Kim Baldwin - The Gemini Deception

Ryden might have carried on with the men for the sake of having someone in her life, but the prospect of having to endure the occasional sex was unbearable. They weren’t rough or indifferent to her needs; they would try everything short of performing circus acts to satisfy her but never could. And in the end, they’d all call her frigid and leave, blaming her for making them feel incompetent.

Seven years ago, she’d concluded that her loveless childhood had made her incapable of feeling what she was supposed to feel and had stopped dating altogether. She had no desire to put herself through that kind of disaster again.

But if she was indeed frigid, why was her body aching? How did Kennedy, a woman, make her feel more desire and desired than she had ever imagined possible? No man had ever looked at her the way Kennedy had, and no one had ever made her feel the need to scream I want you . There was no doubt Kennedy had flirted with her, was there?

“I’m going through a stress-induced mid-life crisis,” she muttered to herself. “Give me a break. That’s obscene. That’s impossible, not to mention crazy. What’s wrong with me?”

Maybe, she mused, the attraction came from the fact that Kennedy had been adopted, was an orphan like she was, a kindred spirit. But since when does empathy produce bodily fluids? Ryden looked in the direction of her crotch. “God. I’m a total mess.”

And Ratman would have a stroke if he found out. She’d almost laugh if she wasn’t scared shitless of him. “There’s the silver lining everyone talks about.”

She got up and paced the room. Could Kennedy be playing around just to have something extra to blackmail her with? “No, that can’t be.” Kennedy had seemed sincere and almost uncomfortable with herself during their flirtatious banter.

Although the evening was chilly, Ryden felt like she was on fire. She opened the window and hung her head out. “What’s happening to me?” she asked the stars. Once she’d cooled off a little, she shut the window and turned to stare at the door. It had never looked more appealing. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have the guts to run.”

The ringing phone interrupted her monologue.

“Yes?”

“You sound breathless.” Ratman.

“So?”

“Is something wrong?”

Not if you consider me wanting to run the hell away from this place normal. “No,” she replied instead.

“I was told you were in the Yellow Room with Kennedy.”

“That’s right.”

“What were you doing?” he asked.

Oh, you know me. I love to wine taste with attractive women and wish to hell they’d kiss me. “Nothing much. I had a glass of wine.”

“And Kennedy?”

“She doesn’t drink on duty.”

“I meant,” he snapped with irritation, “did she say anything?”

“Like what?” What was up with the interrogation? “Kennedy talked about wine.” And I hope to hell she doesn’t say otherwise. “Why are you asking about Kennedy?” Did the Rat hear something? Had Kennedy just spoken to him?

“Just want to make sure she’s taking good care of you.”

You have no idea how good. “She’s very professional. Doesn’t talk much and is quite boring.”

The answer apparently satisfied him because he changed topics. “Have you checked your schedule for this week?”

“I’m prepared for tomorrow. I’ll read the rest of this week’s schedule tonight.” Ryden glanced over at the folder, which she’d tossed on the bed earlier. She’d apparently lain on it when she came in and hadn’t even noticed; it was crumpled and folded at the edges.

“Good.”

The only thing good , creep , she thought, is that the phones are tapped, because it means you refrain from saying, “So far, so good. Keep it that way and you’ll live.”

“Well then, get some rest for tomorrow.”

Fat chance since my body feels more wired than a guitar. “I will.”

“Good night, Elizabeth.”

I hope you slip in the shower and break your neck. And FYI, Elizabeth only sounds good when Kennedy says it. “Good night,” she replied, and hung up.

Kennedy even makes Elizabeth sound sexy. “Yup, time for a shower,” Ryden told herself as she headed toward the bathroom, still tingling from the interaction with Kennedy. “A bucket of ice and tranquilizers wouldn’t hurt, either.”

*

Houston, Texas

TQ watched the maid pour her nightcap—bourbon, neat—and set it on her desk atop a coaster. She smiled. “The eye patch becomes you. You finally look interesting.”

The young woman bowed. “Thank you, madam.”

The phone rang and TQ sighed when she saw the number on caller ID. “Get out,” she told the maid before she answered the phone. “And?”

“She asks a lot of questions,” Yuri Dratshev replied.

“I’m sure.”

“My men say nothing.”

“Your family’s life depends on it, after all. Is that everything?”

“She is asking for a TV. She wants to hear the news.”

“Good. It’s time we gave her one.” She reached for her bourbon and took a sip. Disciplining the maid had ensured no further problems. The amount in the glass was precisely to her specifications, and the glass had been placed exactly where she wanted on her desk.

“But she will find out,” Dratshev said.

“Yes, Russian genius.”

“You want her to.”

“The president has to be prepared, for when the time comes.”

“When the time comes?”

“Were you listening at all while I outlined this operation? I honestly don’t know how someone who needs to be reminded to blink can be so successful.”

“I pay people to remind me.”

“Don’t get cocky. I can have your family wiped out before someone has the chance to remind you.”

After a long silence on the other end, Dratshev came back on the line, his voice much more subdued. “I also talked with Jack.”

TQ sat up and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Yes?”

“She will see you.”

“You told her who I am?”

Dratshev hesitated. “Da.”

“I don’t recall asking you to do that.”

“You did not say I should not,” he hurriedly explained. “I told her you want to talk. That’s all.”

“What did she say?”

“She never says a lot. She said she does not know you and to give her your number.”

“So she wants my number,” TQ said, amused.

“Do you have a job for Jack?” he asked.

“You could say that.”

“She asks for big money, but she is good. She is the one who brought me Owens’s head. You know—the serial killer.”

TQ had read about the Headhunter being caught and killed in Vietnam a couple of years back. “They said the feds found him.”

“No,” Dratshev replied. “His ugly head is buried in my garden. She asked for three million, I gave her half in front.”

“Up front.”

“She never accepted the rest after she personally delivered his head.”

“I wonder why.”

Dratshev laughed. “Maybe because she liked killing him. She’s a very good killer and she can find anyone. You will be happy with her work.”

“Tell her to call me at 713-555-2457.”

“Good.”

“And get the president a television.”

“Da.”

TQ hung up and leaned back in her chair. So you’re that good, are you, Jack? Let’s see how long it’ll take to make you scream out my name for mercy.

Now she just needed a way to force Jack to come to her, and Dratshev might have given her some ammunition. The death of Walter Owens had been all over the news, and she recalled something about the leader of a Vietnamese skin-trade organization being captured in the same assault that had brought him down. Perhaps he could shed some light on Jack and her involvement.