Broken With You Read online

  “Good guess, but no. Longer than eternity is the clue that tells me you’re talking about paint.” She grinned. “You don’t remember, but before you left on assignment, I bitched about how we should have waited to buy the paint until you got back—remember, we never expected you’d be gone so long.”

  “And I told you that paint’s not like eggs.” He remembered. It was fuzzy, but he remembered.

  Her eyes widened, and she nodded slowly. “Yes. You said—”

  “—there were so many chemicals in paint that an unopened can would probably last longer than eternity.” He pressed his fingertips to his temple and started to idly rub. “Denny, oh my God.”

  “I know, right? You did this. You sent me a message, and I was too dense to even think about looking for one.”

  “And when you said that The Master was a clue, it meant that we were talking about colors we picked out for our bedroom?” He said it as a question because he didn’t remember, but that seemed to make sense.

  She nodded. “And as for shooting star…” She pointed to the shelf, where three quart-size cans of off-white trim paint sat in a row. “The walls are going to be a pale, pale blue. You said this would be a perfect complement.”

  “I don’t believe it.” His words were barely a whisper. “Whatever we’re looking for is in one of those cans.”

  “Is that a memory or a guess?”

  He squeezed her hand. “A guess. But I think it’s a good one.”

  “Me, too.”

  They looked at the cans together for a moment, then she shrugged and grabbed a flat head screwdriver from a box of tools. “So now we open and dump?”

  “That one,” he said, pointing to the one closest to him. “See? Looks like one of us cracked the lid.”

  She nodded, grabbed it off the shelf, then used the screwdriver to pop the lid off. “It’s just paint,” she said, peering into the can.

  He passed her a bucket. “Let’s waste some paint, shall we?”

  “With pleasure.” She upended it, the paint dripped out, and there, in the stream, a small plastic baggie slid out, too, then landed in the bucket with a plop.

  He used two fingers to pull it out, and then laid it on a sheet of plastic set up beneath a sawhorse.

  “There’s another bag inside it,” she said, after returning with a damp sponge and wiping off the goo.

  Careful not to get paint inside the bag, they opened the seal, then pulled out five nested bags.

  “You weren’t taking any chances,” she said, and he silently agreed.

  Finally, they were down to the end, and he held up the small device. “A flash drive.”

  “Do we need to check it?”

  He shook his head, wincing as the low-thud of a headache started to beat behind his eyes. “It’s the encryption key. I remember.”

  Mason stared at the map on the burner phone the Face had left with Denny. A pin marked a set of coordinates in East Los Angeles. Then he read aloud the message that made his gut twist. The message that he and Denny had privately discussed for five full minutes before calling the information in to the SOC:

  * * *

  Send the woman and the key to this location.

  Alone.

  Surveil her, she dies.

  Follow, she dies.

  Disobey, she dies.

  Cooperate, she will be treated and returned.

  * * *

  When he was finished reading, silence hung in the room. Then a voice came over the speaker of Mason’s phone.

  “And there’s no way to reverse-engineer the antidote’s formula from that key?” The question was posed by General Montero, a member of the oversight committee responsible for policing the SOC. Mason hadn’t been thrilled when Seagrave put him on the line. In Mason’s experience, bringing in retired officers tagged with oversight to spec out missions was a universally bad idea.

  “No sir,” Mason said, hating wasting time going over information again. “I sabotaged their mainframe. I didn’t steal the formula. Once they have the key, they can decrypt the formula, manufacture the antidote and vaccine, and sell them to the government and consumers.”

  “Why haven’t they already released the toxin into the food supply?”

  “Their plan requires the antidote,” he said. As the only SOC agent in the room, he was doing the talking. As far as the General was concerned, Denny was simply a civilian.

  “They don’t think of themselves as terrorists,” he continued. “They’re entrepreneurs. They want to create a threat and profit off of providing the solution. And sir, I remember now what the toxin does.” He drew in a breath, hating the thought of the toxin biding its time in Denny’s blood, a horrific threat hanging over her and their child.

  “It destroys tissue, sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Breaks it down completely. Basically, it makes Ebola look like a bad case of the flu.”

  “Good God.” That curse came from Seagrave.

  Beside Mason, Denny went pale. He took her hand, and he watched as she drew a breath and straightened her shoulders. She wanted to break down—he was certain of it. And he was equally certain she wasn’t going to. The woman was amazing. More than that, she was his.

  And he wasn’t about to lose her again.

  “This organization can’t give in to terrorist tactics.” Montero’s deep voice boomed across the line, firm and authoritative. “As I understand, Agent Marshall has not yet entered the final twenty-four hours prior to infection. That means we have time.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but that means we’re lucky. I beg you not to squander this opportunity.”

  “We won’t,” he said. “Reply that you accept their demand. Then forward us the coordinates. We’ll send a team to intercept their transport. I assure you, we’ll obtain the antidote.”

  “And if you don’t? They’re going to start shipping out their tainted preservative. It’s going to go into commerce. They’ll offer the antidote for sale right away, but folks tainted early won’t believe. They’ll get the antidote too late or not at all. And these bastards are counting on that. They need to make the news. They need a huge scare and bloody, gooey deaths. Because that will drive up the price of the antidote and the vaccine.”

