The Athena File

by Jennifer Haynie

  Face flushed, pulse pounding in her ears, Abigail retreated to the other side of the room.

  “Abigail.”

  She cocked her head.

  “Some kid got shot, and I’ve got to go. Think about what I said, all right?”

  “Which part?”

  He grinned. “All of it.”

  With that, he stepped through the door.

  That was close. Too close. She collapsed onto the bed and took several deep breaths to calm herself and reintroduce common sense into her brain. Only a few more minutes with him would have spelled disaster.

  Once her pulse had returned to normal, she pulled out the laptop and scanned her notes Finally, she reached a conclusion. Well, two. First, in attacking the village over seven years before, Shamal Khan had intended for none of the Mighty Men to survive. Second, the chieftain’s daughter shouldn’t have survived either. This stretched beyond the simple need of the Taliban leader to exact revenge on his family for being cast out. She needed answers. Obviously, Jonathan couldn’t give her any. But David?

  It took her only minutes to find his sister’s phone number in the Veteran’s Administration records. He had none listed. Grabbing her cell, she punched in the digits.

  Although it was past eleven in Burning Tree, Utah, the woman who answered sounded wide awake. “Hello?”

  “Is Kyra Martin there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Abigail Ward, Jonathan’s sister. Is David around?”

  “He is. What’s going on?”

  “Jonathan’s been kidnapped. I think it involves the Mighty Men and what happened in Afghanistan. David was there, and he might be able to help.”

  Kyra’s reply came instantly. “Let me get him. He’s upstairs, so hold on.”

  Abigail waited. Footsteps receded, and a door closed. A few moments later, the steps grew louder. The phone clattered.

  Kyra sighed. “I’m sorry, Abigail, but David doesn’t want to speak with you.”

  “What? My brother’s life is at stake!”

  “I know. I told him that.” Kyra drew in a sharp breath. “He said he doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. I’m sorry, but I have to abide by his wishes.”

  “I—I understand.” Tears stung Abigail’s eyes.

  “I’ll keep trying because I know what it feels like to almost lose a brother.”

  “Thanks.” She carefully laid the phone on the nightstand and scowled. So David didn’t want to have anything to do with her. Period. Obviously, something had happened between Jonathan and him. She didn’t care. David Shepherd was critical to this puzzle.

  She pulled up the airline schedules and checked flights to Utah. There were plenty of seats on the 6:35 a.m. flight to Salt Lake City. Her fingers flew across the keyboard.

  If David didn’t want to have anything to do with her, she’d go to him. Then he’d have to listen.

  19

  Burning Tree, Utah

  Oil-changing day had arrived at the Martin residence. David had already completed the job on Dad’s pickup, Mom’s Subaru Outback, and Kyra’s Subaru Forester. All that remained was his Wrangler. He popped the hood, slid onto a backboard, and rolled underneath the vehicle.

  He used his left hand to loosen the plug. Only a few weeks ago, he could say he derived great contentment in being a help and support to his family. Today, he couldn’t. Thanks to Kyra’s challenge a couple of weeks before, he couldn’t.

  Oh, he’d tried to convince himself he was fine. He liked being a surrogate dad to his nephews and niece and a good brother to his widowed sister.

  But still…

  He grunted as he came to his feet. Who was he fooling? When he paused long enough to consider her words, he realized how he felt. In some respects, he sat on the sidelines of life, happy to be a spectator to the issues everyone else faced. Hadn’t he had enough issues of his own already? Or was there more out there for him to do?

  He wiped the plug with a rag before placing it on a clean cloth on the fender. As he shifted to the front and checked the radiator and other fluids, the sweat ran down his bare back in rivulets. The heat built up under his hair banded at the nape of his neck. He mopped his face with a bandanna before tying it around his head.

  “David Shepherd?”

  He paused at the pleasantly husky female voice behind him.

  A woman stood amidst the dancing shadows created by the camouflage netting above his work area between the carport and the shed. Her stance, with feet planted shoulder-width apart, and rigidly held shoulders, told him she was in the military, was totally confident in herself, or both.

