Being Emerald (5 page)

Bizarre. She was calm. Maybe because she’d had a lot of time to mentally prepare. Next month would mark a year since the organizers of the Sapphire Resistance, Jordan Ford and Kate O’Connor, visited her apartment. Thanks to the video piece about the mission, it was common knowledge Laila was going to be given Emerald status before she left for DC. Her Emerald designation gave her entry to places inaccessible to most. They recruited her for the Emerald Zone cell.

Fast moving clouds threatened rain, so Laila wasn’t melting in the midday sun. The trip took less than an hour, but by the time she arrived at the Peacekeeper Compound, a faint headache rooted at the back of her neck and radiated outward in all directions.

In her office upstairs, she changed into a full, flowing skirt and a camisole, checked her hair, and then spent some time just sitting, cooling off.

She’d never been called to do anything for the Resistance, like so many other women had. No, they’d saved her, squirreled her away for the time she’d be transferred to Emerald.

Her time had come. And she was terrified. Right now, her focus wasn’t on the mission to retrieve artifacts, but on mustering the courage she’d need to complete her assigned Resistance tasks.

Finally, Laila took a deep breath and opened the door.

Morgan’s office was in the same building as hers, but on a different floor. She headed toward the elevator. Since the failed attempt on his life, he was paranoid of everybody and kept himself well guarded, making him increasingly hard to get to. The building was a dead zone, and few people had access to the compound or the man. Even Morgan’s own Guard were restricted unless assigned to work there. The Gov must have deemed her non-threatening to have placed her office in the same building. If she didn’t accomplish this task, it most likely wouldn’t get done.

The high-pitched ringing in her ears was more distinct in the utter silence of the elevator. A bell chimed, and the doors opened.

She traveled down the corridor to General Morgan’s office, her heart beating double time against the steady rhythm of her footfalls. The stark fluorescent lighting clashed with the bright white floor, exacerbating her headache to tremendous proportions. She felt as if she was advancing on her own execution, instead of a life threatening game of cat and mouse.

Maybe she was.

When she’d pledged her support to Jordan all those months ago, she’d been aware she’d be chosen to complete dangerous assignments when the time was right. This was important, and meant more than mere loyalty to the cause. Laila dreamed about seeing her mom again. For that to happen, the Gov had to fall.

Stopping in front of the two guards standing outside of his offices, she ran her sweaty hands down the front of her skirt. “I need a moment of the General’s time, if he’s available.”

The soldier nodded and touched his earbud. “Sir, Laila Lewis is here to see you.” He listened. “Yes, sir,” he said, then to her, “I’m sorry, Miss Lewis, but I have to search you for weapons before you go in. Spread your arms, please.” He didn’t wait for her consent before resting his hands on her shoulders, and didn’t look sorry while he slowly ran his hand over every part of her body, including her breasts and crotch. When he was done, he winked at her.

“Liked that, did you?” she asked in monotone.

He ogled her then opened the outer door to Morgan’s prison-like office space, glanced back at her and nodded. “Go on in.”

When the outer door closed behind her, she moved forward to the steel door in front. Placing her hand on the knob, she waited for the buzz to indicate the lock was disengaged. Instead, the door swung open.

“Laila, this is quite a pleasant surprise,” the General said with a disfigured smile and elaborate wave to come inside. He leered down her body.

She stepped away from him. Impossibly, her heart hammered harder and faster. Maybe his behavior at the meeting hadn’t been exclusively for Rock’s benefit.

“Sir, I was hoping I could ask a favor.”

“Of course.” He closed the door behind her, stepped back around his desk and sat. “Sit. Sit.” He motioned to a chair.

The large slab of wood between them lessened the swell of panic at his nearness, though her heartbeat still surged, thumping hard at the base of her throat. She rubbed her clammy palms on her skirt and pulled the tiny microphone from the pocket as she sat.

Morgan folded his hands on his desk and focused his cold, crystal blue eyes on her. “Would you care for something to drink?” He pretended to be so civilized, perched on the top rung of the food chain, looking down on his prey and feasting on the agony of others. Always with formal manners and an even tone.

