Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  No one was more surprised than Ciara, when Pastor Boone introduced them at dinner that night. His soft-spokenness, his sense of humor, his intelligence, surprised her as much as the polished manners and thoughtfulness that had him pulling out chairs, opening doors and fetching a refill of punch before she’d emptied her cup.

  Like Cinderella, she’d fallen in love before the clock struck twelve.

  Smiling, she snuggled deep into his recliner and inhaled its faint leathery scent. Running her fingers over well-worn arms, she closed her eyes and remembered the little boy who’d clung to the pool’s ladder that first day. She’d thought it unfair at the time, a bit mean, even, the way he’d ignored the child. But when the game ended and the older kids headed off to catch a movie in the theater, she understood why he hadn’t interfered…the child was terrified of the water.

  Somehow, Mitch convinced him to let go of the ladder. Holding the boy close, he’d walked back and forth in the pool’s shallow end, letting the youngster’s toes drag the water’s surface. The kid hadn’t seem to notice, as he giggled in response to whatever Mitch was whispering into his ears, that he was being taken deeper, deeper…

  Two hours later the kid was doing an awkward breast stroke…on his own.

  Mitch had taught her about lovemaking in that same gentle, patient way. The size of a man, she learned that day, was not a barometer of his capacity for tenderness. Even now she only needed to remember their wedding night, when she had trembled, like a child afraid of the water, for proof.

  Ciara had always taken pride in her strength, physical and emotional. What she lacked in height and weight, she believed, she more than made up for with something her grandpa had called gumption. But surrounded by Mitch’s muscular arms, she had felt precious, treasured, like a piece of priceless porcelain.

  Inwardly she gave a halfhearted smile. It’s your own fault, Mitch Mahoney, that I’ve become the kind of woman I’ve always despised…weak, whining, clingy….

  Sighing deeply, she rehashed their argument. If I had it to do over, she thought, I would never have brought up the subject of his job.

  Mitch had always been forthright about everything, especially his work. He’d told her how long and hard he’d worked to earn his current status within the Bureau. And she had thought she was being honest with him. “I’m a cop’s daughter,” she’d told him when he’d pointed out that being married to an FBI guy wouldn’t be easy. “If I don’t know what to expect from marriage to an officer of the law, who does?” She’d gone into the relationship with her eyes wide open, thinking her strength—her gumption—would see her through those trying, worrisome times when he was late and didn’t call. She would not whimper and nag, not even in the name of love, as her mother had done….

  The trouble was Ciara had not counted on loving him this much. Everything changed when she realized that without him life would be empty, meaningless, terrifying. It would be easier now for her to be more understanding of her Mom, she knew.

  So what had she done, the very first time she was put to the test? She’d acted like a spoiled brat, that’s what. Ashamed—and a little embarrassed—Ciara hid behind her hands. You asked him to give it all up, because—

  Because she’d turned on the tiny TV in the kitchen, hoping to catch the evening news as she’d loaded supper dishes into the dishwasher. It hadn’t mattered that she’d never heard of Special Agent Abe Carlson before. The story affected her as much as it would have if the stranger had been Mitch’s best man, or if he’d lived next door. The live footage of him, young and handsome…and dying in the arms of a fellow agent…had sent a tremor through her that had made her drop the saucepan she’d been holding. “What are those reporters thinking?” she’d asked Mitch. “What if his wife sees this film clip? Or one of his kids? They’d have that picture in their memories, forever….”

  Mitch’s gaze had been glued to the screen, too, and she’d watched his expression of horror turn to grief as he put his plate in the sink and silently left the room. She hadn’t asked if he’d ever met Abe. Instead, she’d followed him into the living room, and like a pampered little girl, told him to give it all up, just like that.

  “You knew what I did for a living when we met,” he’d said. And he’d been right. As a good Christian wife, didn’t she owe it to him to at least try to be supportive and understanding?

  The question gave her new resolve. When he returned—soon she hoped, peeking at the clock—Ciara would show him that she’d married him for better or for worse. You never complained about the “better”—the thoughtful little things he did, the constant praise, the sweet lovemaking—so stop whining about the “worse.”

