The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  One by one, Toby described Dylan’s NCOs and then her executive officer, Terrence Ashby.

  “Ashby used to fly the choppers that carried the dead she recovered. He and Dylan have a history that’s not spelled out in their records. I’ll get to the bottom of it eventually. All I know is that he’d lay down his life for her if he had to.”

  Ike reflected a moment. “Look into that, will you?” he requested of Jackson.

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson scribbled himself a note.

  “Did you bring the surveillance material?”

  Toby grubbed in the pocket of his duffel bag, found the clean sock in which he’d stowed the Ranger pin, and pulled it out. Releasing the tiny memory card from the port in the back, he handed it to Ike, who pushed it into a gadget connected to his laptop. With a tap of the key, Ike accessed the image files and projected them on the wall screen at the other end of the table.

  Ten minutes later, they’d captured twenty-two faces to run through their Terrorist Identities Datamark Environment. Toby’s picture of the ledger provided them with a list of names, as well. If any of Dylan’s soldiers happened to be known terrorists, it would strengthen the FBI’s case against her.

  Toby caught the team lead’s eye. “Any word yet on whether the pipe and the wires found on her property match the components of the bomb?”

  “Not yet,” Ike clipped. “The tests are complicated. You got anything else for us?”

  Toby pulled The Defender’s Creed from his bag, unfolded it, and slid it toward Ike, who skimmed the contents. “Like I said, Dylan uses the militia to enforce the Constitution and to frustrate those who violate it, and that’s pretty much the extent of it.”

  Ike’s green-as-grass eyes jumped up at him. “What do you mean by pretty much?”

  Toby deliberated how much to say. It felt strangely disloyal to Dylan to reveal her plans to Ike; after all, they had nothing to do with the FBI’s investigation. “She’s making plans to teach certain individuals a lesson. Those failing to live up to her standards might find themselves abducted, taken to a strange location, and told to change their ways—or else. It’s harmless, really. Kind of like of like Robin Hood stealing from the rich to give to the poor.”

  Ike regarded him dubiously. “How’s that?”

  Toby tried to explain Dylan’s high standards. He mentioned her colleague’s penchant for prescribing experimental medication and how irate it made her. “He’s probably her first target.”

  Ike’s chair creaked as he sat back in it. “You call that harmless? Kidnapping is a felony offense,” he pointed out.

  “Not if the local sheriffs participate and refuse to make an arrest.” Toby tipped a nod at the laptop where they’d just uploaded their images into the database.

  Ike drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Find out more,” he finally ordered, pinning Toby with a hard look. “I want to know how much influence this priest has over her. Is she as preoccupied with Syria as he is? What else is on her mind besides punishing the local scum? I want her spilling out her guts to you. Is that clear?”

  Oh, the pressure. “Yes, sir.”

  Across the table, Jackson’s long stare told Toby that he could read his mixed thoughts. TJ Hamilton sat as still and quiet as a deep pool.

  “Anything else, sir?” Toby inquired. “Would you care to lobotomize me?” he teased, hoping to startle Ike out of his seriousness. “Donate my gonads to science?”

  Ike shut his laptop with a snap. “Maybe later,” he retorted, unfazed by Toby’s offers. “We’ll meet again next week, same time, same place. If the results come in on the pipe or any militia members come up hot, I’ll text you.”

  Toby nodded and hoped not to get a text from Ike at all.

  Jackson started putting his notes away.

  Zipping up his laptop bag, Ike headed for the door. Halfway out, he paused and looked back. “Good work so far, Burke,” he said. And then he disappeared.

  Toby and Jackson shared a look of astonishment. Maybe fatherhood was mellowing Ike, after all.

  TJ spoke for the first time since their introduction. “You’re drawn to the suspect,” he stated, in a tone that conveyed no judgment whatsoever. “But you don’t know if she’s guilty,” he added thoughtfully.

  The provocative speculation invited confidence, only Toby balked at having his thoughts and feelings analyzed. The suspicion that Hamilton might be psychic had him shutting out the man completely. “Either way, she’s a nut,” he retorted. “I never said I liked her,” he added irritably.

