The Asset, page 8
He chuckled. “No, ma’am. Nothing prissy about you.” To the car, he said, “Rock music, eighties.”
“Female artist,” she added.
Her favorite song blasted through the speakers. She closed her eyes and smiled. The beat had a way of rejuvenating her and empowering her. The heavy beat gave her strength for what lay ahead. She breathed in. Out.
Sensing that she was being watched, she opened her eyes.
“You really do like this music,” he said.
She nodded. “This singer was a woman who had to fight for her place in this world. A rockstar amongst mere men. I like that. It gives me strength, you know?”
He didn’t answer, but his gentle smile told her that he might have understood.
“What do you listen to?” she asked.
“Oh, you know, techno-lite songs. The prissier, the better.”
She tossed her head back and laughed above the electric guitar. He watched her do that too. She was used to having men watch her, but this was different. Gregory was assessing her every move. Why?
She waited for him to say more. He didn’t.
When the song ended, she shifted in her seat to face him. “What should I expect tonight? Do you know anything about this food event? Where is the food coming from? Was it created in a lab?”
Strangely, he swallowed hard. And his cheeks lost a little color.
“You’ll be safe. Don’t worry,” was the answer to a question she didn’t ask.
She tilted her head. “Is that all you can tell me?”
His lips were sealed, his gaze straight ahead.
She sucked in a deep breath. “Should I be scared, Gregory?”
His gaze quickly cut toward her. “Of course not. I’ll be with you.”
Which told her nothing at all.
“We’re here,” he said in a voice that had the ring of a death knell. She looked out the window and realized he’d pulled up to the warehouse on Fifth Street. And then he added, “Heather, don’t wander off. Stay close to me.”
That did it. She really was scared now.
CHAPTER TEN
Golden lanterns lit the way along a pathway snaking from the parking lot toward the warehouse. There were no signs or billboards stating what the event was. Heather and Gregory walked side by side, neither one of them speaking. What was going on in his head? As they got closer, Heather could hear live music playing and people laughing. It had the feel of an über exclusive party, especially with the two very large armed men guarding massive metal doors.
“Lieutenant Colonel Henkle.” One of the guards dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Welcome. This is a closed event. Is your guest on the list, sir?”
“Yes, she is. This is Ms. Heather Slade,” Gregory said, stepping closer and wrapping his arm around her. It was a possessive “Can’t you see she’s my woman?” move.
Normally, she didn’t like it when men spoke for her, but tonight she would let Gregory shield her from danger as much as possible.
Heather handed the guard her invitation.
“Hold, please.” The other guard took it and then tapped the corner of his glasses. He went silent for several seconds. Apparently, he was checking the secret list through his lenses to verify she really was invited. What did he think, she’d printed her own fake invite with all those exclamation points? Was he running face recognition? Matching her meta files to the Patriot open cases? Would he find anything questionable, like being recognized at the infinity hospital when Martin Slade disappeared? Being at the exact spot when they killed a journalist? Or the many other missions she’d run against Patriots? Every second that passed, she wondered if they’d figured her out. This was taking too damned long.
Gregory gave her shoulder a soft squeeze as if to tell her to relax.
“I found Ms. Slade,” the guard with the glasses said. “Her invite is real.”
What had he found? She still had the bad feeling she was walking into a trap.
“Welcome,” the first guard said. “You are both cleared to go in. Have a good time.”
Right. Like she was going to enjoy being poisoned by her enemies.
“Thanks! We will,” she said with a big smile. Lifting her shoulders, stealing her reserve, she stepped through the metal doors.
The noise assaulted her senses first—a heady mixture of music, loud conversations, and roaring laughter. Were people drunk already? She estimated that there were fewer than thirty people in the room. The feel in the air was joyous. Excited. Women hugged each other, laughing, smiling. The men clapped each other on the back. The invitees must really have believed that the government had found a way to create food out of…what? Thin air? The dusty, spoiled crops languishing in the fields? Petri dishes?
Long tables covered with ornate white tablecloths and nothing else formed a rectangular barrier to fence in the group. No one seemed to notice, like she did, that they’d been corralled. The only real way out was the way they’d entered—through the doors guarded by two very large PDs. Warning bells reverberated through her skin. If she had to bolt, could she take out the guards? What would Gregory do if she had to fight? He was the unknown factor in the equation.
Lifting her gaze, she searched for the cameras and spotted several immediately. Mini-devices were embedded in the string of twinkling lights draped across the ceiling. There were at least three more in the fake coconuts hanging on rubber palm trees dotted throughout the room. There was no doubt in her mind—they were being watched.
There was a stage at the back of the room. A spotlight lit up the stage, zeroing in on a podium like a big target. A blue-and-green Patriot flag had been carefully draped over the podium. A shiny brushed brass nameplate sat on top with the words, Senator Roger Smith.
Behind the stage two PDs stood on either side of a door. What was back there worth guarding? She wished she had her video glasses on to transmit the real-time scene back to I-Q-T, but since she didn’t have Hammer’s support in this mission, she was on her own.
