False front, p.12
False Front, page 12
Cerberus tugged on the leashes guiding the three Belgian Malinois around the corner onto the quaint strip of Main Street. Bruno had been blinded in one eye. Petrol was missing his right back leg, and Daisy—well, physically Daisy was fine. Mentally, not so much. His wife, Maggie, called her Crazy Daisy and threatened to leave him if Daisy destroyed another piece of furniture in a thunderstorm or attacked another visitor.
He ducked into the small public park and, after seeing he was alone, let the dogs off-leash. Mrs. Baker at the B & B across the street would give him an earful if she caught him “letting those attack dogs run wild.” She didn’t seem to care that they had served their country as bravely as any soldier. Daisy stayed by his side, but Petrol and Bruno took off after a wayward seagull. He sat on a slatted wooden bench and pulled a section of the print version of the local paper out of his jacket pocket. Keeping the paper folded in half, he glanced at an article on lead levels in the drinking water in a nearby county. He didn’t care about the article. Ten minutes later, a smartly dressed woman walked briskly toward him. She perched on the bench and pulled out her phone.
“You’re showing your age, my friend. This isn’t how it’s done anymore.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“Well, you certainly make a point, considering recent events. I’ll give you that.”
Cerberus snapped his newspaper to straighten it.
“You asked to see me. The dogs needed a walk.”
The dogs had returned to his side without their quarry. He withdrew a bowl and a canteen of water from the cloth bag he carried and poured water for the dogs.
“Living out your golden years feeding pigeons in the park, is that it?”
He chuckled. “If Maggie had her way.”
“Our man inside got a look in the lab. Not a good one, unfortunately. Not too much to see. One scientist who was,” she quoted directly from the report, “‘eating fried plantains and examining something under a standard microscope.’”
Cerberus waited, scratching Daisy on the small black patch of fur on her chest.
“Something’s off.”
“You mean what he didn’t see more than what he did.”
“Exactly. No protective gear, no clean room.”
“Could be a fairly stable toxin. Or it needs to be combined with another component.”
“Maybe he discovered it’s no longer viable.” He withdrew a gnawed tennis ball from his pocket and tossed it across the grass. Petrol and Bruno took off after it.
“He’s lining up buyers. He has something of value.”
“Anything coming out of Pingfang is a top priority.”
“Agreed.”
“The construction workers who discovered the remains and the package, are they still breathing?”
“I assume so. After they handed over the package to the imposters, they went about their business.”
“I want to send North over to talk to them.”
“Why?”
“Because we are making a lot of assumptions, and it would be nice to have some facts when potentially hundreds of thousands of lives are on the line.”
“I think it’s unnecessary. We know it’s a weapon. We know it’s from Detachment 731. It has to be a bioagent of some sort.”
“But what sort? There’s no such thing as too much information.”
“True. All right, let me know if he discovers anything useful.” The woman stood, pocketed her phone, and walked back toward an idling SUV.
The next morning, Emma woke to a text sent at 3:30 a.m.:
Mr. Wonderful: I need to cancel Friday. Will resched if I can.
It was so formal it left a pit in her stomach.
Emma: OK. Hope everything is all right.
He didn’t reply.
By Sunday afternoon, Emma was starting to worry. Yes, Nathan Bishop was a player of epic proportions. Yes, he once famously woke up on the skating rink in Rockefeller Plaza surrounded by cops and several Today show cameras. (He had simply smiled for the cameras, shaken hands with the hosts, and asked the weather assistant for a date, which she accepted.) Yes, he did stupid, dangerous things every day and seemed to emerge unscathed, but something told her this absence merited concern.
