The sight of Washington, D.C., with its neon lights showing glimpses of rain-drenched buildings in the darkness, made Emma feel both euphoric and irritable. The joy was plain and simple, the same elation she always felt when she reached the end of a long journey, and by Christ she’d made this journey enough times to wish away every minute of the time it took. Her irritability came from the fact that she was visiting her parents, meaning she would have to endure her mother’s cross-examinations about her love life, dietary intake, fashion sense, and latest hairstyle, as well as her ignorant and snide comments about her vocation. Her father, by contrast, was a head-in-the-sand guy whose prime motivation in life was avoiding confrontation. Trouble was, every time Mom started getting all nosy on her, Dad would tell her she was acting like Perry Mason, and Mom would say she was too young to know who Perry Mason was, and Dad would say she wasn’t, and finally Dad would get precisely what he wanted to avoid: confrontation. It happened on every trip she made to see them. And while they were going for each other’s throats, she’d sit between them feeling like she was twelve years old.
And the irony was, during her short adulthood she’d experienced far more of the world than her parents. Upon graduating from college, she’d given the finger to their dogmatic belief that a career in law awaited her and instead accepted a position with a charity that specialized in aid to the Third World. She’d chosen the career path because she desired travel, was by nature a person who wanted to make the world a better place, and knew it would shock her mom and dad. Among many things, Emma was a rebel who would frequently eschew sensible paths in favor of impulsive adventure.
She pulled out her cell phone and saw it was nearly 6:00 A.M.
The man by her side was still asleep, or more like unconscious. She’d never seen a guy look this tired, and felt guilty for having to wake him.
But Union Station was minutes away.
She nudged his arm.
Good Lord, it felt like steel.
He remained asleep.
She prodded his thigh.
It was as solid as a mature oak tree.
He was motionless.
What was left? There had to be something he could feel. Not his hands. They looked leathery and immune to pain or any other feeling, since they were covered in scars.
That left the face. Touch him there? Just like she’d fantasized?
She raised a finger and smoothed the back of it against his cheek.
His eyes opened and he exclaimed, “Ulana, too dangerous to make it.”
Definitely not the same accent she’d heard before.
British, she decided.
“You okay? We’re pulling up to Union Station.”
Will collected his thoughts, silently cursing his involuntary outburst.
“You dream in British?”
Will smiled and made no effort to conceal his English accent. “Sometimes, yeah. I often switch between accents without knowing I’m doing it. I’m half and half. Mother was British; father American.”
“Was?”
Will nodded. “Was.”
The coach pulled into Union Station, and as it did so Emma recalled killing hours in New York City’s Penn Station by reading a discarded copy of the New York Times. There was something she’d read in the paper that was nagging her, but she’d only been half awake and she was struggling to recall what she’d seen. “Hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you on TV? You look familiar.”
Will tensed. “I’ve been asked that before. Guess there must be some actor out there who I resemble.”
“Maybe a better way to look at it is that he resembles you.” She smiled, and then thought, God, did I just say that?
Will smiled back at her. “Thanks for the pillow. It was a lifesaver, and it really was a very kind gesture.” He got to his feet as the coach came to a halt in the station’s bus deck and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma.”
Emma shook his hand and kept hold of it as she asked, “You make this trip a lot?”
Will lied. “Too often.”
“I hope we bump into each other again.”
“Me too. Just make sure you bring your extra travel cushion.”
He walked down the aisle, leaving Emma wondering who decided that it was inappropriate for a girl to give a guy her telephone number when he hadn’t asked.
She also wondered why her fellow passenger wasn’t carrying any luggage.
Strange.
Still, she was envious, because her cruddy backpack felt like it weighed as much as she did; it would be great one day to travel footloose and fancy-free.
She gathered her things and exited the coach into the station’s basement bus parking zone. Though it was only recently built, she knew every inch of Union Station’s new bus area — it was as big as a cathedral, modern, spacious, and minimalist, had multiple tiers that were accessed by elevators, escalators, and stairwells, and a glass roof over the upper level containing bathrooms and retail outlets. But as she entered the ground floor to head toward the H Street NE pedestrian entrance, she reflected that this was the first time she’d seen cops in the building.
She could see four of them standing in two groups. The nearest pair were approximately fifty yards away and were looking at the faces of the commuters passing them. Farther ahead, two more cops were doing the same.
Ten yards ahead of her, John Jones stopped for a second before continuing on toward the exit and the police who stood in their way.
Why did he stop, she wondered?
She glanced at the cops again; there was no doubt they were looking for someone.
She returned her gaze to the back of John Jones.
He was walking slowly, his hands now in his jacket pockets.
Did cops make him uneasy?
Scare him?
It came crashing home.
The New York Times article.
A photo of a handsome man who was described as half English, half American.
An image that matched the face of the guy who’d sat next to her on the bus.
A rogue British intelligence officer.
On the run in the United States.
Her heart beating fast, she tried to decide what to do. Call out to the police, saying an armed fugitive was heading toward them? That was the logical option. Maybe she’d be entitled to some kind of reward for playing a part in the capture of the man named Will Cochrane.
The cops were heavily armed and were wearing body armor. Together, they’d easily overpower him. Plus, he’d looked so tired on the coach that she doubted he had any fight in him.
She was forty yards away from the nearest cops. Though they weren’t looking in her direction, they’d easily hear her if she shouted.
The sensible path to take was to do precisely that, and then duck for cover.
Trouble was, the man who’d been so grateful to her for use of her travel pillow never once looked or sounded like he was a threat. He seemed like a good person, someone she’d felt totally comfortable around while she closed her eyes.
To hell with alerting the cops.
She’d never been one to do the sensible thing.
She jogged as fast as her heavy pack would let her until she was side by side with the FBI’s Most Wanted. “Mr. Jones,” she said, breathless and smiling, “I’ve got a favor to ask — you mind carrying my damn bag? It’s killing my back.”
Will looked at her. His face looked focused and serious. “I’m—”
“Only need you to hold it until we’re outside. Maybe payment in kind for the pillow?”
Will hesitated. “Sure.” He took the backpack and slung it over one shoulder.