Breach of Trust

by DiAnn Mills

  A Note from the Author

  Dear reader,

  My goal in writing Breach of Trust was to provide you with adventure and suspense through the lives of unforgettable characters from the first page to the last.

  Exploring the life of Mikaela Olsson and the sacrifices she made to protect those she loved provided an opportunity to examine the emotions involved in the work of the CIA. I am grateful to the CIA for its research recommendations in helping me portray as accurately as possible the responsibilities of an operative. My understanding of this highly respected organization was guided by its mission statement: “The Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) is an independent U.S. government agency responsible for providing national security intelligence to senior U.S. policymakers.”

  I have often wondered how a Christian operative views faith juxtaposed with a commitment to safeguard our country, for their dangerous missions often involve activities that believers may question. My character resolved that issue by acknowledging that she could use her God-given talents and abilities to secure necessary information yet still live out her faith.

  I hope you enjoyed Mikaela’s journey, because this story was written for you. Every word is for you—to inspire, to entertain, and to challenge all of us to be better people.

  Expect an Adventure

  DiAnn Mills

  www.diannmills.com

  About the Author

  Award-winning author DiAnn Mills is a fiction writer who combines an adventuresome spirit with unforgettable characters to create action-packed novels. DiAnn’s first book was published in 1998, and she currently has more than forty books in print, with combined sales of over a million copies.

  Six of her anthologies have appeared on the CBA best-seller list. Eight of her books have been nominated for the American Christian Fiction Writers’ book of the year contest, and she is the recipient of the Inspirational Reader’s Choice award for 2005 and 2007. Lightning and Lace was a 2008 Christy Award finalist.

  DiAnn is a founding board member for American Christian Fiction Writers and a member of Inspirational Writers Alive; Romance Writers of America’s Faith, Hope, and Love chapter; and the Advanced Writers and Speakers Association. She speaks to various groups and teaches writing workshops around the country. DiAnn is also a mentor for Jerry B. Jenkins’s Christian Writers Guild.

  Her latest releases are the Texas Legacy series, When the Nile Runs Red, and Awaken my Heart.

  Discussion Questions

  1. Mikaela Olsson, aka Paige Rogers, has lied to her friends and family about her life. How do you feel about that decision?

  2. Do you think Miles was right in choosing a sophomore to play the coveted quarterback position?

  3. What Bible story (or stories) do you see reflected in Mikaela’s life?

  4. The life of a CIA operative is controversial. Do you think a Christian can live out his or her faith while performing the tasks necessary to keep our country safe?

  5. Mikaela had to make some tough decisions regarding Nathan. Would you have made the same choices?

  6. Was Mikaela right or wrong in keeping her identity from Miles for so long?

  7. At times, Miles was frustrated with the lack of knowledge about Mikaela’s past. Do you feel he would have been justified to abandon the relationship?

  8. Real love means one makes sacrifices for the good of the other. What sacrifices did Miles make for Mikaela?

  9. Do you think Keary would have hurt Nathan? Why or why not?

  10. If you were the prosecutor in Keary’s subsequent trial, whom would you select as your prime witness?

  11. If you were Keary’s defense attorney, how would you build a case for his innocence?

  12. Do you think Mikaela will resume her role with the CIA?

  13. If you were a resident of Split Creek, would you accept Miles, Mikaela, and Nathan Laird into your circle of friends?

  Turn the page for a preview of Breach of Security, book two in the Call of Duty series.

  Available Spring 2010

  Breach of Security chapter 1

  Border Patrol Agent Danika Morales raced her vehicle toward Barnett’s location. She wanted to tell him to wait for backup and not search through the thick grass alone, but she knew Barnett and Fire-Eater were a team and stayed on the traffic. The smuggler probably hid on a rattler’s nest.

  She was the first to respond to Barnett’s request. Pulling in behind his truck, she unclipped her H&K from her belt while radioing her arrival. She grabbed her cell phone and speed-dialed his number.

  “Barnett, I’m here,” she said. “Tell me you’re not in the middle of the carrizos.”

  He chuckled. “Fire-Eater’s after him. I’m skirting it. Neither one of us is coming out until we have our man.”

  She followed the agent’s footprints on the dusty road until they disappeared into the thicket. Fire-Eater barked, snapping Danika’s attention toward the riverbank. The dog growled from somewhere in the depths of the overgrowth. Hot as it was, the Kevlar vest felt good. However, it was worthless to a stab wound or a shotgun blast.

  A shot fired.

  “This is the United States Border Patrol. Come out with your hands up!” Barnett shouted in Spanish, but Danika couldn’t see the agent. He repeated his demand.

  Another shot fired. Fire-Eater yelped.

  Blood pumping, Danika yanked out her radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired! Agent or canine unit may be down.”

  Two more shots pierced the air before she could get to her cell.