  “I think you’re aware of the skill level of this organization. And for a threat like this, we’ll take extraordinary measures to stop the toxin from leaving their facilities.”

  “And get Denise Marshall killed in the process?” Rage underscored Mason’s words.

  “Agent Marshall understands that this office must focus on the big picture. If we utilize this opportunity to send in a full team, we can shut them down. This toxin cannot be permitted to enter the chain of commerce. Not with an antidote. Not without an antidote. Not at all.”

  “Denise Marshall is no longer with the SOC. You’re destroying her chance of getting the antidote in time. You’re putting a civilian’s life at risk and—”

  “You have your orders, Agent Walker. Forward the coordinates.”

  He looked at Denny, and she looked back evenly, her expression flat and emotionless. A agent calling on all her training so as to not give a single thing away.

  But they’d talked about this. The risks. The possible outcomes.

  They’d talked, and he knew what he had to say now. As much as he hated what was going to happen, he knew what he had to do.

  “I’m sorry, General,” Mason said. “We’re going to handle this my way.”

  25

  This, I think, is a prime example of why I prefer tech work to fieldwork.

  Because I would much rather be holed up in windowless room with a computer and some computer-based riddle I had to solve. Or someone whose identity I had to track down. Or even some dumbass game I wanted to code in my spare time.

  But, no. Instead I’m standing on a corner in East LA waiting to either get picked up and hauled off to some secret facility or to get shot between the eyes, after which someone will rip the encryption key o
ut of my cold dead hands.

  Neither Mason nor I really like this plan, but I’m out of time and the general is an idiot. Seagrave isn’t, but his hands are tied. Which means we’re going rogue.

  Which means I’m following instructions.

  Which means I’m a sitting duck.

  “We don’t have a choice,” Mason had said. “We have to get you that antidote and we have to find the facility. But God, it worries me sending you in like this.” He’d brushed his hand over my hair, then cupped my cheek. Then he’d shaken his head. “No. We need to rethink. There has to be another way. I can’t risk—”

  I’d pressed my hand over his. “If we don’t risk it, I’m already dead. And so is our child.” I’d drawn a breath, gathered my courage, and told him the one fact that I was certain of. “They won’t kill me on the street. We both know that. They have to use the encryption key at the facility to make sure it’s real. If they kill me early, they know you’ll never give them the real thing.”

  “And once they know it’s real?”

  I’d shuddered, then I’d met his eyes. “I’m banking on them using me as a test case. Inject the antidote, then test my blood. But they might just kill me. That’s why you—”

  “I’m tracking you,” he’d said. “I’m tracking you, I’m making sure you get inoculated, and I’m getting you out of that place before we destroy the computer, the toxin, the files, and anything else that could ever let them recreate this threat again.”

  Mason had remembered enough to know that the toxin was only on the one mainframe because of a lack of trust between cells. So the computer that housed both the toxin’s formula and the vaccination were standalone machines not connected to the internet. Great for keeping the threat contained, but unfortunately it also meant we couldn’t hack in and wipe the thing out.

  “I’m not scared,” I’d told him right before I’d gotten in my Highlander, the burner phone’s map open to guide me. “I know you’ve got my back.”

  “I do,” he’d promised before kissing me.

  I can still taste that kiss on my lips, as well as the lie. Because of course I’m scared.

  It’s late, almost midnight, and this is not exactly Beverly Hills. There’s not much traffic, but what there is notices me. A number of cars have slowed, and I’ve been asked several times how much I charge for a blowjob. Apparently I’m camped out on a very entrepreneurial corner.

  Ten more minutes pass, and then a van I’ve seen three times already draws to a stop. The passenger side window rolls down, and I look up—and then gasp when I see Peter looking back at me.

  “Oh, good,” he says when he sees the expression on my face. “I was afraid you were expecting me, which means that I didn’t keep my secret nearly as well as I thought I had.”

  “I don’t—you. Why?”

  “We’re blocking traffic. Hop on in. We have an antidote to prepare. Wouldn’t want you to get all oozy, would we?”

  I get in—I don’t exactly have a choice—and he pulls back into traffic.

  “Here,” he says, passing me a blindfold. “Put it on. Can’t release you if you know where the facility is, can I?”

  I hesitate, but I put it on.

  I try to pay attention to the cars twists and turns. Try to make a map in my head. But that’s a skill better suited to movies than real life, especially when your captor is chatting with you and making it impossible to focus.

  “Give me the burner,” he says. “And your phone, too.”

  I hesitate—Mason can track me through my phone—but I also know I don’t have a choice. I pass them over, hear the window roll down, and then back up. The phones, I know, are now smashed somewhere on the side of the road.

  I twist my wedding ring nervously, thinking about Mason. Imagining him coming for me.

  “A pretty ring,” Peter says. “Plain, though. Can’t say I think much of Mason’s taste.”

  “I love it.”

