The Price of Grace (Black Ops Confidential 2)

Aw, damn. “Sometimes you can’t outsmart Loki.”

“Loki?”

“Trickster god. And he’s got all sorts of minions. So sometimes you get tricked. Live and learn, my uncle Harvey always said. And then he’d tell me, ‘People always emphasize the learn part of that, son. But it’s really the live part that’s most important.’

“I tend to agree. Live. Don’t really matter if you learn shit. As long as you can greet God at the end of your short life and tell him you lived without fear.”

“I think I want to do both. Live and learn.”

“Fine by me. Uncle Harvey died from too much chewing tobacco, so you might have a good point there.”

She didn’t laugh, as he’d hoped. Instead, she said, with that soft Spanish accent, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

This kid. He didn’t know her whole story, but he knew she’d been trafficked. Mukta had rescued her. Fuck.

He’d been fooling himself. There was no blurry line of morality. This was right. Rescuing this kid. “No worries. Harvey lived a big life. But here’s the thing—I’m pretty fast. Long legs and all. So you tell me if you have trouble keeping up.”

He hoped she got what he was telling her. They might not be able to run, but they shouldn’t be moseying either.

“Okay.”

He picked up his pace. She didn’t say anything. He turned and saw her keeping up.

Smart and brave. And now that he took a look at her eyes, alight through his NVG, he saw something else too. Yeah, she’d live and learn.

And use her knowledge to change the world.

Assuming whoever manned the controls on that thing wasn’t herding them far enough away from the cabin to blow them up.

Chapter 65

The driveway flattened out as Gracie neared the house. An old cabin with a stained rocker on the porch and the carcass of a bear would’ve been more appropriate for this scene.

But Gracie stood before a faded Victorian cottage, almost gingerbread in its cuteness, wide wraparound porch, wicker rocking chairs, and though it was too dark to see now, the online photos had shown a cheery lavender-and-royal-purple color scheme.

Large moths fluttered around the lights by the front door and tried to get inside through the screen door. Layla sat on a wooden footstool on the porch, a rifle with a scope pointed at Gracie. She looked very comfortable with the weapon.

Great. Apparently, her sister was a computer genius and had experience with weapons.

Up until that moment, Gracie hadn’t been sure she could kill this woman, her blood, if it came to it. She realized now she probably wouldn’t have a choice. She knew the look of a person way off the deep end, someone who thinks they are still totally in control.

Layla wore camouflage from head to toe. Her eyes were wide, almost horror-movie wide, as if someone else had control of her body and she fought them internally. Her smile was coy. Her posture eager.

All of this told Gracie a lot. This meant something to her. It wasn’t just about getting Gracie out of the way so that Layla’s father could be president. No. She wanted this. She was enjoying this.

Layla’s blond ponytail bounced behind her camo baseball hat as she tracked Gracie. “That’s close enough. It took you a while to figure things out, huh? Even with Porter sending a hitman after you. Even though he’d made that mistake and put you on alert. Unbelievable how much I was able to mess with you. It kind of got boring.”

Layla wanted to play games, brag about her genius. Of course. Gracie knew enough about the psychology of psychopaths—socially cunning, glib, high self-esteem—to know that this moment, this very second, Layla was thoroughly enjoying herself. “Where’s Ty?”

“You’re not much of a sharer, are you?”

“On the contrary, I’m glad to sit down with you and have a long talk, as long as you give a little to get. How is Ty?”

Her hands slick with sweat, Gracie could practically feel the heat from the red dot of a laser pointed at her head. Layla squinted through her sight at her. “Did you know you’re who I should have been? You’re her.”

She’d been right. Helping her father and his career was secondary to the slight to Layla’s ego. “Where’s Ty?”

“Inside.” She smiled, a wide, elegant grin, the kind of smile a politician would covet. “He’s a good kid. Too bad you don’t really know him. He says it doesn’t matter to him. He says he’s happy. That should mean something.”

Layla was trying to manipulate her. Gracie knew she mattered to Tyler. She knew because that’s how Layla had been able to abuse and manipulate his trust. “You’re really enjoying this.”

