Torn (Deep 8, #5)

1. Roger

ONE

Roger

Edinburgh, Scotland

My last encounter with my father couldn’t be farther from what I’m feeling right now. A shiver runs down my spine, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention as I receive the news of his abduction. Despite our differences, I never imagined he was in danger.

"I’m assigning you to locate your father, ASAP," McFadden orders. As head of MBK Global Security, he has a lot to lose. The team’s reputation rests on this search and rescue.

"Isn’t that a bit unusual since he’s family? Agents aren’t usually assigned to cases for immediate family," I argue, unsure of my role in this mission.

"This case has been anything but usual. You’re a top U.S. agent with the black ops PAX team. They won't see you coming if Deep 8 is behind your father’s disappearance. They’ve had too much contact with my team. I need someone fresh who I can trust." He glances down, shuffling his papers.

His team has had many encounters with an elusive group called Deep 8. This group defies convention, engaging in illegal mining for new energy minerals, diamond chipping, drug warfare, and attempting to steal an AI nuclear weapon. They have reached the top of the world’s most-wanted list.

The connection between this abduction and Deep 8 isn’t clear, and McFadden knows more than he’s reading me in on. He shoves a one-way train ticket to London in my hand, keeping me under the radar.

"Contact me when you have news. The team is waiting for orders. Godspeed son." His eyes hold a heaviness I’ve never seen before. A lump forms in my throat when I hear the word "son."

The scenic ride from Edinburgh serves as a contemplative backdrop, allowing me to reflect on the twists and turns in my life that have led to this critical moment. There have been other crucial moments, but none as poignant as this one.

In grand fashion, my father has vanished without a trace, plucked from the London docks during a ceremony and hoisted in the air by a helicopter. Even as he appeared to be drugged and unconscious, his ego would have loved the spectacle of the event.

A taxi drops me off in front of the Australian High Commission, a relic of the early 1900s and the oldest Australian mission. The guard nods at the flash of my identification, allowing me to pass. Navigating the spiral staircase, I climb upwards to the familiar destination. I’ve visited my father here a handful of times, each encounter filled with conflicting emotions.

Entering his office feels like walking into the past. The air is thick with an uncanny stillness, disrupted only by swirling papers caught by the draft from the ajar window.

There’s a mysterious silhouette of a woman smoking a cigar as she stands by the window. The distinct odor leaves a vapor trail, spiraling up and disappearing as her gaze fixes on the disarray before us. Files are scattered across the mahogany desk, but the rest of the room is tidy.

"You picked the Cuban," I state, shutting the window as tension settles in.

"In the years I’ve worked for him, he never offered me one of his cigars. This is the perfect opportunity to help myself." Her striking sky-blue eyes dare me to argue with her. Many men must have gotten lost in those blue orbs, never to return the same.

"Let me introduce myself. I’m Roger Bane?—"

"Yes, I know. You’re the great Lucas Bane’s son. I’ve heard all about you." Her accent is a delicate mix of Aussie and English. She leaves out the part about whether his comments are admiration or disdain.

"I’m guessing you’re Ms. Baird, my father’s assistant. I can’t say I’ve heard much about you." Two can play at this game as we jockey for position. Her lips press together in a straight line.

"No Aussie accent?" She looks at me through hard eyes. "You can call me Harlow." She takes a pull of her cigar.

"Long story short. My parents divorced. My mom and I moved back to her home state of Texas, where I grew up." There's much more to my story, but I'll leave her with that nugget.

She blows smoke circles and examines my father’s desk. "Lucas would have never left his office in this state," she mutters, her brow furrowing with concern. She puts out the cigar in a crystal ashtray littered with an array of used butts, including the lipstick-stained ones. The pungent aroma of the cigar lingers in the air.

"No, he wouldn't," I agree. My eyes scan the room for clues that might lead us to him. My father likes his life to be neat in every way. "Let's start looking for anything unusual," I suggest, taking a deep breath.

Harlow nods, and together we begin to sift through the chaos on his desk. She might have more insight into his office being his personal assistant, but she's being tight-lipped.

As we search, our hands occasionally brush against each other, a fleeting connection amid uncertainty. The spark gets my attention, and I watch her face for signs of acknowledgment but see none.

Harlow's presence, and her dedication to my father, is a reassurance in this disconcerting moment. Despite the tension in the air, a silent understanding lingers between us, a shared commitment to unravel the enigma surrounding my father’s disappearance.

"Over here," I call out, my voice a mix of urgency and excitement. She rushes over to my side. "Stand close to the bookcase and look down the front of it. Tell me what you see."

"The books are in perfect order except for one. So unlike his OCD tendencies." Sunlight blazes through the window, highlighting her glossy golden hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Her fingers skim the books before hitting the one standing out by a millimeter, almost undetectable. "This looks interesting." She lifts a dust-covered book.

