Worthy of Trust and Confidence

by Kara A. McLeod

  But how were the two incidents connected, exactly? I needed some trails to follow here, some new puzzle pieces that’d bring the whole picture into sharper focus, because with these gaping holes, I still couldn’t quite wrap my mind around it. I was hoping my pending subpoena results would provide me with something to go on because if they didn’t, I was going to be shit out of luck.

  Rico blinked once, and then his eyes grew wide as realization flooded his features. “Holy shit.”

  “No kidding,” I said dryly, pleased he’d finally caught up.

  “What the actual fuck?”

  “You tell me, dude. Because I’m absolutely clueless.”

  Rico frowned in thought and tapped the tip of his pen on the top of his desk in a familiar rhythm. I could see his rapid-fire thought processes playing out in his eyes as he pondered this new information. Something else must’ve occurred to him suddenly because he favored me with an odd look and then abruptly stood. I watched as he hurriedly shut the door to his office and then sat back down.

  Rico leaned forward a little so his weight was resting on his forearms as he fixed me with an intense stare. “What are the odds that this bill and you getting shot while working Iran are related?”

  “Fairly high, by my reckoning.”

  Rico shifted his attention to an innocuous spot on the rug to the left of my chair. A shadow passed over his features, and his lips twitched. I knew him well enough to know he was debating whether to voice the notion that’d just popped into his head. “Do you think maybe you were the intended target?”

  A thought crossed my mind, cloaked in the form of the pervasive nagging feeling that’d been plaguing me lately. I frowned as I reached for the ever-elusive answer to the as-yet-unidentified question. As always, it scampered easily from my grasp, forcing me to chase it. Usually, it managed to evade me effortlessly. Now, however, called into stark relief by Rico’s words, the idea suddenly solidified and turned on me, crashing down to nearly crush me in an oppressive wave. The effect simultaneously rendered me physically ill and made me see some of the odd specifics of my recent dreams in a completely new light.

  What kind of an assassin missed their target by such a wide margin? I mulled over the finer points of his theory to test their merit. I could feel my face crumpling as I considered the question and weighed it against what I already knew to be true. Things like my proximity to the protectee at the time the shots were fired, for example. It seemed to me only an amateur would be that sloppy. And hiring someone untested for such an important mission as the assassination of the president of a foreign country felt like an obvious faux pas. So, either something had gone horribly wrong, or the would-be assassin’s aim hadn’t been as off the mark as I’d originally thought.

  “I think it’s very possible I could’ve been,” I said slowly, rolling each syllable around in my mouth before releasing it to hang close in the sudden silence Rico’s question had left in its wake.

  “You think the guys who’re manufacturing this note wanted to make sure you never connected it to them?”

  I heard him, sort of, but I didn’t even bother trying to respond. My insides abruptly twisted into angry knots, and bile rose in the back of my throat, threatening to choke me. I swallowed, attempting to banish the sour notes from my tongue. I felt nauseated and too small within my body, the shell of which had broken into a cold sweat. While you could expect such a violent physical reaction to the news that someone wanted to kill you and even deem it appropriate, the unexpected sensation still took me aback.

  “You okay?” Rico’s voice drifted lazily to me as though from a great distance, sounding muffled and slightly distorted.

  I forced myself to refocus on his face, setting my mouth into a grim line in response to the concern playing there. Something inside me broke, washing away the sickness beneath a sluicing torrent of anger, the heat of which instantly banished the cold that had enveloped my body.

  “I’m fine,” I replied curtly. What a bald-faced lie. I wasn’t fine. I was furious. And beneath that, more than a little terrified.

  “Bullshit.” Rico stared at me defiantly, practically begging me to fight with him. I probably would’ve, too, if for no other reason than to let off some steam, but my BlackBerry went off just then, distracting me.

  Pushing the fury inside me out of the way enough so I could breathe, I opened the email I’d just received. The subpoenas were in. Gregor had just forwarded them to me so I could submit them to the appropriate telephone company. He’d marked them urgent, too, and had given the recipient only a few days to respond. Perfect. I grinned widely, my mouth no doubt stretched in such a way that the gesture seemed vaguely maniacal, and stood up, snagging the envelope and the copy of the counterfeit bill off his desk.

  “Where are you going?” Rico wanted to know.

  I wanted to tell him everything. About Akbari’s connections to Fallahi, Golzar, and Rostami. About the implications behind those connections and what I’d suspected they hinted at. I wanted to lay it all out for him so I could get his opinion so badly I was about to burst. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Not yet. Partly because I still had numerous unanswered questions, but mostly because I simply wasn’t allowed to discuss any terrorism-related cases with anyone outside of the JTTF. That was why Meaghan was no longer involved and hadn’t been since I’d first realized what kind of a case we’d stumbled upon. I had to do this alone.

