A beam of moonlight slipped over his face, illuminating his worried expression. “How’s the XO doing?” he asked before she could take him to task for scaring her.
“Better.” She steeled herself from responding to his presence, but her blood already flowed faster. Her dulled wits revived.
“I’m so sorry, Dylan.”
His genuine sympathy closed the distance she strove to keep between them. Misery and sorrow clogged her throat, making speech impossible. She groped for her doorknob intending to flee into her room and shut the door in his face.
“Hey.” His hand, warm and comforting, curled around her arm preventing her escape. “You don’t have to deal with this alone,” he said.
Yes, she did. She reminded herself that Tobias was bound to leave eventually. But when he stepped closer, folding her tenderly into his warm embrace, his comfort proved too consoling to reject.
Her weary head dropped on its own accord against his broad chest. His powerful arms enfolded her, making her feel safe and secure. The fullness of her impending loss tore into her like shrapnel, weakening her further. Hiding her face against the soft cotton of his T-shirt, she concealed the tears that flooded her eyes in a warm gush.
“Shhh.” He smoothed circles into the small of her back. To her relief, he didn’t offer up empty platitudes. He let her cry silently in his arms, her tears forming a wet patch on his T-shirt. When her eyes finally stopped leaking, she raised her head to pull herself together and realized he had moved them into her bedroom, without her realizing.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had seen her in such a weakened state. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, pulling away.
“Don’t apologize,” he told her curtly. With a hand still curled around her elbow, he led her to her bed and pulled back the blankets. “Time to sleep.”
Why did he have to be so kind? Considering him through the gloom, she peered more closely at the message on the dark T-shirt he was wearing. In the shadows she could just make out the white lettering: TOUGH TIMES DON’T LAST; TOUGH PEOPLE DO.
The words had her standing straighter. “I can put myself to bed, Sergeant,” she informed him. She better had, before he took advantage of her.
“Whatever you say, Captain.” In a deliberately insubordinate gesture, he wiped a late tear from her cheek, then swiveled on his toes and padded toward her door.
“Tobias.” She’d said his name without meaning to.
He stopped and looked back, hope flaring in his eyes.
Her body ached for the fulfillment of her dreams. But Terrence was sick, and she was all but broken. It would do her no good whatsoever to set herself up for more heartbreak. “Good night,” she whispered.
He grimaced. “‘Night,” he replied. Her door opened and closed, and he was gone.
***
Kevin Richardson’s salt and pepper hair looked as though he’d run his fingers through it countless times that day, which was probably the case. After all, his patients at the Martinsburg Medical Center were distraught and war-torn vets, who’d come to him for healing, just as Dylan had many months ago. The man had been counseling soldiers with PTSD going on thirty years. Clearly, the job hadn’t gotten any easier.
Leaning forward in his seat, he laid a gentle hand on Dylan’s knee, interrupting her monologue about how much Terrence meant to her. “Dylan,” he said, “There’s nothing you can do.”
His simple words, uttered in his smoker’s voice, were not what she wanted to hear.
She looked pointedly down at his long fingers, causing him to remove his hand and sit back.
An aching silence filled his office. The pressure in Dylan’s chest expanded like a helium balloon being overfilled. It cut off her airways. Her chest felt like it would surely split open, the pressure was so severe. A sticky sweat filmed her skin. PTSD sucked. Ever since the fateful night she’d collected her boys’ bodies off the battlefield, she had felt this way off and on. God in heaven, she could not face the loss of another person close to her! But, of course, she had no choice. Terrence was dying.
“You’ve known of his condition for months,” Kevin Richardson reminded her, his words like fingernails on a chalkboard. “That will make his passing easier to deal with.”
She doubted it, but she gave a jerky nod just the same in the hopes that he would change the subject. A wave of exhaustion rolled over her. Given the angle of the sun’s rays slanting through his blinds, their session was probably over, anyway. It was time to return home where she was needed.
