Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  “She’s your daughter and you used her to get to me.”

  “And you texted her a threat.”

  He gave Galen a pointed look. “I’d never hurt her. You don’t—”

  “It wasn’t me.” Galen peeled himself off the floor and stumbled toward a chair. “Think I’d wave her anywhere under your nose? I didn’t even know you were alive.” He dropped into it heavily. “It was Barry. He baited you back here.”

  Tox flexed his jaw muscle. “He wanted me, so I came.”

  “Wait, you knew West Africa was a trap.” Galen frowned. “And you knew this was a trap, too. That he—”

  “What do you want from me?” On his feet, Tox tucked his hands under his armpits.

  “I don’t—”

  Tox scowled, silencing his brother’s denial. They were running out of time. “This about Lammers?”

  Galen twitched, confirming Tox’s theory that they’d brought him out for something connected to the ambassador. His brother finally nodded. “He was killed in London.”

  “Overkill.”

  His brother hesitated, a frown covering a face that looked more like their father’s now that Galen was in his mid-forties. “What do you mean?”

  “They could’ve killed him anywhere, quietly. But they killed him in public.”

  Galen grunted.

  “It was a message.” He met his brother’s gaze evenly. “One you want me to answer. Right?”

  A whisper of commotion outside gave him the necessary warning. Shadows scampered across the well-lit threshold.

  “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

  Holding his brother’s gaze, Tox went to his knees and threaded his hands behind his head.

  “What’re—”

  The door burst in. Light flooded the room. “Mr. President!”

  Footsteps thudded behind Tox. Weight plowed into his back, sending him face first into the thick rug. A knee planted against his neck forbade him from moving.

  “Easy, easy!” Galen shouted to the agents who secured him. Two more held weapons on him.

  “Tox Russell.” Ah, Barry Attaway had returned. Probably ticked more than ever that Tox had gotten past the added detail. “How’d you get in here?”

  Hands grabbed Tox’s arms and secured him with zip cuffs. They hauled him to his feet.

  Tox hated games. Hated playing the games. And hated even more the man behind the games. He balled as much of that putrid hatred as he could into his gaze as he faced the chief of staff. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  The steady thump of footsteps preceded a stream of men in tactical gear. Six . . . eight . . . ten men swarmed the hall.

  Attaway glowered. “Get him out of here.”

  7

  — Day 6 —

  Washington, DC

  Wood dug into Kasey’s knees as she knelt before the oversized antique handed down from her great-grandmother, a hope chest intended for girls looking to the future—a husband and children. Kasey had given up on that dream when Chaplain Vogt arrived with two officers, on the day that should’ve been their first anniversary, to inform her Duarte would not be coming home. Ever again.

  She removed the preserved wedding dress and set it aside, along with the wad of grief that pushed its way from the past. She dug around the wedding album, her scrapbooks from high school and college, down past her yearbooks. Her hair broke free from its bun, sandy hair tumbling into her face. “Ugh.” She dove deep, as if digging for gold. And to her, it was gold. “I know it’s in here.”

  Her hand hit something beneath a stack of vinyl records, and the crinkle of paper reached her ears.

  That’s it! A jolt of excitement shot through her as she gripped the packet and freed it. With it came memories, unbidden. Warm and sweet. Clutching the brown paper bag in both hands, she shifted around and slumped against the wall, knees up. With care, she unfolded it. Drew out the bundled stack of photos. Some were almost two decades old. Some a little newer, but not by much. He’d vanished from their lives nearly fifteen years ago.

  Sliding off the band that secured the photos felt like awakening the dead. As the gray acid-free band slid away, his face took shape on the first photo. She breathed a smile and relaxed against the wall. Always so handsome, in a rugged, bad-boy sort of way. That was what had drawn Brooke to him in the first place. Cole had never fit in. He’d done things his way. Never cared what others thought.

  Kasey traced a finger over his attractive features—his hair shorn, his grin dangerous. She snorted at her thoughts. Her finger moved, uncovering her sister’s image. And that familiar hot poker of jealousy seared Kasey. “You didn’t deserve him,” she whispered.

