they wouldn’t have gotten very far.
No. The demise and fall of the Company was a product of Sasha Cherlin’s loss, anger, and heartbreak.
Note to self. Do not cross this girl.
That makes me smile, even though I’m serious. I chance a glance over my shoulder and find her walking, not close, but not far back, either. Five steps. Her back is straight and her chin is up.
That look says, You cannot touch me. Whether she knows it to be true or just knows she can kill me should the need arise, I’m not quite sure.
We weave our way through the level five parking garage until we get to the arrivals lane. The taxis are back. And shuttles. Travelers have already forgotten that things seemed unnatural when they came outside to an empty pick-up lane.
I have a car waiting with my driver, Madrid, who is the same age as Miss Cherlin. Chosen for a reason. Discretion.
Madrid opens the trunk of the government-issue sedan. I plop the luggage in without fanfare, then open the passenger’s side door and wave Cherlin in.
“No, thank you,” she says politely. I guess her composure is back. “I’ll take the back.”
I close the door and walk around to the other side of the car. There’s no way I’m letting that girl sit behind me.
She pulls a pair of sunglasses out of her purse—round ones that cover a good portion of her face—like she’s a movie star trying to escape the paparazzi.
Madrid pulls out into the lane of traffic and exits level five, heading towards the exit. When we get back on the only highway that services the airport, I direct her. “Fort Collins airport, Special Agent Madrid.”
I expected a small snort from Sasha over our destination, but she holds in any reaction she might have.
I’m not quite sure what to make of her, still adjusting to the assignment. Still trying to put all the pieces together. I’m on edge, in fact, because Sasha Cherlin legally died nine years ago. A body was recovered in a small Mexican village in the Gulf of California. Mostly eaten by fish. And somehow, some back-village Mexican official managed to not only identify Miss Cherlin’s remains, but also alert the US Embassy, feign ignorance when the body disappeared—misplaced, they said—and then declare her legally—and finally—dead.
It turns out she has dual citizenship. I’m not sure how Ford Aston managed that one, since every bit of evidence I’ve been given points to her being home-birthed on a ranch up near Sheridan, Wyoming.
That could be her real story, or it could be her manufactured one, put in place by her adopted fathers, Ford and Merc—both on internal CIA blackhat lists, one associated with the Company, one not. This girl covers her bases, doesn’t she?
Regardless, on paper, Sasha Cherlin no longer exists.
I look over at her as she pulls out a tube of balm and slides it across her lips. She sneers at me, so I look away quickly, so as not to appear watching. But she’s damn cute.
For a murderer.
“You know,” she says, breaking her silence once we settle into a comfortable eighty-five miles per hour on the I-25 north, “there are a lot of airports between here and Fort Collins you could’ve used.”
“Sure,” I say with a smile. “But why miss an opportunity?”
“What opportunity?” She slides her sunglasses down her nose. Not with apprehension though. With annoyance.
“How could I pass up a chance to meet the infamous Ford Aston?”
Her flat expression does not break.
“He’s your father, right?”
“You know he is,” she returns. “But he’s out of the country, unfortunately. Left for New Zealand last week.”
“Lies,” I say. “I can check that shit, you know.”
“So check that shit.” She slides her glasses up her nose again. “At any rate, we are not going to the Aston house today. And if you try I will make sure this conversation is over. For good.”
“Already playing cards, Cherlin?”
“If you call me Cherlin again, we’re done. And yes,” she says smugly, “when one has the upper hand, they write the rules. These two are just the beginning if you want information from me.”
“Let’s start that talk now. Where were you going today?”
“None of your business. And it has nothing to do with this”—she waves her hand at me with disdain—”business.”
“Then tell me what it was.”
“No.”
She crosses her legs. Her shorts are not exactly sexy. Loose tan cargo shorts with lots of pockets. If she hadn’t just come out of an airport, I’d be wondering what was in those pockets. One of the reasons I wanted to catch her getting off the plane. But her legs are long and bronze from spending a summer in Peru. She has on a pair of cream-colored wedge sandals and sleeveless blouse trimmed in lace that gives her a sophisticated look. Her style says she has taste. And money. The purse is white leather, some designer I’ve never heard of, but definitely expensive.
She certainly doesn’t look like a killer. But I guess that’s the point, right? You never see those Company kids coming. Little girls are not supposed to be your number-one suspect. High-society women either, for that matter.
