Facing Fear (2 page)

His demotion a long time ago had forced him to swallow a lot of his pride. So when he was shifted from desk duty to being operations chief of Task Force Two as Gorman’s handpicked recommendation, he had taken it without batting an eyelash. Better the devil than total banishment in hell, he had thought then.

So it was time to pay the piper. He wondered what he would look like, and how high the price this time.

Nikki took down the wind chime she had hung on her balcony. The management said there had been complaints about it making a lot of noise. She stood there, observing the sight and sounds of morning traffic as everyone in the neighborhood went about his business.

Noise. They didn’t know what real noise was. The wind chime was the wind talking. A quiet melody spread out to bring balance to its surroundings. Even on a blustery day, the noisy chime was what was called the
chuung,
the center, and it took years of listening to catch the perfect pitch underneath
the din. That was the center. The peace and harmony sought by many.

She held the wind chime out for a moment, wishing she was back home where there were trees and flowers, wind chimes and fountains. She didn’t like her small apartment with its square rooms and tiny windows. It reminded her of things she would rather forget.

It had been years since she was last in Washington, D.C., the old center in her life. She looked out from the balcony, watching the other buildings in the way. Ironic that she was here, completing a circle, but wasn’t that expected?

“Beware the center,” she said out loud in Chinese, remembering the three prophecies given by her grandmother a long time ago. She didn’t heed those warnings until it was too late.

She understood why her agency came and asked her to do this contract for them. She hadn’t wanted it. She had retired after serving a productive five years. Wasn’t that enough? But she owed them this one last favor. They had saved her from hell when no one would have given her a second thought.

Besides, the money they offered was generous, and she would finally get what she wanted—an apology from the Department of Justice for what they had done to her. All she had to do was this one job, and if she succeeded, it would show those who had forgotten about her what an asset they had lost when they had abandoned her.

Nikki wasn’t exactly bitter. It was the nature of her former profession—an asset that no longer held any value was what her kind called a damaged wing. Why use up manpower and man-hours to save what was no longer useful? No, that part she understood. The bitterness came later, after she had discovered that her identity was wiped out
before
she had been taken prisoner. Which meant that she had been sent in with someone knowing full well that she was a sacrifice. The need to find out why had finally won over her reluctance to return to her past.

Drawing away from the balcony, Nikki went back into her apartment. She was here because she was an asset again.
How ironic. This time, though, she had a price. They weren’t just going to discard her after she did her job. She had learned from her past, and the agency that saved her had taught her well.

Her past was her price. All those months under torture, she had assumed it had been a misstep that had caused her capture, but she wasn’t a damaged wing because of her own mistake, as she had thought. Of course, she hadn’t known that at that time. She only found out much later that someone had betrayed her team. This time, she would make them acknowledge this. This time, she would find out the truth.

Nikki shut the sliding glass door and locked it. The wind chime in her hand jingled disharmoniously in protest. She looked down at it as she walked slowly into her bedroom. There would be no balance or harmony until this job was completed. She would then return to her simple life, her center, where the only people who knew her were those who had saved her.

She had been busy writing, a sort of cathartic release, in her retirement, when the call came from her former supervisor, T. When she had realized the exact part she had to play, she had almost refused.

“It’s time to face your fears, Nikki,” T. had said. “All this time you had requested noninterference, even when we could have contacted the DOJ about you. Now you can go back anonymously. This is your chance to right a wrong done to you.”

Facing fears. She had one main one; she wasn’t ready for it, not really. But she owed her agency her life and her sanity. She would come out of retirement for one last time to do this for them. And for herself.

D
uring the days following the memo, Rick opted to go with routine. If he changed his pattern right now, there might be more questions. He had his usual lunch alone, flipping through the files that were now technically useless. He couldn’t do anything until he was further instructed, either by the Department of Justice or the new deputy director, if they ever sent one.

He would give them a couple more days. If they were going to let him stew out here for the sake of seeing what he would do, then he would oblige them for forty-eight hours. Paperwork took time, and the clock in the DOJ had always run weeks slower than real time. Sooner or later he would piece together what they were up to.

Rick hadn’t heard about Gorman since they took him away. Even the newspapers hadn’t dug up more than the fact that a high-ranking agent meant high-level classified information passed on. What was Gorman saying? Rick suspected the man wouldn’t talk easily.

Back at TIARA headquarters, he took a moment to check the list of names of Task Force Two operatives in the building. He had to start monitoring their activities, to see if they were doing anything unusual.

“Can you direct all of last month’s sign in and out files to my office?” he asked Security.

“No problem, sir. Can you sign the request form?”

“Of course.” Paperwork. Endless red tape.

“I will transfer them up to your secretary, sir.”

“No, I want the information strictly FMEO.”

The woman arched her eyebrows. “For My Eyes Only” was usually meant for very classified files, some encrypted for security reasons. Rick knew the information he had just requested was a far cry from a federal secret. When he didn’t give any explanation, she just nodded, although the curiosity in her eyes was obvious. “Yes, sir.”

