Delta Force Defender

by Carol Ericson

  “No.” Martha crossed her arms, cupping her elbows. “He was half out of the bed, as if he’d tried to get up but didn’t make it.”

  “Did Casey have anything to say?”

  “Not much to me, but the cops were grilling her. They’d met for a drink at a quiet place. Bob wasn’t feeling great, and they decided to head back here.”

  “You’d never met him before? It didn’t seem like you had last night.”

  “No. I’m not saying she’s never brought him back to our place, but I usually make myself scarce when she brings guys home, so I’d never met him before.”

  Cam tugged on his earlobe. “I don’t understand why you think some congressman’s heart attack is related to you and the emails.”

  “Who says it’s a heart attack?” She jumped up from the sofa and twitched back the drapes at the sliding door, peeked out the window and yanked the drapes back together.

  “It could be something else. Poison. He didn’t feel well. Or there are drugs out there that mimic heart attacks. Nobody would know the difference and poof—” she tried snapping her fingers, failed miserably and flicked them in the air instead “—you’re gone.”

  Cam flattened the smile from his lips and drew his brows together to look concerned instead. He couldn’t help it. Even when he listened to Martha talking about murder, he found her irresistibly cute.

  “Wait, wait.” He held up his hands. “How does that impact you, unless the patriot plans to frame you for Wentworth’s so-called murder...and that’s a long shot. How exactly does Casey’s illicit affair with a politician affect you and your investigation of the emails?”

  “It brings everything back up. It tarnishes me and anything I might have to say about these emails. It’s a warning that he can get to me if he wants to.” She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “Yeah, okay. It shows he’s powerful, although this is a risky way to do that. But—” he frowned for real this time “—what do you mean by bringing everything back up? Finding the emails?”

  Her gaze darted to the TV, still humming in the background, and she took two steps toward the coffee table, picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV.

  The reporter mentioned Martha’s name, and Cam jerked his head toward the TV. A picture of a young Martha with thick glasses and braces stared back at him next to a picture of a gray-haired man, who looked vaguely familiar. He tuned into the reporter’s words.

  “In a bizarre twist to this story, the owner of the town house is none other than the daughter of convicted stock trader Steven ‘Skip’ Brockridge, who’s currently serving twenty-five years in federal prison for his role in a Ponzi scheme that bilked investors out of millions.”

  He twisted his head back toward Martha, her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. She raised one hand. “That’s me, Martha Brockridge, daughter of a convicted felon.”

  Cam swallowed. “That’s your father, not you. Obviously the CIA already knows about your background. A name change isn’t going to throw off the Agency.”

  “I never tried to throw them off. I was up front about my father. They knew. I think they even believed that my father’s criminal behavior had influenced me to follow the straight and narrow path, and they were right...until now.”

  Her voice broke at the end, and he jumped up from the chair and took her by the shoulders. He dug his fingers into her tight muscles. “This situation is completely different.”

  “Maybe, but do you think anyone’s going to believe me about the emails now? A convicted felon’s daughter?” She shook her head, and the ends of her hair tickled the backs of his hands.

  “I doubt the patriot went through all this trouble to discredit or warn you, and the CIA already knows about your father. It didn’t stop them from believing you the first time you turned over those emails.”

  “I don’t know what to think. It’s hard for me to believe there’s no connection between my online conversation with the patriot and the death of Congressman Wentworth.”

  He blew out a breath. “I don’t believe that, either. I don’t believe in coincidences, but I can’t wrap my mind around his motives.”

  “You think there might be another reason?”

  He smoothed his hands down her arms and released her, stepping back. “How long has Casey been living with you?”

  Martha blinked her long lashes. “About eight months.”

  “You received the emails four months ago, right?”

  “You’re not implying Casey is involved? That ditz?”

  “It could’ve all been an act. The people who sent you the emails needed someone on the inside, and it would’ve been too hard to get one of your coworkers to cooperate. How’d that virus get on your laptop? I’m sure the CIA must drill computer security measures into your head and you didn’t just click on some random link in an email. Who does that anymore?”

  Martha chewed on the edge of her thumb. “I thought maybe he’d used Dreadworm again to get to me.”

  “How’d you meet Casey?”

  “Through one of those roommate finders. She had the money up front—first, last and insisted on a larger security deposit than I’d asked for.” She smacked her knee. “I should’ve trusted my instincts. I thought she was a little too eager.”

  “Something else about her choice in boyfriends.” He straddled the desk chair again just to keep from touching Martha. It felt...manipulative to use her distress to get close to her. She didn’t need any more distractions in her life right now, and neither did he.

  “Congressman Wentworth?”

  “Remember I told you last night I knew him from the House Intelligence Committee? He must have a lot of information on Denver.”

  She lowered herself to the bed as if in slow motion. “So, this is a twofer for Casey. She moves in to keep an eye on me, and she dates Wentworth to keep an eye on him and Major Denver.”