  “Hey, what are you doing for lunch? I’m sure Lena would love to feed you.” Jackson’s offer swept aside the tense moment.

  “Laundry followed by a nap,” Toby answered. Suddenly, he wasn’t in the mood for company. “Sorry, Stonewall, but I’m worn out.”

  In a nod to the famous Civil War hero, General Andrew Jackson, Toby had called Jackson Stonewall from their very first introduction.

  Jackson’s shrug conveyed his understanding. “Maybe next week,” he suggested, pushing to his feet.

  TJ Hamilton followed his example, rising with silent, fluid grace

  As the two men headed for the door, Toby gathered his stuff together. Hamilton laid a hand on his shoulder as he passed him. “Take care,” he said.

  The words sounded strangely like a warning.

  “Later, Toby,” Jackson called and, together, the two men departed, leaving Toby to his perturbed thoughts.

  Damn it, he did like Dylan Connelly. It was never good to like the suspect.

  Milly sat up and whined, sending Toby an anxious look. She probably had to pee.

  “I need a beer,” Toby mumbled.

  ***

  Dylan hugged herself against the chill seeping through her coat as she searched the emptying passenger cars for Tobias. Several tourists disembarked, commenting on the delightful dimensions of the train station. Behind them, Sheriff Cal Fallon hustled toward the parking lot without acknowledging Dylan, but, then again, the sheriff was a busy man.

  She glanced at her watch and consulted the posted train schedule. This was definitely the train Tobias Burke was due to return on, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

  Her worry that he would not return was morphing rapidly into reality. Disappointment hollowed her belly as the hope that he would help her lead the militia in the next calendar year slowly died.

  The boarding platform emptied. The train gave a hiss of releasing brakes as it prepared to continue its trek to Pittsburg. The conductor shouted out, “All aboard!” Dylan was just about to turn away, utterly distraught, when Milly bounded out of the third car. At the other end of her leash, Tobias Burke half leapt, half-fell out of the train, just as the doors were closing.

  Relief made Dylan’s head spin, but why was he stumbling?

  Recovering his balance, he sent her a slow smile that buoyed her spirits and then he lurched in her direction. Had he hurt himself? The scent of alcohol wafted toward her as he halted in front of her. Milly bumped Dylan’s hand with her head, but astonishment kept Dylan from returning the canine’s greeting.

  “You’re drunk!” she accused. Her spine stiffened. Did he have nothing better to do on his day off? Were the clothes in his duffle bag even clean? Or had he frittered away his time completely.

  “Had a couple of beers on the train,” he conceded, grinding the ball of one hand into his left eye. “Fell asleep,” he added, blinking at her.

  Grubbing in her purse for a stick of gum, she thrust it at him. “I can’t have a drunk in my militia.” She whirled on him and started to march off.

  With reflexes that startled her, he caught her elbow and swung her back around. “Whoa, there—a drunk?” His tone conveyed affront.

  “A drinking man,” she amended.

  He cocked his head at her, and she held her breath, concerned by his reaction. Was he a mean drunk or an easy-going drunk? She was about to find out.

  “Know what your problem is?”

  His unruffled tone relie
ved her. “What?”

  “You’re too uptight, Captain. I had a couple of beers on the train and then I fell asleep. That doesn’t make me a drinking man.” He popped the gum into his mouth and started chewing. “You should try it some time. Might loosen you up a bit.”

  She bristled at the implication that she was tight-laced. “Have you any idea what liquor does to the human liver?”

  “A drink a day is good for you,” he insisted.

  The Journal of Modern Medicine actually agreed with him, but guns and liquor didn’t mix, which was why she maintained a zero tolerance policy in her militia. Plus, he’d admitted himself that he’d had more than one. “Even so, what kind of message would that send the others bringing you home in your present state?”

  He shrugged his agreement. “Fair enough,” he said breezily. “So we’ll take a walk first,” he suggested, and a gleam entered his eyes.

  The prospect of a walk, a chance to spend some time alone with him, dissipated her annoyance. “We could do that,” she conceded.