  It’d been poetic, she’d thought, that Brooke died one week and Cole the next. Even though the two hadn’t spoken for almost ten years by then. “What did you see in her?” She remembered screaming that into her pillow after he and Brooke had left on a date.

  She went to the next photo. Prom. Behind that one, him at the pool at her parents’ house. Shirtless. Though now she was fourteen years older, a widow, and knew better, Kasey blushed. He’d worked out even then. Enough that her twelve-year-old self had crushed hard and long on Cole Russell.

  Her parents’ only concern had been that the Russells and Linwoods be irrevocably linked. Her family’s money and his family’s power combined for an indomitable dynasty. It was so eighteenth century. She had hated it. Especially because it meant she wouldn’t be Cole’s wife. Her sister would. But then fickle, self-absorbed Brooke dumped the military hero with a Dear John letter and married his brother.

  Her breath caught when her gaze landed on a shot taken at the wedding. The last time she’d seen him. In the photo, Haven stood off to the side, eyes on Cole, who—of course—was oblivious to her. As he always had been.

  Even in his tailored suit, he had an edge to him. Simmering in anger. She was surprised he’d even attended. Though “attended” might have been an overstatement. He brooded. Clung to the corners and shadows. Avoided conversation. Avoided people. Classic Cole.

  She’d said hi, but he’d muttered hello and moved off without even looking at her. Thirty minutes later he’d left the reception. Brooke hadn’t noticed. Galen had, but shrugged off his brother’s departure to enjoy his wedding.

  Twelve-year-old Haven, furious with her sister and Galen, made a vow that night—to always love Cole Russell. It was naïve. She was only a preteen. And she never saw him again.

  She grew up.

  He went to prison.

  She married a Navy SEAL.

  He died—supposedly.

  She buried her husband.

  Kasey lifted the photo closer in the waning light. “Where have you been all these years?”

  “Who?”

  Kasey blinked and looked at her bedroom door. Her roommate and best friend, Emilie, stood there, looking smart with her glasses and dark-brown hair. Memories of Cole faded into a mist of guilt and embarrassment. Kasey tucked the photos back into the chest. “Nobody.”

  A buzz drew her attention to her phone on the floor nearby. She saw the screen and Levi’s name. She groaned—but stopped as she read his text: HE’S HERE.

  The words pushed Kasey to her feet, and she closed the hope chest, watching the brown paper bag vanish—just like Cole had so many years ago. “Sorry, Em. Gotta run.”

  “Say hi to Levi for me.”

  “Right.” Minutes later, dressed in nondescript tan slacks, a white blouse, and navy blazer, Kasey rushed out of the house.

  She hopped into her compact car, quadruple-checked that the text said what she thought, and pulled into traffic.

  Cole. Enigma. Mystery man. Dead. Resurrected. With WGTS, the DC-metro Christian station pumping out music to steady her nerves, Kasey wove in and out of traffic, growled at red lights, and nailed her brakes at stop signs. Brooke had brought Cole home for the first time on the weekend of Kasey’s tenth birthday. He was tall, dark-haired, and had blue eyes that melted her soul.

&nb
sp; The blare of a horn startled her. She flinched, thinking she’d crossed lanes, but it wasn’t her they’d honked at.

  The exit raced up on her.

  Kasey whipped the car across two lanes of traffic and wedged in between a semi and a tow truck. A few minutes later, she arrived at the secure entrance of the White House. When her vehicle was cleared, she hurried up to the security access point and turned over her purse and keys. She got wanded, then as she retrieved her belongings, she spotted Levi coming down the other side of the hall.

  He shot her a grin. “Agent Cortes.”

  Purse on her arm, she nodded. “Agent Wallace.” She joined him, and they headed in the opposite direction, his gaze never leaving her.

  “Are you going to hate me forever for not telling you?”

  She had never been one to hold a grudge, though it seemed she was in the minority among the people she knew. “Maybe a day shorter,” she said.

  He managed a smile, that attraction glinting in his eyes again.

