Warrior's Second Chance

by Nancy Gideon

  That didn’t sound like Tag, who was always the soul of honor and dependability. He’d been above deception or deceit, with nothing to hide. Or at least she’d thought so until that bus pulled out. Getting information from him now required a crowbar.

  “And Frye was one of them that made them?” she prompted.

  “He was somewhere in that pecking order.”

  His careful evasion set off alarm bells in Barbara’s brain. “McGee, why do they want you killed?”

  “Let’s ask Frye.”

  He paced the bedroom trying to stamp out the emotions skittering just beneath the surface, like tiny creepy crawlies under his skin. After so many years, he thought he’d be ready to face these men again. But he was wrong. As wrong as he was about being prepared to confront the devastatingly lovely woman who emerged from the bathroom in record time.

  The dress was worthy of celebrity red-carpet notoriety. Black, fluid and sexy as hell, its halter top left her creamy back and shoulders bare. The two sides of the bodice met at the wide sparkly waistband instead of at the modest middle, leaving peekaboo glimpses of the perfect curve of Barbara’s breasts. A long, thin silver chain trickled between them. Baby-fine blond hair was caught up on one side in a diamond-studded comb to expose the slender column of her throat and the narrow rope of silver and diamond chips that swung from one ear. The usual light touch she used to apply her makeup had taken a dramatic turn, accentuating lids and lips in dark, sultry hues that suggested a man might dream of a delightful end to the evening. A soft tease of perfume hinted of other sensory pleasures. And there was nothing Taggert McGee would have liked more than to take that hint and this woman on the spot to rekindle those long-held dreams once more. She made him ache just looking at her. How bad would it hurt, then, to touch her?

  “So what does this Doctor Frye look like?” she asked, turning to the full-length mirror with a critical frown to adjust her hair and her neckline. “I’d hate to pick up the wrong man.”

  McGee’s gut clenched at that. “He’ll be the sloppy drunk, boasting loudly in the middle of a circle of eager sycophants.”

  Her rouged lips pursed. “Wonderful. And how do you know he’ll take me up on my offer?”

  His gaze swept the length of her, front and back in the mirror. The disbelieving snort that escaped from him was flattering in its crudity. “I won’t dignify that with an answer. Suffice it to say, you’ll have more trouble getting him as far as his room with his pants still on.”

  She made another face at her reflection. “Terrific.”

  Telling himself he wasn’t sending her to the wolves, Tag made a show of checking his watch. “He should be in the thick of that booze and those stories by now.”

  Barbara stiffened. Ticktock. She got the idea. Still, he didn’t have to look so eagerly indifferent about the thought of her hustling a stranger. She hadn’t been that perky seventeen-year-old flirting with boys for longer than she cared to remember and feared her skills were rusty. But, she thought ruefully, what she’d forgotten would certainly be compensated for by the plunging neckline of her gown.

  Terrific.

  “This shouldn’t take long. Hopefully.”

  As she started to the door, she was surprised by the sudden warm circling of his fingers about her upper arm. Just that brief touch made her go all hot and cold inside. Schooling her expression to betray nothing of the chaos ricocheting within the walls of her heart, she glanced over her shoulder. His chiseled features were solemn with a gratifying concern.

  “Don’t take any chances. And be careful.”

  His unexpected sentiment gave her the courage to be flippant. “Don’t worry. I’ve handled my share of society inebriants.”

  His gaze shuttered. Of course, she had. And knowing that, it was easier to let her go.

  The elevator was crowded with noisy partygoing conventioneers. She had to squirm to the back to make room for several others from her floor. Squashed into that haberdasher’s mix of sequins and satins, she took a moment to get her game face on. Social mixers were her forte. Everyone said so, from her late husband to the society pages.

  Only they didn’t see the price she paid to maintain that perfect front. Her palms were damp, her stomach knotted. Her knees were locked to prevent weakening as she repeated her oft-chanted internal mantra. Don’t let me embarrass myself. Don’t let me say anything foolish. Remember to smile and breathe and laugh, but not too loudly. A well-bred lady never laughs too loudly.

