by DiAnn Mills
Her scarred foot had a history behind it, and one day he’d ask for the whole story. Must have been a nasty accident—painful, too. That could be why she was reluctant to get on his Harley or ride a horse.
He shook his head to dispel the intense need to head back home and sleep a few more hours. Whatever happened to the old days when he could stay up all night and do fine the whole next day? He wasn’t getting old, at least not from his perspective. Maybe the aching in his body and the pounding in his head had more to do with paying a visit to Walt and Chris. Tempers had flared last night, and if Miles hadn’t interceded, a fight would have broken out, and Walt would have had more than a black eye. Chris and his buds had a vendetta against the Chickasaw Wonder, and they didn’t mind repeating history by having the whites attack the red man in superior numbers.
Miles pulled into the dirt driveway of the Greywolf home and scattered chickens in every direction. Miles noted the small house needed several coats of paint, but not a piece of trash or a weed met his eye. A black dog bounded up to the truck, barking and growling. The animal looked like a mixture of a shepherd and a rottweiler, and it sure looked mean. Normally Miles could befriend a dog, but this one jumped up on the truck door, snarling like it hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“Matches, down!” A man whom Miles recognized as Walt’s dad stood on the front porch. “Get on back up here and let the man get out of his truck.”
Instantly the dog jumped back and hid his incisors. He hurried up to the dilapidated front porch.
“Now lie down until I tell you to get up.”
Again the dog obeyed. Miles opened his truck door with one eye on the animal. With his body near exhaustion, his response time was slow, and he had enough problems for one day. “Thanks, Mr. Greywolf. I think I need a watchdog like that one.”
“Oh, he’s territorial all right.”
“I sure could use him on the football field to keep the team in line.”
Mr. Greywolf laughed. “From what I hear, you could use more than one.”
Sympathy for the family took a firm hold. “Is Walt around?”
“Sure, Coach.” The man lifted his hat and wiped the sweat from his lined brow. “Sure appreciate you helping out my son with the flat tire last week.”
“Glad to help.”
“Anyway, you caught Walt before he heads into town for work. Come on in and have some breakfast.”
“Smells good, but no thanks. Got lots of players to visit this morning. If it’s all right, I’d like to speak to your son out here.” Miles made his way up the wooden steps to the porch and stuck out his hand. His stomach growled, or was it the dog? “Good to see you again. I won’t be long with your boy.”
Walt opened the squeaky screen door. He wore the dark pants and blue shirt uniform of the local grocery store chain about ten miles from Split Creek. The lack of eye contact didn’t surprise Miles; he expected it. At least the kid no longer had a black eye and was in one piece. His dad nodded at Miles and brushed past his son and into the house.
“How you doing this morning?” Miles wouldn’t want to be in the kid’s shoes and facing the pressures of his world.
“How do you expect me to be, Coach? We lost. Everyone says it was my fault. I hesitated. Slow on reading the defense.”
Miles fought the urge to give the same talk again that he’d delivered to the team at nine thirty last night. “I’m not happy about the loss either, but it wasn’t all your doing.”
“How do you figure?”
“You can’t do your job if the rest of the team isn’t doing theirs.”
Walt jammed his hands into his pockets. “That’s what you said last night.”
“If you’d screwed up last night, I would have let you know then. The Warriors are tough, and the Bobcats weren’t playing their best. Everyone was slow, maybe too confident after last season.”
“Maybe. But I fumbled a few times.”
“And our defense failed to block their offense.”
Walt glanced to the left toward a barren pasture where a couple of cows lifted their heads as if listening to every word. “Maybe I should quit.” Walt whispered his words, as though if he spoke them more audibly, he might have to follow through.
“What? And throw away a chance for a full scholarship?”
Walt shrugged and continued focusing his attention on the cows. “I can get a good ride at a number of universities. You know that.”
“Sure, your Native American status will help with your college education. But a football scholarship on top of it means even more.”
Maybe it was Walt’s indifference. Maybe it was Miles’s lack of sleep. Maybe it was Ty Dalton’s constant reminder that his son was the team’s only hope for a winning season, but Miles’s headache intensified, and he chose to challenge the kid, not sympathize with him. “Look at me, Walt.”
Walt slowly turned to Miles. Heartbreak seeped from the pores of the kid’s tanned face. But something else was written in his eyes—a spark of hope.
“What is it that you want to do with your life?” Miles asked.
The kid appeared to contemplate the question. “Nothing ginormous. Maybe agricultural research. Soil analysis. Things like that to help farmers.”
“A fine idea, and you can do it. Your grades are rising, and I’m sure the scouts are looking at your stats this year.” Miles wished he could read the kid’s thoughts. “Guys like Chris will always be in your life. And others who’ll say you aren’t good enough, smart enough, the right race, or anything else that has the potential to stop you from living out your dreams.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You spout out things like a preacher. I’m the one who’s supposed to lead the team. How many times have you said it’s a mental game?”
Miles fought to keep from stating how he viewed those who had an excuse for doing nothing with their lives. He should have slept before tackling this. “If you want to give up on yourself, fine. Just let me know now. I’m not wasting my time on a kid who has no guts. You have to want some things bad enough to fight for them—and not necessarily with your fists. That’s where real life begins.”
