Station Alpha: (Soldiering On #1) (4 page)

He could already tell he was lying to himself.

In an attempt to take his mind off it, Paul dialled the number of one of his colleagues and forcefully dragged his mind out of the gutter as she answered.

“Paul.” Angelica Samson was not one for pleasantries.

“Sam,” he answered in return. She hated her first name—had often said that it had far too many feminine connotations to suit her personality—and hence was known only as Sam.

“What’s up?” she asked. “I assume this is not a social call.”

She was right. As much as Paul liked Sam, he wouldn’t exactly call them friends.

“I need some women’s clothing,” he blurted out.

She was silent for a moment. “For yourself, or for someone else?” There was no judgement or amusement in the question, just a sense of wanting more information.

“For a woman that was rescued last night. She’s in the safe house in Reem Tower.”

Sam digested this. “By ‘was rescued’ I assume you mean that you rescued her. And then subsequently directed her to the safe house that just happened to be one floor below you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Sam had always been too quick.

“And you called me, because…?” Sam asked with no further comment. They both knew that she had her suspicions about his actions last night. She wasn’t the type that needed to rub it in. Letting him stew in the knowledge that she had his number was almost always enough for her.

“Because, regardless of your gender, you would be more sensitive to the situation and be likely to get something she would like?” Paul guessed. He was hoping that was what she’d wanted to hear.

She grunted. “What does she like?” Sam asked, apparently satisfied enough with his answer.

“Uh…” he said, wracking his brains. “Women’s clothes?”

Sam made an annoyed sound. “Paul, you may have noticed during your many hours observing the human race that people have different tastes. There is no such thing as women’s clothes. I wear clothes, I am a woman. But my outfits are usually jeans and a t-shirt, like many men. Some people prefer skirts and dresses. These people do not always identify as women. So, think about what you’ve seen her in before, and answer the question again.”

Sam had never once let him or any of the men she’d served with, or later worked with, get away with anything resembling misogyny. Not everyone appreciated it, but it was one of the things he most liked about her. She was unapologetically herself, and didn’t compromise that for other people’s comfort. Not that she was intentionally an asshole. Sam was a genuinely nice person. But she also wanted the people around her to be better and smarter about themselves and the world they lived in, and that was definitely something he admired.

Determined, Paul thought back over the last week and thought of some of the outfits he most remembered Christine wearing.

“In this weather, when she’s dressed casually and not for work, she seems to prefer tank tops, those button up sweaters, and either skirts or shorts. Lace up shoes would be best. Just in case.”

They both knew what he meant. Just in case she had to make a run for it.

“All right. Better. Sizes?”

“According to her file, she’s 5’7”, 135 pounds.”

“Bust? Shoe size?”

“I…don’t know. She’s…reasonably busty? With normal size feet?”

“Why don’t you just ask her, dipshit?” She sounded more amused than annoyed by his fumbling.

“Shit. Hang on.” He put Sam on hold to the sound of her chuckle, and called Christine. Seconds later, he was rattling off sizes, nearby stores, and style possibilities to Sam, whom he could tell was making no effort to write any of it down. He trusted her memory implicitly.

“She wants to do some research, too, so if you could swing by the office and grab a secure laptop, that would be good. And…uh…breakfast. I’ll pay for your coffee if you bring her something to eat.”

Sam sighed. “You know, you could do this yourself. I know that you have this whole ‘shut-in’ thing going on, but you do leave your apartment occasionally. This could be one of those occasions.” Paul could detect just a hint of worry in her tone, though she was trying to sound flippant.

Paul made a noise of disagreement. “I think she could do with a friend right now.”

“And that person can’t be you?”

He hesitated.

“Christ, you haven’t gone to see her. You are in the same building, and you haven’t even gone down to say hello?”

“It’s complicated.”

“You mean, it’s all well and good when you can watch her from afar, but as soon as it might require some genuine interaction, you run for the hills? C’mon, Paul.”

“I know it’s shitty,” he began miserably.

“Ya think?” she interrupted.

“But I just can’t,” he finished.

Sam sighed. “I know you’ve been dealing with stuff your own way and everything, but you really need to get out more and sort yourself out.”

“Yeah, I know. I do know that.”

“All right, I’ll do it for you this time. But next time, you are on your own.”

