The Athena File

by Jennifer Haynie

  “Close the door.”

  “Okay.” Jonathan shut the door and leaned against it with his arms folded across his chest. “What’s going on?”

  Bryson shuffled through some photographs. “I’ve found some stuff that concerns me.”

  “What about this whole situation doesn’t?”

  “True. That rifle up in the sniper’s hide? It’s one of ours.”

  Jonathan blinked. “Come again?”

  “I’m convinced it’s one of ours.”

  “Wait. You think there’s guns being run through this compound?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m going to talk to Jeb later. I’ve also got a call in to the sales department at Mark Rifles.” He hesitated. His gaze flicked to Jonathan, then away.

  “There’s something else.” Jonathan nodded toward the pile of photographs on the black surface of the lab table. “What is it?”

  “I…” He winced and bit his lip.

  “C’mon, Bryson. It’s written all over your face.”

  He removed his glasses and polished them with a microfiber cloth. “I…I’m wondering if the hit on the convoy might have been a cover-up for murder.”

  “You lost me.” Jonathan pulled over a lab chair and nearly fell onto it.

  “I think the Taliban were after Christine.”

  Jonathan’s breath hitched. Coldness swept over him. “How…how do you know that?”

  “Think about the crime scene. What do you remember?” Bryson gathered the photos into a neat stack.

  “There were multiple women on that trip.”

  “Oh, I know. But only one on the protective detail.”

  “They couldn’t have known that.” Jonathan rubbed his temples in a futile attempt to ease the headache. “At least not by looking at them. When we all got gunned up, you couldn’t tell Christine apart from the shorter guys.”

  “True.” Bryson swept his hands through his hair. “What else do you remember?”

  “I don’t know.” He shot up from the chair. “Look. I’m tired of playing games, okay?”

  “Sorry.” Bryson sighed. “Okay. Everyone died from gunshot wounds, either from the sniper or from the guys that were hiding below. Christine must have realized how outnumbered they were and how many had already died, so she ran. I get that. And she took down five of them in the process. But why didn’t they just shoot her?”

  “She wore armor like all of us do.”

  “But they could have hit a leg to bring her down. They didn’t. Doc didn’t see any bullet holes in her. Only the knife wound and assorted cuts and scrapes indicative of falling while she ran.”

  “I get that. But that still doesn’t lend itself to murder.”

  “I know. I know.” Bryson paused as if carefully considering his words. He shuffled his photographs and handed one to Jonathan.

  He lowered himself back on the chair and flinched. Christine stared sightlessly at him from the photo. Her dark brown hair spread around her face with that one lock the breeze had blown across her cheek. Already, the lifeblood draining from her body had added a deathly pallor to her face. The image seared his mind and would most likely haunt him for days.

  “Why undo her hair?” Bryson’s question came from a great distance. “She always put it in a bun or braid when going out. Did she have it that way today?”

  Jonathan nodded. She’d worn it in a bun when he gave the final briefing to their clients. “She did.”

  “It’s almost like they needed positive identification.”

  “But for what?”

  “Maybe she knew about the gunrunning.”

  Last night—was it really just twenty-four hours ago?—he’d queried Christine and gotten rebuffed. She’d been scared. Maybe Bryson was right. “We need to figure that—”

  “First off, there’s no ‘we’ involved. You need to stay free and clear of it, okay? I’ll brief you when I’m done.”

  “But—”

  “Seriously.” Bryson shot him a direct stare. “Besides all I have are theories and circumstantial evidence. Nothing even close to good enough to take to Boss Man, understand?” He took the photo and returned it to the pile. “I’ve got to talk with Jeb and do some more investigating.”

  “I want to see everything.”

  “I know. I’ll brief you, but seriously, let me do the investigating.”

  “I will.” Jonathan slowly climbed to his feet. “Bryson, thanks. That’s a lot of good work in a short amount of time.”

  “I’m sorry. I knew something was going on between you and Parker.”

  “Were we that obvious?”

