Page 29 of Wired Courage

The food was as good as it smelled—fresh and perfectly cooked, redolent of ginger, lemongrass, and garlic, and the rice fragrant and sticky. Connor found himself wolfing down the meal. He forced himself to slow down, to chew carefully, to quaff the ruby-colored drink, some kind of tangy fruit juice, between bites.

Suddenly full, he pushed his plate away, breathing through a wave of nausea.

The Master rang a small brass bell. The ninja who’d helped Connor cleared their plates, then returned with a tea tray. The man closed the outer door, leaving them alone.

“I know who you are,” the Master said. He poured tea into translucent porcelain cups.

Connor’s belly lurched—hehadeaten too much. “I don’t know what you mean.” He took the delicate teacup, turned it in his hands, trying to warm his cold fingers.

“You are the computer vigilante called the Ghost.”

Connor set the cup down too hard. Tea splashed onto the tray. “Ridiculous.”

The Master sat back. A slight smile curled his full lips. “You needn’t worry. I don’t even plan to tell my Beautiful One, though how I found you was through tracking her phone communications. She’s been receiving information from you for over a year now. Targets you want her to eliminate. And she has done that for you.”

Connor lifted the teacup again, for something to do.

He’d taken out the remaining brown contact lens and dropped it as soon as he could after his wrists had been freed; the thing had been in his eye way too long and had irritated his cornea. He guessed that the brown hair dye was fading from his naturally blond locks too. His cover as Sheldon Hamilton was blown.

Had Jake gotten a good look at him with only one contact in?Hopefully not. If Jake ever put Connor’s Sheldon Hamilton identity and the deceased Todd Remarkian persona together, he’d be pissed—at Connor, but even more, at Sophie for keeping Connor’s secret.

“There’s a reason I disguised my looks,” Connor said. “But this vigilante stuff is nonsense.” Deny, deny, deny.

“I won’t engage in petty argument with you.” The Master sipped his tea.

Connor looked around. “Where is the baby? We came for her.”

“The child is no longer here.” The Master set his cup back on the tray and laced his fingers over his flat belly. A fresh scratch marred the golden-brown skin of his neck; Connor could have sworn it hadn’t been there when he’d seen the man earlier. “This is no place for a baby.”

“Where is she?”

“That need not concern you. What should concern you is that we still need Sophie.” The Master leaned forward, meeting Connor’s eyes. “The Yam Khûmk?n’s primary mission is to protect and serve Thailand’s royal family. We are the remnant of the dynasty’s original castle guard.” The Master poured more tea. The aromatic scent settled Connor’s roiling stomach. “The crown prince is only nine years old. He has a rare form of leukemia. Sophie is his second cousin, and out of all the world the only match that we’ve been able to find to donate needed bone marrow to him. We need her to save his life.”

Connor’s mouth had fallen open somewhere along the way, and he closed it with an effort. “Why didn’t Pim Wat just tell Sophie this? Ask her to donate the marrow?”

“My Beautiful One . . . hates to admit any weakness. Appealing to her daughter’s compassion is not her style.”

“Stealing Sophie’s child has not endeared her, either.”

“Pim Wat claims taking the child was an impulse. She hoped the baby would be a match for the prince, and that she would not need to bring Sophie here since Sophie had proved recalcitrant. But the infant was not a match. Then, Pim Wat’s maid took her and disappeared.” The Master sipped his tea imperturbably.

Connor sat up as adrenaline hit his system. “Armita took the baby.”

“Yes.”

“And I take it you don’t know where they are.”

The Master’s pansy-colored eyes met Connor’s squarely. “Do you think you would even be alive right now if Pim Wat had the baby to use as leverage on Sophie?”

Connor’s heart thudded. “You expect Sophie to come here and donate bone marrow in exchange for Jake and me?”

“Yes.” The Master leaned forward. “And because she would not want to see an innocent child die. Her own relative.”

Connor sat back and shook his head. “I’m guessing Armita is in touch with Sophie now. Sophie will stop at nothing to be reunited with her child. She won’t come here once she has Momi. You’ve miscalculated.”

“I don’t miscalculate. She will come for you.” They locked eyes. Connor looked away first. “Put your wrist on the table,” the Master commanded.

Connor found himself doing so, resting his fist, fingers up, on the flat surface. Riverlike blue veins tracked over his rigid ligaments, disappearing into the meat of his muscled forearm. The insides of his wrists were marked by the brass handcuffs, purplish creases and red scrapes marring the pale skin.

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