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"It's not a matter of trust, Savannah. It will be different now. I know that from my early days of working with Paige."
"If you're asking whether we'll slip off midmission to make out, the answer is no."
"I don't think that's what he means," Adam said. "Being partners off the job could affect our priorities." He looked at Lucas. "I didn't just wake up yesterday and realize I have feelings for Savannah. Even before it was this kind of feeling, I cared about her. That hasn't changed. Your situation was different. No offense to Paige, but when you two started working together, she needed someone to watch her back. Savannah can take care of herself."
Lucas paused, then nodded. "All right then. Adam, you go and get ready. Savannah, can you hold on a moment?"
He waited until Adam was out of earshot, then said, "You're angry with me because I'm not pleased with this new development."
"Um, yeah. No one else seems to have a problem with it."
"Because, it seems, they all foresaw this change in your relationship. I thought Paige was mistaken. Perhaps I hoped she was mistaken. Paige may joke about maturity levels, but there is still a significant age difference. He's a year younger than me, Savannah. I'm not comfortable with that. Not at your age."
"And when would you be comfortable with it. In a year? Two?"
He considered the question. "Ten. I would be more comfortable with it if you were thirty-one. Perhaps thirty."
I glowered at him.
"You asked my opinion."
"You're worried about me," I said. "I get that. I don't think you're the only one concerned about the age difference. I know Adam didn't plan to let me know how he felt yet. He thought I'd died in that blast and he kissed me when it turned out I was still alive. The cat was out of the bag. He couldn't stuff it back in and tell me to wait a few years."
I met Lucas's gaze. "Maybe I am too young. Maybe it won't work. But this isn't some random older guy I met in a bar. I've known Adam half my life. We've been friends--really good friends--for years. I think that counts for something. But however young you think I am, Lucas, I'm old enough to make my own mistakes."
"I know." He steered me toward the tent. "I suppose I'll get used to the idea. But if he hurts you . . ."
"You'll sue for damages."
He smiled. "I will."
FORTY-THREE
The plan was simple enough--get in with Jaz, who would impersonate Gordon Scott, then work backward, eliminating security from the inside out to clear the way for the rest of the team to enter without alerting Giles.
Jaz had the most prep work. He had to become Scott. That wasn't just a matter of adjusting his physiognomy to look like the
guy. He had to dress like him, act like him, become him. As I realized what we were asking him to do, the sheer magnitude of the task hit me. He could do it in days, maybe. But we were scheduled to infiltrate in less than an hour. Inside, de Rais was getting anxious. He wouldn't wait much longer.
Turned out the task wasn't as huge as it seemed. Not for a guy who'd learned to flip in and out of identities the way Jaz had. Even before the jet left Miami, he'd told Benicio he needed every scrap they had on Scott. Not just information and photographs, but video. He really needed video.
Luckily, Scott was a perennial troublemaker. Our agency had a file on him. The council had a file. The Cortezes and the Boyds and the Nasts all had files. The Nasts--through Sean--supplied the video. They'd bought information off Scott twice and taped both interviews. Jaz had studied those tapes and the files on the flight.
When Jaz walked out of the tent, I kicked myself--hard--for not checking those photos myself. I'd met Scott. Three days ago. He'd been one of the SLAM members meeting with Giles when Mom and I infiltrated the group. Now Jaz was Gordon Scott, exactly as I remembered him from our one brief encounter. He'd mastered his walk and voice and mannerisms. Earlier, I agreed with Clay that the world was better off without Jasper Haig in it. Now, seeing the transformation, I could feel what Benicio must--that this was an incredible power, and incredibly valuable. Still didn't mean I wouldn't kill the bastard if he got in the way of rescuing Hope or stopping de Rais.
Precautions had been taken to ensure Jaz wouldn't go off-plan. De Rais had already made it clear that he'd love Jaz as an ally. So what was to stop Jaz from walking into that compound, revealing himself, and saying "Here I am. Protect me from the Cabals, give me Hope and I'm all yours."
A little device taped to his side--that's what would stop him. It was a modified insulin pump, intended for diabetics. It even contained insulin. So if Jaz was searched, it would seem legit--Scott wasn't the kind of guy who'd have gone around telling people he was diabetic. But this pump was controlled by a remote, which could dump insulin into Jaz, putting him into a coma.
It was a wickedly clever, diabolical idea. Naturally I presumed it was Benicio's. Turned out it came from Lucas. Proof that as morally upright as he may be, Lucas does have Cortez blood running through his veins.
When everything was ready, we got into an old Mercedes the team had bought at the nearest used-car lot. Jaz drove. Adam and I squeezed into the trunk.
Any other time, I'm sure being curled up together in a trunk would have been deliciously tempting. But we were both too stressed to even joke about it. We spent the short trip testing our communication equipment, which fed to each other, to Jaz, and back to Lucas.
It was only about a mile to the compound gates, but it seemed to take an hour, rumbling along the dirt road. Finally, through the mike we heard Jaz power down his window.
"Hello there, boys," he said. "I bet you didn't think you'd be seeing my handsome face again, did you?"
