Collateral Damage

by Lynette Eason

  “Who’s Brooke Adams?” PJ asked.

  “A shrink,” Newell said. “I appreciate the gesture, but I think we’re all right.”

  “Of course.” He thought he’d seen a flash of interest in PJ’s eyes that was quickly squashed at his father’s instant dismissal.

  “Anything you need?” Gavin asked.

  “I need my wife’s killer caught.” Captain Newell closed his eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, sir,” Asher said. “We just wanted to come by and offer our support in any way possible.”

  “And I thank you for that.” The words were appropriate, but an odd look crossed his face.

  One that Asher couldn’t quite interpret. “Sir?”

  “Nothing, nothing. It’s just . . . you’re a good man. I’ve always admired you.”

  “Even though I quit the unit?”

  “Even though. Now, Black, on the other hand . . .”

  “Aw, come on, Captain, you know I was your favorite.” Gavin kept his tone light, but a slight frown creased his brow, and his eyes conveyed his sorrow for the situation.

  Asher let the two of them continue the conversation while he let his gaze run the large open-concept living room. When he didn’t see Brooke, his nerves started to itch.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Brooke couldn’t help feeling a bit out of place. She’d wanted to come with Asher, and yet, deep down, she’d known the captain wouldn’t be willing to talk with her. His kids? Maybe. She found the room she’d been looking for. And the person she’d hoped was in it. She rapped on the open door. “Hi.”

  Monica Newell lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. At Brooke’s greeting, she turned her head. Curiosity flickered. “Hi.”

  “I’m Brooke Adams. I was in Afghanistan with your dad for a while.”

  “Oh.”

  “I didn’t know him very well and I’d never met your mom, but I’m so very sorry about what happened.”

  A tear slipped down the girl’s cheek. “Yeah. I can’t believe I slept through it,” she whispered. “That’s what I can’t believe. How could I not hear that she was in trouble? How could I not wake up?”

  “There’s no reason you would have heard it,” Brooke said. “It happened outside.”

  “I know, but . . .” She shook her head. “I should have heard something. How can someone kill your mom and you sleep through it?” The tears came faster.

  “He used a suppressor,” Brooke said. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you that, but yeah.” No one had said not to say anything about it.

  Monica froze, gave one last hiccuping sob, then sat up slowly to meet Brooke’s gaze. “He used a suppressor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I wouldn’t have heard the gunshot.”

  “No.” Brooke went to the bed and sat on the edge, feeling very awkward in her attempt to comfort the young teen she’d never met before.

  More tears dripped down her cheeks. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’d been drinking,” she whispered. She must have seen Brooke’s eyes widen. “I know, I know. I’m only fourteen. It was the first time I’d ever tried it. It was at Melissa’s. We snuck some of her father’s scotch.” She grimaced. “It was horrid, but I drank it anyway. Just one glass. I wasn’t drunk, but I thought . . .” She threw herself into Brooke’s arms.

  Surprise held her motionless for a split second before Brooke wrapped an arm around the child and reached up to stroke her hair. “You didn’t hear it because there was nothing to hear, not because you’d had too much to drink.”

  “I was blaming myself,” she said on a hiccuped sob. “I thought for sure if I’d just not been drinking, I would have heard something and could have helped her.”

  “No, honey, there was nothing you could have done even if you’d heard something.” Nothing that wouldn’t have earned her a bullet as well most likely.

  “I’m never touching alcohol again.”

  “That might be wise, but again, it wasn’t to blame for you not hearing anything.”

  Monica pulled back and swiped a hand across her cheeks. “My dad can’t know this.”

  “I don’t plan to tell him.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry for dumping that on you.”

  “You dump away. Anytime.”

  A beeping sound caught Brooke’s attention and she noticed the slim watch on Monica’s wrist. The girl shut the alarm off. “I have to take some medication. Excuse me.”

  “Sure. I probably should go back to the den and see if my friend is ready to go.”

  Monica slipped into the en suite bathroom. Brooke released a slow breath, saw a pad and pen on the girl’s nightstand, and grabbed them. She wrote her name and number down, then hurried to the open bathroom door and knocked. Monica looked back over her shoulder. She held a medicine bottle in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

  “Okay, so maybe it’s weird because you barely know me, but I just wanted to say that if you find you need to talk or anything, this is my number.”

  Monica took the paper with a slow nod. “Thank you.”

  “Monica?”

  The girl jumped, her gaze swinging to the door. “Dad.”

  “What’s going on?” The captain’s gaze flicked between Brooke and his daughter.

  “I was just getting ready to take my meds.” She gave him a tight smile. “See? Being responsible and all that.” She looked at Brooke. “He preaches a lot. Very big on responsibility.”

  Unsure how to respond to the obvious teen angst, Brooke simply smiled. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” Monica’s expression thawed. “Thanks again, Brooke.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Monica crossed her arms and stared at her father with a frown.

  “What are you doing in here?” the man asked.

