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“Add probable murder, and conspiracy to commit murder to a long list of potential charges then,” Vasquez said to no one in particular. At this, Sebastian nodded absently. “We suggest you keep your security team in place until this case is closed, Mr. Horn.”
“What next?” David said, pushing the conversation onto less sensitive territory.
“All trades placed through Charles Hightower’s account are to proceed as usual,” Vasquez ordered. “We’ll be in touch once we question the truck driver.”
All the pieces of the puzzle were starting to come together. The crime, according to the American authorities, was much more nefarious than we had initially thought, the stakes exponentially higher. Every time Sebastian tried to take inventory of all the accounts at the bank, his life had been in danger. If what the agents were speculating about was true, there was no doubt that whoever was responsible wouldn’t stop until he achieved his goal.
Shortly after the meeting with the FBI––and with a lot of legal arm twisting from David Bernard––the Swiss agreed to stay my deportation and extend my visa until my case with the Albanian’s was resolved.
I may have been momentarily free from the law, however, the choke collar around my neck only grew tighter and tighter in Sebastian’s hand. I couldn’t even make a trip to the toilet with him asking where I was headed. I did my best to be patient with him considering the circumstances. Essentially, I had traded one prison for another. Because although Sebastian’s propensity to be overprotective and controlling was at times irrational and uncalled for, the very threat on our lives did exist.
I was overwhelmed. I needed time, time to process everything that had happened, time to get my bearings. But time ran out quicker than I’d hoped. Just when things seemed to settle down a bit, the ‘unexpected’ once again paid us a visit.
Everyone had fallen eerily silent over breakfast when I walked into the kitchen and announced that I wanted Gideon to drive me to church. Sebastian arched an eyebrow––although to give him credit, he didn’t argue. I didn’t know if it meant he was beginning to trust me again, or he was certain that under no circumstance, not even death, would Gideon allow me out of his sight ever again––probably the latter. Though that was hardly an issue when we now had not only one SUV full of armed men trailing, but another leading.
Surprisingly, Gideon was the only one that treated me no differently. A few times I caught him studying me, gathering his thoughts as if to say something, but he never did. Other than that, his demeanor was the same one he’d always adopted around me. One of careful casualness.
“Are you mad at me?” I asked as I examined him in the rear view mirror.
Sitting in the backseat of the bulletproof Mercedes 550, one of the additions to the new security measures, I waited patiently for his answer, uncertain whether I would get one.
“No…I’m mad at myself. I should’ve been paying closer attention.”
“Don’t blame yourself, Gideon. Ever hear the expression ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’?” Regret was thick in my voice. I turned to look out the window. As far as the eye could see flowering thyme was in full bloom. Every square inch of hillside was covered with it. On its own, the tiny purple flower isn’t much to look at. In abundance, however, it was breathtaking.
“Had I done my job, you wouldn’t have lost the baby. I’m sorry about that.”
His words pulled me out of my silent admiration of the flowers. The baby. It was a relief to hear it said out loud.
“Thank you for being frank. I’m so tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me.” His quick nod reached inside of me, unlocking some of the stiffness, some of the frigid cold near my heart that had set up permanent residence. “What happened to you, Gideon?”
His black as pitch eyes, with those spiky lashes accenting them, grew even more piercing. “What do you mean?” he asked softly, his words in direct contrast with his expression.
“You know what I mean. You weren’t born a cynic.”
A challenge hung in the air, loaded and charged. His eyes narrowed and left mine. His lips moved, forming words as if he was testing them. No sound came out.
“My mother was killed in an open air market two blocks from my house in Tel Aviv. It was a suicide bombing.”
I felt the impact of his words instantly, his pain as acutely as my own. “I’m so sorry. I know what it feels like––to lose a parent unexpectedly.”
My mind drifted from the man driving, to the man who raised me. For so long, thoughts of my father had been tainted by a combination of shame and scorn. Time and distance had finally softened those feelings. His betrayal had taken a back seat to all the memories of the good times we shared. Now it was those I remembered first…and how much I missed him.
