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ONE
Decima
From a distance,I stalked Damien Malik.
Over the past week, I’d learned a lot about the majority whip, partly with the help of my crew—in particular, Blaze’s hacking and surveillance skills and Garrison’s ease at charming information out of people. When Malik wasn’t in Washington D.C. working with the House of Representatives, he spent most of his time in the smaller nearby city where the Malik family home was located. Unless he had a particularly early meeting, every morning he went for a jog through a local park along a tree-lined pond. Then he stopped at one specific coffee shop to grab a hazelnut cappuccino.
At least two bodyguards stayed with him at all times. I trailed far behind all of the men as I took a little jog of my own. Then I followed them up the stairs into the coffee shop.
When I got up there, Malik was already sitting at his favorite table with his fingers curled around the handle of his mug. The sunlight beaming through the broad windows gleamed off his silver hair, slicked neatly back as always, and brought the hard angles of his polished face into sharper relief.
Now, still-healing scrapes marred the otherwise only faintly lined skin at his temples and jaw. A week ago, just hours before a DNA comparison had revealed that this man was a parental match for me, a lunatic had broken into a late-night planning session at his Washington office and shot two of Malik’s staff before blowing himself to smithereens. It seemed clear that the guy the news reports were calling a domestic terrorist had been hoping to take Malik with him.
He’d almost succeeded.
I yanked my eyes away and walked over to the counter to order a small latte. Anything bigger wouldn’t be wise. Even a little caffeine got me hopped up with energy until I could have done a fair imitation of Blaze’s restless fidgeting.
As I waited for the barista to assemble the drink, my hands clenched at my sides. No matter what the news said, I couldn’t help suspecting that the attack had been connected to the household where I’d been held for over twenty years after they’d stolen me from my birth family. My trainer had been keeping an eye on Malik. Their intentions toward him couldn’t be anything but malicious.
Had they decided to go after him more overtly now that they’d lost their grasp on me so completely?
I hadn’t been here to stop them. I hadn’t had any clue that I should be. But now that I knew what Malik was to me—that he was my father—maybe I’d be able to protect him if they came at him again.
I’d damn well better be able to.
Sipping the latte and wincing at the bitter flavor, I sat down at a table where I had a view of both Malik and his bodyguards, who gave him a little space by sitting several feet away while surveying everyone who entered the shop. I didn’t want to barge right over, but I couldn’t wait too long either. I’d promised myself today would be the day I actually approached him. There wasn’t anything left I could figure out without speaking to the man himself.
But how would he take the news? Would he even believe me? The story sounded so crazy… and there were parts I couldn’t exactly admit upfront. Maybe ever. “By the way, I’m a highly trained assassin with hundreds of murders under my belt,” didn’t seem like the kind of thing any parent wanted to hear.
I’d just have to dive in and see how the first part went.
When I’d made it halfway through my latte and become convinced that I really should have ordered a hot chocolate instead, I noticed the signs that Malik was nearing the end of his own coffee. He closed the newspaper he’d been browsing and sat a little straighter in his chair.
My pulse lurched. I inhaled deeply to steady myself, abandoned my mug, and walked over to his table.
As I put myself in his view, Malik glanced up at me. His expression was mild, not particularly curious but not hostile either. Probably warier than it’d been before last week’s attack.
He had a faint bruise on his cheek that I hadn’t noticed before from a distance, nearly healed but giving that patch of skin a slightly greenish hue.
I yanked my attention back to my purpose. “You’re Damien Malik, aren’t you?” I said, as though I hadn’t been watching him in person and through screens for nearly every waking moment for seven days straight. I could have recognized him from behind at a distance of a hundred yards at this point.
He put on his practiced politician smile and extended a hand to shake mine. “It’s always nice to meet a supporter.”
I hesitated and then accepted his hand, giving it a quick shake. I couldn’t believe I was actually touching him—my father. The first member of my real family I’d spoken to within my memory. My throat tightened abruptly.
Something must have shifted in my expression that troubled Malik, because he pulled back in his chair as he dropped his hand.
“I—I was hoping I could talk to you about something important,” I said, blurting out the appeal faster and more clumsily than I’d intended.
“What would that be?” Malik asked cautiously, his other hand rising just slightly.
I knew what that meant. I’d seen him gesture to his bodyguards before when he felt he was getting too crowded. He was seconds away from summoning them, and then I’d never get through everything I needed to say.
I’d wanted to ease into this, but there was no easy way to manage it.
“Please, don’t call them over,” I said, sinking gingerly into the chair across from him. “I’m not here to hurt anyone. This is about—you had a daughter. Rachel.” My birth name still felt foreign rolling off my tongue. “You think she died in a car crash, but it was a set-up. It was arranged so you wouldn’t know she’d actually been kidnapped.”
Possibly it was a good thing that I’d blurted it all out like that, because I startled Malik enough that he just gaped at me for a second, his whole body motionless. Which meant he wasn’t summoning his bodyguards. But it was only a moment before anger jolted him out of his shock.
