by DiAnn Mills
Paige slumped onto her sofa and clutched a pillow to her chest. She tried to pray, but the only words that came were help me. Once again she considered searching the Internet for details, but her legs refused to move. Palmer needed an answer in twenty-four hours. Doing nothing meant allowing Keary to continue. Her parents’ lives were at stake. Rosa and her family could be found and disposed of.
And Nathan . . .
Dear God, keep him safe.
* * *
Shortly after midnight, she turned on her computer and waited for the dial-up to allow her access to more information about WorldMarc Oil and the drilling in Angola. A few years ago, the media had announced that Keary’s law firm was brokering the deal due to Keary’s international expertise. She guessed he’d been the one to approach WorldMarc and not the other way around. Most likely he’d invested in Angolan oil long before moving back to the States.
If only Rosa Ngoimgo had come forward with what she knew back then. But the widow had four children to rear, and she was afraid for her family. Better to let her husband’s killer go free than for her remaining family to face Casimiro Figuiera’s machete. Alone, it was Paige’s word against Keary’s that he had sent innocent people to their deaths. Rosa’s oldest son was about nineteen now. He might know the truth . . . and he might not be afraid to speak up.
Paige stared into the computer screen, not seeing the information about WorldMarc Oil but picturing a young African boy. That boy was now a man. Paige had much to think about, much to consider. Twenty-four hours just wasn’t enough time. She brought up her e-mail and quickly typed Palmer a message. He would have to wait for his answer until Sunday night.
Chapter 11
Jason Stevens sits across from me in my office, my temporary office until after the election. He leans back in his chair, legs crossed, shoulders erect, confident—the way he’s been trained.
“You said we needed to talk,” I say, taking a sip of my black Starbucks, Rift Valley Blend.
“I learned something over the weekend.”
“In D.C.?” Curiosity always piques my attention when Stevens returns from D.C.
“It’s not good.”
I lean in closer. “Tell me.” Problems are like welcome mats, and the ones that resemble jigsaw puzzles are the most intriguing.
“The file has been reopened.” Jason doesn’t even blink. “I’m on top of it.”
I laugh. So does he.
“This afternoon he asked Mikaela to come back on board.”
This problem might take some time. “What did she say?”
“She had to think about it for a few days.”
I settle back in my chair and stare at Jason, not looking at him but through him. He is doing a good job getting me the information from Palmer’s assistant. I need to keep a step ahead of the CIA. So the company thinks they can shake me up just before the election. They have no more proof than before . . . unless they’ve found Rosa Ngoimgo.
I should have made sure Mikaela was dead that day. “We’ve got to find Rosa.”
“We have men on the ground looking.”
Jason’s carefully calculated words deepen my irritation. “Then get more men and find her. Kill all of them.” I lower my voice to barely above a whisper. “It will be worth it; trust me.”
He nods. “What about Mikaela? Why don’t you get rid of her?”
I don’t want to tell him that’s one option I don’t have. Not yet anyway.
“Where is Zuriel? He hasn’t answered his phone all day,” I say.
“Vegas.”
Worthless piece of baggage. I should get rid of him.
Chapter 12
Friday night football, even a scrimmage, cleared the streets of Split Creek. All residents who could walk, be carried, or be wheeled made their way to the outskirts of town, where past and present heroes and sassy cheerleaders assembled in the bleachers and along the fifty-yard line of the gridiron. Folks lived and breathed the bright lights, the artificial turf, the halftime shows, and the thrill of the game. The game was spoken of as reverently as the utterance of God on Sunday morning. Tonight the battle lines were drawn amid temperatures soaring into the nineties, but Paige didn’t believe anyone paid any attention to the heat—except the fire emanating from the pigskin.
The click-click of a drum cadence signaled the entrance of the drill team, who waved flags of blue and gold as they led the high school band toward the field for pregame activities. As if on cue, the stage lit up. Paige’s attention swung to the field house, where the Split Creek Bobcats would soon race in to a roar of cheers. She imagined Miles giving last-minute instructions and lots of “attaboys.” He yelled from time to time, and his face could glisten in a mixture of sweat and tomato red, but he loved every one of his players—and the game. From her perch in the bleachers, she could rest assured that no one knew how her heart ached to invite him into her life.
Who would have ever thought I’d be watching a high school football game and selling hot dogs and Cokes for the booster club? And enjoying it, even if fumbles and touchdowns highlighted her week.
It sure beat dead bodies and the uncertainties of wondering who were the spies, who were the counterspies, and who was issuing orders. Right now she carried her car keys and a wallet. Back then she carried her wits and a phony ID. Right now she could relax for a few hours. Back then she counted on her senses to keep her alert.
She glanced at Voleta sitting beside her, such a quirky friend who brought lots of fun into Paige’s life. Sweet home Oklahoma. This was the idyllic life, not the covert missions led by a man who ended up betraying her and so many others. Maybe Keary hadn’t fooled everyone. Maybe only a few people.
Paige still believed in the values and dreams of America’s founders. She understood the importance of keeping the nation’s borders free from terrorists and assisting the impoverished nations of the world to achieve a democratic community—a safe and healthy place for children to laugh and learn.
