In the Grey Read online

  IN THE GREY

  CLAUDIA HALL CHRISTIAN

  Cook Street Publishing

  Denver, CO

  BY CLAUDIA HALL CHRISTIAN

  ALEX THE FEY THRILLERS

  (AlextheFey.com)

  The Fey

  Learning to Stand

  Who I Am

  Lean on Me

  In the Grey

  THE DENVER CEREAL

  (DenverCereal.com)

  The Denver Cereal

  Celia’s Puppies

  Cascade

  Cimarron

  Black Forest

  Fairplay

  Gold Hill

  THE QUEEN of COOL

  (TheQueenofCool.com)

  The Queen of Cool

  SETH AND AVA MYSTERIES

  (SethandAvaMysteries.com)

  The Tax Assassin

  Copyright © Claudia Hall Christian

  Licensed under the Creative Commons License:

  Attribution – NonCommercial – Share Alike 3.0

  You are free:

  to Share – to copy, distribute, display, and perform the work

  to Remix – to make derivative works

  Smashwords Edition Licensing Notes:

  Thank you for purchasing this ebook and welcome to the Alex the Fey thrillers! You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by Claudia Hall Christian. Thank you for your support

  ISBN-13 : 978-1-938057-05-2

  Library of Congress : 2013900614 (print)

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First edition © March, 2013

  Cook Street Publishing

  PO Box 18217

  Denver, CO 80218

  303-242-5391

  CookStreetPublishing.com

  For all those living in the grey.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “The color of truth is grey.”

  André Gide, in Autumn Leaves

  PROLOGUE

  October 15 – 2:15 a.m. China Standard Time

  Dzungarian Alatau Mountain Range

  Xinjiang Province, China

  With her knees tight against the flanks of the horse, she pointed to her right and pulled her micro-compound bow from the sling on her back. The horse flew up the dirt track. She laid the bow across her lap and leaned back to see if her younger brother had made the turn. Close behind, his hair flashed white when the quarter moon appeared from behind the scattered clouds.

  She hadn’t expected to make it this far. She thought they would be stopped at the border, but in the frigid dark, the border guard had given their passports no more than a cursory glance before returning to his kerosene heater. His partner had pawed through their backpacks before waving their rental car through.

  They had driven a few winding miles into the border mountains until they reached the turnout where they’d met another American couple. His hair was not as blonde; she was not quite as thin; otherwise they’d looked enough like them to swap passports. They’d traded their rental car and tourist backpacks for the couple’s jeep, black clothing, and the micro-compound bows. They’d left the paved road in four-wheel-drive. Her brother had driven the jeep until the track ended at an old farm where they had picked up a stocky pair of nearly wild Dzungarian horses.

  Sure footed and steady, her horse hurtled up a barely visible track under Mount Kertau and the Tian Shan mountain system. She clung to the back of beast. Up ahead, she saw the flickering apparition of Sergeant Jesse Abreu, her best friend who had died with his head in her lap, waving her forward.

  On the first of October, she’d arrived at her office at Buckley Air Force Base to find a handwritten note sitting in the middle of her desk.

  “If you would like to retrieve the package hidden by the Fey Special Forces Team, you will be standing at 45°44'39.93" N and 82°29'36.21" E at 3 a.m., October 15. Bring only one other.”

  The note had been analyzed, fought over, worried about, and researched. When no human DNA or fingerprints were found on the note, forensic specialists had tested the composition of the paper and ink. The paper could be found in any office around the world and the ink came from a black Bic Stic pen. Forensic handwriting specialists found that an individual with extensive calligraphy experience had written the note. Security experts had shared their sage advice and dire warnings.

  The bottom line was that she wanted the package. She was going to be standing in the meadow next to the abandoned Buddhist monastery on the border of Kazakhstan and Xingjian province, China, on October 15.

  She’d gathered her team and flown to the other side of the world. She’d tapped her little brother to come with her. He was an expert in martial arts, and a decent shot, but more than anything, he knew her well. He would watch her back and keep her ego in check. She’d left the rest of her team at a resort on the Caspian Sea. She and her brother had set out across Kazakhstan in a small rental car. As if she could see the satellite monitoring her progress, she looked up into the night sky. At this altitude, the sky was ablaze with pinpoints of light.

  Her horse turned into a protected valley and continued to climb. In the distance, she saw the crumbling ruins of a Buddhist temple. The temple had once served as a destination for wealthy travelers of the Northern-most portion of the Silk Road. Protected by the high cliffs and deep valleys of the Dzungarian Alatau mountain range, the temple had withstood conquering invaders, cultural change, and religious intolerance, only to fall to ruins during the famine brought by Mao’s Great Leap Forward. The last surviving monk had walked the Silk Road to deposit the temple’s most precious artifacts into one of the sacred Buddhist caves of Mogao.

