Chapter Four

Dawn would not break over Thessaloniki for another two hours, but Alexi Nikolos was already up and pacing on her balcony in the chill morning, restless, despite the fact that Greece’s most popular female singer was just inside, asleep in her bed.

It wasn’t that their evening together hadn’t been enjoyable, though Alexi had not gone out looking for companionship. Dimitra Lambros had been amusing, fun, and extremely responsive beneath her, just the way she liked, but then again Alexi had always been partial to the passionate women of her homeland. The mistake she’d made was in bringing her home to her villa, because now she had to find a suitable way to get her to leave.

Alexi rarely sought out someone for sex. She never had to. Wherever she went, men hit on her and beautiful women seemed to want to make themselves available to her. Gay or straight, it didn’t seem to matter. So although she rarely slept with the same woman twice, there was never a lack of bed partners.

Her appearance was what first drew them in. Although not a large woman, only 5’6” and slight of build, Alexi knew how to make the most of her commanding presence. She was confident, smart, and sexy. And really more handsome than beautiful, though she was certainly that, too. She had a rather androgynous body, with a small ass and few curves to speak of save for her well-shaped but not overly large breasts. Her shoulders, arms, and legs were tautly muscled from regular workouts at home, and the flat plane of her stomach always elicited sighs of envy from the women she slept with.

But while her body might tread the sometimes thin line between masculine and feminine, her face was all woman. She had the bronzed complexion of her Mediterranean homeland and classic features. A strong jaw beneath a straight nose and high cheekbones. Full, expressive eyebrows, long, dark lashes, and a pronounced, dramatic widow’s peak. Her medium brown hair, cut in loose waves, hung below her shoulders. Her lips, full and rosy red, formed a perfect cupid’s bow. Kissable lips, most women said.

Alexi was aware of her beauty from any angle, but the feature that always drew the most compliments could only be admired face to face. Her eyes were the deep rich blue of the Aegean, a gift from her maternal grandmother. Alexi enjoyed gazing into them herself. Because of the resemblance, they brought back happy childhood memories.

The women she chose to keep company with were drawn in by her looks and then fascinated by her charm and the polite attention she gave to everyone as a matter of course, a product of her formal upbringing and an ingrained part of her personality. They were one-night stands, but she made sure they never felt as though they were. First she would romance them in a way that few people did these days, listening attentively and laughing at their jokes as they shared a candlelit dinner and dancing. She would pay them compliments and treat them like queens, and when she took them to bed, the entirety of her attention was on their pleasure and not on her own. So she always left them wanting more, and never knowing that no matter how magic the evening might have seemed, Alexi had no feelings at all for any of them. Sexual encounters were simply one way for her to relieve the boredom that had taken over her life.

Dawn was as long as she could bear to wait before having her home to herself once more, so she went about evicting her guest. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she gently caressed Dimitra’s back until she roused.

“Good morning,” she said in Greek, Kalimera. The tone of her voice and the expression on her face could easily have been mistaken for affection, and often was. “I’ve brought you some coffee.” She set a mug on the bedside table.

“Why don’t you come back to bed, and we can think about coffee later?” The singer threw back the covers, exposing her full breasts, curvaceous hips, and the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs. She parted her legs and ran her hand invitingly up her thigh to the tender, swollen areas still damp from Alexi’s expertise the night before.

“I would love to,” Alexi responded gently. “But I’m afraid I have to be somewhere.” She stood and took a few paces away to forestall any further efforts to seduce her.

“Will you call me?” Dimitra asked, taking the hint and getting up to dress.

“We’ll see.”

Alexi made sure their goodbye was pleasant but non-committal. She was honest in her recreational dealings with women. No false promises meant no hurt feelings.

Last night’s distraction had scarcely departed before Alexi’s phone rang. It was unusual for her to get calls this early, unless it was from overseas. Probably some American who cannot tell time, she surmised, another unworthy ne’er-do-well seeking money from the philanthropic foundation she ran. So she answered in Greek instead of English, just to annoy them.

“Parakalo.”

There was a long silence on the other end before a deep male voice asked, “Alexi? Is that you?”

Her hand tightened around the telephone. She recognized the caller; she had a talent for accents and languages, speaking five herself. But she didn’t answer immediately, for it conjured up painful memories.

When he repeated her name, she finally replied, “Theo. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Her polite tone did not entirely mask the sarcasm she felt, but Theodore Lang was not as adept at picking up nuances as she was and missed it. The last time she had seen her former associate, they’d both been stationed in Chicago. Unless he had been relocated, that meant it was now after midnight where he was.

