by Dee Davis
She ducked her head, but not before he saw the trace of a smile. God, he wanted to hold her. To promise that he’d make things all right. But he wasn’t any more capable of righting her world than he was his own. Hell, considering his mission, he was more likely to blow it to bits.
“So what do we know?” she asked, coming back to sit on the bed again. “My father regretted something. Something that may or may not have been connected to the detonators disappearance. And whatever it was, it was related to a debt of honor. His, one would presume. And all that is possibly related somehow to the words ‘Indian’ and ‘winter.’”
“Did he say anything else? Something that might tie this all together?”
“No.” She shook her head. “At least I don’t think so. Although he did say that he should have known better. Oh,” she stopped, wheels turning. “I just remembered. He also said that he didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. But again that could mean almost anything.”
“Or it could be referring directly to the men who died on that road in Colorado.” It was his turn to try to make sense of the old man’s ramblings. “You haven’t talked to your father since before Colorado. Right?”
“Yeah. The first time I called home was when I called Della.”
“Did you tell Della any of it? Anything she could have told your father?”
“No. I just said I needed to talk to Dad.”
“Did you tell anyone else who could have told him?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t see… wait a minute… I did talk to a friend of my father’s. His best friend, actually. Mike Hollingsworth. He’s a bigwig in the Pentagon. Worked his way up through the Army, like my father. He’s like family, really. Oh, God,” she sighed, “I need to tell him about Dad’s death. He should hear it from me.”
“If he’s as connected as you say, he already knows. Word of this kind of thing travels quickly. Especially in military circles. He wouldn’t expect you to drop everything to call.”
“I suppose you’re right. There’s just so much to think about. You know?”
“Which is why we have to stay on topic.” He tried to keep the words gentle, without rebuke.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“So what made you call him?”
“General Fisher spooked me. He was so certain that I’d been part of the theft somehow.” Owen felt a wash of guilt. General Fisher wasn’t the only one. “I just wanted to be sure someone had my back. Someone in the military. And I trust Mike. So I called him. I kept the information need-to-know. But, technically, it was a military operation, so he already knew most of it. Anyway, he promised to see what he could do about General Fisher. It was a quick call, really. And I haven’t talked to him since.”
“But he probably talked to your father.”
“And told him what happened,” Tyler finished for him. “But that doesn’t prove that my father’s remorse was directed at Mather and Gerardi’s deaths.”
“No.” He shook his head. “But maybe Hollingsworth can help clear things up. Maybe he knows why your father wanted you to be part of the transport team. Or maybe he can tell us what your father’s last words meant. It’s certainly worth a try.”
“You’re right. If anyone knew what Dad was up to, it’d be Uncle Mike. I should have thought of it myself. It’s just that…” she trailed off, looking down at her hands.
“I know it’s tough,” he said, sliding an arm around her. “But for what it’s worth, I think your father would be really proud of you. And whatever this is, we’re going to figure it out. And when we do, I promise, we’ll blow this thing right out of the water.”
She nodded, giving him a watery smile. “Now who’s all about ordnance?”
Tyler was standing in the ICU. There was blood everywhere. Pooling on the floor, spattering the walls and ceilings. In front of her a nurse screamed and fell, clutching her side, a chrysanthemum of red bursting through her scrubs. She tilted her head, her eyes pleading, and then she slid to the floor. Dead. Dead. They were all dead.
Tyler spun around, trying to find the shooter. Trying to make sense of the situation. And then from somewhere behind her she heard Della calling. She turned again and Della was standing there, arms outstretched. “Tyler,” she whispered. “Help me.” Blood dripped from her head, her perfectly manicured nails ragged, as if she’d tried to claw her way out of something. “Help me, Tyler.”
