The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  Don’t cry, she commanded herself. It wasn’t real.

  But the floodgates parted, and the sobs that broke free shook her entire frame.

  She’d loved him, more than she had ever loved any man. To think that he had aroused her passions and aroused her affections—not because he had genuinely wanted to—but because he was being paid to do it! Beyond his deceit and outright lies, that betrayal stung the most.

  God help me, she thought, but I will never, ever forgive him.

  ***

  The Quality Hotel and Conference Center, situated two miles from historic Harpers Ferry, served a complimentary breakfast.

  Tobias, who was used to waking up at the crack of dawn and couldn’t sleep worth shit in a soft, queen-sized bed without holding the woman he loved, was the first patron to sample the breakfast items. Milly followed him down the food line, sniffing appreciatively, as he dished up scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, and poured himself a tall mug of coffee. He sat down at one of the many empty tables, and Milly flopped down next to his chair, sighing hopelessly. Only Dylan ever snuck her people food.

  Toby sampled the fare on his plate and tried not to think of what might go wrong in the stand-off between the SAM and the Feds. Fiascos like the siege at Ruby Ridge and the one at Waco had changed the way law enforcement handled extremists, which meant that Palmer and the superiors directing him from headquarters would proceed with patience rather than physical force. Dylan, who had not been seen since she’d escorted Terrence into the house, would not get hurt, he assured himself. Maybe if he kept telling himself that, it would turn out to be true. If he could just shake the foreboding that kept his shoulder muscles tense.

  “This seat taken?”

  The whip-crack syllables could not have been uttered by anyone other than Ike Calhoun. Toby glanced up with surprise. He’d neither heard nor seen Ike coming; in fact, he didn’t even know the man had left D.C. He swallowed all the food in his mouth in one gulp. “Why don’t you grab a plate first?”

  “In a minute.” Ike took the chair across from him, sat down, and stared at him hard.

  It was all Toby could do not to squirm. “Is Hamilton here, too?”

  “Exercising.”

  “Ah.” The healthy color in Ike’s own face suggested that he and TJ Hamilton had hit the gym together, something Toby probably should have done, considering how restless he felt.

  “What’s your frame of mind, Burke?”

  Ike’s unexpected words had Toby wanting to push his chair out and leave. He stared back at Ike, speechless. Like I’m going to spill out my guts to a man with no feelings.

  But Ike was persistent. “Do you still believe that the suspect is being framed?”

  Toby narrowed his eyes. “You mean Dylan?” Why did Ike continue to call her the suspect?

  Ike’s gaze dropped to the message on Toby’s T-shirt. In a fighting mood this morning, he was glad he’d put it on. MY ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASS PISSES ME OFF.

  Ike’s mouth twitched. “I mean Dylan,” he amended. “You still think she’s innocent.” It wasn’t a question this time.

  Toby wondered if he was imagining the subtle softening around Ike’s acid-green eyes. “I know she is,” he asserted.

  The team lead gave a nod. “Okay, then.”

  Toby searched the man’s enigmatic face. “Okay what?”

  “Let’s clear her name.”

  Toby set his napkin slowly on the table and looked around. The place was still empty. He could feel his eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. “Won’t that pit us against the FBI director?” he practically whispered.

  Ike shrugged. “Does that bother you?”

  Toby just looked at him. He had never cared much for Ike in the past, but at the moment, he was tempted to lunge across the table and kiss the man.

  “Just tell me where you think we should start,” Ike invited.

  Where to start? Toby’s thoughts ran in a dozen different directions. There were multiple mysteries at play. In what way had Ivan Ackerman lied about his past? Who had published the anti-war articles in Dylan’s name? Who had drugged her on Halloween night? “We need to research the backgrounds of some of her colleagues and question them in person.” He started to list all the persons of suspicion, ticking them off his fingers. “There’s Sergeant Ackerman, Father Nesbit, the Director of the VA Medical Center, Dylan’s colleagues—”

  “Today’s Sunday,” Ike reminded him. “Her colleagues won’t be working today, and her priest will be busy leading mass.”

