Mission: Out of Control (10 page)

In fact, it seemed that Ronie had been every face of Savannah—but never just herself.

Why did it have to be you to make me sing the blues…

Until last night?

Her song ended and the stage faded to black. According to plan, she stayed in the shadows, and then, during the encore, let the lights come up slowly.

He waited for it watching as the spotlight slipped over her. She sparkled under it, a sizzling star.

He turned away as she sang her last song, a soft little melody that made her sound like Marilyn Monroe.

That Tommy D was a genius because, so help him, Brody had become a fan of Vonya—the crazy, kind, talented, fun performer.

But he didn't have to love her.

He'd keep his distance. No macchiato during rehearsal. No hunting down Nutella.

No late-night pizzas.

The last note faded out to thunderous applause. She waved and blew kisses to her audience, and finally the stage went dark. He expected her to walk off on his side, and when she didn't, he spoke into his mike. “I'm headed to her dressing room.”

He'd just stand outside the door, of course. And then he'd walk her home.

And he probably shouldn't tell her that she knocked the audience out cold tonight.

Or that she looked amazing. And took his breath away.

Maybe, though, he'd mention how sorry he was for being a jerk.

And even promise never to kiss her again.

Or…not.

Yes! Definitely. He'd make that promise.

He went to her dressing room in the back of the palace. The light bled out from under the door. He could hear her inside, humming. Something soft. Bluesy.

“Downhearted Trouble.” Or…no, something else.

He leaned against the door, trying to hear it but couldn't make it out. It stopped.

Then started again.

That same humming, in perfect rhythm, without a change even in inflection.

“Ronie? Uh, Vonya?”

She kept humming.

He knocked on the door.

The humming stopped.

“Can I get you anything? A macchiato? A—”

The humming started again.

“Okay, listen, I'm really sorry for what happened. We probably need to talk about it. Tonight.” He sighed. “How about if I track us down a pizza? I know a place on the other side of the river…”

More humming.

He grabbed the handle, knocking again. “I'm coming in there.”

He turned it. Locked, of course. “Ronie, let me in.”

Okay, that should have gotten some reaction. He put his shoulder against the flimsy door and banged. It shuddered.

Still she hummed.

“Ronie, if you're in there, you'd better clear the door.” Then he stepped back and kicked right at the jamb, dislodging the ancient lock from the door. It banged open, hitting the wall behind it.

He followed it in.

The humming came from her iPod, set on repeat on the counter, under a row of hot lights.

But the room was empty.

“Luke, eyes on Vonya?”

“She exited the stage. She was heading toward the dressing rooms.”

“She's not here.” He ran down the hall and back up onstage. Tommy D was flirting with one of the stage-hands. “Sorry to interrupt, TD, but have you seen Vonya?”

Tommy glanced at the redhead, winked. “I thought that was
your
problem, Boy Scout.”

Oh, he wanted to hurt him. “Listen, she's gone, so if you know where she is—”

Tommy rounded on him, his smile gone. “She's not gone. She's here. Just calm down.”

Brody shoved him away, turned, and nearly knocked over Leah. “Ronie's gone. Have you seen her? Do you know where she went? The truth, Leah.”

He didn't need to waste his breath. Her wide eyes betrayed nothing but confusion.

He spoke into his mike. “Luke, I think our little song-bird has flown the coop.”

O
f all the crazy moves Vonya had pulled, nothing compared to the insanity of standing in the dark corridor outside Tyn Cathedral, with only Brody's words for company.

How she wished he were standing here with her, if not holding her hand, at least close enough to hear her scream should someone jump out of the shadows.

Yeah, right. Like he would have come with her. After the way he'd shoved her away yesterday on the street, like he'd actually been repulsed…

She shivered, despite her leather jacket, jeans and boots. She'd pulled the feather headband from her hair and replaced it with a hat, although she'd kept the white wig.

And of course, she wore the red scarf around her neck, just as Bishop had said.

What a fool she'd turned out to be. To think a man like Brody might find her beautiful—she spent most of her time looking like other people. And that stunt in the blues café—that had been her playing, too, hadn't it?

No. For the first time, she'd let herself really sing. Let herself access what was deep in her heart. Why?
Because with Brody she felt safe. And real. And like she didn't have to put on an act.

She'd wanted him to kiss her.

Perhaps that had been the most foolish part of all.

What if you left it all behind and just performed as Ronie?

She'd let him egg her on. But he didn't understand. Being Ronie wasn't good enough. She had to be more. Or rather, she had to make up for what Ronie wasn't.

Out of all the people on earth, however, she'd thought he'd understand that.

She drew her coat closer around her. Perhaps she'd pinpointed the problem.
What kind of woman walks right into danger?

His words from Damu's party can back to her, melded with his story about his lady doctor friend. Shelby? What if Ronie reminded him of the woman who had nearly gotten him killed? Who'd made him do the one thing that almost destroyed him?

See, she knew she couldn't tell him about tonight's adventure.

