by Karen Rock
Mom needed him. As for his father, little chance he’d asked to see Ryan. He was nothing more than an unending source of disappointment to his old man. When he’d chosen intelligence over the military, his dad declared spy games were for children…not real men.
“Supper’s on in fifteen,” Ryan’s mother called. “Has anyone seen Ryan?”
“Here I am.” Ryan brushed past his brothers and entered the large white kitchen.
“Ryan!” Pleasure brightened his mother’s round, full face. As always, she’d dressed impeccably, this time in a silky yellow top tucked into crisp navy pants. A white scarf edged in navy lay knotted at the base of her long throat. Despite her smile, lines of fatigue dug deep grooves around her eyes and mouth.
“How are you, Mom?”
“Oh. You know…” Her eyes, large behind thick glasses, glanced down the hall from which an opera aria.
“How’s Dad?”
“Everyone’s fine.” Drake dropped onto a stool, broke off a piece of pie crust, and popped it into his mouth.
Ryan studied them. “So no one’s talking about the—”
“No.” Doug cut Ryan off before he could say cancer.
Three pairs of wary eyes studied him. Jesus. Were they afraid speaking the word would make it real? Would detonate their hermetically sealed life? It was designed to keep out anything messy and raw. They’d deal with terminal illness clinically, like all life’s troubles—ignored, dismissed, an inconvenience to be disposed of with little fuss or fanfare.
But, dammit, when someone was dying, when your father was terminally ill, didn’t more than a little fuss deserve to be made? He’d grown up fearing the man, had wished him dead more times than he could count as a child, but he was still the only dad Ryan would ever have. His chest burned with a searing sensation that made it tough to breathe.
His mother slid the pie beyond Drake’s reach. “The Medal of Honor recipients from the Seventh Division Special Ops Unit are being feted in a couple of weeks.”
Ryan stared at her, slack-jawed, then shook his head. “Dad won’t be able to—”
“He’ll be there.” Doug dropped his elbows to the granite island’s countertop and hunched over it.
Ryan nodded. Their old man was damn near superhuman. They’d grown up on his war stories. In one, while he was defending Camp Nam Dong, the Viet Cong launched an attack resulting in heavy casualties. Ryan’s father led an explosives team to thwart a breach. Despite being wounded, he’d also given life-saving aid and provided gunfire cover for retreating soldiers. When his oldest son, Ryan’s brother Brent, died in Iraq ten years ago in an al-Qaeda-led ambush, Dad hadn’t shed a tear or spoken a word. He’d simply buried his Medal of Honor with his son and never said Brent’s name again.
None of them had.
His mother flicked the heat off the Crock-Pot and turned her gaze in Ryan’s direction. “Do you think you’ll be able to attend?” A puff of beef-scented steam rose when she lifted the lid. “Oh—and your father’s turning sixty-eight in a couple of days. I hope you’ll come to his birthday party, too.”
“I have two weeks’ leave.”
His mother set down the glass cover. “Then we’ll be seeing lots of you.”
“I’m also working…chasing down a lead.”
His mother pressed a hand to her chest, then moved aside as Doug lifted the pot roast onto a platter. “A terrorist threat? Here? In Dallas?”
“I can’t say. And it—it involves Erica,” he added for no good reason at all except she’d been on his mind nonstop after her tease of a kiss earlier today.
Mom’s face eased. “Erica! Your father and I enjoyed meeting her when you brought her by for a visit. I hope you’ll bring her to the birthday party. Are you back together?”
“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
“What a shame.” His mother ladled carrots and potatoes around the meat. “She brought out something in you. A lightness.”
Fire.
One that had burned him straight through.
“Ryan?” his mother pressed. “Are you okay working together again?”
His mouth twitched, and he averted his face from his brothers’ assessing stares. “Heard the Astros are starting Keuchel tomorrow.”
Just like he’d hoped, the twins pounced on the topic switch. They debated the merits of the rehabbed pitcher’s return as his mind drifted to Erica.
What the hell was he doing dwelling on her? She alone destroyed his meticulous control. When she’d brushed his lips with hers at the hotel, he’d nearly snapped.
He hadn’t expected such craving.
She excited him like no other, even though she was completely wrong for him. But no one measured up to her verve, her sheer exuberance, her indomitable spirit. Sometimes he wondered if she’d ruined him for other women.
How the hell was he going to work with her and keep his distance? He didn’t want her in the middle of things, but a phone call from his second-in-command had revealed their lead to Al Monitor’s hideout had dried up. So where was Khalid? Here in the US as Erica suspected? Planning an attack with the weapons traffickers?
“Why don’t you wash up?” His mother tucked parsley sprigs around the roast. “I’ll have dinner on the table in a minute.”
“I’ll help first.” Ryan opened one of the cabinets, hoping the monotonous task of setting the table would clear his mind of all things Erica-related.
His mother gently nudged him aside and grabbed a stack of dishes. “Go see your father. I’m sure he’s excited to see you.”
Doug snorted while Drake coughed.
“I’m sure.” Ryan squared his shoulders, perfecting his best officer stance, and ordered his leaden feet to march him to his father’s study.