Walt scuffed at a loose stone. “Some days when a couple of the other players are all up in my grill, I don’t think I can take one more hour. Then I tell myself that one day at a time is enough. I know Chris wanted my position right from the start. But he doesn’t even know me. Just hates me.” He shrugged. “Sure makes me wonder where God is in all of this.”
“I’ve come to accept that there are things about Him we might never learn. Keep praying for guidance. That’s all we can do. Let me know what I can do to help. Your parents support you. Your friends respect you. And your coach believes in you.”
“My parents and friends aren’t the problem. Neither are you.”
“Outsmart, outplay, outthink them. But don’t let them edge you into giving up.”
Walt’s shoulders lifted and fell. “All right. I never was a quitter. Don’t really want to start now.”
“Good. We’re on the same team.”
“Someday I’d like to make friends with Chris.”
“Go for it.”
“Might take a miracle.” Walt snapped his fingers at Matches, who had edged mighty close to Miles’s leg.
“Thanks. I have a feeling that dog would take my leg off and eat it for breakfast.”
“Not if you made friends with him first.”
Miles grinned. Score one for the Bobcats.
“Okay, Coach, I get your point.”
Chapter 13
“Take the next flight to D.C.,” I say to Jason.
“Why? What have you learned?”
I squeeze the cell phone and take a moment to pinpoint my ire. Jason shouldn’t question my orders, but then I’m the one who has taught him the value of probing every source of information.
“Listening to everything that goes on in Palmer’s office isn’t enough. He doesn’t need a reason to suspect her. Keep her happy—and qui
et.”
Jason pauses in his typical analytical manner. “All right. She’s married, and that’s a plus for us. According to her, she can’t divorce her husband. He makes good money. I’ll let her know that my job is at stake if anyone finds out about our relationship.”
“Rent an apartment. Let her furnish it. Keep it all hot.”
He laughs. “Have you seen her?”
I’ve seen the photographs and feel sorry for her husband. “Enough to know this is an easy one. You can handle it.”
Chapter 14
Paige woke with her ankle throbbing in sync with her pulse. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her foot was broken again instead of sprained. Hadn’t she paid her dues? The pain medication and a glass of water sat on her nightstand, and she didn’t waste any time swallowing a pill. Closing her eyes, she lay back on the pillow and waited for the incessant aching in her ankle to ease.
Her attitude followed the same path as her outlook for the next six weeks or so. Patience had never been one of her admirable traits, and tolerance for wasting time ranked second. Her number one way to relieve stress was running—after wrapping her foot and sliding it into a shoe that had good ankle support. But running had been eliminated until her foot healed, which meant a trip to an orthopedic specialist and most likely physical therapy. The last time she’d injured her foot, she wasn’t able to run for a year. Back then the doctor had told her she might never run again, but she’d worked hard and overcome the odds. How could she handle taking on an operative role with her foot in this condition? Maybe God had answered her prayer after all.
Keary would get a good chuckle out of her predicament. She couldn’t run from him or anyone else by swinging a crutch.
She stared at the whirling ceiling fan above her, allowing her mind to swing into operative mode and pushing the overwhelming emotions into a remote part of her heart. Uninvited snapshots ushered in the afternoon her world’s infrastructure collapsed. But she needed to once more rethink every detail, every word.
Over seven years ago, she’d given up on showing the world the real Daniel Keary. Back then she’d equated working for the CIA with picking up potatoes: she’d never get the dirt out from under her fingernails, and obviously Keary had picked up his share too. It took several weeks in Africa and her new life as a Christian for her to realize the problem was not with the CIA but with a man who had betrayed his country at the cost of many lives.
Why had Keary sold out? That was crucial in worming her way into his head and catching him in the action needed to put him away for good.
The mission had been going smoothly: the retrieval of Leandro Ngoimgo, a prominent figure in Angola who was on the hit list of an extremist rebel movement. Paige had worked with Keary and two other operatives—one on the ground in Angola—for several months, utilizing all-source intelligence. The plan was in place.
Leandro paced the floor of the concrete building, his forehead a mass of worry. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and walked into an adjoining empty room. A few moments later, he cornered Keary.
“Rosa and the children are leaving separately.”
Keary stepped away from a window. “I know you’re concerned about this airlift, but once the helicopter arrives and all of you are safe, you’ll feel better.”
Leandro shook his head. “No, they will leave before me. I’ve made arrangements.”
Rosa gasped and rose from her chair. “Don’t do this thing. We want to stay with you.”
“I know what’s best.” Leandro’s words were firm. He took Rosa’s hand and led her into the empty room. When they returned, he grasped the shoulders of his twelve-year-old son. “Gonsalvo, we need to talk before my men arrive.”
“This is foolishness.” Keary’s face reddened. Rarely had Paige seen him angry.
“This is my family.” Leandro’s voice graveled low. “I know what’s best.”
“Where are you sending them?” Keary asked.
“That’s my business.”
As soon as Leandro had finished talking to Gonsalvo, a truck arrived and whisked off Rosa and the four children. The good-byes had been short and tearful.