  Her mind, her thoughts, her ramming pulse, however, were focused elsewhere. “When’d he show up?”

  “They discovered him late last night.”

  “Discovered?”

  “In the president’s bedroom.”

  Kasey widened her eyes. “He got past security?” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say while surrounded by those who were supposed to protect the president. And failed.

  “He got past everyone. Assaulted the president.”

  Kasey stopped. “What?” She wanted to say Cole wouldn’t do that, but he’d always been intense. And whatever he’d been through the last three years since his purported death . . .

  “Busted his lip.” Levi escorted her through a few more security checkpoints until they were walking down to a cement bunker. “They’ve got him locked up. Questioning him.”

  “That sounds a lot like torturing him.”

  At the end of the corridor, a cluster of suits and uniforms gathered. The thrum of excitement and conversation reverberated through the area.

  “He’s caused a stir.”

  “Kase,” Levi said, catching her arm, gently stopping her. He towered over her, his unique scent of woods and spice embracing her. “Be careful.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a reason they’ve got him down here.” His expression waxed soft. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  There was something in Levi’s words, his demeanor, that made her falter.

  “Also, the president doesn’t want you to reveal your identity to him.”

  She scoffed. “You don’t think he’ll know?”

  “He hasn’t seen you in almost fifteen years. You were pretty young.”

  Agitation cinched her throat. She wanted to argue that Cole would know. That he would flat-out recognize her. She was sure of it. She smiled. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Agent Cortes?”

  Kasey turned toward the voice. Barry Attaway waited with a man in a dark blue suit—FBI? CIA?—and a 1-star. Her stomach squirmed, feeling suddenly and distinctly out of her league.

  “Don’t let them scare you,” Levi whispered as he brandished his ID to the guard who separated her from the high ranks. “Remember, the Office of the Pardon Attorney will base their decision on your report. You’re holding the golden ticket for him, and without that—”

  “I will not taunt him with a reward. He’s either worthy of the pardon”—siphoning from Levi’s strength, Kasey forced out the last part—“or he’s not.”

  “And we have to consider that very real possibility.”

  “Right.” Golden ticket. But the bigger problem nagged at her—what would she do when Cole recognized her? She might have been invisible to his Brooke-blind self back then, but Cole Russell never missed a thing.

  Blessed Is He Who Preserves It

  “What do you want?” Benyamin Cohen struggled to push the question past his frantic heartbeat as he stared at the man standing in his living room. From somewhere came an icy breath, swirling, slowing his heart rate.

  Digging his fingernails into the padded armrests of his wheelchair did little to help Ben get a grip on his sanity. He hadn’t thought death so close. “Who are you?”

  There should be a halo of light around the man if he were an angel. Yes, light. But there wasn’t light. So he was a demon then?

  “Come for my soul, have you?”

  Hands clasped in front of him, the man remained in the hallway, silent.

  Yet . . .

  Ben could feel it. Could feel . . . whatever it was. “Why are you in my home?”

  “It is time,” the man spoke, his voice resonating like a shofar.

  “Time? Time for what? To die?” Ben shoved away the panic. Challenge solidified in his chest.

  Gratzia came to mind. Her final moments as she lay on their bed. They’d been through a lot. Escaping Damascus in their youth. Living in Israel, then coming to New York, where they’d raised their three children as he ran the shop.

  Illness had been his adversary. He’d consistently lost battles in the last decade, but Ben didn’t feel ready to release the reins of life. There were months, if not years, to be had and conquered. Surely.

  “Sabba?” Alison’s voice called to him from an empty hollowness.

  Ben dared not look away from this intruder.

  Wizened eyes held his. “Truths are known to you, Benyamin Cohen.”

  Ice snapped through his veins. “Nobody knows that name.” At least, not anyone alive. “Who are you?” he demanded louder this time, feeling the squeeze of panic in his chest.

  Chest. Yes. His hand went to his chest. Smoothed his jacket. Tugged the lapels tighter. He was safe with it. “How did you get in?”

  “Sabba, I let myself in, as I always do.” Round-faced Alison stepped into the room, tossing a dish towel over her right shoulder. Puffs of white on her black blouse betrayed her efforts in the kitchen.