“Mother said you wanted to see me, sir?”
“Told her not to bother you.” His father leaned on a cane by a window overlooking a clipped lawn. Hummingbirds buzzed around a feeder. Farther back, a brick path led to a lattice-worked gazebo Ryan couldn’t remember any of them ever sitting in. A needle lifted off a spinning record on an old-school player, ending Madama Butterfly.
Numbness settled into his bones as he stared at the man he’d both loved and feared. The setting sun highlighted the gray circles beneath his father’s eyes, the hollows in his cheeks. A white, button-down shirt bagged around his once powerful frame, and bony wrists protruded beyond the cuffs.
Ryan’s fingers reflexively squeezed as despair and loss flooded him. What the hell was he grieving? He’d never had a real relationship with his father beyond following orders and weathering corporal punishment.
Dad turned, sat behind his sturdy wooden desk, then pointed to one of the straight-backed chairs positioned in front of it. “Have a seat.”
Ryan sat, troubled by his father’s expression. It wasn’t a welcome-home-son-good-to-see-you-before-I-die look. Not that he expected it…no… He suspected the pain of illness was wearing his dad down, pinching his face. The first sign of weakness he’d ever glimpsed in his old man shook Ryan harder than his mother’s call.
It made everything real.
But according to family policy, he wasn’t allowed to feel anything about his father’s cancer.
Wasn’t to wallow in indulgent emotions.
Outwardly, he had to keep a stiff upper lip, stoic as an Arnell was born and bred to be. Inside, however, he shook so bad his heart shivered in his chest. When the grand piano in the room’s center drew his eye, he bit his twitching lower lip hard enough to taste blood.
His father locked on him with a steady gaze. “Have you caught that son of a bitch yet?”
Ryan tensed. Of course they weren’t about to have a cozy father-son chat. No “If only we’d” or “I should have told you more often” kind of talk. Stupid him for even imagining it.
This was a debriefing. The onl
y kind of conversation he and his father ever conducted.
In his ear, interrogations from years past echoed….
“What grade did you earn on your science project?”
“How many yards did you run in yesterday’s game?”
“Did you memorize that concerto yet?”
Never anything personal. Everything reduced to numbers. Facts. Black and white. Stuff you saw, not felt.
Ryan flattened his stiff fingers on his trousers. “No, sir. We had a lead on him.”
“And?” Colonel Arnell’s hands shook slightly as he slipped a cigarette from a gold case, stuck it in his mouth, and flicked on a lighter.
Smoking? Still? What a goddamn shame, though Ryan would never say so out loud. His father had always believed in his own invincibility, had convinced his sons to believe it, too… Until now. “Khalid’s dropped off the radar again.”
“Should have gotten him before Amman.”
Ryan clenched his jaw. Deeper still—shame washed through him, corrosive. All he’d ever wanted was to make his father proud. And yes. Dammit. He should have uncovered the embassy bombing plot. Had the way Erica had consumed him, his focus, caused him to miss some critical clue? Another damn good reason not to get involved with her again. But he’d promised to include her, and he always kept his word.
“Eighteen American lives lost.” The tip of his father’s cigarette glowed red-gold as he inhaled.
“I’m aware, sir.” Ryan resisted the urge to apologize. To explain. Arnells took responsibility for their actions. Had the need to punish himself driven his decision to end his relationship with Erica? “We’ll locate him.”
A smoky exhale punctuated his father’s grunt of disbelief. It skewered Ryan, right between the eyes.
“Supper!” his mother shouted.
Ryan heaved to his feet and strode forward, then halted and turned when his father lagged. The flash of naked pain crossing his dad’s face as he struggled to rise nearly yanked Ryan to his side. At the very last second, common sense smacked into him, and he forced himself not to help. His father wove to his feet, gripping the desk, and shot Ryan a determined look. The faint shimmer in his parent’s eyes shoved Ryan out the study door.
Dad would rather die than let anyone see him weak.
And soon, he’d be completely dependent on others’ help.
Ryan ducked into the guest bathroom, closed the door behind him, and leaned his head against the cool glass mirror. Impotent fury and pent-up grief burned the back of his throat, and his fists clenched.
He swallowed it down, and the burn moved into his chest, much like the low simmer that’d been present in his veins since his mother’s call. When his heart squeezed painfully, he opened his eyes and slowly let out the breath he’d been holding. A douse of icy water on his face left his skin numb…just as the rest of him needed to be for the farcical family meal ahead. They’d talk about sports, politics, the goddamn weather—anything except what mattered.
The truth.
His father was dying, and nobody in his family, not his brothers, his mother, or even his show-no-fear father knew how to handle it.
Erica’s passionate face flashed before his eyes. She’d never had an emotion she didn’t express. Despite himself, his mouth lifted slightly. How would she handle this moment? She’d probably come right out with, “So how much longer do you have? Is your pain controlled? Are you worried about dying? Is there anything you’d like to say to your kids before it’s too late?”
All the unasked questions burned inside him.
The cell phone in his pocket buzzed. The screen revealed Erica’s number, as if she intrinsically sensed he’d thought of her, needed her.
“Arnell,” he answered.
