Secrets & Lies

by Lauren Landish

  “I will see what I can do,” Nathan says softly, looking down on Andrea in wonder. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Nathan,” Andrea says.

  Carson leans down and whispers in my ear. “We need you just as much, 'Lissa. If our baby is going to be anything like us, we're going to need at least three parents. Think you can be strong enough?”

  “I'll try,” I promise him, our conversation cut short when we hear the honk of a horn as Jackson, Katrina and Baby Andrea arrive. “Let's go tell them the happy news.”

  “Then the hard part begins,” Carson reminds me, “but we'll be here for you.”

  After the joyful breaking of Andrea's good news, we sit down at the kitchen table. BA sits on her blanket in the middle of the kitchen, everything carefully moved out of her reach as she's started crawling, and can pull herself up to a standing position. She seems content though with her teddy bear and a floppy thing that I realize is actually a book that's made out of cloth. Right now, she's chewing on the letter E and the elephant printed on the cloth, turning it a darker shade of white than it was before.

  “So how did you learn about the threat?” Nathan asks. We know the basics, Peter's coming after us again. Now it's time to find out the details, and Katrina works best when she can start at the beginning and tell the story at her own pace.

  “I've been using my digital connections as well as Darcy to learn what I could without having to go to New Orleans itself,” Katrina says, sipping at the green tea that Nathan made for everyone. “I was also able to hack some of Peter's financial connections, things like that.”

  “And what did you learn?” Carson asks. He's already typed out a message to the movers, they'll be picking up Ascension in a few hours. With that taken care of, he's focused on our family, his face calm.

  In fact, looking around the table, I feel like everyone is calm other than me. After the initial excitement of hearing about Andrea's pregnancy, my anxiety is worse than ever. What if Peter comes after us when Andrea's having problems? What if she has a miscarriage because of the stress of all this? What if...

  Katrina's voice interrupts my frenzied thoughts as she answers Carson. “For most of the past few months, Peter's been relatively quiet. Until about three weeks ago, when he called on financial markers he has left, scraping together about two and a half million dollars. I couldn't find out what it was for at the time, so I had a couple of friends put tracers on it.”

  “Nothing came around until today,” Jackson says, spurring the story along. He knows his wife, and knows that if we let her, Katrina will bore us all except Andrea to death with her detailed descriptions about how her tech wizardry works. “Then we got a message.”

  “What was it?” I ask, trying with all my might to at least be somewhat helpful. I know my family tries to take care of me, but it hurts to feel like any time something related to Peter comes up I'm left with nothing more than watching Baby Andrea. I know I have my challenges, but I have to overcome them. I need to be more than just dead weight.

  Katrina takes a deep breath and looks around. “My parents are dead.”

  I'm not the only one who gasps, as Andrea looks like she's about to drop her teacup before she sets it down carefully. “What happened?”

  “Heavy-caliber rifle shots taken at a long distance. My mother had been released from federal custody a month ago as part of the deal to testify against Peter, while my father was transferred to protective custody and transferred. She was visiting him in prison, a minimum security place in Arkansas that allows conjugal visits,” Katrina says, her voice calm. “They were walking toward the trailer that the prison has for the visits when they were hit by two shots, both in the chest.”

  “Jesus,” Carson whispers, and my breath is nearly whistling in my lungs. I can't focus, I can barely breathe. I'm paralyzed, unable to do anything but sit there and listen as Katrina continues.

  “The prison investigators found the weapon six hundred yards away, a German G22 sniper rifle,” Katrina adds, taking another sip of tea. “Along with a note that simply said one & two. It was printed, no fingerprints or other marks so far.”

  “But the note obviously means that whoever killed them isn't finished,” Jackson adds. “And we got another whisper, a friend of Katrina's in that area who'd been keeping an eye on the Grammercys. Apparently there was a new woman seen in town around the same time as the killings, one who's disappeared in the twenty-four hours since then. The cops don't suspect anything, but there was a name associated that has our computer network going overtime.”

