Connie sat at the conference table in the back room of the plane. She was trying to concentrate on what Markov was saying, but she kept zoning out and watching the pictures of his PowerPoint on the wall, which were equally nonsensical but at least were colorful. Jason sat beside her, looking rapt, as if it was the most interesting thing he'd ever heard. So were Saul and Leila and Tasha and the other agents. Gray wasn't present.
She wanted to be able to help Jason as much as possible, so she needed to at least sort of understand what was going on and not just be deadweight. But all these agents knew much more than she did already, so she didn't know how much "help" she could provide without getting in the way. She could just focus on having fun…but this trip wasn't just about having fun. She wanted to support Jason in whatever way she could. It would be hard to even do a fraction of the amount that was already second nature to the agents, but she had to try.
She made another effort to focus on the words and understand what the Muldavian security director was saying.
"Yavesh works in self-contained cells, which communicate with each other anonymously. This makes it almost impossible to bring down the organization, because if you capture members from one cell, they won't be able to lead you to another.
"However, it also has a hierarchy. If one cell seems to do particularly well, their superiors will send in a scout to scoop up the individual most responsible for its success. My agent was trying to rise in the ranks before he was killed. He gathered most of the intel I'm sharing with you now. Before we sent him in, we didn't even know for sure if we were really dealing with a cohesive organization or just small-time criminals trying to make an extra mina.
"The hierarchy, however, remains completely opaque. We have no idea who organizes it at the central level. Until we find out what lies at the core, we'll only be fighting the symptoms, not the disease. But we must fight it, even if it seems like a losing battle, because if we give up, we will be surrendering our country to ruthless criminals with no respect for human life or the rule of law.
"I know you're all professionals; you've been around the block. But Yavesh is in a whole different category. It's comparable to ISIS in its calculated brutality. The difference is, it works in shadows and doesn't display its evil on the Internet. Our evidence comes from smuggled cell phone video like this."
An image flashed on the screen. It showed about nine girls lined up along a wall. A man stood in front of them, speaking in harsh tones in a foreign language. As he spoke, some of the girls began to cry silently, tears streaking their cheeks. They oldest was probably only fifteen. One of the girls began sobbing, and the others tried to comfort her. The man stepped forward. He grabbed the sobbing girl and wrenched her away from the others, slammed her to the cement floor. She cried out, her knees scraping painfully. The man jammed his gun to her head.
Connie nudged Jason's shoulder. "I can't watch this," she whispered.
"You don't have to. You can just—"
The gun went off. But the girl was not harmed. She writhed away in fear. The man grabbed her by the hair and lifted her up against the wall. Shoved the gun against her shoulder.
Boom!
Blood—screams—too much blood.
Connie tore outside of the room. The door slammed. She leaned against the wall, shaking. Her heart thudded hard in her ears like the reverberations of the gunshot. She slid down to the floor, leaned her head in her hands. Tears slipped onto her cheeks.
How could anyone do that to an innocent girl?
A half-sob squeaked from her throat but she was in too much shock to cry.
She didn't have the right to cry….not after what she'd seen. At the same time, how could she do anything but cry? How could she let this happen—but she had no way to stop it—she was totally inadequate, how could she possibly think she could do anything—she'd just be a hindrance to Jason—probably would've been best if she'd stayed home.
The image flashed again across her mind and she fled it—anything to get it out of her head.
She ran down the aisle to the front of the plane, past the curtain where the food was located.
Someone moved in the shadows. Wide panicked eyes.
Then the figure stilled, steadied into someone familiar.
"Oh, it's you," said Gray. He held a glass in his hand, sloshing with an amber liquid.
"Are you all right?" Part of her was grateful for something to focus on; part of her wanted to be alone.
"Of course I'm all right." His voice was cold, hard, although there was a slight quaver to it.
"I'm not." She didn't know why she said that, only that she was still shaken.
"You can take what you want from the bar, you know." He indicated the glittering wine glasses, stacked neatly on the rack, and the dark gleam of various bottles with elegant labels.
"I don't drink."
"Probably a good idea not to self-medicate. I should have joined the meeting instead of coming back here. It was a…momentary weakness. But it appears that meeting wasn't worth it anyway."
"It was too much for me. They—" She tried to keep from seeing the image again—"showed a video of a man shooting a girl. I couldn't watch any more."
"My old self wouldn't have flinched at such a thing but now…perhaps it's good I didn't go to it. They were human trafficking victims?"
