The Enigma Series Boxed Set

by Tierney James

  Melanie took four then resealed the container and let the girl return it to its owner. In spite of the softness of the aspirin, swallowing with a dry mouth proved difficult.

  One of the men came inside, causing the little girls to run and cower behind Melanie. She didn’t have time to speculate why they chose her instead of the other woman. He grumbled some information and she expressed understanding.

  “He says we need to leave with them. At least I think that’s what he said. We’d better do as he says. My guess is we are miles from civilization. Maybe they’ll at least feed the children.”

  Once again, she wondered how she could understand a language other than English.

  The children gathered up a few bundles no bigger than large table napkins. The teen picked up a skinny, pale girl of about three. Was she well?

  “Here, let me take her.” The child reached for Melanie and hugged her neck as she wrapped her legs around her waist and laid her face against Melanie’s shoulder. She couldn’t resist the temptation to kiss her as the image of another little curly-headed girl popped into her head. I have a daughter, too, she realized with a heavy heart.

  As they ushered the children toward the door, the Finley woman touched Melanie on the arm. “I never thanked you for what you did.”

  Melanie puzzled at the woman’s downcast head. “Excuse me.”

  “Those men,” Finley gulped. “What they attempted to do to Shirin and me.”

  Melanie shifted the child higher on her shoulder. She stared again at the blood on the front of Finley’s clothes. “What do you think I did?”

  “You killed a man. Don’t you remember?”

  Chapter 2

  H er stomach lurched. Melanie handed the child to Finley then rushed to the corner to throw up. As she heaved, bringing up nothing, she wondered when she’d last eaten. Yesterday? The day before? She became aware of a man’s voice hurrying the children outside. When she turned to see Finley put the smallest child down and pull her toward the door, the man in the brown hat entered. He filled up the doorway, blocking enough light to prevent anything distinguishable she might recall later.

  With a cold, unemotional glare followed by a cough, she wiped her mouth. She forced herself to squint in resentment at the man who wore what looked like a lack of sympathy. The attempt at attitude gave her a little more confidence at being in control of an out-of-control situation. With a deep breath, he removed a canteen from around his neck and brought it to her. When she didn’t take it, he unscrewed the cap and forced it in her face.

  “Safe. Drink.” In spite of a heavy accent, the man in the brown hat spoke good English.

  Melanie shook her head wondering where the water came from, if it carried disease and other dangerous microbes that might kill her.

  “Drink. Water good. Not hurt you.”

  The thirst overrode her fear of death as she grabbed the canteen and gulped down the water. Melanie drank so deep and fast, she choked. Brown Hat Man took the canteen from her then made it ready to travel. He stepped aside and jerked his head toward the door. With reluctant feet, she moved toward the open door.

  The fresh air agreed with her unsettled stomach as she reflected on what the Finley woman told her. “You killed a man.” What man? I could never kill anyone. The Ten Commandments echoed somewhere in her subconscious. She remembered going to Sunday school and listening to stories about Moses and the burning bush where God spoke to him. Every Easter, her family watched the Charleston Heston movie, The Ten Commandments. The recollection gave her peace, knowing just this part of her life remained a mystery.

  “You killed a man.” The words leaked out, a whisper from her lips. It now sounded like a repeating echo in her brain. Melanie raised her face up to the sun and inhaled deeply before pulling a long piece of fabric over her head.

  “Miss Melanie, what do we do?” The teenage girl, Shirin, with the haunted expression plastered across her face sought guidance.

  She didn’t like the name Melanie. It didn’t sound familiar or match up with who she felt she might be. She dared to glance at the men standing by sturdy horses with thick, unbrushed coats. The yaks, loaded with large burdens of red bundles that squeezed out from under a canvas-type material reminded her of how far she’d wandered from civilization. The lumbering giants shook their heads against the line looped through their nose rings. Grunts of impatience drew Melanie’s attention back to their bundles. Were they drug runners? That was a way of life in some parts of the world.

