“What about Sarah?” she asked. “Is she okay? Is she safe?”
“That’s a really good question, but apparently something that happened between you and Isaiah has caught the attention of some people. Can you think of what that might be?”
“No. Seriously, the day’s not even a blur until the very end. I remember the details vividly. All Isaiah wanted me to do was refute any accusations that he was a traitor. His dying words were ‘Not a traitor. Don’t let them say I am.’”
Caden fell silent for a moment. She could almost hear him thinking. “Someone was framing him?” he finally said. “Setting him up to take the fall for something?”
“I sure think so, but I don’t have the first clue as to what—or who. He did say, ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’”
“You were his psychiatrist. He didn’t tell you anything at all?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “No. He never said more than hello and goodbye to me most days.”
“Nothing about his unit, his friends, his brothers, his family?”
She hesitated. Technically, according to HIPAA, she shouldn’t say anything, but deep in her gut, she knew Isaiah would give her permission to use anything available to clear his name. “He . . . uh . . . yes, actually, one time. He mentioned his wife, Miranda, in the last session. I was asking him how he was going to deal with everything when he got home and had to adjust to civilian life. I asked him his plans and he blurted out something about asking for Miranda’s forgiveness. Seemed mad that he’d said that, then said he had to leave—and did.”
“What did he need forgiveness for? That seems to indicate he felt guilty about something.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t give me any details. But I didn’t get the feeling the guilt was related to being a traitor. I think it was something else because he kept saying ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t know.’ Like he’d done something and later found out it wasn’t a good thing, and he regretted it but was justifying his actions because he didn’t know . . . something.”
“Like maybe he acted on information without having all the facts?”
“Yes, something like that.” She sighed. “But I’m speculating. Again, it’s just a gut feeling. I’d planned to ask him about the comment at the next appointment, but he never showed up—and truly, he probably wouldn’t have told me anyway. I didn’t see him again until the day of the explosion.”
“Okay, I’m going to send an officer over for now to keep watch on the house and follow you around for the next twenty-four hours.”
The door opened and Asher stepped back inside. “All clear,” he said.
“Who’s that?”
“Asher James. He was in Afghanistan with Sarah and me. He was actually there the day of the bombing and pulled me out.” The images flickered in her mind, and she drew in a deep breath, focusing on the phone call. “I’m not at my house right now, Caden. I’m staying with Heather Fontaine. I’m sure Sarah’s mentioned her.”
“She has. All right. I’ll send someone out there. Give me the address.”
“I’m not sure that’s necessary, but all right.” She rattled it off for him.
“I think it might be necessary. Stay in touch with whatever you find out about Isaiah Michaels.” He paused and she could hear keyboard keys clicking in the background. “I’m going to call CID and ask them to get involved in this.” The Criminal Investigation Division was in charge of investigating any illegal activity within the Army.
“They were involved. Who do you think presented the evidence that nailed Isaiah as a traitor?”
Silence. “I see. All right, I have a friend who’s CID. I’ll ask her to unofficially look into it.”
“You trust her?”
“I do. Actually, we have to. Because if someone set up Isaiah, then that someone is involved in something illegal and needs to be caught and stopped.”
“And if he did that to Isaiah, he’ll do it again to someone else.”
“Exactly.”
Asher paced from one end of Heather’s living area to the other as he debated the events of this endless day. First Sharon’s death, then Mario Ricci had tried to kill him and Brooke.
His friend from the hospital had called him ten minutes ago to let him know that Ricci’s prognosis had taken a nosedive. He was now in a medically induced coma, so getting answers wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Which meant he and Brooke needed to find someone who knew what he was up to and why he’d been searching Brooke’s home. They needed to link him to . . . something recent. Someone current. They needed to know where he was living and who he was living with and if he was working with anyone.
His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. Newell was finally calling him back. “Captain, thanks for returning my call.”
“James, it’s been a good while. How are you doing?”
“I’m hanging in there.”
“Tough to transition back, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re always welcome to come back. It’s not the same without you and Black.”
Asher shut his eyes. “Thank you, sir, I’ll keep that in mind.” Talking to the man brought everything back in force. The launch of the rocket that had taken out half their unit. The explosion at the café, killing Isaiah Michaels and two of his other unit members. A sniper making his head shot and obliterating Jasper Owens and the child on his back. Nausea rolled, gunfire erupted.
“James? You there?”
“Uh, yes sir, I am. Sorry, I was just . . . uh . . . remembering.” And thinking that going back might not be a bad thing. He missed it.
“Right. So, what can I do for you?”
“Mario Ricci,” Asher said. “You’re good friends with Captain Gomez.”
“I am.”
“Well, Ricci just tried to kill Brooke Adams and me.”
“What?” The hard bark hadn’t changed, and once more Asher longed to be back there where everything was familiar and he knew exactly what was expected of him. “Who’s Brooke Adams?”
