The Enforcer Read online

  “Good-day, Cap’n.” He tossed off a sharp salute. “XO.” He saluted again. Then gesturing for Milly to heel, he swiveled smartly on his boots and stalked off, all the while praying he would hear Dylan call him back.

  She’ll change her mind, he assured himself. She just needed to think about what his shirt said.

  Dylan watched Tobias Burke saunter past the railing with a swagger that conveyed undiminished confidence in the wake of her rejection. His crooked half-smile could not disguise the dangerous aura he exuded as a result of his military training. The U.S. Army Rangers had conditioned him to hold his head high, his shoulders back. Her trainees would follow a man like Burke to the ends of the earth.

  “You sure you should’ve let him go?” Terrence Ashby echoed her churning thoughts on a note of disapproval.

  She drew her lower lip between her teeth. “I can’t get a read on him,” she said in defense of her decision.

  That was true enough, but that wasn’t what had made her chase him off. It was the ease with which he’d brought back the disturbing images of severed body parts. Thank God she’d never had to match up the scattered pieces of a child.

  “I think we could’ve used him,” Terrence persisted. “I won’t be around forever, you know.”

  His words plucked at her heartstrings even as they wrested her attention to his rigid countenance. “Don’t say that,” she pleaded.

  “You know it’s true. Who’s going to take my place?”

  She swallowed hard at the wrenching reminder that she would soon lose her dearest and only friend. Tearing one of her hushpuppies in half, she stuffed the morsel in her mouth and chewed it without tasting. Terrence was right, of course, but… “I don’t know. I don’t trust him,” she said. The memory of the FBI’s suspicions made her extra cautious.

  Or maybe it was just herself she didn’t trust.

  Tobias Burke hadn’t been at all what she’d expected. It was true he’d evoked disturbing memories of the war, but apart from that, he’d made her feel unsettled, tumultuous--even excited. Thank God for his dog or she would have stammered like a schoolgirl under his dancing, ocean-blue gaze. And those hands—they were exquisite, strong yet sensitive. Combined with his sexy smile, his presence had kept her enthralled and therefore fully in the present, until he’d agitated her PTSD by bringing up that story about the poor child blowing up.

  It was easier just to send him away than it was to examine her reaction to him.

  Terrence’s chair groaned as he leaned back and folded his arms in palpable disagreement. No words were needed to make Dylan regret her quick decision.

  Her right temple throbbed. She closed her eyes and rubbed it absently. She had always trusted Terrence’s intuition, especially in times like this, when her own mind was so confused and unreliable. Besides, given her XO’s diagnosis of incurable, stage-four leukemia, time was running out on her most trusted friend, and she could use a soldier with Burke’s expertise and obvious physical prowess to take his place. So what if he was as emotionally unstable as she was? She had PTSD, herself, and still managed to function as a physician and a well regarded leader. And despite what she’d told him, her militia was filled with less-than-stable individuals.

  “Let’s go find him,” she decided.

  They both left money on the table, enough to cover the bill and the tip. Departing the pub, they climbed into Dylan’s old Chevy Suburban, which was parked across the street. Because of his prosthetic leg, Ashby let her drive. Neither of them spoke as Dylan pulled a U-turn, guiding the gas-guzzler through Lower Town where the Potomac and Shenandoah rivers converged under a high bridge.

  Tobias Burke wasn’t lingering around the Swiss Miss ice cream shop or the Coffee Mill, or even at the park down by the water. Dylan turned up High Street, throwing the gear shift into a lower gear to fight the steep grade as she drove back up the mountain.

  And then she spied him sitting on the stone wall adjacent to the road, and her pulse ticked upward. He sat with one foot up on the wall, the other dangling by his dog, looking like he was waiting for her. Had he been?

  Dismissing the absurd thought, she eased up on the gas and slowed to a stop, lowering her window. His widening smile gave rise to an unmistakable warmth spreading through her body.

  “You’ll have to cut your hair immediately,” she announced, employing her sternest voice to combat his weakening effect on her. “And shave that scruff off your face.”

