Cover image: On the Move in the Metro © PeopleImages, courtesy istockphoto.com
Cover design copyright © 2015 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2015 by Traci Hunter Abramson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: April 2015
ISBN 978-1-68047-348-3
For Samantha Millburn
Thank you for helping me become the writer I am today.
Acknowledgments
First, I would like to thank Mandy Abramson, Rebecca Cummings, and Samantha Millburn for your editing expertise and for helping me discover this story. Thank you to my family for your continued support, and a special thanks to the Pennsylvania Abramsons for giving me a glimpse into life in your community.
My sincere gratitude goes to the many people who have carried me through my crazy schedule, especially Jen Leigh, Stephanie Read, and Darlene Sullivan. And thank you to Paige Edwards, Kat Brown, and Kanani Cox for your constant encouragement.
Thank you to the dedicated individuals on the CIA Publication Review Board for your efficient and valuable service. Finally, my continued thanks to the wonderful people in the Covenant family who continue to support my endeavors and allow me to do what I love.
Chapter 1
Charlotte swiveled in her chair to look at the other two people in the office. Sometimes being the youngest person at work was a disadvantage. Working for her father often complicated matters further.
She stood up, knowing she wasn’t going to win this particular battle, but she wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to needle her father. “Why is it always my turn to get lemonade?”
Dwight Martin offered a weak grin and ran his fingers through his gray hair in a habitual gesture. “I’d say it’s because you’re a girl, but I value my life.”
“I would hope so.” She fought back the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Everyone in town assumed she helped her father on their family farm. The truth was they were both employed by the National Security Agency and worked out of a hidden office in the barn on their family’s property. “Kurt is your assistant. Doesn’t that make fetching drinks his job?”
“I’m still learning,” Kurt reminded her. “You already know all the tricks for this database, so it won’t hurt you to take a break.”
“She should know all the tricks,” Dwight announced with a strong sense of fatherly pride. “She helped write the programming.”
“And a good job she did of it too.” Kurt put his feet up on the long table they shared as a desk only to have Dwight swat them off. Kurt just shrugged and grinned good-naturedly. He was in his midthirties, only ten years older than Charlotte, but his job was to learn the ropes so he could replace her dad when he retired.
Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “You guys are just trying to butter me up.”
“Is it working?” her dad asked.
She cocked her head to the side. “Maybe.”
“You know, you could bring us some of that banana bread you made yesterday.”
“I could . . . had you not eaten the last of it for breakfast.” Charlotte gave a shake of her head and started toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“You know I love you, Charlie,” her dad called after her.
A chuckle escaped her. “I love you too, Dad.”
* * *
Jake stood in the kitchen. His mother’s kitchen.
He breathed in the lingering scent of cinnamon muffins, undoubtedly the last thing his mother had baked before setting out the day before. He could hardly believe she was gone. Memories washed over him, and he closed his eyes to fight against the tears that threatened.
How long had it been since he had stood here listening to his mother hum to herself as she fiddled around in the brightly lit room with the sunny yellow walls, baking for her own family as well as half the neighbors? Jake looked through the wide windows over the sink at the familiar view, one his father had always said was worthy of a spot on a gallery wall. Rolling green hills, scattered trees with their leaves lush and full, white split-rail fences separating the various fields and pastures, all spread out beneath the clear blue sky.
It seemed wrong somehow that such a perfect day could occur now that his parents were no longer here to enjoy it.
For a moment the past captured his thoughts. Early-morning breakfasts shared before the sun came up, his mother scolding him for not taking off his boots before walking across her clean hardwood floor, the sound of voices when friends came to visit and share the latest news.
He reflected briefly on the many things that had driven him away from the rural farming community—the feeling of being trapped in someone else’s future, of being expected to live someone else’s past. Pushing the negative memories aside, he let himself remember the things he loved about his childhood home.
This land was rich with family history, stories passed down from generation to generation. His own grandfather used to sit with him by the fire, telling stories of how his own great-grandfather had purchased the land more than a decade before the Civil War began. With over four hundred acres, much of the wooded portion of the land had been preserved when Jackson Clark, an attorney and writer, had built the stately home overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia.
Over the years, Jackson Clark’s descendants had turned the estate into a working farm, raising horses, cattle, and crops. Jake’s hearing the stories as a boy and feeling the link to his rich heritage had been such a joy. He was the third Jackson Clark Bradford, the fifth to carry the name Jackson Clark as a symbol of where his family had come from and the deep roots they had within this community.
