Mission: Out of Control (15 page)

In fact, he'd been the one to set up her cell phone, even devising his own password for her phone, Sigma Alpha Mu, from his fraternity days, plus her birthday: SAM0329.

SAM.

SAM0613. June 13. His birthday.

How could she have missed that?

She could hear her pre-entrance video start up.

Tommy D wouldn't—couldn't—shoot her, right? Where would he get a gun?

Damu. He had security and plenty of weaponry. She'd seen it firsthand. What if Tommy D had read her text message from Bishop? What if Damu knew she'd
taken his computer and passed on that information to Tommy?

Then Tommy would have to stop her before she told Bishop what they were doing, where to find him.

“Oh, no. Tommy. You have to tell Brody—”

“Tell him what?”

“That Tommy tried to kill me!”

“Tommy? Why would Tommy want to kill you?”

“Just tell Brody, okay?”

The crowd had begun to chant her name.

Leah turned her toward the curtain separating her from the stage. “Okay, okay. Just get out there onstage.”

“I'm not coming off until he finds Tommy. Otherwise he won't go looking for him. I'll be fine with an audience of fans watching and Brody will know exactly where I am.”

“What about your swing song?”

“Okay, I'll meet you in the back for that. I'll stay in this costume for the rest.”

Leah looked at her with wide eyes.

“Don't worry. I know what to do.”

Well, sort of. Her heart hadn't a clue what it might be doing.

But maybe that, too, was up to God.

Please, watch over us all.

She took a breath, pasted on a smile and climbed onto the stage and into the blinding spotlight.

T
hat voice. He'd know it anywhere. Brody stood in the wings of the darkened stage, behind a speaker, his eyes on the audience.

Until that voice lifted in the darkness. A cappella, the song started out soft, like a dewdrop sinking into the earth, the melody soaking through the ornate ceilings, through the crowd—through him. He held his breath at her words.

“Eyes that hold me, caring who I might be…”

One single light bathed her, turning her dress into a shimmering indigo flame.

“Arms that catch me or set me free…”

He edged around the front. Her profile was breathtaking, her eyes closed. Her voice became dark chocolate, with hints of cream.

“Maybe I can fly, cross a thousand seas. Yet still he will find me, even in my dreams.”

So breakable, like she'd been that first night in the club in D.C. Spikey and tough in Berlin. Sweet butter in the shadows of Prague. The textures of Ronie, each one of them exactly her.

She'd never been hiding. She'd been there all the time.

He pressed his hand to his chest.

“He is my invisible, the only one who sees, reaching…”

“Wick, are you there?” Artyom's voice blared in his ear.

Not now. He ducked back, cupped his hand over his mouth. “What?”

“I just wanted you to know that we got shots of everyone who entered tonight. And Luke and I have eyes on the crowd.”

“Perfect. Awesome.”

He turned back. The last of her notes, resonant, lay like a blanket over the hushed room, almost as if he were in church. His spirit unhinged from him, made something inside him want to weep.

How was he expected to put her on a plane tomorrow? She'd awakened a dead man.

The light faded and he expected her to rush past him for a costume change, but she stayed onstage, raising her hands to her audience, that smile he knew so well—a real smile—soaking in the applause.

But why hadn't she changed clothes?

Spotlights lit up the stage and her band came to life with her cover song, “Liquid.” She took the microphone from the stand, and in that blue dress she became the performer he always knew was behind the mask.

Look into the audience. Stay awake.

This was why he had to put her on a plane. He tore his eyes off her and forced his legs to move him back into the recesses of the stage to watch the crowd. The outlines pressed close, most dancing.

He hadn't a clue whom to suspect.

And the thought nearly compelled him to run onto the stage and sweep her into his arms.

Love—okay, yes, he could admit it, he loved Ronie, loved every crazy side of her—and it terrified him. It threw him off his game.

Why did God give you this assignment?

Chet's words raked through him.

Okay, then, why? So he could make a fool out of himself again? A second chance to fail?

Or a second chance to succeed.

God wants to be your savior, Wick. Just like you're Ronie's.

Maybe God had forgiven him, would even give him a second chance at love with a woman who shared his heart, who wanted to rescue others.

She'd certainly rescued him from the life he'd boxed himself into. From having to hang around every day with the cynical, angry version of himself that had no doubt begun to poison him.

Because of her, he was absolutely going to be on his game.
Please, God, protect her, through me if you have to.