  A small smile broke through his somberness. “Only to those who know you well. I’ll swing by when I’m done and fully brief you.”

  Jonathan nodded. He could do nothing but wait now. He pushed through the door and stepped onto the road. The back gate sat to his left. Ahead of him, lights still glowed in the administration building. He was sure Boss Man burned up the satellite link between the compound and SecureLink’s home office in the Tidewater area.

  Jonathan strode toward the residential side of the compound. To his left, the SecureLink helicopter sat silent on its pad. Thanks to the Red Alert, staff walked to and from the dorms with rifles slung across their shoulders and cloaked in combat vests and Kevlar helmets. Normally, a low rumble of male voices filled the air as his staff began switching from afternoon to evening. Not tonight. Now, no one made a peep. He came upon the guest house where their clients stayed before shipping out to various points across eastern Afghanistan. The sound of crying reached him. He couldn’t blame them, not when they were heading into the danger zone. Well, no convoys would go out until he and his men delivered the bodies to the nearby airfield to be shipped to the next of kin for burial.

  The image of that photo assaulted him. A lump rose to his throat, followed by a bit a nausea as the headache throbbed. He needed to purge the sight from his mind, to seek solace.

  His sister Abigail’s name slid unbidden into his mind. She didn’t even know what had happened.

  He quickened his steps to his dorm across from the women’s building and took the stairs two at a time to his room on the right end of the second floor.

  He shucked his combat gear and dove toward his desk and the one picture of Christine that always filled his heart with love. They’d gone to her parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration. He’d worn a suit and tie, and she, a deep blue dress. Her hair spilled across her shoulders in dark brown waves. The sparkle in her eyes said it all. That night, they’d talked about marriage and her decision to resign from SecureLink. Their lives had held such promise. But now…

  He gently ran his thumb across her image, feeling each shard of his broken heart slash at his insides. When he could no longer stand it, he clutched the cold frame against his chest, threw his head back, and released a savage wail from deep within his gut. “Oh, God!”

  His shoulders shook as he wept until he felt dry. Dry and empty and numb.

  He glanced dully at his cell phone on the desk. He needed to call his sister. Now. Before he lost his sanity.

  3

  West of Fort Stewart, Georgia

  She had him. Abigail felt it deep within her bones as she crouched in the muddy barnyard and leaned against the rough wood of a dilapidated outbuilding. Water from the drizzle dripped from the eaves until it ran down her face in big rivulets. The wet had seeped into her jacket, chilling her. She didn’t care. They’d trapped their suspect, and the only way out was through the door they now guarded.

  Abigail pulled away slightly. The Sig Sauer P228 felt comfortable in her hand, almost like an old friend. Come to mama, you little worm. Her lips curled. She glanced at her sergeant, who stood ready across from her with her own weapon in hand.

  Marti grinned. “Got ᾿em,” she mouthed.

  Abigail pounded on the door. “U.S. Army! We have you surrounded.”

  It burst open, knocking Abigail off her feet. With a splash, she landed on her r
ear in the mud puddle she’d worked so hard to avoid.

  A loud buzz filled the air, and The Worm, as she’d started calling their suspect, flew past them on a comically small moped.

  Marti tried to give chase, but she slipped in the mud and sprawled onto her front.

  Abigail scrambled to her feet and dashed after him.

  The Worm kicked up more mud in her face as he zipped into the pasture toward the far end. He didn’t get far. Most likely having not anticipated the wet grass, he went into a skid as he tipped the moped in a turn. He tumbled from the motorbike and rolled a few times.

  Abigail thundered after him, her arms and legs knifing through the air as if she ran a sprint race. Marti followed.

  The Worm approached the electrified boundary fence. Rather than slow, he picked up speed and dove onto his stomach. As if on a slip’n slide, he skittered underneath. He rolled to his feet as if he did that every day.

  Abigail lunged and slid as if she were beating the throw to home plate. The wire passed overhead so close that the hum of the current whispered in her ear. She staggered to her feet.

