Body Double (10 page)

“Ah, yes. Your father.” Kunz’s level tone sharply contrasted with his gentle expression and the respect in his eyes. “Being a victim is a bitch, isn’t it, Amanda?”

“Truthfully, I’ve forgotten.” He might as well get a grip right up front. She wasn’t giving in or up or going to be content following his rules for his purposes. She was going to do her job and rescue Mark. If possible, she’d also like to survive. “I haven’t been a victim in a long, long time.”

Uncertainty flickered in his eyes, and Amanda was glad to see it. He didn’t know all he needed to know about her or he’d be certain she meant exactly what she said. She wouldn’t be a victim. Not his, not anyone’s. Not without a fight.

And in the years since her father’s first beating, she’d become damn good at fighting.

“Guards!” Thomas called out.

The door swung open and Beefy came through, into the office. “Yes, sir.”

“Take Amanda back to her apartment,” Kunz said, then looked at her. “Get used to your new environment. You’re no
longer a captain in the U.S. Air Force. You’re no longer an S.A.S.S. operative. Actually, you’re no longer anything I don’t specifically order or grant you to be. That’s your inevitable reality now. You can make it pleasant, or your worst nightmare. I’m up for either. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide which.”

Her wisest response was no response, though a scathing rebuttal had her throat burning like a five-alarm fire. It cost her dearly, but she set her glass on the edge of his desk and headed toward the door without a word. Beefy read her mood accurately and backed up out of her way, giving her lots of room. She stunned him by smiling. “Thank you.”

Having no idea what to do with that, the man backed up another step and shot a questioning look at Thomas Kunz, who issued him a solid frown.

Amanda decided right then Beefy was weak and vulnerable. He would never be won over much less become an ally, but he shouldn’t be too difficult to neutralize—without her threatening to do him bodily harm. True, that held less appeal than cleaning his clock, but Kunz did seem to take particular offense to her inflicting injury on his men, and having Beefy guard her could be far more productive than someone she hadn’t physically beaten. She’d have to prove herself all over again. Beefy already had a healthy fear of her.

As well he should.

As well they all should.

Meet me at S.Z. at 12.

Amanda read the note printed on a tiny scrap of paper, twice. She’d found it in the ice bin in her kitchen. Joan had been clever to put it there. As hot as it was, ice was an often-used and appreciated commodity. Okay, so she wanted Amanda to meet her at the safe zone at noon. Hopefully—
please, God—
she had arranged for Amanda to see Mark.

She really needed to see Mark. Her insides twisted like a knotted mass of whipped hotwires. What Kunz was doing—the potential scope of it—was horrifying, even for a seasoned operative who had experienced a lot of horror during her career. This program of his left her staggering. She needed Mark’s grounding.

Okay, maybe she didn’t need it. She stared out the window at a blue jay perched on a tree limb. But she wanted it.

She would kill Paul Reese, who had been avoiding her like the plague—whether by his own choosing or under Kunz’s orders, she didn’t know, nor did it matter. She would get out of here, and she would bring Kunz down. But she wanted to bring Mark out with her.

And she would. She’d do whatever she had to do to make it happen.

That, Princess, is a promise.

At 11:45 a.m., Amanda put on a pair of sneakers, running shorts and a visor to block the glare of the relentless sun, then headed out the door.

Beefy wasn’t in sight, but a different guard—one she hadn’t seen before—stood on the sidewalk. She ignored him, did a few stretching exercises, then took off on a jog.

She wound around the neighborhood a bit and then checked her watch—11:54. Time to get to the golf course. She took the path, certain she had timed it right to arrive at the safe zone promptly at noon.

Joan wouldn’t be late. Why Amanda felt confident of that, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was Joan’s knowing that as well as her own life, the lives of her husband and child depended on her actions. Whatever her reason, Amanda sensed Joan would be on time.

And she was. Promptly at noon, Joan paused on her run in the safe zone and bent down to tie her shoe.

Amanda called out. “Hi, there.”

Joan smiled and stood up, still breathing heavily from her run. “Hello.”

By that time, Amanda had reached her. She hiked an eyebrow, verifying they were safe to speak openly.

“We’re fine,” Joan said.