  “I’ve always been careful,” he’d told her, “even before I had a beautiful wife to come home to.” Being loving and understanding, even when it was tough, couldn’t help but improve his chances out there in the mean streets. She would give her handsome young husband plenty of reasons to survive the day-to-day dangers that were a routine part of his job, because underneath it all—beneath the fear that he’d be hurt—or worse—she loved him.

  Lord, she prayed, please give me the strength to prove it—help me become the wife he deserves.

  Lieutenant Chet Bradley knew better than to question the Colombian. He’d ordered men killed for slamming doors, for interrupting telephone conversations, for talking out of turn. No one dared cross him; to complain was tantamount to suicide.

  He’d been paid well for doctoring files and losing the evidence that would have sent the gangster back to his homeland, not in cash, but in pure, uncut cocaine, whenever and in any amount he requested, no questions asked.

  Since the recent deaths of several mules, the Colombian and the U.S. governments had increased the pressure on transport of the white gold. “It’s no longer worth the risk,” Pericolo explained, ushering Bradley to the door. “Don’t be a glutton,” he added, handing the agent a small pouch, “for you’ll get no more from me.”

  He’d had to be careful to keep his “fast lane” life in the shadows, so his top-of-the-line stereo equipment, designer clothes, and upscale vacations were things he’d had to hide from fellow agents. If he allowed even one of them to see the way he lived, they’d know in a minute he was on the take, because his lifestyle was impossible on an agent’s salary alone.

  No one knew that better than Bradley.

  He supposed he could get used to living within his means again, as he had when he’d joined the agency. But he didn’t want to.

  And now, his money supply was dead.

  “You look like you just lost your best friend,” said Pericolo’s next-in-command.

  “Not yet,” Bradley said, “but it could be terminal….”

  “Naw,” Chambro said, dropping an arm around Bradley’s shoulders. “There are things we can do to, shall we say, save you.”

  Hope gleamed in Bradley’s green eyes. “Yeah? What?”

  “Let me walk with you to your automobile, Mr. Agent,” the younger Colombian said, “let us talk.”

  In a hushed voice, Chambro spelled it out: He wanted control of the Pericolo empire, and he could get it…if he got rid of the boss. A few “favors” for Chambro—information leaked, files misplaced, evidence that would get Pericolo out of Chambro’s way permanently—and Bradley would be guaranteed a continued supply of ready, untraceable cash. The would-be ruler leaned on Bradley’s car door. “I’ll leave the details to you, Mr. Agent. I am sure you can come up with a way we can—how do you Americans put it?—kill two birds with one stone.” He gave Bradley a jaunty salute, and left him to consider his options.

  Three days, Bradley said to himself. You’ve got three days to figure out how to get rid of Pericolo….

  And then he knew.

  Something Chambro had said reverberated in his head: “Two birds with one stone,” he said, grinning. “Two birds with one stone….”

  Mitch never left his office desk lamp on, so the dim light glowing from his cubicle puzzled him. />
  Lieutenant Chet Bradley hunched over Mitch’s desk, riffling through his Rolodex. “Hey,” Bradley said, holding up a card that read “Mahoney, Mitch.” “I was just about to call you.”

  Mitch slid his briefcase onto the desktop, glanced at his wristwatch. “Good thing I’m here, then, ’cause it’s nearly ten. Kinda late to be calling me at home, isn’t it?” he asked, relieving Bradley of the card and returning it to the Rolodex.

  He didn’t know why, but being around this guy always gave Mitch an uneasy feeling. Maybe it’s that weird grin, he told himself; shows every tooth in his head, but it never quite reaches his eyes….

  But his mistrust of Bradley went deeper than any grin and farther back than he cared to remember. He’d hoped that once Bradley assumed his role as boss, the resentment would fade.

  It had not.

  The proof? He’d gone a long way in his years with the Bureau, but since being assigned to Bradley, Mitch had been given only the dullest, most routine cases, instead of the “newsmakers” he’d grown accustomed to working on. It seemed Bradley was trying to bore him to death…or kill his career.