“Try to focus on the positive,” Dr. Richardson urged. “I mean, just think about it.” He sat back, folding his arms across his chest as he eyed her with pride. “A year ago you were a body of torment and self-doubt, weighing all of ninety pounds. Now, you’re a strong, beautiful, and respected leader. You’ve given others like you a clear sense of purpose. Day by day, you make the world a better place. This is recovery, Dylan!” He dropped his arms and leaned forward. “Give yourself some credit. The only thing you still need to work on is learning to leave your revolver behind.”
She heaved a heavy sigh.
“We’ll work on that next time.” He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “Did you bring it to work today?”
Her face grew hot. “It’s locked in my desk, in my office,” she muttered.
“That’s okay.” He sent her an encouraging smile. “One step at a time. Right now I’m more concerned with the way you’re managing your stress.”
Dylan rubbed her temple. It had to be apparent she wasn’t managing her stress well at all.
“Tell me about your plans your militia is making to right certain wrongs.” Behind the lenses of his glasses, the doctor’s hazel eyes glinted with concern.
Dylan’s tired brain drew a blank. What was he talking about? But then it came to her that Ivan Ackerman, who’d had his session earlier in the day, must have mentioned the militia’s plan to target Dr. Hendrix. Damn it all, he was supposed to keep mum about the militia’s intent!
“Don’t worry.” Dr. Richardson seemed to read her anxious thoughts. “Your secret is safe with me, but I have to tell you that I don’t condone your plans. The FBI already questioned you in regards to that bombing in D.C. You have to know that they’re keeping an eye on you at all times,” he added anxiously. “Are you sure that teaching Hendrix a lesson is the right solution?”
Dylan felt her patience wearing thin. “What am I supposed to do? Let his abuses go unchecked like the director has? Should we all be passive citizens and let selfish jerks like Hendrix do what they want? No, we should take a stand against it!”
Her impassioned reply brought a wry smile to his lined face. “You have a point,” he conceded.
Ten minutes later, Dylan left her counselor’s office. Seeing Ivan Ackerman sprawled on the bench by the double glass doors, she took her time collecting her purse and her coat from her own office. And then went to wake him up.
“Ivan.” His even snores masked the sound of her tentative voice.
She cautiously nudged his toe with her foot and he jumped like a startled squirrel, lunging at Dylan with a feral cry and wild eyes.
She startled back. God, is that what I look like when I’m caught off guard?
Ivan’s harsh breathing filled the quiet corridor. His craze-glazed eyes cleared by degrees. Considering what had happened to his wife and daughter, Dylan couldn’t blame him. “It’s okay,” she soothed, giving him time to compose himself.
Only it wasn’t okay, was it? Ackerman had PTSD, just like she did. And for him, it would never be okay again, no matter what kind of outlet for his pain her militia offered him.
The same was true for Terrence. His wife had divorced him while he was in the service. He’d lost his right leg and his job as a helicopter pilot. And now leukemia would take his life. There was nothing okay about any of it. “You ready?” she choked out.
“Yeah.”
Wrestling with her unwieldy emotions, Dylan led the way ou
tside. As she drove them home, she mulled over the consequence she would impose on Ivan for violating the code of silence her NCOs were sworn to uphold. As much as she pitied him for the loss of his wife and daughter, it was vital that her leaders be circumspect. Otherwise, the militia’s endeavors would fail. He would have additional chores, she decided. His Sunday leave would be revoked.
Luckily, his big mouth had caused no lasting harm, since Dr. Richardson—in spite of his disapproval—had promised to be circumspect. Still, it might be wise to advance the operation to an earlier date before Hendrix got wind of her intent.
The 31st of October—Halloween—fell on Thursday of next week. Hendrix was about to get tricked.
****
According to Toby’s phone, the text from Ike Calhoun had arrived just before noon. As Toby was working outside without his jacket on, it went overlooked until sunset when he dashed up to the attic to change his shirt for Wednesday’s supper. He had spent the day sawing and laying oak planks to replace the rotting ones on Dylan’s porch. Swapping out his dusty T-shirt for a fresh one, he checked his cell phone on the off-chance that he’d received a message, and, lo and behold, he had.
