Just then, David Arthur walked into the living room. Cassady’s statements had shocked and appalled Monty so completely, he hadn’t heard the doorbell. “You haven’t told her,” he said, gripping the phone tightly.
“I haven’t told anyone,” Cassady replied. “It’s not my place, and I’m not about to make your life easier by being the one to tell her.”
“How would the truth make a difference?”
“Jack has more trust issues and disregard for her well-being than the rest of us put together.”
“Why?”
“Maybe because on some instinctual and very deep subconscious level, she knows. And I gotta tell ya, the realization that the man you’re supposed to trust blindly turned an indifferent eye to the fact that you were practically beaten and raped to death is a pretty damn hard fact to forgive.”
“I’m not…wasn’t…indifferent to what happened,” he said. “I was devastated but couldn’t show it. I didn’t know how to. If I could—”
“Don’t tell me, tell her. Because if something happens to Jack because of how she is, who she’s become because of you,” Cassady paused for emphasis, her voice like ice, “I am going to personally kill you.”
“Do not threaten me, young lady, and do not forget who I am.”
Cassady was apparently too worked up for his rebuke to affect her. “Where the hell is Arthur coming from, Siberia?”
“He just walked in. We’re leaving now.”
“Call me ASAP.”
“Of course.”
“And, Monty?”
“Yes?”
“Grow a pair,” Cassady said, and hung up.
“What was that about?” Joanne asked, clearly having guessed the gist of the conversation.
“You heard. Cassady knows.”
“And Jaclyn?”
Monty shook his head. “Maybe Cassady is right. Maybe I—”
“Yes, you do, Monty, but first things first.”
“What’s going on?” Arthur asked.
“Jaclyn’s missing.” Monty got his Glock and shoulder holster from the bedroom and put them on. “We’re checking their house.”
“Let’s go,” Arthur said immediately.
“Joanne, call whoever we have in the New York area and send them to Jaclyn’s address.” Monty gave her a quick kiss good-bye.
She nodded as she handed him his car keys and coat. “Your cell and lock-pick kit are in the pocket. Call me as soon as you know something.”
Monty made the normally three-hour drive to Colorado Springs in two hours and fifteen minutes. He told Arthur about his conversation with Cassady, and Arthur listened without interruption.
“She’s right, Monty. You need to tell Jack.”
“I do. It’s the least I can do.”
“It’s also the most. We all know what it’s like to grow up without a family,” Arthur said as they neared Cassady’s street. “The same way we all know what it’s like to want and need one. Jack has Cass now, but take it from an old bastard like me. Jack needs a family more than any op we’ve ever had.”
“But I was there all along.”
“You weren’t there, you were around. You never made her feel anything other than necessary for the organization—an operative.”
Monty gripped the wheel tighter as the two-story adobe-style home came into view. David was right. “She never knew how necessary she was to me.”
“You’re the lucky one, Monty. You had what the rest of us only dreamed of—a family—and you never acknowledged her.”
“I screwed up.”
“Sure did.”
“How do you think she’ll take it?”
“How would you, if your father was under your nose the whole time and never told you?”
“I should probably wear a vest.”
“Yeah, good idea,” Arthur replied seriously.
He thought about what Cassady had said. “Time I grew a pair.”
They pulled into the driveway and Arthur put his hand on Monty’s arm. “Life is getting shorter by the second, and we’re getting too old to wait for right moments. At our age, buddy, every moment is the right one.”
They went to the front door, and Arthur knocked loudly several times. When no one answered, Monty pulled out his lock pick and opened the door.
“We’ve made these kids too arrogant to realize an alarm system is not useless,” Arthur said when they entered the house a second later.
Monty turned on the lights next to the door. “Jaclyn, it’s Pierce,” he called out.
“And Arthur. Probably wise to warn her,” he said to Monty, “before she puts a hole in your head.”
“Jaclyn?” Monty called out again. “Cassady is worried about you.” When no one answered, he looked around the room. “They have an alarm, after all,” he said, gesturing to the small control panel on the wall and the two motion detectors.
They looked at each other and drew their automatics. Arthur signaled to Monty that he was going upstairs.
Glock in hand, Monty headed for the kitchen. He found a half-eaten sandwich and a carton of milk on the counter. The carton was half-full. “Doesn’t look good,” he mumbled.
“Monty?” Arthur said from behind him.
“Yeah?” He turned around.
Arthur held up a piece of paper, torn from a yellow notepad. “I found this in the bedroom, on the pillow.”
“What does it say?”
Arthur looked down at the note. “It says: I have to do this. I’m sorry, baby. I can’t bear the thought of anyone ever hurting you again. Know that I will always love you. Jack.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The White House
Next morning, March 5
Ryden awakened with a massive headache that refused to subside even after plenty of coffee and a shower. She’d had three glasses of wine before Kennedy showed up and had asked Betty for another after she’d returned to her room. She was too aggravated and wound up to sleep after her encounter with Kennedy to go to bed.
She’d never been the one to initiate a kiss or any physical contact with another person, but Kennedy had made her feel helpless to do otherwise. So she had reacted on pure instinct, not caring about the fact that it was unprofessional, inappropriate, and unlike her. She didn’t know what she expected to feel after kissing a woman, but she certainly hadn’t counted on spontaneous arousal. It was a simple kiss, but Kennedy’s soft mouth, her breath, and her tight shoulders had made for a remarkable aphrodisiac. If such a quick brush of lips had undone her, she shivered at the thought of what a slow, long, and thorough kiss might reduce her to.
Kennedy, however, had shown no emotion at all at the encounter—hadn’t responded one way or another—and Ryden felt frustrated and embarrassed for disregarding that lack of response. She had reacted like the numerous desperate drunks she’d encountered and despised, and completely ignored Kennedy’s trepidations and obvious disinterest.
Unsteady on her feet, she sat at her vanity to prepare herself to face the day. “Snap out of it,” she said to her reflection as she ran a brush through her hair. “You have a million things to worry about, and here you are throwing yourself at a woman and adding problems to the pile.” She needed to concentrate on getting out of here and the new life ahead, and forget Kennedy and this obscene infatuation that would lead absolutely nowhere, anyway. But why was the thought of never seeing Kennedy again disturbing and… “God, how am I going to face her today?”
The ringing phone interrupted her musings. “Yes?”
“I want to meet in an hour,” Ratman said. “We have to prepare your speech on the illegal-weapons issue.”
“The press conference isn’t due for another week.”
“We had to push it up.”
“Why?”