The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  She was flipping crazy. Toby glanced at the others’ pleased expressions. Correction, all of them were crazy.

  “I repeat. We will not draw blood or destroy property,” she said severely. Her eyes shone like silver plates. “We are not the aggressors. We are the voice of the people who abhor injustice and demand righteousness.” She thumped her coffee mug down on the desktop.

  “Hear, hear!” Morrison and Lee said at the same time.

  “Sergeant Burke.”

  Toby prayed his incredulity wasn’t stamped all over his face. “Ma’am?”

  “Can I count on you to teach us what we need to know?”

  Oh, he knew what they needed to know. As an agent with ATF’s Special Response Teams, he grabbed targets on a regular basis, but they were arms smugglers and drug dealers, not just people who failed to live up to his expectations. “Maybe I need to understand the mission better.” His Taskforce lead would want details.

  “I just explained the mission.” Her brisk words held a thread of annoyance.

  “True, but there’s a lot to consider. I’d need to assess the enemy composition and disposition. How many in number are there; will they have weapons? What’s the terrain like?”

  “I’ll supply you with that information in good time.”

  Back off. Tell her what she wants to hear. But he couldn’t shut himself up. “What’s to keep your targets from going straight to the authorities and filing a complaint?” he demanded. She did realize abduction was illegal, right?

  To his surprise, Dylan relaxed. She sent him the look of a woman with a perfect poker hand. “The Sheriff of Harpers Ferry is a member of our militia,” she informed him with a touch of condescension.

  Really? The Taskforce would be interested to hear that.

  “And so is the Sheriff of Martinsburg. I’m not ignorant, Sergeant Burke. I don’t take risks without thinking them through.”

  Toby felt his face heat. Gesturing that she’d won her argument, he locked his jaw so as not to say anything else that might arouse her suspicions or make her irate. Just listen, he told himself.

  “Who are we grabbing first?”

  Sergeant Morrison gave voice to Toby’s most pressing question. Toby’s money was on Hendrix, the doctor that had made Morrison sick.

  Dylan’s lovely lips pursed. “I’ll let you know that once I think we’re ready. We have a lot to learn before we can execute the event I have in mind.”

  Her gaze slid back to Toby. “So, what do you say, Sergeant Burke? Are you with us or not?”

  Was that an ultimatum, or was he just imagining that it was? With every soldier in the room awaiting his reply, Toby signified that he was game. “You’re the boss.” Working for the Taskforce, he had immunity, so what did it matter to him what she did, except that it put a tight feeling in his chest to picture a phalanx of Feds hauling her and her band of merry men off in handcuffs.

  ***

  Toby used the light of his phone to illuminate the packed up memories as he sifted through the boxes in the attic, hunting for information that might point to Dylan’s true nature.

  Was she a terrorist, or wasn’t she?

  So far, all he’d found were family albums depicting a small but happy family and a stack of high school records showing her to be a brilliant student, even the senior valedictorian. She’d been named most likely to succeed in her yearbook. Delving farther back into her past, he’d come across dolls and a plastic doctor kit; drawings of horses and mountain vistas—in short, nothing to suggest that the young Dylan would grow up to be a militia leader, let alone a murderer.

  With the house too quiet to proceed without drawing notice to himself, Toby sat on an old, three-legged stool and texted his team lead. The light of his phone illumined the eaves of the attic as he brought Ike Calhoun up-to-date on Dylan’s plan to abduct individuals with whom she felt she had a bone to pick—her mostly likely target being the doctor at the VA Medical Center in Martinsburg.

  She wants me to train her leaders and soldiers so they can pull it off. He finished texting and hit the send button. Then he waited to see if Ike would reply tonight or wait until the morning.

  With a tired sigh, Toby relaxed his head on a two-by-six that ribbed the attic. A deep snore permeated the floorboards, coming from the direction of Lt. Ashby’s room. Dylan’s room, on the other hand, lay still and silent beneath him. He pictured her sound asleep in her bed, overcome by exhaustion, her hair loose and flowing across the pillow, her sweet-smelling nightshirt tangled around her hips.

