Atlanta, Georgia
Three Years Later
“And cut! That’s a wrap. Great job, everyone!” the director called.
Aimee held out her hand to help the guy she had just knocked down stand up. Lou grasped it and stiffly rose to his feet. He rubbed his stomach gingerly.
She shook her head. “I didn’t even make contact.”
“It’s the thought, A. You make it look so real. You know, we could do some practicing over dinner tonight,” he teased.
With a smile and a shake of her head, Aimee rolled her eyes and walked away. She looked around the set of the action thriller currently under production. This had been her last scene. If the executives reviewed the film and it was a take, she would be heading back to Los Angeles tomorrow night.
“Hi, Aimee,” Habib called.
Aimee waved at the man who was slightly younger than herself. He was working here while he went to film school. She genuinely liked Habib. Sure, she felt a little guilty about her reasons for talking to him sometimes, but she would grasp at any glimpse of the life that had been stolen from her. They walked side by side.
“Hi, Habib. How are things going back home?”
He laughed. “The same as they were yesterday,” he teased.
“Well, that’s good,” she replied.
They headed for the large catering tent. She grabbed a bottle of water out of a large ice-filled bin. Habib grabbed a tray full of sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, and a soda and they walked to a table.
She sat down on a plastic chair, listening to him as he told her about his parents and siblings back in Jawahir. Aimee soaked up every word, her heart aching with love and longing for Qadir.
“So, Sadi told me last night that there is to be a royal wedding!” Habib said with excitement.
Aimee stiffened and stared at him. “A royal wedding? Wh-who is getting married?”
Habib grinned at her. “Sheikh Qadir.”
“Qadir is getting married?” she repeated.
“Yes! At least that is what Basma told me last night when we chatted,” Habib said.
Aimee listened in silence as Habib talked about how the King had decided it was time for Qadir to marry and arranged it with a mystery bride. The press was going crazy trying to find out who she was, which was exactly why the King was protecting her identity.
Aimee nodded at the right times and murmured barely audible responses as Habib continued regaling her with speculation about the mysterious princess betrothed to the future King of Jawahir. All she wanted to do was find a place to hide and cry. She’d known this day would come, but she still wasn’t ready for it.
She suddenly pushed her chair back and stood up. He stopped mid-sentence and stared up at her with a startled expression. She gave him a strained, crooked smile.
“I forgot I needed to check in with Merv. You know how he gets if you forget,” she lied, turning away from him.
“Yeah… well, maybe we can get together later,” Habib called behind her.
“Yeah, see you later,” she replied.
Aimee walked over to the stunt double training tent. She didn’t feel like working out, but she did it anyway because it was a great way to get people to leave her alone. It also gave her time to think—which could be a good thing but wasn’t at the moment.
The incident three years ago in New York had changed her life forever. Her carefree days of living where she wanted, visiting friends, working for Stanley, and loving Qadir had ended overnight. Now, she had a new last name and a new career.
Grief and regret filled her. The depressing knowledge that she had no one to blame but herself for losing Qadir weighed on her conscience. Over the last three years, she had done a lot of self-reflection and realized that things could have been different if she had made different choices—like going to Qadir instead of the FBI. Even now, she fought with the realization that she had done exactly what Yolanda had taught her to do—run and hide when things get tough.
Her fears of commitment and her reluctance to trust had overshadowed everything. For quite a while she had camouflaged her fear in a self-righteous assertion that she was protecting Qadir, but in reality, she was only trying to protect her own fragile heart.
She closed her eyes against the tears welling up and fought against the memories of what transpired after she had slipped into the old warehouse. It was impossible. She still had nightmares of that day and how she barely escaped—and the terrible decisions she had made that left her lonely, aching, and yet still too afraid to reach out to Qadir and correct her mistakes.
Three Years Ago
The cold air burned her lungs, and she fought against another fit of coughing. She reached into the pocket of her long coat and pulled out the inhaler Dr. Fuah had given her. Popping the top, she inhaled two puffs. The relief was almost immediate.
She pocketed the inhaler and slipped through the opening in the gate. She darted across the open parking lot before disappearing around the side. In less than a minute, she had entered through the window.
Tears burned her eyes as she thought of Qadir. She had to let him know what was happening—not only here but back in his home country. All those people murdered—the children—there had to be something he could do to stop it.
She crossed the warehouse, heading for the office and the box she had hidden upstairs. She would wait until darkness fell before making her way downtown to the Federal building. The FBI would surely know what to do and they were less likely to have a connection with the local police—at least, with Coldhouse—with either of the Coldhouses.
Aimee climbed the stairs to the office and pushed open the door. She had only taken a couple of steps inside when she felt a knife pressed against her back. She froze, her breath forming a cloud of fog as she waited.
“G-give me your coat,” a soft, feminine voice demanded.
