Collateral Damage

by Lynette Eason

  She dropped into the one empty chair and let her breath out slowly. “Whoo.”

  “Everything okay?” Kat asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Liar,” Heather said.

  Brooke hesitated. “Okay, so no,” she finally said, helping herself to one of the cinnamon rolls from the bread basket someone had so thoughtfully placed at her seat. “Everything’s not okay.” She waved the roll. “But this helps.”

  Heather raised a brow. She’d changed from her surgical scrubs and wore a simple pair of khaki pants and a blue long-sleeved collared knit shirt. The hijab wrapped around her head held matching colors and brought out her eyes. Which probably wasn’t a good thing in this area.

  “Wanna share?” Heather asked. Her eyes held compassion—and a keen intelligence that a lot of people missed when they focused on the woman’s outward beauty. Built like a runway model, Heather had chosen medicine over the modeling career that had funded her first two years of medical school.

  The Army had paid for the rest of it, and now Heather devoted herself to helping put the wounded back together. She took care of the physical brokenness, and Brooke tried to help with the mental. Being a military psychiatrist wasn’t for the weak or the easily wearied. “It was a hard morning. I had to recommend a soldier be sent home for suicidal reasons.” And just like that, she’d managed to suck any levity right out of the atmosphere. “Sorry. Forget I said that. Let’s not talk shop.” She lifted her glass of water. “So, who’s excited about going home? What’s the first thing you plan to do when you get there?”

  “I’m going to walk down the street and not worry about getting blown up,” Sarah said.

  Kat rolled her eyes. “I’m from the worst part of Chicago. I can’t walk down the street without worrying about getting shot or something. So”—she drew in a deep breath—“I’m going to find different streets to walk down, I think.”

  “Come walk down my street,” Brooke said with a grin. “I just bought a house.”

  “What?” Kat gaped. “When?”

  “Yesterday. Well, the offer was accepted, and all that’s left is to do the paperwork. My lawyer has been granted power of attorney and is taking care of all of that for me.”

  After a round of congratulations and cheers, Sarah grimaced. “But that’s going to have to wait for me.”

  Kat frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m here for at least another year.”

  “What!” Brooke and Kat said together.

  Sarah shrugged. “I don’t have anything I need to rush home to and I love my job. Besides”—she glanced around the restaurant and lowered her voice—“I’m working on something and I’m not going to have it wrapped up by the time I’d have to leave. So . . . I requested to stay in for a while longer.”

  “What are you working on?” Brooke asked.

  “Something big. Something that’s going to make a lot of people unhappy—and probably put some people in prison.” She paused. “In prison and unhappy. Kind of goes together, doesn’t it?”

  Brooke leaned in. “Sarah, what are you doing?”

  “Well, originally, I was doing whatever was necessary to get a spot with a major newspaper that would lead me to Morning Star Orphanage, where I was going to do a story on some of the kids there. Instead, I wound up in a part-time volunteer position that has led to—” She stopped and met each friend’s gaze. “Never mind. Suffice it to say that this is serious and it’s going to blow up a few careers if my source is being truthful with me. And I think she is.”

  “What source?” Kat asked. Her eyes narrowed. “What’s going on at the orphanage?”

  Sarah shook her head. “So far, my evidence is circumstantial. But I know—” She held up a hand. “Never mind. My turn to change the subject.” A pause while everyone stared silently. “But if something happens to me, it’s probably because of this story.”

  “What?” Heather narrowed her eyes. “I thought you were coming to the hospital to see me. Are you saying you’ve been coming for other reasons?”

  Brooke snorted. “Of course she is.” Sarah was always investigating. She was a good reporter and didn’t generally overreact to things. The intensity of her words and facial expressions made Brooke wonder if this time she might be getting in over her head. “Your life’s not worth a story, Sarah,” she said.

  “Normally, I’d agree with you, but this . . .” Sarah looked away, blinking back tears. “Just pray I’m wrong.”

