Chapter Sixteen
After my injury, one of the physical therapists at Walter Reed encouraged me to secure a handicapped parking permit. He said I didn't have to use it every day, but it would be helpful when I was experiencing discomfort. I'd politely suggested he choke on my scrotum.
That conversation always came to mind when I was hiking through snow and ice, or when I'd pushed too hard in the gym, or after a there-and-back-again drive to Montauk. Hauling my ass across the parking garage buried beneath my apartment building—at three in the fucking morning, no less—was one throbbing reminder of my problems after another.
I was wide awake, hopped up on my outrage and ready to pound the shit out of something or drink myself into a dreamless sleep. Maybe both.
My leg ached as I shuffled down the hallway to my apartment, and my head and heart were a mess. I wanted to wallow in that, to spend a long time grabbing onto my self-pity and clutching it tight. I was prepared to do that, too, but when I stepped into my apartment, something wasoff. I couldn't bring words to that sensation, but only knew that the stillness in my space had been disturbed.
Adrenaline quickly piqued my senses. I carefully brought my hand to the small of my back, drawing a shallow breath as my fingers curled around the gun stowed there. I had the benefit of living in an open-plan apartment with a limited number of spots for intruders to hide out, but that didn't put me at ease. Given the shit storms I'd been contending with in recent weeks, I could be dealing with a common burglar, a hit man, a radicalized band of my mother's former online dating matches, or a new faction of the global war on terror.
It was anyone's guess.
I stepped away from the door, blinking into the darkness brightened only by the Capitol Hill lights in the distance, my steps soundless on the hardwood. The whir of the air conditioner drowned out everything but the rush of blood in my head. If I could cross the room and switch off the fan, I'd have a better chance of sniffing out the breach.
I didn't make it five steps before feeling a breath on the back of my neck and the cool sharpness of a knife at my throat.
"Hello, Jordan," the intruder whispered. That voice. Iknewthat voice. "You did say the door was always open for me."
I knew that incense-and-herbs scent, too. It was stamped on my fucking soul.
"Drop the gun," April said. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Good fucking luck, honey," I murmured, hooking my leg around hers and knocking her off her feet. I'd expected the knife to clatter to the ground when she tumbled backward, but that was a basic error and it seemed she wasn't a basic warrior.
"You need to hear what I have to say, Jordan," she said as we regarded each other, weapons drawn. "Put the gun down."
"You think I need this?" I asked, waving my sidearm in her direction as we circled the kitchen island. "I can kill you with a paperclip and make it look like an accident."
She tipped the blade, and the sharp edge glimmered in the low light. It was a French-made Glauca B1, a brutal multi-tasker with the strength to break windows. It was the MacGyver of military knives, the weapon of choice for certified bad ass motherfuckers.
I had four of them.
"Who the fuck are you?" I asked, advancing on her.
"It was never meant to go down like this," she said. "I wasn't even supposed to talk to you."
She leapt over the sofa and skirted the coffee table to gain some space, but I didn't let her have it for long. I followed, kicking and shoving the furniture until I had an obstacle course of destruction behind me and April backed into a corner. Unless she was capable of climbing walls—I wasn't putting anything past her—I was finally gaining an advantage in this game.
"I asked you a question," I said, aiming the gun straight at her. The bitter wrongness of this churned in my belly. "Who the fuck are you?"
She was flat against the wall now, and unless she was jumping out the window, I had her where I wanted her. For the briefest of moments, her eyes lost their trained focus as she realized the trap.
"I'm Israeli Mossad and CIA," she said. "But I need you to listen—"
I dived forward, growling as I pinned my forearm to her neck. She twisted beneath my hold as her oxygen supply waned, and the knife scored my flank. It wasn't a lethal wound but that didn't mean it hurt any less.
"The CI-fucking-A? Are youfuckingserious?" I yelled, attempting to wrestle the blade from her grip. She was strong, and got in several more cuts in the process. That only ramped up my rage, and once I had it, I drove the knife into the wall a full foot above her reach. "And you fucking stabbed me?"
"Would you just listen to me?" she seethed.
I couldn't. I couldn't listen. I couldn't even look at her.
April seized that glimmer of vulnerability to draw both knees up and slam her heels into my chest. That move knocked the wind out of as me as I fell to the ground. I knew the kick well, and I knew it was intended to collapse a lung when executed perfectly. I figured this was how it would end. That she'd leave me there, gasping and bleeding, or maybe put me out of my misery altogether and close off whichever operation she was running.
But instead of doing that, April knelt beside me and brushed my hair off my forehead. It was just like that morning on the beach, but I couldn't tolerate the memory right now.
"It's awful, I know," she said softly. "Find a breath, tough guy. It's in there." She pressed her ear to either side of my chest, nodding as she sat up. "You're going to listen to me while you try to catch your breath."