“You’re a difficult woman to track down,” he said. “And this is a business call I didn’t want to make at the office.”

She was intrigued. “Business call?”

“Yes. How would you feel about taking on an assignment?”

“Who’s asking?” she replied.

“You’d be reporting to me. Paul was bumped back to Inspector last month. I’ve taken over the Chicago office.”

“Why ask me?” She made her tone perfunctorily. She didn’t want Theo thinking she would just come running the moment the welcome mat was out.

“Someone from the Joint Task Force on Organized Crime is leaking information to the mob.”

He had to know this would push her buttons. Alexi contemplated the prospect of returning to witness protection. It did have a certain appeal, despite the way things had ended. WITSEC was the one thing she had done that she felt really suited her, and it had certainly never been boring. Yet it was also where she’d made the worst mistake of her life.

“And why should this appeal to me?” she asked.

“Because we just lost one witness and another was attacked in a safe house.”

A breath hissed from deep in her throat. “Any ideas so far?”

“I think it’s one of the FBI guys, and not someone from this office, but I can’t eliminate anyone at this point.” He tried flattery. “D.C. wants the best and I want someone I can trust. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“There is something else. Don’t be coy with me, Theo.”

He hesitated, but only for a split second. “It involves the Salvatore family.”

They both lapsed into silence as she digested this information. She walked to the balcony and stared out at the clear blue waters of the Aegean, already missing her beloved Greece.

“When do you want me?”

No way. No fucking way.

Blayne stared into the mirror, unable to recognize herself. Her hair was dyed black and cut very short in a spiky hairstyle she despised. She had a realistic-looking tribal tattoo on her right bicep and a scorpion tattoo on her neck. Attached to her lower lip were two small rings that looked like authentic piercings, and there was a slightly larger one in her right eyebrow that pinched uncomfortably.

Her eyes had been made up in thick black goth makeup, and she had ruby-red lips. I’m a punk raccoon looking for love.

The woman who had taken two hours to dye her hair and make her up had not let Blayne near a mirror until the work was done and she’d packed up her makeup kit and fled. Now Blayne knew why. It was all she could do not to wash it all away so she could find herself again beneath the garish circus paint.

There was absolutely no way she was putting on the clothes. What the hell were they thinking? Punk. Goth. Grunge. Make up your mind already. And all of it is so ‘90s.

She said aloud to herself. “Guess I should have expected this, letting total strangers decide how I’m going to look.”

It wasn’t that she considered herself fashion conscious by any means, but no one could look good in what they’d given her to complete her disguise. Hugely baggy jeans, an obscenely studded military-type jacket, clunky Doc Marten boots, and an oversized black T-shirt that read Some Days It’s Not Worth Chewing Through the Restraints. The FBI agent who picked that one out must have had a good laugh. She wondered if it was Topping. The man seemed to have no sense of humor at all. She liked Dombrowski much better and wished he were still with her. At least he had let her in on what was happening some of the time.

At the outset of this nightmare, the day she’d witnessed the murder, she’d been allowed to make a quick trip home under the protection of three FBI agents. Under instructions to collect any personal belongings that were important to her, she’d packed two bags with clothes, toiletries, photographs, papers, and whatever else she thought she might need or want. She’d put her Fiji fund into a large envelope and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

For the next three days, she’d stayed in a not-too-shabby hotel suite on the outskirts of Chicago, under the watchful eye of a dour female Special Agent named Monica Wright. Another agent was always stationed outside, in a car or van, and Blayne was not allowed to leave or contact anyone, even Claudia.

No one would tell her what was going on, or whether Claudia was also under protection. Blayne had hated the restrictions and complete disintegration of every routine and sense of normalcy in her life, and showed her irritation in flashes of Irish temper.

The arrangement hadn’t lasted long. On her third boring evening in front of the television, Dombrowski had showed up and ordered her to get changed and pack all her things as quickly as possible. When Blayne quarreled and demanded to know what was going on, he looked her in the eyes and said in the gentle way one would break the news to a close friend or relative, “Joyce Houseman has been murdered.”

Blayne still couldn’t believe it. Joyce’s body had been found on a street near her apartment. She’d been shot. No witnesses. Worse still, Philippe and Claudia Cluzet hadn’t been seen in a couple of days.

“You think something bad has happened to them, don’t you?” Blayne had asked, thinking No! Not Claudia. There was a knot in her chest that made it hard to breathe. She couldn’t imagine life without her best friend, and Philippe had become like a second father to her. They were the only family she had.