  “Not a problem.” He leapt nimbly off the wall.

  “And you will address me as ma’am or Captain Connelly,” she informed him, elevating her position to maintain her distance.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He picked up his bag and grinned at her.

  She had the feeling she was being mocked but let it slide. “Well, get in the car, then, unless you have somewhere else to stay.”

  Without another word, he crossed to the SUV, opened the rear passenger door for his dog and climbed in after her, sitting right behind Dylan.

  As she gunned the engine to get them moving again, she glanced in the rearview and caught him looking pleased with himself.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, Mr. Burke,” she warned him, tightening her grip on the wheel. “I’m taking you in on a trial basis, only. If you prove unstable or unbeneficial to the militia in any way, I’ll have to let you go. Am I clear about that?”

  “Crystal, ma’am,” he replied.

  She re-fixed her attention on the road, wondering what it was about him that made her body thrum with awareness. He had better not be more trouble than his T-shirt suggested with its provocative message, NICE BOYS DON’T CHANGE HISTORY.

  Chapter Two

  Ten minutes outside of town, Captain Connelly swung her SUV off the country road onto a gravel driveway. It was here where she trained her militia, on what used to be a family-run apple orchard. Toby drew an appreciative breath. High-altitude photos from the ATF’s drones didn’t do the property justice. The thirty-acres of rolling fields lined with apple trees and framed by thickets of ash, sumac, birch, and sweet gum could have graced the cover of Country Living Magazine.

  Rocks pinged the underside of the Suburban as it barreled up the long driveway. Through the burnished leaves of century-old trees, sunlight glanced off a shiny metal roof of what the Taskforce had surmised was a nineteenth century farmhouse. The roof was clearly new. The paint on the home’s exterior had been scraped right down to the original clapboard siding in anticipation of a fresh coat. Not a single weed grew around the broad front porch supported by brick pillars. Lush hedges gave way to freshly raked grass.

  A sleek cat lounged on one of the porch’s rockers, prompting Milly to quiver on the seat next to him, but Toby’s eyes were on the humans. One man stood at the height of a ladder, his girth blocking the rungs as he made his descent. Another straightened out of a chair and folded his arms across his chest. A third man, who was missing his right arm, rounded the corner of the house from the rear. A silhouette appeared behind the screen door. How many more were there?

  Dylan braked in the yard and killed the engine. Lt. Ashby pushed out of the SUV to open her door, but Dylan beat him to it. As the three men in the yard pulled themselves into smart salutes, Toby eased out of his seat, leaving Milly in the car for the moment.

  “At ease, gentlemen.” The captain’s voice conveyed mild frustration with their formality. Their not-so-friendly gazes fastened on Toby as she turned to introduce him. “I’ve brought us a senior operations sergeant,” she announced. “Everyone, this is Tobias Burke, former Army Ranger.”

  Toby took note of the rank and title she’d conferred on him—senior operations sergeant. Perfect.

  “You can let Milly out,” she added, seeing the dog still in the car. “Milly is Burke’s service dog,” she added, “so don’t coddle her.”

  The black Lab leapt from the car and padded up to the strangers wagging her tail.

  “Sergeant Burke, this is Ivan Ackerman,” Dylan said, leading Toby toward t
he whipcord thin, greasy-haired man sneering at him. “Ivan is our supply NCO.”

  Toby and Ivan exchanged curt nods.

  “Next we have Sergeant Gil Morrison, former Marine Corps artillery expert. He’s our weapons NCO.”

  Morrison stepped toward Toby, and a grin split his broad face as they shook hands. “I like to blow shit up,” he divulged under his breath.

  Okay, then.

  “And this is Chet Lee, our communications NCO.” The man whose right hand was missing proved to be of Asian descent. He offered Toby his left hand, instead.

  “First or second battalion?” Lee asked, pinning him with a hard look.

  “Seventy-fifth, actually,” Toby admitted. “I drew an assignment with USASOC.”

  A grin supplanted Lee’s glare. “Army Special Ops. Nice!”