  The memory of her curves sliding over the front of his body kept him warm despite the chill. Under her frumpy sweat suit, Dylan Connelly was all sleek, toned muscle and soft curves. Her breasts without the benefit of a bra were fuller than they’d looked—he’d received that pleasant surprise when she’d cuddled against him.

  And then there was the way she’d looked at him. He’d seen that look of awareness in many a woman’s eye. There was no mistaking he could rock her world and vice versa if it ever came to that. Hell, if Ashby hadn’t crossed their path, he’d have stolen a kiss to warm her from the inside out and left her with something to really think about.

  The thought flooded him with mixed feelings. As enticing as kissing Dylan might be, was it fair to seduce a woman as mentally and emotionally vulnerable as she was? It just didn’t seem . . . ethical.

  The phone in his hand emitted an electric shock, in lieu of a buzz. That was how it got his attention when it was buried in his jacket. Toby glanced down at Ike’s reply message, and his heart sank.

  We need details, the team lead had texted. Work your magic on the leader.

  In other words, keep up the sweet talk and the flirtations. All right, then.

  In spite of his misgivings, Toby tingled at the thought of pursuing Dylan in that way. Usually it left him faintly nauseated to pretend an attraction he didn’t feel, but this time that was not the case. He didn’t doubt he could eventually worm his way into Dylan’s bed, and if that was what it took to get her to confide in him, he’d gladly do it. The only thing that bothered him was the need for deception.

  Still, duty was duty. If she could terrorize civilians who failed to meet her code of expectations, who was to say she couldn’t blow up a car with someone in it? A little probing might lead to uncovering some dark, ugly truth about her.

  So be it. He couldn’t waste time debating the morality of his actions. After all, he was a servant of the people, sworn to defend them, even those whom Dylan disapproved of.

  Deleting any record of his text, he hid his phone back inside his jacket and stuffed it deep into his bag.

  Chapter Five

  Dylan stalked out of the VA Medical Center in Martinsburg in a foul mood. Wasn’t it bad enough the director hadn’t believed the evidence she’d sent him? Wesley Hendrix must covered his tracks, eliminating the data had tried to use against him. Or had the director simply chosen to ignore the obvious, preferring to call her paranoid, instead? Given the looks of loathing she’d received today from Dr. Hendrix and the whispered comments of the staff, the director had made no secret of her complaints. No doubt he’d also divulged her documented struggles with PTSD—perhaps hoping Hendrix would be forgiving toward her if he knew.

  Hah! The bastard had made certain she’d gotten grounds in her coffee this morning; he’d stolen her prescription pad and given her the most irascible patients.

  What a hell of a day!

  With her long strides eating up the sidewalk, Dylan reminded herself that she would have justice in the end. In a bid to soothe her agitation, she lifted her face to the warm October sun and breathed the sweet mountain air as she headed toward the parking lot. As her gaze lit on her Suburban, the sight awaiting her brought her to a sudden halt. It was covered in white spray paint.

  “No.” Her heart fell as she rushed toward her vehicle to assess the damage. The word CRAZY had been sprayed in bold letters across the passenger side doors, driving an arrow straight through her
heart. This wasn’t just haphazard graffiti. With a heavy step, she rounded the front of the car to eye the driver’s side. BITCH.

  The blood roared in her ears. Her heart raced. Wesley Hendrix had done this—or probably just paid some young orderly to do it. Asshole. She clutched her purse to her side, seeking the reassuring weight of her .357 Magnum against her hip. The desire for revenge rose up in her with volcanic force.

  She pictured Wesley Hendrix at his office window now, spying on her dismayed reaction, hoping she’d do something so rash that even the spineless director would be forced to fire her. Imagining his look of horror when she thrust her gun in his face, she whirled and stormed back into the building.

  One moment she was out in the parking lot, the next, his office door beckoned at the end of the hall. The blood roared in her ears, drowning out the small voice inside whispering doubts. Her temple throbbed, sending shards of pain into her right eye. Her heart threw itself against her breastbone. Bathed in a cold sweat, she reached into her purse, anticipating his terror when she threatened him.

