by DiAnn Mills
Table of Contents
Special Copyright Notice
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Discussion Questions
Breach of Security chapter 1
* * *
BREACH OF TRUST
by
DiANN MILLS
* * *
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Carol Stream, Illinois
Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com
Visit DiAnn Mills’s Web site at www.diannmills.com
TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Breach of Trust
Copyright © 2009 by DiAnn Mills. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman and books © by Veer. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of town © by Sisse Brimberg/Cotton Coulson/Keenpress. All rights reserved.
Author photo copyright © 2006 by Chris Walter Photography. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jessie McGrath
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of Janet Kobobel Grant, Books & Such, Inc., 4788 Carissa Avenue, Santa Rosa, CA 95405.
Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mills, DiAnn.
Breach of trust / DiAnn Mills.
p. cm. — (Call of Duty ; #1)
ISBN: 978-1-4143-2047-2 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4143-3038-9 (MS Reader)
ISBN: 978-1-4143-3039-6 (Mobipocket)
ISBN: 978-1-4143-3040-2 (Palm)
ISBN: 978-1-4143-3041-9 (Sony)
1. Undercover operations—Fiction. 2. Intelligence service—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.I567B74 2009
813'.6—dc22 2008040512
Special Copyright Notice
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Up to 500 words of this work may be quoted without written permission of publisher, provided it is not part of a compilation of works nor more than 5 percent of the book or work in which it is being quoted. The full title, author's name, and copyright line shall be included. No more than 500 words of this work may be posted on a web site or sent electronically to other users. In all uses of quoted material from this book, the full copyright line shall appear in a readable type size where the text appears. The author's name shall not be used in the title of a web site or in the advertising of the site. The author's name may not be used on the cover of any other book in which a portion of this material is quoted without written permission of Tyndale House Publishers.
Quotes in excess of 500 words, use of the text as part of a compilation, use of text that is greater than 5 percent of the book in which it will be quoted, or other permission requests shall be directed in writing to Tyndale House Publishers, Permissions Dept. 351 Executive Drive, Carol Stream, IL 60188.
To Dr. Dennis Hensley for his wisdom, dedication, and generous contributions to the writing world.
Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows.
Galatians 6:7
Many thanks to all who made this book possible:
Beau Egert, Louise Gouge, Mona Hodgson, Maryanne Keeling, Roberta Morgan, Tom Morrisey, and David Staton.
Chapter 1
Librarian Paige Rogers had survived more exciting days dodging bullets to protect her country. Given a choice, she’d rather be battling assassins than collecting overdue fines. For that matter, running down terrorists had a lot more appeal than running down lost books. Oh, the regrets of life—woven with guilt, get-over-its, and move-ons. But do-overs were impossible, and the adventures of her life were now shelved alphabetically under fiction.
Time to reel in my pitiful attitude and get to work. Paige stepped onto her front porch with what she needed for a full workday at the library. Already, perspiration dotted her face, a reminder of the rising temperatures. Before locking the door behind her, she scanned the front yard and surveyed the opposite side of the dusty road, where chestnut-colored quarter horses grazed on sparse grass. Torrid heat and no rain, as though she stood on African soil. But here, nothing out of the ordinary drew her attention. Just the way she liked it. Needed it.
Sliding into her sporty yet fuel-efficient car, she felt for the Beretta Px4 under the seat. The past could rear its ugly head without warning. Boy Scouts might be prepared; Girl Scouts were trained. The radio blared out the twang of a guitar and the misery of a man who’d lost his sweetheart to a rodeo star. Paige laughed at the irony of it all.
She zipped down the road, her tires crunching the grasshoppers that littered the way before her. In the rearview mirror, she saw birds perched on a barbed wire fence and a few defiant wildflowers. They held on to their roots in the sun-baked dirt the way she clutched hope. The radio continued to croon out one tune after another all the way into the small town of Split Creek, Oklahoma, ten klicks from nowhere.
After parking her car in the designated spot in front of the library, Paige hoisted her tote bag onto her shoulder and grabbed a book about Oklahoma history and another by C. S. Lewis. The latter had kept her up all night, helping her make some sense out of the sordid events of her past. She scraped the grasshoppers from her shoes and onto the curb. The pests were everywhere this time of year. Reminded her of a few gadflies she’d been forced to trust overseas. She’d swept the crusty hoppers off her porch at home and the entrance to the library as she’d done with the shadow makers of the past. But nothing could wipe the nightmares from her internal hard drive.
