Collateral Damage

by Lynette Eason

  “What’s with the new number? I didn’t recognize it. Are you using your phone?”

  “The government shut off my number and I had to get a new one under a fake name. I think that loud-mouth politician decided it would be fun to make my life miserable.”

  “You spoke against him. He was determined to get to you.”

  “I know.”

  “You should have come home then.”

  “He was just a side story. I had to give my editor something. And anyway, that guy didn’t want to kill me, just drive me crazy.”

  Caden smothered a sigh for the umpteenth time since he’d taken Sarah’s call. “I’ll tell you who’s being driven crazy,” he muttered. “A poor long-suffering older brother.”

  “Cade—”

  “Is it possible he’s behind any of this?”

  “No. There’s nothing to indicate he’s involved in anything I’m investigating right now. I just need Brooke to be careful and watch her back—and if she won’t answer your call, then you’re going to have to find her and tell her in person, because I overheard her name mentioned in regard to the soldier who died in the explosion. Isaiah Michaels. Her pictures in the burning café are all over the internet and someone was mighty interested in them.”

  He’d seen the pictures. They’d made national news and were probably going to win a Pulitzer. Brooke Adams was the woman in those pictures? Whoa. “Who mentioned Brooke’s name?”

  “An American soldier. I’m trying to find out his name. I was in the base cafeteria and two soldiers were talking. One of the guys wanted to know what Isaiah said to her just before he died.”

  Caden frowned. “Why would he care?”

  “I’ve managed to uncover that Isaiah was going to be charged with treason the day he died.”

  The day she could have died. She’d been at that café only moments before the bombs went off. He shuddered every time he thought about it. “Why? What’d he do?” He refrained from asking how she’d managed to unearth that bit of information.

  “Isaiah was at the hospital before the explosion. He took something or found out something related to what’s going on at the orphanage.”

  “What’d he take?”

  “Files or patient information, I think. I’m not exactly sure.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “When I overheard Brooke’s name, then Isaiah’s, I started listening a little closer and they mentioned stolen files. They said something about the orphanage, but I couldn’t make out exactly what. Then I followed these guys to the security office, where they watched some footage.”

  “What was on it?”

  “I don’t know. They shut the door before I could see.”

  He shut his eyes and prayed for patience. “Sarah, this sounds like a bunch of disjointed, disconnected stuff.” Disjointed, unsafe stuff.

  “I agree,” she said, her frustration evident, “but I think it is connected somehow. I just don’t know how to do the connecting. I don’t have the resources, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “You do. You’ve got friends in high places—not to mention stationed here in Afghanistan. Could you have one of them find out what’s on that security footage? I had a feeling one of them had seen it before and was just showing the other guy.”

  “I can try to get in touch with Felicia Wilson. She’s a special agent based there. I’ll give her your number and you can tell her what you need.” He might also ask the woman to keep an eye on Sarah—if she could.

  “Good. Thanks. I’m just concerned, because when they came out of the office, they were arguing.”

  “About?”

  “Isaiah Michaels again. And then they saw me standing there. They both gave me a funny look, so now I’m really on edge.”

  “What?” The word exploded from him and he sat up, tension running a groove up the back of his neck and into his skull. “Sarah . . .” He closed his eyes for a brief second. “Did they say anything? Do anything?”

  “No, I was wearing a white lab coat and a hijab and had a stethoscope around my neck. I was carrying my iPad too, so I looked like I belonged there. I don’t think they realized that I was snapping pictures of them with the iPad, but again that look they gave me—”

  “You were snapping . . .” Caden stopped and pressed his fingers against his aching head. Snapping. Yes. Something he was coming very close to doing. “And you didn’t recognize them?”

  “No, I’m telling you, I’ve never seen them before, but as you well know, that doesn’t mean anything. There are several bases here. Anyway, I sent you their pictures. Can you see if you can ID them for me?” She paused. “I need to know who those guys are, and there’s no one on this side of the world I can ask without worrying it’s the wrong person.”

  The connection blipped for a moment before she came back on the line.

  “Have you talked to Dustin?” he asked. Their other sibling was stationed not too far from Sarah.

  “No. I’ve called and he hasn’t called me back.”

  Caden frowned. He hadn’t heard from Dustin in a while either. He made a mental note to call him. “Sarah, if Dad gets wind of this—”

  “No!”

  He grimaced at her shout.

  “No,” she said, softer this time. “He can’t know about any of this. He’ll wind up pulling some strings and I’ll get sent home. I’m not ready for that to happen yet.”

  He gave a silent groan. Like he needed more stress. But she was right. Their father would pull strings, and as a lieutenant general, he had access to a lot of them. Caden raked a hand over his hair. “Wait for Felicia to call you before you do anything else. Please.”

  “Okay. Well, I mean, I’m still working at the orphanage, but I’ll try not to rock any more boats until I hear from her.”

