Lock 'N' Load (Federal K-9 Series)

by Tee O'Fallon

  “What I want is more men like you on my team.” He arched a brow at his battered men. “Clearly, the FBI could use a man of your skills. If you ever want to jump ship, I’m sure I could arrange it. But seriously, I’m under orders to bring you in for a meeting, and for the sake of my team’s health, I’d sure appreciate it if you both came willingly. Let him go.” Fenway tipped his head to the men restraining Matt.

  “Why the hell would we do that?” He wrapped his arms around Trista’s shoulders. “You haven’t told us shit about what’s going on here or who this meeting is with.”

  From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Poofy bolting back inside the house. From the kennel, Sheba’s constant barking told him the dog knew he was in distress and was probably clawing at her enclosure to get to him.

  Fenway shook his head. “It’s not my story to tell, but you’ll have answers to all your questions soon enough. Suffice to say, these orders come down from the highest levels of both our agencies. I don’t want to, but I’ll tase you if I have to. You have my word that we’ll return you here in time for dinner. It may not seem that way, but we really are on the same side. Consider this an official request from above.”

  Matt gave an angry snort. “Most requests don’t come at gunpoint.”

  “I do apologize for the show of force. Now we really need to go.” He nodded to the SUVs.

  Damn, but he didn’t like this. Apparently, though, they had no choice. He looked down into Trista’s eyes, feeling her slight body trembling against his.

  So much was left unsaid. So much was in his heart that could never be spoken. “Let’s go, honey.” He took her hand, and they followed Fenway to one of the SUVs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Trista shivered at the chilly air blowing through the SUV. She and Matt sat in the back while Agent Fenway took a seat in the front. The driver was one of the agents Matt had punched in the face first. The SUV they were in was led and flanked by two other identical black vehicles.

  Matt held her hand tightly in his, staring straight ahead through the windshield. His jaw was rigid, as if carved in granite. With her thigh pressed against his, she could feel the tension and rage vibrating in his big body. She pitied the next person who got on his bad side and worried he’d get shot trying to protect her.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath, scared beyond belief at what was happening. These men were FBI, but they’d fought Matt and pointed guns at him. She didn’t know whom to trust anymore. Her only rock in this whole mess was sitting right beside her. Physically, anyway, but emotionally, he might as well be on the other side of the world.

  “You okay?” His voice was soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the fire burning in his beautiful chocolate-brown eyes.

  “This is all my fault,” she whispered. “If only I hadn’t opened the door. You warned me not to go outside, but I didn’t listen. I was just…upset.”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hand. “That’s my fault, not yours. Whatever happens, stay close. Don’t let go of my hand. Okay?”

  She nodded, her heart bursting with love for him now more than ever. He’d unhesitatingly risked his life for her more than once. But if they were alive at the end of the day, she would still walk away. Funny how she’d just discovered the biggest conspiracy and news story in decades, and all she could think about was how her life would never be the same without Matt in it.

  Twenty minutes later, they drove through Langley’s main gates. Oddly, though, they drove around to the rear of the building, where more black SUVs were parked and guarded by a small army of men in dark suits, all wearing ear wires.

  Secret Service?

  “Why is the Secret Service here?” Matt growled, voicing her thought.

  As far as she knew, the Secret Service was primarily known for protecting high-level political dignitaries.

  “Standard procedure.” Fenway got out and opened the door beside her, holding out his hand. But Matt was already out of the SUV and shoving Fenway aside.

  “I got this.” As Matt held out his hand to her, his eyes never left Fenway, who put his hands in the air and backed off.

  When she alighted from the SUV, he tucked her tightly to his side with his arm around her waist. Again the thought came to her that he would never be able to love her, but he’d die to protect her.

  One of the Secret Service agents spoke into a microphone at his jacket cuff. The large metal door opened, and they followed Fenway and two other FBI agents inside. An elevator whisked them to the top floor, which she knew housed the offices of the CIA’s highest-ranking officials. Outside a set of cherry-wood doors, two more Secret Service agents stood guard. At their approach, one of them spoke into his cuff while the other opened one of the doors.

