Erasing Faith(49)

“The CIA doesn’t deal in rumors, Abbott.”

Given the opportunity, I’d put a bullet between Benson’s eyes without hesitation.

“Rumor or not, my sources are worried. Theories range from drones to nukes to bio-weapons. No real consensus. The only thing they all agree on is that whatever he’s working on is so advanced, it could alter the course of modern warfare.”

“All the more reason for you to stop dragging your heels,” Benson barked. “Tap every source you can find — bleed them dry, if you have to. I want to know what the hell he’s building in that compound. And, for god’s sake, get some eyes inside his estate. I don’t care what you have to do — just get it done.”

“I have a meeting with a new source in a few days. He’s outside the city, living off the grid in a small village, but apparently he was one of Szekely’s inside men for years before defecting. He wants to discuss possible U.S. asylum status in exchange for what he knows. I’ll contact you if he has anything concrete.”

“Do that.”

He hung up.

“Enjoy your doughnuts, lardass,” I muttered.

I took a deep breath, tightened my grip on the sat phone, and hurled it across the room so hard, it ricocheted off a wall and the screen fractured in a spiderweb.





Chapter Twenty-Five: FAITH


YOU CAUGHT ME



“Faith, wait up!”

Shit.

I pasted on a happy smile and turned to look at Istvan, who’d abandoned his post by the back door and was hurrying to my side with a determined look on his face.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Glad I caught you before you left,” he said, smiling broadly when he reached me.

“Me too,” I concurred, though my true feelings couldn’t have been further from that statement. I’d been avoiding this interaction for over a week. “What’s up?”

“I’m taking you out to dinner tonight.” His smile was confidant, his tone self-congratulatory. “I made reservations at my favorite restaurant.”

Talk about presumptuous. “Um… Istvan…”

“The table is ours at eight, but we’ll want to walk around a bit before we eat. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Istvan…”

“You’ll love it.” He reached out to squeeze my bicep in what was supposed to be a soothing, seductive gesture. It succeeded only in giving me goosebumps — and not the good kind I got when Wes touched me.

“Istvan…” I shrugged away from his touch and took a step back. “I’m sorry, it’s really nice of you to offer, but I can’t go out to dinner with you tonight.”

He looked a little crestfallen, but quickly recovered. “Tomorrow, then,” he said decidedly.

“I can’t go out with you tomorrow either, Istvan. Or the night after.” I sighed. “Not any night, really.”

The warmth faded from his eyes and they seemed to harden as I watched, turning to steel and narrowing on my face. “Why?”

I gulped as I considered his question. Wes and I weren’t officially dating, or anything. We’d never talked about labels. In fact, we hadn’t talked, period, since he’d pulled his Houdini act the other night. Technically, I was free to go out to dinner with anyone I wanted.

“Um…”

Istvan’s brows rose.

What the hell — a little white lie never hurt anyone, right?

“Well, I’m seeing someone.” I felt the nerves begin to stir to life in my belly as soon as the fib left my lips. “I mean, sort of. Strictly speaking, we aren’t a couple or anything. Not officially. But I suppose we’re dating. Practically dating, anyway. Maybe.”

I forcibly bit my lip to stop myself from spewing any more idiotic word-vomit.

“Maybe,” Istvan echoed, his expression still chilly. Evidently, he didn’t find my nervous talking cute.

“Look, I’m really sorry.” I swallowed roughly. “I think you’re a great guy. If the situation were different, I’d love to go out with you.”

Okay, so that wasn’t exactly true. He scared the ever-living shit out of me and I’d rather eat my own hair than consume a meal sitting under that spine-chilling stare of his for an hour. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

Istvan’s eyes went so cold, I worried I might contract frostbite if they lingered on me a moment longer. Thankfully, he clamped his jaw shut, nodded curtly, and turned on a heel. Watching his back as he walked away, I felt a relieved sigh slip from my lips, grateful the conversation was over. Now, maybe things would go back to normal between us.

Unless he’s some kind of psycho-killer who’s going to exact revenge on you for shutting down his ego, my snarky internal voice offered.

Jeeze, if I became just a tad more paranoid, I’d turn into my sister Saffron, who’d spent her childhood convinced our next door neighbors were spies and to this day believed that SLEEPY’s mattress stores were a front company for the mob.

I shook some tension out of my shoulders, hauled in a deep breath, and headed into the lobby, determined to put my odd day at Hermes behind me.

***

The first thing I saw was Anna.

Ugh.

You know those women who talk incessantly about how much they “hate girls” and insist that they have only male friends because they simply “get along better” with men? Those same women who, when you aren’t looking, will steal your boyfriend or stab you in the back because they refuse to respect the Girl Code all members of our ovarian-sisterhood inherently follow?