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Chapter 11

Zach POV

I walked up to Tribet restaurant, scanning the area. There were two areas perfect for a sniper shot. I put on my modified glasses that had magnifying lens. There was no movement or signs of snipers in either area. The alleys were empty, and the people who strolled down the streets didn't appear suspicious.

I stuffed my fists into my beat-up leather jacket. It was a graduation gift from Solomon. He wore it when he was undercover in Colombia as a bodyguard for a known drug lord. While he wore the jacket he took down one of the most notorious drug rings in South American, he escaped death in it—a rip in the shoulder attested to a nearly dodged bullet—and apparently banged the hottest agent in his division. He referred to it as his "lucky jacket." I remembered scoffing at that.

"I don't believe in luck," I told him.

"If you don't believe in luck then you're an arrogant fool."

A lot of people don't believe in luck. They think it's their actions that earn them their fortune. Sure, Solomon nearly dodged that bullet because he's a skilled spy who's been trained to keep himself alive. And his ability to infiltrate and take down a major drug ring was product of his skills and taking the correct course of action. But, saying that his skill kept him alive all these years is saying he's had complete control over the outcomes in his life. Everyone can control their actions, but no one can control the outcome of them. And the outcome is all luck.

And since I couldn't control the outcome of this meeting, I'd brought enough weapons to at least sway luck in my direction.

I walked through the door of the restaurant.

"Would you like a table, sir?" a maître d' asked me.

"No thank you. I'm meeting someone." I glanced around the restaurant. It was low lit, a perfect location for someone who doesn't want to be scrutinized. I looked at each table, inspecting the occupants carefully. Finally I spotted someone eating alone. He delicately moved the fork to his mouth, and after each bite, he patted his mouth with a red handkerchief. He wore a dark suit with a lily pin on the lapel. His silver hair was slicked back, and he had a neatly trimmed goatee. While he had that look of megalomania that most old rich white men possessed, I wasn't ready to label him as the "bad guy."

My pocket buzzed. I glanced at the phone I took from the kidnapped guy.

What is Cameron's favorite food?

For a moment I didn't understand the text. Then I glanced at the silver man's food—spinach tortellini. Suddenly, I felt anger. How did this man know my fiancé's favorite food? I headed his way, reaching into my jacket to feeling one of my Browing Buckmark Campers resting in its holster. The cold steal eased the fire in my stomach.

I sat down at the table. The man didn't look up. I pulled out one of my guns and cocked it under the table.

"You have something to say to me?" I asked. The man pushed his plate of food out of the way and wiped his mouth. Finally he looked up at me. He had startling black eyes—more pupil than iris.

"Mr. Goode, did you know that when a male lion meets another who threatens to disrupt its dominance it lets out a mighty roar to show who's in charge? However, more often than not, its roar is louder than its bite."

"I think you'll find that my bite is far more fatal than my roar," I replied with a smirk.

The man smiled. "Well, in that case, it's only fair I show you mine."

The atmosphere in the room changed as conversation in the restaurant ceased and every customer pulled out various weapons, all aiming at me. My throat constricted as I assessed the new situation. This certainly changed things.

"Shall we get on to business then?" he asked with a patronizing smile.

I put my gun away with a scowl. And everyone in the restaurant continued on with their normal manner like they were programmed machines.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Let's just say I was a friend of Mother's."

My heart clenched at the mention of Mother. If this guy was in any way connected to Mother then this situation far worse than it seemed. The last words that Mother said to me involved the certain death of my fiancé.

"You can unclench, Mr. Goode. I'm not going to kill you," the man said.

"Could've fooled me with all the manpower you brought. Although, I am flattered you felt the need to bring this much back up," I said, glancing around the restaurant at all the armed spies.

He waved his hand.

"Ignore them. If you do as I say, they won't be a problem."

I could read between the lines. My chances of leaving this meeting alive were slim if I didn't cooperate.

"And what is it you want me to do?" I asked suspiciously.

"You see, your fiancé has caused a lot of problems for my company in the past. She's killed a lot of my men, product of Father's orders. Father has been trying to dismantle my corporation and was using Cameron as his tool. Since both companies were terminated thanks to you and Cameron's torrid love affair, I figured my company wouldn't be bothered anymore. Then I was tipped off that a private plane was heading to Comoros. So tell me, is Cameron still working for Father?"