I’m still looking at her legs as I think all this and when I finally glance up at her face, she’s got a crooked smile. “See something you like, Agent?”
“I was admiring your style, Miss Aston.”
Sasha returns her attention to the back of Madrid’s head, and Madrid gives me a quick glance in the rear-view, rolling her dark brown eyes.
It’s not my fault Sasha Aston makes me look twice.
Sasha shakes her head a little, like she’s reading my thoughts.
We ride in silence the rest of the way up to Fort Collins Airport, and then Madrid parks the car at the entrance, where some local agent is waiting to take possession of it.
“This way, Miss Aston,” I say, placing my hand at the small of her back—barely touching her at all—to guide her around the front entrance and towards the tarmac, where a stairway has already been extended up to the Agency jet.
Sasha moves ahead of my hand, maybe to avoid any contact. I take a moment to wonder if she likes the touch or not. I’ll get information on that soon enough, so I put that thought aside and wave her forward when we reach the stairs.
I let her get a few steps ahead so I can look at her ass on the way up, but just as I’m about to climb behind her, Madrid shuffles past and blocks my view.
“Don’t be a pig,” she whispers as she passes. “She’s not that kind of girl.”
“Madrid,” I sigh, wanting to tell her to shut up. But Madrid is not under my direction. She is along to make sure nothing inappropriate happens. Not sexually, of course. Legally. I am not to make offers. I am not to make promises. I am not, my DC superiors stressed, to become friendly with her, anger her, or push her into a corner which might make her flee or react with force.
Why don’t we just kill her? It would make all this fuss go away immediately. I guess they’re afraid of what her friends might do in retaliation. Or perhaps the gold mine of information is worth all these precautions and risk?
The only other idea I can come up with is that they really do want her to join the Agency.
We take our seats, Sasha on one end of a long leather couch, and myself on a chair that faces her. I’m not going to miss an opportunity to look at her. She immediately puts her seatbelt on and doesn’t gape around the interior cabin, which is nice, but nothing more. This jet can seat between twenty and twenty-two people comfortably. It has a small dining area, an office section, and a nice lavatory. There’s a staff of five, two in the cockpit and three back here.
Sasha closes her eyes and crosses her legs again. I stare openly this time. Madrid is asking for orange juice and isn’t paying attention. Sasha opens her eyes, busts me, and then turns her attention to the closest attendant. “Did I hear you have orange juice?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the attendant replies. “Would you like some?”
“Yes,” Sasha says, with a sigh. “With vodka, please.”
I smile at that. “Are you a rebel, Miss Aston?”
“I’m a paleontologist, Agent Jax. I spend my time digging in dirt for ancient bones, hoping to find some small scrap to give my day meaning. I live alone in a great big house, and all my friends are other diggers. So do you think I’m a rebel?”
I wink at her with a smile. She pulls her chin back, as if offended. Perhaps Madrid is right. She’s not that kind of girl. But what she lacks in social rebellion, she makes up for professionally. Not the digging. How boring that is. But she’s failing to mention her ties to hackers and killers. “I think you have potential, Miss Aston.”
She looks over at Madrid, and when I look at Madrid she’s mouthing something derogatory about me. “Agent,” I say, stopping her mid-word.
But when I look back at Sasha, she’s smiling at Madrid like they are sharing a secret.
Girls.
“Would you like to see a recent picture of Nick Tate, Miss Aston?” I ask, flipping the authority and control back to me. “I have one. Madrid, bring me my case.”
Madrid huffs a breath as she unbuckles her belt, walks over to a cabinet, gets the case, hands it to me, and then sits back down just in time to buckle up before the drinks are served and the captain begins to taxi the plane towards the runway.
Sasha stares at the case in my hands, then recaptures her composure. “How old is the photo?”
“Three months,” I say, and then add, “We think. This was the last thing this particular insider sent before she disappeared.”
“She?” Aston has a very hard time hiding her contempt for the gender of my insider.
“It could be because she’s dead or it could be because she’s turned on us. We’re not sure.”
“The picture?”
A few moments pass as I try to work out if she’s jealous, or if she thinks she might know who our infiltrator is.
“Yes,” I say, setting the case down on a small table as the plane accelerates for takeoff. I wait until we’re climbing before opening it and then shuffle around inside until I find the most recent picture and hand it out for her to take.
She does not touch it, but uncrosses her legs and leans forward with her hands in her lap.
So composed for someone so young. So disciplined. So careful. So passive.
“Take it,” I say, still offering.
