Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine and I am writing this purely for fun and not profit.
A/N: No Egyptian Deception update today. Instead, you get this.
Dedicated to Caranath, who reads and reviews all of my Nancy stories despite hating Nancy, and always reminds me to add more Joe! ;)
On the off-chance that anyone has been using my fics to learn true facts about the world... um, don't do that. In case you do, just know that, as far as I can tell, there is no American Consulate in Aruba. I believe the closest one is on the neighboring island of Curacao. Whatever. I'm taking artistic license.
And without further ado... on with the story. Enjoy!
If there was one thing Vanessa Bender-Hardy hated, it was being left in the dark.
She could handle most things. She considered herself a strong, independent, resourceful woman who could roll with the punches and stay calm in the face of danger... and she had seen her share of danger, being the girlfriend-turned-wife-turned-widow of Joe Hardy.
Tears pricked her eyes at the thought of what had happened over the past few hours. Just when she thought she'd cried every tear she had, she found new reserves. She'd lived through a nightmare this morning, had seen her entire future vanish in the space of a few short hours, and she didn't understand why.
She didn't understand anything that had happened this morning, and she was starting to wonder if she was going crazy.
Joe was dead, and she was... a prisoner?
Looking back, it was all a blur of blood and shouts and strangers in dark suits manhandling her away from the scene. They'd put her in the back of a car and driven. They'd made no effort to restrain her... but she hadn't tried to move, too deep in shock and grief to really care what was happening to her.
The car had stopped, and she'd been escorted through the lobby of a large, elaborate building—the American Consulate. There was a pleasant-looking man, an American, sitting behind the front desk, but he'd turned a blind eye as she'd been hustled past by the men in the suits. They'd brought her to this room, a library or den of sorts, and they'd told her to make herself comfortable.
But they'd locked her in.
Why would they lock her in if she wasn't a prisoner?
She'd checked, as soon as the shock had worn off sufficiently for her to pull herself together somewhat. She'd moved about the room, checking the doors—all locked—and the windows—all barred. She tried to think of what Joe would do in this situation... even though every time she tried to imagine Joe, she saw him as she'd last seen him: crumpled on the floor, drenched in his own blood, blue eyes staring lifelessly...
She buried her face in her hands and tried to breathe normally. Think, Vanessa, she told herself. Who are these people? Why did they kill Joe, and what do they want with you?
It was all beyond her, honestly. Her captors had to be someone Joe or Frank, or even Nancy, had angered in the past—they were the detectives, not Vanessa. She was nobody—a designer at a small animation studio. She had no access to important information, she had never sent anybody to jail. She had no enemies. The only reason these people would want her would be to get back at Joe.
But if she was supposed to be leverage against Joe, why did they take her even after he was dead?
She supposed they could use her as leverage against the rest of the Hardys—she was family now to Fenton, Laura, Frank, and Nancy, even with Joe...well...—but it seemed unlikely.
She wracked her brain for any clue as to who could have done this. Joe wasn't even on a case right now... or if he was, he hadn't told her about it. These two weeks were supposed to be about them.
Although, maybe, just maybe, Joe had been a little preoccupied after the wedding. At the time, she'd attributed it to whatever—nerves about taking such a huge step with her, leftover stress from planning the wedding and honeymoon... But maybe that preoccupation had been a sign, and she'd missed it.
People often credited Frank with being 'the smart one,' but Joe's memory was just as gifted as his brother's, which was why she'd been surprised when he's gotten several of her relatives mixed up at the wedding reception. On their drive to the airport the next morning, she'd caught him checking the mirrors repeatedly, as if he was worried they were being followed. But she'd brushed it off as habit. After all, checking for tails came as naturally to the Hardys as breathing.
Should she have taken these things as a sign? Should she have talked to Joe about it?
If she had, would he still be alive?
