The Protector Page 6

“ERT might come up with something,” Ringo offered.

  The Emergency Response Team was analyzing what was left of the bomb.

  “Why don’t we ask our asset if he recognizes any of our suspects,” Jackson suggested.

  Caine glared at him. “Of course we’re going to ask him.” He started printing off the picture of the unidentified youth. “You two make yourselves useful,” he said, thrusting the photo at Ringo. “Go canvas the neighborhood and be quick about it. Then we’ll go after our client.”

  On his way to the exit, Jackson stopped and backtracked. “Did you say our client, sir?”

  “That’s what I said, Rookie.” Caine sounded smug.

  “How are we supposed to find her?” Jackson had assumed—and been glad about it—that Eryn McClellan was as good as gone.

  Caine sent him a small, superior smile. “I’m tracking her,” he admitted.

  Ringo had also circled back. “How?” he demanded.

  “Bought the dog a special collar last week. Looks just like the old one but it has a SIM card which gives us the dog’s global positioning. You can buy them at any pet store.” Turning to his open laptop, Caine tapped a key and displayed a map with a neon dot blinking at its center. “They’re 125 miles southwest of here, outside of a town called Elkton.”

  Jackson looked from the neon dot to Caine’s satisfied smirk and arrived at a startling conclusion. “You knew her father would come for her.”

  “Suspected,” Caine corrected. “What I knew was if he came for his daughter, he’d also take the dog.”

  “Yes, but why would we want to take her back?” It didn’t make sense to Jackson.

  Caine flushed with anger. “We’re the Counterterrorism Division, Maddox,” he said through clenched teeth. “If we’re going to find the terrorists, we need to find the girl.”

  Not necessarily, but he wasn’t going to argue with his boss. “We can’t force her to return to us, sir,” he pointed out.

  “Who says we’re going to force her?” Caine glanced at the flashing light, his face pinched with disapproval. “I just want to know who this soldier is. If he looks legit, maybe I’ll forget that he destroyed federally owned property.”

  “He didn’t bomb the safe house,” Jackson insisted, thoroughly disillusioned. He had assumed when applying to the FBI that they operated with the integrity as the Marine Corp. Evidently not.

  “Prove it,” Caine shot back.

  Jackson sighed. McClellan’s elite soldier wouldn’t like the FBI hounding him. Nor would he appreciate being framed for something he hadn’t done. Having insight into the man’s lethal skills, Jackson liked even less the idea of pissing him off.

  **

  Eryn couldn’t sleep. She lay on a lumpy mattress, staring at grotesque shadows creeping across the attic’s sloped ceilings while replaying the day’s events in disbelief.

  If she hadn’t heeded her instincts and fled the safe house, she could be dead right now. They used me as bait! The realization filled her with fury. Had Jackson known? How could he have been so thoughtful and considerate and still have left her there to fend for herself?

  She wondered if her entire life would be like this, running from place to place in fear.

  Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could envisioned was the terror Itzak must have felt when the taxi driver caught up to him. Recalling his parting words to her, he must have known the man would come after him with a knife. And now, because of her, her student was dead, buried in a Muslim cemetery in the heart of the city. She’d wanted desperately to attend his funeral, but, of course, the FBI agents had convinced her it wasn’t safe.

  Eryn kicked off the covers. Heat from the woodstove was rising through the cracks in the floorboards, turning the attic into an oven. Damn Isaac Calhoun for dumping her pills into the toilet! She’d be sleeping like a baby if he hadn’t.

  Straining her ears, she listened for him, but all she could hear was Winston snoring next to her bed and firewood crackling in the woodstove downstairs. A creaking sound outside her window had her sitting up abruptly.

  What was that? Wind howled and the panes of the window rattled. The creaking came again. Her overwrought imagination spawned visions of terrorists skulking around the cabin, dousing it in lighter fluid. All it would take to end her life would be the strike of a match.

  Frightened by the direction of her thoughts, she leapt from the bed and squirmed into her jeans. Another gust of wind sent her flying down the stairs in fight or flight mode. As much as she resented Ike for taking away her only comfort, he was her protector.

  But he wasn’t there. A knock at his bedroom door resulted in silence. Her clammy skin sprouted goose bumps in the cooler air. “Ike?” When he didn’t answer, she slowly turned the doorknob. His bed, illumined by moonlight, lay empty and still neatly made.

  She whirled to face the empty cabin. Fear skated up her bare arms. Where was he? Crossing to the window, she went to peek outside. In that same instant, a silhouette loomed against the glass, snuffing out the moon glow.

  With a muffled scream, Eryn jumped back.

  The boards on the porch creaked. Then the door groaned open, admitting a breath of cold air. Eryn ducked behind the recliner, not altogether certain who she was hiding from. Winston came barreling down the stairs to defend her, and Ike’s “Easy boy,” had her melting into a boneless puddle on the floor. It was just Ike.

