Susan May Warren - Mission - Out Of Control

“I’ll go—we’ll meet you at the airport on Saturday morning. Listen, you’re all packed, you just need to get yourself there on time. No more holding the plane while you run through security.”

“They didn’t believe I was Vonya—what could I do?”

“That’s your fault for traveling as yourself.”

Yeah, see, no one recognized her when she simply played…herself. Not even her, anymore.

Leah hadn’t moved from the door, and Ronie stilled. She closed her eyes when Leah said softly, “I’ll be praying for you. For the record, I think you’re doing the right thing.”

Her feet clicked on the cork floor down the hallway. Ronie pressed her hand to the foggy mirror and pulled it away, watching her handprint. The right thing.

Yes, eventually it would be.

A half hour later, her face scrubbed clean, wearing her green Hulk pajama pants and an oversize Harvard sweatshirt, she found the Thai food in the kitchen in the middle of an otherwise empty countertop.

The entire apartment on the top floor of her building in SoHo reflected Vonya’s eccentric style, thanks to Tommy D’s vision for who she should be—at least for the various magazines that wanted an “insider look” into her life. The past year and a half, she’d risen in popularity so much she barely recognized the woman who just loved to write songs in the quiet of her room. From the S-shaped workspace suspended on cables in the middle of the kitchen, to folding Japanese screens that separated the spaces, to the two-story windows overlooking the skyscape of New York, the place exuded the artistic, eccentric flare of Vonya.

The only room Ronie claimed for herself—and she’d practically had to throw her body over it—was the tiny library with the round window that overlooked the rooftops of her neighbors’ buildings. Yes, she could be accused of sitting in the darkness, watching people as they stargazed on their rooftops or sometimes serenaded the city. She often grabbed her guitar and played along.

Her library contained her books, a white shag carpet, a chaise lounge she’d picked up at an estate sale and re-covered in lime-green, her old acoustic guitar, and a pile of lined music sheets and notebooks filled with her handwritten songs.

Not that any of them would be sung by Vonya. Even if Ronie did bring them out into the light, they’d die under the bright glare of Tommy D’s criticism.

Aw, she didn’t really want to be a blues singer anyway, did she?

She’d definitely picked the wrong song to sing on Talent Night at the Harvard Business School. Wow, talk about getting in over her head.

Ronie brought the Thai food to the white sofa, curled up on it, and flicked on the television. She avoided the entertainment and fashion channels, ignored the soaps, and finally settled on a cooking show. Bizarre foods. Could be fun to eat fried squid on a stick, right?

The phone rang and she gave herself permission to let it go to the machine. Probably just Tommy, letting her know he’d be late.

“Veronica Stanton Wagner, this is your father, and if you’re there, I expect you to pick up.”

Ronie caught a long noodle with her chopsticks.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to say…” He cleared his throat. She paused, her food halfway to her mouth. “Have a good trip.”

Oh, see, now that was nice—

“Please try to stay out of the newspapers. And don’t drive your bodyguard mad. We’ve paid him good money to keep an eye on you.”

Ronie sucked in a breath.

“And your reputation.”

He hung up.

Ronie caught a piece of baby corn. Perfect. Just once, she’d like to hear his daddy voice instead of the senator voice, but frankly, it had been so long she probably wouldn’t recognize it.

She stirred her food, then set it down. If only she could have figured out another way to raise money other than go crawling back to her father.

Maybe she shouldn’t have given away quite so much of her money to charity. But she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t help—after all, she had so much to make up for.

She clicked off the television and stared at the glittering lights of the city, fatigued to the bone.

From inside her messenger bag next to the door, her cell phone buzzed. She put down her carton of food, got up and retrieved it.

A new text message. From Bishop.

Keep your promise, I’ll keep mine. Good luck.

It came with an attachment. She opened it, her heart racing.

Kafara. She knew him like her own handprint, despite the grainy image. He stood with three other boys about his age in a field next to a green truck. They wore dirty green pants and black shirts, their eyes dark and solemn.

Gravel filled her throat.

Each one of them held a black-as-night AK-47 on his hip.

She sank to the floor, ran her finger over Kafara’s twelve-year-old face. She knew it, she just knew that when his letters stopped, when she’d heard of the raid in his village, that General Mubar had “recruited” Kafara into his private army of enforcers.

Please, God, don’t let him have been used for minesweeping, or to murder someone.

Her hand shook as she saved the picture to her files. Yes, she’d most definitely have to shake Brody Wickham off her trail, whatever it took.

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