The expectations and pressure to follow his ancestors’ path had settled over him as he’d grown older, and by the time he’d reached his teenage years, Jake had found himself restless. He resented the lack of his own identity. Sharing the name of his ancestors felt like a noose strangling him, an invisible force dictating a future he didn’t want. He wasn’t like his father and grandfather, who loved spending their time tending to the land. No, he shared a common bond with the man who had built this house. He had been born to write.
Jake heard footsteps behind him, the clicking of heels against the hardwood floor, and he didn’t have to turn to know who it was. His back stiffened at the thought of the expected confrontation, yet the words, the coldness of them, still surprised him.
“They’re dead because of you.” The anger in his younger sister’s voice shot an arrow straight through his heart. How many times had he heard this tone from his sister, always accusing, always argumentative? Yet never before had her words been so true.
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His silence added fuel to the fire of Kennedy’s anger.
“If you had just stayed on the farm, none of this would have happened.”
Jake fought against the guilt, his jaw clenching. Only two days ago he had been so excited about the prospect of a visit from his parents. The timing had been perfect. He had just finished his book tour for his latest novel, and the revisions for his next one were already in his editor’s hands. Taking a week off before star
ting his next project seemed like an easy sacrifice to make if it meant spending time with his parents.
He hadn’t expected to take that week off to attend their funerals.
The cause of the accident was still under investigation, but the initial report indicated that a car on the highway had crossed the center line and hit his parents’ car head on. The police said both of them died instantly.
Kennedy was right. They would still be alive if he had followed his father’s wishes and stayed on the farm, learning the business so he could take over someday. They would be alive . . . and he would be dead. A different kind of death, for sure, but a death nonetheless.
He drew a breath and forced himself to face his sister. “There was no way I could have known this would happen. Besides, it’s not like you stayed.”
“At least I’m still in Virginia.”
“You’re two hours away. I’m six hours away. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that I’m close enough to come home and visit. You never do,” Kennedy said. “Besides, it’s not like I had a choice. I got married. My husband’s practice is in Arlington.”
“And my job is in New York,” Jake countered.
“You’re an author. You could write anywhere.”
“Dad didn’t want me to write here or anywhere else. He wanted me to be a farmer, just like him and Grandpa, and all of the other Bradfords and Clarks who came before them.”
“Don’t give me that. He built you that nice little bungalow so you could live here and have your privacy when you wanted to write and hide from the family.”
“And that worked great for a while, as long as I only wrote as a hobby, a couple hours at night once the sun went down,” Jake said. “My writing isn’t just a hobby though. It’s a career. Dad was never going to support that as long as I lived here.”
“Maybe not, but now we’ll never know, will we? All because you had to go live in the city so you could climb the best-seller lists. You had to live the big life.”
“Kennedy, I’m sorry you don’t approve of my choices, but I want Mom and Dad back just as much as you do.”
Movement at the door caught Jake’s attention. He turned and saw Stella Bucknell standing there. The wife of the farm’s foreman, Stella had lived on the farm nearly as long as Jake had. Her brown hair had lightened over the years, the bits of gray near the roots indicating she was due for a trip to the beauty salon. Though she was in her fifties, she still had an athletic build, undoubtedly from helping her husband on the farm when she wasn’t busy substitute teaching at the local schools.
“Hey, Stella.” Jake greeted her. “Come on in.”
“Your grandmother let me in. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
“I just came by to offer my condolences. Your parents were good people, and they will be missed by all who had the opportunity to know them.”
Jake blinked several times against tears that threatened and wondered if he would ever get past the flood of emotions and the awkward pauses and worried looks they always invoked.
Kennedy took a step toward the doorway leading into the dining room. “I’d better go get settled in.”
As soon as she left, Stella said, “She’s wrong, you know.”
“What?” Jake said, taken aback.
“Your decision to move to New York didn’t cause your parents’ deaths. We can’t begin to explain why tragedies like this happen, but putting blame on someone’s shoulders isn’t going to do anyone any good.”
“I doubt Kennedy is going to agree with you about that right now.”
“Is she still mad that you didn’t marry her best friend?”
“Apparently so. You’d think after ten years she would get over it,” Jake said. The sad truth was that after Jake broke up with Desiree shortly after high school, Kennedy always seemed to be mad about something. He understood that the two women had made plans to be sisters-in-law, but he could hardly be expected to fall in line just because they’d decided to dictate a future for him that he didn’t want for himself. He supposed it was yet another expectation he couldn’t fulfill.
“She’s hurting. It will all work out in time.”
“I hope so,” Jake said. “I really appreciate you dropping by.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.” Stella put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And remember, none of this is your fault.”