  Whirling, she led him through the station and into the emptying parking lot. They stowed his bag in her Suburban and turned toward town on foot. Harpers Ferry lay cloaked in shadow with only the highest chimneys and the tops of trees lit by the setting sun.

  “Which way?” Tobias inquired when they reached the street.

  “Uphill.” She pointed in the direction of the Appalachian Trial. In silence they climbed a series of lumber steps to High Street, then the steep shale steps to Church Street, where they passed Saint Peters Church, climbing an ascending path that was a portion of the Appalachian Trail, where it briefly paralleled the Shenandoah River.

  As steep as the trail was, this portion was paved. A railing on one side and intermittent lamps kept hikers from falling to their deaths, not that the trail was open at this time of night. The National Historical Park was closed to hikers after sunset, which was exactly why Dylan had come this way. They wouldn’t be seen together by locals prone to gossip.

  Alone with Tobias Burke. What am I thinking? Prospects danced before her, pitched by an imagination brought to life in his presence.

  Milly panted to keep up, but Tobias remained as stealthy and athletic after a few beers as he was sober. As they passed the ruins of the Episcopal Church, he slanted her a grin that put an effervescent feeling in her stomach.

  The path grew ever steeper. “You’re not going to push me off a cliff, are you?” he teased.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  His baritone chuckle made her feel as light as a feather. He came back.

  The river flowed quietly below them. The air smelled sweet and cool. It had been ages since she’d climbed to this spot. As the only child of elderly parents, she’d explored it many times, but always on her own. Walking with a man and his dog felt strangely intimate. She couldn’t insist on her authority, out here. She wasn’t his commander when there was no one to see them. She was just an ordinary woman with no greater concerns than whether her companion would try to steal a kiss.

  She mocked herself. You want him to, don’t you?

  When he caught up her hand unexpectedly, her pulse kicked. She ordered herself to pull away, but the tender restraint with which he cradled her fingers made her recall the way he’d touched her the previous night, unleashing such sweet pleasure. In comfortable silence, they plodded the steep path to an ever-higher altitude.

  Zigzag steps carved out of the mountain conveyed them to the pinnacle. There, the giant boulders she had climbed upon in her youth stood spotlighted by the setting sun. Piggybacked on the largest boulder was a flat slab of rock held aloft by four sturdy pillars.

  Tobias stared at it. “What’s that?”

  “Jefferson’s Rock.” She gestured. “Our founding father stood right there in 1783, and later he wrote that the view was worth a voyage across the Atlantic.”

  “Let’s see if he was right.” He dropped Milly’s leash, signaling for her to stay, and tugged Dylan toward the monument.

  “No, we can’t. It’s a monument now. You’re not allowed to stand on it.”

  “You’re such a rule follower. Who’s going to see?”

  “It’s dangerous,” she added, halfheartedly resisting.

  “I won’t let you fall.”

  His confidence prompted a snort of irony as he scrambled up the toe-holds in the worn shale, dragging her with him onto the first large boulder. “You’re the one who’s inebriated,” she reminded him.

  “Am I?”

  Inebriated or not, he seemed certain of himself. Dylan clung to his hand, leery of the edges. Stepping onto the forbidden platform, he pulled her up alongside him, where the view kept the breath wedged in her lungs. Tobias’s arm stole around her, keeping her secure as she sent her gaze past the steeple of her church toward the bridge that spanned the merging rivers.

  The amber remnants of a sun now gone from view gilded the purple mountains that rippled off into the distance. Closer in, where the rivers met, the lights of the town and the bridge twinkled on the water’s surface. She could hear the Shenandoah River sliding leisurely past the rocks below.

  Without warning, Tobias broke into song in the velvety baritone that had taken her aback that morning. The familiar song heralded the view while setting a sentimental tone.

  “John Denver,” she said, identifying the original artist. “He died in a plane crash.”

  Tobias clicked his tongue. “Don’t go sucking all the joy out of the moment,” he reproved. “Denver didn’t die. His music lives forever. Just listen to the breeze and you’ll hear him singing.”