  He leaned against the front fender and wiped his dirty hands on a rag. “That’s me. And who are you?”

  “Major Abigail Ward. Jonathan’s sister.” She offered both a smile and her hand.

  “David, Abigail Ward’s on the phone,” Kyra had told him the night before when he’d hung out on his deck. “Jonathan’s been kidnapped, and she wants to talk with you.”

  “I don’t want to talk with any member of the Ward clan.” He’d leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “David—”

  “No, Kyra. That’s final.” He rose and stomped into the living room.

  Now David remained where he was. “You came an awful long way for nothing.”

  She finally lowered her hand. “Did I? You tell me. I’m sure Kyra told you that Jonathan’s been kidnapped.”

  “She did.” To hide the heat rising in his cheeks, he returned to his work. He stepped to the left front fender, uncapped a bottle of wiper fluid, and poured it into the tank. “I’m sorry to hear that. Let the cops handle it.” He capped the tank and returned to the front.

  “This is bigger than a simple kidnapping. Much bigger.” She shifted so she stood near his left shoulder and leaned one shapely, jeans-clad hip against the right front fender.

  The flush rose higher as he focused on her face. The resemblance between brother and sister was strong, from the square jaw to the sandy blond hair. He twisted the lid onto the bottle.

  “I don’t follow,” he lied.

  “I don’t expect you to, at least not yet. Jonathan’s girlfriend, Christine, was murdered in a hit on a convoy in Ghazni Province. The investigation revealed a gunrunning ring. He found a jump drive with the operational plans and after-action reports of all of the Mighty Men’s missions in Afghanistan.”

  So what? Why should he care? He tossed the bottle onto the table and grabbed a wire brush, then attacked the battery terminals with more force than necessary to scrape away the acid buildup. “You know those are meaningless after a few years.”

  “I agree. The thing is, when viewed together, a theme emerges.”

  He threw the brush on the table and used a rag to wipe some spilled fluid. “And what would that be?”

  “The Mighty Men were responsible for training the local villagers to be a militia to fight the Taliban. You succeeded.”

  “So give us a medal,” he grumbled. He grabbed a wrench and began undoing the bolts holding air filter intake assembly. He reached inside and undid the casing clips.

  She put her hand on his arm. Pleasant tingling rippled upward. He stopped sliding the old filter from the case and gaped at her. He knew what she’d discovered. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. And certainly not to her.

  “You also trained the chieftain’s daughter. She went with your team on direct-action missions and served as your translator and bridge to the local women. Matter of fact, you recommended that she come to the States for additional training.”

  He flinched and shook off her hand, then ripped open the box holding the new filter. He shoved it into place. What did she know? A bunch of nothing about their time over there, not the unofficial stuff. Like the satisfaction he’d derived in training Nabeelah Khan, who’d come to admire him and Jonathan, almost like they were big brothers to her. “Yeah, so what? It didn’t matter in the end. She died. They all died save for Jonathan and me.�
��

  “The Mighty Men, her family, and the village, yes. Not her. She’s alive. Very much so.”

  She lied. She had to! Nabeelah was gone, collateral damage in a battle that had stolen life as he’d known it. He braced his hands on the Jeep and hung his head. “You don’t know anything.”

  Abigail rested her lower back against the front. “I know more than you think.”

  Over the smell of sweat and auto fluids, he noticed a soothing scent. Gardenia, maybe? He shifted away and grabbed the wrench to undo the oil filter. He shoved her aside and wrapped the loop around the cylinder. With his left hand, he turned it until it loosened. “I don’t see how.”

  “Please look at me.” Her unruffled voice came from his right side.

  He didn’t want to. Really, he didn’t. Against his will, he did.

  She examined him with hazel eyes rimmed in green. Wisps of hair not held back by the sunglasses on her head teased her cheeks.

  A flush started again, and it had nothing to do with the heat.