  As they pumped hands, Toby took another look around. Is this it? Were there just three non-commissioned officers, plus the captain and her XO? he wondered.

  “Chet’s wife cooks and cleans for us,” Dylan stated as if reading his mind. He glanced toward the screen door, and the shadow disappeared. “I trust you’ll fit right in,” she added confidently.

  “I’m not sharing my room,” Ackerman tossed out, belying her words.

  “You can sleep in the barn, then, Sergeant,” Lt. Ashby thundered, “if that’s your attitude.”

  “I don’t need a room,” Toby said to ease the tension.

  Dylan sent him a quick frown. “Don’t be ridiculous. But the bedrooms are all taken, so you’ll have to sleep in the attic for now. I’m afraid it gets chilly up there.”

  “Attic’s great.” In fact, it suited his purposes perfectly.

  “Sergeant Ackerman.” She addressed the rebellious entity firmly. “Kindly fetch a bedroll for Sergeant Burke from Supply.”

  Ackerman made a sour face before stalking toward the shed, and Toby swallowed a chuckle. It amused him how seriously the men all took their roles. The so-called “Supply” was probably just some musty corner of the barn where Ackerman was headed. He wondered what else was stockpiled in there.

  “Follow me,” Dylan requested, leaving him no time to speculate.

  Removing Milly’s leash, he followed Dylan to the door.

  Watching the dog make a beeline for the snoozing cat, Dylan said, “She’s not going to run away, is she?”

  “No, ma’am. As long as I’ve got treats, she’ll stick close.” He patted his breast pocket.

  “I see.” Pulling the screen door open, she led him into her sanctum. A cool hush and the scent of cinnamon followed him down the hall, past a formal living room and dining room, both clearly unchanged from her parents’ era, to a post-and-beam great room that took up the entire rear portion of the house. A kitchen with a stone chimney and eating area filled the space on one side and a gathering place-turned-command center occupied the rest.

  Several maps with push-pins used for demarcation hung on the walls, and an easel stood with hand-written notes on it—but there were no computers of any kind in sight. Like al-Qaeda, Dylan’s militia operated low-tech, with no online presence to speak of, making it impossible for NSA to keep tabs on her remotely. As far as they knew, she didn’t even own a cell phone—probably true since she’d demanded that Toby surrender his own on the way here.

  He’d lied, of course, and said he didn’t have one.

  “This is where we spend our time when we’re not working or training,” she said, observing his reaction.

  The clanking of pots drew his attention to the Asian woman in the kitchen who was scrubbing dishes.

  “This is June, Chet’s wife. She and Chet live in the guest house.” She gestured to a building in the back that might have once been an outdoor kitchen. “You’ll appreciate her culinary talents soon enough.”

  June shot him a shy smile, which he answered with a wink that made her turn quickly back to the dishes.

  Captain Connelly’s lips pursed at the overly-familiar gesture. “Follow me,” she commanded, retracing her footsteps and heading for the stairs.

  As she ascended ahead of him, her loose-fitting cargo pants pulled taut around her thighs, outlining a well-toned backside. She’s a suspect, not a woman, he reminded himself. But he couldn’t keep his hormones from kicking in like heat-seeking missiles hot on her trail.

  “There are four bedrooms on this floor,” she said, pausing at the height of the steps to look back at him. “Three men share a common bathroom.” She showed him the door, laying a hand on the schedule posted on the wall beside it. “Each man gets ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night to himself. You can go before or after.”

  Toby glimpsed outdated fixtures and a warped countertop beyond the cracked door.

  “Did you grow up here?” Getting to know her better was the name of the game, though he already knew the answer.

  “I did.” Her tone did not invite more questions.

  He tried anyway. “You got any brothers and sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Big old house for a family of three.”

  Ignoring his comment, she headed toward the end of the hall. Through a partially opened door, Toby caught sight of what had to be the master’s suite. Dark walnut furniture and a pair of petite combat boots told him she had taken over her parents’ bedroom. She opened the door next to it, revealing a steep set of stairs leading to the attic.

