Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (12 page)

“Just that…I don’t know…” He tossed his hands in the air in a gesture of defeat. “Trouble, physical danger. You saw what they did to Talia.”

“I’m not sure what I’m seeing in the photograph. And I have no clue who took it, where it was taken, or why my mother is being kept from returning home. But I’m going to find out and I won’t let veiled threats stop me. She’s my mother, God damn it!”

He held his hands up in front of him in a “Whoa!” gesture. “Listen to me, Mercy, I’ll pull whatever strings I can to locate your mother. I promise. I really do.” 

More tears, acid-hot, stung her eyes. But this time she held them back. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to bring her home, with or without your help.” He reached for her but she swept aside his outstretched hands with a chop of her arm. “If you do anything…
anything
to stand in my way, I swear I’ll leave you, Peter Davis!”

He stared at her, eyes huge, stricken. “We love each other, right? We’re a team. Oh, God, Mercy—don’t say that!” He softened his voice. “Please don’t throw away everything we’ve worked so hard for because ruthless fanatics or criminals, or whatever the hell they are, have targeted a member of our family.”

Our family,
he’d said. The tenderness in his voice touched her. Peter could be stubborn and selfish; she knew that as well as anyone. But he also understood how to break down a crisis and dredge up solutions. That was his job for the government. There was no reason he couldn’t use his talents to help Talia.

He moved one step closer but, wisely, didn’t yet risk touching her. “Your mother is a famous international journalist. She’s an easy target. Talia has always accepted the risks. And she’s never
not
gotten herself out of a jam.”

Mercy felt her frazzled nerves begin to relax, fiber by fiber. “You’re right. It’s just that she’s always seemed so…so invincible to me. And that photograph…”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Terrifying.” He took a step closer. “But your presence over there might do nothing but alarm her captors, force their hand. They could be trying to come up with a ransom demand. Deciding who to best go to for money. If they think the authorities are onto them . . . “  He shook his head.

Mercy shivered, remembering what Clay had said about the slavers’ methods of covering their tracks. “Oh, Lord,” she swallowed back a sob.

Peter cautiously rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry if I sounded callous before. Moving to Mexico, accepting this new job, it’s been a tougher career transition than I’d expected.”

She nodded, the lump in her throat keeping her from speaking.

“Peace?” Peter asked, his gaze pleading.

“Peace,” she choked out and allowed him to take her in his arms. They embraced for a long minute. She realized now how much she’d needed this—someone to lean on, to rely on.

“I’ll get on the phone,” he murmured. “Fax a copy of that photo to the department. That ought to shake them up enough to get a search in motion. You received nothing else? You’re sure?”

She shook her head. “Just a copy of a letter from the hotel where she was staying.”

“It would help if I…if the State Department, that is, knew the identity of the person who gave you the photograph.”

No.
Clay was still her only link to whatever scenario was playing out on the other side of the world. If she gave him up and Peter failed to come through, she’d have zilch. Besides, she felt compelled to aid Lucius Clay with his mission. If she could do anything at all to help destroy the bastards who made slaves of innocents, she would. She didn’t need permission from Peter or anyone else.

“A boy in the market slipped it into my purse.” That was the truth. She just wasn’t telling him everything, not yet. “I thought he was a pickpocket or purse snatcher. That’s how I got knocked about.” She stepped out of his arms and lifted her face to the light.

“Good grief, Merce. That must hurt like hell.”

She tried to get him back on track. “Do you want Lupe to hold dinner until after you’ve made your calls?”

The tension in his features eased at the mention of food. “Not necessary. I’ll get on the phone right away. Won’t take but a few minutes. Then—” he lifted a brow suggestively and gave her one of his bad-boy smiles “—why don’t we do what we used to do?”

She slanted him a questioning look. “What, in particular, is that?”

“Take a tray upstairs and dine by candlelight, in bed. It’s been too long, don’t you think?”

Yes, far too long.

He winked at her, suddenly the Dartmouth grad student she’d fallen for years ago. The man she’d sworn to follow anywhere. The man she’d missed these past months as he’d seemed to distance himself from her. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

Mercy honestly didn’t feel like making love. The day had been so traumatic. But good, energetic sex might take the edge off the terrible strain between them. Maybe he was right. It was time to make peace, close the emotional gap, become a devoted couple again.

“I’ll talk to Lupe about dinner,” she said.

“That-a-girl.” He leaned down and brushed his lips over her forehead. “See you upstairs.”

13

Peter sat at his desk and glared at the telephone but didn't reach for it. He picked up the faxed image Mercy had brought to him. Was this really his mother-in-law? He studied it for a moment then turned it face down. Looking at it sickened him. Whoever the woman was, she appeared as good as dead.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

If he followed through on his promise to Mercy to intercede on Talia's behalf, he’d be disobeying direct orders from Washington and earn the disapproval of the Director of Foreign Service Operations. That could easily deep six his career with the State Department.

But that photo…God!

Did they know about
that
in Washington? Did they have any idea at the embassy in Kiev that an American citizen had been beaten and lay starving and shackled to a filthy mattress? Did they have any idea where she was being held? Given the little information he’d been allowed from on high in few past weeks, none of this made sense.

Peter dropped his head into his hands, trying to force logic out of a numb, unresponsive brain.

He’d received his instructions ten days ago at a meeting called by the DFSO, for which they'd flown him back to DC: “You will not respond to, or in any way assist efforts to locate or remove your mother-in-law from her present situation.”

“What situation?” he’d asked the director, hoping for information with which to get Mercy off his back.