She cast a glance at Gregory. His body was rigid. He seemed on high alert too. Something was about to go down. She clenched her fists, squared off her stance, and slightly bent her knees like a coil ready to spring. Where would the attack come from? She visually searched the guests, mentally frisking pockets for weapons. It was a room full of Patriot elite. Rich. Old money. Military spouses and mothers. Where was the danger? The ambush?
There! Lurking at the back of the room were two familiar faces she recognized from the Smith’s party—Caron, Senator Smith’s aide, and one of Blockwell’s low-level aides, Robert Sandovan. They both looked as shady as hell. What were they waiting for?
“Heather!” a voice pierced through the noise. “You came!” Tiffany squealed as she ran toward her.
She forced her body to dial back her fight mode. “Tiff!”
“Can you believe this? Roger did it! His team created food!” Tiffany pulled Heather into a hug. In Heather’s ear, she whispered, “Almost as good as your Mexican’s dishes.”
A flash of rage lit up her insides when Tiffany spoke about Mike. It took all of her willpower to pull back and smile. “I can’t wait to see what Roger has accomplished.”
“I am so proud of him. No more crappy food in the Union like the poor eat. We will get our fill whenever we want and won’t have to get it from the Free States!”
Heather gritted her teeth. The idea was to give the wealthy PDs more food and deprive the rest of the Union’s citizens? Why was she surprised?
The groan that Gregory made behind her was so low that only she could hear it. It was clear he didn’t have a high regard for Senator Smith’s wife or Roger himself. “I’ll get us a glass of champagne.”
He stepped away quickly.
“God, you always look stunning. Isn’t this amazing?” Tiffany was beaming.
“Totally. Unbelievable, really. Did you organize this?”
Tiffany waved her hand through the air. “Sort of. I had lots of helpers this time because this is huge.”
“I can see that.”
“Everyone who is anyone is here. It’s like a who’s who of Patriots. Over there—” Tiffany pointed with her champagne flute. “That’s Mrs. Mitchelson, one of the richest old biddies in the Union. Generations of oil money from her father’s company.”
Heather squinted. “I know her. She loves the Golden Patriot Express.” And hated Revos, Mexicans, and the poor. The woman had unloaded about how “those people” had caused all the problems in the Union. She also had a crush on the handsome Blockwell and wished him to be a forever president. Women like Mrs. Mitchelson had swigged down on the Patriot poison like it was a vintage bottle of chardonnay.
“Wait. You were on the Golden Patriot Express? Why did I not know this? I have been dying to go on that train, but Roger has been adamant that it is not safe yet,” Tiffany said.
Interesting. Heather knew something was amiss on that train. It had been too highly guarded, too sketchy. And who had put those bodies on the tracks to slow down her mission? What did Tiffany know about it?
“Really? It’s the president’s golden train. How could it be unsafe?” Heather pried.
“Oh, you know, Roger didn’t tell me anything other than it wasn’t time yet. He’s probably just trying to keep me from spending money. But you’ve been on it. Was it the best adventure ever?”
“It was pretty special. That’s where I met Gregory.”
“What? I thought you met him at my party.” Tiffany was pouting. She clearly wanted to take credit for the fake love affair.
Heather looked under her eyelashes, pretending to be embarrassed. “Ah, no. I saw him on the train and I thought he was hot. I mean, look at him. So virile…”
Both women looked at him.
Sensing the scrutiny boring down on him from across the room, he lifted the two glasses from a server’s tray.
“Hmm-mm,” Tiffany whispered.
“But your party was the kick in the pants I needed to make my move. Thanks, Tiffany.”
She was beaming again. “I knew it! My parties never fail.”
“Tell me about this party. What is it all about?” she prodded for intel.
“You are not going to believe it. Roger told me—” Tiffany was interrupted when Gregory joined them.
“Ladies.” He handed Heather her flute.
“Nice to see you again, Ltieutenant Colonel Henkle. I was hoping you would bring my bestie.” Tiffany gave him a wicked smile. “About time you took the relationship public.” She gave Heather one more hug. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds for now. Enjoy the music. The food will be coming out soon.”
And like a tidal wave, Tiffany rolled away as quickly as she’d come.
Damn it. What had Roger told her?
“Is she really your bestie?” Gregory asked.
And in a moment of truth, Heather replied, “I can’t remember having any real friends.”
Softly, he kissed her cheek and said, “Watch that one.” His gaze met hers. “And don’t forget you have me.”
Was Gregory her friend? Tonight, maybe. After that? She’d sleep with him if Madame X ordered her to and kill him in hand-to-hand combat if she had to as well. Real friendship wasn’t in the cards for the fake Heather Slade. She could never be a real friend to anyone. The thought made her a little sad.
Just then, a trumpet blasted, causing most of the people in the building to jump in surprise.
A man with a mic said, “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.”
Gregory mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, “Here it comes.”
The announcer continued, “Give a hearty round of applause for the man who made this momentous night possible—Senator Roger Smith.”
The crowd went wild. The room shook with applause. Heather’s insides clenched for a different reason altogether. Senator Smith knew about the prisoner of war camp. She’d heard snippets of discussions about the camp through the listening devices planted at Smith Mansion during the party. But it was such a dangerous discussion that Smith hadn’t allowed any Patriots to speak about it in any depth. HQ still didn’t know where the camp was. She ached to get Smith into a room and make him talk. The thought swamped her.
