Complicated Creatures: Part Two Page 15

  “I’m not going after bin Laden,” Sam drawled. “The man I want is a bit of a prima donna. I have a feeling he’ll be holed up somewhere with a troop of manservants and several cases of Cognac.”

  Jaime snickered as he turned on her phone and opened up the locater app he’d loaded a few weeks back. He entered the ID number on the pill casing and it switched on. “You can rename the ID numbers for whoever swallows them, or you can keep them as is. Either way, you’ll be able to see where they are here,” he told her, pointing to the screen.

  “Are they traceable with anything besides the app?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “They live in isolation. If one of your men gets caught, no one will realize he’s got a locater inside of his stomach.”

  “This is goddamn brilliant, Jaime,” Sam marveled. “Creepy, but brilliant.”

  “Will two weeks be enough time for whatever you’ve got planned?” he asked uncertainly.

  Sam nodded. “It will.”

  “I can always give you more. My manufacturer in Taiwan can send me more prototypes—”

  “There isn’t enough time,” she interrupted gently, hearing the worry in his voice.

  “You’re leaving soon then?” he asked, chewing his lip.

  She nodded, closing the case.

  “Sam—” Jaime reached out, grasping her hand. “I know you’re careful. I know you’ve got a plan. But as I’ve learned the hard way a few times in my life,” he swallowed, “things don’t always land your way.”

  “I’m as prepared as I can be, Jaime,” she assured him, squeezing his hand back. “Let’s just hope the fates are on my side for this one.”

  Chapter 13

  December 10th—Late Night

  The Whitney, Chicago

  S A M A N T H A

  She shouldn’t have done it.

  She knew that. But the moment she stepped into The Whitney’s lobby, Sam recognized that it was passive-aggressive behavior at its finest; a Morse code she was sending out into the ether. Instead, she told herself all the usual lies: that she was just returning home to get what she needed before leaving again; that the doorman and the concierge might not mention anything to Jack; that one night in her own bed and swimming for what might be the last time in her own pool, was the respite she needed, the rest she craved after weeks of restlessness. She told herself that Jack wouldn’t be there; that he’d be in Oak Park taking care of Jaime; that he wouldn’t want to see her.

  And of course Jack wouldn’t know she missed him so badly at times, she swore it felt as if her heart was being constricted by the tourniquet of secrets she longed to tell him. Sam dreamt of his arms around her, that satisfying, reassurance of being bound with someone certain. She thought often about the way he looked at her with confidence, even though his heart was on his sleeve. But she’d been the one to cut the cord, releasing him from the troublesome self-doubt that had begun to eat away at the faith he’d had in them, the surety that his feelings would be enough to keep them afloat amidst the rising waters of his valid concerns.

  Sam slipped into their pool, enjoying the contrasts of the warm saltwater and the searing burn of the freezing night air against her wet skin.

  Even under the best of circumstances, it would never work, she reminded herself. He wants too much, deserves someone who can be honest with him, who can love him back with reckless abandon. Not someone who can’t trust, can’t let go. Not someone whose secrets outweigh her truths.

  With each lap, Sam dove deeper, relishing the distracting strain on her lungs, feeling the powerful beat of her own heart, her chest still sore from her injuries. But she needed this momentum, this physical release, to quiet the turmoil in her mind. Her body was so warm from the exertion and her remembrances, it felt like she’d kick-started a fever.

  You can’t draw him into this. You can’t give into your own weakness—

  When she finally slowed, Sam came to a halt at the edge of the pool, resting against the edge. Her head lay on her crossed arms as she gazed unseeingly over the park and the frozen expanse of Lake Michigan, goose bumps rippling over her arms as she wondered vaguely if she’d ever get to do this again.

  “You’re so fractured, Samantha.”

  She stiffened, recognizing the smooth baritone of his voice behind her. She spread her hands along the tiled edge of the pool, readying herself for flight. But she didn’t want to run. She didn’t want to run from him anymore. She didn’t want to push him away again and again, each loss more wrenching than the last.