Little did Brody know that during their excursion yesterday, she been mapping out her route back to the square.

She pulled off her wig, shoving it into her pocket. She placed the cap over her curls.

Her hand curled around the computer in her pocket.

Where was Bishop's computer guru?

The cathedral door recessed back from the street in a sort of alleyway. It suddenly seemed too conspicuous a place to meet someone—in this closed space, where
she might be trapped. And for her contact, too. Maybe he meant to meet her in the street.

She edged out and tucked herself in a pocket of shadow next to a restaurant.

The wind skittered leaves across the cobblestones, and she smelled rain in the air. A couple out late—a tall woman leaning heavily on her date—shuffled by. Across the square, Lyle's window light in the hotel flickered on. She looked for Brody's light, but his bedroom remained dark. She had no doubt Brody had ramped up the search to full rampage by now.

“Do you have a song for me?”

She startled at a young man who looked about eighteen, if that. A thin stocking cap half covered long, unruly dark hair, and he smacked his gum, probably to the beat pulsing through his earbuds. He held a backpack and looked the part of a student with a dark suit coat, collar up, over a T-shirt, and a pair of dirty tennis shoes.

“Did Bishop send you?”

“Whatya have?”

She looked for the red scarf and found the bandanna on his backpack. Relief shot through her. She dug into her pocket and pulled out the computer. “You're late—”

A crack shocked the air, and she jumped back as blood splattered her face, her neck, her hands.

The kid's head jerked back. He collapsed. His body spasmed on the sidewalk.

She stood there, unable to move. Or breathe. She needed…

Her hands shook as she stepped back and fell over a chair behind her, sprawling on the sidewalk.

The boy had stopped shaking, now lying with his eyes wide in the dim glow of a jewelry store's night display.

A second shot shattered the glass window beside her.

She screamed, diving out of the way, and crawled across the cobblestones as the glass spilled onto the sidewalk. She turned over, gasping, then hit her feet.

Her legs moved then, fast. She didn't know where she was running to—not toward the hotel, but away, just away, down the street.

She heard her own sobs ripping out of her, but she couldn't think and just kept moving. She ducked down another road, her feet loud against the cobblestones, turned into another alley and sprinted.

She emerged right out into the square, half a block down. She'd run in a circle—now what? She stood under the lamplight and held out her hands.

Blood, drying into the lines of her hands, splattered along her arms, her coat. Sirens.

She backed up, pressing herself against a building, shaking.

An arm snaked around her, clamping over her mouth, hard, unforgiving. “I found you.”

She felt a scream tear through her and went berserk, slamming a fist back into her captor's leg, landing her foot into his instep. He woofed out a breath, let her go, and she whirled, fully intending on jamming her fingers into the well of his neck.

He caught her wrist. “Ronie!”

She gulped a breath. Brody. Oh… “Brody!”

She launched herself, full on, into his arms, holding on with everything inside her.

And then, once again, he lifted her and carried her away.

 

“Where are you hurt?” He wanted to put her down, but if he wasn't mistaken, someone had just been shooting at her.

Shooting.
He knew it. Why hadn't he listened to his instincts?

Oh, wait. He knew why. Because he'd become an idiot.

Brody tightened his grip around her—so tight he might never let her go—and lost himself in the winding streets of old-town Prague.

“Where are you hurt?” He didn't mean the anger in his voice—okay, he did, but not like that. It was more relief than anything. He'd get back to anger later.

Once he figured out if she was going to live.
Please, God.

And yes, he'd actually prayed as he'd run out of the theater, after Artyom had caught her leaving the building on video. He'd taken a wild guess that she would head to the square—something about the way she'd been taking everything in on their tour had bothered him somewhere in the back of his brain.

Never did he expect to show up and see her across the square seconds before—she didn't actually shoot that kid, did she? Or…

He found a set of stairs leading into a building and
put her down on them. She shook, her face white. “Don't go into shock. Stay with me, honey.”

But she had begun to crumple, her beautiful face tightening before she hid it in her—

“Your hands are bloody.”

She looked up at him and he saw that her face bore traces of blood, too. “Please tell me you're not hurt.”

“It's not my blood.” Her voice emerged, whisper thin. “I…I didn't know him. Is he… I think he's…”

“He's dead.” Indeed, Brody had reached him seconds after she bolted, and had stopped only long enough to check for vitals.

He'd called Luke as he sprinted after Ronie. Thankfully Luke hadn't asked any questions. Well, not yet.

“Ronie. Tell me what happened. What were you doing there?”

She shook her head, her gaze glued to her hands.

“Ronie.”

“No!”

Okay, this wouldn't work. He needed to check her out, confirm for his panicked brain that, really, she wasn't bleeding and just couldn't feel it. But not here, not in this alley.

Not with the police on her tail.

He scooped her up again, and she curled into him, trusting him. About time. Then he stalked through the streets toward his apartment.