Once they'd gotten to Aruba, though, he'd relaxed. She was sure of it. The little seaside cabin they'd rented was bright and cozy, he'd been his charming and easygoing self, and everything had been perfect... Looking for something, anything that should have warned her that something was wrong, she pored through her memories of the first week of their honeymoon.
Nights of dancing and drinking and racing each other back to the cabin to tumble into bed together, tipsy and in love. Lazy mornings where they stayed in bed until eleven while the Caribbean sun poured through the cracks in the shades, heating up the room little by little. Making breakfast in the tiny kitchen, exasperated but laughing as Joe kissed his way up and down her neck while simultaneously stealing bits of food right out of the frying pan. Hot days alternately lying on the beach and splashing in the crystal-clear ocean. They'd rented a surfboard, and Joe had tried to teach her how to surf: after an hour of failing miserably, she'd managed to stand upright on the board, declared it a victory, and returned to the beach... where she spent the next half hour engaged in the much more pleasant task of appreciating the view of her husband riding the waves. In the evenings, they'd sat cuddled together on the porch, watching the sunset paint the blue water with reds and purples. The whole week had been like something out of a dream.
She realized that tears were slipping out of her eyes again, and wiped them away with her palm. It was then she noticed that her hands were still gritty with dried blood. It was caked under her fingernails, staining the ends of her sleeves, speckled over her bare legs. The legs of her jean shorts sported matching red handprints, where she had absently wiped her bloodstained hands after they'd pulled her off of Joe. She shivered. It was no wonder the man at the desk hadn't tried to help her. She must look like a maniac; she was covered in blood.
Joe's blood.
Her hands shook, her breathing became labored. Suddenly, there was nothing in the world more important than washing the blood off of her hands. She leaped to her feet, running to the door and pounding on it. It vaguely registered with her that she was having some kind of a panic attack, but she couldn't find a way to calm down. She pounded and pounded against the door, thick, solid oak with elaborate designs carved in it. When nobody came, she began yelling.
"Let me out! Help! Please! Somebody!"
She didn't know how long she screamed and banged, but, if anyone could hear her, they didn't answer. Her voice was hoarse, and her fists were red and sore, before she finally placed her back to the door, slid to the floor, and wept.
"Mmm..." she came out of sleep slowly, becoming aware bit by bit that she was awake, she was warm, she was alone. Sunlight streamed through the window and warmed her bare shoulder, and she rolled over in the bed, exposing her face to the light, and groaned. "Joe..." she reached a hand over to her husband's side of the bed, but it was empty. "Joe?"
She sat up, yawning and stretching, and climbed out of bed, throwing on a shirt and a pair of shorts. She heard his voice coming from the kitchen, and she padded out in her bare feet to say good morning.
She paused in the doorway. Joe's back was to her and he was on the phone... but he wasn't speaking English. She frowned, perplexed. Joe was smart and well-traveled, and she knew he knew some Spanish and a little bit of French, but this wasn't either of those languages. In fact, it sounded like... Russian?
She didn't know enough about the language to know if he was speaking it well, but he certainly seemed to be fluent... if the fast rate at which he was talking said anything about it. He paused then, to listen, and she couldn't hear the other person's voice. Then, with a curt-sounding farewell (she assumed), he hung up the phone.
When he turned back around and saw her, he looked startled, but quickly smiled. "Morning, babe. How'd you sleep?"
"Well." she answered, smirking. Did he really think she was just going to let the phone call go without saying anything? "Since when do you speak fluent Russian?"
"Fluent? Hah." Joe scoffed, walking over to kiss her on the forehead. "I speak a few sentences. I was talking to Uncle Hugh, you know, the one who used to be a spy? He's always switching back and forth between languages. I think he sometimes forgets that I don't know as much Russian as Frank does." he shrugged. "I think he was trying to tell me something about the wedding present he sent to us. I told him we haven't opened it yet... At least I think that's what I said."
"Well, you sounded pretty fluent to me." Vanessa said, shrugging. She studied him carefully. Although he was acting perfectly nonchalant, there was a darkness lurking behind his blue eyes. She knew that expression, had seen it before: he was worried about something. Very worried.