  Brooke jumped at the snappy tone. “Oh, sorry. I came with Asher James and you were all talking, so I . . . wandered. I found Monica here and we chatted.”

  “She helped me figure something out, Dad. Chill.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Can I have some space now?”

  His eyes glittered, then his expression softened a fraction. “No, you can’t. Your cousins from Oregon are here and are asking about you. Come on.”

  Monica slipped out of the room and Brooke followed. Seeing no one around, she turned back to the captain. “Asher asked me to come and see if you or the kids wanted to talk. He figured it was a long shot but wanted me to come anyway. He said if you weren’t interested, one—or both—of the kids might be. So that’s why I was wandering. I was looking for Monica.”

  “I see.”

  “So, anyway, if you find you need to talk or bounce things off someone, I’m here.” She held up a hand. “Just offering. I understand that you’re a very private person, but . . . if you find you need to. It’s my job. I’m trained in counseling and grief management, so before you write me off, just think about it.”

  He shot her a tight smile. “The guys you worked with back in Kabul had good things to say about you.”

  Brooke drew in a breath. “Thank you.”

  “I know they weren’t easy to work with or be around, but they liked you.”

  “I liked them.”

  “Even though they made you pull out your hair?”

  “Touché. But, yes, even though.”

  He nodded and made his way back into the den. Brooke followed and found Asher and Gavin next to the kitchen door.

  Asher looked from her to the captain, then back to her. “Everything all right?”

  “I think so,” Brooke said, turning back to the captain. “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. Please reach out if you need to. Monica has my number.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Ready to head back to my parents�
� place?” Asher asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  He took her hand and led the way out of the house and back to his truck.

  “He’s not going to call, is he?” she asked.

  “No.”

  But maybe Monica would.

  Caden’s phone rang and he grabbed it as soon as he noted the international number. “Caden Denning.”

  “Caden, this is Felicia. We’ve got trouble and it’s heading your way.”

  He tensed. “Tell me.”

  “Everything’s blown up over here.”

  “Literally or . . . ?”

  “I got a call from your sister. She’s okay. But she and the assistant director, Kristin Welsh, were kidnapped and locked in a storage closet this afternoon. They got out and Sarah didn’t sustain any injuries, but Kristin’s been shot.”

  Caden closed his eyes. “Thank you for leading with ‘Sarah’s okay.’ And?”

  “Our team arrived and contained the scene. Kristin’s headed to the hospital, but your sister says there are four orphans with fake papers on their way to the US to be used as organ donors. We’ve got Madad and the director in custody and receiving medical care, but—”

  “Medical care?”

  “Sarah and Kristin put up a good fight. Anyway, Madad is not expected to live and Yusufi claims he has no idea what’s going on or why anyone would think they’re involved in something other than legal adoptions. I’ve got to tell you, so far the paperwork all looks legit and it’s a she says/he says kind of thing. Although the weapon that was used to shoot Kristin belonged to Madad. But that’s understandable. Everyone in this place carries. Sarah said Kristin had a bullet in her and grabbed the gun while Madad had his hands around your sister’s throat. She’s giving Kristin credit for saving her life.”

  Caden blew out a long sigh to give himself time to get his thoughts together. Sarah, Sarah. “All right, I think you need to check out Madad’s computer at the hospital.”

  “Already on it.”

  “Of course you are. Where’s the plane?”

  “In the air.”

  “I’ll have agents meet it when it lands.”

  “James! Wait up.”

  Asher turned to see Captain Newell rushing down the porch steps. “Sir?” Brooke was already in the passenger seat, buckling her belt. “Be right back.”

  “Sure.”

  Asher loped back over to the man and met him in the middle of the yard. “What do you need, Captain?”

  Newell pressed a thumb and forefinger to his eyes, then blinked at Asher. “Uh, look, I hate to ask, but . . .”

  “Anything, Captain, name it.”

  “Right. Um . . . PJ asked me what you did, how we knew each other. I told him, and he wants to talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “Being in the Army. He says he wants to be a Ranger or Special Forces.”

  “I’m happy to talk to him, but I’m not sure what I can tell him that you can’t. I was never a Ranger. You were.”

  Newell shook his head. “It’s not the information, it’s the source.”

  Asher smiled. “Gotcha. And yeah, man, sure. I’m happy to talk to him, answer his questions. Anytime.”

  “Thanks. All right if I give him your number?”

  “Of course.”

  “Appreciate you coming by.”

  “Sorry it had to be because of this.”

  “Yeah, me too.” The captain retraced his steps back into the house, and Asher climbed into the truck.

  His phone rang the same time Brooke’s buzzed. “It’s Caden,” he said, swiping the screen and putting the phone to his ear. “Asher here.”

  “Calling to give you an update and ask you a quick question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Did you ever notice any of the guys in your unit working extra shifts or doing odd jobs for extra money?”

  “Uh . . . no.” He laughed. “Not supposed to do that.”

