The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (13 page)

Only halfway through the pages, Munroe stopped and set the folder aside. She had to pause, to breathe, to consciously force herself into a state of levelheaded calm. There was no point in continuing through further details; she’d gotten the idea, and the emotion conjured by what she read brought her as painfully close to flashbacks as anything the years had thrown at her.

Munroe understood now why Heidi had said the missing pieces weren’t easy to forget, and what Logan had meant by the children’s pain having been turned into a media-circus freak show. He was right. After reading about it, it was easy to overlook everything else that had come before it, to forget how much further and deeper their pain went, how their entire lives had been a travesty of justice and a failure of those responsible to treasure, protect, and respect the innocence of childhood.

She didn’t need to read to know the rest of it; she’d heard it from Logan and caught glimpses of it from the discussions that had taken place in New York. Stories of abuse began to surface, governments began to investigate, and doctrines that The Chosen had once practiced
in the open became secret. The Prophet and his Representatives rewrote history, burned Instructives, and to the public and the courts repudiated and denied, while on the inside they defended the Godliness of their beliefs. Only in the face of mounting evidence did The Prophet’s spokespeople grudgingly admit that some of the stories were true, even while denying the role of The Prophet or his doctrine, instead blaming rogue disciples and claiming things had changed.

Munroe sat for several moments, reflecting. Remaining free of preconceived opinions and ideas was critical to understanding and assimilation, but given the background on this assignment, remaining objective was becoming increasingly difficult.

When the rush of anger had subsided and the rage was temporarily quelled, she stood. Slowly, so as not to make noise or disturb Bradford, she crossed the room, pulled the laptop from the desk, and retreated to the nook between wall and bed. She powered up the machine and turned off the desk lamp.

Munroe had until early morning to pull and draw, to suck the life’s blood from the veins of information that lay within her reach. Logan’s folders had been thorough and had provided history, facts, and reality. What she wanted now was to crawl inside the minds of those involved, to understand the way that members within The Chosen thought, and if she could, acquaint herself with those in Argentina. She would learn their dreams and aspirations, their fears and motivations, and these she would find, not in history and data, but in blogs and comments, stories and testimonials floating through the vastness of the Internet.

Once started, her focus became so intense that she wasn’t aware of Bradford having woken until he’d crossed half of the room. She broke midsentence to acknowledge him and then turned again to the screen.

“Hey,” Bradford said, and he sat on the edge of her bed, tipped over so that his face was parallel with hers. “Not planning to sleep?”

Without looking up, she said, “Probably not a good idea.”

“What?” he teased. “You don’t think I could handle your sleepwalking with my eyes closed?”

She chuffed. “It might get messy.”

“When you want to rest,” he said, “let me know. I’ll keep an eye on you.” The playfulness had gone out of his voice and his tone was soft and serious.

Munroe paused, looked up, and met his eyes, which were only inches from hers.

“Thank you,” she said, and she truly meant it. “I might take you up on that, but tonight I’ve got to get this research in.” She checked the clock. Four
A.M
. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Depends,” he said. “Are we still on for seven?”

She nodded.

“I feel like I could use three more hours of sleep,” he said, pulling backward off the bed and winking that irresistible wink of his.

Munroe sat tall, eyes following as he recrossed to his own space; he with the drawstring pants slung loosely around his waist and the chiseled torso that showed two-toned in the darkened room. Bradford, knowing that she watched, turned back to catch her eye, and when he did, she almost laughed, continuing to observe until he had settled down.

The chemistry that had smoldered between them in Africa hadn’t lessened with time, but if the flame was to ignite, it would be on Munroe’s shoulders to fan it. Not for any lack of desire on Bradford’s part, that had been clear for a long while now, but because of his respect for her boundaries and for their shared history.

Thoughts of Noah tumbled through Munroe’s mind followed by the piercing pain that lately came with them. She pushed them back, returning her focus to the computer and another series of blog links, reached down and jotted another note on the pad that had by now been nearly filled.

They left the hotel at seven-thirty, Bradford accompanying Munroe as spotter and a second pair of eyes. Munroe expected the van to arrive at the grocery sometime between ten and eleven, assumed that the vehicle would approach on the side of the street with easiest access,
but unwilling to risk waiting another week on wrong assumptions, she was attempting to cover all angles.

At eight, the streets were still waking up, and in this part of town, traffic was light. Still several hundred feet from the storefront, Bradford exited the cab, walked into a corner café, and took a seat along the window so that he had a clear view down the street.

The piece in Munroe’s ear chirped. Bradford was testing signal strength, and she smirked, eavesdropping on his conversation with the waitress as he struggled with the language. Then, having confirmed that he’d settled into position, she moved on, parking the taxi not far from where she expected the van to show.

She had borrowed not only the cab but also Raúl’s, the driver’s, clothes. Over the past few days she’d tipped him well enough to ensure that this morning he would be content to let her have the black and yellow car for a few hours while he lingered around the corner.

Munroe idled at the curb and settled in for the duration. For those few who flagged the cab or attempted to ride, she told them the vehicle was waiting on a fare and, in the long hours that passed, conversed with Bradford. Their conversation was abstract, time-killing talk, the rambling that bonded partners. He made her laugh with witty retorts, his mind nearly as fast as hers, jumping topics from the inane to the obscure until, as if on cue, the Haven van turned down the street.

Munroe spotted the van in her rearview mirror at almost the same moment Bradford alerted her to the target’s approach. Clearly visible through the advancing windshield was the male-female pair and a number of smaller faces in the backseat.

Counting cars and measuring speed, Munroe waited and, at Bradford’s go, shifted into gear and slid the cab away from the curb and into traffic, allowing the van to fill the spot that she had left empty.