Her gaze swept the
quiet business district with an awareness of how life could change in the blink of an eye. A small landscaping of yellow marigolds and sapphire petunias stretched toward the sky in front of the newly renovated, one-hundred-year-old courthouse. Its high pillars supported a piece of local history . . . and the secrets of the best of families. Business owners unlocked their stores and exchanged morning greetings. Paige recognized most of the dated cars and dusty pickups, but a black Town Car with tinted glass and an Oklahoma license plate parked on the right side of the courthouse caught her attention.
Why would someone sporting a luxury car want to venture into Split Creek, population 1,500? The lazy little town didn’t offer much more than a few antique stores, a small library, a beauty shop, Dixie’s Donuts, a Piggly Wiggly, four churches—including one First Baptist and one South First Baptist, each at opposite ends of town, one First Methodist, and a holiness tabernacle right beside Denim’s Restaurant. She wanted to believe it was an early visitor to the courthouse. Maybe someone lost. But those thoughts soon gave way to curiosity and a twist of suspicion.
With a smile intended to be more appealing than a Fourth of July storefront, she crossed the street to subtly investigate the out-of-place vehicle. Some habits never changed.
Junior Shafer, who owned and operated a nearby antique store, stooped to arrange his outside treasures. Actually, Paige rarely saw an antique on display, just junk and old Avon bottles. “Mornin’, Mr. Shafer. Looks like another scorcher.”
“Mornin’. Yep, this heat keeps the customers away.” The balding man slowly stood and massaged his back. “Maybe I’ll advertise free air-conditioning and folks will stop in.”
“Whatever works.” She stole a quick glance at the Town Car and memorized the license plate number. No driver. “Looks like you have a visitor.” She pointed to the car.
Mr. Shafer narrowed his eyes and squinted. “Nah, that’s probably Eleanor’s son from Tulsa. He’s helping her paint the beauty shop. She said he had a new car. The boy must be doing fine in the insurance business.”
“Now that’s a good son.”
Mr. Shafer lifted his chin, then rubbed it. “Uh, you know, Paige . . . he ain’t married.”
“And I’m not looking.” She’d never be in the market for a husband. Life had grown too complicated to consider such an undertaking, even if it did sound enticing.
“A pretty little lady like you should be tending to babies, not books.”
“Ah, but books don’t grow up or talk back.”
He shook his head and unlocked his store.
“I have a slice of peach pie for you.” Paige reached inside her tote bag and carefully brought out a plastic container. “I baked it around six this morning. It’s fresh.”
He turned back around. A slow grin spread from one generous ear to the other. “You’re right. You don’t need to go off and get married. I might not get my pies.” He did his familiar shoulder jig. “Thank you, sweet girl.” He reached for the pie with both hands as though it were the most precious thing he’d ever been offered.
The door squeaked open at Shear Perfection.
“Mornin’, Eleanor,” Mr. Shafer said. “I see your son’s car. Glad he’s helping you with the paintin’.”
“That’s not my son’s.” Miss Eleanor crossed the street, shielding her eyes from the steadily rising sun. “He isn’t coming till the weekend.”
Paige’s nerve endings registered alert. “Won’t that be wonderful for you?” She took another passing glance at the vehicle. “I wonder who’s driving that fancy car? Too early for courthouse business.”
“Somebody with money.” Mr. Shafer lifted the plastic lid off the freshly baked pie and inhaled deeply. “Can’t wait till lunch.”
“Mercy, old man, you’re already rounder than my dear-departed mama’s potbelly stove.” Eleanor’s blue hair sparkled in the sunlight as though she’d added glitter to her hairspray.
“You’re just jealous. If you weren’t a diabetic, you’d be stealing my pie. Paige here knows how to keep a man happy.”
One block down, a man carrying a camera emerged from between one of Mr. Shafer’s many antique competitors and the barbershop. He lifted it as if to snap a picture of the barbershop. Paige swung her attention back to her friends. He could be the real thing. She hoped so and forced down any precursors of fear.
“What’s he taking pictures of?” Eleanor paused. “I’m going to ask.” Determination etched her wrinkled face. She squared her shoulders and marched toward the stranger as though she represented the whole town.
Good, Eleanor. I’ll head back and let you do the recon work.
Eleanor and the stranger stood too far away for Paige to read their lips, but at least while the two talked, the man couldn’t take pictures. A few moments later, the stranger laughed much too loud. Eleanor reached out and shook his hand, then walked back.
