Jack Mars - Target Zero

He immediately sucked in a regretful breath as the water sloshed, barely a drop spilled.

Maya stared, wide-eyed, though he didn’t know whether her surprise was at his words or his actions. It was the first time that she had ever seen him move like that—and the first time he had ever acknowledged, out loud, that what he told them might not have been what had happened. It didn’t matter if she knew it, or even just suspected it. He had blurted it out, and there was no taking it back now.

“Lucky catch,” he said quickly.

Maya slowly folded her arms across her chest, with one eyebrow raised and her lips pursed. He knew that glare; it was an accusatory look she had inherited directly from her mother. “You may have Sara and Aunt Linda fooled, but I’m not buying it, not for a second.”

Reid closed his eyes and sighed. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook, so he lowered his tone and spoke carefully.

“Maya, listen. You are very intelligent—definitely enough to make certain suppositions about what happened,” he said. “The most important thing to understand is that knowing specific things could be dangerous. The potential danger that you were in for that week I was away, you could be in all the time, if you knew everything. I can’t tell you if you’re right or wrong. I won’t confirm or deny anything. So for now, let’s just say that… you can believe whatever assumptions you’ve made, so long as you’re careful to keep them to yourself.”

Maya nodded slowly. She stole a glance down the hall to make sure Sara wasn’t there before she said, “You’re not just a professor. You’re working for someone, government-level—FBI, maybe, or CIA—”

“Jesus, Maya, I said keep it to yourself!” Reid groaned.

“The thing with the Winter Olympics, and the forum in Davos,” she pressed on. “You had something to do with that.”

“I told you, I won’t confirm or deny anything—”

“And that terrorist group they keep talking about on the news, Amun. You helped stop them?”

Reid turned away, glancing out the small window that looked out over their backyard. It was too late, by then. He didn’t have to confirm or deny anything. She could see it on his face.

“This isn’t a game, Maya. It’s serious, and if the wrong kind of people knew—”

“Did Mom know?”

Out of all the questions she could have asked, that one was a curveball. He was silent for a long moment. Once again his eldest had proven herself too smart, maybe even for her own good.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

“And all that traveling you did, before,” Maya said. “Those weren’t conferences and guest lectures, were they?”

“No. They weren’t.”

“Then you stopped for a while. Did you quit after… after Mom…?”

“Yes. But then they needed me back.” That was enough of a partial truth for him to not feel like he was lying—and hopefully enough to sate Maya’s curiosity.

He turned back toward her. She stared at the tiled floor, her face etched in a frown. There was clearly more she wanted to ask. He hoped she didn’t.

“One more question.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. “Did this stuff have anything to do with… with Mom’s death?”

“Oh, god. No, Maya. Of course not.” He crossed the room quickly and put his arms around her tightly. “Don’t think like that. What happened to Mom was medical. It could have happened to anyone. It wasn’t… it had nothing to do with this.”

“I think I knew that,” she said quietly. “I just had to ask…”

“It’s okay.” That was the last thing he wanted her to think, that Kate’s death was somehow linked to the secret life he had been involved in.

Something flashed across his mind—a vision. A recollection of the past.

A familiar kitchen. Their home in Virginia, before moving to New York. Before she died. Kate stands before you, every bit as beautiful as you remember—but her brow is furrowed, her gaze is hard. She’s angry. Shouting. Gesturing with her hands toward something on the table…

Reid stepped back, releasing Maya’s embrace as the vague memory spurned a dull headache in his forehead. Sometimes his brain tried to recall certain things from his past that were still locked away, and the forcible retrieval left him with a mild migraine at the front of his skull. But this time was different, stranger; the memory had clearly been one of Kate, some sort of argument they had that he couldn’t recall having.

“Dad, you okay?” Maya asked.

The doorbell rang suddenly, startling them both.

“Uh, yeah,” he murmured. “I’m fine. That must be the pizza.” He looked at his watch and frowned. “That was really quick. I’ll be right back.” He crossed the foyer and glanced through the peephole. Outside was a young man with a dark beard and a half-vacant gaze, wearing a red polo shirt bearing the pizzeria’s logo.

Even so, Reid checked over his shoulder to make sure Maya wasn’t watching, and then he snaked a hand into the dark brown bomber jacket that hung on a hook near the door. In the inside pocket was a loaded Glock 22. He clicked the safety off and tucked it into the back of his pants before he opened the door.

“Delivery for Lawson,” the pizza guy said, monotone.

“Yup, that’s me. How much?”

The guy cradled the two boxes with one arm as he reached for his back pocket. Reid instinctively did too.

He saw movement from the corner of his eye and his gaze flitted left. A man with a military buzz cut was crossing his front lawn in a hurry—but more importantly, he was clearly wearing a holstered gun on his hip, and his right hand was on the grip.

Reid held up his arm like a crossing guard stopping traffic.

“It’s okay, Mr. Thompson,” he called out. “It’s just pizza.”

The older man on his front lawn, with his graying buzz cut and slight paunch, stopped in his tracks. The pizza guy glanced over his shoulder and, for the first time, showed some emotion—his eyes widened in shock when he saw the gun and the hand resting upon it.

“You sure, Reid?” Mr. Thompson eyed up the pizza guy suspiciously.

“I’m sure.”

The delivery guy slowly pulled a receipt from his pocket. “Uh, it’s eighteen,” he said, bewildered.

Reid gave him a twenty and a ten and took the boxes from him. “Keep the change.”

The pizza guy didn’t have to be told twice. He jogged back to his waiting coupe, jumped in, and screeched away. Mr. Thompson watched him go, his eyes narrowed.

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” Reid said. “But it’s just pizza.”

“I didn’t like the look of that guy,” his next-door neighbor growled. Reid liked the older man just fine—though he thought Thompson took on his new role of keeping a watchful eye on the Lawson family just a bit too seriously. Even so, Reid decidedly preferred having someone a bit overzealous to someone lackadaisical in their duties.

“Never can be too careful,” Thompson added. “How are the girls?”

“They’re doing fine.” Reid smiled pleasantly. “But, uh… do you have to carry that around in plain sight all the time?” He gestured to the Smith & Wesson at Thompson’s hip.

The older man looked confused. “Well… yes. My CHP expired, and Virginia is a legal open-carry state.”

“…Right.” Reid forced another smile. “Of course. Thanks again, Mr. Thompson. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

Thompson nodded and then trotted back across the lawn to his house. Deputy Director Cartwright had assured Reid that the older man was quite capable; Thompson was a retired CIA agent, and even though he’d been out of the field for more than two decades he was clearly happy—if not a tad eager—to be useful again.