‘And I was wondering…would you mind playing something for my kids?’
‘Sure. What would it be?’
The guy grinned. ‘My favorite. “Amazing Grace”.’
Ugh, Brian thought. He was going to say something short and sharp — like ‘I’ve never heard of it’ — and then he looked at the eager and expectant faces of the man’s children. Thought about Final Winter. Thought about these kids, coughing and wheezing, being brought to an overwhelmed emergency room by their terrified parents. Or maybe even worse…this boy and girl, alive and well, but trying to wake up mommy and daddy in their bed, mommy and daddy who had been so sick and now seemed to be sleeping, but they had been sleeping so long and their skin was so cold…
Brian rubbed at his dry lips. ‘Sure. “Amazing Grace”. Coming right up.’
And he played for the man and his wife and his children, all still alive on this glorious spring day in the United States.
Adrianna Scott looked at herself in the mirror, didn’t like what she saw, and didn’t particularly care. Her face was made up more than she was used to, really highlighting her eyes and her lips. Her aunt would say that she looked whorish and, for once, Auntie would have been right. Adrianna stepped back, looked at the crop-top white tank top that she was wearing, with no bra underneath. Her nipples were showing through fine and clear, and her brown tummy was nice and flat. She supposed that maybe she should have had her navel pierced — some guys seemed to get off on that — but that was too drastic, and besides, her time was short. She spun around, examined the tight white slacks she had on. Underneath she was wearing a tiny bright pink thong and the colored fabric could be seen clearly through the white of her slacks. Perfect. Hot and slutty. Just like she wanted.
She walked out into her apartment, saw up on the mantel the photograph of her and Auntie that Brian Doyle had been admiring the other night. That had been close. She touched the thick frame and then went to the closet, put on a knee-length light green coat, and left the house, carrying her heavy purse in one hand. She got into her car, backed out of her lot, and went to the new Summergate Mall, about a twenty-minute drive from her condo. She checked the time when she got to the mall and drove into the underground garage. Time for once was on her side, and she left the car and strode quickly into the mall, looking like any one of the hundreds of women packed in there tonight.
A good night, a good night for shopping. But Adrianna didn’t plan to buy a damn thing.
Instead, she relied on her training from her early CIA days at Camp Perry — also known as The Farm — where basic tradecraft was taught, everything from using mail drops to shaking a tail, which helped her feel completely confident, an hour later, as she drove away from the underground parking garage in a stolen Chrysler minivan, that she wasn’t being followed at all.
Adrianna allowed herself to feel a quiet tingle of excitement. Her day off was proceeding just as planned.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Adrianna Scott drove west for almost an hour, going over the state line into Virginia. As each mile slid on by a little voice insistently whispered at her, saying that she really didn’t have to go out here tonight, that it was too disgusting and too dangerous, picking up strange men like that. She let the little voice drone on. Sure, it would be easy to turn around and drive back — hell, she might be able to get the minivan back to the mall parking garage before it was even missed — and go home and just have a glass of wine and try to unwind.
But the little voice, while it could be heard, was certainly going to be ignored. The next few weeks were going to be hell indeed, and Adrianna needed this break tonight, needed it bad, and there was nothing that was going to stop her. Her mouth was dry and her tummy was fluttering with excitement, and she wondered if this was what gambling addicts or drug addicts or Internet sex addicts felt like, just before scoring whatever it was that they needed to soothe their frayed nerves and jumpy imaginations.
Maybe so.
But tonight would be the last one. Honest.
Sure, the voice said, just like the one in New Jersey, three months ago. That was supposed to be the last one, right?
Right.
Now Adrianna was off the highway, navigating narrow state roads, heading to her target. She had scoped it out weeks before, and was confident that it would suit her needs. There. Up ahead. There were neon lights there, red, white and blue, marking a local VFW hall. It was a two-story wooden building, white, with darkened windows. Pickup trucks and other vehicles were parked in the gravel lot. She drove into the lot, found a place to park the minivan so that it wouldn’t be spotted from the street, and stepped out into the cool dusk. She shivered. She knew what she had to do. There was no turning back.
Adrianna walked up to the entrance, teetering a bit on the black high heels she was wearing, carrying her heavy purse in one hand.
Inside the place was dark and smoky, a jukebox in one corner playing a country and western tune. The bar was a square structure in the center, surrounded by tables and chairs, and off to one side was a polished wooden dance floor. The place was about half filled, more men than women, and Adrianna sat down in the corner at an empty table. There was a candle in the center of her table, unlit. She looked around, took in the atmosphere of the place. There were framed items on the wall, old Second World War recruiting posters and photographs of tanks, aircraft and ships. There were flags and banners as well, along with the usual bumper stickers plastered along the side of the bar:
Adrianna had to hide a smirk. Imperialism through bumper stickers.
A waitress, a sagging middle-aged woman, came over, wearing jeans and an old gray sweat shirt. Over the sound of the twanging guitars, Adrianna ordered a Budweiser — and then, slipping the waitress a folded-over ten- dollar bill, she ordered something else.
The waitress stood up, her expression shocked. ‘Tell me again what you want?’
Adrianna repeated her order. The waitress looked at the folded bill in her hand and said, ‘Well, I suppose Henry would fit the bill. He’s single, not bad-looking, but I tell you…he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean.’
Adrianna sipped from her beer. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
The waitress left and Adrianna sipped the cold brew again, wishing she had ordered something different. But in this place, she reckoned, she’d be lucky if imported beer meant a Coors from Colorado. It was warm sitting there, her long coat over the few clothes she was wearing underneath, but she left it on. She was making an impression, no doubt about it, but she didn’t want to cause such a big stir that a lot of people would remember her later.
There.
A man was coming over, a glass of beer in one hand, a pool stick in the other. She judged him to be in his late forties, close-trimmed beard — which was fortunate, since she liked men with beards, Brian Doyle notwithstanding — and had on khaki slacks and a red flannel shirt. There was a bit of a beer belly developing but, thankfully, there wasn’t a heavy gut. The man grinned and she was relieved again to see that he seemed to have good teeth. This night was turning out to be fortunate indeed.
‘The name’s Henry Spooner,’ he said. ‘Are you really looking for me?’
She looked up at him coyly. ‘My name is Adrianna, and yes, I really was looking for you. Or somebody like you.’
‘How’s that?’
