Mission: Out of Control Page 5

  Derek flopped down next to him. “Wow. Is she as hot in person?”

  In person? Not exactly, but at the senator’s house, she did have a sort of class that had stunned him.

  In fact, he felt like he chewed on his tongue all the way through dinner at the Wagners’. Until, of course, she pitched the roll in his face. Now, that was a little hot.

  No. Not hot—good grief, he sounded like a teenager.

  “I don’t know. I’m just protecting her.”

  “Oh, come on, dude.”

  He still couldn’t merge the split screen between Vonya and Veronica. But he didn’t especially like either version, thanks. “Naw, she’s not my type.”

  Derek grabbed the ball, spinning it on his finger. “What’s not your type? Have you looked at her?”

  Brody pushed him over. “Please tell me that you’re really not a moron, and I don’t have to hurt you. There’s more to a woman than how she looks.”

  “Yeah, sure there is.” Derek grinned at him, setting the ball between his knees. “Okay. I’m just kidding. So what’s she like?”

  “You don’t even like me.” Again Brody heard pain in her voice. What did she care if her bodyguard liked her?

  Brody combed through the grass, picking up the remnant cuttings. “From what I can see, she’s totally out of control, flamboyant, stubborn, ungrateful, selfish and a waste of exceptional talent.”

  Derek smiled at him. “Uh-huh. Wow. Yeah, it’s a good thing you’re working for her because, you know, you’re definitely not interested.”

  Brody glared at him.

  “Then again, maybe you don’t know how to get a girl’s number. It’s not like you’ve been around any women for the past ten years. Last time I checked, they don’t let women into Special Forces.”

  No, not the Special Forces, but he’d been around women.

  Or rather, a woman.

  Brody looked away and, just like that, Shelby was there in his thoughts, her hand over her eyes to keep out the dirt churned up by the chopper, the wind whipping her brown shirt, waving to Brody as he touched down on the dusty pad.

  Brody reached for the ball. “I think it’s time for a game of Horse.”

  But Derek was looking at him strangely, as if he’d seen right into his brain. “There was a woman, wasn’t there?”

  “Seriously, you might have me in one-on-one but I can still outshoot you.”

  “Who was she?” Derek moved the ball away, out of reach.

  Brody pursed his lips. Well, it wasn’t like Derek was the CIA, or even a psychologist. “A doctor I met at a refugee camp in Africa. We were evacuating patients and helping with food distribution.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Dr. Shelby Marks.” He’d so rarely spoken her name over the past year, just letting it form on his lips elicited ache. And it also had the power to conjure. She lingered in his mind, long blond hair held up in a ponytail, wisps around her face, big green eyes filled with compassion, hands that could heal.

  And way too much determination in her expression for her own good. His own good.

  Especially when that determination had turned into desperation.

  “What happened? Did you two break up?”

  Brody looked away, toward the bruised sky. “No. We were really never together. I met her, she had something about her—probably I had more feelings for her than she did for me. But we never really found out.”

  Derek stayed silent beside him.

  Brody shook his head, almost willing the words back, but his chest flooded with an urge to tell someone. To breathe it out, with the hopes that in the telling the pain would loosen its hold, even fly into the atmosphere.

  “She was killed while trying to rescue one of her patients.”

  Derek frowned. “I’m sorry.” He squinted, as if trying to read Brody, and then—probably because the kid was his spittin’ image on the inside as well as the outside—said, “You were there.”

  Brody sucked in a breath. Nope, it hadn’t worked. The pain had returned, filling every pore, burning, shaking through him. “Yeah. She died in my arms.”

  Derek looked away, following his glance to the darkening horizon.

  They sat in silence, listening to the cicadas, the cars motoring home into suburbia. Any moment now, Mom would have a roast on the table. Dinner would be loud and noisy, the perfect escape from this moment. From every moment over the past year when the image of Shelby, looking up at him with fading eyes, paralyzed him.

  “How’d she die?” Derek asked softly. Brody recognized the compassionate tones of their mother in his kid brother.