Brunner had written “the necessary end sanctifies the necessary means.” She hadn’t made a decision to assist the CIA yet, or rather she hadn’t heard from God.
She sickened at the evil Keary had orchestrated. God forgive her for thinking of murder, but the inclination clung to her like the threads of a spiderweb. If she accepted Palmer’s invitation, she would risk having her parents learn the truth. How would they handle their daughter’s background . . . and the fact that she wasn’t really dead? Paige shivered. Her mom’s heart may have worsened over the past years. Her dad had always been in excellent health, but age had surely brought on new problems. Her thoughts lingered a moment on Nathan. He too was buried under paperwork and another identity in Africa.
No matter how she looked at what she’d done to those she loved, doing nothing while Keary clawed his way up the political ladder was the greater wrong.
“I sure hope we win.” Voleta’s words interrupted her thoughts.
Back to Paige Rogers . . . for now. “Miles said this team is tough. Did you see their stats?”
“I remember they went to the last game in play-offs last year.” Voleta wiggled her shoulders, whipping black hair with streaks of purple-red across her shoulders. “Are you two any closer to being cozy?”
“Cozy? Are you serious? Really, Voleta, you need a new agenda.”
“But I’ve never been in a wedding.”
“Try Eleanor and Mr. Shafer. Better yet, settle down and attend your own.”
“Are you or are you not seeing him after the game?”
“For hot chocolate and doughnuts among a hundred other fans. That’s not a wild game of pool and a six-pack of beer in a smoky bar. The whole conversation will be about the team and how they did tonight.”
“You’re simply too independent.”
Sometimes Paige wished Voleta understood her. “I don’t need a man to make me happy.”
“They sure do help on a lonely night.”
“I prefer a fluffy pillow and—”
&n
bsp; The announcer interrupted, listing the opposing team’s roster as the players made their grand entrance.
“The Warriors have arrived,” Voleta whispered.
Moments later, Paige and Voleta rose to their feet to cheer the Bobcats of Split Creek High. Paige lifted binoculars to focus on Walt. One of his own team members pushed him, but Walt shrugged it off. Poor kid. She could teach him a few moves that would send those bullies to the ER. On the sidelines, Miles stood by himself. No doubt he was praying. That she understood—the only safe place to be.
Four minutes before halftime, she nudged Voleta. “We’d better get to the concession stand before the big rush.”
The Bobcats were down six points, and they were on their own ten-yard line. “I hate to leave without seeing this play.”
“So do I,” Paige said. “But think about it. There’s only one thing worse than losing at the half, and that’s no one working the concession stand when the hungry masses descend for fuel. Sounds like mutiny if we bail out.”
Voleta blew out a sigh. “I hate it when you make sense.”
Make sense? If only Voleta knew. Paige excused herself as she passed a bald, middle-aged man who seemed to think he knew more about football than the coaches. His wife, equally eloquent, shouted at Miles. Even though Miles could handle himself, Paige longed to give the woman a heavy dose of sarcasm.
Paige’s eyes were fixed on the play while anticipation for the Bobcats to take the lead left her breathless. As she moved onto the concrete step, someone slammed into her from behind. Struggling to keep her balance, Paige came down hard on her right ankle, nearly falling headfirst down the bleachers. She caught the metal railing, but the damage had already been done to her foot. Fiery pain forced a cry from her lips. She bit down hard, irritated at her inability to handle a twisted ankle. At least she hoped it was just a twisted ankle.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” said a freckle-faced boy of about eight or nine. “I tripped.”
“It’s all right.” Paige peered up into his anxious face. She touched his hand and forced a smile. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
“Paige, you all right?” Voleta asked, bending down to her. “Oh, sweetie, did you break anything?”
She hugged her right ankle, willing the pain to subside. “I’m fine. Give me a moment until the fire goes out.”
A whistle blew. The fans bellowed their dissatisfaction.
“What happened?” Paige asked. “I need good news.”
“Flag on the play and a penalty . . . on us.”
Now she wanted to be a real girl and cry. “Rats. Help me to my post.” She grabbed Voleta’s arm and attempted to stand but nearly lost her balance again.
“You need an X-ray.”
“And leave you alone at the concession stand? Not on your life. We’re partners.” Paige recognized Voleta’s many talents, but math wasn’t one of them. The booster club would go broke if she handled the money and the food alone tonight.
Four hours later, Paige hobbled out of Pradmore Hospital with her right ankle wrapped like a white sausage. It throbbed like she’d been attacked by a swarm of wasps, although it was only bruised and sprained. To make matters worse, the Bobcats had lost. She’d sat with her ankle propped with ice for over an hour until the game ended: Warriors 18, Bobcats 12. What a night of regret.
Once the bleachers had cleared, Voleta had insisted that Miles send a medic from the field house to take a look at Paige’s ankle. The evening went farther downhill after that, stopping abruptly in the emergency room.
After a staunch refusal to exit the hospital in a wheelchair, Paige mentally calculated how many steps it would take to reach Miles’s truck, which was parked at the entrance. Mastering crutches again would take a little practice.
