“Here? Now? At seventeen? But once I was a child! I am somebody’s daughter! I am. And my mother loved me!”
Drake nodded. “So rise again. Find them. And be stronger than those chains protecting your heart and soul. Be a fighter. I mean, you’re in the right company, love.”
Mai met the girl’s complex dilemma head on. “So here you are, at memory-age three weeks, and having to deal with a decision-making event that would faze most adults. The question is — would a person want to remember such horrifying events? If a man could forget what he had seen in war,” she glanced up at Drake, “or if a woman could forget the night of her rape. If a police officer could forget just a few of the shocking and terrifying scenes they are forced to witness month by month, year by year, would they choose to do so?”
Grace stared in silence, maybe filing the question away for later consideration. The answer, Drake knew, was moot. Grace had no control over the resurrection of her memories. But she did have strength. And purpose.
She did have a future.
CHAPTER SIX
Lauren Fox started the most dangerous night of her life by choosing the right kind of high heels, ankle bracelet and stockings to wear. The length of her skirt, the color of her nails, the severity of her makeup. Nightshade could be created in minutes, but it took hours to form her masterpiece. Friends would not recognize her, let alone colleagues like Smyth and Hayden Jaye. By the time she was finished she felt a little sorry for the boys and men out walking and sitting with their girlfriends that Wednesday night.
They could not help but look.
Lauren grabbed her overlarge handbag, called a cab, and told it to take her to the Dupont Plaza Hotel via Constitution. She enjoyed the ride along the wide stately road, the poignant and evocative views helping her relax. Tonight the traffic was light, the areas around the monuments were almost empty and the sidewalks were barren. She directed the cab driver up 18th and across Connecticut, not because she thought he was new to the game but because she craved a little self-rule before entering a room where two powerful men awaited. Six months ago the scenario would not have bothered her. Now, knowing what she knew about Stone and Gates and the SPEAR team and what could be at stake, she already knew several shots of fortification would soon be required.
The cab dropped her outside the hotel. Lauren climbed out, drawing the long heavy coat about her outlandishly clad body to avoid attracting prying eyes, a maneuver she was long familiar with. Even then, passers-by gave her more than a second glance, some of the creepier ones trying to make extended eye contact.
Lauren pushed through the front doors and headed purposefully for the elevators, ignoring the front desk. Within a few minutes she was heading up to the eleventh floor, ignoring the stares of the bellhop, unable to shake the feeling that everything was about to go wrong. Damn, she should be confident — this was her job, her only profession. The mechanics weren’t exactly complicated. Both Stone and Bell would be putty in her hands. But for that to happen she had to feel more than confidence, she needed to exude it, discharge it like a weapon.
Usually, by now, Nightshade had taken over. Lauren found herself knocking on the general’s door with doubt lingering at the forefront of her mind.
Quicker than she expected, it opened. Stone stood there, glaring, his eyes as hard and black as obsidian, evaluating everything.
“Well, well,” he said. “Do we have a problem?”
Smyth exited the Pentagon soon after Lauren, stating to Hayden that he needed a few hours off. The team were in full information-gathering mode, not exactly Smyth’s strong suit, and nobody thought it unusual when he left. Besides, the others needed the odd break from his relentless, steady irascible snappishness, they all told him that often enough.
Smyth took a car, a black nondescript Chevy, and tailed Lauren back to her place, then again in the cab. Traffic was mercifully light. All the while he was wondering just what the hell he was doing.
Lauren didn’t need his help. She would beat him down — vocally at least — if she found out he was tailing her. The rest of the team hadn’t raised any major concerns, although Smyth had noticed Drake’s uncertainty. An unaccountable need to help reflected clearly in the Englishman’s dark eyes. But he hadn’t voiced anything: no promises, no requests. Clearly this team had evolved to the level where if you didn’t ask for help you didn’t get it.
Smyth didn’t truly believe that. Real life always got in the way, and real life now involved trying to head off a major international crisis encompassing these Pythian assholes and something about Pandora. Quickly, he reined in his wrath, knowing it was unfounded.
Why then did he feel the need to follow Lauren?
Well, who wouldn’t? was his immediate, flippant answer. But that wasn’t it. Lauren was part of the team and the only one in danger tonight. Smyth just couldn’t allow himself to let her take this on alone. After the loss of Romero…
Smyth gritted his teeth, fighting down an urge to strike the wheel. Quick to anger he was also quick to forgive, although kept that questionable value to himself. The image he portrayed was fine by him — it gave him solitude when he needed it and was always handy to end a tricky conversation. Conversely, it also allowed him to follow orders, which was Smyth’s highest goal in life. He would make a show of disliking them but would always fall in line, because that’s where he wanted to be — out of the limelight.
When Lauren’s cab cleared the Dupont Circle and stopped outside the Plaza, Smyth allowed his Chevy to drift over to the opposite curb. Illegally parked and finding it hard to care he stalked across the road to her blind side. Concerned that he remain hidden from her sight, he needn’t have bothered. Lauren’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead, as much in an effort to avoid appraising glances as a way of getting her head in the game. Through the hotel doors they went, then Smyth saw his first major problem.
Elevators.
As Lauren headed across the large lobby, Smyth scoured the room for an ally. The first that caught his eye was a short bellhop, dressed in the hotel’s smart livery. With a bound Smyth was at the guy’s side.
“The woman heading toward the elevators.” He didn’t need to elaborate. Judging by the bellhop’s eyes there was only one woman in the lobby at that moment. “I need to know the number of the room she goes into.”
He flashed a twenty, then a second, secretly hoping the little ass would just get a move on.
“Hooker?” the bellhop asked. “Or cheating wife?”
Smyth wanted to slap him. “Both,” he hissed. “Now, hurry. You’ll be helping out a good man.”
The bellhop, already sold, snatched the bills from Smyth’s hand and surged forward, pushing a half-loaded suitcase trolley. Smyth nodded in appreciation.
The bellhop grinned. “Not my first rodeo.”
Smyth didn’t smile back. His lips stretched thin and his eyes clouded as he watched Lauren enter the elevator.
Something was going to ignite here, in this hotel, he was sure of it. Something big. Lauren was only fanning the flames, heading into the heart of the fire. For the first time that he could remember, he just hoped he would be proved wrong.
Lauren reacted fast. Luckily the bellhop was plodding by at that moment, pushing his half-loaded trolley. Her eyes flicked from Stone to the bellhop and she stayed silent.
Thank God for the bellhop.
The general winced a little, perhaps realizing he’d come close to being spotted, perhaps not caring one iota. In his game, at his level, any kind of publicity could be doctored, spun, and put to good use. He held the door open.