  “What?” Nathan asks.

  “A female assassin, Isis Bardot,” Katrina says, and I'm shocked at Nathan's reaction. His fingers go limp and his teacup falls from his fingers to bounce off the table, tea splattering all over his shirt as his eyes go wide.

  “Isis Bardot?” he whispers, his fingers starting to tremble. Tea runs over the tablecloth to drip into his lap, but I don't think he even notices. His face is as pale as a ghost. “Oh no.”

  “You know her?” Andrea asks. Katrina just calmly told us a sniper took out her parents, and her eyes are perceptive, looking around and gathering every bit of information... while I sit, unable to even offer comfort to Nathan, who's obviously in shock or distressed. How useless am I?

  “She’s… she’s bad news,” Nathan says, his voice still shaky. He notices that his pants are getting wet, and takes the napkin that Jackson offers and starts wiping himself up. “Katrina, are your sources sure that it was Isis?”

  “That was the name she used. They said she's about forty, maybe forty-five, sort of Arabic in appearance but maybe mixed. She spoke with a French-tinged accent, and stuck out around town because of her tastes in cars and clothing,” Katrina says, folding her hands. “Sound familiar?”

  “Yeah,” Nathan says in a hollow voice. His eyes are still haunted, and for the first time I think I see a hint of fear in his eyes. Who is this woman, that she could strike so much fear into Nathan's heart?

  “You do know her,” Carson says, his eyes narrowing. “What, have you worked together?”

  “I... I know her,” Nathan says, standing up. “Please, I need some time to think about this. I can’t give you a good answer until I do without sounding like a rambling madman. Katrina, you said your parents were shot. When?”

  “Yesterday,” Katrina says, finishing her tea. “We contacted you as soon as my people got a hold of me.”

  Nathan nods gratefully, and takes another deep breath. “Okay. Then she won't be in New Orleans right away, knowing her style. Still, it would be safer if we all stayed here for the night. Carson, I know you contacted the movers for Melissa's sculpture, it should be safe to have them come on the property and retrieve it. Still, I would appreciate it if you and Katrina acted as armed security, maybe Jackson helping for a little bit. In the meantime... I need to go think.”

  Without listening to anything else Nathan leaves the kitchen, going out into the dooryard and toward the barn. I'm still frozen with anxiety and panic when Carson notices my discomfort. “'Lissa?”

  “I... I... I...” I try to reply, trying to force out that I'm fine and everyone should focus on everything but me. Focus on Baby Andrea, focus on trying to talk to Nathan, focus on getting Ascension ready for shipping. Just don't focus on me. Don't focus on the broken woman who's sitting here trying her best to not pee her panties she's so scared. I try, but I can't.

  Andrea notices though, and jerks her head toward the door. “Jackson, will you and Carson start getting the sculpture ready? You're going to have to get the barn opened up all the way for them to get that thing out. Katrina, I think BA looks ready for a nap in the living room, don't you? You can get her down before the movers get here I'm sure.”

  Everyone nods and clears out, until it's just me and Andrea. She gets out of her chair and comes over to stand next to me. “Give me your hand, 'Lissa,” she says, reaching out. “Let's go have some sister time.”

  “I'm sorry
,” I whisper, trying not to cry. “I'm sorry, Andrea. I tried to be strong.”

  “I know you did,” Andrea says quietly. “And you did a good job. But come on, enough of that, I have something special I want to show you.”

  I nod, taking Andrea's hand and following her as we go to the living room. Katrina is already there with BA, who's happily nursing and starting to drift into a nap.

  We go upstairs, Andrea leading me to my bedroom, where she closes the door behind us. “Go ahead, lie down on the bed.”

  “What is it, Andrea?” I ask. “I don't need a nap, I'm not tired at all, and I couldn't sleep anyway after that.”