Oblivious to her thoughts, he shook his head, grinning at her. "No offense, babe, but you're pretty easy to impress... I mean, look, all I have to do is smile and you're practically swooning at my feet."
"Swooning! Hardly!" Vanessa repeated skeptically, folding her arms. She tapped her chin with one finger, pretending to survey him. "Although, I must say, you'd be devastatingly handsome if not for one thing... your giant head."
He laughed and was about to retort when a brief flash of light lit up the already-bright kitchen. Vanessa immediately thought of a reflection, like from a signal mirror. She looked out the window into the backyard, which was overgrown with trees and brush, but saw nothing. "Did you see that?" she asked, although she knew he must've.
"See what?" he asked, pulling her into his arms. "All I see is my beautiful wife."
"I never get tired of hearing you say that." she said coyly, laughing as he pressed her back up against the window and kissed her thoroughly... but she could tell he was distracted. She pulled her head back just a few inches. "Something wrong, Joe?"
"Of course not." he said, but his tone said otherwise. Instead of looking at her, he was staring past her, out the window. He grabbed her hand. "I think we should go to-"
He was cut off by the sound of a loud crack. Vanessa jumped, looking around, not understanding. Her eyes fell upon a cone-shaped hole in the windowpane, just inches from where her head had been. It took a second to process what was happening: someone was shooting at them!
Joe had already crouched to the ground, and he tugged Vanessa down as well.
"Who was that?" she demanded. "Who's out there?"
"I dunno, babe." he said. "But we've got to get out of here."
"How?" she whispered. "This place isn't that big. And there's windows in every room."
"We're sitting ducks." Joe agreed grimly. "We already know there's someone out back. We'll have to go through the front door."
"You're telling me whoever is sitting out there shooting at us won't be expecting us to use the front door?" Vanessa demanded hysterically. "We're not going anywhere! We have to call the police!"
"Police?" Joe repeated vaguely. She wondered if he was in some kind of shock. Why hadn't the police been his first thought?
"I know when someone tries to kill you, you usually like to figure it out yourself..." she told him. "But I'm sure even you can see the merits of calling them in this situation."
"Fine." he said. "Hurry."
Vanessa hesitated. The phone was on the wall just a few feet away... but it was in full view of the windows. If she ran up to it, she'd be an easy target.
"I'll distract them." Joe said. He grabbed the frying pan from under the counter and moved under the other window, the one above the kitchen sink. "Ready?" He waited for Vanessa's nod before he lifted the pan slowly, as if it were a head peeking up through the window. Immediately, there was another sharp crack and the pan rang out as the bullet hit it.
Vanessa dashed across the room and picked up the phone, dialing 911 before sliding to the safety of the floor. She clutched the phone to her ear for a moment before realizing something that made her blood run cold: the call wasn't going through. In fact, there wasn't even a dial tone. "The phone is dead."
"Perfect." Joe muttered. Staying low, he pushed open the door to the sitting area. Instantly, a bullet whizzed over his head from the other direction, burying itself in the kitchen wall.
They were surrounded.
"We're trapped." she whispered frantically. "Joe, are you sure you don't know who's out there? Are you sure you don't know what they want?"
His lips were a thin line. "It looks like they want us dead." he said. "I'm sorry, babe. I don't know."
"You're not on a case right now?" she pressed.
"No, I'm not." he answered.
She crawled over to him, burying her face in his shoulder. "We have to hide." she whispered.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shaking his head. "They'll just come inside. And once they're at point blank range, they won't miss."
"Well then what do we do?" Her voice was calm, but her body was trembling, just a little.
"In the bedroom," Joe said. "I have a gun."
"What?" Vanessa was floored. Joe had obviously used guns before, but he didn't usually carry one. Why had he brought a gun on their honeymoon? Why hadn't he told her about it? And more importantly... was he seriously suggesting they shoot their way out of here?