  “It makes sense that a lot of that stuff about Denver came from an inside source.” Cam’s anger at the injustice of Denver’s situation burned in his gut. He crouched to grab the sodas from the fridge, cracked one open and took a long swig from the can. He held the other out to Martha, and she shook her head.

  Tucking one leg beneath her on the bed, she said, “We’re just guessing. How are we going to prove any of this?”

  “Let’s start with Casey. Where was she when you left?”

  “She was still with the police.”

  “She’d admitted to the affair?”

  “Of course. What other explanation could she give?”

  “It’s odd.” Cam smoothed a hand across his freshly shaved jaw. “Why risk such public exposure? If Wentworth had served his purpose and they wanted to get rid of him, and maybe scare you in the process, why do it so publicly? They could’ve killed him without dragging Casey into the picture.”

  “You’re asking me?” She jabbed a finger at her chest. “I still don’t even know what the patriot wants of me, and I hate calling him that since he’s clearly not one.”

  “I think he wants you to stop thinking about those emails for one thing and delete them. He wants you to drop your investigation.”

  “It’s hardly an investigation, but I’m not dropping anything. People can’t just get away with things.” She pointed to her laptop case propped up against the wall by the door. “I called a computer repair place, and the guy told me to bring the laptop in today.”

  “You know this tech guy?” Cam stood up and stretched.

  He didn’t know how much longer he could be cooped up with Martha in this small room, anyway. He always had these instant attractions to women, and those never ended well, although Martha wasn’t his usual type so maybe he’d learned a few lessons.

  Her gaze flicked over his body as he reached for the ceiling, and then she took off her glasses and wiped the lenses with a corner of the bedspread.
“He’s worked on my computer before. He’s good.”

  When she’d been checking him out, he’d had the crazy idea to flex and show off for her, but a woman like Martha would probably laugh at that. All the smart girls in school had him pegged as a meathead jock who couldn’t even read. So he’d gravitated toward the pretty cheerleaders who only cared if he could read their flirtatious signals. He’d gotten good at that.

  Coughing, he loped toward her laptop and hooked the case over his shoulder. “Have you checked your messages this morning for anything from the patriot?”

  “It’s one of the first things I did this morning after checking on Wentworth and calling 911—nothing.”

  He hunched the shoulder with the strap over it. “I’d find it hard to believe, but maybe this really is all a coincidence.”

  “You’re right. Too hard to believe.” She bounded off the bed. “My car’s valet parked. We’ll take that.”

  * * *

  MARTHA DROVE HER hybrid like she did everything else—carefully and precisely. Cam felt like he’d wandered into the middle of a drivers’ training video.

  When she’d lined up the car perfectly between the white lines of a parking space in a mini-mall, she cut the engine and glanced at his profile. “What?”

  “What, what?”

  “Why are you grinning like that?”

  “Nice parking job.”

  She huffed through her nose and swung open her car door.

  The computer tech in the store didn’t blink an eye when Martha walked up to the counter. He either hadn’t seen the news yet about Congressman Wentworth croaking in Martha’s town house, or he was trying to be polite.

  Martha plunked her laptop on the counter and spun it around to face the techie. “Hi, Marcel. I’ve been hacked, invaded, compromised, whatever you want to call it.”

  “Ooh, a Trojan?” Marcel flipped up the lid and widened his eyes when he saw the Post-its blocking the camera. “Dude got to your camera?”

  “Yes, he’s been watching me.” Martha wrinkled her nose. “So creepy.”

  “And pretty sophisticated.” Marcel stuck some tape over the camera lens and plucked off the Post-its. “Any idea who your stalker is?”

  “No. Just get rid of it.” Martha gripped the edge of the counter. “You can, can’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He nodded toward a computer in the corner humming through some diagnostics. “I’m working on that one, but I can get yours started. You can wait. There’s a pretty good Thai place two doors down.”

  “That sounds good. I’m starving.” Martha’s gaze darted to Cam’s face. “I mean, if you want to get something to eat while we wait.”

  “Absolutely.” Cam peeked out the window through the blinds. “It’s already getting dark. I had breakfast at the hotel but completely skipped lunch.”

  “I guess that’s settled.” She turned to Marcel, waving a slip of paper. “Do you need my password?”

  “Honestly, I can get past it, but I’ll do it on the up-and-up.” He took the paper from her between his two fingers and lifted the laptop from the counter to take it to a station in the back of the shop.

  Cam beat Martha to the door and opened it for her. “The restaurant is to the right. I noticed it when we drove into the parking lot. I already knew I was hungry.”

  She stuffed her hands into her pockets as she headed into the blustery wind, listing to the side.

  “Are you going to get swept off your feet?” Cam placed a hand on her arm.

  “No.” She dropped her eyes to his hand, and he released her.

  “For a minute there I thought you were going to take off with the wind.” He felt like he needed some kind of excuse for touching her again.

  When they entered the empty restaurant, the waitress on the phone behind the counter waved them into one of a dozen tables scattered around the room.

  “I guess we’re too late for lunch and too early for dinner.” Martha shed her coat and folded it onto a chair at a table by the window.