  “On the outside, you’re so smooth, so impeccable,” Jack continued, his hands sliding up her sides as he came to a still behind her.

  It was a testament to the extent of her distraction over this man that she didn’t even notice him slide into the pool; that she hadn’t sensed him moving in behind her, his grip firm as he pulled her slick back against him.

  “But I can see the fissures, Samantha,” he whispered against her ear, the rawness of his emotion audible. “I see you more clearly than you know.” One hand slid over her stomach while the other came up over her heart, his palm resting over the quickening beat under her tender, bruised sternum. “I see how you hold yourself together, tesoro. I see how hard you work to make everything feel seamless, when you’re so fractured; it almost hurts to hold you.” She felt him rest his forehead against her hair. “Your pain is so intense and constant—you can’t believe anyone would want you, much less be able to heal you.”

  *

  December 10th—Late Night

  The Whitney, Chicago

  J A C K

  He felt Samantha stiffen in his arms, her hackles immediately rising in response to his words, along with her emotional barricades, closing ranks against his assessment. But she was the one who had drawn him here, so she had to expect this. She couldn’t fault him for being honest. Not now.

  Jack had made the mistake of letting her push him away in Rio, and he’d learned his lesson. He knew now how much more devastating being without her was, and he understood unequivocally that he could no longer deny his interminable obsession. He’d willingly, longingly fused himself to her, much in the same way that he folded himself around her now, holding her in the warmth of the water even as he felt her withdrawing.

  “I’m not some broken toy you get to fix, Jack,” she uttered, neck stiff against his mouth. “I’m not the kind of woman who requires a guy to glue her back together again.”

  “No, you’re no toy, tesoro.” he shook his head. “And I know you don’t need me or anyone else to make you whole,” he told her, drawing her back gently, making her relinquish her grip on the edge. “But you shouldn’t force yourself to be alone because you don’t think anyone will stand with you after the wars are over, when you’re bruised and broken—imperfect and vulnerable.”

  “And I suppose you’re going to tell me that you’re the guy who’s going to stay with me after the dust settles?” she bit out, bitterness tinging her tone. “That you’re the only man who can help me bring together all the missing pieces.”

  “You’re not missing pieces, Samantha,” he told her. “You’re hiding them. There’s a difference.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing’s changed since Rio, Jack. I’m not the right person for you. You shouldn’t keep trying to hold on—”

  “But you don’t get to make that choice for me, tesoro,” Jack interrupted gently, drawing his arms around her middle as she rested against him in the water. “I let you push me away in Rio because I was hurt and confused and scared out of my mind for you and my brother, but I see now that you took advantage of my uncertainty to prove your theory about me and to test my mettle. And I failed, didn’t I? I walked right into your trap because I was too angry and upset to see it for what it really was.”

  Samantha pulled away, turning in the water as she faced him, the ripples of light playing across her face as she looked into his eyes again for the first time in days.

  “You wanted to prove I wouldn’t stand b
y you, and like a fool, I didn’t,” Jack admitted regretfully. “I let you leave me, and even worse, I left to lick my wounds.”

  “As you were meant to,” she responded.

  “As you expected me to,” he countered. “I didn’t stand by you, tesoro. I saw a situation I couldn’t control with a woman I didn’t understand, and I let you run me off. I allowed myself to believe you were right. That I wouldn’t be able to trust you, much less love you if I knew all your secrets.”

  “You can’t understand the grief and pain of what those secrets are, much less heal them,” she argued, slipping backward. “And you shouldn’t have to. Those responsibilities and sorrows are mine alone to bear. It’s impossible, Jack—”

  “What’s impossible?” he interrupted, moving toward her in the water as she was careful to remain just out of his reach. “Us? Or you believing I’ll stay with you regardless of what you tell me? Regardless of all the mysteries you don’t want me to know?”