Could I grab him and drag him through the back exit? Get him out past the guards? Not likely, but damn, she wanted to try. She wanted to break him, make him spill all of his secrets, and tell her where the prisoners were being held. She wouldn’t care what they did to her if she could find her daughter.
As if sensing her murderous mood, Gregory touched her arm and whispered, “You’re not clapping.”
She blinked and brought her hands together quickly. “Overwhelmed by the possibilities.” It wasn’t a lie.
Senator Smith came on the stage, surrounded by two bodyguards. The senator took the mic. “Welcome, valued guests. As you all know, President Blockwell has made it his top priority to solve the famine problem in our great nation. We have been working around the clock to find the solution to a problem created by our Revo enemies.”
The crowd roared in disgust at the mention of Revos. She frowned, but not for the reasons that everyone else did. Out of her peripheral vision, Heather saw Gregory flinch.
“I am happy to report that we have done it! In a secret lab, we have unlocked the key to growing fruits and vegetables on our own land.”
Whistles and cheers pierced her ears.
“Never again will we grovel for food from the Free States. Those bastards don’t care if we starve…” People booed. “They don’t care about our elderly, our children…” The mass sounded like a mother bear growling in anger. “They want us all gone and will stop at nothing until our babies are dead and our skin rolls off our bones like an old carcass.”
“Kill them!” a man in the crowd yelled.
“Kill them! Kill them!” the crowd took up the chant.
The place had become a powder keg for a Revo spy. If this mob found out she was an asset, the odds of her surviving the night were slim. It took every amount of strength she owned to keep her body still, her expression neutral.
Senator Smith let the chanting go on for twenty seconds too long. He finally raised his hand to quiet the group. “Patience, my friends. We are working on that too.”
They laughed as if he’d told the funniest joke ever. Sweat ran down her back.
Smith smiled. “Now. Who is ready to eat the best food ever?”
The whistles and squeals hurt her ears. These people were loud and reactive. Dangerous lemmings who would follow Smith into the abyss. She had a flash of the painting she was re-creating in her basement. Was this the message that the artist was conveying—people stuck in the hole, not able to find their way out? Not wanting out?
Smith snapped his fingers and said to people behind the stage, “Now.”
“Stay close,” Gregory told her again as he pressed his hand against the small of her back.
What did he know? What was coming?
A team of servers marched into the room carrying large silver trays. Half of the servers held the trays up while the others started unloading beautiful delicate china full of colorful fruits and vegetables onto the tables.
“Oh, my God. Are those strawberries?” a woman next to Heather said. She turned to Heather. “Is it possible?”
Heather shrugged. “If Senator Smith says it’s true, it must be. Right?” Her mouth said the words, but her mind assumed the senator was lying. Growing this food in a laboratory seemed highly unlikely. The strawberries probably had come from the Free States or been stolen from Mike’s Food Trade Organization. She would follow up with him later, but first, she had to lift some strawberries.
She stood at the back of the line to study the partygoers gorging themselves on carrots, celery, kale. She watched for signs of poisoning. Red or pale sweaty faces. Immediate rashes. Eyes rolling back to the whites. Choking to death. All she saw were happy, joyful expressions. Maybe no one was supposed to die here today.
“What are you going to try?” she asked Gregory.
“I’m not hungry.”
He was acting strange. His body was tense again, his cheeks pale.
“You’re not into lab food?”
His mouth opened as if to say something important. Or something he didn’t want to say. He closed his mouth, keeping his secrets.
She whispered in his ear. “Is there something wrong with it?”
His eyes widened as if she’d shoved a knife under his jacket. “I’m just full. That’s all.”
There was definitely something wrong with the food. She nodded. “Me too. Do you think I could just…take it to go? We could go somewhere quiet like we did on the train. I hate eating with people watching me.”
His forehead knitted. “No. I don’t think they want the food to leave the event. For security reasons. All the food here tonight will be eaten.”
“But if we aren’t hungry now…” She chewed her lip. “Could you help me take some food home for later?”
“A midnight snack?”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
“Not a safe idea.”
“Still, it could be exciting.”
He studied her. “No. It’s far too dangerous. If we got caught, it could mean my job. And worse. There will be punishment.”
She studied his serious expression. “Then, don’t. I don’t want to put you at risk, Gregory.”
“I’m worried about you, Heather.”
“Don’t be.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “I like living on the edge.”
“I know,” he said.
What did that mean?
The people in front of her were oohing and aahing about the food spread. It seemed they were having a hard time deciding what to put on their plates. She was next. The line finally moved, and she and Gregory stepped up to the table. There were several empty spots on the food plates, but a few vegetables remained—dark-green zucchini sticks, carrots, slices of yellow squash, and a plate of raw spinach. Most of the fruit had been excessively picked over. Apparently, Patriots preferred fruit over vegetables.
Just then, she heard Tiffany’s voice. “Coming through, coming through. That’s my best friend. Move, please.”