  “Do you? It’s shit. Hand it over and we’ll give it a toss. Just like it deserves.”

  I clutch my right hand tighter over my left.

  “Really? You’re going to risk your life over white gold?”

  “Platinum.”

  “All the better. Hand it over.”

  “I just got him back,” I say. “You don’t get the ring.”

  There’s silence, and then my head is thrown back by the violent smack of a palm against my cheek. “You little bitch. We worked together and I never realized what a little bitch you are. Give. Me. The. Ring.”

  I try to pull it off, but of course I can’t. So I lift my finger to my mouth, suck, and swallow the ring. Fuck. Him.

  “Oops.”

  I can practically feel him glaring at me. But I know that he can’t kill me. Not until he tests the encryption key.

  Doesn’t mean he can’t hit me again, and I wait for the blow. It doesn’t come, though. Instead, he just laughs.

  “That’s my Denise,” he says. “Ballsy as hell.”

  “I’m not your Denise.”

  “No, you’re Mason’s.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I am.”

  “I told him I fucked you, you know. I told him much you liked it. How you begged for it.”

  “We never—”

  “And I told him I killed you. That part was a lie, too. But we might be making it the truth soon enough.”

  A cold chill settles over me. “You know what happened to him.” I remember Mason’s headache at Westerfield’s. I’d thought it was the lights. Now I’m thinking it was a memory. A memory of Peter.

  “You know why he lost his memory.”

  Peter laughs. “You sweet, naive little girl. Of course I know. He lost it because of me.”

  26

  Mason paced the kitchen, his phone in hand, his head feeling like it was about to explode. Not because memories were threatening to rip him up. But because he’d lost her.

  They’d known that her captor would most likely toss the phone. Unfortunate, but inevitable. Useful, though, because surely he wouldn’t look for another tracking device.

  And it turned out that his Denny had another device. A brilliant, amazing device. A gizmo so clever it only reinforced his belief that she was one of the best op-tech wizards in the business.

  Because she’d installed a tracker in her wedding band.

  “It’s been my pet project at the SSA for a while now,” she’d told him.” Watch enough Bond movies, and you want to make the fantasy real.”

  “And you did?”

  She’d nodded, obviously pleased with herself. “I had to hollow out a tiny bit underneath, but the band’s wide enough and deep enough, and we’ve been working on micro-tech. The power supply’s the problem, which is why mine is rarely on. You have to constantly recharge for a mission. It only lasts about twelve hours. But it charges fast, so…”

  She’d trailed off with a grin, and he’d kiss her again. Just because he had to.

  They’d thought the twelve-hour window would be enough, but apparently she’d been wrong about battery duration. Because the phone was offline and the ring was offline … and that meant his wife was offline.

  Goddammit.

  He had to find her. They’d agreed that she’d go into the lion’s den because she didn’t have a choice. Go, and the outcome might be horrible.

  Don’t go, and the outcome would definitely be dire.

  But the plan all along was that he would find her. He would track her. He would save her.

  And now he was about to fail her.

  The woman he loved. Not just once in his life, but twice over. He couldn’t lose her. Lose her, and he might as well let himself get lost inside his own head, in the mishmash of nonsensical memories.

  Lose her now, and that might be the only place he could find her again.

  With a violent motion, he grabbed his Perrier bottle off the counter and hurled it across the room. It hit a window leading to the sunporch and broke through with a crash, showerin
g glass everywhere.

  The sound and destruction should have been satisfying. They weren’t. Instead, he just collapsed onto the ground, his back sliding down the cabinetry, his arms encircling his legs. He put his forehead on his knees and waited for the tears. Waited for the darkness, longing for inspiration, but knowing that it wasn’t going to come.

  He didn’t know how long he sat there, praying for either a plan or oblivion. All he knew was that when he heard the crunch of glass under a shoe, he was on his feet in seconds, a knife from the block in his hand.

  “What the fuck happened here?” Liam.

  “It’s a bloody mess, that’s what,” Quince added. “The situation and the kitchen.”

  Mason put the knife back on the counter, his pulse returning to normal.

  “What are you—”

  “We tracked her as far as Ontario.” Liam said. “Damn chopper lost her.”

  Mason looked between the two men, trying to make sense of their words.

  “Seagrave called Ryan,” Quince explained. “Unofficially, of course.”

  Mason couldn’t help his grin. He knew his friend wouldn’t screw them over. Not even when a general was looking over his shoulder.

  “Denise rigged a tracker in her wedding ring,” Quince continued. “Bloody brilliant, actually, and—”

  “I know.”

  “You remembered?”

  “She told me. I was tracking it and her phone. They both went offline.”

  “On our end, too. Fortunately, we were able to get a chopper in the air before the ring died on us, but the pilot lost them in traffic. Ended up tailing the wrong damn van.”

  “So she really is lost,” Mason said, the hope that had been building in him fading. “All we know is that she’s somewhere in the Inland Empire, or she was. Who knows where she’ll end up?”

  “Hopefully we will,” Quince said. “It’s a bit of a long shot, especially with your rather dicey memory, but we might get lucky.”