Connie nodded. "I want to help but I don't think I can. I'm not cut out for this. I'm no agent."
"I used to be an agent…but now I don't belong with them either. I am…little more than a slave myself." His eyes were haunted. The terrible sorrow in them cut her to her heart. He was not the same Gray as before….perhaps she could help him. And in doing so, find a way to forgive the Gray he had been….
"Connie!" Jason dashed up to her. "Are you all right?"
"I'm okay."
"I'm sorry I didn't come right out after you. But Markov delayed me. Are you sure you're okay?" He laid his hand on her arm.
"Yeah…I am now. I ran into someone." She gave Gray a hesitant smile.
"Are you all right, Gray? I didn't see you at the meeting."
"Yes," Gray said, tugging his left sleeve down over his new, unstained bandage. "I will…try to make the next meeting." He lowered his eyes. "Please disregard my reaction earlier. You just…startled me. I…am still not myself."
"I understand. I know what it's like to be…recovering from a traumatic experience."
Gray looked at him sharply as if not sure if he meant more than he was saying. Then he gave a curt nod, set the half-empty glass down, and went back to a seat.
Connie sat down beside Jason along the window, away from the others. Tiny waves glistened far below like carved blue ice.
"I'm sorry I ran out," said Connie. "It's just that—I couldn't watch."
"It's good you're not used to seeing such things. I can have a bit of a clinical detachment if I block myself off, but this time, I felt like running out too. It's not war—it's the torture of young girls. I can't close myself off from it—and I shouldn't. I should let my feelings drive me to do something about it." He looked out the window, the sky reflecting in his eyes, making them an even more brilliant blue.
Connie shot awake. Lifted her head from Jason's white shirt. Good, I wasn't drooling, she thought.
"Hey," said Jason, and kissed her lightly on the mouth.
Heat suffused her cheeks. "Someone might be watching."
"So what? Besides, most people are sleeping."
Sure enough, most people had their seats reclined. The sun shone golden into the windows from the west.
He kissed her delicately along her jaw. She gasped and pulled away. She wanted more of his kisses, but didn't want the chance of someone watching what was theirs alone to share.
He whispered, "If you want some privacy, we could go into the conference room and lock the door."
"Someone would find out," she whispered.
"Some time alone would be nice, though, wouldn't it?"
She nodded. It did sound nice; they probably were only halfway across the ocean, and it would be a while before they could be alone together again. She still wasn't sure about this, but excitement laced through her. She let him lead her to the conference room.
Inside, it was warm and dark. His hand moved to the small of her back and guided her gently to him.
He kissed her slowly, lusciously. She savored his touch. She'd been away from him, from this, for too long.
Alarm cut through her mind. "Jason, is the door locked?"
"Oh! I forgot." He rushed to the door and locked it, then returned to her, fire in his eyes. "So, where were we?"
"Here," she said, sliding her hands around his back, and pressing her lips softly to his. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, her cheek against his, his soft hair entwined in her fingers. She reveled in the fact that she was this close to him at last. She'd needed this without realizing it.
He slipped her hair to the side and kissed her neck. She leaned back against the table; he consumed her lips in a fiery kiss. He lifted her onto the table and she let out a shriek of surprise. She hoped no one had heard….although any embarrassment she might feel was muffled by her desire.
He climbed onto the table with her and slid back the fabric of her shirt a fraction to kiss the top of her shoulder.
He lifted her into his arms—she laughed—he gave her a deep, passionate kiss that left her breathless.
Then he slid back off the table. "I think—that better be it for now."
"But Jason!"
"If we're in here any longer, someone might miss us. Besides, now that we're back together—I need you even more. You fulfill every part of who I am." His eyes were fervent in the dark. "I was starting to forget where we are."
She needed to be closer to him too—but he was right. She didn't want to get too carried away, yet.
She slid off the table and smoothed her shirt. "Here," he said. He slid his hand softly into her hair and drew down a strand that must've gotten mussed up.
She ruffled his hair into an artfully messy style and slung her arm around his waist. They walked out of the conference room, most people still sleeping in the same positions, hopefully none the wiser.
They walked back to their seats. She entwined her fingers through his. She couldn't stand not touching him in one way or another, even if it was torture not to be as close as they'd been a few moments before.
Markov strode down the aisle as if from nowhere.
"I want to talk to you," he said in a stern voice. She shrank back, afraid he might not have approved of their using his conference room for personal purposes.
"What about?" asked Jason.