  She could hear her father’s voice inside her head drumming those all important lessons into his awkward preteen, who even at twelve was expected not to sully the family’s image. Vital lessons for the future wife of a political candidate. Necessary lessons for a woman embroiled in what was rapidly becoming a more complicated and dangerous intrigue.

  “Nice dress.”

  It was too elbow-to-elbow for her to turn around to verify the identity of the man speaking quietly next to her ear. As if she needed to. The sound of his voice paralyzed all her major muscle groups.

  “Don’t look. Just listen,” he continued with that same sinister softness.

  She tried to silence the roar of blood pounding in her head by taking frantic gulps of breath.

  “Remember, Babs, Frye is a professional liar. Don’t pay attention to what he says, only to why he says it.”

  In spite of his instructions, she fought to revolve in the press of humanity, to confront him with her greatest fear.

  “My daughter and granddaughter, are they all right?”

  Just then, the doors opened and passengers spilled out, carrying her forward in the overwhelming flow. By the time she found her footing, the tide had swept past her. And with it, lost in that surge and swell, went Chet Allen.

  He hadn’t answered her.

  The ballroom at the Wardman was indeed grand and opulent. Elaborate plasterwork, swirls of gilt and dripping crystals reflected endlessly in mirrored walls.

  Barbara had no trouble locating Frye. Just as Tag predicted, the sobriety-challenged doctor held court circled by journalists and fawning admirers, enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame in high style. At week’s end, he would be just another blip on the celebrity radar, hoping to hawk his memoirs to supplement his retirement. But for now he was sucking up the limelight with gusto. The same way he was slurping down the champagne.

  Barbara drifted through the crowded room, nodding to those she passed as if they had reason to remember her. She lifted a flute from a passing tray to carry as a prop, knowing if she swallowed the contents she’d require more to bolster her unsteady nerves.

  Then she latched on to the image of her daughter, Tessa, seated across from a killer, daring him to make a move. That was courage. This, this was necessity.

  She knew when Frye’s glazed stare touched on her. It felt like sweaty hands roving the length of her body in a clumsy, groping rush. She pretended not to notice as she paused just outside his surrounding wagons to look about with a bored air of impatience, as if she were waiting for someone and suspected she’d been stood up. Her dramatic sigh lifted her shoulders and did tempting things to her plunging décolletage to set the hook. As she started to move forward once more, she let the sway of her hips reel him in.

  “What’s a beautiful woman like yourself doing here alone?”

  Fixing a smile upon her face that didn’t display a hint of gloating, Barbara turned and feigned a delighted surprise.

  “Doctor Frye. I didn’t mean to take you from your audience.”

  “I always play better when the group is smaller, even intimate.”

  Her expression never wavered. “My name is Barbara D’Angelo. You knew my husband during the Vietnam era. He spoke very highly of the encouragement you gave him. In fact, he said you most likely saved his sanity and helped him continue in the rather unsavory work he did for our country at war.”

  Heavy white brows knit over a hawkish nose. She could visualize him mentally scanning his files. “Robert D’Angelo?”


  “Yes. How flattering that you remembered. A man of your stature must have saved so many tormented souls over those awful years.”

  He drank in her flattery with the same appreciation he applied to the bubbly in his glass. “How is Robert?”

  She let her gaze dip respectfully. “He’s gone. Just six months ago.”

  He touched her arm in an outward show of sympathy. His fingertips grazed the back of it for an entirely different purpose. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She managed a heroic-sounding sigh. “That’s why I was drawn to see you. After all, you and Robert had so much in common. Meeting you makes me feel close to him somehow.”

  With a casual flip of her hair, she landed him like a gasping trout, flopping at her feet.

  Tag checked his watch. Forty-five minutes.