  A gust of wind blew her head scarf back and several of the men stole glances at her exposed head. Melanie felt she should not acknowledge their interest but couldn’t resist being obstinate. They kept pointing to their eyes then said something like colors in their tongue. She wondered if her eyes had changed from blue to violet like they sometimes did when she got angry or were these men planning something sinister. That idea caused her heart to pound so hard she laid a hand against her breast in fear. The thought she’d killed someone from this group stirred her to further irritation. What had evoked such violence in her? She dug in her heels, unsure of what she should do next. Melanie took in her surroundings for clues.

  Desolate and beautiful came to mind, as she glimpsed the distant mountains and grassy plains. The cold temperature chilled her as the wind gusted across the sparse vegetation. In spite of the briskness, she had the feeling it might be late summer or at least near fall in this part of the world. The littlest child—she remembered someone calling her Arzo earlier—came to her and caught hold of her leg. Even through her jeans, Melanie could feel the chill of the little hands. Laying a hand on the child’s head, she pulled her tight against her leg. Melanie turned to see Brown Hat Man watching her.

  A frown of disfavor fell on her before he shifted his gaze to his men. At a jerk of his chin upward, they moved toward the little girls, scooping them up one by one, despite their screams and cries of protest. The sour-faced man from earlier grabbed the Finley woman, but she appeared to be in a trance and unable to resist. One by one, they were tossed onto the horses then joined by a rider. Their horses pranced as if anxious to get moving. Melanie and the smallest child remained on their feet.

  Brown Hat Man stormed toward her and picked her up. Every nerve ending in her body tensed as he threw her over his shoulder like a sack of feed. Even though she pounded his back, his grip remained tight until he managed to throw her onto his horse while another man held the bridle with a firm hand. The small child screamed for Miss Melanie, tears gushing down her face. Brown Hat Man went back to the child and kneeled beside her. He patted the top of her head then tickled her cheek. The child said something to him and he held his arms wide to her.

  He lifted the child as if afraid she might break and handed her up to Melanie who wrapped her in her robe. The man swung into the saddle and whistled as the group moved out across the empty plain toward the mountains.

  The slow, methodical bounce of the horse caused Melanie to hold tight to the man who seemed to be responsible for some kind of rescue. The other possibility meant their capture pointed them toward an unknown nightmare. She feared what lay ahead for two women and a group of children. Exhausted, she laid her cheek against his back and felt the child do the same. Dreams formed of an older man giving her advice that started her on a journey of piecing her life together.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sacramento, California

  “Dr. Ervin, what do you think of this?” Tessa brought the professor a shard found near Petra, Jordon. “This is a letter from the Hebrew alphabet.”

  The older man looked up from his microscope with a bland expression. She’d never impressed her mentor and apparently this discovery was no different. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, examined the shard with skeptical interest, and handed it back to her.

  “Well? Is it significant?”

  “Yes,” he mumbled.

  Tessa held up the shard to the light and examined it. “I knew it. What does it all mean?”

  Th
e professor grinned as he returned his attention to a slide of a scrap of fabric he’d found on his last dig outside Petra. “Made in China.”

  “What?” Tessa felt like a deflated balloon. “But…”

  The professor took the shard back and pointed to the inside. “See this? Too porous. My guess it’s a tourist’s throwaway. Realized they’d been had and gave it a toss rather than try to get it home. Worthless.”

  She exhaled an exasperated sigh through puckered lips causing a fluttering sound. The professor laughed.

  “Why am I here?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about pottery.”

  “It’s not so much learning about pottery as it is learning to spot fakes, whether it’s a person, one of those fancy handbags Dr. Cordova carries, or”—he laid the shard down next to him—“a priceless piece of the past. Learn how to spot subtle clues leading to the truth.”

  “Dr. Ervin, I’m playing catch up here. I sit in a class or do research for Enigma all day and for what?” She pulled up a stool next to the professor and propped her elbows on the table, which shook. He frowned and she withdrew her elbows. “Sorry.”