"Why does that matter?" I asked, trying to process what he was saying. What was so goddam important in Comoros?

"Well, it should matter a great deal to you because whoever is working for Father is now my problem. And my way of dealing with problems is… a little unconventional." He smiled—hinting his methods of eliminating a problem wouldn't be pretty.

I masked my anger and fear at his threat. I wasn't sure how much power this guy packed, but, considering the situation I was in, he wasn't someone to take lightly. But what really bothered me was how much trouble this guy went through to get me here. He had someone break into Jonas's house just to get caught just so I could find the cellphone just to come meet him? It seemed like a roundabout way to set up a meet.

"Why are you telling me all this?" I asked.

"I'm giving you the chance to fix this." He wiped his mouth and stood from the table. And like puppets on a string, the rest of the restaurant stood up as well. "Less bloodshed this way."

Call it spy's intuition, or the fact that powerful people always lie, but I didn't believe this was the true reason.

He walked towards the door, his entourage in tow.

"By the way, Mr. Goode, I hope it wasn't your fiancé in that private plane to Comoros because my men shot it down an hour ago." With that he left.

My stomach shot into my throat as if I falling. That explained the plane disappearing from the monitor. I tried to remain calm. This was Cammie we were talking about. Of course she survived the crash. She was fine. Of course she was fine.

I frantically pulled out my cell phone and dialed her cell.

It went straight to voicemail.

Well that didn't mean anything. Maybe she turned on her cellphone and it wasn't lying crushed underneath her dead body.

Calm down, Zach.

I was about to dial another number when an unknown number began calling me.

"Hello?"

"Zach? It's Bex."

"Bex, what the hell is going on?" I asked instead of being relieved that I finally was in contact with someone with Cammie. "Where are you?"

"We're at a resort on the coast of Mozambique. Our plane got shot out of the sky along with it all our supplies."

"I heard." I left the restaurant and got into my car. The Bluetooth in my car picked up my call, and I put my phone away.

"You heard? What do you mean?" I could hear sounds of a restaurant in the background, and I wondered why I wasn't talking directly to Cammie.

"I don't have time to get into it right now. Look, I'm heading back to Parent agency to get supplies. Then Grant and I are heading your way. We can swap stories when I get there, and someone can tell me why the hell you all went on an unauthorized mission without informing me."

"What's with the sass, Goode? Last I checked we're allowed to do what we want."

I rolled my eyes. Bex would get defensive when her authority was challenged. But, she was nothing compared to how Cammie was going to act when I asked her about her impromptu mission.

"Where's Cammie by the way?" I asked, trying not to sound like the over-concerned fiancé that I was.

"She's upstairs showering and stuff. I'm sure she's going to call you." Bex said the last part with uncertainty. She was clearly trying to reassure me, but we both knew Cammie. She wasn't the one to admit when she needed help.

"What's the hotel information and her room number?"

After Bex told me the information, we hung up. I dialed the hotel's phone number and asked to be directed to Cammie's room.

To my dismay there was no answer. I cursed and pressed harder against the gas pedal. I was so sick of Cammie leaving me out of things. Not only was it dangerous, but also it hurt that she couldn't be honest with me. We were a couple for Christ's sake! And yet I felt like I didn't know her. She was like the moon—a part of her was always hidden away. And as hard as I tried, she refused to show me the darkest parts of her.

Cammie knew everything about me—from the most horrible thing I've ever done to the time when I cried watching Sweet November (to be fair, that was the weekend of Solomon and Rachel's wedding, so everyone was feeling a bit emotional). Not only that, but I told her all of my stories that occurred during four years we were apart. But, anytime I tried to ask her something, she'd clamp up and say something coy like "why talk about the past when we could do more important things." That's when she'd take off her shirt, and I'd lose my train of thought.

What was I going to do? I was tired of never knowing if my fiancé was going to take off without telling me and do something that could kill her. How could I be with someone who wouldn't let me in?

How would our relationship survive without trust?

I pushed aside these thoughts that made my stomach constrict on itself and called Grant instead.

"Get the jet ready."

"Sweet. Should I pack sunscreen?"

"Yeah, 'cause we're heading into a hot situation."

Uh-oh. Does Zach doubt their relationship? Will they be able to work it out?

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