Aimee held her hands up and nodded. “You staying here? It’s not so bad,” she said.
“How-how w-would you know?” the young woman asked.
“I’ve lived here for the past six months. I’m Aimee. What’s your name?” she asked.
There was a short pause before the woman answered, “Kylie.”
“Hi, Kylie. I’m going to put my hands down and take off my coat,” Aimee said.
“Don’t try nothin’,” Kylie choked out.
Aimee could hear Kylie trying to suppress a cough. “I won’t. There’s an inhaler in my right pocket. The doc gave it to me. Sounds like you could use it. I’ve got some antibiotics in there, too, for my lungs. As long as you aren’t allergic to them, you might want to take them. There aren’t many left, but it might help,” she suggested.
She felt the pressure of the knife disappear and breathed a sigh of relief. If sacrificing her coat and medicine helped her get out of here, she would gladly do it. She removed her outer coat, thankful she wore several layers of clothing under one of Qadir’s thick cashmere sweaters. Turning, she held out the coat to Kylie who took it with a moan of pleasure.
Aimee stepped forward and helped button the coat. Kylie’s hands were shaking so badly that she was having trouble. The girl warily watched her as Aimee retrieved a glove from each pocket.
“Why are you helping me?” Kylie asked as she allowed Aimee to put the gloves on her.
Aimee looked up and gave Kylie a strained smile. “Because we aren’t so different,” she said.
Kylie looked around the room. “This your spot?” she asked.
Aimee shrugged. “It was.”
Kylie looked at her. “I got another spot that’s better. I was scoping this place out, but it’s too cold. I’m keeping the coat—and the other stuff. You got any money?” she demanded, waving the knife in her hand.
The smile on Aimee’s face faded. “No. You’ve got everything I own in that coat,” she lied.
Kylie nodded and began backing toward the door. “That’s the way of the street,” she replied, backing out of the door.
Aimee stood in the freezing room, shivering, and listened as Kylie descended the steps. She didn’t bother going after the girl. Aimee had enough troubles. She really didn’t need to fight a desperate girl with a knife. At least Kylie didn’t ask for Aimee’s knit cap.
Turning away, Aimee crossed the room and pulled open an old exhaust vent. She reached inside and drew out a shoebox containing a dozen pictures of herself and Yolanda and the few precious things Yolanda had found when she discovered Aimee in the alley. Next, she grabbed a plastic bag containing a pile of emergency clothing. It included another heavy coat. The coat was worn, but it was clean and it would keep her from freezing.
She rose back to her feet, slipped on the coat, and buttoned it up. Breathing on the tips of her fingers to warm them, she pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and dialed Qadir’s number. She held her breath when the phone rang. He answered it on the second ring.
“I didn’t do it,” she said the moment she heard his voice.
“I know you didn’t. Are you alright? Where are you?” Qadir demanded.
A quiver of relief flooded her. He would believe her. She had to warn him. “Qadir, it was—”
The sound of gunfire caused her to jump and her thumb hit the disconnect button. Crouching, she peered out of the door.
Anderson Coldhouse stood over Kylie’s inert body. He fired another shot into the back of Kylie’s head.
Aimee pressed her fist against her mouth. Tears for the other woman burned her eyes. She had done this. She should have known that Coldhouse would follow her.
He cursed and looked around. She quickly twisted away from the door and leaned up against the wall, her heart pounding. He must have realized he had killed the wrong person.
Metal hit concrete, and the first whiff of crude oil and burning flesh hit her. Nausea threatened to overcome her. She covered her nose and mouth with her arm, afraid that she would start coughing and alert Coldhouse that she was there.
Black smoke quickly filled the warehouse. Aimee knew she had to get out immediately. The building was old and still had most of the original wooden structure. It wouldn’t take long for it to go up like a torch. That was one reason why she made sure there was an alternative exit before staying here.
She crawled across the floor of the office, dragged her bed from the wall, shoved aside the cardboard she used as insulation, and worked the piece of metal sheeting out of the way. The hole beneath was revealed.
Smoke billowed into the room and her cough caused pain in her throat and lungs.
Stuffing the contents of the shoebox into her pockets and her cell phone into her bra, she wiggled through the hole. She grabbed the drain pipe and pulled herself the rest of the way through, sliding down the pipe until her feet hit the first bracket.
Heat radiated from the exterior walls and flames licked through the cracks.
She slid down the pipe the rest of the way to the ground, stumbling back when a loud explosion rocked the building. She almost fell but caught herself.
Near the staircase, there were several old barrels full of some kind of solvent left over from whatever manufacturing had been done in the building before. They were exploding now.
Sirens blared in the distance. Aimee turned and ran between the building and the water. Coldhouse was still close.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she desperately sought a place of refuge. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. The battery light flashed. It was dead.