  “Barnett,” she called, “tell me you’re all right.”

  Nothing.

  A dark-haired man emerged from the right side of the road several yards away wearing a backpack that no doubt contained drugs.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot,” she said in Spanish.

  The man turned and fired at her before racing across the road. The bullet angled to the left of her. Danika returned fire and sank a bullet into his thigh. He fell, and she raced after him.

  “Let go of that gun, or I’ll be forced to shoot again.”

  He kept his fingers wrapped around it. This could have been the man who shot Toby. She wrestled with the rage that seemed to have come from nowhere. If she killed him, it would be self-defense.

  “I said hands off that gun.” She fired above him and kept running in his direction.

  He lifted his hand and aimed. Instinctively she pumped a bullet into his hand. His wound caused a burst of blood to splatter the ground and the quiet air to echo with obscenities. Still he refused to release the hold on his gun.

  “Do you want your whole hand blown off?” She stood over him and clamped her booted foot over his injured hand. He screamed, and she pointed her firearm at his face. Danika trembled. She wasn’t a murderer. Maybe it was time for counseling.

  “You’ll pay for this,” the man said.

  “You aren’t the first or the last to threaten me.” She picked up the man’s gun, an older model Beretta. With his leg and hand bleeding, he wasn’t going anywhere. She slipped her handcuffs from her belt and secured him. He screamed again. Where was backup? Please, let Barnett be okay. Five kids. Good man. Her gaze searched the area.

  An outstretched arm poked through the area where the downed man had emerged. She hurried, gun raised, eyes taking in every inch of the brush. As she drew closer, she saw the rest of Barnett’s body sprawled on the trodden grass. Blood soaked the ground against the vibrant green, creating a small puddle of red. Danika bent to his side. He moaned.

  “Get him,” Barnett whispered. “He shot Fire-Eater.”

  “I have him cuffed. Hold on. Help’s coming.” She pulled out the radio. “Need EMS. Agent down.”

  She hadn’t been there for Toby, but she could be there for Barnett.

  * * *

  Dr. Alex Price massaged aching neck muscles and allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes for a few moments. Long night. One patient after another, and 90 percent of them couldn’t speak English—and he’d bet
his next paycheck that none of them were legal citizens. But healing was his game, and he didn’t ask questions, except to find out where it hurt and when the patient had last eaten.

  Alex’s stomach growled, reminding him that in order for his brain to process, it needed fuel. And the gut-rotting, ulcer-generating coffee didn’t cut it.

  He scooted back on a wheeled chair. “I’m taking a break. Heading to the cafeteria.”

  “Haven’t you been here over eighteen hours?”

  Alex chuckled at the nurse’s question. “And your point is?”

  Dark eyes glanced over the top of her computer screen. “We don’t have any extra beds.” Her response in a mixture of Spanish and English caused another surface of amusement. He must really be tired.

  “Depends on how picky I am.” He yawned. “I’ll go home after I make sure the little guy who had the appendectomy is okay.”

  “And check on the woman who delivered the twins. And try to find out more about the girl who slipped out of ER after you treated her.”

  Alex stood and inhaled deeply. “Scary how well you know me. See you in a little bit.”

  He momentarily tuned out the hospital noises and stepped into the elevator. In his sleep-deprived mode, he pushed the Down arrow instead of the Up for the cafeteria. Good thing he wasn’t heading into surgery. The doors finally slid open, and he took in the aroma of eggs and bacon. Nice. Real nice. Tired of the strong coffee, he filled a glass with ice and sweet tea—and plenty of it.

  The moment he spooned the first bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth, his mind spun with the memories of the young woman who’d entered ER shortly after two this morning. Knife wound to the chest. And as soon as she’d been stitched up, someone had snatched her out of the hospital. Her eyes had been swollen shut, and her body looked like a punching bag. Tender kidneys, too. She told him in Spanish that she’d fallen. Fat chance of that. More like she’d fallen into some jerk’s fists. What bothered him the most was the rash of beaten young women flooding the ER. They were dropped off at the edge of the parking lot, where the patient pressed a solar-powered ER button for help. The women refused to name their abusers, and all were illegal immigrants. He toyed with the unlimited possibilities.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Alex knew the voice without looking up. “Sure, Ed. But I don’t have a thing to report other than what I already told you—and the McAllen police.”

  The big man noisily pulled out the chair and lowered his massive frame. “We found a woman’s body dumped right outside the sector office gate shortly after four o’clock this morning.” His soft voice didn’t match his impressive stature.

  “That doesn’t mean she was involved in the same human trafficking outfit.”

  “Doesn’t mean she wasn’t either.” Lines ridged Ed’s forehead like a plowed field in early spring. “Look, I could spend day after day questioning illegals who come through processing. But it’s not worth my time or the paperwork to send them back if they refuse to name who’s doing this. And I have a strong feeling drugs are involved.”

