The Long Game

Twenty-six minutes.

“I need to talk to Daniela alone,” I repeated. I had to trust that Ivy would come through. She would secure Daniela’s release. She had to. And before that happened, before Daniela walked out of this room, I had to deliver the terrorists’ message.

And one of my own.

“Let the girl deliver her message,” Daniela told Priya. “She won’t come to any harm by my hand.”

Priya showed no signs whatsoever of moving.

I gave her a look. “She’s really pregnant,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I can take her.”

Priya snorted. “I am fairly certain you cannot.”

Nonetheless, after tossing another assessing gaze in Daniela’s direction, Priya turned to leave, telling us she’d be right outside. Clearly, Daniela was meant to take those words as a threat.

I waited until the door closed behind Priya before I considered what I was getting ready to say—and whether or not it was worth saying it at all. “Walker Nolan is not the president’s son.”

In all likelihood, that statement—and all the ones that followed—would mean nothing to Daniela. In all likelihood, what I had to say would have no effect on her at all.

“Georgia Nolan had an affair,” I continued, “with a man named William Keyes.”

It didn’t matter that this probably wouldn’t work. I had to take the chance that the interrogators were right, that Walker Nolan meant something to the woman in front of me.

“This is the message you were asked to deliver?” Daniela raised an eyebrow to aristocratic heights.

“No,” I said. “That’s not the message. I’m not telling you this for them. I’m telling you for me. Walker doesn’t know. The president doesn’t know.”

“But you know?” There was a clear note of challenge in Daniela’s voice.

“My father died before I was born. His name was Tommy Keyes.” I took another step forward. “He was Walker’s brother.”

Daniela said nothing. I took one step forward, then another. After a long moment, I turned and lowered myself onto the bench next to her. She tracked my movements, hyperaware. On the bench beside her, I stared straight ahead at the wall that Daniela had probably been staring at for days.

“Why tell me this?” Daniela asked finally, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between us. “What could you possibly expect to gain?”

I didn’t turn to look at her. “My name is Tess.”

She hadn’t asked. She probably didn’t want to know.

“My mother’s name is Ivy. She doesn’t have any siblings. And Adam, Walker’s other brother, he doesn’t have any kids.”

I didn’t stumble over referring to Ivy as my mother. There was too much at stake.

“Your daughter,” I said, bringing my hand slowly to Daniela’s stomach. “We share the same blood.”

We’re family.

I willed her to see it that way, to see me that way, if only for the most fleeting of moments.

“And if you are telling the truth, if you and my daughter share blood, what does that make me?” Daniela asked.

A terrorist. A criminal.

“Someone who wants to protect her daughter,” I said, my quiet voice cutting through the air like a knife. “And hopefully, someone capable of believing that I might want that, too.”

Daniela stared at my hand on her stomach. She kept staring until I removed it.

I wanted her to trust me. I wanted her to at least try to convince me that I could trust her, too.

Nineteen minutes.

I knew in the pit of my stomach that we weren’t going to make it back to Hardwicke before the hour was up. I knew what would happen when we didn’t.

Stop, I told myself. I had to believe that Ivy would come through, that Daniela would be released. And if I believed that, if I could make myself believe that, then I needed to know what we would be walking into once Ivy had secured Daniela’s release.

For that, I needed someone who knew how Senza Nome operated. I needed Daniela on my side, not theirs.

“You said that you had a message for me.” Daniela’s voice was even, without emphasis. I had no idea if she believed what I’d told her about Walker’s parentage, or if she cared. I had no idea if she saw even a hint of him when she looked at me. “It would be in your best interest,” Daniela continued in that same deadly, even tone, “to deliver that message.”

What if the interrogators were wrong? I thought, unable to block out the hint of fear slithering its way up my spine. What if Daniela hasn’t been emotionally compromised? What if she’s one of them in every sense of the word?