“Thanks, Sam,” he said, relief coursing through him at the temporary win. He’d cross that future bridge when he came to it.

“Yeah.” She paused. “You know if you need anything, or just wanna talk, or whatever, that I’m here, right?”

He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “Thanks.”

They disconnected, and Paul leaned back in his chair. He knew the others were worried about him, but he hadn’t realised that they knew the extent of his current issues. Objectively, he knew Sam was right. He did need to get out more.

But, of course, it wasn’t that simple.

When the bullet had severed the lower thoracic region of his spine, he’d thought his life was over. Bad enough that the firefight had resulted in scars to his face and body that no amount of plastic surgery could disguise. It was the loss of the ability to walk that had really changed him.

He’d never been handsome, but he’d always been athletic, so losing his agility was far worse than losing what remained of his looks. Thanks to rehab, and his regular exercises, he’d managed to not only gain back much of the upper body strength he’d lost, but surpass it.

His legs were a lost cause. No amount of training could bring back his ability to stand on two feet. So, he’d withdrawn from his former life to regroup and reassess. But he found he’d liked the darkness and anonymity of watching people, never having to face their pitying stares or condescending handshakes, as if losing the use of his legs had somehow made him any more of a hero than the other men and women that had served.

It was easier to stay inside, and keep in touch with the world through a few clicks of a buttons than deal with what his future would now entail.

Until he’d seen Christine, and learned what a kind, generous person she was. It made him yearn for something more than what he had, something beyond his dark apartment and lonely existence.

He wasn’t ready. But he didn’t know if he ever would be; if there was ever a right time. He had no idea what she’d think of him if confronted with his reality face-to-face. He knew what he hoped, and he knew what he suspected, and those two things most certainly did not match.

Chapter 4

Duncan lay in wait.

According to their joint calendar—an inconvenience that Mandy had insisted on and Duncan rarely used—she was due back any moment from some client meeting. Which is why Duncan found himself looking out at the nearby park from her office, and wondering how she had wound up with the better view.

His
office looked out over the parking garage.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have refused to participate in the interior decorating and office arrangement. Damned if he’d complain, though. Then she might mistake his dissatisfaction for leverage.

Even the office itself was nicer, though that might have been more to do with her personal touches than any architectural differences. Books of all kinds lined the black bookshelves, with small decorative touches breaking up the heavy mass of textbooks and dark wood. All the knickknacks were green of varying shades—matching the two client chairs at her desk, which were the colour of limes. The desk itself matched the bookcases, as did all the furniture. More green spotted throughout the room. It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow gave the space a modern, individual feel.

Maybe he should get some ornaments. Or a plant.

The door swung open, and Duncan spun around. The movement was meant to be smooth, but he felt a slight twinge in the vicinity of his thigh and his leg buckled slightly. He froze, realigned himself, and completed the movement, all within a second.

He glanced at Mandy, hoping that she’d somehow missed his moment of weakness, but the concern on her face belied that optimism.

“About time,” he said loudly, his rudeness covering his frustration that she’d witnessed the near miss.

Her expression shuttered, her concern disappearing. “If I’d known you were waiting, I may have considered cutting the meeting short,” she replied easily. She hung her jacket on the hatstand by the door and raised a challenging eyebrow in his direction. “Is there something I can help you with?” She smoothed her blonde chignon in an uncaring gesture, her pretty features in a familiar cool mask.

“In fact, there is,” Duncan began, the anticipation of the fight beginning to pump through his veins. He smiled, but he guessed it must not have been a nice smile, because Mandy narrowed her eyes.

“Shall we have a seat and discuss it?” She gestured to the chairs by her desk. He sat, expecting her to seat herself in the matching chair next to his. Instead, she moved around the desk and perched herself on the large leather chair opposite him. He knew she’d done it on purpose to take the position of power, and he didn’t know whether it rankled or amused him.

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

Duncan leaned back in the chair, steepling his fingers in front of him.

“Our recent clients, the Vovk family. What do you know about them?”

“Less than you, I suspect. You did the background check, after all.”

“I did, though it hardly mattered, since you insisted that we take them on as a client regardless of what it said.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I never said that.”