I stand next to her, breathing in her fresh citrus scent. We exchange glances, the unspoken acknowledgment that this might hold the key to finding my father. She glances away quickly. As she opens the cover, a vintage black rotary phone on the desk comes to life with a startling ring.

We stare at it.

"I don’t recall Lucas ever using that phone. I didn’t know it was hooked up. Should we answer it?" Harlow asks, her hand hovering over the receiver.

I nod, my curiosity piqued. She lifts the receiver cautiously as our heads tilt together to listen. The electricity is unmistakable, but this isn’t the time or place to start something.

A distorted mechanical voice crackles through. "If you ever want to see your father alive, you must find the three puzzle pieces and bring them to us. Do not put them together until instructed."

The cryptic message hangs in the air. Harlow and I exchange puzzled glances, searching for meaning in the enigmatic words.

"How?" I respond.

There’s a laugh on the other end. "You’ll have to figure that out. Here’s a message from your father. He said you would understand it and know he’s alive. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ I’ll be in touch." We’re left with dead air without knowing the caller's identity.

Harlow returns the receiver to the cradle with a click. "That was a big waste of time. We’ve got nothing to go on."

"There is no we. He’s my father and I need to find him myself. I don’t need to involve you in this. Besides, I’m a trained agent." I puff out my chest.

She leans against the window, arms and legs crossed with a smirk on her face. The red laser from a scope beams over her shoulder and hits the rug. In a swift, instinctive move, I tackle her to the ground before the lethal bullet hits the opposite wall by the door. Our backs are against the wall under the bookcase. My training tells me to draw my weapon and fire back, but it’ll put us center stage and we need to stay in the wings.

Harlow’s gun appears out of nowhere and points up, the barrel parallel to her face. My finger on my lips gives her a silent signal. I place my hand over her weapon and lower it. She nods and puts the safety in place, stuffing it behind her back. Reaching above her head, she grabs the curtains and pulls them closed. I crawl across the floor to the other window and do the same thing. Without a target, they won’t take the shot.

We face each other in a standoff without weapons. She’s not who she says she is. "I guess someone wants you dead. Who do you work for?" I grit out.

"I work for ASIO and as of right now, my ass is on the line." She bristles.

The revelation that she’s an operative adds another layer of complexity to a convoluted situation. "Why does my father, the Australian Ambassador to the UK, have an operative as a personal assistant?" I move closer to her with my hands on my hips.

"It’s a long story and one I can’t get into right now. We need to split up because I’m not sure that bullet was meant for me." She moves for the door, and I grab her arm.

I’ve had a change of heart, given her occupation. "You know more about my father’s political dealings than anyone else. I know about him as a person. We need to work together, but just know this is an off-book operation." She rips her arm out of my grasp and runs her hand along the top of her head.

"So, now we need to work together? Don't worry. I've worked off book in the past." She gives me half a smile. "We’ll stay together until it’s not safe anymore." Her eyes land on the book she dropped on the floor. She bends over to pick it up and hands it to me.

"Let’s hope this book gives us something." I dust off the cover. The Art of War is a title I’m familiar with because my father made me read it several times. Flipping through the book, passages are marked in yellow.

"What’s with the highlights?" Harlow questions.

"I don’t know." The highlighted areas have no meaning for me.

"What about the quote the voice on the phone gave you?"

"It’s a quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet. " I stare at her, grabbing a memory from my childhood. "When I was little…" I kneel. "I used to play under his desk and pretend the underside of his desk was the sky. That would be the reference of heaven and earth."

I crawl under the huge mahogany desk and tap on the flimsy wood under the drawer. The wood hides a false bottom. I test various corners until it pops open on one side, and something begins to slide out. The silver rectangular object lands in my lap, along with a power cord.

"It’s a laptop where no one would find it but you with his quote." Harlow's eyes widen with understanding, and a determined resolve settles on her features. "Let’s take everything and get out of here."

The urgency in her voice mirrors my thoughts. Our forced alliance becomes imperative as we gather the book and the laptop, tuck them under our arms, and leave the office. The dusty streets of London await, but our minds are already racing toward our new destination, and the next piece of this perplexing puzzle awaits us.

As we step into the dimly lit London evening, the city's secrets seem to echo in our footsteps. Breaking into the laptop holds the key to the next chapter of our quest. The voice on the antique phone has set us on a path, each step brings us closer to uncovering the truth and finding my father.

Harlow and I share a determined glance, our unspoken bond driving us forward. In the distance, the Thames whispers its secrets, a prelude to the mysteries awaiting us. The evening is alive with the promise of revelation, and I can't shake the feeling we are on the brink of something extraordinary.