“The psychiatrist who worked on base. You may have known her as Captain Adams.”
“The one you pulled out of that café and wound up with her picture plastered all over the place?”
“That’s the one.” Asher explained the events that led to Mario’s shooting. “He’s still in ICU, but they expect him to pull through. When he wakes up, I plan on questioning him, but do you think you could talk to Captain Gomez and get some insight into why Ricci would break into Brooke’s home?”
“Was he one of her clients?”
“No, she didn’t recognize him. I did.”
“I see.” The man let out a low breath. “I have to say, I didn’t think much could shock me anymore, but I’m pretty stunned at this news—about as shocked as when I got word that Isaiah Michaels was a traitor.”
“I understand, I feel the same way. And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe Michaels was a traitor. If someone had evidence that he was, then he was set up.”
Silence. Then . . . “What makes you say that?”
“I knew Michaels, sir, as well as you—or better. You know he’d never do anything to betray his country—or his unit.”
“Yeah. But why go to all that trouble?”
“I don’t know. Obviously, Michaels stumbled across something and trusted the wrong person with the information.”
“You know who he talked to?”
“No.”
More silence. “Okay, look, Ricci was let go with a dishonorable discharge. He and another soldier got into a fight, words were said, and that’s why he’s back in the States. However, I have no idea why he’d go after Brooke Adams. I’ll look into Ricci,” Captain Newell said, “and all of this.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Tell Black we need him back here too.” Click.
Unperturbed at the abrupt end to the call, Asher set his phone down and pinched the bridge of his nose. When his phone buzzed once more
, he grabbed it. “Gavin, what’s up?”
“I’m walking up to Heather’s front door. Can you tell the cop out here that I’m a friend?”
“Yeah. Be right there.”
Asher waved to the officer and led Gavin to the great room, where his friend settled himself on the couch.
“What’s going on?” Asher claimed the recliner next to the fireplace and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them.
“I was sitting outside Brooke’s place just watching it,” Gavin said, “thinking about Ricci and wondering if he was working alone or if he was taking orders from someone or what. About the time I was ready to leave, someone came by and started snooping around.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. When I went to confront him, he took off and disappeared.”
“On foot?”
“He had a motorcycle hidden away a couple houses down and he’d left the key in it. He simply vaulted over the back, into the seat, and off he went.”
“Any plates on the bike?”
“No.”
“Of course not. Did you report this?”
“I did. I don’t think he messed with anything at the house, but an officer rode over to check it out.”
“What did you find? Before the officer got there, I mean?”
“The place was boarded up,” Gavin said, “but he could have gotten in if he wanted to.” He paused. “Make that, if he’d had time to try.”
Asher shook his head. “You know anything about Mario Ricci? Where he’s from and what his story is? I know him, but not well.”
“Same here. I hung out with him one night at that party Gomez threw for his unit after that particularly hair-raising adventure rescuing those two girls from the Taliban crew. I think Ricci’s originally from Texas, though.”
“Any family around here?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t get it. Could all this be connected to Afghanistan?”
“In what way?”
“Beats me.”
“Yeah.” Gavin eyed him. “So where are you sleeping tonight?”
“The couch. There’s no way I’m leaving her here alone and unprotected.” He ran a hand over his hair. “This is all messed up like a hot soup sandwich.”
Gavin rubbed his chin. “Maybe Miranda Michaels can shed some light on that tomorrow when you go visit her.”
“Let’s hope so, because I’m at a loss as to what to do next—other than to somehow prepare for the next attack.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The next morning Asher drove with confidence, his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, although Brooke could feel him glancing at her every so often. “So,” she said, “tell me about your unit in Kabul.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Tell me about the men you served with.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned. “They’re good guys. Sergeant Mark Dobbs was our medic. The man’s a genius when it comes to medicine and could improvise like no one’s business if he had to.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Still serving. We text some, but mostly he’s mad at me for getting out.”
“Mad?”
“I broke up the unit.”
“Oh. What about Gavin?”
“Oh yeah, we both get a snarky text every so often.”
“I’m sure that’s fun.”
“I understand where he’s coming from. He’ll get over it in time. And then there’s Jasper Owens. He was the youngest and most impulsive of all of us, but don’t let that fool you, he was also probably the most deadly. Nerves of steel, that kid.”
“You liked him.”
“Yeah. A lot.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, he was killed by a sniper about two weeks before I flew home.”
“Asher, I’m so sorry.”
“It was supposed to be a routine mission. We were helping some children on the side of the road just outside the city and a sniper opened fire.”
“Was anyone else hit?”
“One kid about nine years old. Owens was giving him a piggyback ride. The bullet took them both out.” He rubbed his eyes as though he could rub the memory away.
