Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  Sam grinned. “Middle-age rebellion.”

  “I seem to remember you were always a rebel.”

  “I tried being respectable for a while. Didn’t work.”

  “Can you still shoot?”

  “That’s something that never goes away,” he said, sobering instantly. “Like riding a bicycle.”

  “Not exactly,” Amy said.

  Sam turned all his attention on Amy. “Your lady?”

  Irish liked the way that sounded. “Yes,” he said. “Remember it.” Then he turned to Amy. “Amy, this is an old friend, Sam. Sam, Amy.”

  Amy held out her hand, and Sam held it a fraction of a second too long. “I’m glad to meet you, Sam.”

  Sam looked at Irish. “A winner, my friend.”

  Irish watched as his old friend eyed Amy with appreciation. Sam was four inches shorter than Irish, and had to look up slightly to meet Amy’s eyes, but that didn’t seem to faze him. For a moment, Irish regretted contacting Sam. Sam always had been a ladies’ man.

  “How’s your wife, Sam?” he asked.

  Sam’s green eyes twinkled. “Long gone. Thought fishing was as bad as the military. Never at home, she said.”

  “Hell, and I thought you were the safe one.”

  “I am, old buddy.”

  Irish raised a warning eyebrow.

  Sam’s grin immediately faded, and he nodded. He took a key out of his pocket and handed it to Irish. “Room one-twelve. I’m room one-fourteen. I checked you both in. Mr. and Mrs. David Saunders.”

  “No problem with the dog?”

  “I slipped the clerk an extra twenty.” Sam glanced down at Bo, who was slinking between Amy and Irish, and panting heavily. Panic attack. Well, he’d been dragged over hell and back.

  Irish leaned down and picked Bo up. “This is a friend,” he said.

  Sam held out his hand and let the dog smell him. Bo hesitated, then his tail started wagging slowly.

  “He’s a little timid,” Amy offered.

  “Not a good watchdog, huh?”

  She looked at Irish and smiled. “He can be. When absolutely necessary. He just doesn’t like conflict.”

  “Well, that’s perfectly okay. I like that kind better.” With those words, Sam won Amy’s heart.

  Sam turned back to Irish. “The other guys are at the house. It should be ready by this evening.”

  “All the sensors? The phone tapped? Rooms wired?”

  Sam nodded. “Everything you requested, including the weapons.”

  “I’ll go over there. Directions?”

  Sam held a piece of paper out to him. “I wrote them down for you. Pretty fancy digs.”

  “I want you to stay here with Amy.”

  Amy stiffened next to him. “At least let me stay until you make the call. Then I’ll leave.”

  Irish shook his head. “I don’t want you anywhere around there.”

  “There’s two houses,” she reminded him. “Dustin Eachan’s and the neighbor’s.”

  “Yeah, and our friends—if they’re any good—will probably check out the neighboring properties.”

  “But not until you call them. I’ll be gone by then.”

  “What about Bo?” Irish asked.

  “I can take him with me.”

  Seeing the plea in her eyes, Irish surrendered. It would be safe. At least for several hours. Then … she wouldn’t feel as left out. Sam could make sure she didn’t return. Reluctantly, he nodded.

  Sam had looked from him to Amy and back again, obviously trying to ferret out the dynamics of their relationship. Then he shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll change. I thought this was the most unobtrusive way of watching for you.”

  “Unobtrusive?” Amy said with a grin. With his tan and build, he would attract any number of stares from admiring women.

  He grinned back, then walked toward the motel.

  Amy watched him with more interest than Irish would have liked. He put Bo down and took her hand. “Let’s unpack,” he said. “Then we drive to the house.”

  SEDONA, ARIZONA

  Sally tried to dissipate the awkwardness. Her mother was no more the cuddly mother she’d always wanted than she had been during Sally’s childhood. Instead, she was hesitant and reserved. Watchful and wary.

