AN: I'm trying something new for this sort-of "filler" chapter. Let me know what you think.
CHAPTER TEN
"How does it feel to be the most wanted woman on earth?"
She threw back her head and laughed, clanging her glass against those of the married couple seated across from her. The crew was beginning to assemble itself, and they rearranged themselves around the table.
"Triple threat," someone said teasingly. "Here's to hoping the lies never catch up."
A girlish giggle. "And to that goddamn jewel you owe me for Christmas."
"God forbid a man pisses you off," a man grumbled. "You'd empty his bank account in seconds."
The ringleader shook his head, chuckled, bumping shoulders with his wife. "To a summer of wealth and misfortune," he said, "and absolutely thrilling police chases."
She tilted her head in gratitude as a waiter dutifully filled her flute with champagne. She swirled it slightly, gave the liquid a brief stare before the smile reappeared on her face.
"Cheers."
Joe squatted down next to the boy on the gazebo. In his hands was a signed baseball from the New York Yankees, and he wore a cap that was too large on his head with a matching logo. For the first time in weeks, Zachary Goode offered him the tiniest of smiles.
"Mom is going to make me throw them out. She thinks you're trying to steal me when she isn't looking," he confessed, and watched the man's reaction carefully—after all, he was an extremely perceptive child, the product of the influence of renowned agents.
He shook his head in disbelief. "I'm not trying to take you anywhere, bud. Make sure you tell your mom that. At the end, she's still the woman that raised you, right?" He barely caught the next shocking words that came out of Zach's mouth.
"But what if I want you to take me?" he mumbled, his head ducked low.
Completely at loss, Joe said nothing. While Catherine wasn't the most explicitly loving mother when she was in one of her moods, she had proved to him that she cared and was capable. From what he gathered, the woman had given birth when she had absolutely nothing, jumping between traincars and public restrooms to breastfeed her son. Even to this day, she was on the run, her bursts of radical ideas occasionally pushing her out of the Circle. But, without avail, she always seemed to find a way to keep the little boy safe... even if it meant pushing the responsibility to Joe.
Before he could even begin to formulate a response, Zach cleverly changed the topic. "Can we play catch?" he said, hopping on one of the gazebo benches and swinging his legs under him.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Catherine interjected, melting out of a passing group. Her red hair framed her face and her green eyes were kind. She was dressed in a slick pantsuit, and her meetings must have gone well, because she was in a pleasant mood. She ducked down and pressed a kiss to her son's cheek. "Time to go home. We'll read the story about the king and queen, your favorite—"
"I don't want to go home!" he burst, eyes watery as he clutched his baseball. Never before had the boy thrown a tantrum, and his angry outburst was a product of months of building frustration. "I want to stay with Joe."
Catherine whirled a glower of accusation at the man, but kept her tone soft for her child. "You'll see him again soon. I don't have time for this, Zach, we need to go home."
The way she emphasized the word told him that she had a tail. His lips pressed together in a grim line and he nodded in understanding, squatting down to the boy's eye level. He grasped his shoulders in a firm, yet comforting, grip.
"Remember what I told you, bud. She's your mother and she's gone through hell to take care of you." Zach nodded, his cheeks ruddy and wet with tears. "Go on; we'll meet again soon, I'm sure."
Catherine simply looked at him with a conflicted glimmer in her eyes—she would never thank him for anything, but that glance would be enough. "Time to disappear, honey," she whispered, lifted him into her arms, and became a blur in the crowds of Roseville's central square.
He stood alone in the gazebo for a moment, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His tall, broad-shouldered, and stolid appearance along with his extremely unapproachable personality made him a scary man, but all it took was an eight year-old boy to make his heart clench. He stared ahead, until someone entered his peripheral on the small bridge that stretched over the pond.
Cara Pierce. A bitter taste entered his mouth.
Her fingers were drumming a pattern against the wooden railings of the bridge. Though she was looking down at the water, his movements were purposeful, encoded in Morse.
Local bar in three hours. I have intel on Schmidt.
She departed with only a brief glance in his direction, without even considering his answer. They were back in the professional terrain; they werr not friends, companions, or even coworkers. They were just two agents stuck together on one mission, hoping to finish it off as soon as possible. He knew that neither of them would be keeping in touch for old times' sake, holding the operation in the back of their heads for sentimental value, or keeping their phone numbers programmed.
Cara had tried to con him, and that was something he would never forget.
Joe squeezed his eyes shut when he ducked back into his car for the drive to his safehouse until their meeting. The phone in his hand felt like a rock, and he dialed the number with a bated breath.
"I just saw you, Wise Guy. Miss me already?" Catherine's voice was smooth, and the background was deathly silent. He wondered where she had gone.
"I had to ask, Catherine. He doesn't remember me—why?"
He kept her charade long enough, but each and every time, her green-eyed gaze told a different story. She remembered, too. Those nights she spent in prison, on the run, sprinting through streets and sleeping in alleyways. All those times, she was never able to take care of a baby herself, its innocent and sharp cries a dead giveaway to anyone tailing her. There had always been someone to take him away and return him in a little basket on whatever doorstep she was squatting at for the night. Their routine had gone on for five years, until she finally disappeared and kept her child out of sight.
