“Do you want me to take a look…”
“No!” She shrieked, interrupting his friendly gesture.
“Okay then. Have a good night.”
“Jake?”
He halted.
“Sorry for making you worry, but thanks for caring.”
A slow grin split his face and Charley sucked in a breath. He was gorgeous. Dangerous.
“Darlin’, I’m trying not to.” He said it so softly, she figured he hadn’t meant for her to hear it, but she did and it made her warm and mushy.
“You can make it up to me by baking Russian Tea Cake cookies.”
Jake’s request brought her back from being called Darlin’. “Russian Tea Cakes?” Charley arched a brow.
“Mmm. My favorite.” He rubbed his stomach as he walked back to his house, leaving her standing and staring at his incredible butt. There truly was nothing like seeing a pair of jeans curve around a man’s tight cheeks, not to mention Jake’s very strong thigh muscles. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath and exhaled. She needed a cold shower.
Well, so much for doing the report for Grayson. She would do it later when she was certain she would be alone and uninterrupted. As she walked back to her house to wait, Charley assured herself that no one had broken in. The barn had a cipher lock on it. Unbreakable. But she would make certain from then on that the door was latched and secure before she walked away.
* * * *
At one in the morning, locked inside her barn, Charley got comfortable in her ergonomic desk chair, logged onto her computer, and pulled up the report she started before the screaming match with Grayson, before Jake. Reporting, according to her boss, was the most vital phase of human intelligence. If the collector did not report information accurately, in a timely manner, in the proper format, and to the correct recipient, it cannot become part of the all-source intelligence product or tip in time to affect operational decisions.
“Information is to be reported by the fastest means possible,” Charley mimicked her boss in his deep resonating voice.
SALUTE reports resolve the need for immediate information. A SALUTE report is the primary means used to report combat information to units that could be affected by information gathered. Others that Charley maintained in her efforts included Basic Source Data (BSD) reports, reports that include the source or subject’s biographic and operational data, and Contact reports that detail specific meetings between a source and HUMINT.
The principles of reporting were probably the most difficult part. Accuracy did not just refer to making sure she took correct notes, it meant that Charley distinguish the difference between what the subject said verbatim versus her interpretation, that was why audio recordings had become so important. She also had to distinguish her comments and conclusions. Many organizations employed the KISS; keep it simple stupid method. In Charley’s opinion, that rule applied more to human intelligence than any other. Simply stated, keep it brief, get to the point, and do not waste any unnecessary words.
After completing her interview reports, the hard job started. Charley followed up that information with wiring diagrams, or as she liked to refer to them as ‘connect-the-dots’ diagrams. Unlike children’s connect-the-dots pictures, which include numbers, human intelligence did not. Wiring diagrams linked events, places, and people to each other. Unfortunately, the information is not stored in a central terrorist database. It is widespread and poorly documented.
Sitting with her feet propped up on her desk, fingering her plastic ‘Connect the Dots’ game, she focused on the research of open source data in order to complete her network operational wiring diagram on Vladimir Gerritt. Open source data came from the internet, newspaper reports, social networking sites, and magazine articles, anything that was readily available to everyone. The challenge was the ability to extract reliable information that aided in intelligence assumptions and plans.
Having gathered as much information as she thought she could, Charley started the wiring diagram. Vladimir linked to Russia, which in turn linked to the Republic of Georgia, which then linked to the attack on Tbilisi, which linked to MSgt. Hayes. As the diagram grew in links, the task of making sure it was accurate and complete became even more daunting.
Now that her draft was finished, she had to examine each dot carefully. Each dot could have many, many spokes leading to and from it. This was where her headaches came from. “Thank goodness for color coding.”
“Oh.” She jumped in her seat. “MSgt. Hayes linked to Iraq.” Why Iraq? “Because MSgt. Hayes helped train Republic of Georgia military troops to go to Iraq. He links to Armenia too because he was there during the joint training exercise when Onder was captured.” A shiver crept up her spine before she shoved the memory of his hands on her away.
She leaned back in her chair, blew out an exhausted breath, and raked fingers through her hair. Was that it? Did she get it all? Charley hoped so.
Straightening, she logged onto the secure ftp site and sent up her data. The last thing she did before shutting down for the night was to send a secure email to Grayson informing him her reports were available.
“Time for bed.”
THIRTEEN
Charley rolled over and eyed her clock. She moaned. It was a little after one in the morning. She pulled the covers over her head and ignored the tune of Three Blind Mice emanating from her phone. Grayson was going to learn the meaning of vacation. She should just turn the damn thing off and ignore him all together. Instead, Charley squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to go back to sleep.
She woke to a loud pounding on her door and a man’s voice shouting. “Charley! Open up, Charley!”
Startled, she glanced bleary-eyed at the green numbers of her bedside clock. Three a.m. Who the heck? Before she had the robe tied around her waist, the hammering on her door ceased and she heard the front door open. She already knew the answer. Leaving her bedroom, she met Grayson on her stairs.