“That’s on a need-to-know basis,” growled one of the pair of CIA agents at the meeting. The other just gave him a stony glare.

They had sat on opposite sides at a conference table that rainy DC afternoon. The two agents flanking the director, motionless glaring gargoyles. They scared the hell out of Peter. Necks like Rottweilers. Jaws that barely moved when they spoke. Unlike actors who played spies in the movies, they didn’t wear those spooky mirrored sunglasses. He wished they had. Seeing their soulless eyes was scarier than anything he could have imagined. One of them sported a long white scar across the back of his hand when he laid it on the table in front of him. It looked like something made by a knife.

Christ! He wouldn’t know what to do in a knife fight. And this was probably the guy who'd come out the winner.

“Interpol suspects Ms. O’Brien has become involved with the Russian Mafia,” the scarless agent stated as placidly as if he was informing him she’d joined a bridge club.

“Talia?” Peter laughed. “That’s ridiculous.” But no one else in the room was laughing. Or even smiling. “I mean, Talia O’Brien may be a free spirit, but I can’t imagine her willfully breaking international law.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, Davis.” The Director leveled solemn gray eyes at him. “This is a matter of national security.”

“Not just American security.” Scarred guy lifted his hand an inch from the table. Probably one of his more expressive gestures short of violence, Peter thought. “We’re talking global here.”

Global?
Peter thought now, slumping behind his desk. He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the kind of dizziness and falling sensation one felt after drinking too much. A nightmarish, endless tumble into the blackest, bleakest of space. Into a fucking black hole like on those Nova TV programs.

Snatches of the briefing last week replayed in his mind:
Interpol…hands off…ongoing investigation…

Christ, what had the woman gotten herself into?

But they refused to reveal nothing more to him. And he was instructed not to share the little he’d learned with anyone. Not even with his wife.

He stared helplessly up at the ceiling, as if he could see through it to Mercy’s suite on the second floor. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to please her. God knows, he did care what happened to her mother, even if they rubbed each other the wrong way. But his hands were tied.

As an American diplomat posted abroad, he risked his own life every day. Mexico wasn’t as bad as some places. Ukraine, where they’d told him Talia had last been seen, was no bed of roses, to be sure. He might have been posted there or to Afghanistan—a truly nightmarish assignment. But Mexico City and the border towns were considered political hot spots too. American officials sent here were deemed fair game for kidnapping by opportunistic thugs and for political assassination by extremists. He’d prepared himself, in theory at least, to face challenges wherever his country sent him.

Now he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for this kind of work.

Now someone he actually knew was being held captive, maybe tortured as well. What a sobering jolt of reality! He’d had nightmares about being beaten then beheaded by some lunatic extremist who thought that decapitating an American civil servant now and then would force a change in U.S. foreign policy.

Fuck
! He’d nearly ruined his underwear when Mercy shoved that photograph in his face. He’d come dangerously close to blurting out the few facts they’d told him in the DFSO’s office. Thankfully, he’d gotten a grip before that happened.

But, he reminded himself, Talia did this to herself. She took risks. Ignored State Department travel warnings. She frequently ventured into places she had no business being. It shouldn’t be up to him to get the woman out of this mess—whatever it was. Even if he sacrificed his career to act on her and Mercy’s behalf, there was no guarantee he could do any real good. Or that she wouldn’t throw herself into harm’s way again. That was just the way Talia was. Always rushing into the middle of some war or natural disaster with her precious Nikons or whatever the hell equipment she used. What was he supposed to do about
that
? Stupid, irresponsible woman. Her recklessness shouldn’t cost him his freaking career. Right?

Peter sat back in his chair, feeling better, now that he’d arrived at a rational excuse for keeping the truth from Mercy.

Admittedly, her mother had repeatedly earned acclaimed for her work. But she also had been seriously wounded twice, went missing for over a week in Kenya, got stranded in the Himalayas, and went down in a private jet when it crashed into the side of a Brazilian mountain. Mercy was right when she said Talia seemed invincible. This time, though, maybe she’d pay the ultimate price for her foolhardy behavior.

Thank God her daughter had more sense.

At the thought of Mercy, Peter remembered they’d made a date. His mood mellowed. She would be waiting upstairs for him. Taking a calming breath, he envisioned her small, tight breasts. Her elegant throat. Her silky thighs. A sharp pang of desire urged him to action.

All right—fine,
he thought.
You can handle this, Davis.

Peter snatched up the telephone receiver before he could change his mind. He punched in the international access code, then the country code “1” for the U.S. and “202” D.C.’s area code, followed by the seven additional digits he’d memorized. He was to call it only in the event of a true emergency.

The phone at the other end rang only twice, despite it being the middle of the night on the East Coast. A real person picked up. The man’s voice repeated the number Peter had just dialed and asked for Peter’s name but did not identify himself.

“It’s Davis—Peter James Davis. The Director asked that I call this number if there was a problem.” Peter cleared his throat. Suddenly the inside of his mouth felt like burlap. Talking to these people terrified him.

“Yes?”

“My wife has received a photograph from an anonymous source. It’s a shot of a female hostage. The poor woman looks as if she’s been beaten, appears unconscious. Might be dead now, for all I know.”

“Talia O’Brien?”

“I think so. Yes, I’m quite sure.”

“And?”

Peter sucked in air as though preparing to dive fathoms deep. “I don’t know what to do. You see, I need instructions. Things are getting awfully complicated at this end.” He paused, but got no response. “Mercy, my wife, is nearly beside herself with worry. I’m afraid if I don’t get her a visa or do something to assure her there’s a search-and-rescue team on the ground over there, she’ll find a way to go look for Talia herself.”