  Sally understood that. As she had grown older, she’d regretted not having a relationship with her mother, but she hadn’t known how to change it. Particularly since part of her heart died that hour she’d heard about her father’s death.

  Dustin had tried to tell her that her father was not all she had believed, that there were reasons her mother left. He had been abusive when he drank, and he drank often. But Sally had never seen that part of him. Never. She had been his princess. He’d bought her her first pony and taught her to ride. He’d hadn’t always been there, but when he was, it was magic time. Her mother, on the other hand, had been silent and withdrawn. She remembered screaming at her mother, “You never loved Daddy. You took him away from me.”

  But now, sitting in the office behind the gallery her mother owned, she felt an odd affinity for the woman whom she’d effectively cut from her life. She looked at the paintings and realized they shared more than blood. They both had a love of art and painting. Why hadn’t she realized that before? Was it because her mother hadn’t taken her in her arms and hugged her as other mothers did? She looked at her mother and realized for the first time that it might not have been lack of love, but her mother’s own reserved emotions.

  In the first hours after arriving at Sedona, they had stopped at a specialty clothing store and bought some clothes for her, then went to her mother’s house, where they had tea. Sally once more had tried to get her to leave Sedona.

  Her mother had flatly refused. “This is my home. No one is going to scare me away.”

  Sally had been frustrated, but grudgingly impressed. She’d looked around the house, which was filled with western paintings, and saw her mother’s signature on them. “You still paint?”

  “For pleasure,” her mother said. “I’m not good enough to do it commercially.”

  But she was. Sally knew that from looking at the paintings, and instantly she knew they had something else in common. If they couldn’t be the best, they opted not to compete. She studied each painting. If there was a problem, it was control. They were technically wonderful, but there was no sense of freedom in them.

  “You see it, don’t you?” her mother said.

  “They’re very good.”

  “Not good enough.”

  After tea, they went into the gallery. It featured western paintings, both originals and prints. There were also sculptures, including one Remington. Sally fondled the sculpture with wondering hands.

  She was aware that her mother was watching her, and she turned, offering a tentative smile. “You have beautiful things.”

  “You used to draw, too,” Chloe said. “Do you still?”

  “Not for a long time. But Dusty brought me some supplies, and I played with it a little.”

  “I’m glad. You were good. You had talent I didn’t have.”

  Stunned at the admission, Sally turned to her. “I always thought you were wonderful.”

  Her mother shook her head. “I can draw what I see. I can’t go beyond that.” She hesitated. “That’s what your grandfather told me, and he was right.”

  Sally was beginning to see an uncomfortable picture. She knew her grandfather was a connoisseur of fine art. She also knew how hard he was on people, particularly people who disappointed him. What had he done to her mother?

  “I’m glad Dustin got you started again.” Her mother nervously played with a pen. “I remember you used to call him Dusty. No one else could get away with that.”

  “He’s been a friend.” She realized she was biting her lip, something she used to do as a child.

  But something in her voice must have alerted her mother. She sat up, and her eyes narrowed. “Nothing more?”

  “He’s my cousin,” Sal
ly said simply.

  “Cousins have … married before.”

  “Not in our family. Grandfather pounded it into us that it was a sin.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Of course I do. He’s my cousin.”

  “And if he wasn’t?”

  “And if pigs fly,” Sally answered.

  “Maybe pigs can fly under certain conditions.”

  Sally stared at her mother. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Dustin isn’t your cousin.”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “You don’t know where they are?” The voice was laced with ridicule.

  “They left no tracks,” came the defensive voice over the telephone line. He was calling from a cellular phone to what he knew was a safe line. It bounced off any number of satellites.

  “Strange,” said the caller. “I know where they are. That should have been your job, not mine.”

  Silence. “Where is he?”

  “Flaherty called Eachan. There’s a connection between all three now. Exactly what should not have happened if you’d done your job.”