Tyler reached out, but something blocked her way. Glass. It was the glass door of a cubicle. She fumbled against the smooth exterior, trying to find a handle, to pull the door open, but there was nothing. Inside, Della’s cries had become more frantic. “Tyler. Please. Help me.” She heard the staccato sound of gunfire. And Della fell to her knees, her arms still outstretched. “Tyler…” she whispered as the life faded from her eyes.
Another voice called across the room. Her father.
She spun around again and there he was in full military regalia.
“Tyler, what have you done?” he asked, his voice tight with anger. “What have you done?”
“Daddy, it isn’t my fault,” she said, holding up her hands to ward off his wrath.
“Of course it is.” His face hardened, his expression condemning. “You’ve killed us. This is all on you.”
“It wasn’t me,” Tyler protested, slipping in the blood as she tried to scramble backward, falling to her knees in the process. “It wasn’t me.”
“You have to take responsibility for your actions. It’s the only way you’ll ever measure up. Am I making myself clear?” He seemed to tower above her, his face mottled with rage. She shrank back, tears streaming down her face.
“It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me,” she kept repeating the words, a mantra to hold him at bay.
Then suddenly the scene shifted, and it was her father behind the glass, his face worn and haggard. “Help me, Tyler. I don’t know where I am.” He stretched out a hand and she reached for him, slamming her knuckles into the glass. “You have to help me.”
“I don’t know how,” she cried, again struggling to find a way through the door. “I can’t get in.”
“Yes you can,” her father said. “Use the Indian. He knows the way. It’s all in the details, Tyler. The details.”
Finally she found the edge of the door, her fingers cramping as she worked to slide it open, her father’s hands pressed against the glass as he called her name. “Help me, Tyler. Help me.”
Suddenly the door slid open, the motion sending her flying to the ground. From behind her someone opened fire, the bullets making her father’s body jerk like a puppet on a string.
“No,” she screamed, her heart shattering as he fell, the blood so thick now it almost obscured the glass. “NO.”
“Tyler, sweetheart, wake up.”
Someone else was calling. Someone who could help her. Help her father. But she couldn’t reach him. Couldn’t find him.
“Owen? I’m here,” she screamed, clawing at the doors to ICU, unable to make them open, the blood sticky between her fingers. “I’m here. I’m here.”
“Darling, it’s only a dream,” his voice said. “Open your eyes.”
“Tyler,” her father’s voice called. “Don’t leave me.”
She slid to the ground, torn between her father and Owen. Knowing that one would lead her to safety, the other…
With a jerk, she opened her eyes, Owen’s worried face spinning into view. “Oh, God,” she whispered, the horror still real. “Oh, God, it was awful. There was blood, and my father, and Della, and I could hear you, but I couldn’t get out and—”
“Hush, now,” he said, his arms pulling her close against him. “I’ve got you. It was just a dream. Nothing is going to hurt you.”
“But he said it was my fault,” she whimpered, still caught in the clutches of the nightmare.
“None of this is your fault,” he said. “You just had a bad dream. But it’s over. And you’re here with me. Safe.”
She nodded, buryi
ng her face in his shirt, the spicy, crisp smell of him comforting in its normalcy. She had the oddest feeling that she belonged here. That together they were better somehow. It was a silly notion. She knew it. But it made all the bad things seem less frightening.
She knew she ought to shake it off. To push away the nightmare and his comfort. To face all of this on her own terms as she did everything else in her life. She didn’t need anyone. She was perfectly capable of standing on her own. But right now, all she wanted was to feel Owen’s arms around her. To feel the beat of his heart against hers. To know that, for the moment at least, she wasn’t alone. Surely she was allowed one moment of weakness?
And somewhere in her mind’s eye, as she drifted back to sleep, she saw her father smile.