Emma busied herself by going over her notes. Something Caroline had said at the bar the other night struck a chord: you can rock climb anywhere. Why Morocco? Something scratched at the back of her mind, and then she remembered the whiteboard in Farrell’s office. Tucked in a corner next to a detailed photo spread on how the government faked the moon landing. White Hat Black Ops. Could Nathan really be doing covert paramilitary work? She wanted so desperately to believe the tabloid manwhore was a façade, but even she realized, as she clacked away on her laptop, that this was extreme. Masking some hidden pain of a damaged youth with booze and women? Sure. But Batman? She checked the long list of daredevil adventures Nathan had chalked up. Yes, they were all in or near hot zones. Yes, news stories coincided with his trips, but nothing stopped her dead in her tracks. It wasn’t like Nathan was hiking through Syria when a local terrorist leader had been assassinated. There were all kinds of things happening in that part of the world all the time. Nathan’s presence or lack thereof didn’t seem to be a factor . . . until she noticed one particular coincidence. It was a story from Ukraine, about two years old. A school bus of children from a small village near the Romanian border had been taken by Chechen rebels. A child was being executed each day until the government met the rebels’ demands.
As that was occurring, Nathan and a small group of “outdoorsmen” had gone on a rock climb in the Carpathian Mountains and then partied on a yacht in the Black Sea. Two things struck her about the trip: in the interview, Nathan described the trip as “last minute,” and, while the children hadn’t been rescued until days later—Nathan was already being photographed at sea with a topless Miss Moldova—the Ukrainian rescue force reportedly met with no resistance during the operation, and no children had been harmed.
The biggest mistake a researcher can make is trying to force the facts to fit their theory. It was a notable piece of information, but if she wanted proof that Nathan was some sort of, she didn’t know, vigilante? Superhero? This wasn’t it.
It did go a ways toward confirming her theory that Nathan liked having these “playboy pics,” as she had come to call them, and the reason wasn’t to feed his ego. If nothing else, her investigation was a time-consuming distraction.
By 2:00, she was pacing her apartment.
At 2:30, he texted.
Mr. Wonderful: My place, 1500
His use of military time pinged in her brain, but she was so relieved and frantic to get to him she didn’t dwell. She threw on the fastest, flirtiest thing she could find, a breezy lavender sundress with flat sandals, and texted JT where she needed to go. She raced into his lobby at 2:57 p.m.
Leonard glanced up over half-glasses and smiled.
“Hello, Emma. He just walked in himself.”
“Oh, good.”
“You can go on up. His floor is unlocked. He’ll probably be in the shower from the look of him.”
With that curious comment, she opened the door to the stairs that Leonard had buzzed open and headed up.
Nathan’s door was ajar, and she heard water running in the kitchen. As she rounded the corner, she saw his broad back under a soiled T-shirt bent over the sink, his hands resting on the counter on either side.
“Busy week?”
He turned and looked at her and time stopped. His cheek was scratched as if he had fallen on pavement. There was a butterfly bandage on his scalp and his knuckles and forearms were cut. But the thing she couldn’t look away from was his gaze. His clear green eyes were relieved and needy, and she didn’t hesitate for an instant. She ran to him. He met her in the middle of the kitchen, and they exploded.
Emma had never felt anything like it. Her legs wrapped around his waist, hands snaked around his neck, and he held her up without breaking the kiss as he set her on the counter.
“I need you.”
“I need you, too.”
He kissed his way down her neck to the swell of her breast while his hands deftly dropped her zipper. The dress pooled at her waist. She unclasped her pink bra and freed her breasts as Nathan sucked the berry tip into his mouth. She groaned with pleasure. He cupped and squeezed her breasts as he explored them with his mouth. Nathan was at her like he was parched, and she was a pool of cool, clear water. She didn’t think. She didn’t analyze. She didn’t spin out. She just felt. She tangled her fingers in his chestnut hair as he kissed his way down her middle. When he got to the fabric of her dress, he dropped to his knees and began a ground assault. Her thighs parted.