  The light came on. A pair of running shoes walked into her line of sight. She craned her neck to find him frowning down at her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “N-nothing,” she said, coming unsteadily to her feet. “I didn’t know that was you outside.”

  His gaze skimmed over her camisole, reminding her that she’d discarded her bra so she could sleep more comfortably.

  “What do you need?”

  “I can’t sleep,” she said, folding her arms against his all-seeing gaze. “You shouldn’t have thrown away my pills.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing I can do now.”

  Heartless man. You could reassure me. “What time is it?” she asked.

  He glanced at his watch. “Zero hundred hours.”

  Midnight. “And you haven’t even gone to bed yet?”

  He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Don’t sleep much,” he admitted.

  “Then you can’t sleep either.” Maybe they could play a board game or something.

  But the way his eyes touched on her bare arms told her he was thinking of something else. Her body prickled with sudden awareness and not a little caution.

  “Does anyone know I’m here besides my father?” she asked, bringing up the Commander intentionally. Ike’s allegiance to her father would keep him from doing anything inappropriate.

  “Just Cougar.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Former teammate. You were supposed to go with him,” Ike added, with resentment that cast light on what had put him in such a foul mood earlier. “But he never showed up. His wife is sick. She’s dying.”

  “Cancer?” she guessed, with a twinge of compassion for the faceless Cougar.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  She thought she detected some compassion in the single syllable. “But, I’m safe here, too, right?” she added, still craving reassurance.

  His gaze dropped to the strip of bare flesh above her low-rise jeans. “Go back to bed,” he said, in lieu of an affirmative.

  The inference that her virtue might be at risk made her pulse quicken. Did he honestly find her alluring? He sure had an odd way of showing it.

  “You mentioned books I could read?” she said, taking her chances.

  He swiveled wordlessly toward his bedroom. Returning with a handful of books, he dumped them on the coffee table.

  Her stomach rumbled. “And I don’t suppose there’s something I could eat?”

  His gaze jumped at her so predatorily that Eryn caught her breath. Perhaps it was reckless of her to push him, but she was more intrigued than frighten
ed by his body language.

  Turning toward the kitchen, he grubbed inside a cupboard, coming away with a foil-wrapped nutrition bar which he thrust at her en route to the door. “Go back to bed,” he repeated, exiting swiftly.

  A puff of cold air left her shivering and alone. Just as I thought, she considered with a rueful smile. He wouldn’t dare lay a hand on General McClellan’s daughter.

  Bending over the pile of books, she refused to admit to a tiny pang of disappointment.

  A vision of Eryn’s ripe breasts, so clearly outlined beneath her strappy little top burned the backs of Ike’s eyeballs. Their generous shape, the shadow of her hardened nipples, abraded his nerves like the rasp of a cat’s tongue.

  Christ, it wasn’t like she needed to be any easier on the eyes.

  Stalking to where his driveway began its descent, Ike gnawed on the hankering inside of him, then pushed it ruthlessly aside. Wanting more than what he already had was dangerous. It upset the delicate balance he had struck for himself, here in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  Up here on Overlook, nothing ever happened to disturb the peace. Nothing but his dreams forced him to recall the past. In the present time, his only preoccupation was survival, which he excelled at, which was why he taught that skill to others. In his solitude, he could almost convince himself that the enemy no longer existed. After all, Osama Bin Laden was dead. A significant dent had been put into The War on Terror.

  Only, Eryn’s circumstances indicated otherwise, reawakening the disturbing feeling that the enemy was still out there, multiplying.

  Tonight he needed the tranquility of the Blue Ridge to settle his perturbation. Drawing a deep breath, he centered his awareness then expanded it outward into the chilly night, seeking unexpected disturbances.

  The gurgle of Naked Creek, the whisper of the wind, the scent of granite and mountain laurel soothed his disquiet, as they always did. But the faint rumbling of a large gas engine, idling near the base of his mountain, roused it again.

  Ike stiffened, concentrating all his energy on identifying the potential threat.

  **

  “He’s got her up there,” Brad Caine determined, glancing from his tracking program to the mountain looming over them.

  In the reversed cones of the RV’s headlights, brick pillars bookended a gravel driveway which snaked precipitously though the dark trees. Amidst a web of semi-naked branches, a distant light twinkled near the pinnacle of the mountain. Resentment vied with curiosity as Brad pondered who General McClellan felt was better suited than the FBI to protect his daughter.

  Hearing Maddox’s phone call come to a close, he craned his neck to look back at him. “Well?” he prompted.

  “Sheriff’s Office says they have no idea who lives up there.” The rookie’s light-colored eyes cut through the darkness, seeming to mock him.

  More like they’re just too fucking lazy to look it up, Brad thought.

  “They said their records aren’t digital. But if we show up at Town Hall tomorrow, they’ll search their files. Office opens at o’eight hundred.”