  Dylan, stop! The warning seemed to be shouted from a great distance. What are you doing? Stop and think!

  Heeding it, she slowed her step, staggering toward the wall and sucking in air to clear her fogged mind. Several nurses and an orderly paused in their sundry activities to regard her curiously.

  She looked around. How did I get here?

  Dear God, was she seriously about to burst into Hendrix’s office and shove her gun in his face? A wave of nausea had her clutching the handrail.

  “You feeling okay, Doctor Connelly?” The face of one of the nurses swam before Dylan’s eyes.

  “Yes, Leigh,” she whispered. “Just a little dizzy from skipping lunch.”

  But she wasn’t fine. She’d reacted violently to Hendrix’s nasty prank. And in her blind rage, she’d almost killed the man.

  Licking her dry lips, Dylan released the rail and tottered down the hall toward a different office, one she used to visit weekly after returning from Afghanistan. Leigh watched her with worried eyes as she knocked on Doctor Kevin Richardson’s door.

  Dr. Richardson’s work with traumatized veterans had made him a national hero. He’d served as a psychiatrist on the front lines. He knew what soldiers had seen, the horrors they’d endured and still carried with them. Thanks to him, hundreds of soldiers had turned from the brink of suicide to live productive lives again. He and Dylan attended the same church in Harper’s Ferry, Saint Peter’s Catholic Church.

  “Come in.”

  Drawn to the comforting rasp of his pack-a-day voice, Dylan pushed into his office.

  Locking eyes with her, he rose up slowly from behind his desk. His thick salt-and-pepper hair, always mussed from raking his hands through it, stood straight up. Concern wreathed his forehead over the plastic rimmed glasses he wore. “Why, Dylan,” he said with surprise as she sagged against the closing door. “Is everything all right?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak, yet.

  “Come in. Come in.” He left his desk to draw her into the room, his hands large and gentle. “Have a seat,” he said, leading her by the elbow to one of the two plush chairs that faced his desk.

  “Can you see my car through your window?” she croaked as she sank into a chair.

  With a puzzled look, Dr. Richardson went to the window and tabbed his lowered blinds.

  “Someone took a can of spray paint to it,” she said when he didn’t speak. “Dr. Hendrix, no doubt,” she added, lifting a hand to her forehead as it started to throb again.

  The blind gave a pop as Kevin released it. A grimace of compassion firmed his lips as he turned to face her. “You’re sure it was Wesley Hendrix?”

  “Of course it was Hendrix. He knows I’ve got a bone to pick with him. He even knows I complained to the director.”

  “Did you?” Dr. Richardson looked dismayed.

  “Yes.”

  He sent her a sad smile. “And did anything come of that?”

  Bitterness swirled inside of her. “No.” With a flush of humiliation, Dylan described her letter from the director.

  The psychiatrist clicked his tongue in commiseration. “I’m so sorry, Dylan.” He rounded his desk to sit on the edge of it, immediately in front of her. “Can I get you something? A cup of coffee, maybe?”

  She would love a cup of coffee, but considering how late it was in the day and how badly she needed to sleep, she declined with a shake of her head. “I have to admit to something,” she whispered, peering up from under her massaging fingers.

  His brow puckered. “Yes?”

  “A minute ago, I wanted to kill him. I think I could’ve killed him.”

  His frown became a quizzical smile. “With your bare hands?”

  Dylan laughed despite herself. “No.” She pulled the purse she clutched onto her lap, reached inside it, and pulled out the revolver. “With this.”

  At the sight of her snub nosed Magnum, he closed his eyes and sighed. “Is it loaded?” he asked steadily.

  “No.”

  “Well, then you wouldn’t have killed him,” he said, opening his eyes again.

  She dug in her purse a second time and produced a box of bullets. “Are you sure?”

  He slowly shook his head. “Oh, Dylan. I thought we’d moved past this. You still carry your revolver everywhere you go?”

