Page 36 of Nothing to Fear

“Why? The tracker will give us her location no matter where she runs.”

“You’ve underestimated Stone twice. A third time wouldn’t be good for your health. He could detect the tracker once it’s active. If they’re in the area, we’ll still have a reasonable shot at finding them. My men will make her death look like an accident or suicide, and we can finally eliminate Stone as well. Make sure they don’t go far.”

No pressure. “How? They’re already on the run.”

“Make it personal. Newsworthy. Does she have family? Anyone she cares about?”

Were there no limits, no acts too low? “Yes.”

Now everything was down to hurting a sick old man confined to a wheelchair?

But that was how Daedalus got you.

First, he found your weakness and exploited it. You gave him little bits of information, which spiraled into lots as he reeled you in tighter. Before long, you were doing anything he asked. Because he had you. He owned you.

“Take care of it, and don’t mess this up,” Daedalus said. “It’d also be good to have leverage over Stone. You dug into him before. Gather everything you have on him, and give the team all the information when they arrive. I’ll send the location via regular protocol.”

Staying in the office meant being able to keep track of the situation, and disappearing for hours would be noticed, but there was no choice. “Okay.”

“Do your part, and I’ll do everything in my power to protect you.”

“Thank you.” Cobalt hung up, removed the phone’s battery and SIM card, and started the car. If this didn’t work, Daedalus’s protection could flip into his order to take care of all loose ends. Maybe it’s time to get my own insurance policy.

14

Springfield, Virginia

Friday, July 5, 10:53 a.m. EDT

I’m a fugitive.

Willow sat in the old Ford, staring into the black backpack Gideon had thrown on her lap while he concentrated on the road.

Needing to busy her hands to calm her nerves, she sifted through the contents of the bag. A gun. Four loaded magazines. A black wand thingy. Pack of Parliament cigarettes and a lighter.

“You smoke?” A trivial question, but it beat out agonizing over her situation.

“Not since college.” Everything about him, from his low tone to preternatural composure, was severe. “Traded the habit for chewing gum, but I keep a pack of smokes. Lighting up a cig on the street in plain sight is a good way to keep a low profile while taking in your surroundings.”

She rifled deeper in the bag, finding a standard-issue med kit for operators. But the rest, the earpiece, small electronic scanner, and ENVGs—enhanced night vision goggles with thermal and infrared capability—were expensive, specialized equipment and not standard.

“Why do you have this stuff?”

He glanced at her with a pinning focus that made her shiver. “I like to be prepared.”

She tucked the equipment in the bag and ran her fingers over bundles of major international currency. Must’ve been ten thousand dollars in American bills alone.

A gnawing sensation dropped through her, as if her whole world was getting sucked down a garbage disposal.

Who’d look after her father while she was on the run? The freezer was well-stocked, so he wouldn’t starve, but what if he needed help or had an accident getting in and out of his chair?

One of her sisters would have to pitch in, which meant Laurel. Ivy lived in Paris. When she was working on her PhD at the Sorbonne, she’d fallen in love with a beautiful woman called Delphine and the city. Laurel lived a five-hour drive away in Connecticut with her plastic surgeon husband, twin daughters, and au pair—a young woman who cleaned, cooked, and watched the girls. Willow would rather have root canal surgery without an anesthetic before asking Laurel for help, but she had no choice.

Her gaze fell to a box of hair dye Gideon had picked up for her when he made a pit stop at a drugstore. The color was White Chocolate, a light blond. His wife had been blond. Must be his preference.

“Why did you pick this color?” She held up the box.

He turned into a garage beside a movie theater and parked in a spot shrouded in darkness. “We need to change the color so you look different. Lighter makes more sense. I always think of your hair as chocolate-brown, and when I saw White Chocolate, something clicked. If you want a fiery red, I grabbed one of those too, but I think a subtle shade would work better.”