  Marti yelped. She hadn’t been so lucky.

  Abigail gained ground. Another barn came into view. You’re not getting away from me. Now way, no how. She increased her pace. Her lungs burned. So did her quads.

  The Worm climbed the pipe-rail fence and leaped off of it. Only this time, when he rose, he fell and got a face full of mud. Or something else.

  She spied the pigs and flinched. They grunted and scurried to the other side of the pen. She took a running leap and scaled the fence. Using the top rail as a springboard, she thrust herself toward The Worm as he struggled to his feet. She hit him, once more sending him face first into stink that confirmed her worst fears.

  Oh, great. Reyes, her cohort stationed with CID at Fort Stewart, owed her big time for this.

  “Let me go!” The Worm shouted. “You’re roughing up a suspect.”

  “No, you’re helping me with that.”

  He kicked her, striking her on the back.

  “Knock it off before I get real mad and shove your face in the mud.” She grabbed his wrists and reached for her cuffs. “Reginald Osborn, you’re under arrest for—”

  “Just what in the name of Jim Beam is going on here?”

  She froze at the question delivered in the deep drawl of a native Georgian.

  A farmer, dressed in soiled overalls and an equally dirty undershirt, glared at her. So did the double eyes of the shotgun he held in his hand. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

  Keeping her knee in The Worm’s back, she located her cred pack covered in goop. She leveraged it open. “I’m sorry, sir. Major Abigail Ward, Army Criminal Investigation Command.”

  “Reggie, that you, boy?” The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Just what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?”

  “The legal kind. Sir, I’m really sorry for upsetting your pigs.” Abigail’s own country drawl, a product of her fine Southern upbringing in Raleigh, reappeared. She hitched the cuffs around The Worm’s wrists and hauled him to his feet, then marched him toward the edge of the pen. “If you would please open the gate, sir, I would appreciate it.”

  The farmer complied. “Yes, ma’am. You didn’t hurt them none. Reggie, does your mama know you’re here?’

  “No, sir.” The Worm’s eyes widened in his muddy face. “Please don’t tell her. She’d like to kill me for what I done.”

  “That is?”

  “Rape,” Abigail simply replied.

  “Did I hear you right, ma’am?”

  “Yes, sir, you did.”

  “Reggie Osborn, your mama is going to beat you up one side and down the other. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Her sides heaving, Marti joined them. “Sorry about that. The wire got me.”

  The Worm started laughing.

  The farmer popped him across the head. “Fool boy. And when your daddy hears, you gonna be in a heap of trouble, son.”

  “Maybe time in the brig is better than with your family.” Abigail shoved the stinking specimen of mud and poop toward her comrade. “Sergeant, read him his rights and walk him to the car. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  “Ma’am, do you need a statement from me?” the farmer asked.

  “No, sir. I do thank you kindly for not putting buckshot in me.”

  The farmer laughed. “You’re all right, Major Ward. You and your friend. Have a good day.”

  Despite the mud, chill, and stink, she strutted toward the road with her head held high, though she denied herself a victory dance. She’d helped out a friend and added another takedown to her record. Of course, Olivero Reyes really owed her now. She’d figure out what he’d have to do for her. Maybe head to the Caribbean to bring home that suspect who’d stolen some classified information. No, that’d seem like too much of a vacation. A trip to the Midwest in January might be good. She’d have to drum up a reason for it.

  She came to the road. Half a mile down between the two farms sat the black Suburban they’d taken for that day’s junket. Ahead of her, Marti was hauling The Worm through the unrelenting drizzle at a quick clip.

  The cell phone at her waist began barking, the ringtone that meant her brother called. Usually, they talked on Sundays regardless of where she was in the world. Why was he calling now? She cleaned it off before bringing it to her ear. “Jonathan, hey.”

  “Hey, girl. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, I’m covered in mud and pig poop.”

  “Huh?”

