by V. R. Marks
She'd met plenty of dialects and voice patterns during her life. At home in New York, in the Army, and now here. What was it about Morris' voice that drew her in and made her want to melt? "Did you ever want to get away?"
"From Haleswood?"
She nodded. Was it Haleswood protocol to send his mother a note that he was batting a thousand in proper manners?
"I left for school for a while," he said, opening the sheriff's office door for her.
"Right." Eva knew that already. And more. Too much free time meant she'd done rudimentary research on everyone who worked in the building, down to the two women who cleaned the place two nights a week.
Deputy Morris had spent two years in college on a basketball scholarship before coming home to help when his father was diagnosed with cancer. Of course, she could have spent a few hours at the Midnight Rooster coffee house and probably heard more details from the locals, but people usually put their own spin on information when they shared it. Eva had been trained to develop independent opinions about facts rather than simply absorb someone else's perspective.
And, as Deputy Morris pointed out, she was still considered a stranger around here which meant most of the locals either shared too much or too little when they talked with her.
"Hi, Mrs. Jackson," she said with a smile. "What's the trouble?"
"Hello, dear. It must be a virus. The screen keeps going black."
Eva leaned closer, so she wouldn't be overheard. "Bet that's hell on your solitaire games."
Mrs. Jackson arched her penciled brows over her festive red and green cheater eyeglasses. "You have no idea. But this morning I'm actually doing some undercover research."
"Really?" Eva leaned back. "Do you need help?"
"I'm supposed to be helping." The older woman glanced around. "Helping Santa Claus that is. What I need is for this monitor to stay alive long enough for me to compare prices and memory options on PlayStation consoles. Unless you have a recommendation."
"I can make some suggestions, but first let me figure this out. Any other issues with the system?"
"No. It makes all the right sounds when I turn it on and off and it works just fine when I can see what I'm doing." She waved a hand at the dark screen. "The control-alt-delete does nothing."
"All right. I'll take a look."
"Be my guest." Mrs. Jackson pushed back from the desk. "I'll just get another coffee."
Eva wasn't sure caffeine was the best idea, but she wasn't about to say so. Taking a seat, she started troubleshooting. By the time Mrs. Jackson returned, mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a slice of Danish in the other, Eva had figured out it was simply a matter of a loose cable.
She tightened the connections and explained what happened to Mrs. Jackson. As the older woman showered her with praise, Eva wrote a note about what to look for and where to shop for the best deals on gaming consoles.
After a brief chat with the older woman, she prepared to leave, only to find Deputy Morris ready and waiting to escort her back upstairs.
When they were in the stairwell, she stopped on the first step and turned to face him. With the help of the riser, she was almost at eye level with the former basketball star of Haleswood High. "Am I under some sort of court house watch?"
He frowned. "Of course not."
"Good." She gave him a little finger wave. "Then you can go on about your business. I'm perfectly capable of handling a couple of doors all by myself."
She turned and headed up the stairs before he could reply, but caught the sound of his boots behind her and paused again. "What part of I'm capable wasn't clear, Deputy?"
"The part where you leave before I can ask you out."
Slowly, more than a little surprised, she twisted to face him once more, leaning against the hand rail. "I beg your pardon?"
A wry grin tipped up the corner of his mouth. "You heard me. And call me Carson."
"I thought everyone called you J.C. or Deputy."
"You're not everyone."
Well, they agreed on that. She couldn't recall her last date. There must have been one on her last visit home before she'd joined Ross' investigation team. Her aunts were always trying to set her up with a 'nice young man'. The problem was she found nice young men boring.
She didn't have a bad boy complex. Having met plenty of those types, they didn't hold much appeal either. She wanted a man who shared a few of her interests and wasn't intimidated by her career or associates – past or present. She wanted –
"Do you plan to give me an answer?"
"Not before I know what you have in mind," she shot back.
"How about I tell you on the way to your office?"
"Fine." She figured he'd invite her to a movie at the one screen theater a couple of blocks away followed by pizza and a beer at O'Malley's. Not bad, just predictable.
His long legs made quick work of the two steps between them. "There's a police range down on highway 521. Have you ever shot a .44 magnum?"
"Please," she said dismissively. But it had been a long time since she'd held that kind of firepower in her hands. Unfortunately, she knew her shoulder wasn't ready for it.
"But you're interested."
How did he know that? "You're awfully sure of yourself."
"Why don't you tell me what you'd like to fire out there and I'll see what I can do to make it happen."
Life in a small town sure hadn't limited his ability to read women. He'd pegged her in one when most men underestimated her on a variety of levels.
"Fine. A few rounds with an AT-4 rocket launcher would be fun."
He huffed a short sigh as they reached the landing and he opened the door. "That's a pretty unique way to say no."
She looked up at him as she passed. "Who's saying no?" And when had she decided to start flirting with Deputy Morris? Carson. "I'd enjoy some target practice with whatever you want to shoot."
His eyebrows arched. "Saturday then? I'll pick you up at ten."
