Secondary Targets

by Sandra Edwards

  Simple. He couldn’t. But he’d have to pick and choose wisely when it came to the details he let dominate the forefront of his mind. What he needed to do was travel further back in time and search his memories for clues when the General was alive.

  He sifted through his memories, searching... searching... searching. His first day at Cherry Point. Ordinary days of service in the Marine Corps. Various duties and key meetings. The General’s key.

  Eric let his thoughts linger on the key. He seriously considered telling Cherilyn about it, but the General had been so adamant that he keep the key’s existence to himself.

  He’d been with Grace for several days now, so why hadn’t he told her about the key? Didn’t he trust her?

  The smell of coffee yanked Eric out of his procrastination and tossed him headfirst into reality, where he remembered he was waiting for Cherilyn to return with the rental car.

  He wasn’t sure why he was supposed to wait for her here in this place, but he was thankful for the time to think, even if he didn’t like the thoughts eating at his mind like an insatiable monster.

  Admitting the key might lead to danger meant conceding there might be more to the General’s missing grave and questionable service records than a simple case of mistaken identity.

  The fact that he was sitting here waiting for a woman, he didn’t know from Adam, to return with a rented vehicle that would be used to go on the run was a pretty good indication that the General’s key was going to end up playing a role in this bizarre mystery.

  But the question remained, why was Cherilyn so eager to get herself wrapped up in this mess? He tried to calculate her motive, but still hadn’t figured her out by the time she returned nearly half an hour later.

  She moved through the diner’s entrance with tremendous poise and composure. That kind of irked Eric, but still, he surmised the fundamental details going on inside her mind. He fancied himself ahead of the game, above everybody else at the diner, in being privy to this knowledge.

  Did she know how many people, as well as exits, were in the restaurant? Had she assessed the situation a split second after she walked through the door? If Eric were a spy, that’s what he’d do.

  Hump. Taking into account the situation he was now in, maybe that’s something he ought to consider. Yes, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to start thinking like a spy.

  He hoped the most important thing a spy needed to remember was not something that was only taught in spy school.

  Eric’s leg was bouncing up and down, shaking the booth.

  Damn. Not good.

  “You look nervous,” she said, sliding into the opposite side of the booth. “You really need to get a hold of that.”

  “Well, I get a little anxious when I’m waiting for someone in a public place,” he said, with a trace of irony in his eyes.

  His statement ensued curiosity but she didn’t let it sway her. “Look.” She pointed a condemnatory finger at Eric. “This is not the time to freak out.”

  “You don’t have to worry.” He sounded sure of himself. He looked it too. “I’m not going to slip up. Protecting Grace is my number one priority.”

  Cherilyn rolled her gaze away—on purpose—drew a breath, stalled, and then turned back to him. “Good. Let’s go.” She scooted to the edge of the booth and pushed herself up. “You’re riding with me.”

  Upon standing, he reached into his pocket, peeled a twenty off the top of a thin folded stack of money and tossed it on the table. “I’m leaving my car here?” he asked, reaching around her and opening the door.

  “Yes.” She moved outside and he followed. “With any luck, the diner will have it towed before too long. And it’ll disappear into the city’s holding garage, waiting for you to come bail it out.”

  And, if luck continued to follow suit, there in that garage the car would hide from discovery.

  Grace didn’t understand why Cherilyn, once she and Eric returned with the rental car, was in such a big hurry to hit the road. She struggled to get it, but she didn’t see the logic. What was the point or the big hurry when nobody really knew where they were going or what they were looking for? Grace needed a logical explanation for everything. For her, it was all about rhyme and reason. There was no room for speculation or supposition.

  Cherilyn stood beside the rental car, holding the door open and drummed out an annoying tune on the roof with her fingernails. Her eyes scanned the area but her head never moved. Impressive.

  She looked worried, and that bothered Grace. If the spy was worried, what did that mean for the rest of them?

  Eric gave Grace a little nudge and she slid into the backseat, where he quickly followed. He rested his arm around her shoulders and she moved closer, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Over the years, she’d buried the knowledge of just how comforting, yet electrifying, his simple touch had felt.

  She looked at him, and his verdant green eyes frosted a little, chilling the thin layer of space between them.

  Eric withdrew his arm and clasped his hands together in his lap. “You okay?” he asked, but declined to look her way.

  “Yeah,” she said with less certainty than she would’ve liked. She tucked her hair behind her ear and braced herself as the car sped away with Cherilyn behind the wheel.

  “You know I’m not going to let anything happen to you, don’t you?” he said in an uncompromising yet oddly gentle voice.

  She forced a smile and gave a tense nod. Not that she doubted him. On the contrary. Grace believed Eric would die trying to protect her, but that offered no comfort. That’s all she needed—to be the reason he died.

  Cherilyn gunned the rented sedan up the entrance ramp and out onto the freeway, westbound. The first patters of rain began to pellet the window next to Grace, and she hoped they were headed away from the storm instead of straight for it.