  Bradley made himself comfortable in Mitch’s chair and pointed to a thick manila file folder. “Have a seat, Mahoney.”

  Mitch sat in the chair across from his own desk.

  “It’s like this,” Bradley began, thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “we’re this close to nabbing Giovanni Pericolo.”

  Mitch knew that for years the agency had been trying to put the Colombian away—or, at the very least, have him kicked back to his homeland at the end of a steel-toed boot—but like a greased pig, Pericolo had always managed to slide through the system before they could even issue a warrant that would stick. “What’s the charge this time?”

  Bradley adjusted the knot of his navy tie. “Tax evasion.”

  “Like Capone?” Mitch chuckled quietly, despite the fact that his head still ached from having argued with Ciara. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “It’ll stick, provided we can get copies of certain, ah, financial documents.”

  Understanding dawned on Mitch. “Ahhh, so that’s why you’re here. You want me ‘inside.’”

  Like a rear-window doggy, Bradley nodded. “Philadelphia, to be specific.”

  If this don’t beat all, Mitch grumbled to himself. I’m lookin’ down the barrel of the best case he ever offered me, but— But how could he accept it, after what had just happened at home? Ciara had been harping on the dangers of his job ever since their wedding night, when she’d noticed his bullet wound. Maybe if this case wasn’t going to be dangerous…

  Mitch scrubbed a weary hand over his face. It had all happened so fast. How would he explain to his boss that during his two-week vacation to the islands, he’d seen Ciara onboard ship and gone completely nuts. Except for the hours between midnight and 6:00 a.m., they’d spent every minute of the cruise together, and it had been pretty much the same story once they’d gone home. Two months to the day after he’d met her, he’d put a ring on her finger. One month later they’d been married, quietly, because that’s the way they’d wanted it. And what with shopping for a house and packing and moving, he hadn’t been able to find the time to tell his boss about it.

  “I don’t know if you heard, but I just got married….”

  He couldn’t tell if Bradley was very surprised or very angry. Mitch sensed an imaginary noose hovering over his head.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he added, “but—”

  “Is this the little woman?” Bradley asked, picking up the photograph on Mitch’s desk.

  He nodded, and the loop dropped onto his shoulders.

  The lieutenant’s wolf whistle pierced the silence. “How’d you get a beauty like that?” he asked, putting the photo back.

  Mitch’s heart lurched as he glanced at her sweet, smiling face framed in silver. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman and more. I wonder how she’d answer that question, if it was put to her right now? he asked himself. “Just lucky, I guess,” he said, and meant it.

  “I guess you know this puts us in a bind, Mahoney. We don’t like sending married men under…not for stuff like this.”

  He swallowed as the rope tightened.

  “But you’re the best man on my team.”

  Mitch shot the lieutenant a look that said “What?”

  “You were handpicked for this one, Mahoney.” He tapped his forefingers together.

  Mitch sat up straighter. “To be frank…”

  “But I have to warn you, this won’t be an easy one.”

  He’d been around long enough to know what that meant; it was FBI code for “high risk.” Which was exactly what had bothered Ciara about his job. And, too, he couldn’t get Bradley’s threat, made years ago on the obstacle course at Quantico, out of his mind: “One of these days, I’ll have the upper hand, and you’ll know how it feels to be bested.” Mitch had “bested” other guys on the gun range, in footraces, on exams, and they hadn’t taken it personally….

  Now I’m supposed to believe he thinks I’m the “best man” to haul in a guy at the top of the FBI’s Most Wanted list? Maybe he isn’t trying to kill my career, maybe he wants to kill me….

  Mitch ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “How long would I be, ah, in Philadelphia?”

  “You know that’s impossible to predict. But if I had to guess, I’d say a week, maybe two.”

