HAUNTED SONA

CHAPTER 13

FBI Headquarters, Chicago.

Agent Felicia Lang dropped her chin into her slim hand, staring at the phone she'd just replaced back onto its cradle. At the start of the day she'd developed the worst tension headache she'd had for a while. That little surprise call from Lincoln Burrows hadn't helped, either.

Wheeler appeared at her desk, holding a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. Thoughtfully, he placed one before her. She straightened up in her chair and offered him a smile.

"Aw, you're a sweetheart," she cooed.

"Just paying you back for that day I had the head cold from hell," Wheeler said, stopping for a sip, "and you took pity on poor little ole me and brought me some homemade soup. The Tylenol not helping?"

"Nope."

"Sorry to hear that. What would help is a nice, long vacation from this madhouse."

I'll say…to Panama, preferably, she thought. Taking a sip, she asked, "Have you ever heard of a place called Sona?"

"Where is that?"

"In Panama."

"Hmmm. No. Why? Oh, wait…" Wheeler stabbed an index finger into the air. "That's that prison, right? Sona?"

"Y-yes. I think so."

"Yeah, then I have. I saw something about it on one of those news shows. That's not a place I'd send my worst enemy to."

Her heart sank, though she hid her distress behind a weak smile. "That bad, huh?"

"Bad? The place is terrifying." Wheeler chuckled and leaned against the next desk over from hers. "And I saw something on the History Channel on it, too. You remember, uh, that show, what was it called—the one about—oh, History's Mysteries, that's it."

"I've seen that a few times."

"Well, they had a segment on that prison in Panama. They said—get this—that Sona is one of the most haunted places on earth." Peering at her over the rims of his glasses, Wheeler whistled the theme song from Twilight Zone.

Lang giggled. She was drinking the coffee, which her good friend and colleague had fixed exactly to her liking, when he asked the inevitable question.

"What makes you ask about that place?"

The lie should have come easily to her, but it didn't, on account of a couple of things. First, she liked Agent Wheeler. That hadn't always been the case. There'd been that initial friction between them, which had been short-lived but had still driven a wedge between them. It was due to both Wheeler and Lang being the highly driven and competitive professionals that they were, both vying for the boss' attention.

But now the boss was out of the picture. And, unfortunately, disgraced.

Yet that was a whole other ball of wax. Their mutual respect for each other—two people who took their work so seriously, who ate, slept, and dreamt their careers—along with those long hours at the bureau and the stress that came with it, those two professional rivals had eventually become close friends.

The second reason it wasn't easy to lie was that she seriously questioned the wisdom of what she was doing in keeping that information to herself.

"I caught a piece of that same show on the History Channel. You know how they repeat shows? Tell you, I wish I'd caught the whole thing. It was interesting!"

"I thought so, too. You believe in ghosts?"

"Not at all."

"Oh. I do."

She widened her eyes. "Really?"

"I've seen…some weird stuff." He shrugged. Nodding in the direction of the office behind him, Wheeler changed the subject. "Heard anything yet about our fearless ex-leader?"

Uh-oh. This was dangerous territory now. Her heart beat faster with the next fib to escape her lips.

"Nothing."

The name, ALEXANDER MAHONE, was still on the door. They hadn't taken it down yet, a fact that gave her a bit of false hope. It wasn't as if he could ever return there, after everything that had happened. Yet even the name plate did things to Felicia Lang's heart, too. There were times when she still expected to see him—looking sharp in his suit, moving like a caged panther; the man was so quietly, so dangerously sexy—emerge from that office, barking orders at them.

"Call me crazy, but I kinda miss him," Wheeler confessed, grinning. "No, not kinda. I do miss him."

At last she could relax and be honest. "Me, too."

"And—and you know, sometimes he was the kind of guy you just—well, I didn't hate him, but I didn't always like him, either."

Reaching forward, she patted his arm. "Mahone could be difficult."

"That's putting it mildly!" There was no malice in Wheeler's laugh, but rather an undeniable sadness. Then, more seriously, he said, "You know, Felicia, there's this…that is, uh, something happened between me and the boss that I've never told anyone before…"

"Oh? What was it?"

Wheeler sighed and looked away. He shook his head in that way that suggested he was inwardly scolding himself.

"For now, I'm keeping it—" he pulled an imaginary zipper across his lips, "—zipped. But I will tell you sometime. Right now, I'd better just get my butt back to work."

She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out her black leather purse. "And I have to go home."

"Really? You're feeling that bad?"

"Ugh, yes! This baby's turning into a full-fledged migraine." For good measure, she rubbed her temple before pulling the strap of her purse onto her shoulder. "Would you do me a favor…?"

"I'll let them know, sure. Geez, I hope you feel better. But you shouldn't be here if it's that bad."

"It feels like there are a hundred little guys with hammers in their hands, pounding away in my head. Thanks for the coffee, buddy." Lang offered him a playful salute, getting one in return. "Later, gater."

