“I’m working on that,” Victor said. “I have to wait until things settle down before I can get close to him.”
“Where were you when all this was going down at her house? Why didn’t you step in and help Ricci?”
“I was too far away. By the time I realized something was wrong, I didn’t have time to help. If I’d gone in, we both would have been caught. I didn’t see that helping our mission any. And you know what you always say about sacrifice.”
“Right.” A slight pause. “I don’t suppose I need to reiterate how bad things will be if that information falls into the wrong hands.”
His cohort scowled. “It’s already in the wrong hands. That’s why Ricci and I are here, right?”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he hissed, keeping the smile on his face. “Just do what I hired you to do. We both have a lot of money on the line, but more importantly, people are depending on us.”
Was that a slight roll of the eyes?
“I got this,” Victor said. “Now chill. I’m headed to the hospital to see what I need to do about Ricci.” He hesitated a fraction of a second. “You don’t think he’ll talk to the authorities, do you? I mean, if he’s even awake?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “He’d better not.” A pause. “You need to be there when he wakes up.”
“I plan to be.”
“And, Victor?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do what needs to be done if it needs doing?”
A split-second widening of Victor’s eyes said he knew exactly what that meant. Then a deep frown creased his whole face. Again, not a good sign. “It won’t come to that.”
“But can you do it?”
“I’m a lot of things,” Victor said quietly, “and as you well know, I’ve done some illegal things, but I’m no killer. That’s Ricci’s gig.”
What a baby. A muscle twitched in his jaw, attesting to the self-control he was exerting. “Look, I didn’t arrange to get you and Ricci discharged and sent home—instead of prison, if I may remind you—for this to blow up in our faces. You’re there to take care of this. If Ricci talks, we’re done. Everything will shut down—everything. Not to mention that little thing called prison—”
“I know, I know.” Victor was getting antsy, irritated. He could hear it in his voice—and his attempt to hide it.
“All right,” he soothed, keeping his expression neutral while on the inside he couldn’t help the surge of disgust for the man. If he hadn’t needed Victor—but he did. “You just threw my words about sacrifice back at me. Well, now would be a good time to repeat that to yourself. As much as we may hate it, in this business, sometimes you have to make sacrifices—like sacrificing the one for the good of the many.”
Silence greeted him, and he could see the man’s mind working, taking in his words, processing. Finally, Victor gave a short nod. “I know. I’ve got this.”
“Once again, can you do what needs to be done with Ricci if it comes down to it?”
“I can do it.” Victor looked away for a moment.
“What is it? What are you thinking?”
“I think we need to replace Ricci. He’s down for the count and I’m going to need help.”
Of course he did. Why had he thought this man should be a part of this highly sensitive mission? “You’ll receive a call within two hours.”
“Good. I’ll be ready.”
“We’re counting on you. All of us.” He hung up and considered whether he could actually trust Victor to get it done.
If not, he’d have to take things into his own hands and he needed to figure out what that might look like. He dialed another number and waited.
The screen opened up and his wife’s face appeared. “Hey, kids, come see who’s calling!” She turned back to the screen and smiled. “Hi there, handsome. How’s it going?”
“Hey, it’s going okay. How are the kids?”
“They miss you.”
“I miss them.”
His children gathered around the iPad and he cherished the few moments with them before he had to figure out a way to clean up the mess Isaiah Michaels had made.
The lights flickered as Kristin stood just outside the door of her boss’s office, trying to hear what he and Dr. Madad were saying. Unfortunately, even though the door was cracked, their voices were too low. She thought she caught the word “Tajikistan” but couldn’t be sure. Frustration clamped down on her. Then Mr. Yusufi’s voice rose. “. . . his family comes back to claim him? What do I tell them? No, it must be . . .” His voice faded again.
Again, the lights flickered and she had hope that the power would soon be restored.
Footsteps in the hallway sent her pulse skyrocketing, and she spun to see the line of children walking down the hall past the offices. Paksima was at the end. When the little girl spotted her, her whole face lit up, and Kristin’s heart clenched.
How she loved that child and desired to give her the home she deserved. But for now, she’d settle for seeing her every day at the orphanage—and keep searching for a way to adopt her. She hurried over for a quick hug, then Paksima skipped along behind her classmates, a contented smile on her innocent little face.
Some people would just tell her to convert to the Muslim faith, but she couldn’t do that. Not even for her love of the little girl.
When she turned, she caught Hesther watching. She gave the woman a small smile. It seemed like every time she turned around, the older woman was there. Spying on her. Watching her. Chills danced up her arms and she shivered.
The bounce of a dark hijab captured her attention and Kristin hurried after Sarah, her friend and newest hire. It had been five months since Sarah arrived in a part-time volunteer position, and Kristin had been delighted to hire the woman for several reasons—the first being that her last volunteer had disappeared with no warning or word of where she was going. Kristin worried that she’d met an ill-fated end simply because when she asked about her, she’d been shut down and warned to mind her own business. But this woman was different. Like Kristin, she was an American with a desire to do her part to help rescue the children. Unlike Kristin, she had the necessary resources to do so.
