Page 35 of Sigma
His expression hardens. “I wouldn’t know, I grew up without mine.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“You aren’t. But those responsible will be.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Whoareyou, Apollo?”
He stands up. “Shall we walk?”
He’s walking away, and I follow him. A direct path through the house and to a different exit, this one leading to a cobblestone path lined with rosebushes. The path meanders seemingly at random, passing an occasional spreading tree, or an alcove with concrete benches, or fountains. We walk in a strange, thick silence for many minutes.
He’s silent. Brooding.
“I’m not ready for you to know who I am just yet,” he says, suddenly.
We’ve circled the castle and have reached the tower, approaching it sidelong, the covered walkway in front of us.
He stops. Looks up; the sky is awash with stars, twinkling and scintillating in countless millions. It’s cooled off, the air now pleasantly warm.
“So, I’m going to just…sit in your tower and read your Jason Bourne books?”
A corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. “An indulgence. To let my mind rest from more pressing matters.” A nod. “That is indeed what you shall do. And you should be grateful your imprisonment is as boring as it is. You wouldn’t like the kind of excitement it would be, otherwise.”
“I just don’t understand the goal.”
“And you need not.” He turns and faces me. “But if you really wish to know…”
“I do.”
“You are bait, Corinna.”
6
Mama Bear
The limousine takes me to the Miami airport, to the private charter flight area. Waiting idling is a small private jet. Funny how small and cheap it seems to me, now that I’m used to the hyper-luxury transportation provided by RTI—it’s a six-seat Gulfstream, and by no means a cheap aircraft to fly in, whether owned or chartered. The limo pulls to a stop with the rear door even with the staircase which unfolds from the side of the jet. A pair of Mercedes-Benz G-Wagen SUVs are parked near the rear of the jet, and as the limousine pulls to a stop, three men emerge from each vehicle. They’re damn near clones of each other, all of them about six feet tall, olive-complected with dark hair, wearing black suits and mirrored sunglasses. Each one is armed with a compact submachine gun. They form a three-sided box around the limousine and the staircase. I wait as the limousine stops. The driver emerges from the front and comes around to the rear passenger door, opens it and steps to the side as I get out.
It feels for all the world like I’m some dignitary arriving for a political event—except I can feel the hard gazes of the six armed men reminding me what’s truly at stake here. My heart is in my throat, pounding and hot.
I do my best to portray poise and fearless dignity as I ascend the stairs into the jet—as expected, it’s empty, all six seats vacant. The door to the cockpit is closed and I assume locked. I take one of the two rear-most seats and fasten the lap belt, and focus on breathing slowly, deeply, evenly.
The staircase whines as it folds up and clunks into place; the cockpit door opens, and a short, slender man in a pilot’s uniform emerges to fasten and lock the exit door. This pilot’s uniform, however, includes a shoulder holster with a large silver handgun, and his eyes flit to me before he returns to the cockpit—reminding me that I’m still being watched, still guarded.
I can do this, I tell myself.
I’ve survived worse. I survived Gina. I can deal with this. Whatever it takes, I will survive—and not just that, I will find and rescue my daughter. A cold hardness settles in the pit of my belly. There’s nothing I won’t do—anyone caught between me and my daughter is fair game.
The mama-bear rage is a boiling inferno inside me, pent up and fueling a rattling need todosomething.
In the years since the war against the Karahalios clan and then Cain and his many goons, Valentine has insisted—against my wishes and personal comfort—that I practice at the shooting range on our island a few times a month, as well as keeping up with self-defense lessons with Sasha, as have both Cal and Rin.
So, I know I can strip and reassemble a pistol with speed and confidence. I can load and fire an entire magazine at multiple targets and keep my groupings tight, and I can do so quickly and smoothly.
My shooting training and practice is not just your average firing range instruction, obviously—I’ve been taught basic close-quarters combat skills by some of the most elite Special Forces warriors on the planet, both with handguns and hand to hand—I keep my shooting skills sharp at the small, indoor, reinforced range on our private island, but once every fiscal quarter Layla and I spend a week at Duke’s CQB training facility outside Denver, working with Duke directly on our skills.
I’m no fainting daisy suburban mommy, is the point. We never took for granted our own safety, and after everything that occurred all those years ago, we’ve stayed ready in case someone else comes knocking.
Twenty years ago, I was a sheltered, innocent, naive twenty-something girl, ignorant of the true violence there is in this world. I did what I had to do to stay alive, but I wasn’t ready for it.