She maintained eye contact with him to avoid staring at the hideous scar marring his otherwise beautiful face. “No thank you, sir.” Her voice had quavered.

He smiled, almost imperceptibly.

She’d be dead in short order if she couldn’t stop signaling how petrified she was.

“So what can I do for you?”

She fidgeted, crossing and uncrossing her legs, so planting the bug would appear to be a fidget like the ones preceding it. “Well.” She shook her head and laughed nervously. Jesus. She was a freaking basket case. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re a busy man.”

“Go on.”

She took a deep breath and leaned back in her chair. “I know there’s a good chance I won’t make it back from the mission.” Curling her fingers under her seat, she pressed hard, hoping the adhesive side of the bug was sticky enough. After she let go, she held her breath, waiting for it to fall to the floor. Waiting for Morgan to ask her what she’d just done.

Rock sat in the solitude of his kitchen, picking up where he left off the night before, putting finishing touches on the pincer mechanism for Jordan’s prosthetic hand.

A muffled noise emanated from the receiver sitting on the counter. Finally, someone was planting the bug. He set his work down and walked toward the tiny speaker. Turning up the volume, he listened intently. The bug was activated, but all he heard for some time were the indistinct sounds of the microphone rubbing against something. Finally, the reception became clear. “I know there’s a good chance I won’t make it back from the mission. The fact became exceedingly clear at the briefing yesterday.”

“Laila.” Rock pounded the granite counter. “No. She is not doing this.” He scrambled to make sense of what he heard. His ordered and rational thoughts exploded, fragmenting into shards of unrelated facts. Was she in the Emerald Zone cell? Or was she simply in the room with someone else in the cell? What else had they asked her to do? This was the errand she had to run? When their training was over for the day, he hadn’t even asked her where she was going. He’d been too focused on the changes he needed to make in order for her to be better prepared. His bad. It wouldn’t happen again.

“There’s really no need for you to worry about your safety,” Morgan said in a placating tone.

The parallels between the night Emily died and that moment terrified him. Laila was alone with that lunatic, and all he could do was listen, desperately hoping he wouldn’t have to listen to Laila die, too.

“The trucks are invincible. My best people will be protecting you and the pieces you recover.”

“Yes, sir. I want to thank you for that.”

“But?”

“No buts. It’s just—I was hoping I’d get permission to talk to my mother one last time before we leave. I want to say goodbye.”

“Your mother is an Amber, isn’t she?” His tone had turned curt.

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think there’s much I can do to help you since we’re currently at a stand-off with Amber and communication with that zone is banned.”

“Yes, sir. I understand. I just had to ask in case there was any way I could talk to her one last time.”

“Get out of there,” Rock growled at the speaker. Morgan was a paranoid bastard, and the longer she stayed, the greater the chance she’d do something to trigger his suspicion. Flashes of Jordan, of the risks she took and the price she paid crowded his thoughts, testing the containment of his fury.

Muffled movements sounded before she spoke again. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Lewis.”

The door closed behind her, and Rock tapped his earbud. He’d never programmed her number into his system. Exasperated, he pulled his hand-held out of his pocket and searched her name on the intranet directory. When he found it, he entered her info and tried to contact her again.

She didn’t answer the call.

When he heard the beep, he forced calmness into his voice. “Where are you?” He couldn’t say more without beginning a diatribe about her lapse of good judgment. He disconnected and paced a trench into his tile floor, mentally detailing the list of flaws in her actions.

Her reply didn’t come.

After a half hour, he realized he’d not identified himself, and she probably didn’t have his information programmed into her hand-held either.

He commed again, and gave his information so she could reach him. Then he sat on his stool, bouncing his knee. He couldn’t concentrate well enough to finish fine tuning Jordan’s prosthetic. So he paced.

For almost an hour, Morgan’s office remained silent barring the occasional paper shuffling or chair squeaking. “Please contact Sydney, let her know she’s needed in my office ASAP,” came through the speaker.

Rock stopped in his tracks. Already, the bug was producing useful information. Sydney was a Guard, yes, but he hadn’t known Morgan made himself available for one-on-one meetings with her.