  He couldn’t leave Ciara that long. Not after what had just happened between them. Besides, he’d told her he would be back in a couple of hours. “Sorry, boss. No can do,” he said emphatically. “Get yourself another man, because—”

  “Let me make something perfectly clear, Mahoney—we don’t have time to get another man. You’re goin’ in, and I’m gonna be your point man or else. Get the point?”

  Mitch bristled. He wouldn’t have trusted Bradley to get a black-coffee order straight, let alone act as his only means of communication with his wife and the people who could pull him out if things got rough. He nodded at the file folder. “How much time will I have to prepare if—”

  The lieutenant pulled back the cuff of his left shirt-sleeve and glanced at his watch. “Not if…when. And you’re already a day late and a dollar short,” he growled.

  Instinct—and intense curiosity—compelled him to pick up the folder. Paging through its contents, Mitch found himself biting back the urge to wretch. He’d seen plenty of ugly sights in his years with the agency, but this…

  He scanned the black-and-white pictures, hand-penned notes, fading faxes and speckled photocopies that depicted Giovanni Pericolo’s life of crime. He would have a hard time forgetting any of it, particularly the photo he held. Pretty, petite, blond, the young girl reminded him of Ciara.

  Mitch’s eyes glazed as he stared at the file, unconsciously clicking his thumbnail against his top teeth. The file was full of reasons to put this guy away, but the government didn’t have a shred of evidence to connect Pericolo with these heinous crimes. Like a giant squid, the Colombian’s tentacles had reached across oceans, sucking the life from thousands of innocents. He seemed to have no particular method by which he chose his victims. Did he throw darts? Toss a coin? The girl who looked like Ciara…what if Pericolo’s random selection pattern had zeroed in on her instead?

  This was no ordinary thug. Pericolo was bad to the bone. If Mitch did manage to get in close, he’d have to keep his back to the wall at all times, because Pericolo wouldn’t hesitate for a heartbeat when deciding whether or not to kill him. The material in the file was proof of that.

  For the second time in as many minutes, he realized he’d named Ciara’s greatest fears.

  Mitch knew this case was a career maker. Truth was, if he’d been offered this carrot six months earlier, he’d have snapped it up so fast there’d have been an orange streak down the boss’s palm.

  But a lot could happen in six months. Heck, a lot could happen in half that time—he’d met, fallen
in love with and married Ciara in three. Before that he’d been responsible for himself and no one else. Now he had a wife who depended on him, and soon, he hoped, they’d have a family. What better inspiration did an officer of the law need for putting guys like Pericolo away for good?

  Mitch turned the question over in his mind. Was protecting his family the reason he wanted this assignment, or merely an excuse to do what he would have done in an instant…if he hadn’t let himself be swept off his feet by love for a five-foot, two-inch spitfire?

  He wanted to do the right thing, for the Bureau, for Ciara, for himself. But what was the right thing? Mitch drove a hand through his hair. Lord God in heaven, show me the way….

  “Maybe you could give me a little advice, here. See, my wife—”

  “Don’t look to me for marital advice,” Bradley interrupted, hands up in mock surrender. “My old lady took off for parts unknown years ago.”

  “Ciara saw the Abe Carlson thing on the evening news.”

  Bradley snorted his commiseration. “Leave it to the media to make a bad situation worse.”

  “And she knows I got myself winged back in ’90.” He shrugged. “She put two and two together, and—”

  “—came up with one dead hubby.” Bradley shook his head. “It’s tough, finding a woman who understands. When my wife left, she said right out that she didn’t have the backbone for the undercover stuff.”

  “Well, let’s face it. Hazardous duty isn’t an easy thing for a wife to live with.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Mahoney, I’m really enjoying our little heart-to-heart, but we’ve got a narrow window of opportunity, here, and we need you in Philly, like, yesterday.” Grinning crookedly, he tried to lighten the mood by adding, “You’re a CPA, with an impeccable record, and you speak fluent Spanish. You’re perfect for the job.”

  Mitch forced a thin smile. “Gracias, ser muy mandamas,” he said guardedly.

  “I can’t force you to take the case, but look at it this way—we both know there’s no love lost between us. Go to Philly and consider the hatchet buried.”