  Toby reined in his expectations. “Then we research today and interview tomorrow,” he amended.

  A commotion in the hotel lobby drew their attention to the swarm of FBI agents pouring in from the parking lot, including Special Agent in Charge Palmer. The weary slump of that man’s shoulders and his heavy eyelids connoted that he’d spent all night watching Dylan’s property. As they headed for the breakfast counter, Ike got up to share a word with them.

  Toby picked up his muffin and peeled off the wrapper.

  Ike came back with a single mug of black coffee and resumed his seat. “The press rolled in at the crack of dawn this morning,” he reported.

  Toby groaned.

  “A command headquarters has been set up at the new Customs and Border Protection Training Center just up the road. First meeting is at noon. We’ll be there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The respectful term came out of Toby’s mouth before he could stop it. Apparently, there really was a first time for everything.

  “We’ll hold our own meeting in two hours. See you in room 312 at o’ eight hundred. Bring Jackson with you.” With that, Ike got up and headed toward the buffet.

  Toby stacked his silverware on his plate and left the table. Having a plan beat the hell out of moping around feeling helpless. He never thought he’d say this about Ike, but the man was looking out for him. With a grateful glance in his direction, he gestured for Milly to follow, and hurried back to his room to wake up Jackson and share the news: Fatherhood had improved Ike, after all.

  ***

  “Ma’am?” Sergeant Morrison hovered just outside of Dylan’s open bedroom door, distracting her from the phone call she was about to make. The time had come to call her priest.

  She looked up at him in exasperation. “Yes, Sergeant?”

  With fifty plus troops wandering around outside and the NCOs swarming in and out of her home to direct them, privacy had become a luxury of the past. The stand-off between the Second Amendment Militia and federal forces was barely twenty-four hours old, and she was already weary of the bustle and confusion taking place around her. At least morale was high. The troops had plenty of their own provisions, but Dylan got no pleasure out of knowing they risked their lives and their reputations by keeping her out of the FBI’s grasp.

  She’d made up her mind. As soon as Terrence passed away—and, sadly, it would not be long now—she would quietly surrender.

  “I can’t find Sergeant Ackerman anywhere. He didn’t sleep in his bed last night. His squad members say they haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  And why wasn’t she surprised to hear it? Dylan sent Morrison a bitter smile. After all she’d done for Ackerman, he was the first to turn tail and flee. “Looks like we’ve had our first desertion,” she replied. And it probably wouldn’t be their last. “Kindly assign the members of his squad to other NCOs.” Sheriff Fallon had stepped into Burke’s shoes as operations sergeant, so that even without Ackerman present, she still had three reliable NCOs to call upon.

  “Well, good riddance,” Gil Morrison declared looking like he might spit right there on the hardwood floor. “If I may be so bold, I never did like the man, regardless of what happened to him. He was a—”

  Dylan cut him off. “If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I was about to make a phone call.”

  “Oh. Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  Morrison scuttled out of sight, and Dylan drew a bracing b
reath. Lifting the receiver, she tapped out a number she had known all her life. It was only seven-thirty in the morning—funny how she’d already stopped thinking in military time. Her priest was probably heading toward the church right now to prepare for the eight o’clock service. She’d have to leave a message.

  To her surprise, he answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  All it took was the sound of his voice for Dylan’s throat to close up. Averting her face from the still-open door, she clasped the receiver harder and choked out a single word. “Father—”

  “Dylan, is that you?”

  She dragged a breath into her convulsing lungs, struggling for composure. “Yes.”

  “Oh, my child. You must be beside yourself. The whole town is talking about it.”

  “Wh-what are they saying? Do they think I’ve gone crazy?”

  “Of course not, my child. Everyone’s on your side, even the local paper.”

  “I’m in the paper?” She’d been so caught up in Terrence’s struggle that she hadn’t given much thought at all to what was going on.