  Shame choked her reply. With a jerky nod, she put the gun and bullets back inside her purse. This was an issue that had preoccupied them during her rigorous therapy the first half of the year. The gun was her security blanket. For a while, he’d succeeded in getting her to leave it at home, but as their sessions ended, she’d gone back to carrying it everywhere.

  A weighty silence filled the office. If Dr. Richardson thought her a public menace, he had every right to break with patient confidentiality and report her behavior, which would, essentially, cost her job.

  She swallowed down the emotions strangling her and asked, “Are you going to report me?”

  He very slowly shook his head. “Of course not. I’m going to help you. Why don’t you start visiting me again, say once a week until we resolve this lingering issue?”

  Pain lanced her chest at his gentle suggestion. She had thought she was coping well with her PTSD until Tobias Burke had picked up on her diagnosis. The fact that she couldn’t recall storming back into the building just now informed her plainly that she was still a danger to herself and to others. “Fine,” she whispered.

  “How are you sleeping these days?” he asked, plucking a prescription pad from his pocket.

  “Not well,” she admitted. She forbore to mention her coffee habit, which she had just decided to kick. “I had an awful dream the other night.”

  “Tell me about it,” he offered.

  A chill coursed through her as she relayed her dream about the straightjacket. “Am I crazy?” she asked him. “Do other people think I’m crazy?”

  “Who wouldn’t be a little crazy after what you’ve seen?” he joked.

  She sent him a humorless smile.

  “Let me write you a prescription to help you sleep.”

  “I just need to cut out the caffeine,” she protested.

  “That’s not enough. And you’ll never fully heal if you’re constantly exhausted.”

  She knew he was right; she just detested taking medicine. “Something mild,” she agreed.

  “Of course.” He scribbled something on the pad, tore off the first sheet, and gave it to her.

  “I’ve never heard of Hipnosedon,” Dylan admitted after reading it.

  “It’s a mild hypnotic. What day would you like for us to meet? How about Tuesday at four? That’s the same day you bring in Ivan for his session.”

  “That’ll work,” she agreed.

  “Good.” He sent her an encouraging smile. “I’ll see you next Tuesday then.”

  “Tuesday at four,” she confirmed, rising on knees that still jittered.

  “And Dylan,”
he added, straightening and laying a hand on either of her shoulders. “Stay as far away from Hendrix as you’re able,” he advised.

  “I intend to.”

  “That’s the spirit.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and let her go.

  ****

  The crush of gravel under a heavy vehicle tore Toby’s attention from the training in the yard.

  At last, Dylan was back from work—a full hour after their evening briefing was due to start. Lt. Ashby’s unspoken worry had spilled over to the men, making them quick to lose focus and turning Toby’s directives on strategy into a waste of time.

  He wondered where the hell she’d been.

  Shading his eyes against the setting sun, he studied the Suburban’s approach. What on earth? It looked like a whole flock of seagulls had shit all over her car, only seagulls didn’t live in the Blue Ridge and they couldn’t spell the word BITCH. “Holy hell,” he muttered as she pulled up in front of them. Someone had defaced her Suburban with a can of spray paint.

  The men stared dumbfounded at the graffiti, clearly unable to fathom such disrespect. Ashby’s expanding chest made him look like an irate, silverback gorilla as he crossed to her door to pull it open.

  Dylan killed the engine and slipped out of her seat, dragging her purse behind her. To Toby’s surprise, she appeared composed as she faced her protective XO.

  “What happened?” He gestured at the vandalism. “Who did this?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Terrence.” Her firm voice and eye contact made him back down immediately. “Just get rid of it,” she requested, hastening toward the house. Her eyes met Toby’s briefly, conveying private pain.

  “Well, you heard her,” Ashby snarled at the men as they all watched her walk away. “What are you waiting for? Let’s get started.”

  Toby chased them into the barn.

  “Rubbing compound, terry cloth, and turpentine,” Ashby barked, flipping the light switch to illumine the sizeable interior.