  Ten minutes later, they waited for their food while Martha blew on her hot tea and Cam tipped his beer into a glass. “That must’ve been rough on you when your father was arrested. You were a teenager?”

  “Yes. It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

  “Yeah, those awkward teen years, and then you have to deal with notoriety on top of it all.”

  Her eyes met his briefly and then seemed to search his face before moving in a slow inventory down his neck, chest, across his shoulders and down his arms.

  Her study of him felt like a caress, exploratory and featherlight.

  Then her brows snapped over her nose. “You had awkward teen years? Not likely.”

  He smiled and his jaw ached with the effort. “We all have our issues. What was your father’s crime? Securities fraud?”

  “Something like that.” She waved her hand. “It’s confusing, but it boiled down to cheating and scamming. He was always good at that.”

  “How long is he in for?”

  “He’s been in for ten, and he’s eligible for parole in about five more.”

  “Do you see him?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “He must’ve made good money—legitimately—at one time.”

  “He did quite well for a number of years. I did the whole private school thing, and when I started showing an aptitude for languages, he arranged for language schools and tutoring.”

  “He must’ve been proud of you.”

  “The feeling was not mutual.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. “What about you? Where are you from? How long have you been in the military?”

  “I enlisted when I was nineteen, after one year in college playing football.” He tapped his glass and watched the bubbles rise and try to break through the thick head of foam blocking their escape.

  One disastrous year when he couldn’t keep up academically, no matter how many tutors the coaches sent his way, and flunked out, losing his football scholarship. “Yeah, the military was a good fit, and it didn’t take long before Delta Force started looking my way.”

  “You must be something special. That’s an elite unit.”

  “It suits me.”

  The waitress interrupted them with several plates of steaming food, and as Martha removed her glasses, Cam raised his eyebrows.

  “The food is fogging up my lenses.”

  Martha looked cute in glasses, but without them her eyes mesmerized him as they seemed to shift in color and glow like a cat’s in the low light.

  The soft pink that crept into her cheeks gave him a jolt. He was staring at her like an idiot. She probably dated educated guys with multiple degrees and witty conversation.

  “Do you want some rice?” He held up the round container of sticky white rice. Real witty, Cam.

  For the rest of the meal, they danced around each other, sharing little bits of information about themselves. Cam took his cues from Martha, skimming across the surface of his life and allowing her to fill in the blanks.

  He tried to fill in her blanks, too, but she’d perfected the art of the dodge. Maybe she’d learned that from her old man, even though she seemed to reject everything he stood for.

  Her cell phone buzzed on the table beside her plate, and she flicked a grain of rice from its display before she tapped it. Her lips pursed as she read the text. “You’re not going to believe this.”

  Cam’s pulse jumped. “What? It’s not the patriot, is it?”

  “No, it’s Casey. She wants to meet me—away from the town house. She has a lot of nerve.”

  “You’re not meeting her alone.” Cam pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table. “She might be involved in Wentworth’s death up to her eyeballs.”

  “She says she wants to apologize and discuss moving out. She doesn’
t want to go back to the town house now that she’s been outed as Wentworth’s mistress.”

  “Where is she?”

  “At a hotel not far from yours.” Martha tapped her phone to reply to Casey’s text.

  “She wants to see you now?”

  “As soon as I can get over there.”

  Cam checked the time on his own phone. “Let’s pick up your computer before the shop closes, and then we’ll head over there—together.”

  “I told her to give me an hour.” She grabbed her glasses and put them on, peering at him through the lenses. “You’re serious? You’re coming with me?”

  “Like I said—” he reached for his wallet “—I don’t trust that woman. And don’t tell her I’m coming along. We’ll surprise her.”

  “I didn’t mention you, but I still think you’re wrong. Casey is too flakey to be some international spy.” She plunged her hand into her purse and withdrew her wallet.

  Cam’s gaze dipped to Martha’s hand, pulling out some cash, and he swallowed. No woman he ever dated expected to pay, not that he’d allow it, but this really wasn’t a date, and a woman like Martha might be offended if he insisted on paying.

  He waved the check. “Uh, fifteen bucks each, but I’ll throw in twenty since I had the beer and you had tea.”

  “Whatever.” She tossed a ten and a five onto the table. “I’ll pitch in for your beer in exchange for your protection...from Casey. She might poke me with her stiletto or shoot me in the face with hairspray.”

  “Go ahead and scoff. Congressman Wentworth trusted her and look where that got him.”

  They walked back to the computer store and picked up Martha’s newly cleansed laptop. She did a quick check of her emails before putting it away.

  As Cam stashed the computer case in the trunk of her car, Martha said, “Now if the patriot wants to contact me about Wentworth’s death, he’ll have to find another method.”

  “If he really wants to contact you again, he will. He already has your email address. He doesn’t need to watch you.”

  Martha drove back into DC toward a hotel a few blocks away from his own. She paid for guest parking in the structure beneath the hotel, and they rode up in the elevator to the fifth floor.