“Agreed,” Al said curtly.
Felice sipped her coffee, fighting to keep her gratification at his acquiescence from showing on her face; that would be too much like gloating. “I ordered the elimination of both Subject C and Xavier. Given his interest in her, I saw no other choice.”
“You should have come to me.”
Her look was withering. “You never would’ve agreed. You’d have tried to talk me out of it, at the very least. I saw what needed to be done, and I took care of it.”
“No, you tried to take care of it and you failed.”
Again, that withering look. Felice didn’t like to fail, and even more hated having her few failures pointed out. “I’ve brought in a specialist to finish the job.”
“That’s all well and good, but how do you expect your so-called specialist to find Xavier?” If Xavier was in the wind, they’d never locate him—unless and until he wanted to be found. And if he did, that would be very bad news for them.
“That’s his problem.” Felice took her coffee cup, cradled it, took one sip.
Al stared at her for a long moment, burying his rage deep. They knew that Xavier had trip wires that would make the details of what they’d done public, in order to protect himself and Lizzy. It would be devastating for the country if that were to happen. Even if they managed to plant doubts about him and the story, to clean up the mess, to paint Xavier as nothing more than a conspiracy theorist, the details he released would remain. The conspiracy theory would live, perhaps forever. And if enough people believed it…
“No, it’s your problem. He will come after you.” Al tried to remain outwardly calm. “Tonight, two years from now, at any time in between.” He noted the way her shoulders tightened again. “I suggest that you put your specialist on your house. If you’re lucky, Xavier will show up sooner rather than later. He’ll find Subject C, secure her, and then he’ll come after you. If he decides to wait, if he takes more time to plan and doesn’t act while he’s still pissed, you won’t have a prayer. But if he reacts in anger and attacks now, it’s possible your specialist can intercept him at the house and end this.”
“And Subject C?”
“If I were you, I’d deal with Xavier first and then worry about what your fuckup cost us where Subject C is concerned.”
“You could offer to help,” she said. “You have the personnel.”
Was she fucking kidding? Al clenched his jaw, but he kept his cool, as much as was possible given the situation. “That wouldn’t be smart, at this point.”
Her quick agreement to meet this morning finally made sense, though: she wanted him to help her clean up the mess she’d made. She didn’t know him at all if she thought he’d risk any of his people to track down another one of his own because she’d screwed up.
“If he contacts you …”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Al said dryly.
Felice left her half-full cup of coffee sitting on the table and left the tank without looking back.
Al followed her, retrieved his weapon and cell phone, and headed for the room where Dereon Ashe was on duty, listening for activity at Subject C’s house, watching the monitors on her car, listening to activity in her office. If that duty had been dull before, it was now beyond boring. There was nothing to listen to. If enough of Lizzy had come back, there was no way she’d risk returning to any place or person she’d known as Lizette. The question was, how much had come back? Just enough to make her run, or enough to make her dangerous?
Felice would take his advice and put her specialist on her own home. Maybe she’d even think of him as a double-duty off-the-books employee, a bodyguard for herself as well as someone who could take Xavier down when he came after her. Xavier would be looking for that move; when he moved in on Felice he’d be looking for someone like her specialist. If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t be the man Al himself had trained, years ago.
Felice thought she had everything well in hand, but Al would put his money on Xavier any day.
Chapter Twenty-two
Three hours. Three hours and fifteen minutes of misery and determination. This section of road was straight, thank heavens, but she could use a downhill coast right about now. Her muscles were on fire, from her neck to her ankles. Her butt was beyond numb.
She was passing through a small collection of businesses that likely constituted some kind of township, but if there had been a sign she’d missed it. She had seen a sign that said the speed limit was 3.0, which had distracted her until she’d realized the decimal point was a bullet hole.
For the past hour, her entire focus had been on moving forward while her body screamed for her to stop. Curse words she hadn’t even realized she knew slipped from her lips as she pedaled. To anyone watching, with her backpack, helmet, drugstore clothes, and the now constant muttering, she probably looked like a crazy bag lady with a bicycle instead of a shopping cart, and she didn’t freakin’ care.
Maybe it was the constant pedaling, the rhythm, the steady sound of the tires on the road, or simply the fact that for the first time in a long while her mind wasn’t entirely occupied with how to survive from one minute to the next, but as she struggled up one hill and coasted down the other side, a few memories suddenly eased into focus. She tensed, expecting the wallop of a headache that would knock her off the bike, but … nothing. No pain, no nausea. She relaxed and let the memories come.
The memories weren’t anything earth-shattering, and really not all that specific, just kind of general-knowledge memories. She hadn’t always worked in an office, hadn’t always been a predictable, routine-bound, never-miss-a-day, nine-to-five employee. Chicago. A security firm. Not some little fly-by-night PI outfit, but a top-notch security firm with offices located in a tall building in downtown Chicago, with windows that overlooked the city. The firm had attracted a lot of high-profile clients. She’d worked as a bodyguard on more than one occasion; men especially liked her because she didn’t look like a bodyguard, but she could shoot like one.
And drive. Her heart skipped a beat. So that was where she’d learned evasive driving, how to spot a tail and lose it. The job also explained why she’d so often reached for a handgun that wasn’t there. Once there had been a time when she’d never been without her weapon.
There was still nothing that would explain why she’d lost her memory of that time or why anyone would want her dead, but her previous occupation explained a lot. It was a relief to know that these newfound skills she possessed had come from a legitimate job and not … well, not.
When she actively tried to remember, something blocked her, something got in the way. So as she pedaled along the side of the road she didn’t make an effort to think about anything in particular; she just let her mind go free, and that’s when the images played through her mind.