"A.M.?"
"If that works."
BANG! The door slammed behind them, but this time the shock that followed was in front of her.
A massive man barreled out of her office, his hand gun trained on them.
Deputy Morris stepped in front of her and drew his service revolver in a smooth motion she might have admired at a different time.
"Stand down," she ordered, darting out to stand between the two men. "It was only the door." As both weapons slowly lowered toward the floor, she raced forward, leaping into the open arms of the newcomer.
"Bart!" She punched his shoulder as he set her back on her feet. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"He was in your office, ma'am," Deputy Morris said, stepping forward and nodding at the open door.
"Do not ma'am me." It was one southern tradition she did not find the least bit charming. "Karl Bartholomew, Deputy Morris. We're all friends here boys. Holster those weapons."
When they complied, she stood beside Bart to reassure the deputy. "We worked together for years. I'm fine, Deputy- Carson," she corrected when he glared at her.
"Concealed weapons aren't allowed in the building."
"What's concealed?" Bart growled, patting the holster on his hip.
She stepped between them again, immediately concerned by Bart's uncharacteristic edginess. Nudging her friend toward the office required more force than she expected. "Get in there," she snapped.
He muttered under his breath, but he moved at last.
"I've got this," she assured Morris.
After another long look over her shoulder, he turned away.
"Could you take the elevator? Please?"
Doing a fine imitation of Bart's muttering, Carson reversed direction.
As Eva closed the office door, she felt an unexpected amount of regret that her Saturday invitation had probably been revoked.
Chapter 2
When the elevator opened on his floor, he turned away from the sheriff's office and headed out to the parki
ng lot. He needed to cool off and the brisk December day worked in his favor.
Friend of Eva's or not, that man and the tense situation had scared him. Admitting it, even to himself, wasn't a comfortable feeling. It was one thing to be told about on-the-job fear in training, another to feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins and a life or death choice in your hands.
Generally, situations requiring weapons were rare in Haleswood. Usually he was grateful for that, but today it made him question his ability to fulfill his additional assignment as Eva's bodyguard.
Pitching in when Ross had asked a bunch of Haleswood citizens to keep an eye on Eva during her recovery from the gun shot was one thing. Pretty much the whole town rallied to support her. But this additional detail putting him in Eva's path every day was proving challenging on a different level.
No surprise to find a woman of her exotic beauty stunning. Her Italian heritage was evident in her flawless olive complexion, thick dark hair, and the fire in her brown eyes. But he'd been very surprised that the more he was around her the more he liked her feisty nature and sharp wit.
At his car, Carson popped open the trunk. He pulled his emergency pack of cigarettes from the hiding place under the lining. Lighting up and taking a long, slow drag of smoke and nicotine into his lungs, his thoughts turned back to last week's private meeting.
"Stay close, be friendly," he muttered, remembering Carpenter's words. "Yeah, let me get right on that."
Carson dragged in another lungful of nicotine and toxins. As he blew the smoke toward the clear December sky he wondered how he was going to accomplish that now. Maybe the guy upstairs was his replacement.
The thought made him feel decidedly unprofessional about the whole mess.
It would have helped if Ross had offered a clear definition of suspicious contact. Gun-toting bear fit the bill for him, but obviously not for Eva. Apparently they trusted him enough to protect her, but not enough to reveal the details of the progress they were making. They were all damn lucky he hadn't fired on her friend Bart.
That kind of thinking was reckless, he knew. With a shaky hand, he raised the cigarette to his lips for a last inhale. As the smoke left his lungs, he rolled the filter between his fingers until the ash fell out. Pocketing the filter he pulled out his phone. He sent a brief text to Carpenter about the bear with the gun and then headed back to the office to catch up on his real job.
At the door, his phone chimed the arrival of a new text message.
On my way. Keep her in the building.
* * *
Eva didn't bother to ask how Bart got into the locked office. For all she knew Ross had sent him a key. She was more concerned by the bizarre tension radiating off of her friend.
With the office door closed and locked again, she perched on the edge of her desk. "What is wrong with you?"
Bart shook his big head. "Sorry. I heard the shot –"
"The door."
"Sounded the same to me."
It sounded the same to her too lately, but she knew why she couldn't tell the difference. She'd been away from the Army and regularly scheduled qualifications for too long. While she kept current on her service weapon – until she'd been shot, her support role kept her at the computer and her few surveillance assignments hadn't been of a violent nature. She wanted to know his reasons for freaking out over the slamming door. "Why?"
"Huh?"
"You can usually tell the difference between two nine-millimeter pistols on a busy qualification range."
Bart wouldn't meet her eyes. His avoidance was more frightening than having him aim a gun at her. Her instincts prickled with apprehension, but she believed in dealing with fear – and everything else – head on. "You didn't come all this way to go mute." She gave him a soft kick in the shin. "Talk to me."
"You remember that night mission."
He couldn't be talking about the night mission that immediately popped into her mind. They'd vowed never to bring it up again. "There are a few of those in our history."