  A low ceiling forced him to stoop as he joined her under the eaves. The exposed brick of the house’s two chimneys stood at either end of the long, cool space, both flanked by casement windows that admitted just enough light for him to see that the attic was cluttered with boxes, old furniture, even a used guitar.

  “You can sleep in this space over here.” Dylan picked up a box and moved it out of the way. “You’ll probably want to sweep before you lay your bedroll—squirrels and all. I’ll have one of the men bring up a broom.”

  “Little dust never hurt anyone,” he assured her, hoping the squirrel comment proved to be a joke.

  She wiped her hands on her thighs. “It’s not exactly insulated from the cold, but the heat rises through the floorboards, so I don’t think you’ll freeze.”

  “No ma’am. Compared to the Hindu Kush in winter, this is downright cozy.”

  Her expression froze at the reference to the mountains in Afghanistan.

  Her job in the Army—to collect bodies from the battlefields, ID them, and send them home in flag-draped boxes—was among the most gruesome in the military. He wondered why, given her anti-government sentiment, she’d even joined the Army, let alone agreed to perform such difficult work. Mortuary Affairs personnel suffered a higher rate of PTSD than any other specialty in the military. Pity pricked him briefly.

  “Ackerman ought to be up with your bedroll soon,” she said, oblivious to the questions running through his mind. “Take your time and settle in. We have a briefing every weekday in the command room precisely at seventeen hundred hours. Since today’s a holiday—Columbus Day—” she added, in case he didn’t know, “we’re holding our meeting an hour earlier.”

  He almost rolled his eyes at her unrelenting military-speak. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’ll inform you of our policies and regulations then,” she added, heading for the stairs. Halfway down, she stopped to add over her shoulder, “Oh, and don’t let Sergeant Ackerman get your goat, Burke. It’s not you he’s angry at.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Was she a military leader or a camp counselor?

  The door at the bottom of the stairs clicked shut. Ackerman would arrive with the bedroll soon, but the bastard probably wouldn’t knock. Toby tossed his duffel bag in the cleared corner and shrugged out of his jacket. Retrieving the tiny cell phone hidden in the lining, he sent his Taskforce lead a quick numerical text—2990—signifying that he was in. Then he stowed his phone back in the special pocket in his jacket before shoving his jacket deep inside his duffel bag.

  He then prowled around the attic. The space was packed with relic
s of Dylan Connelly’s childhood. He imagined he could learn a lot about her from searching through the boxes. Plus, he’d be sleeping right above her bedroom, close enough to keep tabs on her at night.

  He moved to the nearest window. This hawk’s eye view of the grounds suited his purposes perfectly.

  The squeaking doorknob alerted him to Ackerman’s approach. Boots thudded up the stairs. Toby turned in time to catch the sleeping bag and pillow lobbed at him, one right after the other.

  “That’s the last time I’ll be doing you any favors.” Ackerman glared up at Toby, clearly expecting some kind of reply as he backed down the steps slowly.

  “Love you, too, man,” Toby called. He couldn’t help himself.

  “Fuck you,” Ackerman snarled up at him.

  “Let’s hold off until the second date,” Toby suggested.

  “Funny guy.” Ackerman’s gaze dropped to the message on Toby’s T-shirt. “Real fuckin’ funny,” he added stomping off.

  What the hell’s his problem?

  Toby set up his bed under the window. He flicked his wrist to check the time. The meeting wouldn’t start for another hour. He had plenty of time to walk Milly and get a feel for the property.

  No one prevented him from leaving the house. With Milly at his side, they performed an initial reconnaissance. The house had been built in the 1880s but it was slowly being renovated. Just as he suspected, the outdoor building, once an old kitchen, had been converted to a guest cottage for Chet and June.

  Toby made a circuit of the apple orchard while heading for the large red barn designated as “Supply.” The broad double doors stood securely locked. He gestured for Milly to sniff at the crack, and it came as no surprise when she sat. This was where the FBI had found bomb-building components—pipe and copper wires, but no gunpowder, strangely enough.

  The barn also housed the arsenal used by her militia: dozens of M-16 rifles. Good thing she kept it securely locked.