  “If you tell me where.…”

  “Then you would probably mess it up again. Destroying that house was sloppy. There were questions.”

  “There shouldn’t have been.”

  “Two strangers without names? You didn’t think there would be questions?”

  A little desperation came into the voice. “Tell me where they are. I’ll take care of it My men.…”

  “Are as sloppy as you. How many chances have you had now? Three? Four? You said you were the best.”

  “I am. My men are.”

  “I think they could be headed toward Eachan’s second home on the Chesapeake. I’m not positive, but we intercepted a phone call between the two. Since Flaherty maintained silence until now, it’s possible he knows we’re listening. However, he might also believe that Eachan is untouchable because of his position. His house would be swept frequently for bugs.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Find out what it is,” said the caller. “A trap? Or has our Colonel Flaherty made a mistake?”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Do I really have to tell you your job? I thought I hired the best security people in the business. I would hate to discover I made a mistake. I want Flaherty and the woman dead, and I want it to look like an accident. Once they’re gone, I can handle Eachan. He’s a very ambitious man, and he has another weakness. So find his cousin as well.”

  He slammed down the telephone.

  CHESAPEAKE BAY, MARYLAND

  Eachan’s house was everything Amy had dreamed about. Traditional and roomy and comfortable. A second-story balcony overlooked the bay. A sailboat was anchored just off a dock and boathouse. The house itself was more comfortable than imposing, and that surprised Amy. After meeting Dustin Eachan, she’d expected Architectural Digest.

  Amy had driven with Irish to the house. Sam had followed. He was, she knew, to take her back to the motel. Irish would make the all-important call, then wait with his friends to see what developed.

  But now she and Irish and Bo explored the house. She wanted to know everything about the house, about the preparations.

  The home to its left was more elaborate, the landscaping more formal. She wondered whether that was the vacationing neighbors’ house.

  Amy recalled the fire that ruined her own house. She shuddered to think the same thing might happen here. But Irish felt he had taken precautions against that happening. Brian Jordan, if he was the person behind all this, couldn’t afford another explosion.

  Once inside, Bo followed her into the living room. Two men inhabited a cozy living room filled with overstuffed furniture and books.

  They rose as she entered. Unlike Sam with his long hair, these two had short, neatly trimmed hair. They were clean shaven, and their bodies were obviously in extremely good shape. They had enough age that character was carved in their faces. They looked lethal.

  Irish introduced the two just as Sam walked in. Mike and Taggart. Mike was a big blond in jeans and work shirt. Taggart wore expensive slacks and a dark blue sport coat over a blue shirt.

  They both grinned. “Long time, Irish,” Taggart said.

  “Thought you’ve given up all this for the ranch,” Mike said. “It was all you talked about.”

  “I didn’t choose this,” Irish said. “It chose me.”

  Mike looked at Amy. Raised an eyebrow. Then shrugged. “We’ve rigged the house. There are two separate telephone lines. We bugged both of them, as well as every room. Doors have sensors. Also installed sensors along the hall. You’ll know if anyone’s coming.”

  “I appreciate it. Send me your bill.”

  “You’re crazy, Irish. I’ve been waiting a long time to pay back a debt.” Mike, the big blond, looked at Amy. “He saved my life a long time ago. Whatever he wants, he gets.”

  “You couldn’t pay my price,” Taggart, the dark-haired one, added with a grin.

  “Things that good, Tag?”

  “Executive protection is a big business.”

  Amy turned her attention to Mike. “What do you do?”

  “Worked with New York P.D. for ten years, then went into business for myself.”

  “He’s a private dick,” Tag said. “Tried to get him to go in with me, but he would rather work for shyster attorneys.”

  It was obvious to Amy that this was a frequent argument. The two men argued like old friends while they regarded Irish with some awe. She stepped back and looked at the four of them. Irish had always struck her as a loner, and the others made it clear they hadn’t seen him in years. And yet they came from God knew where when he called.

