by Lauren Carr
“Promise me, Josh,” she whispered.
“I promise that I won’t let anything bad happen to me,” he said, “Things will never change between us. They will always be like they are right now—this very second.”
With a deep sigh, she drifted off to sleep.
Seeing that things had calmed down, Irving leapt back onto the bed and proceeded to knead the covers to remake his bed before beginning the arduous process of smoothing his long hair back into place. Joshua thought, not for the first time, how much Irving’s markings resembled a skunk.
“Who invited you?” Joshua asked the cat in a whisper.
“Sshh,” Cameron replied, clinging to him tighter. In an effort to be as close to him as possible, she wrapped her legs around his.
As if in response to him, Irving turned around to aim his rear in Joshua’s direction before hitching his butt with his long black and white tail up high in the air and laying down on Cameron’s side of the bed.
Joshua read it as a feline version of mooning him.
No respect.
The Mall on Washington, DC: Sunrise
The Nation’s Capital doesn’t wait for the sun. In the early hours, shortly before the moon relinquished the day to the sun, hordes of commuters were already migrating into and around the city in cars, SUVs, carpool vans, and buses.
Underground, the metro subway trains were packed with sleepy-eyed passengers quietly gearing up for their day. Trying to catch one more minute of solitude, the fares on the blue line abruptly woke up and moved out of the way when a muscle-bound, bald man in camouflaged pants crashed through the connecting door and plowed through passengers blocking his path down the middle of the train. With very little space to escape, some passengers grumbled and cursed until the door slid open again.
A young man with dark hair dressed in black slacks and a black t-shirt that hugged his lean, firm muscles hurdled a row of briefcases. Strapped around his hips was a gun holster packing a SIG SAUER DAK pistol. “Stop! Federal Agent!”
“Smithsonian Station,” the speaker overhead announced.
Seemingly more interested in getting to work than stopping a suspected felon, the passengers stood up and moved to the doors—blocking the agent’s pursuit of his quarry.
Craning his neck and dodging the passengers in his way, he searched the faces and forms moving between him and the end of the car where he saw the shiny top of a bald head waiting at the exit.
“Stop!” the young man screamed. “You’re under arrest.” In seconds, the doors would open to allow his target to escape out into the station packed with commuters. Unable to make it down the center aisle, he attempted to climb over the seats in a vain effort to capture him before the doors opened.
The train screeched to a halt.
The agent grabbed the overhead hand rail to catch himself. When his feet, encased in combat boots, slipped, he dropped into a seat filled with an overweight woman, who didn’t welcome his company.
“How rude!” She shoved him to the floor before whacking him with her heavy purse.
The doors flew open.
Even while he was carried away by the mob out the doors, the agent didn’t lose sight of the bald man. When the subway train doors slammed shut, their eyes met out on the platform. The two men stood forty feet from each other with the sea of commuters swarming around them.
With a cocky grin, the bald-headed man winked at his pursuer before whirling around and racing up the escalator—shoving people out of his way to make it to the top.
“Halt! You’re under arrest!” the young man in black was right on his heels. At the top of the stairs, the bald man yanked a crate of fresh newspapers over to send that day’s news scattering down the escalator. Some of the pages caught in the wind created by the speeding trains to fly like paper airplanes through the metro stop.
At a dead run, the suspect in camouflage pants took off across the grass in the direction of the Museum of Natural History.
His pursuer easily hurdled the stacks of newspapers. Keeping his target in sight, he sprinted across the grass until they hit the tree-lined street where the bald man disappeared behind a bus. Crossing the street, the young man caught a glimpse of his target ducking into an alley-way behind the museum—half a block away.
“Got you, you cretin!” Pumping his legs as hard as he could, he ran for the alley. Stopping at the corner, he extracted his gun from the holster.
Ready to fire, he turned the corner to see the bald-man waiting halfway down the length of the alley. The culprit was not alone. He shielded his body with a shrieking woman clad from head to toe in a burka. As he pressed the barrel of his gun against her temple, the woman hysterically babbled in a foreign language.
Though he could not understand the words, the young man understood the tone. She was pleading for him to not let her die.
“Put down the gun!” His gun aimed at his target, the young man moved steadily toward them.
“One step closer and I’ll kill her!”
“And then I’ll kill you. The only way this is going to end well is if you let her go. Then we can talk about this.”
“No talk,” he replied. “All you westerners do is lie.”
“So you want to kill us infidels,” the slender young man said. “I get that. But she’s one of yours, why take her with you?”
“She’s just a worthless woman,” the bald-headed man said with a sneer. “I really don’t care if she lives or dies.” He chuckled. “But you care—because you’re weak just like all you infidels.”
With only her eyes visible, the woman shrieked and babbled.
“Throw down your gun or she dies!”
Releasing his grip on the gun, the young man tossed the gun to the ground.
The bald man laughed. “Kick it to me.”
Holding both of his hands up, the young man shrugged his shoulders and kicked the gun to him.
The bald man took his eyes off the agent in black to see where the gun landed. In that instant, when he had dropped his guard a hair, the young man pounced.
