Read Online The Wrong Hostage by Elizabeth Lowell - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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live in fear. That’s why I dedicated myself to the law.”
Silence stretched before Steele sighed. “I thought diplomatic immunity would deflect the small-caliber bullet that my trusted translator fired into my spine. My mistake. My payment.”
Tension vibrated through Grace. “Ted is my mistake. Yet my son is paying .”
“That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it? To right the wrong being done to Lane? You don’t care if your husband is a criminal working with criminals or an honest businessman making honest mistakes.”
“All that matters is Lane. If I have to deal with Satan—” Again, Grace shut up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that Joe Faroe is the devil.” Even if he is .
The phone started ringing again. Another one chimed in.
Steele ignored them. “Your attitude is very much that of the safely legal citizen. That’s why St. Kildans don’t wear uniforms or talk to reporters. It’s one of the reasons that professional counterterrorists hide their identity by wearing black ski masks. They aren’t ashamed of their job, but they are targets who get tired of trying to explain to people living in the black-and-white world that reality is a thousand shades of gray, yet some things are still worth killing or dying for.”
“I—”
Steele kept talking. “St. Kildans work among the shades of gray. All of them. The shadow world. All the places where good citizens don’t want to go, don’t want to know, don’t want even to think about.”
“I know.”
“But do you know that when reality rears its complex head—and it always does—citizens, politicians, and journalists race to blame the messenger? Mr. Faroe has already felt the impact of just such an exercise in civic piety.”
She nodded unhappily. “I first met Joe about sixteen years ago, just before he was arrested and sent to federal prison.”
Days before, to be exact. Time enough to fall in love and then watch him turn on me, screaming accusations in gutter Spanish while I cowered beyond the reach of TV cameras and reporters in a shadowy apartment hall .
The flash of steel handcuffs and metal badges was something she’d never forget.
So was the savage hatred in Faroe’s face.
She’d done what he wanted—she’d run and kept on running, never looking back, staying the hell out of his life.
Until now.
Ruthlessly Grace stuffed the memories down and locked them in the deepest closet of her mind. It had been sixteen years. She needed Faroe. If he still hated her, she’d just have to suck it up and take it. Lane was all that mattered.
Steele waited while Grace looked somewhere only she could see. He needed to know her state of mind. He wouldn’t find out anything useful if his own mouth was open.
“I’ve kept track of Joe through the same contacts who got me a copy of the CIA dossier on St. Kilda Consulting,” Grace said tightly. “When Joe got out of prison he went to work for you. Since then he’s been involved in activities in southern Europe, Asia, Iran, and most often, South America. Some of those activities have been termed ‘morally ambiguous.’”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yesterday, yes. Today, I don’t care. Today all that matters is my son. Joe Faroe is the only man I’ll trust with Lane’s life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why?” she asked, startled. “Don’t you trust Joe?”
“I trust him far more than either of you can imagine.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“A week ago Joe Faroe was exactly what you said—St. Kilda’s best operative, especially in Latin American kidnap situations.”
“And now?”
“He retired.”
“Try again,” Grace shot back. “He’s way too young for retirement.”
Steele smiled sadly. “Where Joseph has spent his years, time isn’t the best measurement of age. His last assignment was particularly difficult. Among other unpleasant things that occurred, he was forced to kill a good friend who was trying to kill him.”
Grace
Silence stretched before Steele sighed. “I thought diplomatic immunity would deflect the small-caliber bullet that my trusted translator fired into my spine. My mistake. My payment.”
Tension vibrated through Grace. “Ted is my mistake. Yet my son is paying .”
“That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it? To right the wrong being done to Lane? You don’t care if your husband is a criminal working with criminals or an honest businessman making honest mistakes.”
“All that matters is Lane. If I have to deal with Satan—” Again, Grace shut up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that Joe Faroe is the devil.” Even if he is .
The phone started ringing again. Another one chimed in.
Steele ignored them. “Your attitude is very much that of the safely legal citizen. That’s why St. Kildans don’t wear uniforms or talk to reporters. It’s one of the reasons that professional counterterrorists hide their identity by wearing black ski masks. They aren’t ashamed of their job, but they are targets who get tired of trying to explain to people living in the black-and-white world that reality is a thousand shades of gray, yet some things are still worth killing or dying for.”
“I—”
Steele kept talking. “St. Kildans work among the shades of gray. All of them. The shadow world. All the places where good citizens don’t want to go, don’t want to know, don’t want even to think about.”
“I know.”
“But do you know that when reality rears its complex head—and it always does—citizens, politicians, and journalists race to blame the messenger? Mr. Faroe has already felt the impact of just such an exercise in civic piety.”
She nodded unhappily. “I first met Joe about sixteen years ago, just before he was arrested and sent to federal prison.”
Days before, to be exact. Time enough to fall in love and then watch him turn on me, screaming accusations in gutter Spanish while I cowered beyond the reach of TV cameras and reporters in a shadowy apartment hall .
The flash of steel handcuffs and metal badges was something she’d never forget.
So was the savage hatred in Faroe’s face.
She’d done what he wanted—she’d run and kept on running, never looking back, staying the hell out of his life.
Until now.
Ruthlessly Grace stuffed the memories down and locked them in the deepest closet of her mind. It had been sixteen years. She needed Faroe. If he still hated her, she’d just have to suck it up and take it. Lane was all that mattered.
Steele waited while Grace looked somewhere only she could see. He needed to know her state of mind. He wouldn’t find out anything useful if his own mouth was open.
“I’ve kept track of Joe through the same contacts who got me a copy of the CIA dossier on St. Kilda Consulting,” Grace said tightly. “When Joe got out of prison he went to work for you. Since then he’s been involved in activities in southern Europe, Asia, Iran, and most often, South America. Some of those activities have been termed ‘morally ambiguous.’”
“Does that bother you?”
“Yesterday, yes. Today, I don’t care. Today all that matters is my son. Joe Faroe is the only man I’ll trust with Lane’s life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why?” she asked, startled. “Don’t you trust Joe?”
“I trust him far more than either of you can imagine.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“A week ago Joe Faroe was exactly what you said—St. Kilda’s best operative, especially in Latin American kidnap situations.”
“And now?”
“He retired.”
“Try again,” Grace shot back. “He’s way too young for retirement.”
Steele smiled sadly. “Where Joseph has spent his years, time isn’t the best measurement of age. His last assignment was particularly difficult. Among other unpleasant things that occurred, he was forced to kill a good friend who was trying to kill him.”
Grace
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