“How’s Mark?” Amanda kept the smile, but had to work at it. The guard paused far enough away to be out of reach and just out of earshot, provided they kept their voices low.

“He’s still in isolation being interrogated. I can’t get to him yet. But he’ll be coming to me later today.”

“They’re not torturing him?” That they might be had her stomach in knots.

“No, they want to see how he reacts in hostile situations. It’s part of his study. I don’t have time to explain now,” she said, stroking the sweat from her forehead. “But he’s not being tortured.”

“Joan, you realize we have to stop this GRID program.”

Her look glazed. “I don’t think we can.”

Hope had been drained out of the woman. “You help me get the big picture,” Amanda said, determined to restore it, “and I’ll find a way.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I did everything I knew to do, Amanda.” Joan’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked hard and fast. “There is no way to stop him. Everything I thought of, Kunz had already built in a contingency to cover. Everything. You have no idea how hard I worked at this.”

“You were alone, then,” Amanda quietly insisted. She shook her leg, shifted her weight as if walking out a cramp. “You’re not now.”

Joan bent down, rubbed Amanda’s calf. “I’m supposed to be befriending you so you don’t fight me on your debriefing,” she confessed, obviously realizing the risks in doing so. “That’s why Kunz is permitting us to meet and
chat, and why I was moved into the apartment next door to you.”

Amanda tensed, but kept her tone civil and her voice even. “So are you just doing your job, or are you sincere?”

Joan’s hands stilled on her calf and her look went flat. “They have my husband.”

“That tells me nothing. You could hate him.”

“I love him.”

“So you are sincere, then?”

“Yes.” Joan let the truth show in her eyes.

Amanda believed her. “I need all the information you can give me. Is there a way for us to meet more than for just a few minutes at a time?”

“Not without monitors. Not yet. But I’m working on it.” She kneaded Amanda’s muscle one last time and then stood up. “Meet me here at eleven tonight. Don’t let the guard see you leave. Convince him you’ve gone to bed for the night. By then, I’ll have had a chance to talk with Mark and to see what Kunz plans for him.”

“Whatever it is, nip it in the bud,” Amanda said before thinking. “I have plans of my own for Mark.”

Stark terror washed through Joan’s eyes. “Tell me Kunz doesn’t know that.”

“What?”

“That you have a personal interest in Mark.”

“
I
didn’t even know it,” Amanda admitted, shuffling her shoulders. “He couldn’t.”

“Well, for God’s sake, don’t tell him. He’ll do horrible things to Mark to get you to do what he wants done,” Joan warned her. “And you will do them, Amanda. You think you won’t, but you will. Because love is stronger than fear or hate. It’s stronger than anything.” She looked off, past the green and sand trap to a distant cluster of trees. “I’ve learned that the hard way here.”

She had. Amanda could see that in the sadness in her expression, in the defeated slump of her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” Joan looked up at her. A tear glistened on her cheek. “It should have been a beautiful lesson.”

It should have been, but that was in a perfect world, and they didn’t live in a perfect world. Amanda was sorry, but she couldn’t control that. She had greater responsibilities she could control, so that’s where she had to focus her energy. On the military, who were counting on her to protect and defend the country. And to the unsuspecting millions of people living in it. Her duty to those things had to have priority over her personal feelings for one man.

“Your guard is getting antsy,” Joan said. “The monitors have radioed and told him they can’t hear us. We’d better get going.” She cast Amanda a parting smile that appeared frozen. “Eleven.”

“Eleven.” Amanda took off in the opposite direction and ran hard, pumping her legs and arms, releasing some anxiety and giving herself time to clear all of her thoughts.

“Captain West!” the guard shouted.

No one had called her “Captain West” since Kunz had stripped her of her identity, which begged the question, Why had this man used her title? She looked back. He waved, motioning her toward him.

She slowed and turned, jogged back to him, and ran in place to cool down a bit. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Kunz wants to see you right away.”

“What for?”

“I didn’t ask, ma’am,” he said, his back rod-straight. “Does it really matter?”

He had a point. Her choices here were limited and she needed to not arouse tempers or suspicions, or everyone would shut down and she would learn nothing from them. And he’d treated her with respect. “May I grab a shower first?” she asked without a hint of the hostility she felt.