Keary sent Paige outside to keep an eye on the building and to watch for any signs of trouble. A commotion caught her attention, and she took a few moments to try to chase off a group of children. One of them had a deflated soccer ball. He kicked it closer to her. Great. Potential firefights weren’t a place for kids to play.
“Get out of here,” she said in Angolan Portuguese. “Bad soldiers nearby.” One of the boys looked her way and grinned. Beautiful white teeth.
Three military trucks approached, and she hid behind a rattletrap of a car while radioing Keary. Six soldiers in cammies poured out, each wearing a small arsenal, while drivers stayed with the vehicles.
“Do you want me to eliminate them?” Paige had a good vantage point—if the kids would stay away.
“Describe them.”
Once she finished, he told her to head back inside. The Angolan soldiers were there to help in the transport. Puzzled, Paige studied the men. One of them looked like the coup leader, Casimiro Figuiera, but he turned his back before she could positively identify him.
The soldiers moved inside the building, leaving one to guard the door. Paige hesitated. In the torrid temps, chills raced up her arms. Unless the men had a good disguise, they were members of the rebel movement. The soldier guarding the door picked up his radio and contacted someone. Paige read bomb on his lips. She realized everyone inside would soon be dead. Shots from inside the building broke the afternoon’s stillness. Keary and the soldiers bolted out the door and onto the trucks.
Instinctively she knew Keary had betrayed them. Paige remembered how the late afternoon sun had shadowed the vehicles and darkened the doorway. She rushed toward the back entrance of the building to warn those waiting inside, hoping they were still alive. The door was locked. She pumped several bullets into it until she could maneuver her hand to unlock it. Just as the door swung open, an explosion pitched her several feet from the building. Later she learned that everyone inside had been killed. Only she and Keary had survived.
The helicopter pilot who was to carry them all to safety found her and Keary lying together on the ground. He’d been shot in the arm, but she believed he’d inflicted the wound upon himself.
Paige had no memory of her rescue, only what she’d read in Keary’s report. She was flown to a hospital in Luanda, then on to Nairobi. She suffered a concussion, along with a ruptured spleen and a broken arm. She required surgery to her foot and more than two hundred stitches trailing up her spine. Before she could expose Keary, he filed his own report, documenting her supposed mental breakdown during the mission—her failure to keep her team safe.
During her stay in the Nairobi hospital, an operative from Langley completed her debriefing. She denied any mental breakdown and relayed what had really happened during the botched mission. But in the end, it was her word against Keary’s.
Keary phoned her in Nairobi with his demands. If she did not resign from the CIA and take on a new identity, Keary would kill her and her parents. He’d tell her when and how she’d resume the rest of her life. Helpless, Paige had no choice but to concede.
Before she was released from the hospital, Rosa Ngoimgo called her. Paige had no idea how the woman had located her since she was in the VIP wing of the hospital. And how the widow knew Paige had survived was still a mystery. Rosa’s husband had told her that he suspected Keary had sold them out. Oh, to have heard what Leandro had said to his wife and son.
“Help me bring him to justice,” Paige had said. “The CIA will protect you and your family.”
“The way they protected my husband from Casimiro Figuiera and your traitor?”
Paige couldn’t argue with her. “Where can I find you?”
“I can’t tell you. I must protect my family. My call to you is for this: I don’t blame you for my husband’s death. I’m glad you’re alive
, but you must be in danger too.”
Paige hesitated. “Yes, you’re right.”
“May God keep you safe. And I pray someday He will help you find a way to stop the killing.”
Later Greg Palmer’s objectivity had crushed her hopes of keeping Keary under investigation. “I understand why you’re resigning,” he’d said.
“Wouldn’t you if your file stated you’d sent innocent people to their deaths?”
“Yes, I would.” He hesitated, and she clung to an inkling of justice. “Keary’s been cleared of any wrongdoing. But he’s been warned that if something happens to you, the file will be reopened.”
“So meanwhile, he continues to betray our country.” Apathy seeped into her words.
“Not exactly. He’s furious with our questioning his documentation and has resigned to resume his law practice in Oklahoma.”
Bitter and alone, Paige buried Mikaela Olsson just as Keary had ordered. The other unexpected complication gave her even more reason to follow his explicit instructions. She’d lived with the regret and the guilt of her survival every day.
Six months later, Paige left Africa with a new identity and a determination to never forget the treachery. Keary had ordered her to a small town in Oklahoma called Split Creek. There she was to take on the role of a librarian, a minor from her college days, and he would keep an eye on her from Oklahoma City.
Paige adjusted the ice pack on her foot and reached for the TV remote to find an old I Love Lucy rerun. She might be on Keary’s radar, but he couldn’t remove the hope or erase the truth. Someday he would slip and expose himself to the whole country. Couldn’t she just wait for him to trip himself up? Did God really want her to risk all she loved and treasured?
With the remote still in her hand, images crossed her mind of those she held dear—Mom and Dad, Rosa, Miles, Voleta, the others of Split Creek, and Nathan. Her heart ached, and she trembled.
* * *