  Instead of giving in to the urge to spill everything, I wiggled my phone at him before slipping it back into its holster on my belt. “I’m going to track down the assholes who thought they could get away with trying to kill me.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By the time I’d finally made it home—which had been an adventure in itself since I was now perpetually tensed waiting for the sound of gunfire and searching for snipers in every window—I was that strange combination of exhausted yet wired. Sleep wouldn’t come either quickly or easily. I groaned as I tossed my keys on the kitchen counter and wandered over to the couch to settle into its cozy depths, squirming in an effort to get comfortable.

  The cut on the outside of my thigh had been healing nicely, or so I’d been told. It didn’t hurt nearly as much to move my leg as it had a few days ago. The spots on my back where my vest had caught two of the bullets, as well as the one where the doctors had cut me open so they could stop the internal bleeding, still ached. So did the back of my right hip where my handcuffs had stopped a round, and I was glad I didn’t sleep on my back because that would’ve been downright impossible. Even sleeping on my left side—the only option available to me at the moment—had been quite a feat, requiring a precise configuration of pillow placement to keep pressure off the cut marring my forehead.

  The unexpected ringing of my phone interrupted that line of thinking, and my heart jumped. A near-blinding sort of hope burst inside me but was spectacularly dashed when I read the caller ID. I swallowed against the disappointment that threatened to choke me as I answered the call.

  “Hey, Rory.” I tried not to sound as dejected as I felt but failed.

  “Hey. Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Not really. I was just thinking about going to bed.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “How’d you sleep last night?”

  “Terrible. Which reminds me, can I take Excedrin PM?”

  “Not with your Vicodin!” Rory sounded aghast that I’d even suggest such a thing.

  “And if I’m not taking my Vicodin?”

  “Why wouldn’t you be?”

  “I don’t want to. Look, can I take the Excedrin or not?” I was really hoping it’d help me get a good night’s sleep, but somehow I doubted it. It was just a feeble attempt to get some solid rest. I’d concluded I’d be much less of an emotional basket case if I weren’t so utterly exhausted.

  “Sure. Knock yourself out. Pun intended. But please, for the love of God, don’t drink alcohol wit
h it.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Just don’t.”

  “Okay.” I bit my lip for a moment as I mulled over my next words. “I’m sorry I snapped at you at the hospital yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry, too. This whole situation has me a bit off balance, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  “It’s my fault. I was a pain in the ass.”

  Rory laughed. “So what else is new?”

  “New York. New Jersey. New Hampshire.”

  I could practically hear my sister rolling her eyes. “That joke hasn’t aged well.”

  “New Brunswick? New Kids on the Block.”

  “Don’t quit your day job. You wanna know a secret? You lasted a helluva lot longer than I would’ve if I’d been in your position. A lot longer than I thought you were going to. I honestly thought you’d have made a break for it the second your intubation tube was out.”

  “Believe me, the thought crossed my mind. If I’d been able to keep my eyes open for longer than eight seconds in a four-minute period, I probably would’ve had a better chance of formulating a solid escape plan.”

  “So, the secret to keeping you in one place is drugs?”

  “Actually, I think it’s technically unconsciousness by way of drugs.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. Speaking of your recently acquired freedom, what are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I thought I’d stop into the office at some point. That’s about all. Why?”

  “I was going to drop by.”

  I teased her. “Checking up on me?”

  Rory snorted. “Hardly. I was going to offer to take your stitches out, but if you don’t want me to…”

  “Really? I thought they couldn’t come out for several more days at least.”

  “For the ones on your head and your leg, that was a conservative estimate. There’s no reason they need to be in that long. The ones on your back need to stay in a little longer.”

  “Hmm.” I thought about how to fit that into the plan I’d already mapped out, mentally juggling my schedule around to make room. No way was I going to turn that offer down.

  “Oh, my God!” Rory exclaimed, sounding horrified. “You took them out already, didn’t you?”

  “What? No.” Sure, I’d been tempted, but the reality had been way too gross. I’d opted to leave that to the professionals.

  “Okay, good. We can meet up after my shift. We can have a late lunch, and I’ll take care of them for you.”

  “Thanks, Rory.”

  There was a pause on my sister’s end of the line. “I do have an ulterior motive.”

  “Ooh. Scandalous! What’s up?”

  She hesitated again. “I was hoping you’d go to the cemetery with me first.”

  Oh. I hadn’t seen that request coming. I was stunned into silence. Normally, it required blackmail, bribery, or both to get Rory to visit the graves of our biological father and our older sister, Reagan. I chewed on my lower lip, trying to recall if she’d ever suggested going to the cemetery and couldn’t think of a single time.

  “I know it’s not when we usually visit,” Rory went on, her voice soft, her tone borderline embarrassed. She exhaled noisily. “But I…this whole thing with you has made me think about them. A lot. I don’t know. I just feel like it’s something I have to do.”

  I smiled spontaneously at the admission. “Sure, Rory. I’ll go to the cemetery with you tomorrow. I’d like that.”

  Rory let out a sigh of what I could only assume was relief. “Thanks.” A comfortable silence settled between us before Rory shattered the moment by asking, “Will that bother you?”

  “Will what bother me?”

  “Going to a cemetery?”

  “Why would that bother me?”

  “You know…Because of Lucia.”