  She broke eye contact and toyed with the plug where it sat on the fender. “I was at the base when the medevac chopper arrived. Because I was there with my sergeant, we were tasked with investigating everything that happened. Though I didn’t know it was you at the time, I saw them offload you. Then Jonathan climbed out with the daughter. She was gone the next day. I don’t know what happened to her.”

  “They probably sent her back to die in her village, or what was left of it.” He stepped around her and set the old filter full of oil on the table. He jabbed the wrench at her. “Now don’t you see why I say she’s dead? She would have never survived on her own out there.”

  And that’s the cold, hard truth, Abigail Ward. He ripped open the new package and added a bit of oil. He over-filled it, and a little spilled down the sides as he shifted it to fit it against the engine. Crap. His fingers slipped.

  Abigail laid her hand on his forearm. Again, that tingling feeling shot up his spine. “David, please. Just listen. She’s not dead. That much, I can promise.”

  He closed his eyes and wagged his head.

  “I promise she’s not. I can do that because I’ve seen her twice since Jonathan got kidnapped.”

  David glared at her and shook her off. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not lying. Why would I do that?” The tiniest hint of exasperation pushed at her words. “At first I didn’t recognize her, but then when I saw the reports, I remembered that day seven years ago. She may have aged, but I’m pretty sure she’s the same person.”

  David dumped in the first quart of oil.

  “I think what happened seven years ago in Afghanistan is linked to the gunrunning ring, which is linked to Jonathan’s kidnapping.”

  “That’s a stretch.” He added the second quart.

  “Not when the guns went to Shamal Khan.”

  Years before, the village chieftain had told him, “My brother, Shamal, is not to be trusted. He chose to align himself with the Taliban, and we cast him out of the clan.”

  David shook his head to dispel the memory and grabbed the third quart of oil with his right hand. His grip weakened, betraying him. To avoid dropping the bottle, he added it so quickly that he nearly overflowed the funnel. Could she be right? Could Nabeelah be alive? And what did that have to do with Jonathan getting himself kidnapped? And why should he care after his best friend’s betrayal years before?

  Abigail’s husky voice brought him back to the present. “I think the Mighty Men were targeted, maybe the chieftain’s daughter. Why, I’m not sure. And I still don’t know her name.”

  He remained silent.

  “That’s why I called you. I’m pretty sure you and Jonathan—as well as the daughter—were intended to die in that ambush. Only the team coming in to replace you at the end of your deployment had already arrived at base. Their quick reaction saved the three of you. But it’s more than that.”

  David grabbed the fourth quart of oil and tried to undo the cap with his right hand. His grip failed, but that didn’t stop him. His fingers barely closed around the cap. “How can there be? We were hit. Only Jonathan and I survived, apparently along with the chieftain’s daughter.”

  “When I investigated the incident—what?”

  He glared at her as she used the term he did. “I call it The Incident.”

  “Okay,” she drawled. She pried the bottle from his fingers, uncapped it, and tipped it into the funnel. “When I investigated, I thought things went off too well. They knew your vulnerabilities, how you’d hardened your location. They knew you were isolated, and they sent an overwhelming force against you. In other words, they had inside help. From whom, I’m not sure.”

  His heart went cold. “You’re saying someone in The Mighty Men betrayed us?”

  “I didn’t say that, I—”

  “Get out.”

  She backed up a step. “David—”

  “Get out of here and go home, Major Ward. How dare you accuse the dead like that.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Go!”

  She didn’t wilt, didn’t flee. She held her ground. In a voice low with anger and hurt, she said, “I don’t know who, all right? What I do know is that right now, my brother stands a very good chance of dying. Also, there’s a woman out there who may be in danger—and you, too.” She straightened. “All right, if you insist, I’ll leave. But I’d hate for you to live the rest of your life knowing that you might have been able to help me save them and set things right.”