The lights of the Charles Bridge glared on the water, the city bright and dangerous as the sirens whined in the air. He stayed in the shadows, smiling at a couple tucked in a love knot as they followed him with their eyes.

He took the stairs off the side of the bridge and made his way to his tiny flat on Nosticova.

He punched in his code, took the stairs and dug the key out of his pocket.

The two-bedroom flat smelled like Luke's socks, but thankfully his roommate had left it clean. The night poured in through the double window in the main room. He kicked the door shut, then set her down on the leather sofa, closing the curtains.

Towels. He locked and bolted the front door on the way to the bathroom.

She sat hunched over, still trembling when he returned. He knelt before her, cupped her chin in his hand and wiped her face with the wet washcloth.

“Let me see your hands.”

She held them out. Only a mild scrape remained after he washed off the blood. He'd seen that sheet of glass come down and thought…

He sucked in a hard breath. “Anything hurt?”

She kept her big eyes on him. “No.” Actually, no noise came from her mouth—he had to read her lips, but he got it.

And then, because as long as they were out of their element, he sat on the sofa and carefully moved her into his lap. He curled his arms around her, and held her.

He sat there, probably too long, considering all the possibilities, expecting his anger to return, and was shocked when it didn't.

But he was okay with that, for now.

She drew her legs up in a ball, as if she might be trying to crawl inside his chest.

“Shh. It's going to be okay.”

“That guy died.”

Yes, finally, a voice.

“You didn't… I mean—” He cleared his throat. “I'm just going to ask once. You didn't have anything to do with his death, right?”

She pushed away from him, her eyes on his. “Yes. Yes, I did.” She started to shake again.

Yes? “Shh. Okay, Ronie, calm down.” He held her face in his hands, hating the coldness her words had stripped through him. “What do you mean?”

“It was my fault that he was there. My fault…and…” Tears now spilled down her face, her nose ran. “Who would want to kill him?”

“Uh…I don't want to suggest this, but what if the killer was after you? I mean, there was another shot.”

“You know that? You were there?”

“Of course I was there.” He left out the part about rabid fear. “That's my job. And if you had let me in on what you were doing—”

“I couldn't!” She bounced out of his lap, backing away from him. “See, that's the thing. I couldn't tell you because you would have stopped me.”

“From doing what?”

She pressed her hands over her ears.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. But tell me—what's going on here?”

She closed her eyes.

“Ronie, who was that guy?”

She turned her back to him.

Oh, brother. He crossed in front of her. “What were you doing with him?”

“He's with the CIA, okay?” She brought her arms
down, opening her eyes. “He's with the CIA. And…so am I.”

He had nothing. He just stared, trying to actually comprehend her words. “You're…with the CIA? Like a spy?”

She made a face, lifted a shoulder. “Kind of.”

“How can you be
kind of
with the CIA?”

“I sometimes courier information back and forth. The kind that they can't put in the mail. Or on the internet. It's a favor for—”

“A
favor?
” Now she should put her hands over her ears, because he fully intended to get loud. “A
favor.
For the
CIA?
”

“Could you not yell?”

“Get used to it, baby. And you might as well get comfortable, too, because I want you to start at the beginning—birth if you have to—and tell me the entire truth. If I even smell a whiff of a lie—”

“I won't lie to you anymore, Brody.”

Her voice, so full of pain, stopped him cold. She backed up, and dropped on the sofa, folding her hands on her knees, giving him a pitiful expression.

His anger deflated right out of him.

Which left only fear.

Who was this woman?

Scared. Alone. And needing a friend from the looks of her. Finally, the real Ronie.

He wasn't sure, but he may have preferred the one in the club. At least then he'd been the one afraid. And he much preferred to manage his own fear than see her so deeply shaken.

He took a kitchen chair, turned it around and straddled it. “I'm listening,” he said softly.

She took a deep breath, licked her lips and didn't meet his eyes.

Outside, the sirens had died. In his pocket, his cell phone vibrated.
Not yet, guys.

“Can I have a drink of water?”

He got up, grabbed a bottle from the fridge and handed it to her.

She spilled it down her chin, wiping it with her hand. “It all started in Zimbala.”

No, it had started with her sister's death, but he didn't correct her.

“It was a goodwill tour, through Care for the World Ambassador, to raise awareness of the refugee camps and bring in aid.

“I'd already been sponsoring a child in Zimbala through CWA, so I thought I'd try to meet him. He wasn't at the refugee camp, so I bribed our guide to help me find him. We finally tracked him down at a work camp, where General Mubar offered ‘jobs' to the locals. They were building some sort of camp. I found out later that he was making one of their many diamond mines. Of course, he didn't know I'd gone—”

“You were in disguise.”

“Yes. I couldn't believe Kafara was working there—I thought he was in a school. At least that was what I was paying for. He told me that General Mubar had taken all the boys over nine years old out of the school to work. I knew I had to get him out of there, so I went to the embassy. They did absolutely nothing about it, but later that week, a man named Clive Bishop contacted me.”