  Kat and Heather continued to press Sarah for details, but Brooke tuned them out, having a hard time focusing on her friends’ words. Not that she didn’t care, but her heart was heavy, her mind on the fact that she’d ruined a man’s career this morning. That he was from her hometown of Greenville, South Carolina, just made him all the more special—and her responsibility all the more heartbreaking.

  Heather’s hand clasped hers under the table and she looked up to find the three ladies staring at her. “Sorry, I did it again, didn’t I?” She stood. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be very good company today. I think I’ll take off.” Amidst the protests of her friends, she turned to go.

  The little bell over the door jangled as it opened to admit two soldiers dressed in Army Combat Uniforms. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Isaiah Michaels at the bar, turning toward the newcomers. His eyes caught hers and he nodded as his friends settled into the two seats next to him. They both glanced back at her but didn’t acknowledge her. The fact that Isaiah did was more than if he’d shouted her name.

  Brooke returned the slight nod and sat back down. “Or maybe I’ll order my food and enjoy myself.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Kat said. She moved her ever-present camera to the side of her plate and held up her water. “A toast. To home.”

  “To home!”

  “And to Brooke’s new place. May we eventually spend many a hot summer’s day gathered around her pool.”

  Brooke gaped. “I didn’t say anything about a pool.”

  Heather laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m surprised you’re not in the Navy the way you can’t live without water. You have a pool, don’t you?”

  “Well . . . yes, but still . . .”

  The others cracked up, and Brooke couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips, even as she shot another glance at Michaels sitting with his friends at the bar. He caught her gaze, held it for a brief second, then looked away. He wanted to talk. She almost snorted, her ire rising. Well, he could wait on her this time.

  “What’s he doing here?” Sarah asked.

  “Who?”

  “Isaiah Michaels.”

  “You know him?” Brooke asked.

  “Mm. Yes. Met him on the base a couple times, then ran into him at the hospital when I was there covering something for a story, then again at the orphanage.”

  “What was he doing at the hospital and the orphanage?”

  “That’s not important.” Sarah’s eyes bounced between Michaels and Brooke. “How do you know him?”

  “That’s not important,” she mimicked and ignored the eye roll from Sarah.

  “He keeps looking this way,” Sarah said. “At you. Like he’s waiting on you or trying to get your attention.”

  “Well, he can keep waiting on me.” He was a client and he’d called to schedule an appointment, which had shocked her socks off. She’d always been the one to schedule the appointments and then had to practically drag him to them—or threaten to report his absence. Then he’d failed to show up. Which hadn’t shocked her nearly as much.

  They ordered their food and, for the next forty-five minutes, talked and caught up before duty called Heather and Sarah away, leaving Brooke alone at the table with Kat. “You really think Heather will decide to leave the Army and go work in a hospital?” Kat asked.

  Brooke lifted her hands, palms up. “Sounded like she wants to.”

  “She’ll be bored.”

  “She’s a trauma surgeon. I doubt bored is in her vocabulary,” Bro
oke said with a wry smile.

  “Seriously, I’m a combat photographer. You think I could just go home and start taking headshots?”

  “It’d be a lot safer.”

  “Brooooke . . .”

  “I know. What am I thinking? You never have been one to play it safe. I have a theory about that, you know.”

  “Hmm, so, who’s the guy?” Kat asked.

  “Which one?” Brooke had no trouble following her friend’s deliberate change of topic.

  Kat smirked. “The one you locked eyes and exchanged nods with. The one who’s still sitting over there with his friends pretending he’s not waiting on you. I mean, I know his name, thanks to Sarah, but anything else I need to know?”

  “Nothing much gets by you, does it?”

  “Not if I want to stay alive.”

  “I can’t say who he is,” Brooke said.

  “Ah. That means he’s a client.”

  Brooke smiled and took a sip of the hot tea the server had brought.

  “And by that look he gave you when he came in, he has something he wants to talk to you about.” She sighed. “Which means, I need to say goodbye.”