  Fenway entered first, followed by Matt, who paused at the entrance. His shoulders were so broad, she could barely see around him. Once inside the enormous office, she saw more people standing to their left. Recognizing one of them, she gasped and backed away. Two hands on her shoulders prevented her retreat.

  “You lying son of a bitch.” Matt reared back and slammed his fist into Fenway’s jaw. The agent fell to the floor, groaning.

  Instantly, Matt was tackled by five men, two of whom pinned his arms behind his back. Even from his seemingly incapacitated position, he managed to throw two of them off and struggle to his knees, his chest heaving.

  “Stop it!” someone yelled. “Let him go!”

  The agents released Matt, who jumped to his feet and stepped back, shielding her with his body.

  “Sgt. Connors,” the man who apparently had ultimate authority in the room said. “Ms. Gold, please forgive me. Neither of you were ever supposed to be in jeopardy. You have my most sincere apologies.”

  “Apologies?” Matt clenched his hands, looking ready to launch like a ballistic missile. “She knows who you are. Who you really are, and you’re trying to kill her for it. So excuse me, senator, if we don’t accept your apologies.”

  Senator and U.S. presidential candidate Michael Ashburn sighed heavily and gestured to a large conference table. “Please. I beg you to have a seat. There is much to explain.”

  Someone off to the side cleared his throat, and she got her first glimpse of all the other people in the large room. She hadn’t noticed them before.

  Stanley Windham, deputy director of the CIA, was flanked by her bosses, Wayne Gurgas and Genevieve Grujot, and another man she didn’t recognize. She’d met Deputy Director Windham during several security intelligence briefings she’d given.

  An older woman of about seventy came forward, standing directly in front of Matt. Her short gray hair was beautifully styled, and the cream-colored skirt and jacket she wore screamed political royalty. In response to the woman’s nearness, Matt repositioned himself closer to Trista, still maintaining a protective stance.

  Peering around him, Trista recognized the woman from the many photos taken posing with her son on the pre-election campaign trail. This was Senator Ashburn’s mother, Barbara Ashburn. For a woman no bigger than she was, Mrs. Ashburn possessed a soft confidence that she couldn’t help but admire.

  “Sgt. Connors,” Barbara Ashburn said. “It’s obvious how much you care for this young lady, but please allow my son to explain.”

  Grabbing onto Matt’s arm, Trista met the other woman’s gaze. “You’re Erica Sands, aren’t you?”

  She smiled, and the skin around her sharp blue eyes crinkled. “Yes, dear. Although, I haven’t heard that name in a very long time.” She held out her hand, waiting patiently for Trista to take it. “Please, come sit with us. You both have my word that no harm will come to you.”

  “Matt?” Trista looked up at him to see his brows bunched, his jaw clenched as his gaze swept the room.

  “Hear them out, Sgt. Connors.” Deputy Director Windham gave Matt a curt nod.

  Without a word, Matt put his arm around Trista’s shoulder and guided her past Mrs. Ashburn to the conference table. He pulled out a chair for her, wait
ing for everyone else to sit. In all, they were ten at the table, including Fenway, whose jaw was quickly bruising from Matt’s punch, and Mitchell Hentz, who’d apparently been lurking somewhere in the corner, staying safely out of the fracas. The only other man she didn’t recognize introduced himself as Special Agent in Charge Bradley Gotesman, from the FBI’s Washington, D.C., office. The other FBI agents and Secret Service agents guarding the presidential candidate stood discreetly by the closed doors.

  Matt sat to Trista’s left, Mrs. Ashburn to her right. Senator Ashburn sat directly across from them, allowing Matt to glare directly into the eyes of the man he believed tried to murder Trista and had Thomas George killed. Either the senator was an accomplished actor or the look on his face truly was one of sincere regret.