Dombrowski had reassured her that they were following up every angle and they would find Claudia and Philippe. Meantime she had to get to a more secure location right away. So Blayne had relented, and five minutes later she was packed and they were ready to go.

When they got down to the lobby, the desk clerk was checking in a middle-aged couple with two cranky kids in tow, and there were a few other guests about, but nothing had appeared out of place. A tired businessman with an open briefcase in his lap chatted at one of the pay phones. A couple of Hispanic men in their sixties bickered good-naturedly over a game of chess. A young couple preoccupied with kissing each other headed out the front door to catch a cab. No one paid the three of them any attention, and they set off toward the side door to the parking lot, walking at a nice steady clip but not hurried, nothing that would draw undue attention to them.

There were no windows on that side of the building, so once they reached the big metal fire door, Wright held Blayne back until Dombrowski could confirm they were clear to exit. Everything had seemed fine. Only it wasn’t.

Blayne still couldn’t remember the exact sequence of events. One moment they were crossing the well-lit parking lot, the next Dombrowski’s head snapped around and he alerted Wright to two teenagers rounding the corner of the building.

The word that sprang to mind was punks. They wore baggy jeans and oversized sweatshirts, the hoods partially obscuring their faces. They were everywhere in Chicago these days—nameless young men who relied on petty crimes to pay for whatever they were injecting, smoking or inhaling. That’s all that mattered to them. How to finance the next fix.

Dombrowski had parked the dark SUV in the spot nearest the door, and they quickened their pace toward it. The punks exchanged a couple of quick words and Blayne became aware that they were staring intently at her. As if they recognized her. Or thought they did.

“Get her in the car! Now!” Dombrowski reached for his gun as the punks reached for theirs.

Wright had the door half open when the first shots rang out. Shielding Blayne’s body with her own, she pushed her forward, knocking the wind out of her, which only heightened Blayne’s sense of helplessness. Dombrowski was returning fire and got one of the shooters in the head just as the kid was about to pull the trigger. He hit the other in the chest, but not before the teenager had fired a round himself.

That bullet grazed Wright’s shoulder and shattered the tinted window beyond, showering Blayne with shards of glass. None of this deterred Wright from covering Blayne with her body and ignoring her protests. Pinned by the agent’s weight and panicking over the attack, Blayne had struggled until Wright barked “Stop it!”.

The authority in her voice stunned Blayne into submission. The close call had scared the shit out of her, and all she could feel was the rush of fear and adrenalin. After Wright moved off her, she’d had to look herself over to be satisfied she hadn’t been hit. She couldn’t stop trembling.

“You saved my life,” she’d stammered. “Thanks.”

“That’s what I get paid for,” the agent replied drolly, before gracing Blayne with her first real smile in the three days of their acquaintance.

They both stared at the blossoming bloodstain on Wright’s left shoulder.

“Not too bad,” Wright reported of the two-inch tear the bullet had made in her flesh.

Blayne could hear sirens in the distance, and the local cops soon showed up to secure the scene. A half-hour later, ensconced in a replacement sedan, she was driven away from the downtown headquarters of the FBI’s Chicago division and soon found herself on the ramp to Interstate 55, heading southwest. With her was a new female agent who’d been called in to replace the wounded Wright. And because Dombrowski had discharged his weapon in the line of duty, he was also off the case. Agent Skip Topping was accompanying Blayne.

Five hours later, just as the sun was coming up, they’d arrived at Scott Air Force Base and Blayne got to see her lovely new home, a blandly furnished housing unit in an isolated section of the base. Her seclusion was much the same as it had been at the hotel, but with significantly more Spartan accommodations and tighter security. She had three rooms, no view, and plenty of time to think about how fucked up her life was.

She hadn’t been able to sleep properly since.

At nine the morning after her arrival a distinguished looking gentleman in a suit the color of charcoal had arrived at her door and displayed his badge and credentials. His name was Larry Elkins and he was with the U.S. Marshals Service. He was polite, and friendly, and it was immediately apparent that he’d done this many times before.

They settled themselves on a battered couch with a loud avocado-colored print dating from the 1970s and Blayne looked him in the eyes. “I hope you’re going to give me some answers about what’s going on.”

“Yes, I’m here to discuss what’s next for you,” he answered helpfully. “But I’d like to ask you a few questions about the events of the last few days, first, if you don’t mind. I’ve been briefed by Special Agent Topping.”

“You’re with the Marshals Service?” Blayne had heard of it, but mostly in connection with the increase in air security following the 9-11 terrorist attacks. The government was putting more undercover U.S. Marshals aboard aircraft to protect against future attacks. She couldn’t imagine what that had to do with her, and why this man had to hear her story all over again.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m an Inspector with the WITSEC Division.”

