Blayne was physically and emotionally exhausted. All he wanted to do was climb into bed with Ethan and pass out. He finished disabling to arm.
“Door has been disabled,” a robotic voice chimed in.
Ethan went around him. The light from the living flooded the small hallway as Blayne closed the door. He turned. Ethan stood motionless.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Blayne asked.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Dickenson to join us?” a female voice asked.
Blayne would have recognized that voice anywhere. It was a chilling tone that had infiltrated his nightmares for weeks. Every syllable was an icy finger tracing along his spine, igniting a cold sweat upon his brow. He experienced an overwhelming urge to fling open the door and dive into the refuge of the night beyond, but that would leave Ethan alone with her. As much as terror gnawed at his courage, pressing him to bolt and save himself, he wouldn’t do that to Ethan. With his last shred of resolve, Blayne steeled himself.
“Ethan, honey, I didn’t know we were expecting company?” His feet moved beneath him. Somehow, his brain let his feet move, despite his fear.
Blayne came up behind Ethan, who was still standing statue still. Sitting on their sofa, pointing a gun at them, was the woman.
“Please, join me,” she said with a motion to the kitchen table between the sofa and the small kitchen. “I need your help.”
Ethan laughed, even as his feet did as she had commanded. “You…needourhelp? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Blayne followed Ethan to the table.
“Please remove your cell phones, place them in the middle of the table and keep your hands where I can see them. I would like to keep this…civilized.”
Ethan made a garbled sound. Blayne guessed Ethan was finally realizing how dire things were. A woman who led an army of assassin mercenaries was pointing a gun at them.This is not the time to oppose her.They both slipped their phones onto the table and kept their hands in plain view.
“Thank you,” she said, casually placing the gun on her leg. “Let me reassure you. I am not here to cause either of you harm. We have stringent protocols for that. We do not kill without strictly defined orders, our lives are in danger and killing is our only way out. Besides, as I said, I need your help. You see”—she motioned to her side—“I ran into a minor hiccup this evening and got myself shot.”
“That was you, then?” Ethan questioned. “You caused the mayhem at the concert?”
“Yes and no,” she intoned. “Yes, I was there for a job. And before you ask”—she held up a hand—“this job did not involve anyone you know. The leaders of—”
“A domestic terrorist organization was meeting with Nazi terrorists from Germany,” Ethan interrupted.
“I see… I guess Agent Murphy has already started putting some pieces together. Agent Murphy and Kira Strickland make an interesting couple. I admit, I hadn’t seen that coming.”
Blayne’s mouth started speaking before his mind put the thoughts together, “How do you—?”
“I’ve kept tabs on everyone involved in that regrettable business last month. I apologize for the unfortunate mistakes that were made.”
“Mistakes?” Ethan spat out. “You assassinated my lover, blew up my best friend’s house and shot Blayne.”
“Sometimes you do regrettable things for the greater good. And in the spirit of openness, I also blew up a plane to kill you.”
“Youwhat?” Ethan stared at the woman, his eyes wide and his mouth open.
“The Peregrine Airlines Flight from New Orleans you were supposed to be on… That wasn’t an accident.” Dr. Hennigan gave a little shrug before continuing. “I don’t expect you to understand. But I did what I thought was in the world’s best interests—blowing up one plane versus the damage that could have been done. You may not understand, but the four-hundred lives lost that day were a drop in the bucket of the damage that would have been done if your cell phone had ended up in the wrong hands.”
“How very utilitarian of you,” Blayne said.
“Yes. And if you had all the facts, I’m sure you would agree that our actions were perfectly justified. Even Jeremy Bentham or his intellectual successor John Stuart Mill would agree that my actions were for the greater good.”
“Whose greater good? Yours? And who gets to decide what’s ‘in the greater good’?” Blayne asked rapid fire.
“You always have been the questioning type, Mr. Dickenson. Even your earliest report cards described you as inquisitive—”
“You just dropped that in there on purpose to show how high and mighty you are.”
“Maybe,” the woman said with a smile. “But my point was made.” She moved to adjust herself on the sofa and winced.
