About Face
Claudia Hall Christian
Cook Street Publishing
Denver, CO
By Claudia Hall Christian
(StoriesByClaudia.com)
ALEX THE FEY SERIES
(AlextheFey.com)
The Fey
Learning to Stand
Who I Am
Lean on Me
In the Grey
Finding North
About Face
THE DENVER CEREAL
(DenverCereal.com)
The Denver Cereal
Celia’s Puppies
Cascade
Cimarron
Black Forest
Fairplay
Gold Hill
Silt
Larkspur
Grand Junction
Fort Lupton
Fort Morgan
Fort Collins
THE QUEEN OF COOL
The Queen of Cool
SETH AND AVA MYSTERIES
The Tax Assassin
The Carving Knife
Friendly Fire
SUFFER A WITCH
Suffer a Witch
Copyright © Claudia Hall Christian
Licensed under the Creative Commons License:
Attribution – NonCommercial – Share Alike 3.0
ISBN-13 : 978-1-938057-39-7 (digital)
978-1-938057-41-0 (online)
978-1-938057-40-3 (print)
Library of Congress: 2016916154
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First edition © October, 2016
Cook Street Publishing
PO Box 18217
Denver, CO 80218
CookStreetPublishing.com
With special thanks to:
Evalina Burger, MD
Christopher D’Ambrosia, MD
Robert Cooley PA-C,
as well as the nurses, medical technicians, physical therapists, and every individual and team involved
getting me back on my feet.
Thank you.
“Everyone has a plan
’till they get punched in the face.”
Mike Tyson, boxer
“Do nothing,
say nothing,
be nothing,
and you will never be criticized.”
Elbert Hubbard
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Two months later
Sunday early morning
September 18 — 5:37 a.m. PDT
San Luis Rey River Trail, Oceanside, California
“Catch us if you can!” she yelled.
They raced ahead through the dark on a flat path toward the Pacific Ocean. The wind buffeted her face, and the sound of crashing waves filled her ears. She started to laugh. Hearing her laugh, her twins, who were tucked into the stroller in front of her, began to laugh.
Her husband, Dr. John Drayson, caught her easily. He ran at her side until his watch went off. He glanced at her and the twins before stepping up the pace.
They were “helping” him with a speed exercise with a funny name, Fartlek. Her roller skates allowed her to keep up. At the end of the interval, he slowed, and she and the twins rolled past him.
The cool early morning darkness wrapped around her. She felt fearless, strong, and competent.
After all, what could hurt her now? Her team had exceeded every expectation. They had more than enough funding. She was well liked and, better yet, well respected. She and the team were poised to open a facility that would live on long after she had retired from the military.
She had even gained a leg up on the mystery that had become her life. She had finished the translation of the Linear A notes in The Gadfly. Through the course of his work, her friend and teammate, Captain Zack Jakkman, had seen the location of the library. It was only a matter of time that she would be able to save the world from those who wanted to watch it burn.
She and her team would spend this winter at the beach in California and return to Denver next summer to launch the next phase of the Fey Team.
She was on track. She was loved. She was happy.
Her future was as bright as the solar system glistening above. Nothing was going to get in her way now.
John increased his pace to catch up with her.
“Ready?” John asked with a gleam in his eyes.
“Always,” Lieutenant Colonel Alexandra “The Fey” Hargreaves said.
He sped up, and she followed.
F
CHAPTER ONE
Three weeks later
Monday early morning
October 10 — 5:17 a.m. MST
Denver, Colorado
Jack McKinney’s breath fogged the inside of the windshield of his old work truck. Grunting at the cold, he wiped the windshield with his clean handkerchief. He would have cranked up the heat, but, even at full tilt, the heater on this old rig blew an anemic breeze of lukewarm air. He put his large hands under his ample armpits and tried to think warm thoughts.
He was waiting for the owner of the decrepit building in front of him. He had been instructed not to get out of the truck until the owner arrived. No one knew who might be watching. The purchase of this decaying warehouse was supposed to be squeaky clean and very private.
It was up to Jack to make sure that happened.
The owner of the building was late. Jack knew that the owner was unsure of the sale. And why wouldn’t the owner be worried? Jack was buying the building with cash. The paperwork had been put together by an expensive law firm with faceless lawyers. In the end, the building would be owned by some untraceable corporation.