  Brody’s own voice turned hard. “She trusted the wrong people. She heard a woman and her son had left the camp, and she went after them. Such a stubborn woman. I told her not to, but she wouldn’t listen to reason. Just had to do it her way.”

  Brody, for once, will you just follow your heart instead of your head? Emotions did that—put his brain, his common sense, on the fritz. Which was exactly why he’d never let them out of their box again.

  “It was a trick. She was ambushed. Shot by a bunch of rebels.”

  Derek didn’t move. “But you took them out.”

  “Yeah.” Brody nodded, his body steeling against his words. “I took them out.”

  Derek said nothing as he stretched his fingers out over the ball, then held it up in his grip. “Is that why you quit? Why you’re doing this mall-cop stuff?”

  Although it tore through him and turned him inside out if he let it, Shelby’s death wasn’t what drove him from his life in the military, just short of his retirement.

  It wasn’t her screams that woke him in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, gasping.

  It wasn’t her blood spilled that made him long for the mindless, easy job as a security specialist for Chet Stryker’s international security firm.

  She’d known the cost and was ready for it.

  But there could never be a healing, a catharsis, a forgiveness for killing ten-year-olds. Even if one of them did have an AK-47 aimed at Brody’s head. No wonder God seemed so quiet, although it had been Brody’s hope that He would forgive him that kept driving him to his knees, reading the Bible. Hope, however, had started to wane.

  So, Brody took a breath, dug deep into his training, and found his decoy voice. “I’m a little more than a mall cop but yeah. I needed something a little less life-and-death.”

  “I get that.” Derek spun the ball. “You ever going to go back, into the military?”

  No, he just wanted to lie low, put the pieces together, try to live with himself. He didn’t really mind babysitting five-year-old princesses or running security checks on international bankers’ vacation homes. Anything to keep his mind off the past, to make him feel like he wasn’t a complete failure. “That life’s over.”

  “So is that why you’re watching over Vonya?”

  Was that why? To keep him from looking over his shoulder, or salvaging his future?

  Maybe.

  But somehow, over the past week, it had become more. Little Miss Pop Star had all his instincts firing—she had something to hide, and he wanted to know what it was.

  Last time he’d ignored his instincts, people died.

  Never again. He simply couldn’t live with himself if it happened again. Even if she did drive him a little crazy along the way.

  “I just hope she’s not as much trouble as she seems.”

  Derek passed him the ball. “I have no doubt that you know what you’re doing, bro.”

  Until recently, he thought he did.

  He probably stayed up too late going over the different venues, the staff at the events. Threat assessment with a short deadline seemed sketchy at best, and he hated it.

  Someone should have been watching Vonya’s back long before this. He’d found no less than three websites dedicated to “Vonwatch,” and some of the threads on her fan forums felt downright creepy. Still, even he had to admit that her so-called stalker f
rom last year seemed more of a starstruck fan than a guy out to hurt her. And as for General Mubar’s threats…well, he’d threatened half the congress, not to mention the U.S. media and the United Nations.

  A small part of Brody might agree he had defaulted to overachiever mode. Still, he was paid to stay on her like glue, whether she needed it or not.

  The D.C. sky bled gray as he drove to Reagan National Airport. He dropped his rental car off, then found his flight. Thankfully, he’d booked a window seat. He popped in his earbuds, letting the cool electric blues find him. Stevie Ray Vaughan, God rest his soul, knew how to calm his nerves.

  Classical. He smiled at the answer he’d given Veronica at the table. She wasn’t the only one with secrets. Only difference—he had every intention of unearthing every last one of hers.

  Brody’s plane touched down at LaGuardia and he grabbed a coffee, then headed toward the VIP lounge of their KLM carrier. He’d wanted a charter flight, but Vonya had nixed that. At least he’d managed to secure for them first-class seats.

  Okay, he’d secured first class for him and Vonya and Tommy D. The road manager, the band and Leah would fly in business class.

  He entered the lounge and spotted a few familiar faces among the travelers. Tommy D raised a Bloody Mary to him, nodding.

