Sanctuary Buried WITSEC Town Series Book 2

by Lisa Phillips

  “So take a leaf out of your girl’s book and bust your butt. She got her dream, now you go get yours. If you don’t make it, it’s not failure. It just means the Good Lord has something else for you to do.”

  Sam shifted on the dock, his bare feet dangling in the water. “Why can’t He just tell me what that is?”

  Pop chuckled. “If God told you what was to come, you’d miss the fun of discovering it for yourself.”

  “I guess.”

  Pop laughed harder.

  Sam crawled to the bucket and relieved himself of the little that was in there. It turned out Afghan mercenaries weren’t big on the stipulations of the Geneva Convention. Go figure. At least they’d left him his underpants.

  The wounds on his chest and arms, little cuts they’d given him either for information he didn’t have, or for the fun of it, stung almost as much as his leg. It probably wasn’t a good sign that the gunshot wound was still sticky even despite them giving him the tools to get the bullet out and sew it up.

  But if they intended to kill him, why not just get it over with instead of leaving him to death by infection?

  He coughed and the air rattled through his bare chest. That wasn’t a good sign, either. He didn’t figure he had a whole lot of time left. If the worst did happen, Sam knew that Beth would be okay. Her parents would take care of her.

  He and Beth had always known there was a possibility he might not come home. He just hadn’t expected it to be now. Or like this.

  The steady clip of boot steps—two people—moved from left to right on the other side of the locked door. He’d tested it when they first brought him in. Looked for weaknesses. Something he could use as a weapon.

  All he had was a flimsy plan, provided he was strong enough to stand on his leg.

  The footsteps receded into nothing, and Sam let out a slow exhale.

  When he woke the sun was peeking between his curtains, falling across her hair so that it shone gold in the light.

  Sam pulled her closer, memorizing the feel of her tucked against him. It wouldn’t be long before she would slip off her ring and leave it on the nightstand, taking his silver band and putting it on her thumb. She would leave his apartment before breakfast and become Ms. Elizabeth Sheraton, the president’s daughter, once again.

  These moments were few and far between, but that only made them all the sweeter. They had to make the most of the times they could be husband and wife without the world intruding on what was between them; what had been there since that day on the beach at the lake when she’d seen him for the first time. Her eyes had flared, and then she’d blushed and looked at her feet.

  He’d been a goner from day one. Only Beth. Always Beth. Knowing she felt the same, it made him love her all the more.

  The lock clanged, and the bar slid back.

  Two men entered, garbed like warlords with old AKs slung over their shoulders. Sam curled his fingers around the rock under his hand. They hauled him to his feet, and Sam settled his weight on his good leg. The man on his left muttered something in Farsi about a stinky goat. The other laughed.

  Sam bent and brought the rock up in an undercut. He grabbed the AK and put two bullets in the second man. One more bullet into the unconscious man and that guy went to meet his maker, too.

  Sam gritted his teeth and hobbled to the door. He pushed all thought, all mental recognition of the agony that pulsed through his body, into a tiny box he shoved deep inside.

  The hall was clear. He turned right and slowly made his way toward a window. The outside looked nothing like the compound where the attaché was supposed to have been held, though the landscape was the same. Grass and mountains.

  Voices brought his head around, and before he even saw them he’d pulled the trigger. The first stepped into the path of the bullet, and he’d killed the second before the man understood what had happened to his buddy. How many guys were there?

  Sam turned.

  The girl, or maybe a short woman, stood halfway down the hall. He had no idea what her age was, given he couldn’t see much more than her eyes. She gripped the door frame, half hidden inside the room. She’d brought him a bowl of mystery-meat soup a couple of times, but food wasn’t what he wanted from her.

  “Where is it?”

  She didn’t move or even blink. For nearly a minute she just stared at his battered and bruised body with her hard eyes.

  Then she turned and disappeared into the room.

  Sam hobbled after her to the doorway, gun at the ready.

  The girl—woman—was crouched at the wall, removing a brick. She put her hand in the hole and pulled out a small object. When she walked to him it was slow and hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure he wouldn’t snatch it from her and kill her on the spot.

  Her fingers uncurled, her hand shaking.

  The chain was a knotted mass, the ring in the center of her palm. Sam took it from her hand with the barest touch. He snapped the chain and slipped the ring onto his pinkie finger. Then he bowed his head very slightly. In Farsi, he said, “Thank you.”

  Her eyes widened, but he was gone from the room before she could reply.

  Down two hallways, he followed the freshening air to an outside door. Sam touched the handle just as two gunshots broke the quiet outside. He backed up and glanced out a yellowed window. A man dressed as a goat herder, much like Sam had been before all this happened, stood in the open. An Afghani ran toward the intruder, yelling. One shot to the head and he fell. Dirt puffed in a cloud around his body.

  Sam eased the door open, but it creaked anyway. If this was the day he died, so be it. He would go meet his fate.

  The man’s attention shifted to him.

  Sam’s gun was aimed and ready.

  “Seriously?” The man flung his arms up, gun and all, and then let them fall back to his sides. “You ruined my entire hero routine.”

