Chapter 6
Eddy gave Damian three rapid-fire jabs to the midsection then danced back. He swung to the left, but she ducked, dodged, then kicked up, slamming her heel into his lower regions.
He groaned weakly.
“That’s right,” she snarled. “Touch me again and you’ll be singing soprano for the rest of your pathetic life.” Turning jauntily, she walked away with a swagger that would have made Eastwood proud.
The tattered punching bag she’d dubbed “Damian” made no clever retort.
Sweat dripped from Eddy’s neck and slipped into her sports bra, but she didn’t mind. She liked to sweat. It counteracted the vague fringes of the hangover that threatened and made her muscles loosen and flex. It geared her up, pushed her past the polite boundaries that were as much a part of her as her freckled nose and knobby knees. She may have inherited her father’s Kelly green eyes, but her apologetic demeanor came strictly from her maternal side. Perhaps her mother’s easy pliability had been one of the characteristics that had most attracted Colonel Edwards in the early days of her parents’ relationship, but in the end, when her mother began to feel the need to spread her fledgling wings, it had torn their family asunder like a house of straw. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t surprising that Eddy had silently vowed to be tough. It was rather shocking, however, that she had failed so miserably.
She closed her eyes as memories of the recent evening screamed through her mind. What the hell had she been thinking? Or rather, had she been thinking at all? It wasn’t as if she made a habit of attacking men in restroom stalls. Neither did she generally agree to consider absurd propositions offered by the aforementioned men.
True, the alcohol she’d imbibed had probably adversely affected her decision-making abilities, but those effects had long ago faded, leaving her reluctantly sober and dismally uncertain.
Indecision gnawed at her. Should she accept Durrand’s challenge? Maybe his entrance into her life was providence. She’d wanted field experience since the day she’d first considered becoming a spook. Hadn’t she? Or had that just been another lie she’d told herself while safely hidden behind her computer monitor?
Obviously, this wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. But with whom could she discuss it? Her mother, though intelligent and caring, would see little but the risk factor. Her father, on the other hand, might well see the value in her following through. It might, as he was apt to phrase it, put some hair on her chest. But unless mandated by a court order, she preferred to avoid speaking to Colonel Edwards. On the other hand, each of her friends would look at the situation through their own lens, when what she needed was objectivity. Someone to give it to her straight.
She practiced her Eastwood glare a moment longer and was blessed with an idea.
In another moment, she was dialing the phone.
The familiar voice on the other end of the line was atypically breathy.
“Ms. France?” Eddy scowled, wondering if she had gotten the wrong number. The woman’s tone lacked its usual workmanlike quality. But maybe that was to be expected at 0200 hours. Then again, she had no idea what time zone—or even what country—the operative lived in. “I’m sorry if I woke you. Shall I call back at another—”
“Who is this?” The words were husky, a little brusque. Ms. France, apparently, had not been raised by a soft-spoken pacifist.
“Edwards, Jennifer,” Eddy said, converting to a military stiffness she sometimes hid behind in uncertain circumstances.
There was a moment’s delay then, “Calling from Langley?”
“Not this time.” Eddy refrained from clearing her throat. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Sylvia France was a private citizen, an intelligence gathering individual who worked for the highest bidder. “This is for my personal edification.”
“Very well, I’ll bill it separately. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes.” The conversation felt strange, making Eddy feel twitchy. She half wished she had done more research on her own; she was something of an IT expert in her own right, but Silvia had been known to obtain more information in ten minutes than others could in a week. So she punted, reaching for some kind of socially acceptable small talk. “How are you doing this morning, Ms. France?”
“I’ve been better,” the other woman said and muffling the phone, rasped something low and quiet before speaking to Eddy again. “I hope to be so again soon.”
“Oh. Oh!” Eddy said, suddenly understanding the situation; Sylvia France was not alone. But it didn’t matter. Eddy wasn’t an adolescent. She was twenty-seven years of age and not as innocent as she looked. She’d been told by a number of people that such a thing wouldn’t even be possible. “I’m…” She was floundering badly. “I’m so sorry I bothered you.”
“No need to be.
“Omar,”—Sylvia’s voice was very low. A little hoarse—“don’t stop.
“What do you need, Edwards?”