  She grinned. “I just made an arrest for a friend. Reyes was going to do it, but he came down with a stomach bug and was so sick that he couldn’t make it out of bed. I was down here on business and offered to make the bust for him because tips on suspects have a short shelf life.”

  He didn’t laugh at her humor.

  Abigail stopped and stared at the Suburban ahead of her. “What’s going on?”

  Nothing.

  “Jonathan? Are you there?”

  “Yeah.” That one word came out low and raspy.

  “What’s going on? You sound like something’s wrong.”

  “Christine’s dead.”

  The news sucker-punched her in the gut. “What?”

  “She’s dead, Abigail.”

  “Oh, no…” She turned away from the road and sank into a crouch on rubbery legs. “What happened?”

  “The convoy got ambushed. Twenty-four dead. The Taliban got them.”

  Her eyes filled. Images of the day when Jonathan’s Special Forces team, the Mighty Men, had gotten ambushed seven years before flashed across her mind. “Oh, wow.”

  “There’s more. Bryson suspects it was a targeted murder with the ambush used as cover.”

  “Targeting who?”

  “Christine.”

  Abigail tried to shake the fog from her head. Nothing he said registered. “I don’t—”

  “Don’t you see it?” Anger pushed his words.

  She rubbed her forehead. “How can I? I’m not there.”

  “Sorry.” He blew out a sigh. “I’m…angry.”

  “I know.” A lump filled her throat. “Why does Bryson say that?”

  “Theories he has. That’s it for now.”

  She pressed a muck-crusted fist to her mouth and closed her eyes as they filled. “Are you safe?”

  “Yeah. Bryson’s investigating since Christine and I were seeing each other.”

  Jonathan had mentioned the no-fraternization policy and how it had torn at him.

  “Let him keep investigating.”

  “I know. He’ll share when he’s done so I can brief Boss Man.”

  “Watch your step, okay? If what you say is true, then you’ve got some bad characters there.”

  “Don’t I know it.” A long pause ensued, and only the hiss of the international line told her he was still there. “We were only sixteen days away from coming home. I…I was going to propose to her over Mother�
�s Day weekend.”

  A tear trickled down Abigail’s cheek. She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Pray for me?”

  “Always. I love you.”

  “I love you too,” he whispered. “I—I’ve got to go. Bad headache.”

  “Bye.” Dead air filled her ear. Abigail remained in her crouch with her head in her hands.

  “Abigail?” Marti had edged the Suburban closer to her on the road and now leaned against its fender. The Worm glowered at her from the backseat. “Are you okay?”

  “No. Jonathan called.” She got to her feet. “His girlfriend died in a convoy hit in Ghazni.”

  “Oh, no. Abigail, I’m sorry.”

  “He thinks it was murder,” she added before she could stop herself.

  “Is he safe?”

  “He says he is.” Abigail stared toward the east, longing to see beyond two continents and ten hours to where her grieving brother had most likely holed up in his room. “I’m not so sure. And that’s what worries me the most.”

  4

  Burning Tree, Utah

  David Shepherd’s eyes snapped open precisely five minutes before six. Totally unwilling to face the late March chilliness of his bachelor apartment, he didn’t move. Then his left quad twitched as if chastising him for such silliness. He rubbed his hand down the long scar that ran almost from hip to knee. Arching his back, he stretched and flexed his muscles before settling into warm stillness again.

  Ranger whined. The two-year-old shepherd mix raised his head and gazed at him as if imploring him to get up.

  Finally, the alarm buzzed to announce the new day. David cut it off and sat up. Really, he didn’t want to throw the covers aside. The heater hadn’t fazed the chill yet. With a deep breath, he thumped across the bedroom and down the short hallway to the kitchen, with only a quick stop to turn on the shower. He ran water into the teakettle and set it on the burner to heat. Ranger pawed at the sliding glass door, and he let him outside.

  David’s shower took a total of five minutes. He emerged just as the kettle whistled its own version of a morning greeting. With a towel around his waist, he returned to the kitchen, dropped a peppermint tea bag into the mug, and added hot water.