“How awful.” Her heart ached. For the loss of life, for the people in Jasper’s life who’d miss him. For it all. “I didn’t know him. I saw him on base, of course, but I don’t think I ever actually exchanged words with him.”
“He was a bit of a hothead, but he was a good guy.” He fell silent a moment, then blew out a short whisper of a breath. “Yeah. I miss him. His family misses him. It’s sad and infuriating, but we know the risks when we sign up for the job. I think I related to Jasper because he reminded me a lot of myself, and his family reminded me a lot of mine.”
“What about them?”
“We’re just cut from a different mold,” he said. “I have no idea how two people can create completely different kids.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, well, my older brother, Nicholas, is a pain. He and I never got along at all. I used to think it was just that he didn’t know how to have fun, but . . .” He clicked his tongue. “I don’t know. I think he might actually be a sociopath.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. He calls me the freak.”
“Why on earth would he call you a freak?”
“Because I chose to serve my country rather than . . . do something else.”
“Like what?”
“Anything that involved making a lot of money.”
“That’s sad.”
“Indeed. But that’s enough about my family. I like talking about the unit more. So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Mitch Sampson. He looks likes Paul Bunyan with a crew cut and no beard. He was our demo expert. Knows everything there is to know about explosives. It’s weird, but he collects pieces of every bomb he survives.”
“It’s a coping technique,” she said. “It probably makes him feel like God is on his side each time he walks away from something like that.”
“Could be. I felt that way too but didn’t want a souvenir as a reminder of how close I came to death.”
“Different things work for different people.”
“I’m not knocking him for it,” he said. “I just found it weird.”
“Is he still serving?”
“Oh yeah. The only way he’ll leave the Army is by death or retirement.”
“I’m voting for retirement,” she muttered.
His gaze went to the rearview mirror once more.
“Something wrong?” He flipped the blinker to change lanes, and his white-knuckled grip worried her. “Asher?”
“Nothing’s wrong. At least I hope not.”
“Then why are you so tense your teeth are about to shatter?”
He shot her a scowl before his eyes darted to the mirrors again. “I think someone’s following us.”
“Really?” Her stomach dipped and she resisted the urge to turn and look. “Which vehicle?”
“A black van a couple of cars back. I’m going to take the next exit and see if they follow.”
“Okay.” Her right hand came up to grip the seat belt that crossed her chest, and her eyes went to the side mirror. Nothing. She watched the rearview mirror. “The black minivan?”
“Yes.” Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“This isn’t Kabul,” she said. “May I hold your hand? Sometimes it helps to have that touch.”
He shot her a swift look, hesitated, then reached over to grip her left hand. “Just until I need it again.”
“Of course.”
He continued to drive, but she thought he seemed calmer. She slid her right hand over to cover his wrist and felt his pulse beating beneath her fingers. A little fast, but nothing out of control.
“So the hand holding was for me, huh?” he asked without taking his eyes from the road.
“I was hoping it would benefit both of us.”
He sat straighter. “All right,
we’re taking this exit.” He adjusted the rearview mirror. “Can you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s see if he follows.”
Asher waited until the last minute to cut the wheel to the right and speed up the exit ramp. He passed two cars using the emergency lane, rolled to a halt at the stop sign, then made a quick left.
Brooke kept her eyes on the vehicle Asher suspected of following. “They didn’t get off behind us.”
“But the white SUV did.”
“You think they’re together?”
“We’re going to act like they are.”
The farther he drove, the more remote it became, with woods on either side of the two-lane road. “There’s no one behind us.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m just paranoid,” he muttered as he slowed the truck to make a U-turn. “I’ll circle back to the interstate.”
Brooke wanted to chalk up his suspicious nature as a result of living on adrenaline for several years, but she couldn’t help wondering . . . “You noticed that vehicle for a reason. What was it that stood out about it to you?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away but watched the road behind them. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “When I drive, I’m hyper aware of every vehicle around me and I spotted the van when we got on the interstate. It continued to stay behind us at exactly the same distance for the past twenty miles.”
“And that white SUV is—”
“Coming straight toward us. Hang on, Brooke.” He wheeled the truck to the right, but the driver of the SUV must have calculated that Asher would do that and managed to turn just in time to slam into them as they tried to pass him.
Brooke let out a low scream as the side air bags deployed, and her body rebelled at the impact. “Asher!” She looked over at him.
He had pushed up the side curtain air bag to see out his window. “Hold on! He’s coming back!”
Asher gripped the wheel, grappling for control of the truck as the SUV backed up, then gunned the engine to make another pass at them.
“Call 911!”
“Trying,” Brooke said. “I can’t find it!”
He could hear the stark terror in her voice and silently vowed to get her out of this alive. Adrenaline pumped. Scenes from the past blipped through his mind and he did his best to shove them aside. Focus. Just survive the moment. Think later.
Collateral Damage Page 11
