The Gemini Deception

Chapter Thirty-three

Burke, Virginia

Ryden glanced around the living room while Kennedy spoke in muted tones to her organization on the phone. She’d never seen a more bare-bones living space. No pictures on the walls, not a single piece of decoration, no books, not even a television—the couch faced a massive fireplace instead. At least, she mused, the place would be a little cozier once they touched a match to the stack of wood that had been left for whoever took refuge here.

Kennedy hung up the phone and turned to her. “Make yourself at home. I don’t know how long we’re going to be here.”

“Anywhere is fine as long as I’m free from those people.”

“I’m going to look for something to clean you up.”

Ryden wasn’t sure how to take that and suppressed the urge to do an odor check.

Kennedy must have seen her surprised look. “Your arm is bleeding.” She walked to the bathroom.

“Oh. Yeah.” Ryden noticed for the first time how thoroughly blood had saturated her sleeve. Although she knew she’d been grazed, she’d hardly been aware of it because so much was going on and the wound hadn’t really hurt. But seeing all that blood had suddenly changed things. Now it hurt. A lot. “Why the hell did I have to look?” she muttered.

“What?” Kennedy stuck her head out of the other room.

“Your eye is swollen.” That mysterious woman who’d helped them escape had taken a good swing at Kennedy.

Kennedy disappeared again as she went to check herself in the mirror. “So I see.”

“This place clearly hasn’t been used for years. I doubt you’ll find anything, but I’ll take any expired painkillers you can find.”

“Ten years, to be exact.” Kennedy returned from the bathroom with a big first-aid box in her hands.

“Thank you.” Ryden extended her hand to take it from her.

“Have you cleaned a bullet wound before?”

“Can’t say it’s on my list of experiences.”

“Then remove your shirt and let me have a look.” Kennedy appeared and sounded irritated.

“You don’t have to. I’ll let you know if it’s bad.” She wasn’t about to burden Kennedy with cleaning her up. She could barely face her after tonight’s revelations, and besides, she didn’t feel comfortable being seen half-naked.

Not that Kennedy would give a damn either way. Any attraction she might have felt toward Ryden during their time in the White House had disappeared within seconds of her finding out the ugly truth of who Ryden really was—nothing but a lying, selfish florist. Why couldn’t Kennedy understand that she’d just tried to stay alive? Although, in retrospect, it was stupid to trust these people, her gullibility and will to live should somehow excuse her actions. If Kennedy wanted to believe she was a maniacal terrorist and manic liar, that was her right, but Ryden was getting fed up with having to defend herself.

“You clearly want nothing to do with me, so please give me the kit.” She snatched it from Kennedy’s hands. “I can take care of myself. I always have.” She went to the bathroom and closed the door and looked at herself for the first time in the mirror. She had definitely seen better days: pale from tonight’s angst, black circles under her eyes from days of not more than a few hours of sleep, and the pain were starting to show in the lines of her face. “You look like a zombie,” she said to her reflection.

She unzipped the hoodie and managed to slip her arms out with minimal discomfort. Then, without thinking, she began to lift her arms to remove her long-sleeved T-shirt and screamed as pain tore through her arm and shoulder.

Kennedy stormed through the door in seconds, gun in hand. “Are you…?”

“It hurts.” The white-hot burst of agony had subsided, but tears still streamed down her face. She tasted salt as she licked her lips.

Kennedy placed the weapon on the sink. The bathroom was barely big enough to fit them both. “Will you let me help you?”

“I can’t lift my arm.”

“We’ll do it slowly.”

“I can’t. Just cut the shirt off.”

“We can if you want to walk around half-naked for the duration of our stay here,” Kennedy said, a trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “It’s up to you.”

“I don’t think so.”

Kennedy stood in front of her and took hold of her good arm. “Let’s start with this one.” She coaxed the arm free of the sleeve. “That wasn’t too bad, right?”

“No.”

“Ready for the head?” Kennedy’s voice was gentle, little more than a whisper.

She nodded and Kennedy gingerly pulled up the shirt. She ducked her head to help and winced as new pain resonated through her shoulder.

“Coping?” Kennedy asked.

