CHAPTER TWENTY

Martin Garrison had lived his life walking the precarious line of simultaneously adhering to the rule of law and flouting it at every turn. At home, he’d done what was expected of him—attended meetings on time, applied the social graces appropriately and climbed the Agency ladder, skipping a rung here or there but never climbing over anyone. But when he was on assignment, on foreign soil, and tasked with undermining the existing power structure, all bets were off. There was only one priority, one rule—allegiance to your own country. Aside from that one restriction, he was a free man, with leave to maim and kill, lie like a sociopath and illegally obtain whatever he required for his mission. Many agents crossed the line, drunk on a kind of autonomy most people who were fortunate enough to live in civilized society never had a chance to taste. Garrison had crossed

the line before, but never so far that he couldn’t cross back. Until now. He had betrayed his country in an attempt to repair the nearly rotten fabric of his relationship with his son.

Garrison shifted uncomfortably in his seat on the military transport. He had no knowledge of where he would be taken.

His colleagues, the CIA agents Rennie Vogel had handed him to, weren’t telling him anything. He heard the engines of the plane rumble to life, a deep, almost comforting vibration beneath his shackled feet. His hands were shackled as well—the metal cuffs tight, biting into his skin. It was a familiar sensation—he had gotten himself into scrapes all over the world—but never had it felt so permanent. A small tornado formed in his brain as the knowledge that he was no longer free, and would likely never be free again, gripped him like a vise.

Rennie Vogel. FBI. He bristled at that. His capture should have been effected by his own agency. She was obviously a part of their new counterterrorism special operations group. He wondered why she was alone and if she had carried out the assassination on Armin. Women in special forces. He’d never thought he would see it, never thought it possible. She was incredibly strong for a woman not more than five-eight. Her body, compact, almost elegant, belied her strength. But Garrison knew that strength could come from anatomy or it could come from desire. And when he’d encountered her, felt her react as he tried to take her down, he saw her will overcome any limitations her sex imposed on her. He thought again of the great Russian novelists and how literature, the great literature of the past, had failed to consider woman in all her many and varied permutations.

Garrison heard the distinctive clank of heavy boots on the corrugated metal steps of the plane. A close-cropped bearded head came into view followed by more footsteps on the stairs—these much lighter—and then the pale blue eyes of his only child met his own.

His breath nearly escaping him, he stood quickly until the hand of the burly agent next to him clapped his shoulder forcing him back into his seat. Garrison turned to the man—they hadn’t

exchanged a word since he was escorted aboard the plane.

“Please.”

The man nodded. “Just keep yourself in check.”

Garrison rose slowly, taking in the vision of his son—was it an illusion?—as he walked toward him. It had been almost a year.

He was still blond as the sun and slight as a girl. How could this frail creature be any son of his? So like his mother.

Jon was cuffed as well, at the wrist and the ankle, and as they made their way toward each other, slow and sure, the links of their chains rang out in the silence of their cabin. They stood, almost chest to chest, staring into each other’s eyes—what was there to say, after all?—until finally their heads dipped onto each other’s shoulders, as close to an embrace as they had ever shared.