  Her martial arts teacher, and the head of a US Army covert black ops group, Steve Pershing, had told her that the monk was buried in the cave along with his treasures. She had no idea if that was true.

  The horse made a quick stop at the edge of a rocky outcropping, and she hopped off. She raised her micro-compound bow to cover her brother. He tossed his heavy backpack on the ground and jumped off his horse. Six foot five inches and solid, he slung the backpack on his back, and copied h
er gesture. Jesse waved them forward.

  With their bows raised and ready, they hiked through the delicate tundra of the alpine meadow. They occasionally stopped and turned back to back to scan the pine-covered, ragged mountains rising on either side of the meadow for any sign of danger. They had almost reached the ruins when she was jumped by a man dressed in black. He kicked the micro-compound bow from her hands and knocked her to the ground. Before Colin could help, he was attacked by two assailants.

  She jumped to her feet. The man threw a classic Sanshou punch. She reacted with a swift roundhouse kick, which he blocked with a front kick. She threw a straight punch to his face, which he avoided. When he lifted his knee, the clouds shifted to reveal more of his face. His blue-hazel eyes flashed, and she recognized him. She, her identical twin brother, and her younger brother had trained in the Chinese military martial art of Sanshou under the instruction of a visiting martial arts delegation. Steve had arranged the training and insisted they become not good, but great at Sanshou.

  She’d never liked it. She preferred the power of kickboxing, the deadly precision of Krav Maga, and the subtleties of jujitsu. This Chinese man with the blue eyes had been her sparring partner. About her age and size, he relished the opportunity to prove that his Chinese martial art was better than anything she had to offer.

  She would never be able to beat this opponent using Sanshou, a fact he made clear when his foot bashed into her cheekbone. She fell to the alpine turf. When he did not follow her to the ground, she knew he wasn’t there to kill her.

  Why was he here?

  She sprung to her feet and fought hard. All grown up, her old sparring partner was fast, strong, and probably the best fighter she’d ever faced. He launched more punishing blows than she was able to defend. She slipped her foot between his feet and pulled back on his calf. The moment she had control of his balance, she pulled him toward her. His face met her elbow. She heard his nose break with a satisfying pop. He responded by grabbing her shoulder, and they tumbled to the ground.

  They rolled together. Exchanging blows when they could, they tumbled down the alpine meadow. He hit the ancient temple’s surrounding wall with a bruising thud. She managed to shift out from under his unconscious body.

  She heard a scraping sound. Something moved above her.

  “That’s it!” Jesse yelled.

  She jumped to her feet and looked where he pointed. A small package moved from behind the wall to the front. The size of a deck of cards, the package was wrapped in brown paper. She knew in her very soul that this had belonged to the Fey Special Forces Team. When she reached up to get the package, she heard the distinctive two-note call of a shikra. The small bird of prey rose off the temple roof and flew close overhead. She shoved the package deep into her pocket. The bird snatched an unseen mouse from the meadow in front of her and carried it away. When she looked down, the man she’d been fighting was alert.

  “Did you get it, lao-wei?” he whispered in Mandarin.

  She gave a curt nod.

  The shikra flew so near that she felt her short hair ruffle in its wake. She looked up. Noting the leather tether on the bird’s leg, she glanced back at the man.

  He was gone.

  “Alex!” her younger brother yelled. “Alex!”

  “Colin! Over here!” she yelled.

  He jogged down the meadow to her. For a moment, their military training evaporated, and he was just her little brother. They held each other tight before remembering where they were and what they were doing. She stepped back.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Bruised,” she said. “Battered.”

  “Me too,” he said. “They were . . .”

  “Good,” she said. “Best I’ve ever fought.”

  “They just bowed and stepped back into the . . . ,” he gestured to the dark around them. “Disappeared.”

  She nodded.

  “You remember when we . . .”

  “Yes,” she cut him off quickly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He ran to get his backpack. Together, they climbed down the open alpine meadow to their horses. They took a slower, more careful journey back to the farm and drove the jeep back to the border, crossing at a second check point with their alternate passports. They were back at the resort on the Caspian Sea before she dared dig the package out of her pocket.

  She nodded to her operations assistant, Major Joseph Walters, and he followed her to her room.

  “Is this it?” she asked him.

  The only other remaining member of the Fey Special Forces Team, Major Joseph Walters, took the package from her. He looked at it, turned it over, and nodded. She sat down at the table and flicked open her knife. As if she was a surgeon, and the package her patient, she worked with great care. Using her knife, she sliced open the packing tape and leaned back.