He sat down across the aisle facing them, leaning forward, his hands folded over his knees. His dark eyes were earnest. "What they showed in the conference room was too much for you, Connie, wasn't it."
"I'm sorry. I'm not used to that sort of thing."
"That's the problem. You're a civilian, I get that. But if you're going to be a part of this, you've got to get over your squeamishness."
"Wait just a minute," said Jason, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. "It's a good thing that things like that bother her. Sometimes we agents take our detachment too far. Keeps us from acting."
"On the contrary, it keeps us from acting rashly. Anything done from emotion instead of from reason is courting disaster. Of course we can let ourselves feel. But sometimes those feelings can be a liability. We cannot let them control our actions."
"I agree to a certain extent. But these are children. Being used for horrible, unspeakable things. If we're stifling our compassion for them, our effectiveness can be dulled."
"Or we can let our passion rule, rush in, and get ourselves killed and do nothing to help the cause." He sighed, looked at Connie. "What I mean is, this is just symptomatic of a larger issue. You are no agent; your ability to help us will be limited, and if you remain ignorant, your tenderheartedness and your well-meaning attempts to help may keep the real agents from doing their jobs."
Connie flinched inwardly at the harsh words. She'd already been thinking such things.
"I…I want to help," she said. "But maybe it's better that I just stay out of the way."
"She will help as much or as little as she wants," said Jason, the anger more than an undercurrent now. "We aren't employed by you but by Mr. Brand to find his son. We're helping only because our interests coincide. You cannot tell us how much or how little we're going to be involved in your own operation."
Markov blinked, as if taken aback a little. Then he said, "You may not be employed by us, but if you're going to work with us, you'll need to follow certain protocol. The bare minimum of competence. I will not have my operations messed up by amateurs."
Connie felt tears spring to her eyes. She loved how Jason defended her, but she knew Markov was right. "It's probably best if I stay out of the way." She looked at Jason. "I don't belong with all these agents anyway. I'll do some investigating if I can but I'm not going on any agent adventures."
Jason smiled a little. "I'm not sure how many agent adventures I'll be going on myself." He looked at Markov. "I have no obligation to help beyond the parameters of my own mission. I want to help Muldavia… but I will do so in my own way." He stood. "And the next time you talk that way to my wife, I won't be so forgiving."
Markov's eyebrows rose. Then he nodded. "Fair enough. But it is also fair to point out that this game is a dangerous one. And if you want to help, you should learn quickly—or stay out of the way."
He stood and strode down the aisle.
Jason sat back down. "We are guests on his plane. But we didn't promise anything either. It's not like I can singlehandedly fix their country like I apparently did last time." He sighed, sat back against the seat.
"You are amazing. I could never do what you do—I won't even try. But I still want to help."
"You can."
"How much can I really do though? I didn't understand half of what he was saying in the meeting."
"Anything you can do will help."
"But it's not enough! If not even the agents can help those girls….maybe I don't belong here. But I can't stand by while I know things like that are happening! They're hurting them—I—" A sob built in her throat. She sought solace against his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her. "Contrary to what Markov said, a tender heart is a strength, not a weakness." He kissed her tear-damp cheek. But she couldn't help but wonder whether he was right.
The plane landed in the dark on a rainy airfield. Connie stirred awake, sleepily grabbing her carryon. Outside, a limousine drove up. It turned out it was for them and Tasha and Gray.
They rode through rain-soaked streets, some of them cobblestone. Brick buildings, some ancient, rose up around them. A few were tall, modern, glistening like obsidian. On the edge of town, perched on a hill, stood a palace. Made of white stone, it gleamed against the darkness.
They drove down a long, winding driveway, past elegantly sculptured shrubs, gardens, fountains, statues. Then the limo pulled up under an archway. Jason helped Connie out of the car. She still felt half-asleep; all this seemed like a dream.
A man resplendent in a white suit glittering with jewels stepped out, a crown on his head. A woman beside him in a royal purple dress.
With a shock, Connie realized the man looked a lot like Jason.
Jason bowed; Connie followed suit, rather awkwardly. Tasha and Gray bowed elegantly.
The woman swept forward—she was like a grand lady, larger than life. She took Connie's hand. "I am Darya Regina, Queen of Muldavia. I'm very happy to meet you."
Connie stuttered out her own name, not entirely certain she got it right.
The man took her hand, kissed it. "I am pleased to meet you. I'm Roderick, king of Muldavia, but you may call me James. Welcome." He gave her a smile.
The king and queen ushered them into the palace, and Connie fell headfirst into a dreamworld.