“Hey, Mr. Brody, did my sister find you?” Lyle edged up behind him. The kid had stayed out of his way for the past week, ever since Brody had barked at him the night Ronie disappeared in Prague. Yes, he felt a little guilty about that. He softened his tone.

“No, Lyle. What's up?”

“She was looking for you—said something about finding Tommy D.”

Ronie had finished her number and moved onto a
third. Apparently she planned on staying in that dress. Not a problem with him.

“Where is he?”

“Getting flowers, probably. He always does that the last night of the tour. Then I bring them to her onstage.”

Hence, probably the suit and tie on the kid. “That's sweet.”

“It's a tradition.”

A tradition. The last night of the tour. Meaning, while Vonya was wooing the crowds, Tommy vanished, unaccounted for.

Free to meet with Damu, and hide the diamonds…where?

The light caught her dress, a shimmering spray of light…

Her costumes.

Of course. He might have had them sewn onto her dresses, or even passed off as a prop.

It had been right in front of him the whole time.

“Luke, do you have eyes on Tommy anywhere?”

“Not yet.”

“I haven't seen him since before the show,” Artyom said.

“I'm checking backstage.” He turned to Lyle. “You keep your eyes on her, kid. And if you see Tommy, you come and find me. Pronto.”

Lyle nodded.

“Good work.”

He grinned.

Brody took off, hearing Ronie's song come to a close.

He ducked into her dressing room. Nothing. He was just turning to leave when she came flying in, nearly plowing right into him.

“I gotta change.”

He couldn't move.

“Brody, where's Leah?”

“I don't know. I haven't seen her.”

Ronie pushed past him, unzipping her dress.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“For crying in the sink, Brody, I have a unitard under here. Now help me. I have three minutes—”

He knew he should be averting his eyes, but the zipper wouldn't move and he had to wiggle it down.

Phew, yes, she did have a unitard on. He grabbed the wings and she slipped into them, then the blue high heels. “I'll just have to leave the wig. Did you find Tommy?”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“Because I think he's the one who shot at me.”

And then she vanished.

“Wait! Ronie, you can't go onstage!” He took off after her, grabbed her arm just as she reached the curtain.

She turned and gave him a smile. “You'll save me, Boy Scout.”

Then she kissed him on the cheek and slipped out onto stage.

You'll save me.

“Find Tommy,” he said into his microphone.

He ran around to the stage wing. “Did you see him, Lyle?”

Lyle shook his head. But the kid was clearly looking, and Brody practically wanted to hug him.

“Let's bring up the house lights,” he said, but no one responded.

His chest tightened as Ronie sat on the trapeze seat, the fog machine already creating the “clouds” for her song. Her voice lifted, sweet and high.

In a different time and place, he'd liked this song. Like when her feet were safely on the ground.

“I have him on surveillance footage, leaving the Paradiso thirty minutes ago.”

“He's going to meet with Damu.”

“Wait—there, I see him.” Lyle pointed and Brody grabbed his arm, pushing it down.

“Where?”

“Under the Exit sign. Top balcony.”

Brody stared at the spot.

A metallic flash.

“Luke, Tommy's got a gun—balcony, right-hand side, go!”

He turned to Lyle, pushing the kid down. “Stay put.”

Ronie had begun to swing, way up high above the stage. “Your love gives me—”

A shot cracked the air as Brody vaulted onto the stage. “Ronie, jump! Jump!”

Another shot and her swing pulley exploded.

His heart stopped as she dropped from the ceiling.

Please, God. Please—!
He dove and… “Gotcha,” he said, cradling her in his arms.

She stared up at him, face white. “You caught me!”

He turned his back to the shooter, scrambling to get her offstage as another shot fired.

Heat blazed across his chest. In his arms, Ronie convulsed. “No!”

He ran down the steps, then set her down amid the screaming. Pandemonium exploded around them. He fell to his knees, searching her costume. Blood spurted out of her chest where the bullet had entered her rib cage.

Her mouth opened. Blood dribbled out.

Another shot. “He's down!” Luke's voice.

So much blood. Brody pulled her to himself, put his mouth to her ear. “Hold on, baby. You're going to be okay.” He picked her up. “Make a hole!” he yelled as he jumped off the stage with her and ran toward the entrance. “I need an ambulance,
now!
Ronie, please, stay with me, baby.” He kicked open the door to the street, hearing the sirens. “Don't die on me.”

Her lips moved and he put his ear next to her mouth.

“You caught me.”

He couldn't help it. Brody began to sob.

