Page 27 of The Eagle (Spy Girl 2)
"Are they real?"
"Yes, but there are two additional sets of forged ones in the other pack. Tell me what happened."
"A helicopter was coming. He sent us down a tunnel and over to the other house. Military men with machine guns came down from the sky." I purposefully name their weapon incorrectly. "They fired at the house and then it exploded. I got scared. Told the boy we were going on a trip. He got the backpacks and brought me here."
"You're a bright lad," he says, ruffling the boy's hair. "Your papa would be proud." Then he turns to me. "You will care for him?"
"What about his mother?" I ask in English, hoping he understands.
The little boy surprises me by speaking in English. "Momma with angels."
My heart skips a beat.
"How?" I ask.
"In a hit that was meant for him. Four years ago. That is when we came here."
"Are you related?"
"Old friends. We started out in the military together."
"Are you in the same line of business?"
"I brokered his jobs."
I let out a sigh. "Okay, I lied before. I am in the same line of work and was sent here to kill him. We were able to get the location of the hit in Paris. I followed him home. It's only a matter of time before they discover the location of your computer--if they haven't already. You're in danger, too."
"I have my own escape plan. You must leave now with the boy and get him somewhere safe. Can you do that?"
"Yes, I can," I say, remembering that Lorenzo was traveling to his home in London today and knowing that's where I need to go.
The man gives us both hugs, leads us to a back door, and hands me a set of keys. "Take my car."
"Thank you," I say.
Once I get the boy and the bags loaded up, the bartender slams me against the car. "If you think I'm going to let you take the boy, you're wrong." He pulls a gun on me and shoves it into my temple.
"Put the gun away, please. You're going to scare the child. I should know. Six years ago, The Priest shot and killed my mother in front of me."
The bartender backs away in shock. "You are the girl who shot him? Who escaped from him?"
"Yes, I am. And I've been training since then. I was sent here for retribution--for my mother and for the President of the United States, but I couldn't do it. Not with his son there--probably not at all."
"Then I understand why he allowed you to take the boy. You will fiercely defend him, won't you?"
"Yes," I say, then break down, the tears I've been trying to hold in coming at me like a tidal wave.
"You are a beautiful young woman," he says solemnly. "Forget about this life. Take the boy and retire. In the backpack is a key to a safety deposit box in Zurich. There is enough money for whatever you could possibly need. Give him a normal life."
"There were two parts to my mission. One was to find out who ordered the hits."
"I can't tell you."
"But you don't understand. I can't possibly have a normal life unless I find out."
"If I tell you, do you promise to take care of the boy?"
"You have my word."
He contemplates this for a few seconds. "Normally, I do not know who hires us. That is part of the business. Someone orders a hit. The hit is completed. Money is wired. It is all done covertly, anonymously. We don't care who hires us or their reason for it--only that we are paid."
"So you don't know?"
"At first he turned down the hit on the President. The job was too big and not worth the risk. Then a message came back with a higher offer and something more important. Information. Six years ago, after he took the hit on your mother, he was double-crossed. A team of men was sent to kill him and he and his family barely escaped. We learned the man who ordered that hit was John Hillford, Senior."
"But how could that be? My mother worked for the government!"
"I don't know why. And I don't know who ordered the hit on the President. It came through a middleman. The money man."
"I need to know his actual name."
"Fine," he says, quickly sprawling the name across my hand. "But I must warn you. He is a very bad man." The bartender hugs me. "Please, you must go now."
I get into the car in stunned silence, putting the key in the ignition and starting the car.
When I do, I notice my watch.
I pull it off, not wanting to be tracked, and hand it to the bartender. I explain how it works and tell him that there is a tracking device in it.
He nods in understanding. "I'll take care of this for you. Now, go." He pats the top of the car as we drive off.
Once we are out of town, I stop and call my emergency number.
"Is your mission complete?" the distorted voice asks.
"Yes. The Priest is dead. I killed him. But while I was still in his house a team of eight men rappelled out of a military chopper. Thankfully, I heard the chopper coming and prepared. When they started firing, the house exploded and the men perished. I was lucky to have escaped."
"Did you put metal in the microwave and turn on the gas, like you were taught?"
"Yes, I did."
"Good girl."
"Were the men sent to kill me?"
"They were not." The Dean's true voice comes on the line. "I suspect that others may have discovered the whereabouts of the assassin and sent a team."
"Because they are tracking me?"
"No--they don't know about you."
"Well, I'm lucky to have escaped. I'll be taking a few days off. Going off grid."
"Back to Montrovia?"
"Honestly, it's none of your business."
"We can track your phone."
"I know. That's why I'm throwing it out the window as soon as I end this call. I just killed my mother's assassin. I need some time to figure out if I want to continue in this line of work."
"Just remember, X. The assassin may have killed your mother, but someone hired him to do so. You must find out who ordered the hit."
"I already know the answer to that. It was John Hillford, Senior."
"What?" he replies with shock. "That can't be."
"Well, it is. What I want to know is why the government my mother worked for wanted her dead."
"You know?"
"Yes, I know that my mother worked for the CIA. And I know you've been lying to me. Goodbye." I toss the phone out of the window.
"Where are we going?" the boy asks.
"London," I reply.
"Yipee!" He claps. "Does that mean we can get bangers and mash?"
"Absolutely."
I drive aimlessly, making sure I'm not being followed.
My mind is numb.
Not only did I not complete my mission, I am now responsible for a child. On a positive note, I did discover who ordered the hit on my mother and the nam
e of the money man.
Before I threw my phone away, I memorized three important people's numbers: William Gallagher--AKA Intrepid, Juan, and Mike Burnes. I contemplate who I should call.
As long as I'm in France, I don't have to worry about being found. We can cross most European borders without showing our passports--unless the rules suddenly change, and with the recent terrorist attacks in France that could happen at any minute.
Telling the Dean that I need time to think will buy me a few days off. After that, I think they will come looking for me. Someone has invested too much time, money, and blood in me. They won't allow me to quit.
They will kill me first.
The fact that they were able to get Ari and I transported to France on a fighter jet, says whomever I am working for has serious clout.
But first things first.
I need to get the child somewhere safe.
Then I need to return to Montrovia as Huntley and keep pretending.
I'm starting to come down from the adrenaline rush that's been going since we set foot on the airbase. I pull off the side of the road, park the car, and close my eyes for a few moments. Just as I start to drift to sleep, I remember the backpacks.
I open my eyes with a start and grab them from the backseat, careful not to wake the boy, who dozed off.
Starting with the boy's pack, I discover a passport for Chauncey Durand. There are a couple changes of clothing, a stuffed tiger, a soft blanket, and a photo of a woman holding the boy when he was about two. In another pouch, there are typical travel items--snacks and a tablet loaded with video games along with a set of headphones.
In the bigger pack, I find the two additional sets of passports along with corresponding credit cards, a buck knife, a handgun with spare clips, two grenades, three throwaway cell phones, a charger, a wad of Euros, and the key to the safety deposit box in Zurich.
I study the key, realizing it looks familiar--exactly like the one I retrieved from Blackwood.
Which is in my handbag along with my Huntley Von Allister passport.
I drive the ten kilometers back to Cannes. I can still see the smoke rising over the boy's house. When I arrive at the designer's home, I park the car just down the street and wake the boy up.
"Papa?" he says, then he sees me and smiles. "Are we there yet?"
"Not yet. I have to pick up my bag." I grab the tablet from the backpack and hand it to him. "If you promise to stay in the car, I'll let you play a game."