  “You serve a grateful president.” He turned to adjust the slide under the microscope. “You saved his life and now he is returning the favor.”

  “By sticking me behind a desk? I thought when I agreed to join Enigma I’d be a field agent, not a grad assistant to some snarky psychiatrist with a Bruce Lee complex. No. Wait a minute.” Tessa rolled her eyes up and laid a finger on her chin. “No. This week he is a wise Buddhist monk who has taken to calling me grasshopper.” She threw her hands in the air. “Ugh.”

  Dr. Ervin chuckled and leaned back to observe his newest friend. “You shouldn’t speak of Dr. Wu with such disrespect. Still”—he chuckled again—“you are very funny, Tessa. It is no wonder the captain finds you so engaging.”

  The last comment deepened her frown. She diverted her attention to the ceiling then chewed the inside of her bottom lip. “Humph,” seemed to be the most intelligent response she could muster considering the good professor watched her with growing curiosity.

  The captain he mentioned was a literature professor at the University of Sacramento Science and Technology. Tessa had laughed out loud the first time she’d heard about his day job. She knew him as Captain Chase Hunter, the major pain in the neck she’d tangled with during an attempted terrorist attack at an isotope plant in Northern California. Their relationship became a complicated battle of wills during which they realized divine intervention sometimes played cruel tricks.

  Their paths went in different directions for a time. When Tessa found herself intertwined with an attempt on the president’s life, they were thrown together again. This time, their volatile partnership helped her to admit Captain Hunter meant more to her than she realized. She both idolized and despised him, feeling a dangerous kind of excitement. His military attitude drove her to become a reckless risk taker whose behavior often got her into trouble. But Captain Hunter would be there to catch her when she fell. Somehow, it became a partnership laced with dangerous potholes.

  Even now, his words echoed in her mind and her heart. I will always come for you if you are in trouble. I will always protect you, Tessa Scott.

  “Tessa? Earth to Tessa.” He poked a finger on her knee.

  “Sorry. Thinking about what I need to get done today.” She slid off the stool and patted him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you and Martha come over tonight for dinner? Robert plans to grill some salmon. Interested?” Dr. and Martha Ervin were her next-door neighbors. Martha helped take care of Tessa’s three children when grad school or Enigma got in the way.

  “Oh. I thought your husband left town on business for a few days.”

  “Got back yesterday. Took today off. Dinner is at six.”

  Dr. Ervin offered a weak smirk. “Tessa, I know you are new with Enigma and you have a lot of questions of who we are and what we do. Trust me when I say our benefactors support us because they have lost faith in the government’s ability to do the right thing. The president is trying to make our country strong again. Some things even the CIA and FBI can’t do, we can.”

  Tessa took a deep breath and shrugged acceptance. She planted a quick kiss on his forehead. “Gotta go. I’m meeting Dr. Cordova for lunch.”

  Dr. Ervin raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You and Samantha becoming friends?”

  Tessa laughed then spoke in a witch’s voice and rubbed her hands together. “Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.”

  “Play nice. She is a top agent. You can learn a great deal from her.”

  “So far she’s taught me fifty ways to kill your lover. She must have been the inspiration for the song.”

  Dr. Ervin chuckled as he waved her off and turned back to his microscope.

  ~ ~ ~

  Near Pamir Mountains, Afghanistan

  Hands pulled her from the horse. She hadn’t realized they’d stopped or Brown Hat Man had already dismounted. The little girl stood on the ground looking up at her. At first, she didn’t like the man’s hands touching her but realized he helped her dismount. They felt hard even beneath the layers of clothing he wore. When her feet touched the ground, she stood inches from his body.

  She pushed past him to scoop up the little girl into her arms. Little hands touched both of her cheeks as the child kissed her and turned her face back and forth until she laughed and swung her around. At a sharp jab of pain in her hip, she decided to place Arzo back on the ground. She watched the other men pulling food from their saddlebags and offering it to their captives.