“You’re good at this.”

“I hope you continue to think so after we’re done with the other arm.”

“Give me a moment.” Ryden backed up, nauseated from the pain, and held on to the sink. “I don’t understand why it hurts so much all of a sudden.”

“Because you’re tired and the adrenaline high is gone.”

“I guess.” She looked down at her half-exposed body. Why had she chosen to wear such a sheer, lacy, black bra? It left nothing to the imagination. Kennedy, she noticed, was staring at her chest, too. Her cheeks burned. “I…I um…”

“You didn’t seem shy about seducing me,” Kennedy said.

“I didn’t…”

“Oh, that’s right. You were in character.”

“It was never part of any plan to seduce you.” Dealing with the pain in her shoulder was bad enough. She didn’t need Kennedy aggravating her already fragile state. “I told you then and I’m telling you again, I have never been interested in women and wouldn’t even know where to start seducing one.”

“Which only amplifies my sentiment. You don’t expect me to accept the fact that a forty-something straight woman playing the role of the president suddenly decided to experiment.”

“It wasn’t a choice, and I was definitely not conducting any kind of sexuality research.”

“Whatever you say,” Kennedy replied flippantly, and turned her face away.

Ryden’s cheeks flushed like they always did when she got angry. She let go of the sink for a moment, forgetting about her pain. “What do you find hard to comprehend? The fact that I wanted you to kiss me or that I actually did?”

“You were drunk.”

“Tipsy. I knew damn well what I was doing, and I didn’t do it because of any ulterior motivation.” She closed the foot of distance between them. “What gain would I have from seducing you? You have nothing I want.”

“Nothing?” Kennedy asked arrogantly. “Not even the comfort my money can buy, for a new life far away from the people who hired you? Away from a career in flower arrangements?”

Her belittling tone exacerbated Ryden’s growing anger. She pushed Kennedy away. “How dare you accuse me of—”

“Using me for a better life?” For the first time Kennedy lost her cool demeanor. “Isn’t that why you agreed to this plan? For money and a new beginning?”

“They framed me,” Ryden shouted. The T-shirt dangling from her shoulder aggravated her even more so she pulled it off. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Kennedy arched her brow. “And how convenient that a florist in a dead-end job, making what—twenty thousand a year?—finally gets some cash to pimp herself and her life.”

Ryden almost gasped. Sure, the idea of a second chance at a new life had been exciting, but she had agreed before they ever told her the terms, and by that time it was too late to change her mind. Even then, she would have accepted the offer anyway if it meant surviving. “For your information, my life was just fine before they took everything away. I loved my job as a florist, my candle making, and my tiny home. And yes, the death penalty would’ve put a glitch in my humble but otherwise satisfying life, so I accepted. You have no right to belittle my life or blame me for what I did, when all I’m guilty of is choosing to live.” She took a deep breath.

“All you needed was some adrenaline.” Kennedy looked at her shoulder, then bent to pick up the bloodied shirt. After handing it to her, Kennedy took the first-aid kit and went back into the living room.

Ryden stomped after her, the pain in her shoulder mostly forgotten in her growing anger. “I suppose it’s easy for you to stand there, acting all righteous, when you’ve never had to decide between life or death.”

Kennedy took a seat on the couch. “I make that call every time I throw myself in front of a bullet to save someone’s life.”

“Because it’s your job,” Ryden yelled, standing in front of her, trying to cover her nakedness with the soiled shirt. “I doubt you do it because you value a stranger’s life more than your own or because you have a death wish.”

“I do it because…” Kennedy looked away. “Because I don’t have a choice,” she mumbled.

“And that’s how I felt.”

Kennedy looked at her with sadness. “I never had a choice. It was made for me.”

“When your organization adopted you.”

Kennedy nodded.

“I guess orphanages and foster homes do that to a person.”

“Do what?”

“Make them feel they should accept anything, out of gratitude for being selected and given a chance. I should know.”

“What do you mean?” Kennedy asked.

“For years I was sent from home to home, trying to please whoever with the hope of being allowed to stay. I guess I wasn’t good enough, not pretty enough, or who knows what the hell. Point is, I spent my life trying to please others just to make them love or at least care.”