  Leah sat in a corner, earbuds in, eyes closed.

  Where was Ronyika? A businessman tapped out something on his computer. Another was concentrating on his iPhone. A third stood at the bar, ordering up something bracing for the flight.

  A woman with a plaid brimmed hat and overlong brown hair tied back in a messy ponytail, wearing yoga pants and pink Uggs, read a Jane Austen book, a pair of black glasses low on her nose.

  Ah, there she was. Staring at the tarmac, with blond hair piled up like a long-ago starlet, a red leather jacket over her shoulders, wearing go-go boots and a leather skirt. He dropped his bag into a chair and slid up to her.

  “Nice disguise. But you can’t fool me.”

  “Oh, honey, this is the real thing.”

  The gravelly voice of a lifelong smoker grumbled out the words as the woman grinned at him. Definitely too old for that short skirt. He didn’t want to guess further. She looked past him, turning as the man from the bar offered her something orange and frothy.

  Okay, his instincts simply weren’t firing anymore. He skulked back to his bag, scanning the room.

  An adolescent boy with mocha skin, wearing a pair of skater shoes, jeans and a orange T-shirt, fought with his Nintendo. Another woman, her long legs crossed, flipped a newspaper.

  “Where is she?” He looked at Leah, raising an eyebrow. She popped out her earbuds.

  “What?”

  “Where’s—?” This was why he needed his backup. It wasn’t like he could announce her name here in the middle of the airport, right?

  “Ronie?” Leah said.

  “I’m right here.”

  He turned. The brunette put down her book and grinned up at him. “Gotcha.”

  Oh, weren’t they going to have fun?

  She was so going to win their security war. She waited until Brody buckled in next to her, then slipped out past him to the bathroom. They were closing the doors but she had time for a quick text.

  I’ll be there.

  At this rate, Kafara was halfway home.

  She deleted her sent message, then adjusted the wig—something Savannah had worn near the end—and smiled into the mirror. Thanks, sis.

  The flight attendant had begun to read off the passenger instructions as she slipped back into her aisle, climbing over Brody to get to her window seat.

  “Listen,” he whispered, “we need to come to some agreement here.”

  She buckled her seat belt, cinching it down, and grabbed Pride and Prejudice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He made a face and shook his head. Ha. She could recognize frustrated when she saw it. Another week, tops, and he’d go packin’.

  “Ronie, you win. I quit.”

  Huh? Already? She turned to him, hating suddenly the feeling of loss. Okay, this had been way too easy. “I win?”

  “I can’t keep up with your disguises. And you clearly don’t want to let me in on your life. I mean, it would have been nice to know that Lyle was going on this trip with us.”

  She’d seen him back in business class, with Leah, still head-down in his game. “I’m sorry. He was a last-minute addition.”

  “But one I should have known about. I’m not a bad guy—I get that you want to take him with you. We just need to work on our communication. I’m not the guy who’s going to stand in your way. I’m just going to make sure you’re alive when you get there.”

  Brody had pretty eyes. She hadn’t really noticed them before—a dark green, almost, with flecks of hazel inside. And he smelled good, too. Like Old Spice cologne. She’d actually noticed the flight attendant’s gaze rest on him as he’d lifted her bag into the overhead.

  He filled out that black T-shirt pretty well, too.

  Not that she was looking. Because, contrary to his belief, he would stand in her way. At least once he found out what this trip was really about.

  Still, maybe she could appease him a bit. Get him to lower his guard, offer an olive branch. “Maybe you’re right. I have been giving you the dodge, haven’t I?”

  “A little. And really, you should be a spy or something with the way you can slip into a room unnoticed.”

  A spy. She tried to stay calm, not let herself give anything away. If he only knew… Still, she let a little smile escape. “Thanks. I spent years perfecting that move at my father’s dinner parties. Savannah and I—” She sucked in a breath. “I was always trying to get my hands on a glass of champagne. Until, of course, I succeeded, and managed to throw up all over my Christmas dress. Hate the stuff. I don’t drink.”