  Brad sat back more heavily in the captain’s chair beside the driver’s seat. Luring the terrorists to the safe house had produced neither the quantity nor the quality of the leads he’d expected. Didn’t it just figure he’d run into more dead ends while chasing down their client?

  “I don’t even think our car could get up that hill,” Ringo chimed in. Their green sedan was trailered to the RV to make local driving more convenient. “Are we sure Eryn’s safe with this guy?”

  “She’s safe,” said the rookie with confidence that set Brad’s teeth on edge. “The soldier works for her father; he’s not going to hurt her.”

  “Shut up, Maddox.” Brad couldn’t take anymore wisdom from a man who’d been a special agent for all of three months. He thought he had it all figured out, but he knew nothing about the internal politics of the FBI: what it took to get promoted, to be named a special agent in charge. Brad had been fighting for a SAC slot for eleven long years.

  “Yes, sir,” the rookie said, his words respectful, his tone insubordinate.

  Ringo flicked a nervous glance between them. “Where to from here?” he asked.

  The Mobile Command Center had cushions to sleep on but the mattresses were as hard as rocks, and Brad had lower back issues. “Let’s go to that motel we passed on 33,” he said.

  “Elkton Motel,” the rookie supplied, his memory annoyingly accurate. It was bright, young men like him who made it hard for the older guys to get the positions of authority that they deserved.

  Ringo backed carefully onto Naked Creek Road and pointed their RV back toward civilization. Hah, Brad thought. Civilized wasn’t the word to describe a county whose records were still kept in file cabinets.

  **

  Four minutes and ten seconds was exactly how long the unidentified vehicle idled at the base of his mountain.

  It was possibly a delivery truck, Ike told himself, the kind that brought fresh ingredients to breakfast joints opening at the crack of dawn. Only how could anyone get that lost heading into Elkton?

  As the gears grated and the accelerating engine faded, he eyed his watch, waiting. His advanced security system combined Doppler technology with a passive infrared sensor that did a fair job of distinguishing between human and natural intrusion. If anyone had dismounted from the vehicle to hoof it up his mountain, he would be alerted. Digital images would be forwarded wirelessly from strategically positioned cameras to his laptop. But there was no intrusion; no reason for his heart to beat so unevenly.

  Damn Stanley for reminding him of the war he’d walked away from! The Blue Ridge Mountains were as different as the ragged peaks of South Eastern Afghanistan as day was from night, and that was how Ike preferred it. He’d deliberately kept the radio off, refused to buy a television, and avoided surfing the Internet for news. But whenever he went to town, the headlines jumped off the magazines and papers, letting him know that the war raged on without him. Plus it had taken on a new expression of homegrown terrorism.

  The golden sense of security Americans enjoyed within their borders would be shattered if these new terrorists weren’t stopped.

  But that wasn’t his problem. Some other sniper could thin the ranks of Taliban and al Qaeda and do a better job of it. Homeland Security and the FBI could deal with the homegrown threat. They didn’t need him to win this war.

  Oh, really? Then why is Eryn running for her life?

  He pushed his cold hands into his pockets, determined not to think about it.

  **

  “Our asset doesn’t recognize the kid from the UPS store,” Brad announced, his voice disembodied in the dark motel room.

  A minute ago, his cell phone had awakened him and Ringo—but not Jackson, who’d just returned from a morning run. Fourteen years in the Marine Corps had conditioned the jarhead to roll out of bed before dawn and run five miles.

  That’s because the kid’s not a terrorist, Jackson wanted to say, only why get on Caine’s bad side first thing in the morning?

  “What about the guy pretending to be Pedro?” Ringo asked, stifling a yawn. “Did the asset recognize him?”

  “Couldn’t see enough of his face,” said Caine, who’d begun to sound perpetually pissed off.

  “Pedro hasn’t shown up yet?” Jackson already knew the answer; he just wanted to make a point in a roundabout way.

  “Not yet.” Caine swung his feet out of the bed he’d claimed for himself, forcing his subordinates to share. He reached for his laptop to consult the tracking program. “Our client’s still on the mountain.”

  “What time is it?” Ringo asked.

  “Seven thirty,” said Caine. “If Town Hall opens at eight we’d better get moving.”

  For whatever good it would do them. Jackson didn’t comprehend Caine’s need to identify McClellan’s soldier. If the man was as highly skilled as Jackson suspected, they weren’t ever going to get her back. She was as good as lost to th
em. And he hated to say it, but that was probably the best thing for her.

  **

  “There’s no hot water.”

  Hearing a quaver in Eryn’s voice, Ike turned from the window to realize she wasn’t showering before their trip to town, after all. Her hair fell in a riotous, unruly mass that had defied her attempt to tame it with the comb in her purse. Her bloodshot eyes were rimmed by dark circles, and her eyes were watering.

  Stressing or detoxing? he wondered. She looked like she was barely holding it together. Empathy, unwanted and inexplicable, caught him off-guard.