  CHAPTER 18

  On the road near the Georgia-South Carolina border

  EIGHTBALL deftly tooled the car through the mid-afternoon traffic in this little out-of-the-way town off the 85. He’d preferred taking the scenic route since he wasn’t in a hurry. According to Torpedo, they knew where the General’s daughter was headed before she and her companions did. So, why rush?

  Eightball always made it a point to obey the traffic laws. He didn’t like drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Maybe that’s why he’d chosen a white car instead of a black or red one. Both colors were undoubtedly more appealing. But black vehicles were automatically associated with people in his line of work. When shit hit the fan, people always remembered the dark vehicle lurking in the vicinity on the day of, or the days leading up to, the accident. And red—anybody driving a red automobile was asking for trouble.

  Eightball prided himself on his ability to blend in. He was determined not to treat this mission any differently than any other, even though it was nothing more than a glorified private dick assignment.

  Okay, that was probably too generous. Babysitting. Eightball had been reduced to a freaking babysitter.

  He didn’t have to like it but he had to do it because the order had come straight from Trident. Much to Eightball’s dismay, Trident had forbidden him to kill Grace Hendricks and her companions. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Eightball wasn’t allowed to approach them either.

  Geez, couldn’t a guy have any fun? So, he wasn’t allowed to kill them—couldn’t he just play with them for a little while?

  But Trident wanted the General’s daughter and her friends to think they were totally alone in their quest, without company of any sort on their trail. And that meant Eightball had to keep his distance, at least until he and his cohorts got what they wanted because nothing good could come from crossing Trident.

  Trident was convinced that, eventually, the General’s daughter would lead them to the goods. After all, that’s what this was all about, keeping the General’s secret stash from falling into the wrong hands.

  There was no room for error. Only one set of hand
s were acceptable for this outcome, and that was Trident’s. Then and only then would any of them be safe from discovery. And none of them wanted to be discovered.

  Typically, Eightball’s job was eradication, and he took immense pride in his expertise at eliminating people. He amused himself by coming up with creative ways to get rid of those who had been deemed enemies of the cause. His assassinations were never carelessly plotted. On the contrary, his plans were well thought out and always practical. Nothing was too elaborate for Eightball. And, because he paid so much attention to the little details, it was no wonder that every target he’d ever taken out had met with an unfortunate “accident”.

  Well, except for that one time. Eightball really hadn’t wanted it to play out the way it did, but at the time he didn’t have a choice. Still, no one was the wiser because nobody knew the target had in reality been murdered.

  Eightball’s cell phone jingled with Michael Jackson’s “Bad”. Quickly, diverting his attention from his daydreams he snapped up the phone as the traffic light in front of him turned from yellow to red.

  He flipped the phone open and laid it against his ear. “Do we have them?” Eightball asked eagerly and tapped his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

  Waiting for the traffic light to change, he listened diligently to his cohort on the other end of the line. He glanced up from time to time, keeping an eye on the traffic light. When Torpedo told him what he wanted to hear, Eightball relaxed a bit and even cracked a slight smile at himself in the rearview mirror.

  “Amazing.” Eightball’s shattering satisfaction had him nearly bursting at the seams. “They did exactly what Trident said they would.” He spoke the words in an exceedingly proud manner, as if he’d come up with the notion himself.

  At times like this, Eightball aspired to be just as intuitive as his boss. If he could predict his enemy’s every move, life would be complete.

  Eightball listened again for another brief moment and then said, “I’m on it.” The traffic light turned green and he closed the cell phone with one hand and placed it at his side on the empty passenger’s seat. He pressed the gas conservatively and navigated the vehicle passed the intersection.

  The floorboard of the car was littered with empty fast-food restaurant bags, the ashtray spilled over with half-smoked cigarette butts, and the stench of burnt tobacco reeked heavily in the air but Eightball couldn’t care less, none of it bothered him. He was too consumed with the thrill of the chase.

  Of course, this wasn’t the ideal hunting situation, babysitting and all, but he’d take what he could get. And he’d pursue them relentlessly, even though touching, much less killing, was off the table.

  Eightball had to keep the faith that his loyalty wasn’t in vain. He had to hope that one day soon, when they were done with the girl and her friends, Trident would let him take out their enemy.

  CHAPTER 19

  South of Atlanta, Georgia

  THE freeway’s streetlights briefly illuminated the car’s otherwise darkened interior as the vehicle zoomed along Interstate 85. Cherilyn glimpsed at the snapshot image in her rearview mirror of Eric and Grace slumped against one another and sleeping soundly in the back seat.

  Marcus sat quietly in the passenger’s seat beside Cherilyn, and she could tell by the stoned look on his face that he was methodically filtering every piece of information he’d gathered over the years and stored away in his brain. But, would the search do him any good? Did he have the answers hidden away inside his psyche?

  She had no way of knowing what details or clues he may have run across during the course of his military career. But, after living with twenty years of hindsight, Cherilyn had effectively procrastinated the past to death. Too bad the damned ghost was still hanging around.

  If only surviving the breakup had been as simple as leaving Marcus and the marriage behind.