The three-story brick factory had been in the owner’s family since his ancestor laid the cornerstone in the late 1800s. Originally a munitions factory, the factory had since given birth to almost every durable good imaginable. A private rail line, connected to the national rail system, wrapped around the building for easy loading and shipping of products. The building was on a large lot in a quiet industrial area filled with warehouses dedicated to growing medical-marijuana plants.
The owner didn’t want to see his family’s legacy turned into one of those cookie-cutter condominium complexes that were going up all over town. He didn’t eat at fast-food establishments, and he sure didn’t want his building to become the equivalent. His grandfather had built the
building. His family had survived every boom and bust that Denver could dish out. He’d rather give the building to the Colorado Historic Society than see it turned into a playground for the rich and should-be-ashamed.
At least that’s what he’d told Jack every time they had spoken.
The problem was that the owner was in his eighties. His children had full lives and grandchildren of their own. They couldn’t care less about their family legacy. The owner needed cash for his beloved Marjory, his wife of more than sixty years, now that she was stricken with “God-forsaken-Alzheimer’s.” The owner had repeated the words “God-forsaken-Alzheimer’s” so many times that Jack had become convinced that Marjory’s actual medical diagnosis was “God-forsaken Alzheimer’s.”
The owner needed enough money to pay for a facility that would allow him to stay with her while she got the care she so desperately needed. Secretly hoping no one would offer, the owner had put the building up for sale at four times the appraised value.
Jack had called the next day.
The owner’s small, grey sedan pulled up to Jack’s truck. Jack waited a minute before pressing a gadget he’d been given. He grabbed the briefcase sitting on the seat next to him and got out of the truck. The owner’s hands tightly gripped the steering wheel of his sedan. When he noticed Jack’s approach, the owner nodded and got out of the sedan.
“Guess it’s time to get this over with,” the owner said.
“I’m a little surprised you don’t have your son with you,” Jack said. His words were thick with the distinctive inflection of the North of Ireland.
“He was going to come,” the owner said. The owner stood to his full height. “There are some things a man has to do himself.”
“You’ve got that right,” Jack said.
“You’re not going to turn it into one of those condo things?” the owner asked.
“We agreed to that in those papers you signed,” Jack said.
“But you didn’t actually say what you were going to do with the building,” the owner said.
Jack grinned. A tall, thick-chested man, Jack towered over the elderly man in front of him. Had the owner known that Jack had been an IRA soldier, he might have been intimidated. As far as the owner knew, Jack was just another affable Irish immigrant. Jack wanted to keep it that way.
“What are you going to do with it?” the owner asked.
“Do I look like the guy who knows that?” Jack laughed out loud.
“You’ve got a point,” the owner said. “What if I want to stop by and see it?”
“You’re welcome to do just that,” Jack said. “It’s in your contract.”
“You’re not turning it into some IRA bomb factory, are you?” the owner asked.
Surprised, Jack scowled at him.
“I looked you up on the Internet,” the owner said. “You and the Kellys were big in the IRA. Plus, you share a look with that Irish baker. The red-head. Sound like him too. He says he was IRA until the very moment he moved here. Do you know him?”
“He shouldn’t have told you that,” Jack said. Seeing the man’s sincerity, Jack nodded, “Yep, that idiot is my little brother.”
Jack shifted back and forth. This was taking too long. He wasn’t sure who might show up, but he was sure they wouldn’t be nice. To his surprise, the owner smiled.
“What?” Jack asked.
“I like them,” the owner said. “So does Marjory. They make her laugh — your brother and his friend — even now that she’s not herself. Marjory loves your brother’s little redhead kids. I take her there, to the bakery, whenever I can. We watch the river and drink tea. They make a good cup of tea. Do you know the other guy too?”
“Cian?” Jack asked. “I’m married to his sister.”
“And the big blond guy?” the owner asked. “Looks military?”
“I live next door to his sister,” Jack said.
The owner reached into his pocket and took out the keys to the building.
“Got a pen?” the owner asked, gesturing to the receipt of funds.
In the cold pre-dawn, the owner signed over his family’s legacy without another word. Jack gave the man the briefcase, which the owner tossed into the small sedan.
“I got this for you,” Jack said. “As a thank-you.”
The owner looked at the small plastic card.
“It’s a gift certificate to my brother’s place,” Jack said.
“That’s a real present,” the owner said. “Did your brother tell you we went there?”
“I had no idea,” Jack said with a nod. “But I’m glad you do. The wife and I have breakfast there after mass when the family’s traveling. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“I’d like that very much, Jack,” the owner said.