  “The story broke on Fox 5 WTTG at dawn. You know, nothing escapes the media these days.”

  Dylan envisioned new journalists camped outside of her property along with the FBI agents. The story of the crazed militia leader and her loyal followers would sweep the country. She pushed the situation firmly out of her mind. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered but taking care of Terrence’s needs.

  “That’s not why I called,” she said, pushing her request through an aching throat. “I’d like you to visit me as soon as possible.” She struggled to articulate her next words. “Terrence is losing his battle, and I want you to give him last rites.”

  “Poor man.” The priest clicked his tongue consolingly. “And my poor, sweet child having to go through all this now. I would come this very afternoon, but I have a meeting with the bishop that cannot be rescheduled as he’s headed overseas tomorrow.” The priest’s tone conveyed sincere regret. “But I can be there early Monday morning, if you think he’ll make it that long.”

  She swallowed hard. “I think so.”

  “Tomorrow, then. I trust the FBI will let me through their roadblock.”

  She blinked. “They’ve closed the roads?”

  “Since yesterday. It’s all they can do to keep the press as far away as possible. Under the circumstances, I’m sure they’ll let me through. If they don’t, I’ll call you. We’ll work something out.”

  She floundered like a sinking ship. “I need to see you.”

  “I’m with you in spirit, darling. And soon, I’ll be there in person. Have faith, Dylan.”

  The phone clicked in her ear, and Dylan slowly replaced the receiver. The premonition that the stand-off between the SAM and the FBI would end tragically kept her in a cold sweat. The famous words of her ancestor, John Brown, recorded right there in the book beside her bed came to mind, giving rise to a shiver of dread.

  I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land can never be purged away but with blood.

  God forbid that was still as true today as it was a hundred and fifty-odd years ago.

  ***

  Toby and Jackson knocked on room 312 at one minute to eight. Milly sniffed the crack at the bottom of the door and wagged her tail.

  Not a sound preceded the door swinging open. TJ Hamilton filled the opening. His raven, shoulder-length hair appeared damp from a recent shower. Looking fit and obscenely tall, he raked his colleagues with his dark, all-seeing eyes before letting them wordlessly in the room.

  Toby looked around.

  Ike had checked into a two-room suite with a cushy office/living area in the middle. The team lead sat at his desk staring intently at his MacBook Pro. “Have a seat,” he invited without glancing up. With his sleeves cuffed and his collared shirt unbuttoned, Ike looked more human than Toby could ever recall seeing him.

  He and Jackson sank down on the couch. Hamilton folded his towering frame into the armchair. Tearing his attention from his laptop, Ike slid his wheeled chair to the edge of his desk to address them.

  “So, we have an unprecedented situation,” he began. “The FBI is engaged in a stand-off with the suspect—Dylan—” he amended, catching Toby’s eye, “who allegedly murdered both Nolan and Treyburn. Burke, who knows her better than anybody, insists that she’s innocent. And while we support the FBI, our primary mission is to promote homeland security, which—to me—means that we are obligated to find the real killer. Are you with me so far?”

  The Taskforce team members murmured their agreement.

  “Clearly whoever is framing Dylan Connelly works in close connection with her,” Ike continued. “Close enough to upload documents at the hospital where she works, to plant evidence in her barn, to drive her car into Washington, D.C., the day before Nolan’s murder. One possibility is Ivan Ackerman, her supply sergeant. I located his military file this morning.”

  Ike dragged his laptop closer, and consulted the screen. “Ackerman was a food service specialist in the U.S. Army. He was medically discharged after the mess hall in Camp Liberty was struck by a mortar attack last year. He returned to his home in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he was treated for PTSD at the VA medical center. He would have met Dylan there.”

  Toby asked, “What’s it say about his wife and daughter?”

  Ike skimmed the document and found an answer. “Married in 1999 and divorced in 2002. No record of any dependents.”

  “What the hell?” Toby’s outburst earned him startled looks. “The SOB told Dylan that his wife and daughter were gunned down by a shooter at the mall.”