  Nothing happened.

  She lifted an edge of the paper with her Leatherman Freestyle knife.

  Nothing happened.

  She pulled off the outer layer of brown paper.

  “That’s Tommy’s handwriting,” she held up the package for Joseph to see. He nodded. Feeling more confident, she unwrapped another layer of paper. She held up the package.

  “Mike’s handwriting,” Joseph said.

  She nodded and went back to work. Another layer revealed Scott’s writing. She pulled off the final wrapping to find a small cardboard box with Dwight’s writing on it. She looked up at Joseph and he nodded. Using her knife, she sliced through the tape.

  She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She hoped this object would help her unravel the mystery of her life: the reason ten soldiers, her friends and team, were murdered under the streets of Paris. If it didn’t solve the mystery, she bargained, may it take her one step closer to knowing why an AK-47 had destroyed her body, her life, her team. If not one step closer . . .

  “Just open it,” Joseph’s voice broke into her silent pleading prayer.

  She opened the box. She made one last begging prayer and opened her eyes.

  “What the hell?” she asked.

  Inside the small box lay a gold honeybee about the size of small potato. The body had been darkened by a patina technique. The delicate wings were made of bright gold, while the bee’s bands were made of small rose cut diamonds. She picked it up and turned it over. A gold pin spanned the bee from head to tail. The art deco bee brooch was heavy and old.

  “What is that?” Joseph asked.

  “Hell if I know,” she said. “Why . . . ?”

  “We’ve been over this,” Joseph turned his back to her and looked out the window at the Caspian Sea. He took a breath and repeated what he said every time she asked why they had done this. “We took the jobs because we did. We kept it a secret because we knew it was stupid. When we tried to get out of it, we couldn’t. Finally, Dwight picked up that package and . . .”

  “This package,” she said. “You’re sure.”

  “I’m sure,” Joseph nodded. “Aren’t you?”

  “I feel it in my bones,” she said.

  “Jesse?” Joseph asked.

  “He agrees,” she said. “Did Dwight open it?”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” Joseph said. “And I didn’t think so.”

  “So why . . . ?”

  “He thought it was evil,” Joseph said.

  “By touching the package?” she asked.

  “That’s how he was.”

  “Yes, he was like that,” she said. “Do you think everyone was killed for . . . ?”

  She held up the gold bee.

  “Hard to imagine,” Joseph said. “You’ll check it out?”

  “I will,” she said. “Quietly. Off channels.”

  “You’ll let me know?” Joseph asked.

  Lieutenant Colonel Alexandra Hargreaves nodded. In the morning, the Fey Team began the long journey home.

  F

  CHAPTER ONE

  Three weeks later

  Friday, early morning
>
  November 5 – 3:23 a.m. MDT

  Denver, Colorado

  Alex felt the weight of the comforter across the front of her naked body. She was in bed, her bed. She didn’t have to open her eyes to know that her husband, John Kelly Drayson’s arm was resting across her body. Her nose picked up the distinct musty odor of rain dropping on fall leaves. She heard the “tat, tat, tat” of cold rain on the roof shift to the patter of heavy wet snow. She nestled down in the warm bed.

  The alarm hadn’t gone off, so it wasn’t four in the morning yet. She could sense the dark still of the house. No one stirred. No one was awake. Her husband’s brother, the earliest riser in the house, had left for work a few hours ago.

  She lay in the warm, safe silence, not asleep, not quite awake, under the patter of the season’s first snow.

  Without warning, she heard the distinctive sound of a needle scratching across a vinyl record, and in the distance a mechanical voice said “Awaken.” Like a train moving in her direction, the sound of the repeated word “Awaken” grew closer. Soon the voice spoke over itself. “Awaken.” The sound rose into a loud cacophony repeating the same word, “Awaken.”

  Like the deep rumble before an earthquake, she felt more than heard a deeper tone moving under the noise. Infrasound. Her father had taught her to feel this inaudible sound in her jaw bone. Infrasound moved under the cacophony of “Awaken.”

  She opened her eyes.

  The voices stopped. The vibration in her jaw stopped.

  She saw the dark. She felt the silence. She smelled the wet leaves. She heard the snow.

  Alex must have shifted because John’s large hand grabbed her right shoulder. He’d just started doing this. When she’d asked him about it, he’d shaken his head and changed the subject. Yet every morning for the last year or so, when she shifted away from him, he grabbed on to her shoulder for dear life. With her eyes open, she listened to the snow for a while. Maggie, her English springer spaniel, jumped onto the bed and lay down next to her. She stroked the dog’s ears.