CHAPTER 12
Owen and Tyler followed a secretary down the hall as she led them through the Pentagon’s maze of passageways. Lieutenant General Hollingsworth had agreed to see them without fanfare, which, considering he was an undersecretary for the U.S. Department of Defense, was impressive. Although Owen supposed that considering who Tyler’s father was, he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Tyler had slept through what was left of the night, waking with a renewed sense of purpose. She hadn’t mentioned the dream. Nor had she mentioned the fact that she’d woken in his arms. And Owen was wise enough not to make something out of nothing. She’d been hurting and he’d been there. It wasn’t personal. He felt certain that she would have accepted any warm body.
The connection between them was based on the situation—nothing more.
Although, if he were being honest, there was a part of him that wished it could have been different. But life wasn’t a bloody romance novel. He’d be wise to remember that.
“The general’s office is right through here,” the woman said, waving them through a set of double doors.
A young man sat at a desk, typing something into his computer. He looked up with an obligatory smile, his face clouding when he recognized Tyler. “I’m so sorry,” he said, standing to hold out his hands. “I only heard this morning. You must be devastated.”
Tyler nodded, her face tight with the effort to hold back her emotion as she gave the man’s hands a squeeze. “Thank you, Randy. I know my father thought the world of you.”
“I worked for the general,” Randy said to Owen, his shoulders straightening with pride. “For almost ten years. Until he retired.”
“And now you work with me,” a booming voice said, the man attached to it standing well over six feet, his gray eyes warm as he shot a warning look in Randy’s direction. “Which means there’s work to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Randy gave a little salute. “I’m truly sorry, Tyler. If there’s anything I can do?”
“Just remember him fondly,” she said.
Randy nodded, then settled back in front of the computer.
“Come in,” Hollingsworth said. “Both of you.” They moved into his office, and the big man shut the door. “Tyler, honey, there just aren’t words.” He pulled her into a bear hug, the gesture softening the man. Tyler rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, then pushed back.
“It’s been hard. But I’m doing okay.”
“Well, I’ve been having all kinds of trouble accepting it,” the lieutenant general shook his head. “Barbara and I just had dinner with them last week. Your father was having a good day. We talked about old times. And the idea that someone broke into their home and shot them—well, it’s just unfathomable.”
“I know.” She nodded. “For me, too. Have you talked to Mark?”
“Yes, last night, as soon as I heard. I tried to call you, too. But there was no answer on your cell. And Mark wasn’t sure how to find you.”
“I’m sorry. I turned the phone off. Things were a little crazy. And then we had to change hotels.”
Hollingsworth frowned. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle. I promise.” There was truth in there somewhere, and Owen respected Tyler’s decision to keep the details of last night’s attack to herself. But it was clear that Hollingsworth was still concerned.
“This thing with your father,” he said, as they settled into three artfully arranged armchairs, “it’s got something to do with the detonators going missing, doesn’t it?”
“I think it’s possible. But before we get into that, let me introduce Owen Wakefield. He’s MI-5.”
“You’re a long way from home, son,” Hollingsworth said, his eyes narrowing as they studied him.
“He’s been working with me, Uncle Mike. Trying to sort through what happened out there.”
“So this has been kicked up to the CIA?”
“Under the circumstances, my bosses fought for it, yes.”
“I see.” He shot another look in Owen’s direction, and Owen wondered suddenly how much the man really knew. “And you’ve been helping her?”
“I’ve been doing my best, sir.” He wasn’t sure why he was showing the man deference except that clearly he cared about Tyler. So at least in that respect they had common ground.
“Just be sure you know which side you’re playing on,” he warned.
“Uncle Mike,” Tyler chastised. “Owen’s been great. I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him.”
“I’m sorry.” The lieutenant general bowed his head. “I just know that international cooperation can only go so far. Sometimes even friendly governments have different objectives. Anyway, if I offended you, it wasn’t my intention.”
No, the man had been issuing a warning. Hurt Tyler, and there’d be hell to pay.
“Uncle Mike can be a little overwhelming,” she said, signaling her own rebuke.