Rick signed the sheets and picked up his briefcase, heading toward the secured area where the elevators led to offices not allowed to the public. Visitors had to go through the cordoned-off area to the right, walk through the metal detectors and security guards, and were allowed access to only certain areas in the federal building.

He was surprised at the long line of visitors for a Monday, and they were all women. Dozens of them, with similar badges on their clothes, meaning they were all in a group together. They were chatting and laughing as their line slowly advanced through the necessary precautions. These days any big group had to have special permission.

Rick cursorily glanced in their direction as he went toward the private elevators. And froze. Way ahead, already past the security guards, was a group of four women just heading out of sight.

Her long hair had caught his attention. It was way past her hips, a rich, gleaming blue-black color that hung down her back. He stopped. He hadn’t seen hair that color and that long for years, and still it caused his heart to lurch, still made his hand grip the handle of his briefcase tighter, imagining it wound around and around his fist. The women turned the corner. He stood there indecisively, caught between memory and disbelief.

“Sir? Do you need something?”

Rick blinked. It was one of the security guards. “A lot of visitors today,” he said, casually nodding toward the crowd going in the opposite direction from him.

The guard grinned. “Yeah. A writers’ group, all wanting a
tour and to meet some real-life agents. Some big brass sponsored it personally.”

That was interesting information. Frowning, Rick looked that way again. “Who are the agents in charge of the group?”

“Don’t know, sir. Do you want me to find out?”

Rick shook his head. He could do that in a less conspicuous way. “No, thank you. I just wondered, that’s all.”

He resumed his walk to the private elevators. It had been years since little things stood out in a crowd and caused him to stare. In the old days it was tough, because there were many Asian residents in D.C., but in a way that turned out to be a blessing. After a while the Asian features helped to numb him. Nowadays he was seldom reminded of the past.

But hair that long. And that black. And last night, didn’t he think of her again when he saw a pair of dark brown eyes staring solemnly back at him from the lift at his apartment? And why the coincidences now? Maybe it was his guilty conscience making a return because of the Gorman scandal. He had been thinking about his past too much.

In the privacy of his office, he turned on his computer, bypassed a couple of codes, and pulled a printout of all the visitors downstairs that morning. He made a short list of names in his notebook. There weren’t that many Asian-sounding names, after all.

Nikki took a deep breath. She wasn’t very good with crowds. Something had happened when they’d locked her in that isolation cell. She didn’t realize it until much later, that her sensory perception went on overload when she was in a huge crowded place.

Her agency had taught her to use her new talent, so that she wouldn’t be overwhelmed. First focus on the space. Then the people. Lastly things.

The building had a headache. That was as close a sensory description of how she felt about it. Call it
feng-shui
, or whatever, but the building was sick.

She would never include these “feelings” in her reports,
of course, especially for this contract. She opened her mouth only if they asked her specifically for this part of her review. Most people wanted a diagnosis they could understand, with a definite solution. If there was a problem with the security, then obviously they needed fixes in that direction. If the problem was too much paperwork, then they would eliminate some red tape. Naturally, they wanted it all in writing so they could pass it around.

Nikki smiled at the thought. Problems weren’t always what they seemed. Lax security couldn’t be fixed no matter how many surveillance cameras were added, if the people behind it were the problem. Red tape was only part of the communication disaster between the different departments, and telling them in writing wouldn’t solve a damn thing, if no one was really listening. Besides, when it was time to implement any changes, the new administration would bring in its new group of people. The problems just continued, and worsened.

This building, in an overall sort of way, emanated impending disaster. She had only walked around in the areas marked for tourists today, and already could see enough problems that needed more than money to fix.

“So what is this romance you’re writing?” a male voice asked right next to her.

Nikki blinked. She had been too busy gathering the feel of the building to really pay attention to the tour. The romance authors were just the sort of joke that her agency liked to play on its operatives. Somehow they had gotten her a badge to go in with this group. It was an excellent cover, since almost all of them were women, and she could ask all kinds of questions under the guise of research for her book. But she didn’t really need to; she knew this place like the back of her hand.

The man speaking to her was an operative given the responsibility of taking them around and answering their questions. He was young and pleasant, obviously enjoying himself amid a bevy of female attention. He had the cocky air of a young operative. Her guess was he hadn’t seen much fieldwork.

“It’s a spy suspense,” she answered, returning his smile.
She stepped away just a tad. She didn’t like men standing too close; her being short was one of the less important reasons.

“Really? Let me guess—a government agent, right? And the heroine is in trouble, right?” he teased.

“Actually, the heroine isn’t in trouble. She’s the government agent,” Nikki answered.

“Oh, of course, it’s a women’s book. Sorry, I’m used to reading spy novels by male authors. You know, Ian Fleming. James Bond stuff.” He shrugged. “But please, if you have any questions about the job, I’ll be happy to help you out.”

“Thank you.” Nikki gave him a reassuring smile. “My heroine isn’t quite as lucky as James Bond, though. She doesn’t get to escape as easily as he does in the books. And of course, no handsome man to the rescue, either.”