  But his smile had dimmed on her Savannah slip. She swallowed past a boulder in her throat. No, please. “What are you listening to?” She reached out for his iPhone and she could have hugged him—okay, not really, but he did win points when he released it to her. She scrolled through his playlist. “Stevie Ray Vaughan, BB King, Otis Rush, Eric Clapton…and Big Joe Turner? You got a great mix of blues here.”

  He seemed to consider her for a moment. “I was listening to Texas Flood on the flight from D.C.”

  “I’m more of a BB King fan, although I love the cover song for Texas Flood. I have the live version on my phone. But I’m more into the original blues. In my other life, I’m Bessie Smith. Or Billie Holiday.” She handed him the phone. “I have to admit, I’d never peg you for a jump blues fan.”

  “That’s more for fun.” He turned the phone off. “Bessie Smith?”

  “My mother had an album. We listened to it all the time when we rummaged through her closet. Savannah…” What was her problem? Why couldn’t she seem to get her sister out of her brain? Or her vocabulary? She sighed, letting the sentence play out. “She had a great blues voice. I can still hear her—‘Trouble, trouble, I’ve had it all my days; it seems like trouble going to follow me to my grave.’”

  Oh, see, when she let it, the past just took over, and she began to babble. She rolled her eyes, fighting the burn in them. “Sorry.”

  But his eyes had gone strangely gentle. “She was the fifth person in the room the other night. Can I ask what happened?”

  She wouldn’t have answered, couldn’t have answered, but his voice, low and soft, seemed so…genuine. So willing to listen…to her.

  Not Vonya.

  Not Veronica.

  Shoot, even if it was an act, she couldn’t help herself. “Savannah was my older sister, by two years. She died when I was fifteen, from leukemia. Actually, she died because her body rejected my kidney, but probably it had more to do with the lethal combination of antirejection drugs in her body. And the last-ditch efforts…” She lifted a shoulder, turned to look out the window. The plane backed away from the gate.

  “I’m sorry.” />
  “It was a long time ago. But sometimes I still miss her.”

  Oh, why had she said that? Now he’d pat her arm or something, or maybe even start acting—how? It wasn’t like she even knew him well enough to guess.

  Although suddenly, a part of her wanted to. Especially when he said, “She used to like to swing, huh?”

  She turned to him. “How did you know that?”

  “You were singing on the swing at Harthaven. It drifted in my window.”

  He’d been watching her? She let that soak in for a moment before nodding. “She loved to swing. And dress up in our mother’s old clothes. And sing the blues.” And now she felt as if she’d just opened up her chest for him to take a good peek.

  He gave her a long look, finally nodding. “She sounds like someone I would have enjoyed knowing.”

  The plane engines revved and they taxied down the runway. She had the strange urge to reach over and take his hand.

  Like that made sense.

  The plane leveled off, reached cruising altitude. Ronie turned on her iPod, about to slip in her earbuds, when he leaned over to her. “So, if you love the blues so much, why the pop stuff? How did you get into the Vonya act?”

  “Talent Night, my second year at grad school. Tommy D, who was my best friend even then, wanted me to sing. It was for charity—we were raising money for the Harvard Square Homeless Shelter, and since I was involved, I thought, sure, I could sing something. But I just couldn’t…”

  “You couldn’t bring yourself to sing the blues.”

  She met his eyes, caught inside their compassion too long. “I came up with a funny song, something Tommy and I put together, then created a costume. It felt easier, you know, to be someone else. I probably overplayed it, and, well, Vonya was a hit. The songs were simpler back then—pop love songs, just for fun. But pretty soon Tommy had me booked in other venues. It sort of took on a life of its own, and in the beginning it was all fun. I gave everything I earned to the shelter, and it gave me a chance to sing. But then Tommy got me a gig on a late-night show, and it was all over from there. I could either finish my master’s degree or become Vonya. I thought it would be nice to take a break from school, so I dropped out. I didn’t mean for it to go this far, but…I have my reasons.”