  Retrospection carried little weight in this case. She couldn’t go back, no matter how much she’d like. So much more was involved than simply realizing the error of one’s ways. Cherilyn had never doubted her love for Marcus; or his for her for that matter. That was never the issue. The issue was Marcus’s safety. Always had been, always would be. She’d gladly sacrificed her own happiness, something that couldn’t compare to Marcus’s life, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t curse fate.

  There were times when she had grown careless with her own life, but she wasn’t stupid, and anyone who’d ever considered her as such had done themselves a great disservice. Underestimating Cherilyn Johnson, or any of her various alter-identities, wasn’t smart. She took great pride in this knowledge.

  Maybe that’s why, or at the very least was part of the reason the elusive and secretive organization she’d come to know as The Club had come calling. Not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, Cherilyn had accepted the offer right away. Besides, what else did she have to do? Living happily ever after was off the table, at least for the time being. She’d resolved to find something else to do while she waited for society to lighten up, and joining The Club had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Thankfully, it hadn’t taken her long to realize her blunder. She began preparing, almost immediately, for the possibility that she might need to disappear someday. From anyone and everyone. Even her employers. Especially her employers. She’d lost the ability to trust when she lost Marcus.

  Cherilyn swore she’d never find herself in such a precarious situation again, and chose to trust absolutely no one. With that decision came the option of dropping off the grid at any given point in time. When and if it came to that, Cherilyn didn’t intend to struggle.

  And now, all these years later, she owned an assortment of homes and had various bank accounts scattered across the globe. All, under a variety of identities. She was certain no one could ever hope to trace any part of it back to her, least of all her employers.

  Cherilyn chose one of her own personal safe-houses as their next stop, located on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico in the panhandle of Florida. Nobody knew about it but her, not even her contacts in The Club. No matter who was on their trail, there, they’d be safe from discovery for at least a couple of days.

  Eric didn’t bother asking where they were headed, exactly. South, that’s all he knew. Anything more than that, if Cherilyn was going to tell she would’ve clued them in already. He got the impression she not only liked being in charge, but found ample enjoyment in reminding those around her of her supremacy.

  The most annoying part was that Cherilyn was justified. She had every right to feel superior because she knew what to do and when to do it. Granted, her plan to leave Eric’s car in a place where it’d be quickly towed was brilliant. He also appreciated that it’d buy them a day or two’s head start. They could use all the extra time and space they could get between them and the people responsible for the General’s disappearance.

  The house she took them to surprised Eric. In his opinion, it stuck out like a sore thumb, but she hadn’t asked him what he thought. Hopefully, they’d be on the move promptly and wouldn’t hang out in this wealthy individual’s paradise for long.

  Whether the house belonged to Cherilyn or one of her acquaintances, they had great taste, Eric gave them that. He wasn’t above acknowledging the appeal of the mammoth two-story and its open floor plan.

  Sophisticated style highlighted with exotic woods, rare marble, numerous skylights and walls of windows on the beachside allowed the sun’s natural light to brighten the interior—not to mention the magnificent views.

  Eric followed Grace upstairs. Cherilyn had encouraged them to choose any of the bedrooms they wished, and Grace selected an impressive, although not the largest, room on the beachside of the house. With features like a Jacuzzi tub, a deluxe private bath and a king-size bed, Eric could get used to the lavishness.

  Grace seemed to be more intrigued with the balcony on the other side of a pair of French doors, and headed straight for the terrace overlooking the water. Eric followed her and
began to see the purpose of this elaborate house.

  Everything about the second-story patio, even the oversized chaise lounge—which looked like it’d been custom-made and obviously built for two—screamed self-indulgence. An afghan lay invitingly across the back of the chair. Two green shrubs sat diagonally across on either side of the balcony. A small table beside the chair was covered with a sheer blue and green tablecloth that perfectly complimented the blue in the lounger.

  Grace passed the settee and didn’t stop until she’d laid her hands on the balcony’s railing. She leaned against the banister and gazed out over the gulf. “This is amazing.”

  The water, extremely calm, rolled lazily back and forth rendering an almost hypnotic effect. Eric leaned against the railing and faced Grace, keeping his gaze fixed on her and leaving several inches of empty space between them.

  He wanted to tell her about the key and how he’d come by it because now he was thinking that maybe it led to something important. If that was the case, then the possibility of someone being hot on their trail had just intensified.

  Eric had two reasons now for solving the mystery. One, to find out what happened to the General, and two—probably the most important issue—protecting Grace.

  He was going to have to tell her about the key.

  The sun, huge and orange, was slowly sinking behind the horizon on the other side of the water and the sky steadily darkened. A chill, fueled by the brisk late-winter air blew in from the ocean. Grace shivered and folded her arms, hugging herself tightly.

  “Are you cold?” Eric looked around and instantly spied the blanket on the chair’s back. He snatched it up and draped it around Grace’s shoulders.

  Grace tugged and twisted at a flexible bracelet of pink, purple and green beads on her left wrist.