Kristin suspected that the woman was a missionary in disguise, but of course, she’d not admit it. Instead, she called herself a humanitarian worker who loved children and let it be known that she’d do anything, anything, to see that the kids had whatever they needed to survive the craziness and horror they’d been born into—or help them get out of it. At least that was her cover story. Kristin often wondered if there was more to her story due to the way she talked and acted.
Whatever the case, she was quite sure it had been God who had orchestrated their meeting that day in the park. It hadn’t taken long to convince Sarah that she would be a perfect fit to help with the orphanage. In the past three months, they’d become close friends. At least on Kristin’s end. Mostly because the other woman had figured out her deepest secret—her desire to adopt Paksima—and had offered to do whatever she could to help make that happen.
Kristin often wondered if trusting her had been a wrong move, but if Sarah was going to betray her, she would have done it when Kristin finally admitted to Sarah that she had guessed her secret.
She caught up with the woman and found her writing something in a small notebook. “Sarah, hi.”
Sarah looked up, startled. She snapped the pages shut and smiled. “Hi.”
“Everything all right?”
“Of course.” She waved the notebook. “Just making notes and observations. I think the children could . . . um . . . use a playground.”
“A playground?” Kristin gave her friend a confused smile. “They have the area out back with the swings.”
“I know, but what if we actually had a jungle-gym-type thing built for them?”
Kristin worried her bottom lip. “I don’t mean to knock down your ideas,” she finally said, “but think about it. Out of all the things these kids need,
do you really think it’s wise to spend money on a playground? It’s all we can do to keep the money out of the wrong pockets and food on the table. We need beds and linens and school supplies, not a playground.”
“What if I got it donated for free?”
She offered a sad smile. “The director won’t go for it.”
“Why? Because he will think it will somehow keep money out of his pocket?” Sarah snapped her lips shut and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” She sighed. “You’re right. In addition to everything that you listed, what these kids need are homes.”
“Exactly.”
“But if you’re not Muslim, you can’t adopt them.”
“Trust me, I know.”
Sarah gave her a sympathetic look. “I know you do. So no more progress on that end?”
“No. None.”
“I don’t understand. According to the pattern, it works.” Sarah frowned. “Don’t do anything else until I do some more digging. We don’t want to set off any alarm bells if we can help it.”
“What kind of alarm bells?”
“The kind that got Isaiah Michaels killed.”
Kristin studied her friend. “Who are you really?” she asked softly.
“What do you mean?”
“You talk about doing more digging and setting off alarm bells and Isaiah Michaels—and you found the pattern that suggests Dr. Madad is arranging black market adoptions—and using American soldiers to transport them to their new homes.” She narrowed her eyes and decided it was worth the risk in pressing ahead. “And the more I think about it, the more I think you may be right, even though he wouldn’t admit it to me. So again, I ask, who are you? Because while it’s obvious you care about the children and truly love working with them, I don’t think you’re just a volunteer.”
The other woman hesitated. “Let’s say I have connections and I have the best interests of the children at heart. Is that enough?”
For some reason, Kristin believed her. “I suppose. If you won’t tell me anything else.”
Sarah pursed her lips. “Tell me something,” she said.
“Sure.”
“This is a privately funded orphanage, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have access to the books? The finances?”
“No, I don’t. Just Mr. Yusufi.” She sighed. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m just a reluctant necessity at the orphanage in the form of caregiver—or organizer of caregivers. I’m a woman and they need women to look after the children, but the men handle everything else.”
Sarah grimaced. “That was my impression.”
“Why?”
“I’d just like to see where all the money is going, because it’s sure not going to the kids. They barely have enough to eat and their clothes are threadbare.” Sarah squeezed her hand. “I’ll talk to you in a little bit. I’m going to see if anyone needs some help.”
Kristin watched her go with a frown and decided she would just take it one day at a time.
“Paksima loves you very much,” a quiet voice said from behind her.
Kristin turned to see Hesther. She never could tell if the woman liked her or not. “I love her,” Kristin admitted. “She makes it easy.”
Hesther gave her a small smile. “Maybe your God will find a way to allow the two of you to be together one day.”
Her words speared Kristin’s heart. “I’m not Muslim,” she said, not saying anything about her God, unsure what the woman was after.
“I know. I also know the family of little Paksima.”
Kristin gaped, then frowned. “She has no family.”
“That’s what her mother said when she brought her here, but I recognized her. Paksima’s a child with a price on her head. Her family’s enemies would do anything to get their hands on her. For revenge.”
“So she’s hiding here?” Kristin whispered.
“Yes. I tell you this in case one day you need to know.”
The mysterious words reverberated and left Kristin’s mind spinning. “But . . .”
“Her mother is dead, now they look for her.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Shahid.”