Not more than a quarter hour later, Morgan’s interior door buzzed. “Conrad, it’s been almost a week. I’ve missed you.” Sydney’s voice was more feminine than he’d ever heard it. She spoke as if she didn’t have a dick dangling between her legs—almost.

Rock stepped closer, startled and listening hard. He turned the volume up as loud as it would go.

“Quit your whining, Sydney, I’m a busy man.” Morgan’s chair squeaked, a long, earsplitting sound. “Now come around here. Let me get a good look at you.”

Footsteps echoed softly through the speaker.

“Take your shirt off. I want to see those tits.”

“No fucking way.” He almost laughed. Could it be she was a Guard because she was sucking Morgan’s dick? A definite possibility, especially if he’d given up raping his prisoners after Jordan’s attempt on his life.

“Mmm. Very nice,” Morgan said.

Shuffling and the rasp of a zipper sounded. Slurping, sucking and moaning followed.

“Right here, baby,” Morgan murmured, his voice husky. “Yes, that’s right, all the way to the back of your throat.”

Sydney and General Morgan’s relationship was a priceless piece of information that revealed he and Laila were in more danger than he’d originally thought.

The encounter lasted about two minutes. All in all, pretty funny. Almost humorous enough to change his murderous mood. Almost.

Laila still hadn’t contacted him. He strode to his front picture window as he’d been doing every couple of minutes during the past two hours, and tapped his earbud. “Time.” He set his jaw. It was after five.

The stark silence did nothing to calm his simmering anger.

At seven thirty, Laila strolled through his front door and into his kitchen. Eyes sparkling, she smiled at him.

The wild storm brewing inside couldn’t be tempered by her smile. As he walked toward her, she caught his expression and the joy radiating from her faltered. He stopped directly in front of her and crossed his arms. Now that she was there, safe, he wasn’t sure how to start his imminent meltdown. “Where have you been?”

Her eyebrows lifted, and she cocked her head. “I was at my doctor’s office.”

His guts clenched. “Why? What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why did you need a doctor?”

“I didn’t
need
a doctor. I just—” She rolled her eyes. “I’m turning twenty six in a few days. My implant was due to be replaced.” She gestured to her arm, twisted it and showed the stitches. “I wanted to wait until I was an Emerald before I went so I wouldn’t be forced to get a new one.”

“Oh.” Big news, and unexpected. He pinned her to the edge of the counter, caged her with his arms.

She looked up at him. “What?” she asked softly. She pouted as if she hadn’t started their first day of training lying to him and putting herself in mortal danger. Her deceitful innocence enraged him.

“You stupid little girl.” He knew the choice of words he’d just growled at her should have been tempered, but his indulgence wouldn’t keep her alive. “From now on, you will not—” He’d escalated from soft spoken to a yell within the span of a handful of words. Taking in another slow breath, he continued in a more reasonable tone. “You will not go anywhere near Morgan again.”

Her mouth fell open and brows bunched. Cascades of rapid-fire expressions were barely exposed through the mask she put in place. “How do you know where I was?” She attempted to push one of his arms away.

Once he’d made clear he could keep her there as long as he liked, he raised it.

She stepped to the side and began to back away from him. Cautious deliberation reflected in her eyes.

“You have to be fucking crazy, planting a bug in Morgan’s office.”

“I’m sorry.”

With every one of his steps forward, she took one back.

“Please, Rock. Don’t turn me in.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

She stood there, shaking her head, obviously searching for the right words.

He only became more enraged at her inability to defend herself. “How does it feel to be caught, Laila?”

Her face paled.

“Tell me!” he yelled. “Tell me what it’s like knowing you’re dead already!”

She backed into a corner, panic widening her wild eyes, and froze when she couldn’t go any farther.

She was petrified, and he wanted her to be because scarier people than him were out there. “There’s nowhere to run.” He came to a stop only a foot from her, and saw the moment her bravado collapsed.

She hung her head. “If you have any compassion in you at all, you’ll kill me now,” she whispered, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. Tears ran down her face. “Do it. Just do it.”