Kennedy was silent for a long while. “Let me take a look at your shoulder,” she finally said.

*

Southwestern Colorado

Monty was closing the blinds to the conference room when David Arthur joined them, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm raging outside. Joanne was already seated at the big table.

“What’s Reno got?” Arthur asked.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Monty replied, “but I could tell from his tone he’s found something significant.” Reno had summoned them for this predawn briefing; he’d been working nonstop since Shield’s call to find out more about Theodora Rothschild and how she was connected to TQ.

“I hate this waiting around,” Joanne said. “Every minute that goes by, Jaclyn is—”

Reno rushed in, his laptop in one hand and computer printouts in the other. “We’ll find her,” he said with confidence, “now that TQ’s no longer a ghost.”

They all took seats at one end of the conference table.

“The headline is, TQ and Theodora Rothschild are one and the same,” Reno said as he passed printouts to each of them.

Monty scanned his. On top was a color passport photo of an attractive, middle-aged woman with white hair and eyes devoid of warmth or emotion. Beneath it was a birth certificate.

“Rothschild is her married name,” Reno said. “She was born Theodora Quinevere Lassiter on March 29, 1962, according to her birth certificate. That’s the same day as the faked date of death registered for Dario’s sibling. The city matches, too—Wichita, Kansas. Parents of record are a Howard and Ellen Lassiter. He’s deceased, and she’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, so no help there. I wasn’t able to find any connection between the Lassiters and Imperis, but they lived only a few blocks away from each other, so they may have known each other through a common church or school or something.”

Monty scanned the next printout as Reno’s briefing continued.

“Theodora Lassiter married Philip Victor Nathaniel Rothschild, heir to the British banking branch of the noble family, in 1982. A year later, Philip founded the Rothschild Auction Houses in Houston, but he didn’t get much of a chance to enjoy it. He was found dead in his bed by their maid six months later, while his wife was away on a spa vacation. They performed an autopsy since he was only forty, but the results were inconclusive.”

Reno picked up the computer sheet. “Theodora—TQ—took over the auction houses, which last year reported a net income to the IRS of forty-two million dollars. She never remarried, keeps a very low profile, and is rarely photographed. Her home address is a penthouse in Houston, but she also has an office in D.C. The addresses of both are listed at the bottom of page four in your handout.”

“Great work, Reno,” Monty said.

“We need to throw a lot of manpower at both locations simultaneously,” Arthur said. “And we have to do it fast. Should we call in the feds?”

Monty shook his head. “Too risky. We have to deal with this ourselves. She’s proved she has allies in law enforcement and government all the way up to the White House. We don’t know who to trust, and I won’t jeopardize Jaclyn’s welfare or chance TQ getting tipped off and being able to destroy any records she has about her holdings and criminal enterprises.”

“Who’s immediately available for Texas?” Arthur asked.

“Cameo, Blade, and Wasp are here,” Joanne replied, referencing three other top members of their Elite Tactical Force who’d come back to the Colorado campus for a debriefing from their last mission. “Viper and Ranger are both in Austin and can get there in no time.”

“Get our jet readied ASAP,” Monty said to Reno as he jumped to his feet. “And have my car brought around front.”

Joanne protested. “There’s no need for you to go to Texas. We have five people on it.”

“I know. That’s why I’m going to Washington,” he replied. “The others can charter a private jet. If Jaclyn is anywhere, it’s near the capital. She’s hurt and bleeding. TQ would never have her travel back to Texas in her current condition, if Jack was ever even there in the first place. I know the bitch is holding her at her D.C. office or somewhere in the vicinity. Reno, you’ll guide me when I get there.”

“Us,” Arthur said. “I’ll get my gear and change.”

“I’m coming with you, too,” Cassady said from the door, where she’d apparently heard enough to get the crux of the plan.

“Then get ready,” Monty said.

“You leave in thirty,” Reno informed them.

Joanne frowned. “Monty, you are in no condition to—”

“I have to do this, Joanne.” Monty went to her and embraced her tightly. “I’m going to personally bring my daughter back.”