Pawn

She had no idea if her request for Nick as a contact would be granted. She’d certainly learned not to believe any promises that were made to her. But, all personal feelings aside, she knew Nick’s capabilities, she trusted his intelligence and would feel much better about everything if he was there.

With a sigh she opened the folder and began to study the aerial shots of Stingray Wharf. A year ago when she’d left Miami there had been rumors that the small port would be closed and ships would be routed through the bigger, more up-to-date port of Miami. Apparently that hadn’t happened.

Although international traffic was sparse at the small wharf, it was still there.

She sat there for over an hour, studying maps and reading the information that had been provided for her.

When she felt she’d had enough and couldn’t think another minute she closed the file and carried it with her to the spare room. She placed it in a locked file cabinet then sat down at her computer and booted it up.

A glance at her wristwatch let her know it was just after eight. She fought against a wave of exhaustion. Her head felt mired in directions and specs. But, it was too early to go to bed. She’d work for a couple of hours then call it a night.

Thankfully her computer booted up without a problem. Now that she’d agreed to work with the FBI she assumed the little bug they’d planted had been removed.

She thought about running some tests, trying to discern how they had gotten in and what kind of virus they’d planted, but quickly dismissed the idea. Whatever they had done, she knew there would be no trace of it now.

The first thing she did was check her e-mail. There had been a time in her life, when she’d been living with Jonas, when e-mail had been her link to the outside world.

Jonas had raised her to be afraid, to believe that because of his wealth and her special gifts, she could easily become a target of a kidnapper. He’d discouraged her having friends, had been overly protective to a fault. During those years Lynn had found her social time with e-mail and chat rooms.

She frowned as she saw the familiar address of [e-mail].

What now? She opened it and read the message.

Lynn,

Oracle is waiting for you. The Cassandras need you. For more information contact Kim Valenti at NSA.

There was a phone number included.

The Cassandras. Any trace of sleepiness vanished as she reread the e-mail. Cassandra, daughter of Priam and Hecuba, king and queen of Troy in Greek poetry. The piece of trivia popped into her head, the result of years of surfing the Internet for entertainment and education.

But, the Cassandras held a more personal meaning to Lynn. Her mother, Rainy Miller Carrington, and the friends she’d made when she’d been a student at Athena Academy years ago had called themselves the Cassandras. Rainy, a senior student then, had mentored the group of new students, as was the practice at Athena Academy. Eventually the motley crew had become best of friends.

Those friends had been responsible for solving the mystery of Rainy’s tragic death in a car accident. They were also the women Lynn now called friends.

She couldn’t leave for Florida without addressing this new kink. If the Cassandras needed her, then she’d do whatever she could to help them. Those same women had gone out of their way to help Lynn find out about her history. They had risked their careers, their lives to find out the truth about the conspiracy and secrets surrounding Lynn’s birth. And they had embraced her as one of their own.

Even though it was Labor Day weekend she picked up her phone and dialed the number listed. It was a Maryland area code.

“Hello?” A woman answered on the first ring.

“I’d like to speak to Kim Valenti,” Lynn said. “This is Lynnette White.”

“Lynn, I’ve been waiting for your call. We need to talk. Can we meet?”

“Just tell me where and when,” Lynn replied.

“You’ll be contacted.”

There was a click and Lynn realized she was listening to the faint hum of an empty line. On impulse, she tried to dial back and it rang twice before she got a recording that the number had been disconnected.

She set the phone back in the receiver. What was this, National Conspiracy Week in the United States? First the FBI and now this. Why the need for such subterfuge?

Apparently there was nothing she could do but wait to find out what that was about. She quickly scanned through the rest of her e-mail then shut off the computer. She was still seated at her computer staring at the blank screen thoughtfully when someone knocked.

She cracked the door open an inch to peer outside. Standing there was a delivery guy, a pleasant smile on his youthful face. “Pizza delivery,” he said and pulled a flat box from its red insulated carrier.

“But, I didn’t…” She bit off her protest that she hadn’t ordered a pizza. “What do I owe you?” She opened the door wider.

“It’s already taken care of, tip and all.” He handed her the warm box. “Enjoy.” He turned and hurried back to the car illegally parked against the curb.

Lynn locked the front door, then took the box into the kitchen where she set it on the table and opened it. A pepperoni and mushroom pizza stared back at her and tucked beneath one edge of the crust was a small envelope that was already drawing grease.

She pulled it free and opened it.

Tomorrow night. Six o’clock at Cactus Grill on Scottsdale Road.

The woman she’d spoken to on the phone had said she’d be contacted.

Contact made.

Lynn sank down at the table and pulled a piece of the cheese-laden pizza free. As she took a bite of the pizza she tried to still the feeling that she was in way over her head and this might be her symbolic last supper before her life exploded into something she no longer recognized.

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