  Sam stepped outside. The fresh air ran across his exposed skin like a thousand biting ants. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  The goat herder strode toward him, gun at his side. He wasn’t relaxed but completely alert and ready for any threat. It was in every inch of him and the way he moved. His eyes. Even as he talked like they were at a ball game, not in a hot zone in the Afghani mountains.

  “The next person I have to rescue, I’m going to specify they only be a useless victim. They’re always way more grateful.”

  Black spots winked at the edges of his vision, like a vicious storm rolling in. Sam planted his foot, but his leg gave way. Strong arms caught him, along with an odor of grass and goat fur. This guy was good.

  Sam would have fought his way out and collapsed on the ground just outside the front door like a Caucasian beacon. I’m unconscious and not from around here, please shoot me.

  The arms hauled him upright.

  “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Sam could only nod. “Who…?”

  Where was the rest of this man’s team? The marines? The helicopters?

  “Ben Mason, at your service.”

  Chapter 3

  The clothes Ben had borrowed—okay, stole—from a dead man were made for someone considerably taller than Sam, and they itched. But it was better than walking through the wilderness in his underpants.

  After the initial rush of adrenaline left him near collapse, Sam had rallied enough that he could walk. So they did.

  Ben trudged beside him. In front of him. Behind him. Never said anything, never tried to start a conversation. That was fine with Sam. He was content with silence, but didn’t the man realize Sam would want to know something about his self-proclaimed rescuer?

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  Ben kept walking, now up ahead leading the way.

  “Who do you work for?”

  Nothing.

  Sam asked the same question in Farsi.

  Ben kept walking.

  He asked again in German but got no reaction.

  He tried Chinese.

  St
ill nothing.

  Still in Chinese, he said, “I need a…”

  His brain tripped over the words, so he switched back to English. “What’s the Chinese word for cheeseburger?”

  Ben kept walking. “Ganlao hanbaobao.”

  Sweat streamed from his temple and down his back, soaking the shirt. When Sam couldn’t stand the pain in his leg any longer, he stopped at the next decent sized boulder and sat. Ben whipped around, saw him sitting, and his shoulders slipped from their immediate battle-ready stance. Who was this man? Ben pulled a canteen from his backpack and handed it over.

  Sam sucked down the slightly warm water in sips and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “How far are we walking?”

  “It’s another quarter mile to the car.”

  “I need a phone, if you’ve got one in there.”

  Ben didn’t immediately reach for the backpack. Sam still had the gun he’d stolen. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to use it on his American rescuer, but he didn’t know what this man’s end game was. He didn’t even know if Ben was a friendly.

  “Let’s keep moving. You can make your call from the car.”

  The Jeep was covered in a film of dust, probably supposed to be maroon but currently more rust than paint. Sam reached for the door handle, but there wasn’t one. Just a hole in the door where it was supposed to be. Ben reached in the window and pulled on the handle. At least he didn’t wait until Sam got in so he could close the door for him. That would have been fight-worthy. Instead Ben was around the car by the time Sam dragged his injured leg in the vehicle, still fighting the pull of unconsciousness.

  “Soon as we can we’ll have a doctor look at that leg.” Ben started the engine. “You’ve been in there eight weeks. Happy Thanksgiving. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.”

  The breath got caught in Sam’s throat, and he coughed. The fire in his belly over what Tommy had done to their brothers raged still. It would not be abated until he had repaid like for like. It wasn’t pain and sorrow that drove this revenge; it was pure and simple justice. A price had been paid by his men, and Tommy would write the check. Sam was going to make sure of it.

  “A lot has happened in that time.”

  Sam glanced at him as he drove over rutted grass and dry shrubs. The sun fought a valiant battle, but it was still freezing. Though Ben didn’t seem to be affected by the same air that was making goose bumps pop on every inch of Sam’s skin.

  “I need to call my CO. Tell him I’m alive.”

  Once he got the ball rolling, Sam would be able to get back to regular life. At least as regular as military life was. Or life without a full-time wife.

  Maybe something did need to change.

  “You’re gonna want to hold off on checking in.” Ben hesitated. “There’s a lot to go over. Are you up for this?”

  “Does it have anything to do with who you are?”

  Ben nodded. “I was asked to come and get you by the director of the US Marshals. Grant Mason is my brother.”

  “Okay.” Was that name supposed to mean anything to him? “Why did he send you to get me, instead of a team of marines?”

  “Because the US Navy has classified you as a defector. If they find you, you will be arrested and charged with the murders of Sergeant Dane Walker, Petty Officer Hendrix Hayes and Corporal Macario Potomi.”

  Swish. Peace. Wash.

  The fire in him petrified into stone. “And Tommy?”

  “He is home, claiming to be the only survivor of an op in which you snapped and killed the rest of your team and then tried to kill him also. You’ve been completely discredited, while he is being proclaimed the hero.”

  “He…what?” Sam blinked.

  “It’s also worth noting at this point that his Swiss bank account has two million in it, and all of his daughter’s medical expenses have been paid in full.”

  All the words got stuck in his throat. Any minute now he’d start vomiting all over himself and the car. Betrayer.