“No handsome man?” He shook his head. “Wait a minute now—isn’t that usually the rule? My sis reads them and she’s always complaining she can’t find any tall, dark, and handsome heroes out in the real world. I know that’s what she’s reading in those books. So don’t tell me your hero is overweight and short.”

His observation amused her because he was more right than wrong. “No, my hero isn’t going to be overweight and short,” she agreed.

He arched a brow. “So what kind of hero’s going to rescue the poor heroine?”

Nikki smiled slowly. “Tall. Dark. Dangerous. And you’re wrong again. She’s doing the rescuing.”

“Excuse me, Miss…” The operative paused to glance at her badge. “Miss Taylor, but the others are signaling me that we’re moving on.”

“All right.”

The group gathered to go down another level. The leader told them that they were going to get a view of different weapons and a question-and-answer session on that topic. Some of the ladies made some comments about agents and guns, and there was loud laughter when one of the operatives happened to overhear and went beet red. Nikki took another deep breath as she followed along.

“You lucky thing,” one of the women said to her, gray eyes twinkling. “You got to talk to the cutie-pie. He has his eyes on you. Did you get his name?”

Nikki shook her head. “No, no, I didn’t.”

“Of course, I’m old enough to be his mother.” She sighed. “But a woman can look, can’t she?”

“Yes,” Nikki agreed, but she wasn’t really thinking of the young operative. She could look, but in a roomful of weapons, could she block the terror they brought her?

“Tell me what she looks like,” Rick said, studying the young man in his office, mentally recalling his file to mind. Erik Jones, in his second year of field training after laboring for four years in the encryption department. From his demeanor, he had never been summoned for a debriefing before. Rick sank into his leather chair and waited expressionlessly.

“I remember her quite easily, sir, the woman with the long hair. She looked Asian, but her last name is Taylor.”

“Taylor.” No wonder the list of names sent up that morning didn’t have an Asian name. She was probably married.

“Yes, and she is writing a romance.” The man flushed as he realized Rick expected more than that. “Some kind of James Bond romance.”

“How long did you talk to her?”

“The first time was about five minutes, sir, and then later, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“And you started the conversations each time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

The man flushed again. Rick continued looking at him. The trouble with the young ones these days was their inability to cut off emotions, even when it was a simple interview. How would Erik Jones stand under fire, in front of the enemy, with his life on the line?

“She seemed different, sir.”

“How so?”

“Well, the long hair, for instance,” Eric said, finally making a helpless gesture. “I mean, that’s very noticeable.”

“Do you make it a habit to talk to women with very long hair, Agent Jones?” Rick asked politely, noting the flush had darkened and traveled down his neck. “If, let’s say, she had very short hair, would you have approached her?” He watched the Adam’s apple in Erik’s throat move up and down, and added, “Does my line of questioning make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes…no, sir.”

“If you can’t answer simple questions, how are you going to learn to ask them when it’s your turn?”

The young man looked down at the floor, then defensively shrugged. “It would be different. Asking is different from answering, sir.”

Rick cocked a brow. “Is that so? What did you think I wanted to know from my questions?”

Erik met his eyes for a moment, then looked away again. “You wanted to show me that I shouldn’t be talking to anyone without first establishing motive. I have to know why I want to talk to them.” His eyes brightened. “And I did question her, find out things about her.”

Rick shook his head. “No, Agent Jones. What you do when you’re attracted to a woman is your business. However, when you’re doing it within the context of your job, it becomes mine. This is a group of writers, and therefore I assume their questions would deal with certain aspects of our work. Did you ask anything that would be of use to you, or did you volunteer information?” The flush returned. Rick bet that all the man could tell him would be about the woman’s book, and nothing more. “When your O.C. asks you for information, and you keep opening yourself up the way you did to me, you’re just inviting reevaluation. So far you have told me nothing of value, Agent Jones.”

Erik cleared his throat again. “No, no, you’re right, sir.”

“Good. Let’s start again, shall we? Tell me what Nikki Taylor said.”

“Sir, it might be easier if I give you a report.”

It was going to be a long hour for the young man, Rick thought. “I don’t think so,” he countered softly.

Nikki couldn’t stay with the group and lunch at the cafeteria. The building was suffocating her. The coordinator had told them that they had an hour and a half before they resumed the tour. There was a restaurant nearby where she could have a quiet lunch, one of those where the food was expensive and dependent on the local business clientele. She didn’t feel like sitting in another touristy place.

The sight of the weapons had taken a toll on her. It had been years since she had seen so many in a room together. They were laid out in cases and hung on the walls, some of them instruments of pain she remembered very well. The walking cane with a secret knife. The short but sharp boot knife that could slash the throat it kicked at. The belt buckle that had sharp spikes on it. She had wanted to reach out and touch them, but of course that wasn’t allowed.

At one point amid the writers’ chatter, an inner voice had yelled,
You’re asking the wrong questions.
But she couldn’t ask the ones she wanted. The operative who had talked to her earlier had handed them all official caps for souvenirs. Out of a sense of irony, she had put it on.