“Don’t even think about coming up here,” she warned him. “Are you trying to wake the entire neighborhood?” She had better get the security put on the house as she did the barn so she could keep out the riffraff.
Her boss covered his mouth in a cough to disguise his chuckle. “What neighborhood? You live in the damn sticks.” He shook his head then preceded her back down the steps and into her living room.
“This better be good, Grayson.” Grumbling, she headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. When she turned from the coffeemaker, she found Grayson, standing in the archway leaning against the frame, one leg crossed in front of the other at the ankles. It was then that she looked at him, really looked. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He always wore a suit. Instead, he had on khaki chinos and a button down oxford. Charley’s eyes widened when she realized he hadn’t even bothered with socks. And his dark gray hair was mussed. Grayson was never mussed. He was cool and composed.
“What the heck is going on?”
Grayson pulled out a chair and sat, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. Whatever was going on was not good. Charley took out the chair next to him and sat mirroring his pose.
“What is it?”
His head down, Grayson stared at the floor. Charley’s heart jumped and started racing. She reached out and laid a hand over his. “You’re scaring me. What?”
He peered up, his pale blue gaze piercing hers. “They’re dead.”
Reflexively her hand squeezed Grayson’s. “Who?”
He sat up, back ramrod straight and glared at her. “The troops near the Abkhazia border.”
Charley jerked her hand back. “What?” He sucker punched her. She felt sick.
“Your intel was wrong.”
She stumbled trying to get to her feet, sent the chair skidding across the linoleum floor and crashing against the cupboards. “You’re wrong. You have to be wrong.”
No, no, no. She had Vladimir. He had not lied. Sick to her stomach, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “No.” She sho
ok her head vehemently. Tears started to cloud her vision. “Tell me it’s a lie.”
Grayson stood, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “I can’t. One hundred and eighty soldiers are dead.”
Charley ran. Covering her mouth with her hand, she bolted for the bathroom, shoved the door back with such force it bounced off the tub. She lifted the toilet seat just in time. Every wrench of her gut had her heaving her insides out. This could not be happening. She did not see how she had gotten it wrong. Sitting on the cold bathroom floor, she pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. Her head resting against the wall, she prayed it was all a mistake.
It was not a mistake. Grayson would not have pounded down her door, in the middle of the night, in person, if it weren’t real.
Oh-my-gosh! She screwed up and people were dead. Because of her. The thought had her leaning over the open toilet and retching all over again.
When she finished, Charley sat back and looked up. Grayson stood in the doorway watching her. “Toughen up. It only gets worse.”
Her mouth dropped open and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. “Worse?” The question squeaked out as she stared at him, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“Get cleaned up and I’ll tell you.” Grayson walked into the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and tugged her to her feet. “I’ll get the coffee.”
She swiped at her distraught hair and straightened. “Just tell me here, now.”
He only shook his head. “Go on. Wash your face and rinse your mouth. You’ll handle the rest.” Then he left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
Palms pressed against the counter, Charley gazed into the mirror seeing nothing. Her world and the world of many others unknown to her but affected by her, had just shattered.
Resolutely, she cleaned up her face and brushed her teeth, even managed to pull her tangled hair back into some sort of semblance. With her chin held high, she strode out of the bathroom and into the living room where Grayson sat waiting for her. Taking a seat on the sofa, she told herself she could take whatever else he dished out. Nothing could be as bad as that first blow.
Grayson shoved the mug of hot coffee toward her. “Drink.”
She took a hard swallow then choked and sputtered.
“I laced it.”
“With what, a hundred proof alcohol?” she spat out.
“You’ll need it. Drink up. There’s more.”
More? What more?
For whatever reason, Charley obeyed his command. To her surprise, Grayson did the same, only his was straight whiskey, no coffee. Her fortitude strengthened by alcohol and caffeine, she sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in her lap, poised for the next punch. She nodded.
“You’ll probably be called in for a formal debriefing.”
He blurted it out as fast as he could but she still gasped at the blow. Her head reeled and it was not from the whiskey.
“You need to be prepared.”
She nodded. All she could think to do was bob her head. The rest of her was numb.
“I have to go.” She heard the rustle of his pants and looked up to see him standing in front of her.
Her head hadn’t even settled and he was leaving? “Why?”
“I shouldn’t even be here. I wanted to deliver the news to you myself, not some flunkie who has no clue who you are and what you do.”
She stood. “Why?”
Looking up, his pale blue eyes met hers and a thin smile creased his face as his hand brushed down her hair. “I have never trusted another soul as much as I trust you. Right now I’ve blocked a suspension but it may not hold.”
Charley swallowed the tears that started to form again. She reached up, squeezed his hand in hers, and with her eyes pleaded with him. “Don’t stop trusting me. I swear to you that I read Vladimir correctly.” She believed that. She had to.
“I’m on your side.” Squeezing her hand once, he let go and turned to leave. At the door, he stopped and spoke to her over his shoulder. “Be prepared, Charley.”
With that, he opened the door and left.