"I have a gun." Joe repeated. "It's in my suitcase. If I can take out one of the snipers, we might be able to get away."
Vanessa paled. "You're going to kill one of them? You don't even know who they are!"
"I know that it's them or us." he said, releasing her shoulders and inching in the direction of the bedroom.
She followed. "Joe! We don't even know how many there are!"
"If you have a better idea, Van, feel free to speak up." he retorted coldly.
She swallowed hard, hurt by his harsh tone of voice. While Joe could certainly be hot-headed, he almost never lost his temper with her. He had never snapped at her like that. Maybe it was ridiculous to be offended, after all, they were in a pretty tense situation. But she thought her points were valid ones, and having him brush her off like that... well...
In the bedroom, Joe quickly unpacked his gun and loaded it. Vanessa pulled on a pair of sneakers as he crawled over to the window, knowing without being told that she had to be ready to run. She watched as Joe peered out the window, staying out of sight as much as possible. She saw the grim set of his jaw as he decided on a likely target. He eased the window open just a crack and took aim.
The sound of the gunshot ripped through the air. Vanessa held her breath. There was no answering shot.
Then Joe was on his feet. "Go, go, go!" he shouted at her.
She flung open the bedroom door.
A series of shots rang out behind her, one after another, and she screamed, flattening herself to the ground as the window shattered, filling the bright, tiny room with the glitter of broken glass. Joe fell to the ground beside her.
His eyes were wide open. Unseeing.
"NO!" she screamed, but it was less a word and more of a wail, a sound of pure heartbreak and denial and rage.
The hail of bullets had stopped, and she crawled over to him, neither registering nor caring that she was plainly visible from the window. Glass fragments sliced up her knees as she knelt beside him, touching him with shaking hands, trying to figure out where all the blood was coming from. "Joe!" she cried. "JOE!"
His entire t-shirt was stained red, blood soaking the cotton to its capacity until it began to drip onto the beige carpet. She located one of the bullet holes and pressed her bare hands to it hard, frantically, as if she could somehow force the blood back in. All the while, she talked to him, pleaded with him in a litany of incoherent sentence fragments. "Joe... please... no. Come on... You're alright. It's alright. Stay with me. Please, baby, please. Joe... JOE!"
Joe didn't move. He didn't blink his eyes, or wince in pain, or take a final, shuddering breath. He'd been shot multiple times, and he'd died instantly, and she knew it. Her body was wracked with sobs as she knelt over him, searching desperately for a heartbeat that wasn't there.
The front door burst open and a group of men in black suits poured into the house. They were still wielding their guns as they came into the bedroom and found Vanessa on the floor.
She saw them, dimly registered their presence, but fear took a backseat as pain and despair occupied the forefront of her mind. They tried to talk to her, but she couldn't understand what they were saying—all she knew was that Joe was lying in her arms, and that he was dead.
One of the men holstered his weapon and crouched next to her, taking her by the elbow and trying to raise her to her feet. But she didn't go, instead clinging to Joe's body, pressing her forehead against his, her lips brushing over his still-warm skin.
A second man stepped forward, also putting away his gun. Together, the two men took her by the arms and lifted her bodily, pulling her away from Joe. She struggled, but they were stronger than her, and they succeeded in moving her away from the body. The remaining men all crouched around Joe, blocking him from her view.
The two men took her outside and put her in the backseat of a car. Blindly, she let them.
She didn't stop crying until they were well on their way to the city.
And here she was, curled up on the floor, her hands shaking and her eyes leaking tears. If only she knew something about what was going on. If only she could make some kind of sense of what had happened...
There was a genteel knock on the door, as if she hadn't just spent ten minutes pounding on it and screaming to be let out. Then there was the loud click of a thick door being unlocked.
Vanessa scrambled to her feet, trying to wipe away her tears as she faced her captor.