He snapped the elastic of her thong and pulled it from her body like a man possessed. Then he pushed his face between her thighs. For a long moment, he didn’t do anything but breathe her in. She bunched up the fabric around her waist as much to have something to hold onto as to see him. His expression was worshipful; it was almost as if words would shatter the moment. He held her gaze as his tongue ran through her folds. When he began to focus on her clit, Emma saw stars. She clenched her thighs, and Nathan pushed them apart with his big hands, holding her open. She was melting and throbbing. When he sank a long finger into her, then two, she cried out. Even his fingers were a tight fit, but he felt so right, inside of her. He curled his fingers gently as they fucked her, and she was lost to sensation. She was wanton, greedy. She tilted her hips, pushing toward his hungry mouth, urging him on. When he pulled the pearl between his lips and sucked, the orgasm hit her like a freight train. She shouted his name incoherently and pulled his hair. Her body was on fire, electric, as wave after wave of heat and pleasure shot through her. She bent forward, struggling to catch her breath and met the top of Nathan’s head as he continued to lick and kiss, gently bringing her down from her very. first. orgasm.
Holy mackerel.
Nathan kissed his way back up her middle, giving a quick suck and soothing lick to each nipple. She grabbed his head with both hands and pulled him to her mouth. He tasted sweet and salty. Her body stirred.
“You taste good.”
“Yes, you do.” He winked.
He lifted Emma into his arms and walked into his bedroom. She was blissful, but when he set her on his bed, she felt a wash of panic. She placed her hands flat on the comforter to mask the shaking. Nathan wasn’t fooled for an instant.
“Em, look at me.”
“I’m okay.”
“Em.”
When she finally met his gaze, everything settled.
“Now I’m okay.”
“There she is.”
He sat next to her on the bed, but his eyes never left hers. His hands slid up her bare legs and rested on her hips when the thought occurred to him.
“Emma?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you done this before?”
She was relieved by the way he worded the question. Because she didn’t ever want to lie to him—well, aside from the glaringly obvious. If he had asked if she was a virgin, well, that was complicated, because honestly, she didn’t know. But this? This she had definitely never done.
“No.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. She could see him thinking about all their interactions. The implications of her words regarding her experience with men.
“And that?”
He nodded his head back and to the side toward the kitchen.
She looked at him, and she was completely exposed. She had never felt safer. She grinned.
“All new. All of it.”
He let out a slow breath. “Okay.”
“Soooo, thank you for that.” She touched her forehead to his.
Nathan chuckled. “No, thank you.”
“Nice to finally know what all the fuss is about,” she shrugged. He brushed her cheek with the rough pad of his thumb.
“You are a fucking miracle.”
“What now?”
“That is the question I am currently pondering.”
“Let me help you reach a conclusion.” She started nibbling his neck. He was sweaty and dirty. He tasted like heaven.
“How on Earth does someone like you . . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. He just shook his head. “Jesus, Em.”
“I’ve been taught not to trust people, and I’ve learned from experience not to trust them. I’ve never felt this way before. Nathan, I trust you. Completely.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer. There was no explanation for it. There never had been.
“Come with me.”
She stood quietly and took his hand. The dress slipped from her body as she led him to his bathroom. Nathan’s sharp intake of breath and muttered curse told Emma he liked the view. She smiled.
She examined every cut and scrape on him. After locating a first aid kit under the sink, she parked him on the broad edge of the immense marble tub and set to work. He winced as she dabbed a particularly deep cut near his ribs.
“Hang on. Something is catching the cotton.” She retrieved a pair of tweezers from the case and carefully got a firm grip on the small protrusion. Gently she pulled out a metal splinter and, without a word, wrapped it in a tissue to throw away. She returned to his injuries with a concerned perusal.
“Aren’t you going to ask?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
“Three reasons. One: if you lie and tell me you were off-roading with a bunch of college buddies, I will cry. Two: I know you well enough to know it’s probably something you can’t tell me, which is okay. Three: If you could have told me, you would have by now.” She started to dab a new cut, but he cupped her face in both his hands, stealing her attention.