"In a while, crocodile."

Though her feet, clad in her sensible, low-heeled black pumps, carried her briskly down the corridor to the elevator, she couldn't walk fast enough to avoid the guilty feeling that followed her.

More than guilt, actually. She was frightened, to tell the truth. Here were the facts: She'd just received information, most likely credible, from Lincoln Burrows, regarding the whereabouts of Alexander Mahone. Mahone, former agent for the FBI, now with a warrant out for his arrest there in the States. Her job—no, her duty—was to turn over that information to her superiors.

Her dilemma? Quite simply, who could she trust with that information? So much had come to light about the far-reaching tentacles of the conspiracy that had ruined so many lives already. Was anyone else in the bureau involved with them? Would Alex still be safe? For that matter, how safe was he with Lincoln Burrows? Felicia hadn't liked his tone of voice over the phone. And what was it Burrows had said that had raised her suspicions? The elevator's bell rang right as the doors were opening.

He'll be out today if all goes well.

"Felicia! You keeping banker's hours now?"

She whipped her head up, stifling a swear word at the sight of an inquisitive, rather cocky Richard Sullins. She supposed, resentfully, that he must have thought he had every reason to be cocky, now that his own professional rival was being hunted like the very criminals they were all paid to track down and arrest.

"Oh, hi, Richard." She forced a laugh. "I'm afraid I'm going home for the day."

"Home? You're going home?"

"Yes. I'm—I have this incredible migraine. It's killing me. I can't concentrate on my work…" Although she tried to maintain her poise, she couldn't help herself. Something about falling under Sullins' piercing stare made her feel like a kid who'd gotten herself hauled in front of a stern school principal.

"Must be serious. I don't think you've ever even called in sick since you've been here." He eyed her curiously.

"Never."

"Well, anyway, you go on home and take care of yourself."

"I will. Thanks, Richard. I'll see you tomorrow." Before he could engage her in any more talk, Lang hit the button for the ground floor. Gratefully, she watched the doors as they closed.

Richard Sullins would literally have her head if he knew what she was up to. The man was tough as nails, a bulldog, one of those by-the-book guys. Much like Alex himself had been.

What Felicia Lang was about to do was not to be found in any FBI rulebook, either.

She revved up the engine of her blue Mercedes convertible, currently with its top up. It was a used Mercedes, but hell, a Mercedes was a Mercedes. It was her baby, a gift she'd given herself when she'd gotten her promotion and was transferred to work under Alex Mahone. At the time she'd seen him only as how he'd been known in the business. The man was a powerhouse, brilliant, both admired and envied among his colleagues. Having reported to him would look magnifico on her resume. She'd intended to put up with his moodiness and his explosive temper in order to learn all that she could from him, eventually advancing up the rungs of that corporate ladder.

As fate would have it, things hadn't turned out exactly as she'd planned.

Felicia Lang waited until she reached a red traffic light to draw her cell out of her purse. Pam Mahone's number was programmed in with her other contacts.

But, no. She couldn't call her. She couldn't let Pam know that she had information on Alex, however much she wanted to put the woman's fears at ease. Felicia was jeopardizing so much already, herself, her career—and even more importantly, she didn't want to endanger Mrs. Mahone. Well, Alex and Pam were divorced, but Felicia knew that, for all intents and purposes, Pam was the mother of Alex's son, and she was still Mrs. Mahone.

She tossed the phone back into her purse. Swiped at a hot tear in her eye. She hadn't lied about that headache. Her head was throbbing like crazy.

In spite of it she had to drop by her home, pack an overnight bag and her passport, and then hurry to the airport. How might that conversation had gone, the one with Mrs. Mahone?

Hi, Pam. This is Agent Lang. Look, I can't talk long. I just wanted to let you know I heard from Michael Scofield's brother. Alex is okay—he's alive. He's in that prison with all that supernatural activity down in Panama. Oh, and Pam? One more thing. I'm really sorry, but I am so deeply in love with that husband of yours.

Oh, yeah. That'd go over well.

Felicia Lang turned into the street leading to her apartment complex, where she'd recently purchased a lovely townhouse that she'd furnished tastefully, stocking it with her potted plants, her books and paintings she'd done herself. Alex may have been surprised, had he known that there was a real woman—and a very creative one, at that—behind that suit, one who was a voracious reader, who got lost in tending her garden. A woman who wasn't cold when it came to children, as she'd led him to believe in their brief discussion regarding C-Note and his family. She'd learned during her failed marriage that she could never have children, so it was easier to pretend she had no time for them. A loving, passionate woman who was about to sacrifice so much for him. And she was no idiot, no dewey-eyed adolescent girl. She knew he would never belong to her.

Pushing that thought aside, she wondered…how long would it take to get from Chicago to Panama?

Just sending out a hello to Mathew's Mom--and thank you to all who've reviewed! I'm hoping to get Chapter 14 (back to the guys) in the next couple of days. -- Seabluemermaid