“Not in so many words,” he agreed. “But the implication was clear. Unless they were immediately obvious as violent criminals, you expected me to take the case.”

“They are paying customers with a simple request. I don’t see how it is wrong to earn some decent money on a job every once in a while. And they aren’t criminals. They are businessmen.”

“Funny you should say that, because I’m not so sure.”

She straightened, and didn’t quite cover her look of surprise before he caught it. “And why do you say that?”

“Because I think it is rather suspicious that during the period that they hired us to watch a woman with no direct affiliation with them, that same woman is almost kidnapped or killed by a highly trained team of armed men using high-tech assault gear.” He kept his voice calm, almost thoughtful, relishing the look of shock on Mandy’s face.

“Is she okay?” was her first question, and Mandy immediately went up in his esteem.

“Yeah, Paul got her out safely,” he told her with sincerity. She blew out a breath and sat back in the chair. Her guard was temporarily down, so Duncan settled his hands calmly in his lap, no longer feeling quite so on the offensive.

“Thank God for that,” she said softly. “She’s at a safe house?”

“Yeah.” Though he didn’t tell her which one.

“And you think this has to do with the Vovks?” There was nothing combative in her voice; she was deferring to his expertise on the matter. He appreciated that more than he’d admit to her.

“It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

She nodded. “You are probably right. So you think they ordered the assault?”

“Could be, but doubtful. They had to know we might be watching them. Even at 2am.”

“So, her employer? The one they were suspicious of?”

He shrugged. “That seems unlikely, too. Mr. Disik is an old man, though it is rumoured that he once had some pretty heavy connections. What his motive would be is a mystery, though.”

“So, perhaps a third player.”

“That’s where my money is.”

She considered this. “I know that you have probably already made arrangements to help the woman, and won’t ask her to pay, but I just want you to know I won’t do anything callous like kick up a fuss. You guys do your jobs and protect her, and I’ll stay out of your way unless you need me.”

He cleared his throat, surprised. “That’s…great. I appreciate it.”

She nodded, and the two stared at each other for a long moment. Tension sprang between them, of a different kind than the combative nature of their usual interactions. The air thickened, and Duncan swallowed, trying to breathe properly.

Mandy blinked, then seemed to almost shake herself as she looked away from him.

“Right,” she said.

“Yeah,” he muttered, standing.

“I’ll let you get to it,” she said, uselessly shuffling some perfectly aligned papers.

“Great,” he told her, backing towards the door.

He opened it, ducked through, and then proceeded to hide—uh, get to work—in his own office, very determinedly not thinking about his attractive, totally off-limits business partner.

Christine was struggling through some half-remembered aerobic exercises from a class she had taken once when the doorbell rang. Her heart leapt in both gratitude for the interruption and excitement that the visitor might be Paul.

It was only as she reached for the doorknob—her anticipation at its peak—that it occurred to her rather belatedly that it might not be a friendly face on the other side. She froze.

How had she forgotten? Just hours ago, armed people had been intent on doing her some serious harm. They were still out there, looking for her.

A shiver wracked her. “Who is it?” she called cautiously. She wondered if she should have put on an accent.

“My name is Sam,” said a female voice, partially muffled by the sturdy door. “I work with Paul. He asked me to bring you some things.”

Christine let out a breath, some of the tension leaving her. She leaned back towards the door, this time peering out the spyhole. All she could see was a woman’s face, bare of makeup, and partially obscured by a baseball cap.

“I’m new at this,” Christine asked through the solid wood. “Is there something I should ask you to do before I open the door?”

A smile flickered over the woman’s face, not mocking, but pleased. “Tell me to put down what I am carrying and step back. It would prevent me from muscling my way into the apartment, or attacking you in close quarters. The danger would be that it would offer no protection from a gun, and I’d get a better shot from a few steps away.”

Christine thought about that. “So, I should ask you to put down your stuff, step away, and then when I can see you full-body, ask you to prove you aren’t hiding a weapon anywhere before I open the door?”

Sam’s smile bloomed into a grin. “You’re a smart one, I like that. Sounds like as good a plan as any.”

“All right, so go on then,” Christine encouraged, only partially joking.

She heard Sam bark out a surprised laugh. Still, she disappeared out of the keyhole’s line of sight, presumably to set down what she was carrying. Then, Christine watched as she took three steps away until her back pressed against the opposite wall.