For a while, he had decieved himself. After all, the boy had grown and looked like an entirely new person, other than those dark eyes and his messy hair. The boy represented everything he and the woman had nine years ago, before she had fallen pregnant and disappeared off the face of earth, only to reappear with a bundle of blankets in her arms. He'd been like the rest—ostracized her, broke their bond of trust, and created a rift between them.
He had asked the question at every meeting, about whose he was, yet the answer was always vague and her vision would grow clouded as she became unstable.
The first time he saw Zach again... it had been hard to breathe. It was their little secret. Other than Catherine and Joe, not even Matt knew the truth.
"He was small and untrained. I couldn't risk him—he was too young to keep secrets," Catherine whispered into the phone.
"So you erased me from his head," he said flatly. He didn't know why, but for some reason, it hurt.
She exhaled. "I don't need to discuss this with you, Solomon. He's my son and I make decisions that I think are the best for us, and most importantly, best for him. Don't try to interfere."
He suddenly remembered his true intentions behind calling her. "I wanted to tell you that you have a tail. Cara Pierce has been on your back for a very long time. She means no harm to Zach, but I can see her becoming a problem if she raises any flags with the CIA."
A pause. "I see." Her tone was clipped and dubious, not quite believing that he wanted to help her. "Anything else?"
Something brought him to ask her again. Maybe it was the insistence in her tone to keeo the emotional ties between him and Zach in check, or maybe it was her fear that he'd take the boy away from her. "Is he—" he cut off abruptly.
The question hung between them, until Catherine finally replied. And for the first time, it was a real answer, and not a roundabout excuse to keep him wondering.
"No. He isn't."
When she hung up the phone, he wondered why it was disappointment he felt that he truly had nothing to call his own.
"You're keeping the case."
The statement was awkward, a cross between a question, an observation, and an order. Despite the knots that her decision caused, she gave it anyway.
"Yes. I'm transferring phases. Honeypot."
Her throat closed and she had to choke out the last word. Her target knew what she was after... but him knowing was the perfect setup to put a new plan into motion. A plan that would take all of her effort for her to crack him, weasel her way in, and ultimately destroy him.
"Okay. Good." He cleared his throat, his sigh emanating from the speaker as a burst of static. "And Cara?"
She pursed her lips, thinking that he was finally about to say something, acknowledge his mistakes and apologize to her. But she was wrong.
"I... Nevermind. Thank you for informing me of your decision."
Joe had frequented the Roseville Bar and Grill more times than he would have liked to admit, and it wasn't for their famous steak—though he definitely indulged himself on occasion. He was lucky that the restaurant never kept a bartender for long, or else his face would have been engraved in their memory.
"Why so public?" he asked quietly, when she slid onto a barstool next to him.
Her gaze was fixed on the wall of bottles. "I thought it was best that I stay away from both the safehouse and Zach Goode."
He hummed under his breath in agreement. It was true—though he wasn't nearly as vulnerable as before, the last thing he needed was for her to invite herself when one of the Morgans were present. Joe wasn't particularly sure how he felt about their arrangement. She was an agent commissioned by Max Edwards to pin him as a Circle member. She was completely aware that he knew of her intentions, as he'd made it blatantly obvious during their trip to London, yet they remained partners solely to fulfill the original goal of taking down Schmidt.
Sometimes he wondered when his life started to get so dysfunctional.
Cara cleared her throat. "Anyway. Schmidt is scheduled to land in New York City on the Fourth of July. His itinerary has him booked in the Marriott Hotel for only two nights. He is scheduled for dinner in surrounding boroughs with very high profile politicians that he is known to fund when voting season rolls around. Afterwards, on the third night, he is staying at a very small and off-the-charts inn in the Bronx, where he will be making a second attempt to contact Mr. Haber."
"The same art auctioneer in Iceland? Why are they meeting in the goddamn Bronx, of all places?"
She shrugged. "The more dangerous your meeting site, the harder it is for a third party to infiltrate the scene undetected. Considering the fact that Schmidt is a known giant in the Circle business..." She paused briefly here, and gave him an uncomfortable look. "It's safe to assume that the chemicals that will be exchanged on site will be put to a very dangerous use. It is in our interest to intercept this exchange again and if the time is right, make an attempt on Schmidt's life."
He drummed his hand against the counter of the bar, taking in the information she had given him. He supposed it didn't matter anymore, if Schmidt decided to open his mouth and reveal damaging information about him. It was too late to back out as well, seeing as the CIA had approved of his collaboration and assigned him to the case—most likely as a result of Edwards' persistence.
"Send me a map of the perimeter and the inside of the hotels and meeting points," he said decidedly. "If it's close enough, we can use Times' Square to regroup after exfil."
She nodded slowly, processing his words. She grabbed a napkin and a pen out of her purse, scribbled numbers onto it. "My new number. Max decided to take the liberty of bugging my old phone, so I figured it was time to be a little rebellious."
Joe chuckled a bit, and tucked the napkin into his pocket. "Do you want a drink?" he offered awkwardly, purely out of proprietary.
She politely declined, and stood up. "I have to go, before Abby catches wind that I'm in town and drags me to the bars again." She gnawed on her lip, and lingered for a split second longer. "I... I wanted to apologize. I hope you understand exactly what kind of situation I am, between Max and his rather... cold-hearted tendencies."
He bristled, and shook his head. "Next time you see him, tell him to take his own advice," he said, his gaze hardening. "Relationships are liabilities."