Several blocks away, she crouched in an alley behind a dumpster. She sank down to the ground and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them.
Engulfed in numbness, Aimee sat in the alley until darkness descended. She was cold and stiff by the time she felt it was safe to move. Keeping her head down, she stayed off the main streets and in the shadows as much as possible. It took her over an hour to get downtown to the Federal Building.
She stood outside—watching—terrified of what would happen if she didn’t go inside and terrified of what would happen if she did. It was nearly midnight by the time she forced her legs to carry her across the street. She pulled open the door and stepped inside the confined space between the second set of doors. The security guard near the metal detectors rose to his feet at the sight of her.
Aimee was suddenly self-conscious of the fact that her face was dirty and her clothing probably still smelled of smoke. Stiffening her shoulders, she pulled open the second door and entered the FBI building.
“Can I help you?” the security guard inquired.
Tears suddenly blurred Aimee’s eyes and she silently nodded. It took several seconds before she gained enough composure to speak. When she did, her voice trembled with exhaustion and fear.
“I-I need to speak to someone about-about a series of murders,” she finally said.
The guard frowned. “You should call the NYPD for that.”
She gave him a look of utter hopelessness. “It was a police officer who did the killings—and he is trying to kill me to keep me from telling anyone about that—and other horrible things. I don’t have anywhere else to turn. I need someone more powerful who can keep me safe.”
The guard’s expression softened. “If you have anything in your pockets, empty them out and walk through.”
Aimee nodded, placed the dead cell phone in the gray plastic bin, and walked through the metal detector. The guard nodded to another man behind a long desk. She gave him a wobbly smile, retrieved her phone, and walked over.
“I would like to report the murders of several people both here and in a country called Jawahir that were committed by a man named Anderson Coldhouse and his brother, Colin Coldhouse,” she said in a quiet voice.
The man studied her tired face before he picked up the phone and called someone else. Within minutes, a man and a woman stepped out of the elevator to her right. The woman offered her hand.
“I’m Agent Angela Hartley. This is Davis. You have information pertaining to Colin Coldhouse?” Agent Hartley inquired.
“Yes, and the murders his brother committed this afternoon,” she said. She held up her dead cell phone.
“Please follow me,” Agent Hartley said.
Present Day
Aimee was distracted from her memories when several cast members entered the exercise area. She hadn’t even realized that she was lying on the floor with her eyes closed until then. The group called out a good-natured hello to her before they split up and climbed on different machines. Aimee rose to her feet and quietly left the tent.
She had shared everything that night with Agent Hartley and Davis. Hartley had found a charger for her phone and Aimee showed them the photos she had taken of the photographs along with the video of Anderson Coldhouse killing his partner, Bert. It had been difficult sharing what happened at the warehouse.
Hartley had taken her cell phone. Dawn was breaking over the horizon when she was led to the parking garage. Hartley explained that Aimee would need to be kept under close guard until Anderson Coldhouse was caught.
Aimee had begged Hartley to let her call Qadir, but Hartley said it was too dangerous. Anderson—and his brother, Colin—had ways of tracking the phone call. Hartley assured her that Qadir would be notified that Aimee was in their custody and safe.
It took Aimee over six months to discover that Agent Hartley had lied. Why the FBI wanted Qadir to believe she had been killed in the fire at the warehouse was still a mystery to her. Every time she pressed the new agent in charge of her case about it, they gave her some vague lecture about international protocol and the sensitive nature of the case.
The first six months had been a blur. She had been transferred from one safe house to another after two attempts on her life. How Bronislav or the Coldhouse brothers even knew she was still alive was a mystery since Anderson would have believed she was trapped in the warehouse when he set it on fire.
In the end, her death was faked again, and she was placed in the witness protection program. She was given a new identity with all the correct paperwork—something she’d never had before—a new career, an apartment, and she was told that she must contact no one from her past.
Hartley had stressed that even if the Coldhouse brothers were eventually captured, there was no way the government could do anything about Andrius Bronislav, a foreign national. Her life and anyone she knew would always be in danger.
After one agent was killed and another was seriously wounded protecting her, she believed them. Her heart hurt every day for Qadir, and she hungrily searched for any news about him.
When she met Habib working on a set two years ago and found out he was from Jawahir and his older sister worked in the palace, she had befriended him. Their friendship really had grown beyond her using him for information about Qadir. She cared about him.
Now she almost wished she had cut off everything from her old life. Knowing Qadir was getting married hurt, even though she knew she should be happy for him. After all, he had no idea that she was alive.
Aimee collected her belongings from the set trailer. After placing her skateboard on the ground, she adjusted her backpack, and took off for the hotel rented by the studio for the cast and crew. Depression was bringing her down hard, and she wondered if death might have been a kinder fate.
I can get through this, she told herself.
She kept telling herself that over and over as her wheels clicked on the lines of the sidewalk.