  “I’m so sore,” the Finley woman complained. “I haven’t ridden for thirty years or more. You look at ease riding behind the guy who seems to be in charge.” She surveyed the surroundings as if she might be considering a possible vacation destination. Some of the color had come back to her face—the constant wind likely had something to do with the improvement. “Any idea where we are?”

  She searched the landscape for clues as she remembered a man’s voice. “Look for clues which lead to the truth,” she whispered.

  “Like what?” The woman put her hands on her hips and turned in a circle. “We are in the middle of nowhere. I’m cold and these guys aren’t anything like the Taliban who broke in on us two, three days ago. Those are the clues. They seem harmless enough. See how they treat the children.”

  Without shifting her position, she shifted her eyes to the men squatting down to offer food to the little girls. The oldest girl had been approached by one of the younger riders, the same one she’d knocked to the ground earlier. He spoke to Shirin and offered her something to drink.

  “Potential wives is what they see.” Going to Shirin, she grabbed her hand before pulling her to the Finley woman’s side. “Stay away from him,” she ordered in Pashto. “He’s up to no good.”

  Shirin glanced at the women then back at the young man who now scowled. “But why, Miss Melanie? He is kind. Rashid tries to help.”

  “He’s a man, and in this part of the world being a young unveiled woman means you have no respect for Islam. That could be a death sentence. He’s too young to afford you.” She stole a glance at Brown Hat Man who led his horse to a small watering hole. “See the big guy who is in charge and bosses everyone around? Chances are good he’ll sell you to some old man in the village where they’re taking us. You’re strong and can make babies.” She took a second to take in the beautiful sky. “Why is it no matter how hard life is for a woman, all over the world, they expect romance and a knight in shining armor?” The girl bowed her head as if shamed. She reached out and lifted her chin in her palm. “Don’t you hang your head down around these men. It’s a sign of submissive weakness. Do you understand what I’m saying?” The girl shook her head. The young man glared and pointed his finger in her direction as he made his way over to Brown Hat Man.

  The younger rider rattled on with words she couldn’t understand at that speed. Brown Hat Man listened without comment.
Even though he stood some twenty feet away, impatience filled his stance and glare. Only his hands moved, switching the reins from one to the other. When the young Rashid walked away to tend to his duties, Brown Hat Man continued to watch her. His head cocked a little to the side as he ran his hand down the front of his pant leg.

  She’d better tread with caution in spite of not understanding what the gesture meant. She didn’t believe in all the romantic crap about the strong, silent type. After all, the captain was the strong, silent type and he killed people for a living.

  She jerked around as if a bee stung her. What captain? She didn’t remember being in the military? “Ms. Finley?”

  “Please call me Bonnie. I’m sick of the way you try to be so respectful.” She lifted her chin up to catch some sun. “Makes me feel old.”

  “I’m having a little trouble here…Bonnie. I’m afraid I can’t remember much about the last few days or how I got here.” She pulled her to the side and lowered her voice. “I’ve got some serious gaps. Am I in the military?”

  Bonnie shook her head, concern showing in her creased brow. “No. You are on loan from the State Department’s Office of International Goodwill. Someone on the president’s staff recommended you to come with me to a women’s conference. You were to speak about being a mother and the importance of education for their daughters.”

  She thought about the new information for a moment. “But I’m a geographer.” A lightbulb turned on in her head. “I’m a cultural geographer at a university. At least I think that’s what I am.”

  Bonnie lowered her gaze to her with a pensive expression. “I know. I understood you had a detailed knowledge of Central Asia.”

  She rubbed her head. The aspirins were wearing off. “Where was the conference?”

  “Kyrgyzstan, of all places.”

  With a new understanding of the landscape, she thought out loud. “Makes sense. Kyrgyzstan is at the crossroads of the other ‘Stan’ countries. There’s still influence from the old Soviet power lords, but the young are going back to the ways of their ancestors. Trouble is, many of the Soviets who lived there for decades are now more Kyrgs, Kazaks, Tajiks or whatever, than they are Russian. They hang onto a past they never knew and are not sure of what to embrace now.”