  Alex wanted the butchers caught too, for more reasons than he had the energy to list. But cooperating with an investigation of the local Border Patrol office while treating illegal immigrants didn’t settle well. “So, do you still think you have a rogue agent?”

  Ed nodded. “Without a doubt.”

  Alex bit into what he’d hoped was a crispy slice of bacon, but it was greasy and chewy. Didn’t he have enough to do? “Some of the agents have family on both sides of the river.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re breaking laws to get them here or smuggling drugs or involved in terrorist activities or leading up human trafficking. I know those agents, and believe me, they’re dependable. Which makes this thing more of a mess. But someone is supplying our list of sensors and where they’re located.” Ed leaned in close and swore in Spanish. “Have you forgotten the woman sliced up like a tomato? I need your help to get this stopped. Frankly, I don’t care if McAllen’s finest arrest whoever’s doing this or the BP finds him stumbling over the border. I just want it stopped.”

  Weariness tugged at Alex’s eyelids, and he remembered the mountain of work left to do before he drove home to sleep a few hours before it started all over again. So why was he sitting across from the chief patrol agent at the McAllen Border Patrol, Eduardo Jimenez, and debating the probability of ever learning the identity of the trafficker working in McAllen? Except every time he treated one of these women, he grew angrier.

  “I’ll do my best.” Alex took a swallow of tea, its sweetness and caffeine pouring life into his veins like a glucose IV. “The girl from last night is gone.”

  “How?”

  “She had to have help. And no one saw a thing.”

  Ed scowled. “Maybe you have a leak here.”

  Alex had considered the same thing—more than once. But his staff was capable and committed to healing, not sending a patient back to the same abuse. Still, human nature was strongly attracted to money.

  “You must be thinking the same thing, or we’d be in a shouting match by now.”

  Alex offered a grim smile. “We’ve been friends too long, and you know me too well. I’m on it.”

  “Good. This is just between us, and it’s dangerous.”

  “I understand. And for the record, I—” Alex’s pager sprung to life. He glanced at the code and then his half-eaten brunch. “Got to run.”

  * * *

  Danika knelt at Barnett’s side. The calloused veteran agent had a bullet in his stomach. He refused an ambulance or a ride to the hospital until she promised to search through the brush for Fire-Eater. Once an SUV and a truck arrived with three agents to handle the drug smuggler and tend to Barnett, she found a towel in the truck and thrashed through a barricade of prickly pears in search of the dog.

  Not sure whether she wanted to find an animal tormented in pain or to face the mental thrashing of losing a good friend, Danika continued to whack through the dense growth. In less than ten minutes she spotted Fire-Eater, still breathing despite the loss of blood from his neck. Her heart ached for the animal and his handler. Did anyone ever realize the sacrifice agents and good dogs made to protect the border? Fire-Eater attempted to lift his head, but the effort seemed too much. Danika knelt and softly soothed him before laying the towel over his head. She needed to carry him out without the threat of getting bitten.

  “I have him,” she called. The time spent in the gym had strengthened her arms, but it hadn’t toughened her heart. Perhaps her emotions were on overload because of Barnett’s serious wound, the suffering dog, or the anniversary of Toby’s death. Or all three. She loaded the dog into the caged area of another agent’s truck, and the driver sped down the narrow dirt road to the vet.

  “Thanks for taking care of him.” Barnett held his breath and tried to turn over. Groaning, he stared at his own blood spilled like an offering beside him. “Let me call my wife.” His face had grown ashen, his breathing labored. “I don’t want her to hear about Fire-Eater or me from anyone else.”

  “You need to get to the hospital,” Danika said. “Better yet, you need an ambulance.”

  “Then you drive me . . . in my own truck.” Barnett closed his eyes. “Where’s the shooter?”

  Danika glanced across the road. At the sight of the blood from both men, her insides churned. “Getting loaded into an Expedition. And he did have cocaine in his backpack underneath cans of Red Bull.”

  “How much?”

  “Better than ten kilos. We also confiscated his cell phone.”

  Barnett attempted a crooked smile, knowing the phone would provide the numbers of those who were involved with the drugs. “He’d better not get treated before me. The dirty—”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Danika glanced up at the other two agents. The three of them carried Barnett to his truck and laid him across the seat. She slid onto the driver’s side and grimaced at the stinging in her legs from th
e tiny, often invisible barbs of the prickly pears. Later she’d yank them out with tweezers. The other two agents hurried back to their Jeep to follow her with the drug smuggler to the hospital. A cloud of dirt billowed in every direction as she raced toward the highway and McAllen Medical Center, determined to get Barnett help before the drug smuggler who’d shot him.

  “The phone,” Barnett whispered.

  “I’ll call her.”

  “No way.”

  She handed him his cell, knowing the futility of arguing. He could barely talk. Would she ever be this tough—or brave?