He looked at her and the despair in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. He couldn't be here about that, couldn't be bringing her worst nightmares up from the dark pit of Yemen to the quiet peace of Haleswood.
The emergency scanner crackled with a report about a 911 call at the middle school. The fire department sirens blared through town first, followed by one of the deputy cars from downstairs. Would Morris take the call or someone else?
How quickly life could change. An hour ago, it would have been the most important question of her day, now… "You're sure about this?"
Bart reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and swiped the screen a few times. "Look," he said, handing it to her.
She stared at the news article on the screen and told herself it was a hoax. Anyone could post anything on the Internet and make it look real. But the brief, official obituary under what appeared to be the header of a major-market newspaper made her lightheaded.
"Why haven't I seen this?" She held the phone out to Bart, but he wouldn't take it back. She had alerts set up for news like this. At least once a week she scanned the headlines worldwide for this name and his related associates. Nothing had ever popped up. "This is nothing more than a hoax."
"Eva."
"Don't 'Eva' me." He wouldn't take his damn phone so she left it on the desk and went to her own computer to search. "There is no way I missed this."
"Did you read the whole message?"
She couldn't listen to this and not just because of the stress-induced pounding of her pulse in her ears. Confirmation would prove she was overreacting. Her fingers flew over the keys while she muttered Italian curses that would make her father blush.
"It has to be fake, Bart. I would've known if he'd died. It has to be fake," she repeated.
"Read the rest of the email, Eva."
She'd read it in a minute. "How did anyone in that family get your email address?"
"Public record?" He shrugged. "The truck stop is a busy place and I'm not trying to hide my ownership."
"You're a thoroughfare, I know."
"It's true."
She glanced up and saw her dear friend, a proud man, a strong soldier, standing there oozing doubt and defeat. Just as he'd looked after that fateful mission.
It all came rushing back from the murky corner of her mind where she kept that god-forsaken night locked away. They were supposed to save a young man who'd been groomed to take over the Morcos family businesses. But the queen of languages had misinterpreted the intent behind the intel and sent a delicate rescue mission spiraling into a deadly recovery op.
Not the brightest moment of her career.
Rather than let her take all the blame – the right thing to do – Bart had insisted on shouldering the failure with her. Their CO knew the truth was somewhere in the middle. Everyone on Special Forces lived with the cold awareness that things didn't always work out as planned.
That night they'd brought back a body, two wounded soldiers, and managed to undermine the leadership foundation of an organization they'd been sent to stabilize. No, not her finest hour at all.
"You can't keep blaming yourself."
That was why she kept it locked away. "I don't." They both knew she was lying. "Not every day," she clarified. "It's not like it consumes me." Eva clamped her mouth shut, damming up the justifications and excuses that wanted to keep tumbling out.
Bart's big hand landed on her shoulder and she barely resisted the urge to lean in and take comfort. She didn't deserve his comfort, she'd put him in danger – more than necessary – and it would seem he believed someone was determined to retaliate against her now.
"Pull up my email, Eva. Read the whole thing."
Neither of them pretended she didn't know how to access his account. Her skills were one reason she'd made the intel side of their Special Forces team.
She shook her head as she logged in with his user name and password. Why Bart – or any of her pals from the pas
t – put up with her was a mystery. A mystery she didn't dare question or solve for fear of losing a dear friend.
"This should've gone to your spam folder," she said, studying his inbox.
"Lucky for you it didn't."
For her? Hesitating, bracing for the worst, she finally clicked on the email. This time she got past her outrage over the article outlining the death of the businessman they'd been trying to support.
Bart was right, the message itself was worse.
"Tell the queen her reign is over."
How could the sender know her old Special Forces team had called her that? It was an inside joke because the guys claimed she looked like a princess even in her ACUs and they said she sounded like a royal whenever she switched languages.
"It's not real. An empty threat." Her words, whispered from a throat gone dry, lacked any believable bravado. She reached for her water bottle, sipped, and tried again. "Why send it to you? What's the payoff?"
Bart snorted. "Because you might as well be a ghost online and you know it." He walked over to the window, but rather than look out over the street as she'd done earlier, he dropped the blinds. "Or maybe it's because I'm the one who hauled his nephew's body out of that filthy slice of jungle they called a compound."
"You think this is from Bakr Morcos?"
"Who else? He's in a position to hire it done, don't you think? His brother sure as hell didn't send the email from beyond the grave."
"I told you that obituary has to be a hoax," she insisted.
"Prove it."
She would, given enough time. Abraham Morcos couldn't be dead. Not yet. Her mistake couldn't be turning into a real time disaster already.
"Does Ross know?" According to the information on her screen, Bart hadn't yet forwarded or replied to the bizarre email message.
"I showed him."
She frowned. "Showed?" Now, with his spine stiff and his jaw set, Bart looked more like himself. She waved off the question. "Got it. You were with him in Columbia." Eva double checked the time of the email, realizing Bart must have driven straight from the capital city to Haleswood moments after he'd seen the message on his phone.