 

“Veronica! Come back!”

The sultry breezes of the island caught her long brown hair, tangling it around her face as Veronica ran.

“I want to swing!”

She turned, grinning at Savannah, who emerged from the playhouse, dressed in their mother's discarded party dresses, a black curly wig, a pair of heels spearing into the lawn.

“We're not done playing!”

“I want to swing!” Veronica reached the swing set, crawled onto the leather seat and began pumping her legs.

Savannah stood in the yard, looking pale and thin despite the brilliant sun.

Veronica pumped her golden legs harder, her toes scarred from running barefoot on the flagstone. She gripped the chain, leaned back and let the sun heat her face. “I'm going to fly!”

“You'll just get hurt.” Savannah pulled off her wig, her short brown hair not yet grown back. “And then we'll both be in trouble.”

“You just don't want Mom to know you're out of bed. But I'm not sick.”

Savannah narrowed her eyes and grabbed the other swing. “I can swing higher than you.”

“You can't.” Veronica leaned forward, pumping harder. Her sister's dress dragged on the ground. “I'm going to jump!”

“Don't!”

Veronica turned at the panic in Savannah's voice, saw her still struggling to pump her swing.

“Watch me, Savannah. Watch me fly!”

“Don't—”

She leaned forward, letting the swing's momentum release her.

She flew. The blue sky caught her and she landed in the soft grass, tumbling to her hands and knees, laughing.

“Did you see me?” She turned back to the swing set.

There was only an empty swing, limp in the wind.

“Veronica, come back, now.”

She heard the voice and reached out for the limp swing. “Savannah?”

A hand in hers. Hot. Strong. The yard at Harthaven vanished and she opened her eyes.

White, lots of it. A curtain to her left, and wow, she hurt, all the way to her bones.

“Where—?” Was that her voice?

“You're in the hospital, honey. In Amsterdam.”

The senator was here? Dressed in a brown sweater instead of his suit? He looked as if he'd been up all night, pacing. Wait—was it morning?

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days. You had surgery. The bullet collapsed your lung, but thankfully Brody kept you from bleeding out. He practically ran you to the hospital. If it weren't for him—” He blinked and looked away. “Then again, if it weren't for him, maybe you'd never have gone onstage—”

She scrambled for any scrap of memory. Swinging, and Brody yelling, and she looked down and saw him charging across her stage. Then, falling, and pain exploding in her chest…

“He caught me.”

Her father ran a thumb under his eye. “That's his job.”

He'd caught her. Rescued her. She reached up, wincing at the pinch of an IV and touched her hair. No wig. Just her.

“Where is he?”

“In the hallway, being incorrigible. He had to be pried away from your bed. I told him he's fired, but apparently that hasn't made a dent in his loyalty to you. I finally sent him out for coffee. In fact, the entire security team seems to be pretty dedicated—after they took down Tommy,
they found Damu, had him arrested, and they've all been camped out here for two nights.”

“Tommy—is he…”

“Alive. Doing better than you. Apparently he's been acting as Damu's smuggler for a couple years now, even before you went to Zimbala. In fact, that's probably why you had such an easy time getting in. Apparently he and Damu met at Harvard—Damu attended one semester. Did you know that?”

She shook her head. “Was Tommy the one who tried to shoot me?”

“Yes, and Damu armed him.” He shook his head. “I just can't believe you were involved in this.”

“You can't believe I'm involved in a lot of things.”

“You're very trusting, you know. Tommy was stealing you blind—I had your accounts checked. He was siphoning away your money. I have no doubt that Damu approached him about helping him transport goods into the country, and they'd worked out your tour with his delivery dates.” He ran his thumb over her hand. “Honey, please tell me you didn't do all this because of some obligation to me, or—”

“No, Father. But what are you doing here?”

He frowned. “I should have been here a long time ago, Veronica. A long time ago. I just couldn't bear to…” He bit off his words, turned away.

See her? Have her remind her of the daughter she couldn't save?

“Lose you, too,” he finished.

He kissed her forehead. “Do you want to see Brody? I have a feeling this is more than loyalty.”

“Really?”

He smiled. “I knew there was something between the two of you. When I saw that newspaper picture of you slapping Wickham outside the club in D.C., I saw something in your eyes—the girl I hadn't seen for years. And I wondered if perhaps Brody Wickham might find the girl that I'd seemed to have lost.”

He got up.

“Wait—I'm a mess. I need some makeup, or—”

“You look beautiful. Trust me on this.”