  She’d try. He could already see the boats rocking to the point of tipping over. “I’ll find out who these guys are,” he said, “and I’ll talk to Brooke, but you need to stay in touch with me. I want you to check in every twelve hours. The same time every day. No texting. I want a phone call so I can hear your voice. If you’re even an hour late, I’m going to assume something bad has happened to you. And if you find yourself in trouble and can’t call, I want you to text me. Use the word ‘snowball’ in the text and I’ll know you’re in trouble. Understand?”

  She went silent, and at first Caden thought she’d refuse—which had him wondering how to explain to his SAC that he was taking time off to go track down his sister. “All right,” she finally said. “I think that might be a good idea—as long as I have service. What happens if I don’t have service?”

  “I’ll have Felicia get you a sat phone.” Should have done that the minute she’d enlisted and been sent to the Middle East.

  “Yeah. That’d probably be a good idea.”

  Now he was really scared. The calls were simply for his peace of mind. If she wound up in trouble, there was no way he could act fast enough to help her in a timely manner.

  His phone buzzed. A text from Zane.

  The doctor that found the graves is in the clear. We’ve still got work to do.

  Caden reached for the roll of Tums in the front pocket of his khakis.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Brooke stared out the window, waiting on Heather to finish her shift at the hospital, while Asher made himself at home on the couch in Heather’s den. He’d refused to leave even when she’d assured him she was fine. “I’ll just hang around if that’s all right,” he’d said. “I don’t think you should be alone until Ricci’s partner is caught.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  She’d texted Heather that she was there and made her way to the spare bedroom to gather her thoughts and take inventory of the clothes and other items she’d left there. Her friend had grown up in foster homes, bounced from one end of the state to the other, but with an iron will, a near-genius IQ, and an unstoppable drive to succeed, she’d graduated from high school and joined the Army so she could stu
dy medicine and squirrel away her pennies. As soon as Heather had saved up enough for a down payment, she purchased her first home and flipped it for a decent profit. Then did it again and again. And served her country while her bank account grew.

  Brooke’s phone rang. This time she recognized the number and tapped the screen to answer. “Hi, Kat.”

  “Brooke! Thank you for answering. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to talk. The power keeps going off and on—you know that, of course—but I didn’t give my permission to print those pictures. I’d never, ever do that, I promise.” Tears coated her friend’s words and Brooke shut her eyes to hold back her own.

  “Heather told me, but I . . . I should have known, Kat. I’m sorry I jumped straight to the conclusion that you’d betrayed me.”

  “I don’t blame you a bit. The truth is, I wanted to show them to the world, but not this way. Not at your expense.”

  Brooke appreciated her friend’s honesty. “How is everyone?”

  “I know you won’t believe this, but you’re missed. I was snapping shots of the guys playing basketball—now, there’s an assignment I’ll never pass up—and they were talking about the shrink and how they missed her even though they’d never admit it to anyone but themselves.”

  “They said that in front of you?”

  “I’m invisible when I’m behind the camera, I guess, and they had their guard down. But the shrink had to be you.”

  Gratitude flooded her. Maybe she’d made a difference after all. “And how’s Sarah?”

  “Sarah is Sarah . . . I haven’t seen her in a while,” Kat said, her tone changing, deepening. “Something’s going on with her. Frankly, I’m worried. I need to call her.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s staying in touch, but it’s like the power—intermittent. Whatever this story is she’s working on, it must be huge. She’s being super tight-lipped.”

  “She’s been like that for months now. Keep an eye on her, Kat. If anyone’s going to wind up in trouble over there, it’s her. She’s too impulsive.”

  “Boy, is that ever the truth. I’ll see if I can find her and pin her down. Get her to talk to me.”

  “Just let me know that she’s okay, will you?”

  “Of cou—” The phone blipped and the call disconnected.

  With a sigh, Brooke tossed the phone onto the dresser and said a quick prayer for her friends.

  “You have your own room here?” Asher asked from the open door.

  She jumped, his voice sending her heart pounding into triple time. She glanced up from the clothes she’d laid out on the bed, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She wasn’t sure if it was because he’d startled her or simply because he was there. He looked so solid, so strong, so . . . safe.

  “Brooke?”

  “Uh, no. Not my own room, just a key to get in the house and access to the guest room. Which is what I am a lot of the time—the guest.”

  He eyed the clothes. “Who do those belong to?”

  She flushed. “Well, me. But I just keep a couple of outfits here. Heather and I do a lot of spur-of-the-moment stuff since our schedules can be a bit crazy.” She fingered one of the shirts. “Hers mostly. We’ve learned how to be flexible and make it work for us. The clothes in my guest closet”—she gestured to the ones she was wearing—“are Heather’s. Fortunately, we’re about the same size, although she’s taller and I have to roll her jeans up.”

  “I noticed that.”

  Of course he had. It seemed like he noticed everything.

  “She doesn’t like roommates either, does she?” he asked.

  “No.”

