Torn (Deep 8, #5)

39. Harlow

THIRTY-NINE

Harlow

Those words have never come from my mouth. I’ve never shared my fear about anything with anyone. He brings out my fears because I feel protected. He highlights my strengths because he understands me. He allows me to shed my skin because he loves me. He loves me.

I’ve been so preoccupied with my goal of saving people that I lost sight of what I need and want. Life has passed me by, moving to the next phase without me. Walking away from him isn’t an option. The shackles that once bound me fall, leaving wings in their place. There’s something freeing about making this decision.

Thoughts race through my mind about where he’s been my whole life. Is it timing and fate? None of which I believed in, until now. He’s here at the right time, for the right reason, and fate may have had everything to do with it.

My fingers caress his face as he turns to me. He kisses my fingertips and smiles. "Wherever we’re going, we’ll get there together. Not one in front of the other but side by side, where we belong," he says in a low, reassuring voice.

"Do you believe in fate?" I ask, watching his face for the answer.

"’Men at some time are the masters of their fate.’" He smiles, quoting Shakespeare.

I answer, "’He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ‘above wisdom, grace, and fear; And you all know, security is mortals’ chiefest enemy.’"

His brows shoot up. "Touché. I didn’t know you were a MacBeth fan."

"Happens to be my favorite Shakespearean play." I grin.

"Why doesn’t that surprise me? Fate is a tough mistress to nail down. When fate does present itself, we need to know what to do with it. It may only come once in a lifetime for many different reasons."

"Shakespeare?"

"Roger Bane," he quips.

We stare at each other, absorbing the layered meaning of his words. "I may need to take a desk job after this mission. This could take years off my life," I say with trepidation.

He laughs. "You and me both."

The plane lands and Dean heads for the stairs without saying goodbye. He never was good at saying goodbye. Endings aren’t his thing, and now they are not mine either.

Once in the terminal, we look for our ride. A man holds up a sign for Mr. and Mrs. Bane. Pippa thinks she’s funny. Wait until I see her. Roger chuckles and squeezes my hand.

The driver takes us to a small, two-bedroom house. The inside is clean with modern white decor with ash-gray wood floors. A high white vinyl fence surrounds the property with a house right up against us on each side. We have the best of both worlds, privacy in a public setting. Pippa is forgiven.

We are no sooner in the house when the doorbell rings, and several pieces of luggage show up on the front step. We drag them to the master bedroom and unzip them on the bed. One is filled with clothes for every occasion, including recon. The other is filled with the toys we love, knives, guns, and spyware. There’s a note on top. Loose floorboard in the second bedroom.

Roger finds the loose board, and we secure the weapons under it, leaving aside two weapons for ourselves. We don’t have a permit to carry, but we’ll take our chances. We spend time moving in putting our clothes in the closet.

The tension feels like brittle ice while we wait for word on our next move. Pippa hasn’t had communication from Deep 8 since they told us where to meet them. We don’t know the exact location. We’ll have a better idea of what we can cover once the teams are on the ground. The lag in communication may work in our favor as we wait for a meet-up with Dean’s contact.

The next knock at the door comes with bags of food. We are grateful but lack much appetite. We snack a bit before we turn in early to catch some much-needed sleep before all hell breaks loose.

The burner rings at three a.m., waking us from a dead sleep. My arm flops over Roger, and I grab the phone.

"Hello?" I answer in a groggy voice.

Dean’s voice comes through the phone loud and clear. "You have a four a.m. meeting with my asset. I’ll text you the address." He clicks off.

I close my eyes and lie on my back. "We have to get up. We have?—"

"I heard. Let’s do this and find out who’s heading up Deep 8," he says without moving.

My eyes stay closed, and Roger goes back to snoring. I nudge him. "For us to meet with her, we need to get out of bed," I reply, with my arm covering my eyes.

Roger sighs, rolls to a sitting position, and pulls on his pants. I put on a black outfit, considering the sun won’t rise for another couple of hours. We each get a bagel to stuff in our mouths and head to the garage.

Pippa has left us with a beat-up 1990s Jeep, a perfect car for cover. I jump into the driver’s seat since I’m versed in driving on the left side of the road. Roger gives me the address and puts it in his GPS.

We enter the shadier part of town and park in front of a bar that has seen better days. The instructions are to enter through the back of the bar, knock four times, and wait. Both of us pull our weapons, prepared for anything unexpected.

The door opens to a dark back room with a table in the corner and a single lamp lighting the area. A woman sits with her back to the wall. She has brown hair in a ponytail and black-rim glasses with a laptop in front of her. Her white dress shirt is buttoned to the top, and a pair of pearl earrings hang from her ears. She looks more like a librarian instead of a deep web expert, but who am I to judge.

Without looking up, she says, "Please have a seat and put your weapons away."

Behind us stand two huge bodyguards with AK-47s. We tuck our weapons away, knowing they will be of little use for keeping us alive in this situation.

We sit down across from her. "What can I do for you?" She shuts her laptop and folds her hands on top of it.

"I’m Roger and this is Harlow?—"

" I know who you are and so do most people in Perth. I only took this meeting because Dean and I go way back. What do you think I can do for you?" Her face is devoid of emotion.

Roger looks at me. "My father is being held by a group called Deep 8. Dean thought you would be able to help us identify the ringleader."

Her face breaks into half a smile and then falters. "No one knows who’s running Deep 8. Since Dean contacted me, I have been scraping the dark web for hours and no one has any idea who its members are or who is heading it up." She frowns.

"This is very unusual for me. I know everything that happens in Perth and have reliable sources on just about anything or anyone. The fact that I can’t identify the head of Deep 8 does not bode well for any of us."

Her face remains stoic. She’s either a good liar, or she doesn’t know. "Do you know anything about Nick Wagner? We believe he’s involved with the organization," I ask while examining her reaction.

"Dean’s father is the head of the ASIO. I haven’t seen his name associated with Deep 8 anywhere, but he is smart and can easily cover his tracks." She focuses on her fingers and places her hands in her lap.

"There’s been chatter about Deep 8 planning a major event here in Australia as a trial run for something global. My guess is they put the information out there for a reason. Something is coming, but no one knows what it is. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. You can leave the way you came. It should be all clear." She stands up and walks through the door to another room. Before she closes the door, she turns to us. "Tell Dean I miss him." She disappears, dismissing us.

"Let’s go. Your time is up," demands one of her henchmen.

The door slams shut behind us as the bolt slides into place. "So much for getting information. We can tell Dean his father was not wrapped up in Deep 8. We have a new problem. What is Deep 8 planning that will affect the entire continent of Australia?" I ask, not wanting to know the answer.