Kristin studied the woman. “Why are you really telling me this?”
“Like I said, you may need to know that one day.” Hesther gave her that Mona Lisa smile once more, then slipped down the hall toward the classrooms.
Caden hung up the phone with Joan Banks, one of the medical examiners assigned to the bodies being brought in from the scene. Clarissa had been too busy to talk to him. Joan had been happy to help. Okay, maybe not happy exactly, but at least she’d been willing after he’d promised to use his connections to get her box seats at the next South Carolina–Clemson game.
Unfortunately, that was the least of his worries.
He pressed his fingers to his eyes and knew that if he didn’t get some sleep, he was going to pass out. He’d go home and crash soon, but first things first. Seated at his temporary desk in the sheriff’s office, he opened the case file Joan had sent to him.
Working with the forensic anthropologist, Joan had completed and documented two autopsies. The first victim had been the bones of the infant found by the doctor’s dog. After laying them out, Joan’s report stated she’d found no obvious signs of trauma. DNA had been extracted from some of the remaining marrow, and they’d run it through the database, but nothing was in the system. Not that he’d expected there would be. The victim had been approximately eight months old, and given the condition of the body, the weather, the heat, the shallow grave, Joan guessed the child had been dead for about five months.
The second victim had been a young man between sixteen and eighteen, but his body had been scavenged. Basically, torn apart and missing too much to piece together what might have happened to him.
But again, Joan had stated that his skull was intact with no obvious trauma in that area that would explain how or why he’d died. And while most of the chest cavity had been missing, she’d not found a reason for his death in the part she’d been able to examine. “Knives or bullets can often leave chips or fractures in bones, but there’s none of that here.” Enough tissue was left in his pelvic area to do a tox screen, and she was waiting for that to come back.
It was something, but not much. But he hadn’t expected much. It was time for him to head home and get some sleep. His phone rang just as he stood. He grabbed it with a glance at the screen, didn’t recognize the number, but swiped to answer. “Caden Denning.”
“Caden! Finally! I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
He sat forward, frowning. “Sarah? I’ve been right here and I haven’t seen any calls from you come in.”
“I know. It’s not on your end. We’ve been without power a lot of the time. One of the grids was destroyed in a blast a few days ago. I’ve been able to call and text locally, but we just now got Wi-Fi back.”
The tension threading his sister’s voice spiked the hair on the back of his neck. “What’s going on?”
“I’m investigating a story, Cade, and . . . it’s turning into a real doozy.”
“The same one you’ve been on for the past six months?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And . . .” She blew out a sigh. “You know how much it pains me to admit this, but I may be in over my head.”
“Then back off.”
“I can’t. For various reasons.”
He tapped the little picture of the video camera that would turn the audio call into a face-to-face one. She accepted his request and her sweet face filled his screen. Or it would have been sweet if it hadn’t been creased with worry and . . . fear? “Sarah, what exactly are you investigating?” She’d been vague when he asked before, and he’d let it go. Now he wanted every detail.
“A lot of different things. At first they didn’t seem to be connected, but the more I dig, the more I’m finding.”
>
Another vague answer. “Are you in danger? More so than what comes with being in Afghanistan?”
“No, not at the moment. At least I don’t think I am. I’m being careful, and I’m staying mostly on base or at the orphanage where I have a lot of friends. And I have an escort wherever I go.”
“What orphanage?” That was a new one. She hadn’t mentioned that the last time they talked two weeks ago.
“Morning Star Orphanage. There are some hinky things going on here and I’m going to find out what.”
“What kind of hinky things?”
“I suspect some black market adoptions, but I’m not sure. I’ve been watching the comings and goings of everyone at the orphanage, and when I haven’t been able to be there, I’ve had someone on the inside watching. Her name is Kristin and she’s an American as well.”
He rubbed his blurry, rest-deprived eyes once more. It was getting hard to focus. “You need to come home, Sarah. This isn’t worth your life.”
“Says you,” she said, her voice subdued. “Some things, some people, are worth dying for.”
“But it doesn’t have to be you!”
She fell silent. “I know you love me, Cade, but understand, this is something I can’t just let go of. I’ve got months invested in this story. Finally, things are happening at warp speed and I’m making progress getting some answers.”
Answers that others might not want her to find? Most likely. “So what are you doing at the orphanage exactly?”
“I’m sort of . . . um . . . undercover.”
God help him, he was going to strangle her. As soon as he got her home safe and gave her a hug. “Undercover how?”
“As a part-time volunteer. As far as anyone there knows, I’m just another bleeding-heart American with too much time on my hands. My supervisor has cleared me—he knows what’s going on.”
“I thought you were a military journalist. What’s this got to do with the military?”
“Tons. If what I’ve discovered is true . . .” She glanced over her shoulder and swallowed. “Look, I need you to talk to Brooke Adams and tell her to be careful. I tried calling her a couple of times, but naturally got the same results as when I tried to call you.”
Collateral Damage Page 8