  “No, you're right,” Andrea says, coming over and sitting down, taking my right hand and stroking a spot on my palm near my thumb. “But what you do need is a way to help your body deal with the anxiety. I've been thinking about it for a while, and I think there's no time like the present.”

  I realize that whatever Andrea's doing, it feels good, pleasurable and calming. “Is that what you're doing now?”

  “I'm trying. I discussed it with Katrina during Christmas, and I wanted to teach you something you can use on yourself to help with the anxiety. So I thought I'd show you some acupressure you could do on yourself to help relieve anxiety. Because you're my sister, and I love you.”

  Chapter 5

  Nathan

  The Colt is heavy in my hands, and my forearms are trembling as I take aim at the target thirty meters away. It's small, smaller than an average coffee cup, and I squeeze the trigger on my 1911, satisfied when I hear a ping and the target spins. I feel someone's presence behind me and I take off my earphones, turning around to see Jackson standing there, a Glock strapped to his thigh. “Nice shot.”

  “Guess I can still shoot,” I agree, turning back and making another shot, another ping. “What brings you out here?”

  “Every time I visit the farm I come back here to get some shooting in,” Jackson says, pausing while I make my last shot of this clip. “Our spot in Baton Rouge doesn't have the space, and I hate going to the local gun club.”

  “Why?” I ask, stepping back and offering the firing line to Jackson. He nods and steps forward, pulling his Glock with a decent draw and firing quickly. He's got youth, reflexes, and a good eye, and hits four out of five shots before hitting the fifth target with a sixth shot. “Not bad.”

  “Thanks. The draw's one thing I can work on at home,” he says, stepping to the side. “Katrina's news bring you out here?”

  “A little,” I admit, replacing my clip and taking my stance again. I've been shooting for over an hour, and don't have the speed or endurance to replicate what Jackson just did, but my five measured shots all hit their targets even if it takes twice as long for me to do it. “I've also been coming out here at least twice a week since I started the kidney treatments. If I can’t fight anymore, I can at least still shoot.”

  “Andrea told me how well you're running, I doubt you've lost all your fighting skills,” Jackson replies, firing the rest of his clip in measured shots, hitting six of the remaining nine shots before he's empty. “Damn, always screw up when I take it slow.”

  “That's what she said,” I joke, and Jackson turns, his mouth agape. “What? I do have a sense of humor. It is not the best, but I do have one.”

  “It's just rare to see it,” he says, popping out his clip and slapping a new one home. “You ready to shoot again?”

  “No, I've put two hundred rounds down range today,” I say, rubbing my right wrist.

  “Okay,” Jackson says, turning and firing his next clip empty, his accuracy going to hell as he starts to rush at the end. “Fuck.”

  “So why don't you like the local gun club?” I ask again as Jackson reloads. I know his problem, his breathing is off, and he's trying to muscle his shots. “Relax, let the pistol rest in your hands. I bet you fire better when you’re tired.”

  Jackson pauses, and nods. “You're right. As for the gun club, I feel like going there is listening to a bunch of fakes who talk a lot of shit, but if the shit really hit the fan...”

  “They would probably stand there frozen, pissing down their legs in fear,” I finish for him. Jackson nods and I give him a tight smile. “One of the things the Special Forces taught me is that you really can’t predict how someone is going to react under fire until it happens. My first SF team leader was a first lieutenant, and, you would have thought he was going to be Rambo. His officer evals prior to joining the team were glowing. And in training, he was all that and more.”

  “But when you guys got under fire?” Jackson asks, and I shrug. “How bad was it?”

  “Three out of seven guys in the team were dead within five minutes. He had a breakdown, sobbing and begging for someone to shoot him. Last I heard before I left the service, he was polishing a staff desk at recruiting command in western Oregon.”

  Jackson hums and turns back to the targets, raising his pistol. “And what do you think of us?”

  I wait for him to finish his clip before answering. “I think you all have spirit. I have seen you all fight, or at least try to. But it’s not enough. Not this time.”