  Ben pulled out the canteen, and Sam took a few sips. He put his head in his hands as they jolted toward who knew where.

  “It gets worse.”

  Sam said, “The traitor who killed my men is blaming me, and there’s something worse?”

  Ben swallowed. “I’m hesitating in telling you because I think you might injure yourself more if you get upset.”

  “We’re about four hundred miles north of upset at this point.”

  Ben nodded. “Noted. Nevertheless, prudence is the name of the game for the foreseeable future.”

  “Just tell me all of it. Get it over with.” At least when he knew all he’d missed, there would be someone around for Sam to punch. “Then I can hike to the nearest airstrip, get a ride home, and go shoot Tommy Locan in the head.”

  “I’m going to have to advise against that.”

  “And why is that?”

  Ben said, “Because your mother-in-law and father-in-law were murdered. Your wife is in witness protection until I can figure out who killed them and who paid Tommy to take you out.”

  He kept talking about cover stories and more about his brother Grant. Sam’s hearing tunneled into only the engine noise, and the sound of Ben’s words—deeper and louder than they should have been. It was unreal.

  “I know.” Ben sighed. “I can barely believe it myself.”

  “And Beth is in some kind of secret witness protection town?”

  Ben nodded.

  “Isn’t that a seriously risky idea? I mean, putting all those people together? You find one, you’ve got all of them. Easy enough to sell their identities to the highest bidder.”

  “Sometimes the craziest idea is the one that’s totally genius. I’d never think to look for someone in a whole town of witnesses, cut off from most of society. They have a little contact with the outside world through the military bringing supplies and a doctor and dentist every few months. The mail every Monday. That kind of thing. But it’s been forty years. No leaks, no breaches.”

  “So you hid my wife there.”

  “My brother said she’s doing very well, considering.

  “Does Grant go there?”

  “Actually, I was talking about my other brother, John. He’s the town sheriff.”

  The volume of information Sam’s sluggish brain had to assimilate made him nearly get sick all over again. Beth’s parents were dead, and she hadn’t been able to attend the funeral. The vice-president had been sworn in. Sam was a traitor. Tommy had been paid to betray them.

  “In all the ways she can be, your wife is being taken care of.” Ben paused a beat. “Your mother actually made a request to be sent to her, so she’s helping, too.”

  Yeah, right. Sam could imagine the help his mom was giving. Under normal circumstances his wife would be well capable of fending for herself.

  He should go to her. He wanted to go to Beth. But she would never accept a traitor for a husband. He had to clear his name and fix this with Tommy before he could ever step foot in that witness protection town. Sam was going to have to fly under the radar all the way home, no contact with anyone—except for one necessary stop-off to check in with his grandpa, and then get this business taken care of.

  Then he would go see his wife.

  “So what’s my next move?”

  This Ben guy seemed to know what he was talking about, and Sam wasn’t above hearing other people’s opinions. So long as they understood when he went his own way.

  Ben turned a sharp left. “Something is going on, and it’s pulled you into its tendrils. I’m working on it, but everything I uncover only gives me a hundred more questions.” He reached down, rummaged in the backpack, and then turned a sharp right between two trees.

  Sam gripped the door with one hand and took the dirty white envelope Ben held. The paper was from the desk of a major general of the Army whom Sam had heard of before. It wouldn’t have meant much if there hadn’t been a hand-written note on the bottom in Rear-Admiral Sanchez’s handwriting.


  That was a man Sam knew and respected.

  If both of them had signed off, it meant at least two good men knew what was really going on with Sam. Two men who would be allies when he wanted to clear his name, or allies if everything went wrong.

  “These are transfer orders.”

  Ben nodded. “You work for me now.”

  **

  Beth stared at the scrambled eggs and tried to breathe through her mouth. She would be in her second trimester next week. The nausea should have passed already. Maybe she’d just eaten something bad, like that bizarre attempt at chicken pot pie they’d had for dinner the night before.

  Sam’s dad had been the one who cooked in his house when Sam was growing up. It was why Sam was so good at it. His chicken parmesan was amazing.

  Although thinking about it now made Beth want to hurl.

  She took a sip of coffee and got up. Maybe she could just eat the toast later.

  Abigail stood in the doorway. “You don’t like my eggs?”

  Beth put a hand on her stomach. “I’m not feeling very well this morning.”

  “Oh no.” Abigail rushed over and put her hand on Beth’s arm. Her perfume had a weird floral tone to it that didn’t help. “Do you think it was those cupcakes you ate last night? Maybe I should call Frannie.”

  How Sam could have come from this woman was anyone’s guess. Although, maybe all married women thought that about their husband’s mother at one point or another.

  “Or maybe I’ll call the doctor. What’s her number?”

  “One-four-seven.”

  Sanctuary’s phones only dialed within the town. Like extension numbers. The only person who could call the outside world was the sheriff, from his fancy satellite phone. The only internet connection was in the library. No one had a cell phone, or an iPad. Sheriff Mason had laughed and said it was like living in nineteen seventy-two.

  Abigail picked up their home phone, the curly chord dangling between the handset and the base. “Although she’s not even a real doctor anyway...”