“We should fill your prescription before leaving town,” Miles said.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Paige said.
He opened his truck door. “If your ankle doesn’t hurt, then why is your face all scrunched up?”
His attempt at humor soured her mood. “I don’t need pain meds tonight. If my foot hurts tomorrow, then I’ll get the prescription filled. Just drive me back to Split Creek and my car.” Paige swung out the crutch and would have fallen again, but Miles grabbed her waist.
“And how are you planning to drive home from the field?”
“My left foot works the gas and the brake as well as my right.” Paige squeezed the crutch to fight the incessant throb.
“Right. And what will be your excuse when you end up in a ditch along the way?” While she leaned on Voleta, Miles took the crutches and laid them on the truck bed. “Women can be so stubborn.” He lifted her up into his arms as though she were sports equipment and deposited her onto the seat.
“I could have climbed in by myself.” If her ankle didn’t feel like someone had lit a match to it, she might have come up with something wittier. Suck it up, girl. You’ve been hurt worse than this.
“You two fussin’ won’t solve a thing,” Voleta said, handing Paige her shoulder bag. “Miles, she needs something strong or she won’t get a wink of sleep tonight.”
“Oh, great.” Paige blew out a sigh that added independence to the guilt. “You two act like I’m totally incapable of taking care of myself.”
“That’s obvious.” Miles said, reaching onto the floorboard to remove a set of football pads. He tossed them into the truck bed along with the crutches. “The doctor said that same foot had been broken before. Shattered was the word he used. Calcium buildup around your foot. Ah, ‘metal plate and pins.’ Sounds like you’ve taken care of yourself just fine.”
A mental picture of being tossed by the force of a bomb sprung to her mind. “I twisted it running.”
“Running? Looks like you fell off a cliff. Now I understand why you wrap that thing when you jog.”
“My secret’s out.”
“Why do I think you haven’t told me the whole story?” Miles glanced at Voleta. “Are you heading home?”
“Yes. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise I’ll check on her in the morning and bring some doughnuts for breakfast. We can get her car tomorrow. The ride back should give Paige time to talk about how she once broke her foot into a million pieces. The scars look like a road map.” Voleta waved and walked away.
“I’ll do my best.” Miles swung his attention to Paige. “For the record, you are the most bullheaded woman that I’ve ever seen. Good thing you have such a good personality.”
“Do I get the Miss Congeniality award?”
“I saw that movie, and Sandra Bullock was working undercover at the time.”
Oh, great. “She still got the award.”
Once Miles had the prescription filled, Paige expected him to grill her about her past foot injury during the forty-five-minute drive back to Split Creek. She’d taken the time to put together a fail-proof explanation, but he didn’t say a word. Then she remembered, and the guilt assaulted her again.
“Sorry about the loss tonight. Hard-fought game.”
“The boys were really bummed out by it.”
“Like Walt?”
“Yeah. Bad enough that he blamed himself, but a few of the guys blamed him too. Timing is everything, and the receiver wasn’t working with him.”
“You should have been with your team instead of taking me to the hospital.”
“I said all I could at the field house. Tomorrow morning I’ll pay a visit to Walt and a couple of the other players. The season doesn’t start until after Labor Day, and a preseason game doesn’t ruin our chances to head into the play-offs.”
“The Warriors may have gone to the play-offs every year, but that doesn’t mean the Bobcats can’t take the state trophy this year,” she said, doing her best to concentrate on the conversation and not on her ankle.
“I like the way you think.” His gaze lingered on her briefly before he turned back to the road.
She wished he didn’t care so much. It made saying no that much harder. “Yo
u needed your rest tonight, not hauling me to the hospital.”
“I have an ulterior motive—carrot cake after practice on Monday.”
“I should have known.” She rolled down the window. Perhaps a little fresh air would keep her mind off the pain and the effect of the man beside her. “Thanks for all you’ve done for me tonight. Voleta could have driven me to the hospital.”
“Oh, really? We both know Voleta, and she could have run out of gas trying to find the ER.”
Miles was right. Voleta had the want-to, just not always the how-to. “She has a good heart.”
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t grill you about your foot. At least not tonight.”
“I broke it chasing a guy who put down my best friend.”
Paige leaned back in the seat, wishing she were already home. The instant the doctor had requested an X-ray, she knew he’d see the damage of her previous injury. But she hadn’t expected the doctor to mention her once-shattered foot. Why had she ever allowed Miles and Voleta to come into the examining room with her? Praise God that Miles hadn’t questioned her about the ankle scars.
At least she hadn’t been asked to remove her jeans. The scars running from her feet to her shoulder blades would have raised a few questions.
What about the ones embedded in your heart?
* * *
Miles yawned and palmed the steering wheel of his truck. Three hours’ sleep last night, and he craved three times that much. However, he wouldn’t have traded one minute with Paige to alleviate the sand in his eyes. Last night she’d needed him. She had been forced to depend on someone other than herself, and he was there to fill the bill. At times he believed his campaign to win Paige was on life support.