Around the corner, she left the car with Raúl, swapped jackets, and added a hat and sunglasses to avoid the possibility of being recognized by Bianca, the store clerk, and any potential scene that would come of it.

Munroe doubled back the way she’d come, Bradford’s voice in
her ear, clicking off minutes, updating her on the target’s movements. Bradford had left the café for the street and was slowly walking toward the van, backup if for some reason she should fail in her mission.

She passed the front of the vehicle, confirmed it empty, and, reaching the rear, knelt to tie a shoelace. At Bradford’s clear, she slipped a hand under the chassis, a movement clean and smooth that left behind a magnetic disk. She remained kneeling, waiting, working on the shoelace, until Bradford signaled again.

She rounded the vehicle to the driver’s side and, sure to keep her back to the clothing boutique, shimmed the door open, confidently and subtly. To the very observant she was the rightful owner returning for a forgotten item. She remained only long enough to drop a pen into the cluttered console and slip a booster pack under the dash. She locked and shut the door, turned, and continued on the way she’d come.

The battery on the listening device had a short life span; they could expect perhaps twelve to fourteen hours if they were lucky, but the tracker would last until they killed it.

Munroe slowed, allowing Bradford to shorten the distance between them, and after several blocks, she crossed the street to join him. Together they turned the corner and, with a nod to Raúl, who waited, climbed into the cab.

Their work here was done. Rather than attempt to follow the van through the city, they would allow the GPS tracker to do the work; every street, every turn, and every stop would be transmitted to the machines in the command center and then recorded and analyzed.

If the van functioned as Gideon and Heidi believed it did, they would have the locations of all three Havens by the end of the day. If not, it was inevitable that in time the others would be found, but time was the one thing Munroe had little to spare.

She expected the van would take at least three hours to make its rounds, so they returned to the hotel. With Bradford in front of the computer, comparing GPS information to local maps, and nothing further for Munroe to do but wait, she lay down. Exhaustion settled, her
eyelids drooped, and although she feared another nightmare and the havoc the dreams would wreak, sleep took her hostage.

She stood along the expanse of empty road, useless Ducati at her side, and watched the Good Samaritan pull to a stop
.

He stepped from the rear of his Escalade, spare gas can in hand
.

The vastness of West Texas stretched in all directions, a barren and endless flat that melted into the horizon. Munroe had followed the roads at random, taking the bike to suicidal speeds, open throttle, screaming engine, and having misjudged the distance between towns after she’d found the last gas station unexpectedly closed, had ended up stranded
.

The Good Samaritan approached. His hand rose in greeting; she nodded. She returned small talk to his questions. Unscrewed the bike’s gas cap
.

He held the can toward her
.

His smile was wrong and something about his body language put her on edge
.

She hesitated
.

It would take less than a gallon to make it to some form of civilization, and she wanted that fuel. Desire overrode instinct. She reached for the can
.

Her hand closed around the handle, and the barrel of his gun came full in her face
.

Without moving, she raised her eyes to his
.

The smile was gone, the safety off. He nodded toward his vehicle
.

She sighed. Not this shit again
.

She slumped in resignation. Did as he instructed
.

He prodded her to the rear of the vehicle and followed
.

If he’d wanted her dead, he would have already shot her, and so she moved forward, confident he wouldn’t fire until he had what he’d stopped for
.

Munroe waited until they were parallel to the Escalade, and with the tinted windows working as mirrors, she struck. The speed of attack sent the weapon flying
.

She drove a fist toward his face, a leg to his groin, and inexplicably, he countered. Blow by blow, block to block, an incomprehensible speed that matched hers until, against all reason, she was on her back, arms pinned to her chest, unable to move
.

Rage boiled, frustration mounted, and still she could not gain the upper hand. The man raised a fist and struck her face. Hard. The blow left her dizzy. She turned directly to face him, stared hard, looking into his eyes
.

It was Miles Bradford who blinked back.

Munroe’s heart pounded, head throbbed, and she struggled to catch her breath, crushed beneath Bradford as she was. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m okay, get off.”

Bradford reacted instantly, letting go and sliding back. She sat up and drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and one long, slow inhale after the other forced her heart rate back down to a reasonable pace.

Bradford, still on his knees, was silent, staring. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said.

She took another slow drink of air and shook her head. He had no reason to apologize. The strike had been worth not having to relive another killing.

She leaned forward and curled into the fetal position, rested her head in his lap. He ran his fingers through her hair, traced the outline of her jaw.

“How long did I sleep?” she said.

“About five hours.”

His touch was comforting, soothing, and she lay there just to feel it. “Has the van stopped moving?” she asked.

“About thirty minutes ago.”

“What did we get?”

“It looks like we’ve got at least two potential Havens,” he said. “Theirs and one other—but I’m not sure you’re in any condition for the next phase.”

Munroe sat up, looked him dead in the face, and after a long pause said, “The hell I’m not.”

M
unroe stepped from the bed to the bathroom and in turn to the shower, where the water would help to clear her head and erase some of the emotional aftershock of sleep. She lost track of time under the flow, the water hot, just shy of scalding, the heat taking with it the memories, if only temporarily. She watched the water run and filter down the drain and, after what felt like an eternity, shut it off.

Clean and as clear as could be expected, she joined Bradford at the desk.

At her approach, he moved slightly, making room and behaving as if the violence that had transpired had never happened. If he wished to probe and understand—and she was certain that he did—he kept it to himself. He knew her well, knew that to wait and allow her space would in time bring him what he wanted.

With a half grin he handed Munroe a headset and slid out of the way so that she could listen to the recording that had been transmitted by the bug.