  When Brooke and Heather had discussed moving back to Greenville, neither had broached the idea of moving in together. They knew each other too well for that. Heather wanted her space, and Brooke needed her own too. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t perfectly comfortable using her key and letting herself into Heather’s home while she got herself together and charted a plan of action. “When we were looking for houses to buy, we tried to find something we both liked in the same area, but she wanted to be near the hospital and I wanted to be near downtown. So we’re about ten minutes apart. Like I said, it works for us.” She paused. “When do you think I can get back in my house?”

  “Probably tomorrow. I think we gave them all the information they needed. The crime scene unit will process everything, and then someone will let you know when you can go back. Did you contact your insurance company?”

  “No, I’m not filing a claim. Nothing was taken and all I need to fix is the window.” The truth was, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back. Well, she did, but not until every possible entrance to her home had been appropriately wired. “I’ll call the alarm company first thing in the morning and set up an appointment.” She let out a deep sigh. “But for now, I’m hungry and I know Heather will be starving when she gets home. She probably hasn’t eaten much today.”

  “You cook?”

  “I love to when I have the chance—or someone to cook for.”

  “I’m willing to be a guinea pig.”

  His eagerness made her smile. “You don’t have someone who cooks for you?”

  “No, not really.”

  His eyes flickered with a look she couldn’t interpret. She tilted her head and studied him, then walked past him into the hall and led the way to the kitchen. He followed as she’d figured he would.

  “I dated someone for a while, but my . . . uh . . . issues seemed to be off-putting to her.”

  “Then she didn’t deserve you.”

  He stilled at the instant response. She hadn’t even had to think about what to say. It felt good. “Thanks.”

  She tossed a smile over her shoulder before rummaging in the cabinet for the large pot to boil water.

  He leaned against the doorjamb to watch, and once she had the water going, he shifted. “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Depends on what it is.”

  “Chicken tetrazzini.” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the chicken.

  “Ah, yeah, no. I believe that one’s above my pay grade—or kitchen skills in this case. How do you know all the ingredients are here?”

  Using the cutting board and a large knife, she began cutting the chicken into strips the way she liked it. “Because Heather has a shopper and she always fills the refrigerator with fresh meats and veggies on Tuesdays.” She tossed him a smile. “And this is one of our favorites. Can you get the pasta out of the pantry?”

  With a slightly bemused look on his face, he gave her a quick nod, then moved to do her bidding. Once she had the chicken prepared and in the oven, as well as the pasta boiling, she motioned to the table. He sat and she took the chair opposite him. “So, what’s your story, Asher?”

  “You know most of it.”

  Brooke let a short laugh escape. “I know next to nothing. Tell me about your siblings, your parents. What are they like?”

  He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to his hands clasped on the table. “My parents are Jonathan and Patricia James. They’re good people for the most part. Well meaning, I think, and . . . nice. Very proper, thanks to my mother’s British upbringing.” Another nod, but this one more for himself than for her. “My father is a lawyer. I think he may have political ambitions, but he hasn’t announced that yet. My older brother, Nicholas, is also a lawyer with Dad’s firm, much to my parents’ satisfaction—and probably relief. My younger sister, Lyric, graduates from college this year with her biology degree. She’ll start med school in the fall.”

  “Very high-achieving family.”

  “Well, most of us. I’m the black sheep.”

  “Hmm. And your mother?”

  “The perfect lawyer’s wife. She’s brilliant and was studying to be a physician when she met my father. At the time, she decided she’d rather get married and have kids than finish school. I think she regrets not finishing now, but all in all, she seems to be content
.”

  She studied him. “They don’t understand you at all, do they?”

  He laughed—a short humorless bark. “And are completely confused as to where they went wrong with me.”

  “But they love you.”

  “Yeah, they do. Most of them anyway.”

  “Are they from Greenville?”

  “No, Charlotte.”

  “So you wound up here because of the job with Gavin?”

  “I did. What about you?”

  She got up to check the pasta. “What do you want to know?”

  “Same stuff. Siblings? Parents?”

  “My mom left when I was sixteen. I haven’t talked to her since.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I was, too, for a long time, but she didn’t want to be a mother. Or maybe she just didn’t know how. I’ve learned to let her go and can honestly say I hope she’s happy. And . . . I’ve got two sisters and a brother.” She drained the linguine. Once the chicken was finished, she’d add the pasta and it would be done. Her mouth watered at the thought. “My sister Veronica is twenty-four. She’s the baby and is off exploring the world trying to find herself—and has been for the past two and a half years—so the joke is she’s just really, really lost. My other sister, Misty, is on her third marriage. She has two kids from the first marriage and teaches fifth grade at an elementary school near her house.”

  “Three marriages?”

  “It’s not like we had a very good role model of what to look for in a husband.” The words were out before she could implement the filters.

  “So your dad—”

  “Wasn’t great. Very controlling, rigid, unforgiving. Sarah Denning and I often talked about the similarities between our fathers. Hers is much the same way.”

  “Ouch.” They fell silent for a moment. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re not married. Any significant other?”

  “No.” She couldn’t help the clipped response in spite of doing her best to keep her mind from going to Kirkland Hatfield.