  “Okay, then what about doing favors for people and coming back with money?”

  Asher frowned. “No. What’s this about?”

  “That’s where the update comes in. Looks like the Morning Star Orphanage in Kabul was using US soldiers to transport kids to Tajikistan where they were met by supposedly adoptive parents and flown to the US. Once here, they were taken to a medical facility—still trying to figure out which one—where they were sold for their organs and then killed and buried.”

  “What? No way!”

  Brooke looked up from her phone, her face ashen. How had she heard what Caden said? But she looked back at her phone, then back at him, holding her phone out, clearly wanting him to see it. “Caden, hold on a second.” The man went quiet. “What is it?” he asked Brooke.

  “Sarah texted. She said there’s a girl on the flight—a six-year-old named Paksima. She’s not sure who the other children are but wants to be sure someone’s there to talk to them—and she thinks I’m the one to do that.”

  “They’ll be taken into custody by child protective services. They’ll have a counselor there for them.”

  “But how long will that take? And how scared will they be? And will that person be able to speak their language?”

  Asher blinked. “You speak Pashto?”

  “Enough to make myself understood and understand them.”

  “Did you hear that, Caden?” Asher asked.

  “I heard. Bring her to the airport. It can’t hurt. Stay outside and wait for us to let you know when we’ve got this wrapped up and are ready for her. We don’t know which flight they’re on. There are three different choices. We’re covering them all at the moment. Just know that it could be a long wait.”

  “Got it.”

  Asher hung up and drove toward the airport, his mind spinning.

  “Do you have the information, that spreadsheet thing with all the data?” Brooke asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a printout of it in my backpack. Why?”

  “I want to look at it again.”

  “Well, you’ll have time when we get to the airport. Not sure how long we’ll be waiting.”

  She glanced in the side mirror. “Gavin’s following us?”

  “Yep. So are a couple of other cops. I don’t want any more attempts on your life.”

  “And yours?”

  “I’m okay with no more on mine too.”

  She shot him a tight smile.

  At the arrivals area, Asher pulled behind one of the officers who’d been part of their escort to the airport. Another officer closed in behind them.

  “And now we wait,” Brooke murmured.

  “I’ll get that printout for you.” Asher reached into the back seat and pulled his backpack into his lap. Within seconds, he found the paper and handed it over to her. “What are you thinking?”

  “That we’re not seeing something that should be obvious.”

  “Well, you’re a genius if you can figure it out.”

  “Why? The people who made this weren’t geniuses, were they?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  She squinted at the paper. “I need a magnifying glass.” She fell silent as she worked on the chart, and Asher scoured the area, watching, waiting. Finally, he texted Caden.

  You figure out which one?

  Should be the one that lands in an hour.

  Good. Thanks.

  He glanced at Brooke. “See anything?”

  “I see a lot. Nothing that I understand.”

  “Talk it out if you want.”

  “Okay, we’ve already decided the first column of numbers represents a child, right?”

  “In lieu of a name.”

  “Yes. And then blood type, tissue type results, and then a couple names and more letters and numbers. The names are fake since couples aren’t really adopting, but,” she said, her words measured, “what if the passports aren’t fake?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Madad and the director would have to have someone meet them in Tajikistan
and escort the children, right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Then it has to be an actual couple.”

  He gave a slow nod. “That makes sense.”

  “They’re going through security multiple times a month. Seems like they would start to be recognized. If they were using fake passports there, it would eventually raise a red flag. Someone would recognize that they were using a different name.”

  “True.”

  “What if you have Felicia ask the airport workers in Tajikistan if they know of a couple who comes through with children and papers for adoption on a regular basis?”

  He stared at her. “Are you sure you’re not a cop?”

  She gave a light snort. “Quite, but hanging around you military guys as long as I did might have rubbed off a bit. And besides, it’s common sense.”

  “Then why the different names on the list?”

  She poked her bottom lip out and sighed. “I don’t know. My theory could be completely wrong.”

  Asher’s phone rang. Caden. “Yeah?”

  “Nothing. They’re not on the plane.”

  “What do you mean they’re not on the plane?”

  “I’m not speaking Greek here.”

  “Great. Now what?”

  “We step back and regroup. And hope Mr. Yusufi starts talking before too much longer.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Brooke waited while Asher and Caden talked. She knew Caden didn’t have to keep Asher in the loop, but he did so with the expectation that they would do the same. And besides, Caden had arranged for her “protection detail” while she was away from the security of Asher’s parents’ home.

  But that detail was a limited thing, a favor from Caden’s friend, the sheriff, Mickey Daniels.

  She half listened to the men talk, her mind tumbling the information over and over. When Asher touched her arm, she looked up at him.

  “I’m going to take you back to my parents’ house,” he said. “Caden is going to join us and we’re going to go over—” He stopped when he realized she wasn’t listening. Brooke’s focus was on the electronic flight schedule posted on the marquee over the parking garage. “Brooke?”

  “They’re flights,” she said.