Pipe is a match.
His heart seemed to stop as he stared at the cryptic phrase before resuming its beat with a heavy thud. A match? He stood there, struggling to grasp the ramifications for Dylan. What would happen to her now?
Withdrawing to the farthest corner of the attic where his voice was least likely to be overheard, he placed a furtive call to his team lead.
After two days of misery, Lt. Ashby still lay in his bed just under Toby’s feet. Dylan, who’d arrived home early from work, was likely fussing over him right now. Tonight was supposed to be the night they reconnoitered the place where she hoped to ambush Hendrix, but those plans may have gone out the window with Terrence’s illness. He sure as hell hoped they had.
Ike answered on the first ring. “Home plate.”
“What’s this mean?” Toby murmured, not bothering to encode his speech. Was the FBI en route to Dylan’s compound, even now, all set to arrest her?
“It means the pipe found on her property came from the same manufacturer as the one used in the bombing. That’s still not enough to implicate her.”
Toby breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Why not?”
“Arco Iron Works produced hundreds of yards of that same piping last year.”
“What about the surveillance pictures? Anything come up on the Datamark Environment?”
“Negative. None of the militia members are known terrorists.”
Toby briefly closed his eyes. “Okay. Thanks.” Thumbing the call to a close, he returned his phone to its hiding place. Without sufficient evidence to convict, the FBI wouldn’t arrest Dylan, which meant she was still in the clear—for now. But what were the odds it was just a coincidence that the pipe found on her property and the one used to bomb Nolan’s car came from the same manufacturer?
With doubt re-rooted in his mind, he went back downstairs for supper and saw that not only had the evening briefing been canceled, but Dylan was postponing her meal to stay by the XO’s bed.
The four NCOs ate their burgers and beans in gloomy silence. Taking advantage of Dylan’s absence, Toby decided to question Ackerman. “So, Ivan, I was talking to Captain Connelly the other day and she mentioned that the FBI found a pipe in the barn, and they seized it thinking it was evidence for something.”
The table fell quiet, and four sets of eyes, including June Lee’s, regarded him curiously.
Toby plowed ahead. “She has no idea where that pipe came from. You’re the supply sergeant. Any thoughts?”
Ivan’s deer-in-the-headlights stare immediately aroused Toby’s suspicions. The man knew exactly what Toby was talking about.
“Well, yeah, I think so.” Ackerman shrugged and looked down at his foot. “I found the pipe lying in her yard one day. Thought it might come in handy, so I stuck it in the shed.”
“You sure about that?”
Ivan laid down his fork abruptly. “Sure I’m sure,” he said, pushing back his chair and getting up for seconds.
Noting the others’ curiosity—no doubt they wondered why Toby even cared, he let the subject drop. But Ackerman’s guilty reaction raised more questions than answers. Where had the pipe really come from? Had Ivan planted it in the shed? Why the hell would he do that unless he was Nolan’s killer?
“Captain’s gotta be hungry by now,” Morrison commented in a clear attempt to change the subject.
“I’ll go relieve her so she can eat,” Toby offered. Excusing himself, he rinsed his plate and dashed upstairs to check on Dylan. The first thing he saw when she answered his light knock was her bloodshot eyes.
“Your supper’s waiting downstairs,” he said, “I’ll watch him for you while you eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He edged through the opening, lightly grabbed her by the arms, and forcibly but gently ejected her from the rom. “You need to keep up your strength, ma’am. The men are waiting for you. Go on.”
She opened her mouth to protest then closed it with a snap. “Disinfect your hands,” she ordered, whirling toward the stairs.
Rubbing hand-sanitizer into his hands, Toby sank into the armchair next to Ashby’s bed to listen to the XO’s uneasy snores. Doubts circled him like Indians surrounding a wagon train.
What if Ackerman had conspired with Dylan to target the Secretary of Defense? That would also explain his agitation when Toby brought up the FBI’s investigation. Toby scrubbed his face with his clean hands. Why was he so reluctant to believe in Dylan’s culpability?