  The stranger had said little and moved less. He must be a demon, for he tormented Ben with his silence. They stared at each other in the gaping void, a challenge. A duel. Ben would not yield. “Get out!”

  “Sabba?” Alison came from the front door, and in the dark shadows of his mind, he thought perhaps she’d been checking the locks. But fright and old age addled a mind so.

  “You can no longer protect that which cannot be protected,” the man finally said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” But he did. It burned against his chest even now, his heart writhing under it. And he could almost hear it crinkling, cracking beneath that burning. “Leave me be!”

  “Sabba” came Alison’s soft, pleading voice.

  Ben blinked, and instead of the stranger’s baleful gaze, brown eyes probed his. The fragrance of vanilla and flour clung to his granddaughter as she bent over him. “Alison,” he whispered, disbelieving. Was she in danger? He caught her shoulder and looked behind her.

  They were alone. In his apartment in Brooklyn. The kitchen—it sat empty. The bathroom—dark and vacant. He strained to see down the short hall to his bedroom. Was the man lurking there? Where had he gone?

  “Sabba, is something wrong?”

  The quiet lull of her voice drew him back. “Alison . . .” Had she not seen the man? Why did she not react?

  “Yes, Sabba. It’s me.” Long, soft fingers touched his cheek, their gentleness reflected in her mahogany eyes. So like Gratzia’s. “I’m baking scones for you. Blueberry—your favorite.”

  Again, he searched the foyer. Only the umbrella stand and hat rack stood in the shadows now.

  “It’s warm.” She reached for his jacket. “Let me help you take this off, and you’ll be—”

  “No!” He swatted at her hands. “Leave me!”

  “But you’re sweating, Sabba.”

  “Leave me!” When her eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath, Ben deflated. He crumpled in on himself, disappointed. Frightened. She would think him mad. Believe he
’d lost his faculties. He could not let her think that of him. “Forgive me.” He patted his wrinkly, arthritic hands over her soft, supple fingers. The contrast struck him as sharp. Poignant. The past and present colliding. Just as the parchment promised. “Perhaps some water?” He dragged his palm over his forehead. “I find I’m thirsty.” From fright?

  She smiled. Every inch her savta all over again. “Of course, Sabba.”

  Probing the shadows once more, he mentally followed Alison into the kitchen. Who was the man who’d stolen into his home and haunted him?

  His fingertips grazed the wool jacket, the rough texture comforting. Reassuring.

  Yes, yes, he would be safe.

  8

  — Day 6 —

  Washington, DC

  Fire bled through every cell and pore of Tox’s body. The pain pulled at him, drowning him in an agony he could never have imagined. Darkness crept in, deeper and heavier than the blackest of nights. Tempting him to let go. Taunting him with the mockery of his life, his worthless life.

  And yet, somehow through the thickness of pain and despair, a figure appeared. Brightened against an ebony sea above him. Took shape. Grew larger, stronger.

  Dead. I’m dead!

  A white tunic emblazoned with a red cross swam through Tox’s vision as the man reached for him.

  Heat roaring across his chest, Tox flinched at the memory. Shuddered away the haunting darkness of it. No, he hadn’t really seen a man in those flames. It’d been the pain—being trapped alive in a cave-in. Terrified of dying, he lost focus. Kafr al-Ayn had ruined a lot of things, but Tox wouldn’t let it ruin his mind. He’d told the story once, only once, of seeing that conjured knight. Then recanted. Shoved the memory as far from his consciousness as possible. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

  Clank. Clank. Hisssss. Clank.

  With a heavy groan, the reinforced steel door receded into the wall enough for a man to enter. Dressed in Navy combat dress with no insignia. No rank or unit designation. It was as if he’d pulled the uniform off a Goodwill rack. Black-and-blue eyes and a crooked nose. He’d been in a bad fight, but he wore it with comfort and ease, like a second skin. He was here to interrogate Tox. Tox gritted his teeth and pushed his gaze back to the blank wall.