Christopher Reich - Rules of Vengeance

“Where to, Mr. Connor?”

“Notting Hill. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

Ka-tink .

Jonathan heard the noise and awakened instantly.

He bolted upright in bed, eyes open, ears straining to pick out the slightest sound. It was his habit to sleep with window and curtains open. Light from the full moon dusted the room with a silvery hue, casting sinister, elongated shadows. He saw nothing to alarm him and heard no further sounds. Throwing back the covers, he slid out of bed and walked to the door. It was closed, the lock secured, but the brass chain he’d fastened before going to sleep was dangling free, swaying ever so gently.

He turned back toward the bed, his senses pinched taut. He was not sure if someone had actually entered the room or if he’d tried to gain entry and failed. Jonathan turned on the lights. The bedroom was empty, so he walked toward the salon and ducked his head into the spacious sitting room. Again he saw no one. A warm breeze blew into the room, ruffling the curtains.

Ka-tink .

His glance fell to a side table where the curtain had harmlessly knocked a cut-glass vase against the wall. He moved the vase out of the way of the offending curtain. Relaxing, he put a hand to his chin and asked himself if he really had fastened the chain earlier. Maybe. Maybe not. He’d been tired, and more than a little stressed.

Just then, from close by came the hollow ring of a glass being set on a hard surface. He felt a presence behind him. Immediately he reached for the vase. He heard a footstep and thought, This is it. They know I’ve seen Emma. They’ve come for me . But before he could raise the vase, before he could spin to see who was behind him, a firm hand cupped his mouth and drew his head forcefully back.

“Ssshhhh. I’m not here.” She spoke in the lowest of whispers.

Familiar lips lingered against his ear. The hand lessened its grip. Jonathan turned, seeing Emma standing with her fingers to her mouth. He signaled his understanding and waited, motionless, as she circled the room, waving a small rectangular instrument close to the walls, the lamps, the television, and the telephone. She found what she was looking for behind an equestrian print, and in the bathroom attached to the back of a vanity mirror. She dropped the electronic listening devices into a glass and filled the glass with water from the sink. Then she closed the bathroom door and crossed the room to him.

She was dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, a black T, and black flats. Her hair was gathered into a ponytail, her cheeks flushed, her face unadorned with makeup. She ran her hand across his bare chest. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this.”

“Do what?”

She kissed him with her eyes open, then stepped back and peeled off her shirt. Never dropping her gaze, she unfastened her brassiere and let it fall to the ground, then stepped out of her jeans.

“How did you get in?” he asked .

“I have a room key.”

Somehow the notion didn’t surprise him. “And the chain?”

“That’s a parlor trick. I’ll show you someday.”

“I’ll bet,” he said. A parlor trick, just like her ability to field-strip a pistol blindfolded. “I thought we were going to see each other tomorrow.”

“Lack of discipline. No excuses, sir.” Emma lay on the bed, entangled in the sheets. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“What is?”

“What I have to tell you.”

Jonathan turned on his side. He looked into his wife’s eyes, cataloguing the flecks of amber in green. “Here I am,” he whispered. “Tell me.”

Emma ran a finger across his cheek. “I’m leaving.”

“You mean for another five months?”

“Longer.”

“You’re sure? How do you know?”

“Because I have to go away.”

“You already went away,” he said. “You said you were going to work things out and that we’d see each other when it was safe.”

“I hoped it might work that way.”

“How long are you talking?”

“I can’t say…”

“A year? Two?”

“Yes… I mean, I don’t know. A year, at least. Maybe longer. Maybe forever.”

Jonathan studied her features, seeking out the secret places where she hid her doubt. But he saw only steadfastness: the same resolute, stubborn woman he’d fallen in love with. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t. We both know that.”

“Stop talking as if I have a say in this. It’s your decision. It’s your damned life.” He threw back the sheets and left the bed.

“Not anymore it’s not,” said Emma. “I traded it in ten years ago.”

“For what?”

“Duty. A sense of belonging. The need to contribute. The same thing we all sign up for.”

“You did all that,” he said, turning, approaching her with a hand extended. “You did more than that. The government should be grateful.”

Emma lowered her gaze. “Division caught hell for the operation. Congress wanted to shut them down, but the president’s given them one last chance.”

“Another chance? Is he crazy?”

“I told you,” said Emma. “Division is like the Hydra. Cut off its head and ten more grow in its place. Division has its uses. The president knows better than to limit his options.”

“Have you spoken with them? With Division?”

“You’re joking.”

“I just mean-”

“What do you mean?”

“With all your contacts, I thought you might find a way to explain why you had to disobey your orders. They’d have to understand.”

“I’m rogue, Jonathan. I didn’t just disobey orders, I went completely off the reservation. I tried to take down the whole ship. That makes me the enemy.”

“But you stopped a passenger jet from being shot down.”

“But nothing. Besides, you saved the plane. The first time I show my face, I’ll get a bullet in the head. I thought I’d explained that to you. You think I’m living like a war criminal for the fun of it?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure I don’t know half of what you’ve been through.”

“No, you don’t.” Emma drew a breath. “Look, the new man running Division is a complete bastard. His name is Frank Connor. He’s not one of us. I mean, not trained in the field or any of that. His whole career he’s been behind a desk, and now he’s making up for lost time. God knows how they chose him. He’s smart enough to realize that his overseers won’t let him lift a pinkie until he takes care of me.”

“Are those his guys downstairs?”

“Probably.”

Jonathan sensed that there was more. “What happened, Em? Has he already tried? That scar on your back-what’s it really from?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

Emma stood and faced him. “Then, yes, Jonathan, he’s already tried. It’s what we do, remember? We target enemies. We find them, we follow them, and when we’re good and ready, we take them out. The only difference is that this time it’s me wearing the bull’s-eye.”

Jonathan nodded. He wanted to reach out and hold her, but he knew better. “Where were you?”

“ Rome.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Seeing old friends, Jonathan. At least, I thought they were my friends. I was wrong. Anyway, there I was in the Borghese Gardens, standing on a corner, waiting for a ride to dinner. I broke every rule in the book. I was alone without backup in a city I didn’t know well. For ten minutes my guard was down. And that’s when they came at me.”

“Jesus Christ, Emma.”

“Blakemore likes his knife,” she said offhandedly as she fingered the livid scar. “He forgot I knew that. I got away with twenty-seven stitches and a lacerated kidney. Guess I’m lucky.”