  He paced the room, trying not to picture Barbara in that libido-busting dress revving up Frye’s high-performance engine. Instead, he forced himself to consider why Chet would push him and the good doctor together for this carefully staged reunion. And that meant looking back, back over thirty years to a past as shadowy as the missions they conducted. To memories as shrouded with mystery as the assignments they completed. As vague as his recall of the sessions under Frye’s care.

  Why couldn’t he remember? His entire tour was in vignettes. Bits and pieces that never connected into a satisfying story. Faces, places, all blurring by like a flip book, giving him glimpses but no substance. Something was very wrong about that. About him. Why couldn’t he grasp one clear memory out of that cold, veiling fog enveloping his brain?

  He’d gotten close. Sometimes in dreams, he could almost, almost reach behind that heavy curtain, but then he’d hear a familiar voice saying a nonsensical phrase, something seemingly innocuous yet with the power to plunge his thoughts into darkness. And he’d wake feeling sick to the soul with confusion. And afraid. Afraid of what that drape of forgetfulness concealed. Afraid it was madness. That’s why he’d run away. That’s why he’d made himself so hard to find.

  Don’t pay any attention to that man behind the curtain.

  Who was there? Who was at the controls? Was it Frye? Or was it some part of himself that he didn’t dare recognize?

  What had he done? What had they made him do that was so awful that his own mind hid it from him?

  He heard them in the hall and shifted instinctively into stealth mode. Stepping back into the dressing alcove, he waited for the door to open, for the giggling Barbara to lead the doctor inside.

  And then the sound of his voice, so smoothly comforting, like a tender brush of cool fingertips across a fevered brow. Some mechanism in his mind reacted to it without him knowing why. His stance relaxed, his spirit calmed as if his tone was a narcotic balm to Tag’s system.

  “You are a lovely and generous woman, Barbara. Too much so to be alone at a time like this.”

  The crooning syllables lapped over the edges of his consciousness, quieting his thoughts, slowing his heartbeats. Mesmerizing, like a flute to cobra.

  Then he heard Barbara’s crisp reply. He blinked awake from the daze he’d sunk into.

  “I’m afraid I’m also deceptive and rather desperate. And I’m not alone.”

  Chapter 5

  Phillip Frye looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Finally, he was able to gather enough wits about him to murmur, “McGee, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “So I understand. What I don’t know is why.”

  Frye backpedaled and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His reason for coming up to the room was, apparently, forgotten as he stared at this unexpected specter from his past.

  “Why? You know why. You and Allen were out on sensitive missions behind undefined lines for months. The next thing I know, you’re stateside without bothering to check in or make a report. I don’t know what strings you pulled, McGee, but you broke about every rule you can think of.”

  “Is that why you’ve been after me? To slap my wrist for breaking the rules? My time was up. I wanted to go home. I followed all the protocols I was required to and I left. I don’t see the problem.”

  Barbara watched the interplay with interest. Tag was all cold control, while Frye’s mind spun behind his placating expression. Something beyond the words they spoke was going on between the two men. What, she suspected, had everything to do with the difficulties they were in.

  Frye smiled with a condescending kindness. “You know as well as I do that what you were involved in went beyond ordinary protocol. You and Allen, and for a time, D’Angelo, were vital to our operations over there. There were no rules governing what you did.”

  “You mean murder in the name of democracy?”

  Frye flinched slightly. “You know that’s not true. You did delicate and decisive work for our cause. That kind of task takes a toll on a man’s psyche. We just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “Robert came back a hero and a statesman. Chet came home a psychotic. Did you want me to check in so you could see which way I was going to fall? Or were you afraid if I fell to pieces, your reputation would be tarnished? The way it would be if Chet was ever connected to your tender loving care? What are you afraid of, Doc? Of what I might do? Or what I might say?” Since he didn’t look too concerned about either of those things, Tag took a chance.

  “Or of what I might remember?”

  Bingo.

  An overly anxious Frye began to overcompensate with words. “You men witnessed and executed events that the average mind wasn’t meant to hold and remain stable.”