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “What are you imagining, Jack? That I’ll tell you all my secrets and your affection will be enough to absolve me of my sins? Are you my redeemer now?” she taunted, reaching the edge of the pool. She pulled herself up and out before he could stop her. “So I’m fractured, Jack. So what?” she shrugged, wrapping herself in her robe. “I know the consequences of my actions. But I don’t need forgiveness from a lover, and even if I did want condolences for my sins, I wouldn’t ask for them from you.”

  Samantha turned, leaving him alone in the water. But Jack hefted himself up and out of the pool, stalking after her into her penthouse, ignoring the freezing cold, heedless that he was dripping all over her floor.

  “You don’t hide from me,” Jack said as he caught her hand and spun her around to face him. “You present whatever you need to everyone else—to the world outside. But me? You don’t hide from me, Samantha. Not ever.”

  “Be very careful what you say to me right now, Jack,” she warned. “You don’t get to walk into my house and issue orders.”

  “Then what am I allowed, tesoro?” he asked as he stared at her. “Am I allowed to tell you you’re dead wrong about me? That’s there’s nothing you could tell me about your past that would make me walk away from you again? That I love you enough to stand beside you, even when I’m not certain?”

  “Get out of my house, Jack,” she told him, turning away.

  “No! I’m not letting you push me out again. Especially when I know why you’re doing it,” he argued.

  Samantha began up her stairs. “Let yourself out, Jack. This conversation is over.”

  “I know you’re going after Ibrahim Nazar.”

  She halted mid-way up the staircase, her hand tightening on the banister.

  “Your father’s position on the Senate Intelligence Committee should really be reconsidered,” she remarked over her shoulder.

  “You told me you killed his son,” Jack continued, moving up the stairs behind her.

  She raised her chin slightly.

  “I did,” she answered, defiant.

  “Were you under orders?” Jack asked, coming to a stop behind her.

  “To kill him?” she clarified. “No. I did that to protect myself.”

  “Does Nazar know that?” Jack asked.

  “Would it matter?” Sam replied. “An eye for an eye, according to the tradition. And if I don’t kill Nazar, he’ll kill me. At this point, it’s a matter of survival.” She released a sigh, turning back up the stairs. “There are no negotiations, Jack. No deals to be made.”

  “So you’ve decided,” he continued after her. “You’ll kill this man, like you killed his son, risking yourself and your men in the process?”

  Samantha stopped again in the hallway, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall, considering him. “This is the world I live in, Jack. These are the consequences. It’s kill or be killed.” She raised a quizzical brow at his reflexive wince. “Gotten heavy enough for you yet?” she taunted. “Think you can love your way through to someone who can talk about murder so matter-of-factly?”

  “You’re not a killer, Samantha,” he rebutted, shaking his head. “You’re a survivor and a warrior. There’s a difference.”

  Samantha’s ensuing smile was taunting. She approached him slowly and Jack straightened, stiffening as he awaited her lash.

  Samantha surprised him when she took his hand and led him down the hallway. But she didn’t lead him into her room as she had so many other times. Instead, she led him toward a room he’d never been in at the end the hall. When she swung the door open and flipped on the lights, he sucked in his breath as he took it in.

  Cranes. Dozens of origami cranes of various sizes hung from the ceiling of the otherwise empty room, glowing eerily in the spotlight.

  “Some call it duty. Others, honor,” Sam told him as she preceded him into the room. “Many call it murder.” She reached up, fingering the wing of a white crane gently before she turned to look at him. “But justified or not, it’s killing, Jack. It’s taking a life. And the wounds that those actions leave cannot be healed,” she told him, meeting his eyes across the widening chasm between them. “Not by you. Not by anyone.”

  He stood there, trying to process the number of cranes he was seeing dangling from the ceiling. “How many are there?”

  “That I can recall clearly over two tours of duty?” she asked, her own eyes roaming over the eidolic collection. “Forty-three,” she answered softly. “That I am likely responsible for through the results of my interrogations? Likely hundreds.”

