Page 55 of Factory Controller

We’re now ready for the final leg of our journey. We’re back in the United States. I look over at Trent and notice a wistful light in his eyes.

“How’s it feel to be back in America after ten years away?”

Trent’s brow furrows. “Strange. It feels like it should be a lot more significant of a milestone, yet…”

He favors me with bedroom eyes and a sly grin. “All I can think about is the woman I’m with. Where I am doesn’t matter nearly as much, I suppose.”

I bite my lower lip and squeeze his shoulder—and promptly remember that’s where the jaguar bit him.

“Sorry,” I say, hastily releasing my grip.

“It’s all right.” Trent rolls up his sleeve and reveals that the wounds are almost healed now. “I got lucky and just got tissue damage instead of a cracked collarbone.”

I squeeze his hand and smile. “I was really worried. I’m so happy you pulled through.”

We glance up when the announcement for our boarding begins. “That’s us.”

Trent and I sleep through the final leg of the journey. When I open my eyes, shortly before landing, we’re still holding hands.

A big sign with the Foundation logo catches my eye. It’s held by a stylish chauffeur. I zero in on him. What are the chances the Factory is expecting anyone else? He confirms that he’s here for us and that he’s received instructions to take us to our hotel.

“Mr. Andrew will meet you at the bar in three hours,” he says, giving me a magnetic pass. “In the meantime, you have the penthouse suite.”

I’m about to protest that I don’t care for a penthouse, I would rather go home to my place, when I think better of it. For all I know, there could be a reason why they have decided to tuck us away somewhere else. Did someone break in my apartment? I know better than to ask. Chances are the driver has no idea.

After South America and Florida, our garments are woefully inadequate for Manhattan’s chilly winter. So, instead of moving into our hotel suite, we go shopping for clothing more appropriate to our climate.

Trent looks good in a tight black turtleneck shirt and designer jeans. He insists on paying for everything with his card. I wonder what’s that about. I imagined he was basically penniless and living off the land, but maybe he’s not. Or maybe he’s just happy using Factory money.

When we return to the hotel, my belly does flip-flops. The hour of our meeting with Andrew approaches fast. Trent whistles in admiration when we enter the suite. It’s true, the view over Central Park is magnificent. He goes on to explore the adjacent room which boasts an incredibly large bed.

As soon as he notices I’ve followed him, he makes a big deal of the ‘crisp, white sheets,’ but I’m too nervous to appreciate it. Besides, we hardly have time for anything fun. I cut him off after a kiss or two.

Trent looks over at me as we descend in the elevator. “Are you sure you can trust the Factory, Heather? I don’t think you should. Especially since Isabella said she had people in their organization.”

“I don’t know. I think we need to play it by ear.” I smile. “I’m glad you’re with me, though.”

“Likewise.”

We hold hands until the elevator doors open. It’s a short walk to the bar where we’re to meet Andrew. I call him my Factory contact, but he’s much more than that. He was the father figure of the 84th Street townhouse where I spent my teenage years.

The warmth of the bar envelops me like a familiar blanket. I glance around for Andrew, but I don’t see him among the patrons. I check the time. We’re a few minutes early, but in all the meetings I’ve had with Andrew over the years, he’s always been there first. Always.

I look out the rear exit of the bar, which leads out to a patio where tables are available for patrons. I would imagine people only sit there during more accommodating weather periods. I groan. Andrew’s seated out there, apparently not bothered by the low temperatures or dampness in the air.

The man hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still the most nondescript, average-looking, white businessman you can picture. Everything about him seems vague and tenuous at best. Even his hair won’t commit to being a single color, being a blend of dishwater blond and light brunette. I’ve lived with him for years and stared in his eyes more times than I can count, and I’m still not sure if his eyes are grey or blue.

He’s one of those creatures whose appearance sizzles away from your mind like water off a hot skillet, while his persona does not. Andrew is quite content in his role with the Factory, and that contentment breeds a world-weary smugness and know-it-all attitude made all the more insufferable for his keen intellect.

We step out to the patio as Andrew takes a long pull on his cigarette. “Heather, so glad you could make it. Have a seat.”

I sit in the cold wrought-iron patio chair as Trent settles in beside me. Andrew glances over at him and chuckles. “So, is this your asset? I approve. Guy looks like he could do some damage.”

“I’ve seen him get in one fight, and that was with a jaguar. He lost.”

Andrew’s eyes widen as he looks at Trent.

Trent laughs, rubbing his scarred shoulder. “Hey, which one of us retreated first? Me or the jaguar?”

---