To Owen’s surprise Hollingsworth smiled, the gesture softening his face. Honest emotion reflected in his eyes. “I’m going to miss your father. We go back a long way. But I’ve still got you. And that’s something pretty special. But all this blubbering isn’t getting us anywhere.” His expression steeled. “So how do you think your father’s death fits into all this?”
“I honestly don’t know. It’s just an educated guess at this point. What I need to do is connect the dots. And that’s where I’m hoping you can help us.”
“Of course.” Hollingsworth’s frown spoke volumes of his respect for Tyler’s father. “But if you’re implying that your father…”
Tyler held up a hand. “I’m not suggesting that he was part of the plan to steal the detonators. But maybe he inadvertently played a role. It turns out he was behind the request for A-Tac’s involvement in the detonators’ transfer. But so far we haven’t been able to find out why. We were on our way to ask him about it when we—” she paused, then squared her shoulders. “Did Dad say anything to you about it?”
“No, nothing. I’m afraid this is the first I’ve heard anything about it.”
“Well, I suppose it was too much to hope he’d have said something. Anyway, I can’t understand why he’d have been involved at all. Not to mention why someone would have agreed to it under the circumstances.”
“Well, first of all,” Hollingsworth said, “not that many people know about the Alzheimer’s. Your father’d been pretty successful at keeping it under wraps. And second, he still had a fair amount of political clout. It’s possible he called in a favor. Or maybe he simply pulled rank. I wouldn’t have wanted to stand against him, and I suspect there are a hell of a lot of people, even at Langley, who felt the same way. And it wasn’t as if the request was off the wall. The detonators’ transport was critical, and your team—you in particular—were more than equipped to handle it.”
“Except that the detonators were stolen on my watch,” Tyler said, regret flickering in her eyes.
“Things happen. And no matter what you’re hearing, I know that you didn’t have anything to do with their being stolen. It’s just standard ops to question everyone. And General Fisher, in particular, has reason to want to shift the blame elsewhere.”
“Thank you for
that. But it can’t change the fact that because of my decisions, two men are dead. And now, the only thing I can do to atone is to try to sort through this mess and find answers. Starting with Dad. You’re sure he didn’t say anything?”
“No. When we were together we mainly talked about happier times. A lot of it about you. I know he’d never have said anything. It wouldn’t fit his image as a ballbreaker. But I know for a fact that he was extremely proud of you.”
Her shoulders tensed, and Owen resisted the urge to reach for her hand—partly because he was fairly certain the lieutenant general would feel compelled to break it. And although Owen figured he could hold his own, he had no doubt that, push come to shove, Hollingsworth would win the day.
“Thank you, Uncle Mike,” Tyler said, forcing a smile. “That means a lot. And no matter what his role in this, I know he would have wanted me to get to the bottom of what’s happened. And to do that I’ve got to put all the pieces together, starting with my father’s involvement.”
“I meant what I said.” Hollingsworth nodded. “Anything I can do. Just tell me.”
“At the end, at the hospital, he said some things. But none of it really made any sense. So I’m hoping maybe, because you knew him so well, you’ll be able to shed some light.”
“What specifically did he say?”
“Well, a lot of it was rambling. And some of it I couldn’t really understand. But at the hospital, he kept saying he was sorry. And that he should have known better. But more important, he kept repeating the words ‘winter’ and ‘Indian.’”
“In that order?” Hollingsworth asked.
“At the hospital, the words were ‘winter’ then ‘debt’ and then ‘Indian.’ All of it very disjointed. But he also said the same thing at the house. Only the order was different. Indian winter. Although at the time I thought he said India. Anyway, whether it’s India or Indian, whatever the order of the words, it still doesn’t make any sense. At least not to me.”
“Well, maybe there is a reason to the rhyme, so to speak.” Hollingsworth tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “I told you that your father and I had been discussing old times. And for us that means talking war stories. We fought in three of them and helped orchestrate a couple more. Anyway, suffice it to say that the military has been the main focus of both of our lives.”