FOURTEEN
Jake had not seen hide or hair of his new neighbor all day. The only thing he had seen was the tall, older man leaving her house before the sun came up. His instincts and the hairs standing at attention on the back of his neck told him something was wrong. No, there couldn’t be, he told himself, and went back to digging a hole for a new apple tree. Besides, how would he know? He barely knew the woman. He did not want to know her.
Shoving dirt around the base of the tree, a tingling sensation crawled between his shoulder blades. Even slapping at it with dirty gloved hands did not make it go away.
“Fine.”
Tugging off the gloves, he tossed them to the ground, and stalked toward Charley’s place. He would find out what the deal was once and for all. Then he could quit thinking about her and get back to work.
When he rapped on her back door, no one answered. Jake turned to look at the barn but there were no lights on. His knuckles rapped louder. Still no answer. Opening the screen door, he tried the knob on the inside door. It wasn’t locked. Damn fool woman.
“Just because you live in the boonies does not mean you don’t lock your doors.” Especially after she had a hissy fit with regards to the barn being locked or not. Jake shook his head. The woman was a contradiction.
A chill ran over his spine as he stepped across the threshold. The place was too still. He couldn’t even smell her. There was no odor of death either so he should be grateful. He called out. “Charley!”
When no response came, he tried again, and got the same results.
He was in the living room when his ears caught a sound. Motionless, he listened. Some kind of whacking noise echoed up. Up? He forgot there was a basement, more like a dungeon really. It had cement block walls and those small rectangular windows that barely let in enough light for a mouse to live with. He always hated helping old Mr. Green put up his preserves down there. That made Jake wonder about Charley being down there.
If a dead rat had scared her, there was no way she would voluntarily go down to the basement dungeon. At the top of the stairwell, he pulled out his clutch piece, and descended the steps. Halfway down his heart slammed against his chest. Blinking rapidly, he could not believe his eyes.
Not wanting to disturb her, he slunk back, tucked his weapon back in his ankle holster, and took a seat on a wood step. The show was magnificent. Charley was not Charley, or not the Charley he knew. Gone was the dress and girly shoes. In their place were bright red running shorts with a wicked high slit, and a tight white T-shirt. On her feet and hands, she wore only boxer’s cotton binding.
He watched in wide-eyed amazement as the delicate woman he had thought Charley, pounded the hell out of a punching bag. Sleek, muscular legs kicked her target at the knee, hip, and head successively, with very little effort. She jabbed, jabbed then left hooked the bag followed by an upper cut. Jake cringed. Ouch! That would hurt. She ran through the routine with her right and left hands and feet, her long blonde ponytail bouncing with her bob and weave.
Every hit calculated, controlled, and hit its mark, sending the bag backwards so it would come at her. The stunner came when she jumped, spun, yelled and landed a roundhouse kick to the head. Even though it shouldn’t have, his heart swelled with pride. Yeah, he thought, something was definitely amiss.
Quietly, he slipped off his shoes, tucked his weapon inside them then removed his flannel shirt and belt, leaving him in jeans and a gray T-shirt. The lady wanted something to pound, she could damn well pound on him. He would fight back. Having been in that same state of mind many times before, Jake knew it was better to have something or someone to fight with than a dummy bag.
Finishing his way down the steps, he stood at the bottom, hands crossed over his chest and waited. When she made no move to acknowledge him, he spoke. “You’re going to kill the punching bag. Then where will you be?”
Charley halted an
d looked up, her mouth open in surprise, her chest heaving. Then she narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He lifted one shoulder. “At the moment, being entertained, but I started to feel sorry for the punching bag and thought I would offer up myself for a while.” He grinned and stepped forward onto the black gym mat that covered the floor.
“Want to punch something that punches back?” He did not intend to actually hit her…hard. He just wanted to give her an outlet. “Or are you chicken?”
She shook her head and the ponytail slapped at her face.
“Be careful with that thing. You could poke your eye out.” Absently, she pushed at the hair. She was beautiful when was she was angry.
Jake stepped closer to her, bent his knees, held up his hands, and gestured to her to come ahead. “Come on. Take me.”
Charley’s upper lip quirked and he saw a glint of humor or lust in her blue eyes. Either way, he liked it. He smiled back.
“You want me? Come and get me,” he coaxed.
She turned and faced him. It probably wasn’t fair since she had obviously been wailing on the bag for a while and he had barely broke a sweat in the yard, but it would be fun.
* * * *
Holy moley! He was going to kill her. He was fast, strong, and an extremely skilled fighter. He attacked from behind, grabbing her by the neck. She bit the hairy arm that tightened around her throat. With a curse, Jake released her from his hold.
Moving away from his reach, Charley whirled to face him. Kicking out, her foot made contact with the hard plane of his stomach. He grunted.
“You’re good.”
His eyes narrowed and with a roar, he lunged at her. She felt the whoosh of air as he sailed by her when she quickly took two steps backwards out of reach. Her heart pounded in her ears.
Determination and raw anger made her jaw clench. Being bested made her a force to be reckoned with. Staring at the handsome hick who stood there, not three feet away, grinning at her, had her blood pumping and galvanized her into action.
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