“I see him,” she says. And then, like that picture is the last thing on her mind, she crosses her legs again and shoots me a smile. “I’m going to have to decline your offer, Agent Jax. I’m just too busy at school.” Her snob has been turned on, I realize. That thirteen-year-old assassin has been transformed over the years into a very classy lady. She lost it momentarily back at the airport. But she’s collected herself since then.
My interest is piqued. I allow a smile as I withdraw the photo and tuck it back into the briefcase. I’m going to enjoy playing high society with her. Not many women these days are interested in manners and polite conversation. “Would you change your mind if I told you what he’s been up to all these years?”
“No, Agent. I think if I knew…” She pauses here, I’m sure picturing the life he might’ve carved out for himself down in crime-ridden Honduras. “If I knew, I’d be very much inclined to run the other way as fast as possible.”
Hmmm. “I disagree. I think Nick Tate is the only thing you’ve thought about for ten years. The fact that he left you behind while he went out to meet his future wasn’t in the plan, was it? And what happened to you, Miss Aston? Did it break your heart? That he left you? That he chose that life over the one you imagined you’d live out with him?”
She swallows, but her expression remains solid. Stoic. Utterly unemotional. “Very few people know the details of that night. And you are not one of them.”
“Ah,” I say, and a small laugh that I can’t tuck down comes forth. “I know some of them. I know you didn’t want him to leave. I know you traveled around the west that summer with James Fenici—AKA Assassin Number Six—and Nick’s twin, Harper Tate. I know they dropped you off at Aston’s soon after. I know everything, Sasha Cherlin.”
She stiffens at that name. Her mouth becomes an angry line.
“Your next question isn’t how, Miss Aston. But who. Who told me these things?”
“No one told you anything,” she says, her calm back. She swings her sandaled foot a little and I can’t stop a quick glance at her tanned leg as it moves. When I look up she’s smiling. She knows she’s pretty and she’s using it against me now. “Because what you just said is like the icing on the cake. But the only thing that really matters is what’s inside. And you have no details about what’s inside, Agent. You have no idea what it tastes like.”
“Maybe,” I say back, using her metaphor as an excuse to picture eating her like cake. “But I’m close. And I’m gonna be tasting those details about you before you know it.”
She picks up her orange juice, takes a sip, and then rifles through her purse until she comes up with some earbuds. She plugs them into her phone and switches me off.
Madrid gives me a knowing smile behind some trashy magazine she’s reading and I have to wonder if she knows more about what’s going on than I do. She certainly doesn’t like me much. But she seems willing to befriend Sasha. For what purpose? Has she been sent here to acquire Miss Aston? Disrupt my plans, possibly? Or is she just trying to play good cop to my bad?
I’m not sure about Madrid. I’ve only known her ten days. The exact number of days I’ve been on this assignment. She came from DC, like me. And she’s well-connected. She has to be in order to work on anything that involves the Company. But beyond her sparkling service record—most certainly scrubbed for my eyes—I know nothing about her.
It unsettles me.
And then there’s the little issue of where Sasha was headed today. Nick? Or not Nick? Is he here already? The border is so porous these days, he could walk over on his own. Or is he biding his time because our infiltrator has been discovered?
There are a lot of unknowns here. A lot of possibilities, too. And the short plane trip to the local airport near her school isn’t enough time to get anything more out of Miss Aston.
When we land in Kansas, she follows me to a car. She doesn’t bother telling me her address, which I already know. She lives off-campus, but very close to the Museum of Natural History. Only a few blocks down. And when we stop in front of her three-story historic craftsman-style-home on Ohio Street and 14th, Madrid pops the trunk and gets out, giving us about thirty seconds of privacy.
Sasha already has her fingertips on her door handle, ready to escape me. But I put a hand on her shoulder like I did back at the airport. “Look, I get it. You have secrets. And I’m not interested in most of them. You can keep those to yourself. But I have things you need to know. And I’ll warn you now, you will have twenty-four-hour surveillance until you decide to work with us.”
“Until?” she asks, stressing the word. “You’re pretty presumptuous, Agent Jax. I’m a grad student. I work fifteen-hour days on research that is the epitome of boring to ninety-eight percent of the population of this whole planet. So you will be far more inconvenienced than I will, if that threat of twenty-four-seven surveillance is true.” And then she hikes her purse up on her shoulder and exits the car.
I get out as well, but Sasha is already dragging her luggage up to her house before I can think of anything else to say.