A man moaned. Apparently, Silvia wasn’t the only one hoping to improve her circumstances in the very near future. The idea made Eddy fidget like a toddler, but she could hardly hang up now.
“I need some information,” she said.
“I assumed you weren’t calling for a kidney transplant,” Sylvia said then sucked in a long, shuddering breath.
Eddy forced a chuckle and closed her eyes. What was wrong with her? She was a grown woman, wise to the ways of the world. Educated. Liberated. Accomplished.
“Now, Lance!” Sylvia growled.
Eddy blinked as a blush rose to her unseen cheeks. Okay, maybe she wasn’t wise to the ways of the world, at all. Good gosh, she could barely remember the last time she’d had a date, and Silvia France, a woman whose voice and name suggested she was well into her sixties, was, apparently, having a threesome.
“There, Robbie.” The words were barely a whisper. “Right there!”
Okay, not a threesome. Eddy covered her face with her hand. “Maybe I should call back later.” Her voice sounded very small.
“Yes.”
“Okay. In the morning then, right after–”
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Eddy’s cheeks burned hotter. She cleared her throat. “All right. Well…thanks.”
“Thank you,” Sylvia breathed. Then, “Now, what can I help you with, Edwards?”
Eddy remained mute. There were rustling noises in the background.
“Edwards?”
“Um…yes.” She glanced down at the walnut secretary she’d found while antiquing with her mother in upstate New York. The room was cozily decorated, her workspace as neat as a double shot of whiskey, but she felt strangely out of place. “I need intel on a man named Gabriel Durrand.”
“Middle name?” The woman was all business suddenly. It was disorienting. Like driving through a blizzard into a dazzling blue sky day.
“I don’t know.”
“Civilian? Military? Political?”
“Military. Army. Ranger, I think, but maybe–”
“Gabriel Bertram Durrand.” There was almost no breathing room between the question being asked and the answer being given. “Born in Greenville, Tennessee on June 3, 1982. Nine pounds eight ounces.
“Yes. Goodbye.” The farewell blended almost seamlessly with the rest of the narrative.
“That weight puts him in the ninety-fourth percentile of national births.” She sounded almost bored, as if it were noon on a workday and she had nothing to do but sort out Eddy’s problems. “He had a slight speech impediment in second grade. Sustained a scar on his left hand from a glue gun incident while in kindergarten.”
Eddy swallowed the urge to ask if she was being serious, but in her experience, Silvia France was always serious. Until tonight, Eddy hadn’t been entirely sure she was human.
“One sister. Kelsey Ann Durrand, age twenty-nine, second lieutenant in the Army. Has a niece named Zoey. No father listed. Mother is Sergeant Ostroot Durrand. Gabriel graduated middle of his class from Engsbrook High School. Played rugby at the University of Michigan where he majored in engineering and dislocated a shoulder. Enlisted in 2002. Received a silver star for gallantry while serving in Iraq. Was promoted to second lieutenant three years ago. He was wounded in a skirmish in Kabul.” She paused, probably skimming the dozen computer screens she was reported to have spread out in front of her like a geisha’s painted fan. “Shipped out for a special-ops mission in March of this year during which every member of the team was either wounded or killed.”
“Including Durrand?”
“Looks like he took shrapnel to his right hand and leg.”
Eddy winced involuntarily. “Anything else?”
“That mission garnered both a recommendation for an award and a formal complaint.”
“Who filed the complaint?”
“Looks like it was…” She hesitated a moment. “A Lieutenant Linus Shepherd.”
Shep?
“And the recommendation for the award?”
“Lieutenant Shepherd again.”
A dozen questions struck Eddy at once. “Do you know why?”
“It appears that Lieutenant Durrand saved Lieutenant Shepherd’s life.”
“And the complaint?”
“Looks like the same reason was listed.”
Eddy scowled at the black square of her window. “Does that make any sense to you?”
“I could venture a guess but it would be strictly conjecture and no more valid than yours.”
“Okay.” Eddy sat in silence, mind spinning. She needed time to sort things through on her own, but she wasn’t entirely sure how to extract herself from the bowels of their rather absurd conversation. “Goodbye” seemed a little abrupt. “Carry on” somewhat suggestive. “Well…” Eddy said and managed not to clear her throat. “Have a good night, Ms. France.”
“I already did,” Sylvia said and hung up.