The owner held out his hand. Jack’s beefy hand enveloped his.
“My friends call me ‘Jackie,’” he said.
“Jackie,” the owner said. “I’m Albert.”
“If you ever need a handyman, just give me a call,” Jack said. “I’ll give you the family discount.”
The owner brightened.
“You’re not losing a thing here, sir,” Jack said. “You’re just joining the family.”
The owner’s eyes welled with tears. He nodded to Jack and got in his car. Jack stood in place while the car pulled out. Jack waved as the elderly man left the parking lot.
He went back to his truck to turn off the gadget. Starting his truck, he placed a call.
“It’s done,” Jack said into a message machine.
A construction crew pulled in as he was pulling out. By the time Jack had reached the end of the block, a metal construction fence surrounded the entire lot. Jack nodded to his rearview mirror and drove home for breakfast with his wife, Neev.
F
CHAPTER TWO
Monday morning
October 10 — 9:17 a.m. EST
Pentagon, Arlington County, Virginia
“You know what?” The new Admiral in Charge of Special Operations said.
The Admiral banged his fist knuckle-side down onto the table. His fist landed inches from Alex’s face. She stared at his Felix-the-Cat watch. The Admiral returned to pacing back and forth in front of the narrow table where she and six male senior leaders of other Special Operations teams were sitting. This was their first meeting with the new head of Special Operations since Alex’s friend and mentor, the last head of Special Operations, had joined the Joint Chiefs of Staff as the Chief of Naval Operations.
“Why don’t you get the hell out of here?” the Admiral asked.
“Sir,” Alex said mildly.
Senior Homeland Security Agent Arthur “Raz” Rasmussen was sitting just behind her with the partners and assistants to the other senior officers. Major Joseph Walter was supposed to attend these meetings, but he’d had a family emergency. The apparition of her best friend, US Army Sergeant Jesse Abreu, was just to the side of the Admiral, where he perfectly mimicked the Admiral gestures.
“I don’t need your expertise,” the Admiral said. He and Jesse pointed at Alex in unison. The Admiral’s voice was snide and derisive. “And I certainly don’t need an Army Lieutenant Colonel involved in Spec Ops!”
He snorted a kind of laugh. Jesse put his hands on his hips and mimicked an evil laugh. The Admiral and Jesse gestured at Raz.
“Don’t go anywhere,” the new Admiral said. “I want to meet with you to determine your future in the military.”
This new Admiral pointed to the door. Fit and handsome, Raz towered over the Admiral when he stood up. Alex gave the new Admiral a wry look before following Raz out of the office. They stopped just outside the door. Raz touched her arm. His grey eyes sought hers.
“New boss, different day,” Alex said in a low voice. She stretched her neck. “I wish I could say that was the first time I’d been dismissed.”
She shook her head.
“Too early in the morning to count that high,” Alex said with a shrug.
; She smiled at Raz, and he grinned. Behind them, Jesse was giving Admiral Ingram’s door a one-finger salute with both hands.
“Asshole,” Jesse said at the door.
Hearing something, Raz turned to glance at the door. He cupped Alex’s elbow and moved them down the hall a ways.
“Why don’t you head out to the garden while I arrange for our next ass chewing?” Raz asked.
Alex nodded in agreement. He put his arm around her and they walked the rest of the way down the short hall.
“What did you see?” he asked in her ear.
Her eyes flicked to the video camera above. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. Turning to his right, he went to speak to the Admiral’s assistant.
“Why, Agent Rasmussen,” the assistant’s voice rose with obvious interest. Her chest pressed forward as she added a suggestive, “What might I do for you?”
Smirking, Alex left the Admiral’s office and went to the elevators. When the door to the third floor opened, she looked longingly down the hallway where Max, her identical twin, had an office. Max was arguing a huge case in front of the International Court of Justice in the Hague. He hadn’t been seen or heard from in a few weeks. She debated for a moment if she wanted to soothe her panic with his expensive chocolate and irritated kindness. With a sigh, she decided that Raz was right.
She needed to clear her head for the next round with her new boss.
She took the elevator to the ground level and walked to the five-acre garden at the very center of the Pentagon. Over the years, she had spent a lot of time in this hidden garden, tucked away in the center of the world’s largest office building. The garden was originally designed as a secure place where employees could get some air in private. Her father had even purchased a bench dedicated to her fictional self, General Patrick Hargreaves’ deceased son, Alexander.
About Face Page 1
