Reckless
As the rain beat down on her umbrella, Tracy closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel the pain. The loss. Like a roll call, the faces of her loved ones floated before her.
Her father.
Her mother.
Gunther.
Blake.
Nicholas.
Jeff Stevens was still alive, of course. But with Nick gone, it would be too painful for Tracy ever to see Jeff again. He might as well be dead.
“I’m alone, Gunther,” Tracy murmured in the darkness. “I’m completely alone.”
Standing in the muddy London graveyard, Tracy fell to her knees and wept.
JEFF SAT IN THE back of the car in stunned silence.
Jamie MacIntosh had been talking for almost forty minutes. For all of that time, Jeff had listened, processed, considered. Now, for the first time, he spoke.
“You believe this Althea woman really killed Nick?”
“I don’t know,” Jamie said honestly. “I know Tracy believes it. But it’s possible that the CIA put that idea into her head just to get her involved.”
Jeff considered this, nodding. “OK.”
Jamie said, “I know Althea ordered the murder of Captain Daley, and probably Henry Cranston. I know she’s a grave threat to Western security.”
“I don’t care about any of that.” Jeff waved a hand dismissively.
“But you care about Tracy?”
“Of course.”
“So you’ll help us? I know your history, Jeff.” Jamie MacIntosh softened his tone. “We have a file on you and Tracy as big as the Koran, going back almost twenty years now.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Jeff, not without a touch of pride.
“If anybody understands how she thinks, how she operates, it’s you. Please. For her sake, if not for ours.”
Jeff closed his eyes. What this man wanted—what the British Government wanted—was for him to follow Tracy. Not just to track her physical movements. But to anticipate her strategy, spy on her, outsmart her. Play her. MI6
wanted to find Althea, and Hunter Drexel, before the CIA did. They wanted to win. Tracy was the Americans’ star player. Jamie was asking Jeff to become theirs.
Following Tracy. Outsmarting Tracy. Protecting Tracy, or trying to. It was how Jeff Stevens had spent most of his adult life. The best parts of it, anyway.
Of course, she’d probably hate him for it.
He opened his eyes and looked at Jamie MacIntosh. “When do I start?”
WHEN TRACY WOKE UP, sunshine streamed brightly through the window. For a moment she thought she was back home in Colorado. The light in Steamboat Springs was always dazzling, even in winter. But reality soon reasserted itself.
She was in London, in the modest Pimlico hotel that the agency had paid for. The red damask curtains were pulled back. Traffic was honking outside. The clock by the side of Tracy’s bed said 11:15 A.M.
11:15? Tracy rubbed her eyes. How was that even possible? She must have slept for fourteen hours, the first unbroken, dreamless night she’d had since Nick’s death. She couldn’t remember how she’d got back to her hotel from the graveyard, or how long she’d sat, slumped over Gunther Hartog’s grave, sobbing until her body had no more to give. But she remembered getting back to her room and feeling incredibly cold. Peeling off her wet clothes, she’d intended to take a hot shower, but exhaustion must have overtaken her before she could make it to the bathroom. Crawling under the covers, she’d sunk into a sleep so deep it was closer to a coma.
She’d needed to cry and she’d needed to sleep. Thanks to Gunther Hartog, she’d managed both. Thank you, Gunther darling. Her body felt wonderful, her mind alert. But there was no time to enjoy these novel sensations, not if she were going to catch Sally Faiers before she left the Times offices for her lunch.