Sonata (North Security 3)

CHAPTER THREE

Bach and Handel were born in the same year and only lived 80 miles apart, but they never met.

Liam

The French countryside rushes past in a blur of greens and browns, an impressionist painting come to life on a speeding train. The server pushes a steaming cup of coffee across the counter.

Black. I take a sip. Not nearly strong enough, but it will have to do.

With habit borne of necessity I scan the surroundings: a man in a suit, a family with a crying baby, an older woman sitting alone reading a book.

Each person analyzed for risk and stored in my memory.

I study the menu for something to order Samantha. San Pellegrino. Perrier. She probably prefers tea, but she already had two cups this morning. Any more than that and she’ll get jittery.

Christ. I’m thinking like her guardian again. Will I always try to take care of her? She isn’t my ward any longer. Thank fuck, because I still remember the look of ecstasy on her face. I want to press her into the seat, to spread her legs and kneel in front of her, to make her cry out over the rhythmic thump of the train. “Earl Grey.”

The French were never particularly fond of tea. Even cafes only have machines to make coffee, which are never quite enough for tea. Which means a train car definitely isn’t equipped. The tea bag bobs at the top at the water, which isn’t hot enough to sink it. I take a spoon and push it down so the leaves will soak.

First class isn’t especially luxurious on a train, but it does mean our box is almost empty. I return to the seat opposite Samantha, who’s on the phone. She gives me a weak smile in thanks. The sip of steaming liquid ma

kes her eyes close in pleasure. My body tightens, and I look away.

“Something small.” She gives a small, self-effacing laugh. “I’m sure that’s all you can find for me right now. I really am sorry for the way I disappeared on you.”

Her agent, then. I raise my eyebrow, which she pretends not to see. I hadn’t told her to set up a performance, but it’s a natural next step if we’re going to use her as bait. She could probably be great at military strategy with that natural intelligence. The cryptographers would have a field day with her memory. Of course I’d put her underground for good before I’d let that touch her.

She’s beauty in a world of violence. Without music, there’s no point fighting a war.

A notch forms between her brows. “But Harry March isn’t touring anymore. Why does the record label want to start it back up? Who’s going to be the headliner?”

I know the answer before the agent says it. Samantha Brooks. She’s always been the headliner. She didn’t have the fanbase that Harry March did at the beginning of the tour… but she always had the talent. She always had the star power. Thanks to the successful North American run of the tour, she also has a following now. The drama of the shooting at Carnegie Hall only increased her celebrity. Every day the North Security servers sort through hundreds of press mentions. The important ones filter through Jameson, our resident analysis and information aficionado, who passes on the top bits to me.

Samantha blinks, clearly stunned. “I can’t carry an entire show.”

Of course she can. Though she won’t have to. There will always be an orchestra behind a soloist. Probably the gymnasts from the prior show. They might be able to find some European musician to join, but it will be Samantha’s stage. It always has been.

Whatever her agent says makes her suck in a breath. “I played there once.”

My mind begins working through the venues she played as a child prodigy. Those performances ended abruptly when her father died. When I got custody of her. That was a decision that many people would criticize, but I’ve never regretted it. She needed school and friends her age. She needed some semblance of an ordinary childhood after a nuclear wasteland.

Her talent is rare and powerful, but it doesn’t define her.

“No,” she says, sounding faint. “We’re already heading to Paris.”

The venue is in Paris? Then it must be the Palais Garnier. That’s the only one she played as a child. An important opera house that should give an even greater boost to the tour’s re-opening. It’s also the perfect setting to lay a trap. My stomach tightens.

I don’t want to use her as bait, but we’ve run out of options.

She promises to look for an email from her agent and ends the call. Her expression isn’t overjoyed the way some musicians might be. Neither does she look nervous at the prospect of having thousands of theatergoers watching her play. Instead she looks pensive. Maybe even sad.

“I won’t let you get hurt.” The wound in my chest aches, as if to emphasize the lengths I’ll go to keep her from harm. The bullet was meant for her. I would take a hundred of them.

A shadow passes over her face. “You may not have a choice.”

Because I might not be able to protect her. New York City was too close. Fear churns my stomach. If I had been one second later crossing that stage… “Samantha.”

Her eyes search mine. “Don’t feel guilty. That’s not what I want from you.”