  Ah. My heart splintered, and guilt and anguish filled in the cracks. I rubbed my chest, trying to ease the ache, and swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”

  “Ryan, I’m sorry. If you don’t want to go—”

  “I said it’s fine.”

  My sister sighed heavily. “Ryan, have you been talking to anybody? You know, about what happened?”

  “Et tu, Brute?”

  “Huh?”

  I was suddenly very tired. My bitter words had seemingly freed the stopper on my emotions, and everything rushed out in one great big torrent, leaving me empty and drained. “You’re the second person to ask me about that in the past few days. And I’ll tell you what I told her. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Isn’t that an agency requirement?”

  “Not exactly.” I’d be required to have one appointment with our psychological consultant in DC before I was released for full duty, but that wasn’t quite the same thing. He’d just question me about my fitness for duty. I could downplay the emotional roller coaster I was currently riding enough to get the all-clear to go back to work. And that appointment was still a long way off. I needed to completely recover physically before I could even begin to think about jumping through the necessary hoops to be restored to regular duty status.

  “Well, whether it is or whether it isn’t, I still think you need to consider seeing a professional. I have several colleagues I can recommend.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” I only agreed to get her to drop the subject. Unfortunately, we both knew it.

  “Ryan.” Rory’s voice was laden with feeling, and she hesitated as if afraid to reveal her next thought. “I think you might have PTSD. And possibly survivor’s guilt.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Think about it. You’re not sleeping much. When you do, you have these intense, recurring nightmares you refuse to talk about. You’re irritable. Where in the past you let things go or cracked a joke about them, now you get inexplicably angry or, worse, you completely shut down. You’re having trouble concentrating. You won’t even say Lucia’s name, for crying out loud—”

  “Rory, I have a master’s degree in psychology. I’m familiar with the symptoms of PTSD, thank you very much. And seeing as how you’re a doctor and did a rotation in psych, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that not enough time has elapsed for you to make that determination.”

  “Don’t play the semantics game with me. Something is seriously wrong. I’m only trying to help you. Please let me.”

  “I just need to sleep, Rory. That’s all. I haven’t had a full night’s rest since…” I attempted to remember back that far. “A few nights before the POTUS visit.”

  “What?”

  I suddenly recognized exactly how much time had passed since I’d actually gotten anything close to the recommended allotment of sleep. Sure, I was used to getting much less rest than the average person, but even I had to admit this was excessive.

  “Wow,” I whispered to myself in disbelief.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding me.”

  “No, I’m not.” Stunned, I took a second to rethink the entire course of events. “I had advance work, which is always crazy. The breakup, which was understandably stressful. Then I had to prep for Iran and write the Dougherty report. And once the Iran visit started, I had night after night of late dinners and meetings coupled with early wake-ups. After that…well, you know.”

  “That was over two weeks ago,” Rory exclaimed, sounding exasperated.

  “Wow,” I said again. No wonder I was such a mess. I doubted anyone would be able to hold it together after having not slept well in that long. The idea made me feel infinitesimally better about my current inability to control my emotions and my apparent need to wallow in a whole host of negative feelings at the most inopportune times.

  “Ryan, you can’t go on like this.”

  “I know I can’t. Which is why I’m going to take that Excedrin and call it a night.”

  “Ay-vo.” Rory sounded simultaneously disappointed and upset.

  “Asha, I promise, I’ll be fine. I just need a little more time. Okay?�
�

  “Okay.” Rory sounded a trifle unsure, but thankfully she didn’t press the issue. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Can’t wait. Love you.” I didn’t wait for her reply before I disconnected the call.

  I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb. I really wanted to massage my temples to try to banish the headache gathering behind my eyes, but the stitches near the left one made that impossible. The physical pain did give me something to concentrate on besides all my emotional woes, so at least that was something.

  My phone rang again, and I didn’t even bother to open my eyes as I answered. “Rory, seriously, I’m fine. Please, just let me try to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You’re still not sleeping?” a soft voice that definitely didn’t belong to my sister asked. “How many nights has it been?”

  I froze, but my intestines started doing flips, and my heart stuttered, the beats tripping and stumbling gracelessly into one another like unevenly placed dominos. Slowly, I lowered my hand and opened my eyes. “Allison?”

  “Hey.” Her words were barely audible, and her tone sounded tentative.

  “Hey.”

  I closed my eyes again and smiled, filled with delight. She called. I hadn’t been sure she would.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m okay.” I hesitated a beat, undecided whether to voice the clichéd thought running loud, joyful circles around the inside of my head: that I was much better now that I was talking to her. Considering the chasm that’d suddenly and unexpectedly yawned between us the previous day, it was probably better to keep that notion to myself. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you at work?”

  “Yeah.” She sounded irritated. “But I just went on break, and I wanted to catch you before you went to sleep. Or tried to, anyway.”

  “That means a lot to me,” I told her softly.

  I heard Allison let slip a small sigh. “I’m really sorry I had to leave. I didn’t want to.”

  “I know you didn’t. It’s okay.”