Protect the Captain. Lt. Ashby’s words played like a broken record in his mind. The Feds…they’re trying to frame her for murder.
From Toby’s perspective as a government agent, that was absolutely false. Why would the FBI intentionally frame her? They wouldn’t. And yet their preconceived notions about her as detailed in her psychological profile may have predisposed them to believe in her guilt. Maybe that pipe was simply from the same manufacturer as the one used in the bomb, and the fact that Dylan had it on her property was pure coincidence.
Recalling the look of guilt on Ackerman’s face, Toby tended to doubt that. Which meant that Dylan was either guilty or someone really was framing her.
Dylan forced herself to linger in the kitchen. Sharing words with the men, she assured them that they always had a home with her, regardless of Terrence’s prognosis. After they’d eaten dessert and cleaned up, she put together a tray for her XO and carried it upstairs, hopeful that he’d at least take a bite. The pain meds had robbed him of an appetite, not to mention that they upset his stomach.
When she entered his room, she found Terrence sitting up in bed, chuckling over something Tobias had just told him. In her joy, she almost dropped her tray. “Look at you!” she exclaimed.
His crutch, now propped next to him, suggested he had used it to make his way to the bathroom. Tears of relief pressured her eyes as she quickly laid the tray aside and touched a hand to his forehead. His fever was gone. “You must be feeling better.”
“I am better,” Terrence insisted.
“The swelling responded to the Retrovir,” she marveled, feeling a great weight lift off her shoulders. She sank weakly onto the end of the bed, grappling with her emotions, highly conscious of the peculiar way Tobias was looking at her—almost like he’d never seen her before.
Terrence picked a baby carrot off his plate and crunched it between his strong teeth. Pleased to see him eating, she ignored Tobias’s scrutiny and kept her eyes on Terrence, who picked up his burger, took note of her rapt stare and said, “You two aren’t going to sit here watching me all night, are you? I thought we had plans this evening to reconnoiter the area where we’re grabbing Hendrix.”
Dylan shook her head at him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He shrugged. “Who says I intend to? Take Sergeant Burke with you.”
&nb
sp; Dylan continued to ignore Tobias. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight,” she insisted.
Terrence took a bite out of his burger. “I’ll be fine,” he insisted around a mouthful. “Take Burke and go. The others will keep an eye on me.”
Dylan glanced at Tobias, who was keeping unusually quiet. Leaving Terrence in his sickened state felt wrong. But then again, if Hendrix’s abduction was going to take place next week, she had a lot to do by way of planning. The militia couldn’t afford to be careless.
But did she dare venture out alone with Tobias, especially in her present vulnerable state? Perhaps some other NCO ought to tag along as chaperone. But Ackerman had already proven himself a liability, Morrison talked too much, and Chet Lee preferred spending his evenings with his wife. That left her and Tobias reconnoitering the countryside alone.
Her palms moistened at the prospect of him seeking to deepen intimacies between them.
Be honest, Dylan. You hope he will.
From the corner of her eye, she considered him as he pushed to his feet, arched his back and stretched. “I guess I’ll get ready then.”
Drawn to the message on his green T-shirt, she couldn’t resist reading it.
ALL OPINIONS ARE WELCOME, BUT MINE’S THE ONLY ONE THAT COUNTS.
In this particular case, that much was true. She couldn’t coordinate her plans for Hendrix without Tobias’s input. If he made a move on her tonight, she would have to find the strength to resist him.
Chapter Nine
“This is where we’ll set up our road crew,” Dylan explained, stopping the Suburban at the intersection of Route 20 and Rigby Road. The roads divided the dark countryside into the shape of a cross. This late in the evening, the land lay quilted in dusky shadows that clung to the memory of sunlight.
Milly panted in the back seat relieving the silence as Tobias frowned at the inverse cones of their headlights, saying nothing. He struck Dylan as distant and preoccupied. Her concern that he might try to seduce her seemed depressingly unlikely.
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