  Jackson steepled his fingers. “A story guaranteed to elicit sympathy,”

  he pointed out.

  Ike pressed on. “According to Ackerman’s file, he was expelled from high school for bringing a weapon onto school grounds. He took the GED and graduated early and the Army took him in. He may look fishy, but I don’t see any motive on his part to target heads of state.”

  Toby had to agree. Ackerman didn’t seem bright enough to know what was going on in the political arena.

  “On the other hand, he might have been working at someone else’s behest,” the team lead suggested. “So we’ll keep him on our radar.”

  Toby thought of something. “He gets counseling at the medical center every Tuesday. Maybe his doctor could give us some insight.”

  Ike crossed his arms and sat back. “About that,” he said, “we don’t have any legal right to solicit medical information, but we can canvas the staff and have a good look around. Palmer’s going to realize what we’re up to if we’re not discreet.” He nodded at Toby. “You and Jackson head over to the VA hospital tomorrow morning while Hamilton and I dig deeper on these suspects.” His green gaze focused on Toby’s smart aleck T-shirt. “Is that all you have to wear?”

  Toby plucked at his casual garb. “I didn’t know I’d be masquerading as an FBI agent,” he apologized.

  “There’s a mall in Martinsburg,” Ike informed him. “Opens at ten. Go buy yourself a suit. And hurry back in time for Palmer’s briefing at the training center.”

  Minutes later, Toby, Jackson, and Milly squealed out of the hotel parking lot in Jackson’s black Chrysler. Possibilities circuited Toby’s brain. Had Ackerman done more than lie about his past? Had he planted the pipe and the copper wires on Dylan’s property where the Feds were sure to find it? If he’d been working in cahoots with someone—then who? And why hadn’t Sheriff Fallon exposed Ackerman as a liar earlier?

  Something had to shake out tomorrow when he and Jackson panned the hospital staff. The FBI was tightening their noose around Dylan, and there was only so much time before they kicked the stool out from under her and strung her up for good. If the Taskforce was going to prove her innocence, then they needed to do it fast.

  ***

  Dylan gripped the phone tighter. Her blood simmered at the way the FBI negotiators sought to manipulate
her. When the first negotiator had called an hour ago, he’d played hardball. Unless her soldiers peacefully surrendered, he’d threatened, she was looking at life in jail, possibly the death penalty. Her PTSD had flared like dry tinder at his incendiary language. She’d lashed out at him and hung up the phone.

  This second call came from a different negotiator, the one playing Good Cop. He apologized for his colleague’s coarse manners and, on a more conciliatory note, asked if there was anything the FBI could do to assist her. Dylan rolled her eyes. “Listen,” she commanded, “I don’t have time to play childish games. Here’s how the situation works: You stay off my property, giving me time to nurse my terminally ill executive officer, and my soldiers won’t shoot anyone. Try trespassing on my land to arrest me, and you’ll have a war on your hands. I give you my word that when my XO passes, I’ll surrender.”

  Professing dismay and concern, the Good Cop negotiator promptly offered her medical assistance.

  Dylan pictured an ambulance with a SWAT team hiding inside it. “I’m a physician,” she reminded him. “Another doctor isn’t going to make a difference in his case.”

  “How long do you think…?”

  She cut him off. “Until he dies, you mean?” PTSD reared its grizzly head, causing her to counter attack. “Don’t…don’t talk about him like he’s a temporary inconvenience!” she railed. “He’s my friend, damn you!”

  “I’m sorry, Dylan. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

  “Then address me as Captain Connelly. And tomorrow, when my priest comes to administer last rites, kindly see that he’s allowed through the road block.”

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “Thank you,” she bit out, slamming down the receiver a second time. In a vain attempt to ease the tension gripping her shoulders, she massaged the knots near the base of her neck. The phone jangled again, and her tension doubled. With a pulse of irritation tapping at her temple, she decided to ignore it.