Doing a shoulder-roll to drop below the gunman’s line of fire, the young man burst to his feet directly in front of the gunman. Grabbing the weapon, he jerked it away from the woman’s head. The gunman, too stunned to react, could only blink at the surprise attack.
Spinning on his heels, the man in black shoved the woman out of the way before wresting the weapon out of the gunman’s grip and twisted the now-empty hand behind the bald man’s back. He gave a quick kick to the back of the gunman’s knee before bringing his own knee up to press into the assailant’s spine.
Shocked by the impact, the gunman fell forward. Keeping his knee in contact with the gunman’s spine, the young man locked the gunman’s arm firmly behind his back.
It happened so fast that the gunman was face down in the alley before he knew what was happening.
“You’re under arrest!” the agent announced to his captive. Over his shoulder, he called to the woman. “Are you okay?”
The hostage’s answer started with the click of a gun.
Before he could react, the young man in black felt a barrage of bullets hit him in the back. He collapsed on top of his target.
“Get off of me, Thornton.” Pushing the agent over onto his back, the bald man, Major Marshall Ford climbed up onto his knees.
“Damn,” Thornton breathed.
“Lieutenant Murphy Thornton, what did you do wrong?” the deep voice of Major Seth Monroe came from the other side of the alley.
Rubbing the wet red paint that now soaked the back of his shirt to make it cling to him, Murphy groaned while climbing up to his feet. “I dropped my guard towards the hostage. I assumed she was an innocent bystander.”
“You didn’t even look closely enough at her to see that she was a he,” Major Monroe said with a laugh.
When the major stepped aside, Murphy saw that the hostage had dropped the burka to reveal that he was in reality a slightly built young man who appeared to be of Middle-Eastern descent. Murphy recognized him from seeing him in the corridors at the Pentagon. Unlike Murphy, Major Monroe, and Major Marshall Ford, he was most certainly a civilian.
“You know Farsi?” Murphy asked him.
“Tawkeel Said was born in Iraq,” Major Monroe said. “He’s fluent in practically every language in the Middle East. Tawkeel, this is Lieutenant Murphy Thornton.”
Moving his semi-automatic rifle, configured to carry paint balls instead of real bullets, to his other hand, Tawkeel offered his hand for Murphy to shake. “I think we met.”
With a quizzical expression, Murphy shook his hand. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve seen you around the Pentagon. State Department?”
“CIA.” Tawkeel helped pull him to his feet. “I could have sworn we met someplace before. I’m sorry I had to shoot you in the back.”
“Did you have to fire so many shots?” Murphy felt the paint from the paintballs seeping down his back to his underwear. He tried to loosen his shirt from his back. “That close? I’m going to have welts on my back for days.”
“Better for you to remember not to let your guard down,” Major Monroe said.
“The whole purpose of this training exercise is to learn,” Tawkeel said. “If I was an extremist, I would have unloaded the whole clip and then doused your body in gasoline and set you on fire.”
Murphy recognized the cold hard glare in Tawkeel’s eyes. He was talking from first-hand experience.
“Tawkeel’s father was a contractor who worked behind the scenes to help the American military during the Gulf War,” the major explained.
“And he was in Iraq?” Murphy turned to Tawkeel. “Your father was one brave man. If he had been caught helping us, he would have been killed on the spot.”
“Tawkeel’s family formed friendships with some of the Americans and eventually converted to Christianity,” the major said.
“Which sealed our family’s fate for execution,” Tawkeel said. “My mother’s parents poisoned her during a family dinner. My father begged her not to visit them, but she insisted—she trusted them. As soon as he found out that she was dead, Father hurried my brothers and sisters and me out of our home with only the clothes on our backs. We hid in caves in the desert for two days and nights until some of Father’s American friends in the military were able to slip into the country and get us out one step ahead of the death squad hunting for us. I was only eight years old, but I still remember everything about that like it was yesterday. Those Americans, three men and two women, risked their lives to save us.” With a slight bow, he concluded, “For that, I am eternally grateful to this country.”
“The operation was done off the grid,” Major Monroe whispered to Murphy. “After being brought to the United States, Tawkeel’s father helped to bring down Saddam Hussein. Tawkeel himself has been immensely valuable to the CIA, not to mention our team, in gathering intel from inside the country. Knowing the languages and customs and how they operate, he’s managed to give us a leg up in our operations.”
“I’m glad you’re on our side.” Murphy accepted Tawkeel’s offer of a towel to wipe off the red paint from his clothes and back.
“You’re lucky,” the silver haired major turned his attention to Murphy. “You got shot up with paint. Seven weeks ago, three marines got cut in half by a machine gun when they dropped their guard around who they thought was a harmless woman in a burka. He was really an ISIS soldier.”
“Understood, sir,” Murphy replied. “Won’t happen again, sir.” He pulled his shirt off over his head to clean up the paint dripping down his back.
“Better not.” Taking the towel from him, the major directed him to turn around while he wiped down his back. “You’re too valuable to the Phantoms to lose due to a newbie mistake.” With a glance up and down the alley, he ordered Tawkeel and Major Ford, “We need to get this cleaned up before the tourists start nosing around. I’ll be contacting you about the next training mission.”