“Weapons?” Christine prompted her.

Clearly amused, Sam pulled up her tank top to show the waistband of her pants and turned, showing that there was nothing tucked in there.

She stopped when once again facing the door.

“Ankles?” Christine asked. Sam hesitated, for the first time looking uneasy.

“Now would probably be a good time to tell you that I am actually carrying a weapon. Or three.”

“Are you going to use them on me?”

Sam shook her head. “I have no intention to.”

“Well, I guess I’ll take your word on that.”

She cracked open the door, then slowly pulled it wider, half-braced for an attack. Still, Christine had decided to trust the woman, and thought an attack would be unlikely.

All Sam did was pick up the items she’d set on the ground and stride into the apartment. Christine detected a slight unevenness of gait as she moved, and a little heaviness of breath that she found somewhat curious.

Sam was dressed down in a high-necked tank top and cargo pants, but not the expensive, stylish kind. Instead, she’d gone for functional and comfortable. It didn’t quite hide her figure—she wasn’t sure that any clothes short of the monstrosity that Christine was currently wearing would—but they disguised it enough to need a second or third look to see.

Christine had the suspicion that Sam would be a knockout with a touch of makeup and some nice clothes, but she equally suspected that that would be the opposite of Sam’s desires.

“I brought you clothes,” Sam told her, as she set a big bag down on the counter. “I got the sizes you mentioned at the stores you said you usually went to, so hopefully they fit.” She made a face. “The lack of continuity in sizes and shapes between stores is one of the reasons I shop in the men’s departments. More useful clothing, cheaper, and the same sizes wherever you go.”

“Women get the short end of the stick, no question,” Christine agreed, coming to the conclusion that she already liked Sam. “How much do I owe you for all this?”

“Nothing, I put it on the company credit card.” Sam grinned conspiratorially at Christine, and she returned the gesture. She guessed they knew where she was if they wanted to ask her for the money later.

Sam turned back to the items. “I swung by the office and picked you up one of our secure laptops. It’s all clean, should be untraceable. No guarantees in this day and age, but as close as you can get.”

“Excellent. I’ll do some research.”

“And best of all…” Sam produced two coffees, a bagel, and some other assorted items and set them in front of Christine.

Christine made a sound that wasn’t quite human as she picked up the coffee nearest to her and practically inhaled a gulp.

“Thank you,” she breathed.

Sam looked on, amused. “You’re welcome.”

Christine took another sip of her coffee, a more normal mouthful this time. She eyed Sam over the rim of the paper cup. “So, you work with Paul?”

Sam’s eyes shot to hers, and a slow smile bloomed across her face. “Sure do.” Her eyes danced.

Guilty heat stained Christine’s cheeks at the other woman’s expression. She’d meant the question to sound innocent, but apparently she was not as sly as she imagined herself.

She ploughed on. “I’m just curious why you’re here. Not that I don’t appreciate it,” she clarified quickly. “But he said he was in this city, and then he didn’t come himself. So, I guess he lives further away…?”

Sam pursed her lips. “He’s being stubborn.” Her gaze flickered over to the smoke alarm. The blush that had subsided on Christine’s cheeks roared back with a vengeance as she remembered the camera. Was Paul listening? She replayed her words so far, wincing.

Sam sighed, oblivious to her turmoil. “Look, I get the feeling he’d kill me if I told you what was going on. Hopefully he’ll tell you himself. Soon.” She glared pointedly at the camera.

“Well, that’s all very mysterious,” Christine joked half-heartedly.

“I wish I could be of more use to you. I dislike intentionally withholding information from people that should have it. Generally, communication should be the first step, not the last one. But I also don’t want to get involved.” Sam’s gaze slid over to where Paul was probably watching them, then back to Christine. “I’d say ‘go easy on him’, but maybe that’s not what he needs.” Her words were musing, almost said to herself.

With that, Sam pushed away from the counter, grabbed the second cup of coffee, and strode out the door with a swift goodbye. Christine was left blinking in her wake, trying to process the conversation that had just occurred.

She’d been suspicious when he’d said he was here in this city, but it seemed it was true. He really didn’t want to see her face to face. Christine rubbed her chest at the sudden ache that sprung there.