A man in a gray suit came into the room. He looked vaguely familiar, and Vanessa couldn't shake the feeling she'd seen him before, but he was extremely average-looking, and she couldn't place him.
She faced him bravely, tilting her chin up defiantly. "What do you want from me?" she demanded, but her voice was soft and hoarse. "Why don't you just kill me too?"
The man looked bemused. "Ms. Bender, why would we kill you?"
"You killed Joe." she returned venomously, not even stopping to wonder how the man knew her name.
He shook his head. "My men did, but only in a manner of speaking." he said gently. "I can assure you that Joseph Hardy is still very much alive."
"What?" was all Vanessa could say. Why would he say such a thing? She had seen Joe die. She was covered in his blood, irrefutable proof that this horrible nightmare was all too real. "He's dead. I saw him die."
The man sighed. "Let me explain. You may want to sit down for this."
"I want to stand up." she argued, unwilling to give her captor the satisfaction of seeing her weakness.
"Very well." the man said with a wry smile. "Stubborn... why am I not surprised?"
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean by that?"
"Only that I should have expected that the woman Joe loves to be as stubborn as he is." the man said.
Irrationally, the statement made her blood boil. Maybe it was the fact that this man was talking about Joe almost fondly. Maybe it was that he had referred to Joe in the present tense. "Who are you?" she demanded, forcefully this time.
He looked surprised again, and Vanessa had to check the urge to smack the expression right off his face. "You don't remember-? Oh, well, of course you wouldn't. You were... well..." He cleared his throat and started again. "I apologize, Ms. Bender. My name is Arthur Gray." He reached into his suit jacket, and Vanessa flinched back automatically, sure he was pulling a gun. Instead, his hand came out holding a leather case, which he opened to reveal an identification card. "You've probably heard me referred to as 'The Gray Man.'"
Vanessa was stunned. She had heard Joe talk about the Gray Man, his and Frank's contact to the shady underground government agency called the Network. But the Network and Joe were allies. What reason could they have to want him dead? She took the badge and examined it closely, not sure of what she was looking for, but determined to find it. It said exactly what she would have expected. "The Network." she murmured.
"Correct." Gray nodded. "Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner. We have met before, you know, but years ago, and only briefly."
Vanessa handed back the badge, not sure what to do with that information. "What do you want with me?" she asked.
"Want with you?" Gray repeated with a frown. "Nothing. Only to make sure you're safe."
"Is that why you shot my husband, brought me here, and locked me up without any explanation?" Vanessa challenged.
Gray sighed. "I am sorry about that. The reason that nobody explained to you what was going on is that nobody knew. Those men were given orders to go to your house and retrieve you, alive, by any means necessary. Naturally, once they were shot at, they retaliated with deadly force. They didn't have the clearance to know why they were doing what they did."
"And why were they?" Vanessa asked, cutting him off. "Why were they trying to 'retrieve' me? What do you want me for?"
"Because," the Gray Man said, "I promised Joe Hardy—the real Joe Hardy—that you would be safe. If you'll just let me explain, Ms. Bender, everything will be much clearer to you."
Vanessa folded her arms in front of her. "'The real Joe Hardy'?" she repeated.
"Yes. He's on his way here right now." Gray said, impatience creeping into his tone. He looked at his watch. "Any minute actually."
"I don't understand." Vanessa said. "Joe's dead. I saw him die."
"The first thing you have to know," Gray said, "Is that there is an organization that calls themselves the Lazarus clinic. This organization specializes in making exact doubles of human beings, usually for espionage purposes. One of their biggest clients is a terrorist group called the Assassins. I assume that Frank and Joe have told you at least something about the Assassins; they are the group that was ultimately responsible for the death of Joe's first girlfriend, Iola Morton."
Although she was bursting with questions, Vanessa kept her lips pursed, simply nodding.
"The crux of the matter is that-" Gray was cut off yet again as the door to the hallway swung open.
Vanessa could only stare in shock as Joe Hardy strode into the room, looking very much alive.