“I wouldn’t recommend it, ma’am,” he said softly, his Adam’s apple rippling up his throat. “When Mr. Kunz says right away, he means right away.”

“Okay, then.” She looked down at her sweat-drenched shirt, then smiled at the guard. “When he gets a whiff, he’ll remember next time to give me time to get cleaned up, eh?”

“I’d think so, ma’am.” The guard’s lips didn’t move, but a humorous twinkle lit his eyes. “You pretty much reek.”

“Yeah, I do.” Amanda walked back toward the apartment. “What’s your name?”

“Gaston, ma’am.”

“Well, Gaston, you’re looking a little peaked. You okay?”

“Frankly, your run damn near killed me.”

She looked down at his shoes. His suit. His gun. Yet no way would a die-hard GRID member admit that. “You’re not dressed for it,” she said. “This heat doesn’t help.”

“Ma’am, I could be in running gear and in optimum weather conditions, and your pace would still kick my ass.” Reluctant respect resonated in his voice. “What’s your speed in the stretch?”

Definitely not die-hard GRID. So what was he doing here? “Four and a half.”

He pursed his lips, blew softly. “Three’s pretty average.”

She graced him with a killer smile. “But I’m not average.”

“No, ma’am. I guess you’re not.”

Another potential ally. If it took flirting and being a little crass to seal a deal, she wasn’t above it. She’d done worse and the stakes warranted it.

Exactly what those stakes were, she didn’t know yet. But everything in her screamed the same warning: The stakes were enormous.

A messenger rode up to Gaston and Amanda on the golf course and pulled to a stop a short distance away. Gaston
walked over and the young guard whispered something to him that he obviously didn’t want Amanda to overhear.

Whatever it was turned Gaston’s skin a sickly shade of green. “I need the cart,” he told the messenger.

The guy climbed out, grimacing. Sweat streamed down his thin, pasty face and Amanda supposed he wasn’t enthused at the idea of walking back to wherever he’d come from in the midday heat.

Gaston ignored him, turned to Amanda. “Get in.”

Her stomach did a little flip, but she climbed into the cart. When Gaston slid in behind the wheel, she kept her manner casual. “Kunz change his mind?”

“Only about where he wants you to go.” Gaston frowned now, and didn’t bother to hide it.

“What is it? A firing squad? More drug therapy? Or has he ordered you to bury me in another tomb?”

Gaston glanced over at her and unmistakable pity shone in his eyes. “For you, it’s worse.” He swiped at his damp forehead with the back of his arm and motioned for her to hike up the hemmed edge of her shorts. When she did, he pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote on her thigh:
No choice. Few want 2 B here.

Thinking of Joan and her situation, she softened her gaze on Gaston and blinked, letting him know she understood. Then she dabbed her fingertip against her tongue and rubbed away what he’d written.

When she had, he wrote a second message:
Avoid Reese and broken nose. Both want 2 kill U.

The guard whose nose she’d broken. Beefy. She gave Gaston the slightest of nods, and then scrubbed off that message, too, trying not to let fear eat at her. Worse than a firing squad or being drugged or buried. There was no telling what Kunz, the King of Torture, had in mind for her.

Whatever it was, she prayed it didn’t include Mark.

Gaston cut across the course and onto a paved street lined
with low-slung gray buildings and two wooden shacks that seemed out of place. The pavement ended at a circular driveway before a sprawling white-stucco building that had no windows. He pulled to a stop. “This is it.”

Amanda walked inside. The air chilled her, raising goose-flesh. Beyond the typical difference between midsummer humid heat and air-conditioning, this went to that hospital-like cold in surgical units that’s essential for keeping germ counts low. Antiseptic in smell and in looks. They walked down concrete painted-white floors, surrounded by tall white walls and white ceilings. The only decoration or color in the long hallway was multiple photos of the black-haired man she once thought was Thomas Kunz.

But why had she thought that? Confused, her skin crawled, warning her of the reason.
Transference.
He, or his minions, had superimposed a visual image of the man in the photo over his actual image to avoid his being correctly identified by authorities.