  She listened. A puff of cool air ruffled the dry leaves all around them, and Tobias picked up where he’d left off, singing softly, reverently about both the ancientness and the youth of the mountains.

  She joined him on the refrain, in a voice rusty from disuse. This particular song of Denver’s was practically the state anthem. Unaccustomed tears moistened Dylan’s eyes as she reflected on the beauty of West Virginia, her home from birth.

  A sweet comfortable silence fell between them. Toby drew a deep breath and let it out again, inviting her to relax against him. “This view is most definitely worth the voyage,” he declared.

  Her throat tightened. She’d taken a voyage of her own—a long and painful detour—when she’d left for Afghanistan four years ago. She hadn’t realized how blessed she was to be home again; how grateful she was to born an American, where, despite the corrupt government’s attempt to wrest them away, the Constitution guaranteed her certain liberties.

  Tobias turned her in his arms to face him and her innards cartwheeled as she beheld his crooked smile. “Are you a mountain mama?” he inquired.

  She shrugged. “My mother’s people were miners, so, yes, I suppose I am.” His solid warmth made her want to stay in this very spot, bantering with him, all night.

  He lifted his hands to the bun at the back of her head. One by one, he plucked loose the pins that kept her hair in a tight knot. Silky skeins slipped through his fingers giving rise to pleasant shivers.

  “This is who you really are,” he said as her hair fluttered loose in the breeze.

  He’d said that the other night when he first kissed her, too. She wasn’t so sure who she was. But it didn’t seem to matter, not when he tipped her chin up with his fingers and gave her the kiss she’d been craving since he first got off the train. His lips plied hers, teasing them apart. He’d discarded his gum on the trail somewhere, but his mouth still tasted of spearmint with a trace of beer that was not at all unpleasant. Dylan coiled her arms around his shoulders and crushed her breasts to his chest, all too willing to be seduced again.

  “I thought about you all damn day,” he grated, moving his lips to her throat where he besieged the tender skin there.

  The confession thrilled her though she wondered at his half-angry tone. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “You tell me.” He kissed her harder, his tongue seeking every corner of her mouth as if t
he answer lay hidden there. His hands, warm and skilled, found their way beneath her coat to squeeze her bottom, pulling her hips against the proof of his manifest desire.

  I want him, she acknowledged. In fact, if he asked her to lie down right here on this stone where Thomas Jefferson had once stood, she’d be sorely tempted.

  Just then, Milly growled below them, and Tobias tore his lips from Dylan’s to search the forest. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered.

  Following his gaze, she spied the orb of a flashlight bobbing toward them.

  “The park ranger,” she replied, both alarmed and annoyed by the interloper’s timing.

  “Yep.” Tobias leapt off the flat rock and scooped her off it. She slid down the front of his body—a poor substitute for what might have been. With a hand around her elbow, he helped her off the larger boulder.

  The light came closer. “You there,” called an authoritative, yet familiar voice. “No one’s allowed to stand on the monument. And what’s more the park is closed.”

  Dylan blinked against the invasive light. Ah, yes. Corbin Harrison, a member of her militia, worked for the National Park Service.

  “Oh, sorry Captain,” Corbin said recognizing her simultaneously. “I didn’t realize it was you.” He directed his flashlight at Tobias. “Sergeant,” he acknowledged stiffly.

  “No reason to apologize,” Dylan said. “We were in the wrong and hoping to catch the view before the sunset. We’re leaving now.”

  “I’d better escort you. It’s even steeper going downhill,” Corbin insisted.

  “Thank you. We’d appreciate that.” Truth to tell, she would rather push Corbin off a ledge for ruining such a special moment, but since he’d caught them fraternizing, the gracious thing to do was to agree to his escort in the hopes that he would keep his conclusions to himself. In a town this small, word was bound to get around.

  The prospect stole a portion of her contentment.

  As they descended the path back to her church and the steep shale steps toward Lower Town, the consequences of Dylan’s actions started drifting down like particles of debris in the aftermath of an explosion.