Jake watched her go and prayed that somehow he could believe it.
Chapter 2
Charlotte set two glasses of lemonade on a serving tray and debated whether she should dig out some of the cookies she had hidden in the freezer the way her mom used to do. Her dad simply couldn’t be trusted when it came to having sweets around. She knew she had probably been indulging him a bit more than she should since her mom died a few months ago, but, somehow, baking in her mom’s kitchen made her feel like she was still connected to her. She experienced the common pang of loss that often came in these quiet moments alone.
The pop of a car backfiring brought her back to the present on their rural Pennsylvania farm. She straightened, listening for any sign of an engine. Had she heard one earlier? It was, after all, midday, and it was possible one of the farmhands had headed out to lunch after working in the south fields. The popping sound repeated, and Charlotte’s mind slowly wrapped around what had really caused the noise: gunshots.
Her phone chimed, followed by a third shot.
Fear consumed her, overshadowing the years of training her father had guided her through. Her phone chimed a second time, a reminder of the text message she had yet to read. Struggling to focus, she looked past the serving tray and glanced down at where her phone lay on the kitchen counter. She read the computer-generated message on the screen, a message she had prayed she would never see. System override. Failsafe procedures initiated.
Her hand gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, and a tremor pulsed through her. This wasn’t possible. She was just with her dad five minutes ago. Only one thing could have caused him to shut down the program.
“No,” she whispered to herself.
The sound of a door slamming sent a jolt straight through her heart. Through the white lace curtains, she saw a beige SUV parked beside the barn. The barn door opened, and a man she’d never seen before walked outside. His red hair was cut short, his beard neatly trimmed, a long-barreled pistol gripped in his hand. Charlotte felt her chest constrict like the air in her lungs was trapped there, waiting to burst free.
The man’s eyes swept the wide lawn between the barn and the house. His face was hard and expressionless. When his gaze settled on the kitchen window, Charlotte felt like he was looking right at her. Afraid to move, she simply stared, a corner of her mind trying to flip through her memories of what she should do in such a situation. When she saw him take a step toward the house, her body finally regained its ability to move.
She jerked back from the window, her cell phone still gripped in her hand. To her horror, the man broke into a run and headed straight for the front door.
The instinct to flee overwhelmed her. Go! The word echoed through her mind as though it had been shouted at full volume, and it overshadowed the pounding of her heart.
Charlotte grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter and raced out the back door to where her car was parked. She fumbled for her keys in the outside pocket of her purse and climbed behind the wheel. The second the engine roared to life, she threw the car into reverse and pressed on the accelerator hard enough to make the gravel in the driveway fly up. Just as she shifted into drive, the back door of the house flew open, and the man emerged on the stoop.
She stomped on the gas. The wheels spun and sent more gravel flying.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror sent another jolt of terror pulsing through her.
The man lifted his gun and took aim, the process clicking through Charlotte’s brain in slow motion. The car vibrated violently when the gunshot
impacted the rear window. She bit back a scream as the glass shattered.
Any thoughts of helping her dad and Kurt were erased by reality when a second shot shattered the little bit of glass that hadn’t already exploded into the car. Her only way to help was to escape.
The back end fishtailed as the wheels fought for traction. Charlotte kept her foot on the gas, praying she could make it down the tree-lined driveway and away from the only real home she’d ever known.
* * *
Ace looked down at the message on his secure cell phone with disbelief. Failsafe. The single word carried so much meaning. For him and the six others like him, it meant life as they knew it was over.
For the past twenty years, nearly half his life, he had lived in the shadows of society, always aware of what was going on in the world but rarely being seen interacting with it. He had been the first to enter the guardian program, a system designed specifically to create an invisible shield around him and others like him. They served when hope appeared to be lost; they protected in places other Americans couldn’t go. Now it appeared the anonymity that allowed them to function had been compromised, if not shattered completely.
Each of the seven guardians had once lived normal lives, with real names, real friends, real homes. The reasons for their entrance into the highly classified program varied, but they all shared a similar sense of patriotism and a need for anonymity. And they had all left their previous lives behind in the form of a grave marker.
All of the guardians had undoubtedly received the message he was looking at on his phone, a warning that their identities could be compromised. Even more disconcerting was the other information stored within the guardian database: a complete list of every undercover operative working within the United States intelligence service agencies.
Aware that the host computers for the database were located on the Martin farm, Ace opened his tablet and pulled up a program that allowed him to listen into local police activity. When he discovered only silence, he knew he was helpless to do anything but wait.
Failsafe Page 1
