Page 7 of The Echelon (Spy Girl 7)
They can also be the thing that drives you.
To help you keep going when all seems lost.
I wouldn’t be here, looking for Sophie, if it wasn’t for love.
The logical part of my brain keeps telling me that the baby could be Daniel’s. That Lorenzo could have been lying because I’d told him to pretend that he and Lizzie were together until after the crisis in Montrovia passed.
But it wasn’t just the words that came out of his mouth.
It was the look on his face.
The kind of look that could break your heart.
Regardless, I find myself driven to save him.
Just one more time.
I think loving someone is like living on a fault line. Most of the time, things go smoothly. Occasionally, there are little tremors—a shaking of the ground to remind you that life is precious and finite.
The tremors also reinforce the notion that, no matter how hard you might try, you’re not in control. Because the tremors are a sign of movement in the plates underneath the ground.
An indication of the earthquake to follow.
The first tremor in our relationship was Lorenzo telling me I was dismissed when he was upset about his mother. The second came when he took the vaccine, basically committing suicide in front of me.
But that wasn’t the worst of what was to come.
Hearing Lorenzo say that Lizzie was carrying the Montrovian heir to the throne was a twelve on my Richter scale. A twelve would be something known as a MegaQuake. Something scientists say can’t actually exist, for the magnitude of an earthquake is directly related to the length of the fault on which it occurs.
Back in the sixties, the Gran terremoto de Chile—the Great Chilean earthquake—recorded a nine-point-five on a fault with a length of over six hundred miles. They say there is no fault line known to exist that will generate a magnitude of ten.
And they say, if one did exist, that it would extend across most of the world.
And that makes sense since Lorenzo is at the epicenter of my world.
I know that I probably shouldn’t love him further, but my feelings for him are so strong that they haven’t disappeared.
Maybe, over time, they will, but until then, I continue to feel the aftershocks—little dangerous and unpredictable movements in my earth, the kind that can collapse what was damaged in the earthquake.
That is probably why I’m standing here, in a wedding dress, even though I know a tsunami is right behind the quake. One massive wave that will wipe out everyone I care about.
“Great love takes great faith,” the designer says. “I see brides brimming with love every day. But the thing I wonder is if love is enough.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “You need great trust, too.”
“To great trust,” he says, handing me a flute filled with champagne.
I honestly have no idea why I’m going to toast. Probably because there is a part of me that refuses to let the dream die.
A part of me that can’t do this unless I trick myself into believing we still have a chance—of survival, of marriage, of having everything.
I hold my glass out and clink his, hoping for some kind of sign. Some message from a power greater than me that I can find Sophie.
That she will have answers.
And that we can stop this.
Somehow.
I put the glass to my lips and take a drink.
When I swallow, my throat hurts.
Not the kind of message I was looking for.
T-MINUS:12:08:27
Although there aren’t many people on the streets tonight, the small pub is crowded. There’s an old Premier League game on the television, and if you didn’t know about the virus spreading around the globe, you wouldn’t discover it here.
It’s a nice reprieve from the real world, which I suppose is the point.
At a little before nine, I manage to snag a seat at the end of the bar that allows me to keep an eye on the entrance. It’s not an ideal location, as my back is fully exposed to the area where the kitchen and restrooms are, but since I’m not expecting anyone to attack me, I try not to worry about it.
I spy a couple of girls who have commandeered four tables in the center of the room, more than likely holding them for the upcoming divorce party.
The bartender says, “Fancy a pint?”
I nod my head in response even though I’m not a fan of beer. “Yes, please.”
When he sets my filled-to-the-brim glass in front of me, a group of girls comes into the pub, one who is wearing a sash proclaiming her as a new divorcée as well as a large button suggesting she’s looking for a shag.
And I can’t help but smile.
T-MINUS:11:26:34
Forty-two minutes, five goals, and three thwarted hit-ons later, I’m still sitting at the bar, nursing my pint.
Neither Madelyn nor Sophie has shown up.
The divorce party, however, seems to be a raving success with nearly twenty in attendance, who are already on their second round of pints and have just ordered a third round of shots. Apparently, a divorce party equals getting drunk as fast as possible.
I’m about to text Terrance and beg for more help when the door opens, and Madelyn saunters in alone. I immediately recognize her from her social media photos. She’s got a model-thin figure and a mane of brunette hair that cascades in curls down her back. She’s dressed head to toe in a matching Dolce & Gabbana dress, bag, and shoes, looking like she came straight from a tea party. The girls in the group squeal upon her arrival and have her bellied up to the bar for a shot in no time.
I take a moment to study all of those in attendance a little closer, wondering if Sophie could be wearing a disguise. But she has a heart-shaped face and distinctive pale blue eyes that would be hard not to recognize even if she had dyed her hair—which, thanks to Hollywood, is the first thing people think to do if they are ever on the run. And, while a change of color makes you harder to spot at a quick glance, it’s not going to fool a professional.
Sophie Andersen is not here. And I don’t think she’s coming, so I consider my next move—getting Madelyn to talk.
There are a lot of techniques I could use to get her to tell me where Sophie is. I could tranquilize, kidnap, and then interrogate. I could threaten, injure, and force. I could even tortur
e. All things I was trained to do and probably should do to speed up the process.
Except that I don’t want to hurt this girl.
So, I sit here and wait for a little while longer.
T-MINUS:11:11:11
Even though it’s not technically the actual time, when the countdown on my watch reads that I have eleven hours, eleven minutes, and eleven seconds before the vaccines are given in Montrovia, I make a wish.
Please let me find Sophie.
I’d like to ask for her to have answers and a cure, but I hope it’s more powerful to ask for a single thing. I pay my tab, deciding it’s time to join the party.
When I was at Blackwood Academy, we read the autobiography of Stanislav Lunev, a high-ranking Soviet spy who defected to the United States. In the book, Through the Eyes of the Enemy, he mentions that the reason he was so good at what he did is because he followed a simple rule. One that has always stuck with me. The best spy will be everyone’s best friend, not a shadowy figure in the corner.
Time for me to start doing just that.
“You girls look like you are having so much fun,” I say to the girl with the sash. “I wish you the best.”
“Thank you so much,” she gushes. “You’re sweet. Have a shot with me.”
“I’d love to.”
“My goodness, you are so pretty,” the divorcée says. “Are you here alone?”
“Yeah, recent breakup.”
“Oh, girl, I feel you. I’m Leslie, by the way. What did he do?”
“Got another girl pregnant.”
“Oh, Madelyn, come here,” she says. “We can all be heartbreak mates.”
Madelyn does as asked, and I stick my hand out. “Hey, I’m Huntley.”
“Why are we going to be heartbreak mates?” Madelyn asks Leslie.