He was in his forties, she guessed, by the hint of gray at his temples, though he kept his body in superb condition with regular trips to the gym. Puzzled, she asked, “WITSEC?”

“It stands for Witness Security. You’ve perhaps heard of it as the Witness Protection Program?”

“Oh, right, yes. I’ve heard of that.”

“WITSEC was founded to protect witnesses in major crimes from intimidation before they testify, and also from retaliation after the trial is over,” he explained. “The FBI called us in on your case. Obviously, you are a likely candidate. But before I make any recommendations about bringing you into the program, we need to talk.”

The Witness Protection Program? Holy fucking shit. No fucking way. “Isn’t that where you get a new identity and relocated and all of that?” Blayne asked. “I don’t need that, do I?” The thought that she might have to start all over again somewhere, like she had before….but this time, all alone. It was depressing beyond words.

“That’s what I’m here to determine,” he said. “Clearly, you are at high risk of further attempts on your life. You’d be much safer far away from here until the trials. And regardless of the verdicts, probably safer afterwards if you are elsewhere as well.”

The ensuing three-hour interview had covered not only the events of the recent past but also, it seemed, the entirety of Blayne’s life up to that point, Inspector Elkins said he would recommend quick approval of her acceptance into the WITSEC program. The final determination, he told her, was up to the U.S. Attorney General, but he anticipated no problems with the request, and said it would then be up to her to decide whether to accept the government’s offer of protection.

If she did, she would be taken to a secure WITSEC facility for several days of orientation, and then relocated to a new state with a new identity in exchange for a sworn statement agreeing to testify.

“WITSEC has helped roughly eight thousand witnesses and ten thousand family members relocate under new identities," he said. “And not one participant in the program who has followed our security guidelines has ever been harmed while under our active protection.”

The careful wording of his declaration suggested that those who didn’t follow the program’s rules may have met a different fate, but he volunteered no details.

“The final decision is up to you. It’s not an easy one, because one of the conditions of the program is that you cut all ties with your friends and acquaintances. That’s the hardest part for most of our witnesses. But frankly, Miss Keller, I don’t think you have much choice if you want to stay alive.”

Blayne thought about his words again as she opened the wallet they had bought her, and looked at her new driver’s license, social security card, and the $500 they’d given her for incidentals. Everything else would be handled once she got there—money, a place to live, a new job. Wherever there was.

Cut all ties with friends. She closed her eyes and Claudia’s face returned in a kaleidoscope of memories. Cutting up in college. Getting dressed to the nines for a date. Consoling her heartbreak. Flirting with her at work. Claudia was the only friend who mattered, anyway. Where are you, Claud? I need you. You can’t be dead.

Did it matter whether she stayed or left, without Claudia? Was Inspector Elkins right? Did she have a choice?

Blayne picked up the hideous T-shirt and held it up against her tank top. It was big enough for two of her, and fell to well below her ass.

There was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Special Agents Topping stared at her a long moment, taking in her new persona. He nodded approvingly at the T-shirt in her hands, a wry grin on his face. A few feet away, the new female agent was trying her damnest not to laugh. Yup. Topping had done the shopping.

“I’m not wearing this,” Blayne said, waving the shirt. “Or the pants. I can’t keep them up. I look fucking ridiculous.”

“You look nothing at all like yourself, which is exactly what we’re going for,” Topping said patiently from across the threshold. “We’ll wait. You have five minutes.” He pulled the door shut again before she could protest.

Blayne smoldered a minute, flipping him a finger that he failed to appreciate, before stalking off to change.

I hate this. I hate this. I just fucking hate this, she muttered to herself as she threaded a belt through the oversized pants. She stuck her Fiji fund into one of the many pockets, and her new wallet in another.

Then she donned her new studded military jacket and took another reluctant look in the mirror. A punk raccoon looking for love, wearing an Army tent that once belonged to Liberace. She sighed. She’d always thought she was a pretty plain Jane when you came right down to it. Oh yeah, there were days when she dressed up nice and put on some makeup. That got a few compliments, but all in all, she was average, she’d decided. And right now, this getup was so patently ridiculous she craved average. I can never look in a mirror again.

She went to the door and opened it. The agents were poised just outside.

“Ready to go, Elizabeth?” Topping asked.

She glared at him and bit back a response.

The former Blayne Keller, now Elizabeth Weaver, picked up a duffle bag containing all her earthly possessions, took a deep breath, and stepped into her new life.