  “We were doing our jobs,” McGee stated carefully. “What exactly was your job, Doc? What did you do beyond slapping a mental bandage on before sending us back out into the thick of it?” He watched Frye’s gaze go flat with fear and dread. And his own anxiety peaked as he whispered, “What did you do to us?”

  Unexpectedly, the way they always seemed to come, one of those fragmented memories flashed in front of him. Stained canvas above, closing over him like the lid on a pressure cooker. The heavy smell of heat and rot and sweat. The uncomfortable tautness of a cot beneath him. Something dazzling before his eyes. So bright, he couldn’t look away. A familiar cadence, not words, but rather a tone humming like a tuning fork through his head. Pulling at his eyelids. Weighting them like sandbags. Dragging them down. Then the blackness, so deep, so still, so empty, before an abrupt jerk back to the sight of that shadowed canvas. The cold, cloying fear that he’d missed something. Something more vital than just minutes.

  What the hell had been done to him during those moments of disconnection?

  “I helped you go back out there. I erased the horrors before they got too big to handle.”

  “Erased?” Barbara edged into the conversation. “How? With drugs?” She was thinking of what her husband had died to expose: a drug-trafficking ring that continued long after the troops had returned home.

  “Nothing like that,” Frye assured her. “Just mild antidepressants. For post-traumatic stress. I used a form of posthypnotic amnesia, mostly, to make events stored in long-term memory inaccessible. Light suggestions to tuck the brutality of your jobs back into the far recesses of your thoughts so you wouldn’t have to deal with it every day. The men in your occupation suffered from reexperiencing phenomena. Nightmares, flashbacks, emotional detachment and sleep disorders that made it impossible for them to function normally.”

  “What was normal about what he did?”

  “Nothing. And that’s my point. I put false memories in place of what was causing so much anxiety.”

  “You were in our minds?” That was a horror greater than any they had sought to protect him from. “Who approved that? Who authorized you to tamper with our heads?”

  “It was to help.”

  A terrible sickness twisted in his belly. Help? He thought of the night sweats and the clammy blanks of conscious thought. And the always-present feeling that a very, very bad something had just happened by his hand. Not knowing what it wa
s. Not knowing who to ask. Or what to do about it. Followed by the cold, hard brilliance of Chet’s grin.

  Chalk up another one, Mac.

  Madness. It had been madness. Chet embraced it zealously, like a new religion. How far over the line had they been convinced to go?

  “I can see it really helped Chet Allen out.”

  At Barbara’s harsh summation, Frye had the decency to squirm a bit. But not enough to imply true conscience. “Allen had issues of his own that I wasn’t aware of at the time. If we’d known, we never would have used him.”

  “But when you found out, you didn’t stop, did you?” McGee challenged. “Because he was too good at what he did. At what we did.”

  Barbara’s attention shifted. “Is that why Robert never talked about what happened over there? I thought he just wanted to put it behind him. But you’re saying he couldn’t remember.”

  “Didn’t want to, couldn’t, those are very close sentiments,” Frye explained. “So in Rob’s case, it was easy for the suggestions to take root. He didn’t want to be there doing what he was doing. He was focused on his life after Vietnam so it wasn’t difficult for his mind to blank out his experiences and move on.”

  Barbara wasn’t sure whether she should slap him or thank him. But Tag had no confusion there. He stepped up to get nose to nose with the doctor.

  “What else did you do while you were in there? What other ideas did you plant?”

  Frye put up his hands in blameless supplication, playing the beneficent humanitarian to the hilt. “I was just trying to help.” Then the biggest cop-out of all. “I was just following orders.”

  “Whose orders?” McGee barked. “I want to know who gave the orders. Did they come from the Battalion HQ? From Sniper HQ in Dong Tam? From some stateside bureaucrat playing with our lives like we were chess pieces?”

  “I don’t know. They came down through channels. I don’t know where they originated. McGee, that was over thirty years ago. Why does it matter?”

  “Someone thinks it does. The someone who wants Chet to kill me. What do you know about that, Doc?”