“I . . . .” He just stared at her, and it was everything Emma was feeling. Exactly.
“Me, too.” She smiled.
Emma hated the Fourth of July. She wasn’t un-American or anything, but this holiday blew. Red, white, and blue looked awful anywhere but on the flag. Fireworks scared the shit out of her. Sticky little kids running everywhere unchecked. The crowds, the noise, the patriotic music . . . ugh.
This Fourth of July, however, she was feeling very Stars and Stripes Forever.
The River Club was one of the most exclusive private clubs in Manhattan. It sat on the East Side, just north of the United Nations Headquarters and overlooked the river. A logical deduction would be to think that the club housed a marina for New York’s seafarers, but no, this was more of a sophisticated après-boating spot. There was a large reception area for the occasional wedding or anniversary party, a cozy lounge for drinks or an intimate meal, and a long, narrow brick balcony, where she currently stood, that was the perfect viewing spot for several waterfront firework displays.
Nathan was running late, but she knew he’d be there. After the other night, their attraction had grown into a need. Emma felt his absence like an injury. It was strange to think she had always missed him like this. When he went away to boarding school years ago, she was inconsolable. She couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Nathan’s mother had brought over a few things from his room to get her out of her funk—a Derek Jeter jersey and an old iPod with his playlist. She was just starting to adjust to his absences and look forward to his homecomings when she was taken.
This time though it was different. She was standing on the deck at The River Club overlooking the surprisingly bucolic setting as evening descended on the city. Her white halter sundress was billowing, and she shifted nervously from one nude Gucci sandal to the other. She was on her third glass of champagne, which was buckets for her, and it was doing nothing for her nerves. They were going public. They were going to take things further physically—much, much further. They were unlocking some dark memories in both their minds. Oh, and small detail, she was in love with him, hopelessly, irretrievably, uncontrollably in love. And unlike the soothing, safe calm she felt in his presence as a child, this feeling was . . . incendiary.
Emma made small talk with a few of the K-B executives. Most were initially suspicious of a reporter from her organization, but they warmed to her quickly. She fit in and they knew it. She was, as they say, to the manner born.
She should have eaten something, but the promise that this night held had Emma chewing on her nails, not the shrimp puffs. The band broke from their USA-themed repertoire and started to play “Fly Me to the Moon.” The wind kicked up, and she felt him, almost as if Nathan’s presence had caused the gust. She stepped inside the buzzing room and spotted him at the bar. He was holding a bottled beer and kissing an older woman on the cheek. He stood out in a sea of red, white, and blue, wearing a dove-gray blazer. Emma could see the streaks of auburn in his chestnut hair. He turned his head, and their eyes locked. He gave Emma an intense assessment, set his beer on the bar, and turned to walk the length of the dance floor. Emma waited like a girl at an eighth-grade dance, which in some ways she guessed she was. That’s when she saw it. He was dreamy from head to toe, tousled hair, white button-down, his hands shoved carelessly into his pockets. And around his neck, a cornflower blue tie. The cornflower blue tie. The identical tie to the one she had held the night she had been drugged on a date. The same tie she had stashed in her lingerie drawer. The people in her periphery started to blur as she stared at the tie the mysterious stranger who rescued her had worn. She started to see spots. The tie she refused to let go of, even unconscious. She swayed on her feet. Nathan had saved her that night. The room spun. In a final, long stride, Nathan stood in front of her. His cocky smile of affirmation turned to panic, as, once again, Emma grabbed onto that tie like a lifeline.
And passed out.
Again.
Her eyes fluttered open, and Emma was lying on a couch in a quiet room. Nathan was sitting over her, pressed into the crook of her side, holding a cool cloth to her forehead. She beamed at him and his answering smile was one of relief.
“Is it the tie?”
Emma burst out laughing and grabbed onto it, pulling him in for a kiss.
“I still have the old one.” That surprised him. “I hold onto it when I get anxious. It calms me down.”
