Page 2 of Blind Prophet

He cupped my cheek and forced me to look up into his glassy eyes.

Silent tears leaked from eyes that hadn’t seen me in months.

And then his lips covered mine, and I splintered. His touch stemmed the tearful tide. I clung to him, leaning on his strength.

When he broke the kiss, he breathed into my ear. “One last time?”

That’s what he wanted. Sex.

His last words to me.

A gut punch. But also a confirming blow, one that told me there was no point in staying. I don’t remember saying anything. I only remember walking through the door.

As feared, when I exited the townhome, I faced a flash of lights.

One photographer with a long-range lens across the street. Two photographers close to my left. My good side. Almost as if he planned it.

He could have. We had a security camera in our living area accessible via his phone. He could have seen me and my suitcases and known exactly what was coming.

I held my head high.

“Where are you going, Mrs. Moore?”

“Are the rumors true?”

“Caroline, are you separating?”

I forced a cold, cordial smile. A barely there smile that straddled the line of detached model and wealthy philanthropist with a disdain for the media.

How did they know? Did he leak it?

Newspaper photographs struggle to capture nuance. The captions from that day spoke of a tear-streaked face, but my stoic expression concealed the evidence. Social media, however, was full of photos and commentary filled with vitriol. How could it be otherwise?

After all, I walked away from a golden boy, an American prince, a billionaire.Stupid, crazy, cheating slut, ice-cold, plastic, full of filler, greedy, social climber. They didn’t know what exactly I might have done to be thrown out of the gilded castle, but one thing was certain: in the court of public opinion, I held the blame.

CHAPTER1

CAROLINE

Seven years later

The conference room door remains closed. Smoked glass walls bar any view of what’s happening inside. My job as an analyst is to read the signs splashed across newspapers and in briefings, but there are days I wish I weren’t so aware.

For those of us specializing in counter-terrorism and a nuanced global news cycle, these are fragile times. This truth feels truer with every passing day. When one works for a black ops company that takes untouchable covert assignments, closed doors are unnerving.

My friend, Sophia Sullivan, encouraged me to apply for a position at Arrow Tactical, one of many companies within her father’s investment portfolio, but one with personal ties for Sophia. When she was fifteen, she was kidnapped, and the founders of Arrow Tactical rescued her. Her experience put her on the law enforcement path, and as an FBI-turned-CIA operative, she maintains close contacts with Arrow, as they do work for many intelligence agencies around the world.

There was no posted open position, but she told me they could use someone like me. I suspect she saw how miserable I was working for an ogre in a position with limited growth opportunities and asked her father for a favor.

Sophia and I met years ago at The Farm, the CIA’s training program. From what I’ve observed, Sophia has worked closely on multiple projects with Arrow Tactical. So closely, the lines between Arrow and the CIA blur. The company takes on projects governments won’t touch, or at least, they won’t touch without plausible deniability.

The conference room door opens, and Sophia’s gaze connects with mine, her blue eyes sharp and focused. She walks directly to me through the maze of cubicles.

Does she want to grab coffee, or does she need to speak to me about something going on in that conference room?

Banking on the former, I open my desk drawer and remove my purse.

“Come with me,” she says in a low voice, the same decibel level we’ve all been using since threat levels rose and the cubicles filled with those who typically work remotely.

---