  Beside her, Mrs. Ashburn took Trista’s hand in hers. “I’d like to tell you a story of a very naive, stupid woman who married a very bad man. The only good thing to come from my marriage to Will Sands was my sweet boy.” She paused to give Senator Ashburn a gentle smile, which he returned. “By the time Michael—or Billy, as you know him to be—turned eight, I’d long since figured out my husband was a domestic abuser. But he loved our son and restricted his abuse to the hours when Billy was at school. Any time he left marks on my face, I lied about how I got them.”

  “One day, I forgot my mitt,” the senator interjected. “I wanted to play ball with my friends after school, so I snuck home to get it. Nobody at school even knew I’d left. We lived far off the main road and nowhere near any other neighbors. When I got home, my father was yelling so loudly at Mom he never knew I’d opened the kitchen door to see him punching her repeatedly in the face and the ribs. She was already badly injured, with multiple broken bones and internal injuries.”

  Mrs. Ashburn opened a manila envelope, then pulled out several photos and handed them to Trista and Matt. Trista gasped. The woman in the photos was barely recognizable. Both eyes were swollen shut. Her face was bruised and cut, with multiple stitches.

  “This is you.” She looked into Mrs. Ashburn’s kindly eyes, and her heart went out to this courageous woman who’d suffered such incredible pain at the hands of her husband and still survived.

  Mrs. Ashburn slid the photos back into the envelope. “I had these taken in case the law ever caught up to us. If they did, I wanted the police to see the damage Will’s fists inflicted. But I couldn’t take that chance, so I took Billy and ran. I didn’t want any of this to touch him.”

  “You were in no shape to kill your husband,” Matt said in a sympathetic tone. “The prints on the knife found at the crime scene were small, but they weren’t yours. Were they?” The way he said it, Matt’s last words were more a statement of fact than a question.

  “They were mine.” Senator Ashburn’s face hardened. “I killed my father. Stabbed him with his own knife. I don’t think I cut him very deeply, but I must have hit an artery. Before I knew it, the kitchen floor was covered in blood.” The senator’s eyes took on a faraway look, as if he was reliving that day all over again.

  “The authorities assumed my mother killed him.” The adoring look he gave his mother was filled with unshed tears. “I don’t know how she managed it with all her injuries, but somehow she drove us out of there and across three states before stopping for medical attention. When we finally pulled into a hospital, she lied to the doctors, saying some men held us up at gunpoint, took everything we had, then beat my mother to within an inch of her life.”

  As Mrs. Ashburn met her son’s gaze, a thin trickle of tears ran down her cheeks. “I didn’t know what the police would do to a little boy who murdered his father. They could have taken him away from me and thrown him in a cell somewhere. I didn’t want that for him.”

  “Given your injuries, don’t you think the police would have agreed it was a case of a young boy defending his mother’s life?” Matt asked. “Even forty years ago, no prosecutor would charge an eight-year-old boy protecting his mother from an abuser.”

  “Perhaps.” Mrs. Ashburn wiped at her tears. “But this was backwater West Virginia. My brother-in-law, Avery Sands, was friends with the sheriff at the time, and since sheriffs are elected officials, I couldn’t risk him launching an investigation into Billy’s actions just to pacify Avery. I considered confessing to his murder myself, but I had no other family, and Billy’s care would have fallen to Avery, who was just as evil as Will.”

  Trista placed a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder, inherently understanding the unconditional love between a mother and child, and praying she’d one day get the chance to experience that love for herself. “You fled to protect your child.”

  Mrs. Ashburn sniffled, then smiled and covered Trista’s hand with her own. “And I don’t regret it for a second.”

  “What we do regret,” Senator Ashburn interjected, “is the deadly sequence of events our actions kicked off forty years later and how many others suffered because of it. Especially you, Ms. Gold, and Thomas George.”

  “While it wasn’t made public,” Mitchell Hentz added, “trace amounts of digitalis were found in George’s blood. But he didn’t have a heart condition.”

  Matt leaned his forearms on the table, sending the senator a stone-cold look that would make most men cower. “Are you telling us you didn’t have him killed to keep him from publishing his story and outing you as a murderer?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, sergeant. Thomas George’s death will haunt me for the rest of my life.”