  Trembling started deep within him. So Jonathan was in danger. So what? He, David, had been in trouble six years before, and what had happened? His best friend had abandoned him, left him to a fate that could have killed him and did scar him for life, both on the outside and the inside. But still… Abigail had traveled a very long distance to talk to him personally when he’d blown her off on the the phone. Didn’t that count for something? No. She’d insinuated a betrayal deeper than he could imagine. She didn’t deserve his help, and he wouldn’t leave the comfort of Burning Tree to help someone who hadn’t lifted a finger years before.

  He shrugged as if he didn’t care.

  “Oh, and by the way, Master Sergeant Shepherd, you forgot to put the plug in.”

  She turned and stormed toward the house.

  “Huh?” He glanced up. Sure enough, the plug sat on its rag where he’d placed it, and a gallon of oil had run into and out of the engine. He stared after her, his gaze drawn to the grace and strength of her stride.

  She slammed the back door behind her.

  Grumbling, he grabbed another case of oil. Using his knife, he slit the tape. The blade slipped and opened up a cut along his hand. “Ouch!”

  A line of red formed and ran down his tan skin in a bead. He closed his eyes. An image from The Incident flashed before him. Blood everywhere. He shuddered. He found a Band-Aid and stuck it over the cut. He’d clean it after he finished.

  After inserting the plug, he glanced toward the back of the house. Kyra stood on the patio, her hands on her hips. She supervised Lilly the puppy but glared his way.

  He’d hear about this later.

  Burning Tree, Utah

  An hour later, David brooded in cargo shorts and a ratty T-shirt on the couch with several items scattered before him on the coffee table of his bachelor apartment. He alternated between staring at the photographs and citation ribbons and the tattered scar on his right forearm.

  Heels tapped on the steps leading to the deck.

  “What did you say to her?” Kyra, clothed in a deep scarlet dress, stood in the doorway.

  He glanced at her, then back at the last items remaining from his former life before he’d been cast onto the streets.

  “Whatever you said, she came back into the house looking like she was about to cry. When I asked her what happened, she only stated she was going to take a nap.”

  His head snapped up. “She’s staying with us? Can’t she stay at the hotel?”

&n
bsp; “Not when it’s booked up for the night, and certainly not when she’s the sister of your best friend.”

  “He’s not my—”

  “Can it for a bit. Please.” She shook her head and came all the way inside. “She asked for your help, and you must have turned her down.”

  “Why should I help her?” He picked up a photograph of Jonathan and him. He tried to remember where they’d raised frothy mugs of beer. It could have been anywhere. “She’s Army. CID nonetheless. She doesn’t need my help.”

  “Then why would she essentially spend a day of travel coming all the way out here?”

  “Well, if I was rude, I’m sorry. And regarding what she said, MYOB.”

  Kyra turned away with her shoulders slumped and arms folded across her chest. She sighed. “This reminds me of when you first came off the streets and returned to Burning Tree. Of how you didn’t want to open up, didn’t want to trust. And that hurt.”

  What could he say to say to that? With his index finger, he pushed around the citation ribbons he’d received over his Army career. For bravery, for valor. Once upon a time, he’d believed in all of those things. And what had happened? He picked up a picture of the Mighty Men. All dead save for him and Jonathan. And Nabeelah. No, Abigail lied.

  Kyra smoothed her dress as she seated herself beside him. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then she drew in a breath. “I still remember that last phone call I made to you in 2011. Foul didn’t begin to describe your mood.”

  “It was the alcohol and painkillers talking.”

  “I know. I let you be for a bit. And then when I called a month later, your phone had been disconnected. I figured you didn’t want to have anything to do with us.” She picked at some imaginary lint on the fabric of the dress. “But I was still concerned. I knew something wasn’t right. Mom, Dad, and I talked about it, and we decided to let you be in the hopes you’d make contact. You don’t know how hard it was.”

  He gazed at his Purple Heart and Silver Star.

  “Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and in 2013, I started hunting for you. It took some doing. The apartment complex was helpful, the storage place not so much. I didn’t have a way to find you.”