  “This Isis that bad?” he asks, taking a deep breath. “Badder than you?”

  “Maybe. I need to make a few phone calls. Would you mind holding off on your shooting until tomorrow? I don’t want to make this call inside.”

  Jackson considers, then nods. “Yeah. Don't take too long, okay? You've got some willing troops, but we could use a little advice from our leader.”

  “I’m not the leader, Jackson,” I say with a small shake of my head. “I’m just trying to make sure you all live through this.”

  “Maybe. But you have a role in this family, too,” Jackson says, clearing and holstering his Glock. He looks around at the twinkling shells on the ground, and bites his lip, knowing one of Carson's primary rules. “You want me to police up the brass?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I reassure him.

  Jackson leaves and I take out my cell phone, pulling up my secondary phone book. There's some numbers in here I haven't called in years, I wonder if some of them are dead. Considering who these people are, it's a distinct possibility. I pull up one I know is alive, since I got a e-card from him at Christmas. The phone rings, and is picked up quickly. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I reply, reassured. While the first officer I ever worked with in the Special Forces was a complete imbecile, not all of them were, and the best that I worked with was Major Gerald Munchak. Cool under fire, a true soldier's soldier, after retiring he went into the private security business. Like many of those who took advantage of the contracts that popped up after the second Iraq War, he knows as much about the shady side of the mercenary game as the legit 'security consultant' side. “Is this a bad time?”

  “For you, Sergeant Black?” the Major asks, as usual referring to me by rank. He only uses my first name when he's really putting business aside and is talking to me man-to-man, something rare with him. “Never. How goes it wherever you are?”

  “I think you probably can make a good guess as to where I am, sir. You always had good S-2 on the fly. I can use some of that dope if you are willing to share,” I say, amazed as always at how quickly some of the old military lingo comes back into my speech. “What do you say, sir?”

  “I say God damn, good to hear from you,” the Major replies. “So is your line secure?”

  “It's my personal cell phone, and I'm standing in the middle of a field that's a couple hundred yards from anything. Good enough?”

  “I'd say so. So what do you want to know?”

  “Need to know about my ex-boss. And Isis Bardot.” There's a whistle on the other end, and I nod in agreement. “Yes sir, I know. But I suspect she just put down two people connected to some members of my fa... the group I’m working with.”

  “You mean when she put two through the chests of Samuel and Theresa Grammercy?” the Major says. “The same Sam
uel Grammercy that was going to testify against your ex-boss, and is the father of one of the members of your little group?”

  “Seems I've been lazy,” I grumble to myself, and the Major hums. “Fuck. So what do I do?”

  “Don't feel too bad, Sergeant,” the Major says at first, “the info I got was all rumor, and not through anything you've done. Friends who know friends who know people who have talked. But there's breadcrumbs out there. As for what to do, if I were you, I'd disappear. There could be more than just Isis Bardot coming after you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Peter DeLaCoeur wants you dead. All of you. Specifically, the names listed were you, Katrina Grammercy, Jackson DeLaCoeur, Andrea DeLaCoeur, Carson and Melissa Sands, and someone named Andrea Hart, although that may have been a screwup on an alias.”

  Fear grips my stomach as I shake my head. “Not a screwup, sir.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A precious little girl who is just past nine months old,” I whisper, looking back toward the main house. I can't see it from here, but I can see the top of the barn, peaceful against the afternoon sky. “Anyone else?”

  “The open contract said 'and others', with a price on each head. Congratulations, Sergeant. You're part of one of the top ten richest contracts in America right now.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, thoughts swirling through my head. “Any word if anyone other than Isis has taken it up?”

  “Haven't heard, but with the amount of money being floated, Peter's going to get someone who's going to bite. Maybe not as good as Isis, but good enough to cause you headaches. Then again, if word gets out Isis is taking the contracts, a lot of people will peel off. Nobody really likes working with that untrustworthy bitch. Like I said Sergeant, it might be time to disappear.”