Cleaned up as much as possible for the time being, Murphy put his shirt back on and picked up the gun he had dropped. He was wiping the dirt from the alley off it. Before holstering his weapon, he felt the major’s hand clasp his shoulder.
“That was a very impressive move you made with the shoulder roll to catch Ford off guard,” the major said in a low voice. “I had read in your file that you know gymnastics, but I’ve never seen an agent who put it to use in the field.”
“Just a little something extra that I like to keep in my arsenal, sir,” Murphy said.
“That and your sixth-degree black belt in mixed martial arts.” The major looked the young navy officer up and down.
Two years out of the Naval Academy, Lieutenant Murphy Thornton was still green in many ways. For him, youth was not only an advantage, but also a disadvantage. While he still had a lot to learn, he had a fire in his belly when it came to pride in serving his country—a fire that had gone out for many people in Washington—including some at the very top ranks of government. What Murphy lacked in age and experience, he more than made up for in a quick wit, integrity, skill, natural talent, and passion to protect his country and her people. That was what put Lieutenant Murphy Thornton on track to becoming one of the Phantoms’ top agents.
Aware of the morning sun rising in the sky, Murphy waited patiently for Major Monroe, the ranking officer and leader of the nighttime training exercise, to dismiss him. Instead of doing so, the marine officer asked, “How are things going at your current assignment as military liaison with criminal investigations, Lieutenant?”
“Fine, sir,” Murphy replied, before adding, “Anxious to get back out in the field, sir. I know that’s not your decision, but if you can pass that onto my CO, I would greatly appreciate it.”
The older man furrowed his silver eyebrows. “But you just got married … how long ago?”
Murphy said. “Celebrated our four month anniversary last week, sir. We moved into our new house that same weekend.”
“I heard,” the major said. “National Harbor.”
“Brownstown with a view of the Washington Monument from our rooftop.”
“I’d expect you to want to be home with your lovely young bride every night.” One of the major’s eyebrows arched.
“I do,” Murphy said with a sigh.
“Is anything wrong, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” Murphy said while shifting from one foot to the other. “I guess … I’m just not meant to be cooped up behind a desk, sir.”
“Like father, like son,” the major grumbled. “Well, no need to worry. With your talent and abilities, you won’t be cooped up for long. Just be patient.”
“I will, sir.” Murphy cast a glance to his cell phone to check the time. “If I may, sir, I need to go home to clean up and check into the office. We have a ten o’clock briefing and my supervisor in criminal investigations doesn’t like it when I’m late.”
“You did tell her that you were in training this morning, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Murphy gritted his teeth in order to not reveal his supervisor’s reaction to that news.
For a long moment, the two men held each other’s gaze. The set of the young man’s firm jaw seemed to say what he did not want to express in words. “You are excused then, Lieutenant.”
The sunny spring day, with the breeze off the Potomac River, tempted Murphy to take the day off to spend lazing along the river bank across the street from their new home with his “lovely bride” as the major had referred to her.
Murphy would be the last to argue with that assessment.
With her lush raven hair and violet eyes, Jessica Faraday was every man’s fantasy—most of all his. Four months earlier, Murphy was ready to propose thi
rty seconds after meeting the daughter of multi-millionaire Mac Faraday. Less than forty-eight hours later, she was his wife.
Some days, Murphy didn’t feel like his feet had touched ground yet—except when he was sitting behind his desk in the Pentagon where he had been assigned as the military liaison to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.
It was true, if his CO sent him back out into the field for an assignment, it would mean time away from Jessica. But there were some days when he looked out the window and ached to escape—especially when his supervisor was eyeballing him with her beady, dark eyes.
After turning off National Harbor Boulevard, Murphy eased his motorcycle into the townhouse development and rolled it down the hill to where their end unit brownstone rested along a grassy area in the corner. They were a short walk across a footbridge from the Potomac River.
As soon as he came into view of the two-car garage, Murphy pressed the button on the remote to open the door. Without stopping, he coasted the motorcycle into the garage and turned to park it next to his black SUV, a shiny GMC Yukon that Jessica had given him for a wedding present. Jessica’s purple Ferrari took up the second car space.
After taking off his motorcycle helmet, Murphy opened the door leading into the recreation room to find Spencer, Jessica’s sheltie, a blue merle, waiting on the other side. Murphy called her Candi, which annoyed Jessica—especially when the dog answered to Candi, while refusing to respond to the name Jessica had given her—Spencer.
Her blue eyes wide, the year-old dog was squirming with excitement. Her fluffy blue tail wagged so hard that it looked like it was going to fly off her butt. Placing his finger to his lips, Murphy gestured for her to remain silent before bending over to pat her on the head. Pawing the floor, Spencer looked like she was about to burst with joy.
Finally, Murphy held out his arms. Squirming with delight, Spencer leapt up into his arms to lick his face. “Is your mother still in bed?” he whispered to her. Spencer stopped licking to look into his face. Her blue eyes were filled with question.