  “I don’t know what he wants,” Brooke said, her voice low. “I have a lot of clients who are ordered to see me and sit there in silence for an hour. Not saying he’s one of those, but I do have a lot.”

  “I know.”

  “So you know what I do?”

  Kat raised a brow.

  “I talk,” Brooke said. “And I talk some more. The whole time. About PTSD and coping strategies. I talk about faith and God, saying things like, ‘I don’t know if you even believe in God at this point, but if you do . . .’ and so on.” She swallowed. “I don’t know if it makes a difference or not and I’m tired of trying. Tired of being treated like I’m an intruder who can’t understand what they’re going through—much less isn’t able to help.” She shook her head. “Nope. It’s time for me to leave.” She stood.

  “Aren’t you going to see what he wants?”

  “If he wanted to talk, he should have shown up two hours ago for his appointment.” Brooke heard the brittle hostility in her tone and took a deep breath. “And now I’m breaking the rules in even saying that.”

  Kat stood, too, and placed money on the table. “You’re doing good, Brooke. I know you can’t see it, but you are.”

  Brooke let her gaze linger on the soldier who refused to look her way but was clearly waiting on her, as noticed by Kat. She closed her eyes and let the words wash over her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “No problem. I’m going to scram. Let me get out the door before you leave so he won’t think we’re together anymore. Then your escort will follow you, the guy who wants to meet with you will follow him, and his friends will . . .” At Brooke’s scowl, Kat gave her a sheepish smile. “Well, you get the idea.”

  A single man and single woman didn’t meet together in a public place. It would be fine to walk and talk with her within a group, and his friends would make sure that’s what it looked like.

  “I think I know how it works at this point,” Brooke said.

  Kat grabbed her camera and looped it around her neck. “See ya.”

  “Stay safe, friend.”

  “Always. You too.”

  “Always.”

  Kat left and Brooke waited a few seconds before following in her friend’s footsteps. Just as Kat predicted, the moment she passed the man at the bar, he turned and followed her. And his friends did the same.

  The window next to the section where she’d been seated exploded and she went to her knees. A hard body hit hers, covering her as debris rained down.

  She managed to gasp in one breath and then another explosion rocked the building.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The MRAP shuddered from the blast wave of the second explosion. “Back up! Back it up!”

  Asher grabbed his rifle while Owens slammed on the brakes and reversed the big machine. Asher looked out the window, his field of vision consisting of one big wall of dust.

  “That came from The Bistro,” Owens said.

  Dobbs wore his medic bag over his body armor. The gas mask was strapped to his thigh. Asher pushed the door open and climbed out, his weapon held ready, mask over his face. Dobbs was right behind him, followed by Owens and Sampson.

  People and smoke streamed from the restaurant. Dobbs stopped long enough to pull on his mask before he headed into the smoking, burning building. Sirens in the distance signaled emergency crews would be here soon. Even in Afghanistan, they responded pretty fast. Asher barked orders while he grabbed another extinguisher.

  Following the path Dobbs had blazed, Asher continued shooting the flames with the extinguisher, looking for any victims—and his target. While all he heard was the roar of the blaze farther in, the rest of his squad would be bringing up the rear. He stopped to help an elderly man stand. “That way!” Asher said the words in Dari and again in Pashto. The man held a hand to his bleeding head and Asher wished he could help him further, but once the man was out on the street, help would be steps away. Flames spurted from the back of the restaurant, but while the smoke was thick, he could still see. That wouldn’t last long. “Talk to me, Dobbs! Where is he? Where’s Michaels?”

  “Straight back from the front door and to the left! I think I see him. I’m trying to get to him. He’s on the floor.” Dobbs’s voice came through the radio and Asher hurried to follow the directions, but he was stumbling blind—and praying another explosion wasn’t just waiting to happen.

  Brooke coughed, gagged. Pain sizzled across her shoulders and back. Smoke and fire billowed through the restaurant.

  Flames leapt from her sleeve.