Paige focused on Mr. Shafer. She picked up a watering can leaning precariously against a rotted-bottom chair. “Is this a new addition?”
“Nah. It was inside. I just brought it out yesterday.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger stare at them. Medium height. Narrow shoulders. Italian-cut clothes. Couldn’t see the type of camera. The stranger walked their way, shoulders arched and rigid. Unless he was a pro, she’d have him sized up in thirty seconds, and then she’d go about her day—relieved.
Mr. Shafer lifted his gaze toward Eleanor. “Who’s your friend?”
“Jason Stevens, a photographer looking for some homespun pictures about small towns in Oklahoma.”
The way he’s dressed? Paige’s heart pounded. She replaced the watering can. “Did he say for what magazine?”
“Didn’t ask. Why don’t you? He wants to take a few shots of us standing in front of our businesses.” Eleanor beckoned to Stevens. “Come on over and meet my friends. Paige here wonders what magazine you work for.”
The man continued to smile—perfect teeth, perfect smile. “It’s for a newspaper, the Oklahoman.” He stuck out his hand. “Mornin’, folks. I bet you’d like your picture in the magazine insert.” His camera rested in the crook of his right hand, a new Nikon with fast lenses, perhaps a D90 or D200. No dents or sign of use. Who was this guy? He wasn’t any more a photographer than Eleanor or Mr. Shafer.
Have you used that piece of equipment before today?
“Welcome to Split Creek,” Paige said. “I’ll pass on the picture, though. I’m not photogenic, but you have a beautiful day to photograph our town.” She turned and started across the street to the library.
“Of course you’re photogenic,” Eleanor called. “No one wants to see a couple of old fuddy-duddies like us, but you’d make front-page news.”
“You two are the center of attention. I’m the dull librarian.” Paige continued to move rapidly across the street.
“Wait a minute,” Stevens said.
“Sorry. I need to open the library.”
“Come on back, sweet girl. There’s no one waiting to get in,” Mr. Shafer said.
She lifted her hand and waved backward. Guilt nipped at her heels for leaving them with Stevens, but she had more at stake than they did. “See you two later. Nice meeting you, Mr. Stevens.”
She unlocked the old building that had once been a bank but now served as the town library. It oozed with character—beige and black marble floors, rich oaken walls, tall ceilings with intricately carved stone, and a huge crystal chandelier the size of a wagon wheel. The areas where tellers once met with customers now served as cozy reading nooks, and a huge, round, brass-trimmed vault—minus the door—held children’s books. The windows still even had a few iron bars. If only the town had high-speed Internet access. They’d been promised that modernization for months.
For a precious moment, she relaxed and breathed in the sights and smells. Bless dear Andrew Carnegie for his vision to establish public libraries. Because of his philanthropy, Paige had a sanctuary. From the creaking sounds of antiquity to the t
imeworn smell of books and yellowed magazines, she had quiet companions that took her to the edge of experience but not the horror of reality.
In a small converted kitchen behind a vaulted door in the rear corner, Paige placed a peanut butter, bacon, and mayo sandwich in the fridge. Reaching down farther into her tote, she wrapped her fingers around a package of Reese’s Pieces. Those she’d stash in her desk drawer. The rest of the peach pie sat on the backseat of her car. She’d retrieve it once Stevens moved down the street, preferably out of town.
If he worked for Daniel Keary, her life was about to change—and not for the better. She shook off the chills racing up her arms. I can handle whatever it is. Snatching up her tote bag, she closed the kitchen door behind her. With the election nearly three months away, Stevens could be one of Keary’s men sent to make sure she still understood her boundaries. Regret took a stab at her heart, but there was nothing she could do about Keary’s popularity. She’d tried and failed against a force too powerful for her at the time. But her prayers for truth continued.
Her sensible shoes clicked against the floor en route to the front window. Standing to the side, she peered out through the blinds to the sun-laden street for a glimpse of Stevens. He continued to take pictures. Mr. Shafer would most likely give him a tour of the town, beginning with his store and the history of every item strewn across it. The so-called photographer from the Oklahoman entered the antique shop.
That’ll bore him to tears and chase him out of town.
Paige went through the morning ritual of checking the drop box for returned books, of which there were six. She changed the dates on the date-due stamps and stacked the books to be shelved in her arms. The seasoned citizens of Split Creek representing the local book club would arrive any minute, as regular as their morning’s constitutional. For an hour and a half they’d discuss the merits of their current novel, everything from the characters to the plot. Today they couldn’t storm the shores of the library too soon for Paige.
