Sidney Sheldon’s Reckless

She stood up and walked over to the window. It was totally dark now. All Tracy could see was her own reflection.

I look like a housewife, standing in her kitchen.

This is ridiculous. I am a housewife, standing in her kitchen.

Turning back to the two agents she said, “Look. I don’t know this woman. That’s the God’s honest truth. We’ve never met. Clearly she knows who I am. But that doesn’t mean the reverse is true.”

Greg Walton leaned forward urgently. “Even if that’s true, Tracy. Even if it turns out you don’t know her, you can still help us.”

“I don’t see how.”

“You and Althea have a lot in common.”

Tracy frowned. “How do you figure that?”

“You’re both wealthy, independent women, with a background in computers, who’ve successfully evaded detection by the authorities in multiple countries. You both play by your own rules, conceal your identities, and rise to the top in what are traditionally all-male environments. You’re both risk takers.”

“Not anymore,” Tracy said firmly. “My reckless days are over. She’s a terrorist, Mr. Walton.”

“Greg.”

“I’m a housewife.”

“She knows you,” Walton insisted. “And at a minimum, you can help us understand her strategy, her MO. If we can predict her next move and identify her weaknesses, we stand a chance of stopping her. How is she slipping through the net? Who’s helping her? What would you do if you were in her shoes?”

“I don’t know what I’d do.” Tracy’s frustration was mounting. “Group 99, Althea’s world, it’s a closed book to me.”

“So let us open it.” Greg Walton’s tone was becoming more insistent. “We’ll brief you on Group 99, everything we know and British intelligence knows. Trust me, Tracy, if I weren’t certain you can help, I wouldn’t be here. The president himself asked us to approach you.”

Tracy looked skeptical. “Really?”

“President Havers would be happy to call you himself to confirm it,” Walton said, leaping on her hesitation. “Finding Althea and cutting Group 99 off at the knees is the White House’s top national security objective right now. Bar none. A call from the White House can be arranged if you’d like that.”

Tracy ran her hands through her hair. “I’m sorry, Greg. I’m flattered, I really am. But if the president thinks I can help then I’m afraid he’s been seriously misinformed. I give you my word that if I think of any connection between myself and Althea, or any sort of lead you could use, I will pick up the phone. But I’m not coming to Langley. I have a son.”

“I know,” Greg Walton sighed. “Nicholas.”

“That’s right. The last time I left him, I almost didn’t make it back. I swore then, to him and to myself, that I would never put myself in harm’s way again.”

“Not even for your country?”

Tracy shook her head.

“I love my country. But I love my son more.” She looked at her watch again. “And now, gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me. It’s time for me to go pick him up.”

Milton Buck got angrily to his feet. “You don’t get to call the shots here, Tracy. Do you think anybody cares about your soccer mom priorities, when Americans are out there being kidnapped and tortured and American companies are having billions of dollars wiped off their balance sheets? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“That’s enough.” Greg Walton didn’t raise his voice, but the look on his face made it plain that he was livid with his colleague. “I apologize, Miss Whitney. We’re grateful to you for giving us your time.” He handed Tracy a card. “If you change your mind, or have any information or questions, please call me. Day or night. We’ll see ourselves out.”

He walked to the door, with Milton Buck following like a sullen child.

As they left, Tracy said, “I’m sorry.”

Milton Buck waited till Greg Walton was out of earshot before hissing in Tracy’s ear. “You will be.”

FOR FIVE MINUTES THE TWO MEN drove down the mountain road in stony silence.

Then Greg Walton turned to Milton Buck.

“Fix this,” he said. The avuncular tone he’d used with Tracy was gone now. The two short words dripped with menace.

“How?” Buck asked.

“That’s your problem. I don’t care how you do it, but you get Tracy Whitney to Langley or your career is over. Is that clear?”

Milton Buck swallowed hard. “Crystal.”

NICK AND TRACY SAT AT THE dinner table, watching a video on Nick’s phone.

“That is awful,” Tracy said, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

“I know,” Nick grinned. “I’m putting it on Vine.”

“You are not,” Blake Carter said thunderously. “Give me that phone.”

“What? No!” said Nick. “Come on, Blake. It’s funny. I’ll bet it goes viral.”

“It’s disrespectful is what it is,” said Blake. Ignoring the boy’s protests, he took the phone and deleted the footage of the principal of the middle school glancing around what he clearly believed to be an empty corridor before farting loudly.

“Mom!” Nick protested.

Tracy shrugged, wiping away the tears of mirth. “Sorry, honey. Blake’s right. You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Not ‘people,’” Blake corrected her. “Adults. Teachers, for crying out loud. In my day you’d have had a whip taken to ya for something like that.”

“In your day they didn’t have phones,” said Nick, still angry. “Your idea of fun was hitting a ball on a string. You know what your problem is? You don’t know how to have fun.”

“Nick!” said Tracy. “Apologize.”

“Sorry.” The word dripped with sarcasm. “I’m going to my room.”

Seconds later Nick’s bedroom door slammed.

Blake looked at Tracy. “Why do you encourage him?”

“Oh come on. It was funny.”

“It was puerile.”