  Panic flaring, she scrambled out from under the heavy weight of the body that had slammed into her and threw herself backward. She rolled, beating her body and arms against the tiled floor.

  Screams from wounded patrons and workers registered. She wanted to add her own to the chaos, but she needed to breathe. Only all the oxygen had been sucked from the area.

  Brooke wrapped the edge of the hijab around her mouth and nose, ignoring the razor-sharp pain racing through her arms, her back, her shoulders.

  A hard hand clasped hers. She looked down and gasped. Specialist Isaiah Michaels lay next to her, and with a sob, she realized he’d been the one to throw himself over her, covering her, protecting her. “Hold on, Michaels, hold on.”

  A good portion of the left side of his face was gone, from the cheek to his hairline. Her stomach lurched, but he was trying to tell her something. She scuttled closer, clutching his trembling fingers. “Shh . . . don’t try to talk,” she croaked. “I’ll get you some help. I’m so sorry. So sorry.” It was her fault he was here. Guilt hammered her.

  His hand squeezed hers and she realized he wanted her even closer. And he was trying to get her to take something. She squinted. A bracelet? Automatically, she wrapped her fingers around it. “Keep . . . it . . . safe . . . ,” he rasped.

  “Who does it belong to? Who do you want me to give it to?”

  “Miranda . . . tell Miranda . . . love her . . . didn’t know.”

  He wasn’t making any sense. “You want me to give the bracelet to Miranda?”

  “Brooke! Brooke! Where are you?”

  Kat? “Back here!” A coughing spasm seized her and stars danced in front of her vision.

  And still the man wouldn’t loosen his grip. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know what they were doing . . . Tell her I didn’t know.”

  He had to be delirious with pain—or in such shock he wasn’t feeling it. The fact that he was even conscious was nothing short of miraculous. “Know what? What didn’t you know, Michaels?” Miranda, his wife. He’d mentioned her once during their final session, saying how he had to talk to her, mumbling about needing her forgiveness and saying he didn’t know.

  Now he whispered something else. She leaned farther in, trying to ignore the pain, smoke, and b
lackness fighting to claim her consciousness. A small pocket of air allowed her to pull in a breath before the smoke rolled back over her.

  Still holding his hand and the bracelet, she put her ear to his lips.

  “. . . traitor,” he whispered. “Tell . . . Miranda . . .”

  “What?”

  “Not. A. Traitor,” he wheezed. “Don’t . . . let them . . . say . . . I am.” He went still, his eyes fixed on a spot behind her left shoulder.

  “No,” she cried, coughed, gagged, refusing to let him go. “No, don’t you die on me! Not you too! I’m sorry!” She shoved the bracelet into her pocket, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his chest.

  Then hands were pulling her away. She fought to bring him with her, but the blackness pressed in. She turned to see storm-cloud gray eyes behind a mask.

  “Save him. Please save him,” she whispered with no hope of the man hearing her as the flames crept closer.

  This time she couldn’t fight the blackness that stole her vision and then her breath.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  FOUR MONTHS LATER

  JANUARY

  GREENVILLE, SC

  FBI Special Agent Caden Denning checked his watch just as SLED Agent Kyle Deveraux turned off the main street and into the wide-open expanse of field. The man steered the black Chevy Tahoe to the edge of the yellow crime scene tape and stopped. He climbed out, then pulled on a pair of blue gloves and shoe coverings.

  Caden and his partner, Zane Pierce, were already dressed in their crime scene gear, ready to walk Deveraux through the scene as soon as he joined them and Sheriff Mickey Daniels, who stood to Caden’s left.

  The South Carolina Law Enforcement Division, FBI, and local authorities would band together to figure out how the mass grave site came to be. This was the sheriff’s jurisdiction. Caden and Zane were only there because Mickey had asked them to be.

  “I think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands. I’m not exactly out of my depth here, Cade,” Mickey had said on the phone earlier that morning, “but I think I’d like another set of eyes on this. We’re probably going to need your resources too.”