  “Then who killed him? Because whoever it was is still out there. And to them, Trista represents the same liability. You’re still conveniently leaving out the driving force behind your so-called sequence of events.”

  “It was the rezidentura, wasn’t it?” Trista asked, knowing with growing certainty that this whole thing was somehow connected to the chat she’d overheard.

  “Concentrated digitalis,” Hentz said, nodding, “is one of the many suspected favorite poisons of our neighborhood rezidentura, Alexy Lukashin.”

  “Why do the Russians care about who you really are or what you’ve done?” Not for the first time since they’d sat down, Matt narrowed his eyes on the senator. “They’re blackmailing you.”

  For a moment, the senator didn’t respond. Nor did anyone else. It was as if this entire meeting had been choreographed by him under strict orders that this was his story and his alone to tell. She suspected they were about to delve into deeply classified information of international significance.

  Senator Ashburn glanced at his mother. “When we changed our names, we could never have imagined the path our lives would take. As a boy, becoming president of the United States never crossed my mind. The only things of importance in my life back then were that we got away from my father and playing baseball with my friends. We began a new life under new identities, never intending to mislead the American people about who I really was. The years sailed by and thanks to my mother’s unfailing support, I became a U.S. senator.”

  Again, he looked at his mother. “We both knew me running for public office was a risk, but we felt enough time had passed that we were safe from being discovered. Things snowballed from there, and here I am. One of two remaining candidates for president.”

  “Your name isn’t even your own.” Matt shook his head. “Didn’t you ever stop to think that the American people have a right to know who you really are?”

  “At first, no.” Senator Ashburn smiled ruefully. “Regardless of what my legal name is, I’m a patriot, through and through. An American who believes in what this country stands for. Freedom. Equality. The pursuit of happiness and the opportunity to be anything you want to be in life. In this day and age of political unrest, this country needs a leader who will take us back to basics and reunite the country, not tear it apart with petty differences and the pursuit of personal gain.”

  Senator Ashburn stood, pointing a finger at his chest. “I want the opportunity to be that person. I can be that person.”

&nbs
p; As he stared at Matt, his eyes took on a bright, determined look, and Trista understood precisely what it was about him that drew people in. Not only was he charismatic, but she believed that he truly wanted the best for the country.

  “You said, ‘at first,’” she reminded him. “Now?”

  The excited light in his eyes dimmed, and he sat heavily. “Now, things have changed. As you rightly surmised,” he said to Matt, “the Russians hope to blackmail me. We may never know how they did it, but the Russians discovered I’ve been living under a false identity most of my life. They traced backward and found out that I killed my father when I was a child. Lukashin approached me surreptitiously, threatening to out me publicly. Anyone this close to becoming president of the United States is not only inordinately powerful but surprisingly weak. A candidate will give up just about anything to achieve that goal, and the Russians were—and still are—counting on that. They made me a proposition. They would keep my past a secret, in exchange for certain favors in the future, starting with the withdrawal of all support to the Canadian military. If I’m elected.”

  “Iqaluit.” Trista glanced at Matt, recalling the articles they’d read detailing the Arctic power struggle. “The Russians want to take control of the Arctic’s natural resources, something they can’t do if the Canadian military is there to stop them.”

  “Basically, yes.” Senator Ashburn frowned. “Iqaluit has been the site of several meetings held lately between Canadian officials and myself to discuss details of exactly what support I would provide the Canadians. Unfortunately for Thomas George, he somehow stumbled onto my backstory. If it had been published before the election, it most assuredly would have destroyed my chances of becoming president.”

  Matt gave an incredulous laugh. “You still intend to run? Don’t you think your ethics have been compromised?”

  “No.” He leaned forward and pounded his fist on the table. “I will never compromise my ethics. I love this country, and I want to lead it into the future. But I realize that’s no longer possible.” He sat back, supreme disappointment evident on his face. “By November, this will all be made public and withdrawing my candidacy will be a foregone conclusion. For the moment, however, it is imperative that my story remain hidden.”