  Jack thought of all the redacted documents in her file, the names and locations of missions he couldn’t see, the interrogations she’d conducted he couldn’t begin to know, the intel she’d divined through psychological and physical torture. He recalled what his father had told him about her use of drugs, the particular talents she’d developed in those horrible, secretive years.

  Should I tell her what I know?

  No.

  She’ll only close down faster. Jack reasoned that if he told Samantha the truth now, she would expose nothing else, and he’d lose any chance he had of getting her back. He released the breath he’d been holding, reaching out to touch one of the colorful cranes in front of him, fingering the long, delicate neck as it twirled gently on the string in front of him.

  “Why cranes?” he asked instead.

  “According to Japanese tradition, they symbolize wishes. I took their lives, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish it had been different.” She paused. “For them and for me.”

  “And the colors?”

  “White for men, colored paper for the women,” she responded, meeting his eyes.

  Jack drew his hand back as if he’d been scalded. “You killed women?”

  “Yes,” she responded quietly. “I avoided it when I could, but they were all choices.” Samantha’s voice sounded disembodied; somehow separate from her. “Decisions I had to make.”

  “And the smaller ones—” he asked, his breath catching as he counted the handful of tiny cranes hanging amongst the cluster.

  “Children,” she answered, a flash of remorse crisscrossing her face. “Through no fault of their own—just at the wrong place, wrong time. Others used as human shields.”

  Jack stepped back unwittingly, horrified.

  Samantha watched him recoil, her eyes pitch black and assessing, as if she expected it. She remained still across from him, the symbolic array of her kills between them.

  “You still want to stand by me, Jack?” she taunted. “You still want to tell me that you love me enough to see your way past the truths I’ve been hiding from you all this time?” Her mouth curled; her expression was derisive. “I’m not a warrior, Jack. I’m not a heroine in some grand mythology you’ve constructed—I’m a killer. A very good one.” She glanced over his shoulder. “There’s the door, Jack. I’ve given you everything you need to walk out of it. So go. Just turn around and go.”

  Chapter 14

&n
bsp; December 10th—Late Night

  The Whitney, Chicago

  J A C K

  Jack froze.

  He tried to process what Samantha had just revealed to him; he tried to think, but he could only react. “No.”

  Looking up again in the quiet, dark room of Samantha’s personal, private hell, he noted the forty-three different sizes, colors, and dimensions of her transgressions.

  “I can see the fear and loathing in your eyes, Jack.”

  His gaze snapped back to hers.

  “For all the curative power of your supposed love, it’s just too much to swallow, isn’t it?” she continued. “You don’t love me, Jack,” she told him, stepping forward. “You’re in love with this idea—this illusion—you have of me. You love the smooth veneer I’ve become so good at presenting.”

  Samantha pushed him back suddenly, so suddenly Jack nearly lost his balance as he tumbled back, out of the room. She slammed the door shut behind her, turning toward him with a dark look.

  “You may see the fissures, Jack, but you didn’t witness the fire and the pressure that created them. You can only guess at what I’m capable of. You can only imagine the things I’ve had to withstand to do the things I’ve done.”

  Samantha advanced on him, shoving him hard again, driving his shoulder into the wall.

  “Stop, Samantha.”

  “You’re the one that forced your way in,” she accused, anger pouring from her. “You’re the one who insisted on knowing the truth.” Samantha shoved him one more time but he caught her hands this time. She tried to jerk back, but Jack dragged her back into him, cinching her hands together in his as he gripped her, unwilling to let go.

  “Samantha—Stop! Just stop.”

  “Are you disgusted enough now, Jack?” she asked, her voice becoming louder, her eyes ablaze. “Are you finally ready to walk away?”

  Jack pulled her to him even as she shoved him away.

  “I don’t know what to say to you, Samantha. Just give me a damn minute to think—”