“Of course. This is why I did it. This moment right here. I could’ve just tried to kill you like my stupid brother. But this moment, this electric, delicious moment where you are helpless and I’m one step away from ending this nightmare has been worth all of my trouble.”

Apparently Layla had seen the movie, the ending where the villain reveals the master plan, and decided that that was it, that was her big life goal. This too was the typical grandiose mindset of a psychopath. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. Brava. But if you don’t mind, sestra, I want to see Tyler.”

“Don’t fucking call me that! You will do what I want. When I want it. You need to hear me.”

The change in Layla’s demeanor was instant and intense. A light switch being thrown in the dark. No longer casual and calm, but angry and determined and bent on revenge. Maybe Gracie could use this. Her plan, the one she’d just devised, required she get an invite into the house. She needed to get close enough to Layla to disarm her. “Look, I’m your prisoner. I will do whatever you want. Hands up. Lips shut tight. As long as you let me see—”

“I used analytics to track your son through the internet, to watch where he went, to gauge who he was. I tailored content to him, lured him into asking the question: ‘Can I find my mom?’ I even wrote articles about how to track down a birth parent. And he paid me for the privilege. Of course, he thought he was paying a private detective ten thousand dollars to find his mother.”

Layla laughed. It was a light and tinkling sound, and it chilled Gracie’s blood. It was a laugh coated in the delusions of a brilliant but unhinged mind.

“Once he knew who you were, I hired someone to follow him. To mimic you, what you were doing when you’d set out and stalk him in Manayunk, but to be a little more obvious. You’re very good at not being spotted. I’m better. At everything.”

Oh, God. No wonder Ty had waved. He’d paid for information, had tried to find out about her, been looking for her. The volcano of Gracie’s skin stayed cold and under control, but inside, she was panicking. This nutter was devious. She’d gone out of her way to manipulate Ty. “Why would you do that? Why involve him in this?”

“Really? Didn’t think I’d have to explain something that obvious. You’ve been stalking him. You contacted him. Got him to give you $60,000 to help fund your vigilantes. You set him up on an expensive laptop in order to get him to help you—the location of which will be anonymously sent to the FBI—you lured him out here, and then when he realized what a nut you were, he tried to defend himself. And shot you dead.”

Cold swept down Gr

acie’s body, freezing her to the spot. “You’re going to kill me and make it look like my son did it?”

Layla tsked. “Simple minds conceive simple plans. He is going to kill you.”

“Ty would never do that.”

“Of course he would. You killed his parents. His mom. His dad. His little brother. Pretty awful of you.”

She’d seen John a few hours ago. “They aren’t dead.”

“No. But I made it look like they were. Showed him a video and everything. He was very upset. I slipped him a little sedative to calm him down. And to confuse him.”

Gracie’s stomach rolled. Oh, Ty. “Seems to be a family trait. Drugging people. I get why your father did it. I don’t understand why you did this, risked this. You already set me up with the FBI to clear your father’s name. If you’d done nothing else, I would’ve gone down for a crime I didn’t commit. Or at least been charged with it and been embroiled in years of legal difficulties. Your father would probably be president before it was all said and done.”

“Simplifying again. That was to take down your mother.” Layla emphasized the word “mother” so strongly that saliva shot from her mouth. “But you? You don’t get to fucking live. My dad has one daughter. One.”

Rage glistened in her too-wide eyes. She looked like she wanted to shoot Gracie. She looked like murder.

“It’s fine, Layla. It’s all good. You are his one daughter. I honestly don’t care. I have a family.”

“Fuck you,” Layla said. She raised her gun and shot.

Gracie dove to the side, a moment too late. She felt the sting of a dart pierce her leg as she hit the ground. A dart?

She reached to pull it out. Her hand felt like it belonged to the world’s least coordinated person as she tried to yank it from her thigh. Missing the blurry end twice, she struggled against her drooping body, but found her vision beginning to dim as she looked up at the night sky.

Layla came into her view, bent over her. “Yeah. You see, that’s the problem. I’m not his daughter. You are.”