“Ryan. It’s Erica.”
His heart lurched sideways in his chest at her firm, no-nonsense voice. “How’d you get this number?”
“You might consider changing it occasionally,” she rejoined, tart.
He met his eyes in the mirror and glimpsed a smile in them. His grip on the phone tightened at the sudden, fierce wish to have her here, beside him. “I’m seeing the benefits now.” Maybe he’d invite her to his father’s birthday party….
His blood heated at her low, husky chuckle. “Did you get the phone records back?” she asked.
Ryan leaned against the wall, opened his mail app and spotted a message from headquarters. With a tap, he accessed the attached list of calls from the weapons suppliers’ number.
“Ryan?” Erica prompted.
“Yeah. It’s here. Just scrolling through.”
He enlarged the image and skimmed through the first twenty calls, then stopped.
“You saw something.”
His brow scrunched. “How do you know?”
“Your breath did that funny thing it does when you’re surprised. Like a hitchy hiccup.”
“A hitchy hiccup?” A warm breeze, more like a soft breath of air, seeped in through a window screen. The funeral scents of gladiolas, lilies, and freshly turned earth filled his nose, and a heaviness pressed on his chest.
“It’s one of your tells.”
She knew him too damn well. “There’s a call from one of the Speaker of the House’s aides. Greg Pullman.”
“Holy shit,” she breathed. “The Amman embassy bomber warned Al Monitor was working with a government official. This could be a connection.”
That brought him up straight. “You’re thinking collusion between al-Nusra and Greg Pullman?”
“We need to run a background check on him.”
“Already requesting it.” Ryan’s fingers flew as he sent the request to HQ before using his own security clearance to execute preliminary research. “Seems the guy’s traveled to Syria recently.”
“For?”
“A wedding. His wife’s family’s from Damascus.” A chill settled in Ryan’s chest.
“Bingo.”
He paced the cramped powder room, three steps forward, three back…. “What are we thinking?”
“Is the Speaker of the House a target?”
He stopped and stared out at the dusky purple shadows stretching across the back lawn. “Killing a highly placed politician would be coup for Jabhat al-Nusra.”
“The Speaker formed a committee to investigate the embassy attack,” Erica added quickly. “And he’s sponsored legislation to arm the Syrian government against al-Nusra. Revenge could be a motivator, too.”
Ryan rubbed the back of his tense neck. The possibility of another al-Nusra attack, one on US soil, locked up his joints, hardened his sinews. Those fuckers. This time, they would not succeed. Not on his watch. Not again. “This could explain why their weapons suppliers are in Dallas.”
“Since Congress is on recess, the Speaker’s at his Dallas home office for the next three weeks.” Erica’s voice rose. “It’s a softer target than DC.”
“The weapons suppliers could be cooperating with the Speaker’s investigation…acting as informants…. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Erica’s exasperated breath hissed through his speaker. “Of course not. We’ve got loads of time to investigate, just like in Amman.”
A deep, unforgiving pang hit him in the chest. “Stop, Erica.”
“If you hadn’t waited for the ambassador’s permission to grab Al Monitor, we could have had him in custody, questioned him, and learned about the bombing plot before it happened. We could have prevented it.”
In the sudden quiet, his heartbeat thudded in his ears. “Not a minute goes by that I don’t think about it.”
Another silence descended, so loaded he could almost feel the weight of her thoughts. Her condemnation. She blamed him for following protocol.
And it’d cost over a hundred and fifty people’s lives.
Countless families their loved ones.
“Ryan? You there?”
A surge of guilt slammed into him like a bullet heading straight for the heart. He set the phone on the sink’s edge and massaged his aching temples.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Erica’s soft voice filled the room. “That was low. The bombing plans were already in motion…. They might have carried it out even with their leader in custody.”
He shook his head. They both knew better. Cut the head off a writhing snake, and it’d quit moving. “Let’s tail the aide tomorrow.”
“Let’s?” Surprise lifted her voice an octave. “As in we?”
“Is there any chance you’d let me do this alone?”
“Nope.” He could practically hear her cocky grin. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Be ready at eight.” He clicked off the call and caught his grim expression in the mirror. A racing pulse now joined the buzzing in his ears. He had the strangest sensation of the floor shifting beneath his feet, quicksand, knocking him off balance.
When it came to Erica, if he wasn’t careful, he’d be in over his head before he knew what hit him.
Right now, the only thing he cared about—should care about—could care about—was catching Al Monitor and stopping al-Nusra from ever taking another life again.
Not all casualties had been laid to rest.
Chapter 4
“What’s in his brown paper bag?” Erica lowered her binoculars and turned to study Ryan. Hunched over the wheel of his economy rental car, he peered intently through the bright noon sunlight at a backlit Greg Pullman. They’d tailed the Speaker of the House’s aide to this park twenty minutes ago.
Ryan held out a hand for the binoculars and pressed them to his eyes. “Looks full. And it’s got a grease stain on the side. I’m guessing meatloaf.”
“I bet he made the stain so it looks like food’s in there.” She flipped down the visor against the sunshine spearing through the windshield. “And ewww. Who eats meatloaf for lunch?”