  Still, he seemed separate from them. When she had first met him, her initial impression was that he kept people at arm’s length. In the past week, some of that feeling had faded. They had become close in so many ways. And yet, she realized, it was still there. Irish Flaherty was a man who never totally lowered the barriers.

  She also knew, from looking at these men, that she didn’t belong here. They all lived on the edge of danger. It was as much a part of their being as academia was a part of hers. She looked away from them and toward the Chesapeake, which sparkled through the window. Distant sailboats danced on its surface, and the sun sent ribbons of gold rippling over the water.

  If there had ever been a portrait of peace and tranquillity, the bay was it. If there had ever been a portrait of violence, the four men in the room represented it. The juxtaposition sent waves of anguish through her. While the past weeks had made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt in her life, she knew deep within her that she needed something else. Tranquillity? Safety? Normalcy? She had built her life around those goals.

  “Amy?”

  She turned around at the sound of Irish’s voice. Deep. Reassuring. Loving?

  She closed her eyes against the pain she suddenly felt, then quickly opened them, hoping the others didn’t see that moment of weakness.

  “I’m here,” she said. “I was just looking at the bay.”

  “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” the one called Tag said.

  She nodded.

  Tag led the way, pointing out the location of the phones, the sensors, the tiny cameras hidden in heating vents. She was familiar enough with the concept. She knew that such technologies were readily available to the public now through catalogs and even through stores that specialized in ways to spy upon your neighbor. As a civil libertarian, she had been appalled. She had certainly never thought she would be involved in their use.

  Still, despite the little spying devices located throughout, she fell in love with the house. Her opinion of Dustin Eachan, who’d seemed a little arrogant and pompous, ratcheted up a notch. There was a large kitchen with shining pans hanging from hooks around an island. Two large bedrooms downstairs. One large bedroom and balcony upstairs. It looked pristine. If nothing else, Dustin Eachan was a very neat p
erson—or he had a very competent housekeeper.

  Then they went down to the living area that looked out over the Chesapeake.

  Irish looked at his watch. “Four-thirty. It’s time for the call. Hawke Jordan will be at home, and Brian Jordan should be at the office.”

  Amy had listened as they discussed the best way to approach the Jordans. It was obvious that the older Jordan was the catalyst for what had happened. How much did his son know? That was the question.

  Hawke Jordan was eighty years old now, but Dustin Eachan had said he still went into the office each morning, though now he left about 1 P.M. He apparently had been loath to entirely surrender the company to his son, although Brian Jordan was chief executive officer.

  Irish picked up a cellular phone that had a tap inside.

  Amy put her hand on his. “Won’t he wonder whether it’s a trap if he can trace the number?”

  “Tag’s an electronic genius. This signal will be bouncing off several satellites. He’ll be able to find us eventually, but it’s going to be very, very difficult. I don’t think he’ll figure out that we really want him to know where we are. Or that it’s plan b.” Irish dialed the home number Tag had obtained from hacking into the Jordan Industries computer.

  Amy moved next to him, close enough to hear. Bo curled himself around her feet in his possessive mode.

  A woman answered the phone. “Jordan residence.”

  “I would like to speak with Hawke Jordan.”

  “That’s impossible. Mr. Jordan suffered a stroke several days ago. He cannot be disturbed.”

  “He’s home? Not in a hospital?”

  “There’s a nurse with him.”

  Amy saw the look on Irish’s face. Disappointment. Did Dustin Eachan know about this? She felt the same disappointment.

  Irish tried one last time. “Tell him an old friend wants to talk to him. Tell him that Flaherty is on the phone.”

  “I don’t think.…”

  “Just tell him.”

  A pause, the sound of a telephone being laid down on a desk.

  Several moments later, the woman’s voice came on again. “He’s sleeping. I won’t wake him. If you leave your number and location, I’ll give him your message.”

  Location?

  “Is his son there?”