The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series

by C. A. Rudolph

  Five civilians died of gunshot wounds. Ten others, including two children, had been injured by stray bullets. The mark had escaped. The ambassador had been furious. And all operatives had disappeared without a trace.

  Nonofficial cover operatives moved about without names or faces, and there had been no accounting for them being there or the pandemonium they had caused whatsoever, other than Special Agent Constance Hensley, Department of State, having known who they were and having reported it as being so.

  Beatrice was having warm mint tea and cheese-filled burekas for breakfast with two fellow agents the following morning when she was confronted by a woman who hadn’t appeared to have gotten much sleep the previous evening.

  “Why, Special Agent Hensley? Good morning to you. Something I can help you with, dear? Your hair looks a fright,” Beatrice had said with a giggle.

  Hensley hadn’t been amused and hadn’t responded, either. With zero warning, she’d tackled Beatrice to the ground, upsetting the table and spilling her tea. She’d straddled her and preceded to punch her in the face while her other hand clamped onto Beatrice’s collar and slammed her head against the cobblestone patio.

  Beatrice had tried to fight back, but her attacker had been out of her mind like a rampaging chimpanzee. Just before her fellow agents had wrestled Hensley away, she’d swung wildly and landed a right roundhouse squarely onto Beatrice’s mouth, three knuckles striking just below her nostrils, displacing a trio of her teeth.

  Despite her motives, the attack on a fellow federal agent had forced Hensley to resign her position in Tel Aviv, but she somehow must’ve remained conscripted with the State Department. How that had come about was a mystery, but it didn’t matter nearly so much as how in the world she had ended up here, in Beatrice’s front yard.

  Beatrice had a bone to pick with her, and her time would come. A few other obstacles needed to be treaded upon first. She finished her V8, grimacing at the boring bitterness, and glanced at the clock. “Four thirty. Nearin’ the time to close up shop.”

  She rose a minute later, tossed the empty can in the garbage, and gathered her things. She took leave of the house, having decided the steppingstone upon which she would tread at the outset.

  Tori gathered her belongings at the end of another lengthy, drawn-out week in what had become a span of many. She scanned her desk for anything she might overlook or forget, and made certain to snatch her novel so she could finish it tonight. It was the sixth installment of a series, only a few chapters remained, and she hoped the story would reach some form of an ending. Had he completed a seventh, it was unlikely it had been published before the collapse. Had it been published, printed, and distributed, it hadn’t made it to the shelves of the Spanier Library, nor would it. Internally, Tori begged the author not to torture her with another blasted cliffhanger.

  She strolled from her desk to the door leading to the stairway and flipped off the light, same as she had hundreds of times since her first day working here. She proceeded down the dimly lit stairway and into the vestibule. As she reached forward to open the door leading to the courtyard, someone or something took hold of her hair and pulled with enough force to sling her body to the opposite side of the room.

  Tori screeched. The attack was fierce and occurred in a flash, leaving her no time to react. She dropped her handbag and all her belongings to the marble floor, grunting from the pain of crashing into the ancient plaster wall. The wind knocked out of her and her vision blurry from her glasses being thrown free, she panicked and began flailing her arms about helplessly, attempting to defend herself.

  The attacker struck Tori in the throat. Tori’s hands stopped floundering and went instinctively to her neck to protect it and gauge the damage as she coughed and wheezed. Pushing Tori’s hands out of the way, her attacker pinned her against the wall in a choke hold. Tori fought against it, but the grip was far too strong to overcome. Gasping and panting for air, she started to feel faint, and just before passing out, her assailant’s grip loosened.

  “Evenin’, Miss Tori.” It was Beatrice, and she had a murderous look on her face. “How do?”

  “Mrs.…Car-ter. Let…go of…me,” Tori wheezed. “I can’t…breathe.”

  “I know that, Tori. It’s a choke hold. Asphyxiation is the object of the maneuver.”

  Tears fell from Tori’s eyes. “P-please. I can’t.”

  Beatrice released some tension in the choke, then went nose to nose with the other woman. “Our world is such a hellhole, Tori. Bad news one day, worse news the next. Nothing good seems to come of anything. Are you sure you want to live in it?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “You do? That’s surprising.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “Because you’re a weakling, Tori. A bottom feeder, like one of those disgusting, slimy, little leeches. You reside in the bottommost depths of the food chain. The only reasons you are still alive today are that petite young body of yours and that helpless dumb-blonde routine you feign on the daily. Your hair isn’t even the right shade for that, sugar.”

  Tori tried to look away, but Beatrice’s grip prevented her from turning her head.

  “You really want to live to see tomorrow, do you?” Beatrice asked. “Then tell me exactly what was said after I left this morning, verbatim…and don’t leave anything out. I’ll know if you do.”

  The younger woman struggled to nod her head. Beatrice’s grip was savage, but loose enough for Tori to utter a sentence. “I don’t…understand. Nothing was said about you. Neither of us said anything bad about—”

  “Tori, hear me, please.” Beatrice clamped down, silencing her prey. “I am not playing with you. I am fully capable of severing your head from your flimsy albino torso.”

  “Mrs. Carter…please…”

  “Time is runnin’ out, Tori. Best tell me what I want to know.” Beatrice retracted a few seconds later.

  Tori tried rubbing the pain away. “It was nothing, nothing, I swear it. He just wanted me to get Seth Bates for him.”

  “Bates?” Beatrice chuckled. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not. He called me in right after you left and immediately asked me to get Seth,” Tori explained, her voice nearly cut in half. “It didn’t make any sense to me. I asked him why, and he got mad…told me it was an order. That was about it.”

  “So he never told you why?”

  Tori shook her head. “No.”

  “And did you call on Seth?”

  Tori nodded. “Mr. Bronson is my boss. I did as I was told.”

  Beatrice exhaled. “Of course. And what did Seth have to say when you spoke to him?”

  “At first, I don’t think he knew what to say.” Tori’s face scrunched up. “He didn’t believe me; thought I was playing a joke on him. He’s set to come in first thing Monday morning.”

  Beatrice contemplated a moment, giving Tori a few seconds to recuperate.

  “Mrs. Carter, please know that I would never overstep,” Tori pled. “You have to believe me. I know I’m not the best at it, but this job…it’s all I have. Without it, I wouldn’t have anything. Please don’t—”

  “Please don’t what, Tori?”

  Tori hesitated. She was petrified. “Hurt me. Or…kill me.”

  “Kill you?” The former operative giggled uproariously. “Why on earth would I kill you, Tori?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I thought maybe that’s what you wanted.”

  “I want many things, Tori. And I haven’t fully ruled it out, but killing you right now serves no purpose.” Beatrice knelt and began gathering Tori’s belongings. “You might be a bottom-feeding little leech, but you have devotion on your side, and devotion might just be enough to keep you in my…good graces.” She rose and handed the frightened receptionist her handbag, then went about searching for Tori’s spectacles.

  Tori stared at the handbag, then at her would-be attacker, confused. “I don’t understand
.”

  “Here’s all the understanding you need,” Beatrice began. “You work for Doug Bronson, but as of this moment, you also work for me. You may continue to do his bidding, but the final word will hereby only come from my lips.” She slid the frames unevenly across Tori’s face. “There. Better?”

  Tori adjusted the fit and nodded. “Yes. Much…better.”

  “From this juncture, you are my ears and eyes when I’m not around. You answer to me, and you will report to me. You’re my imp now.” Beatrice went to light a cigarette. “Your first task will be to remove Monday’s appointment from the agenda. Tell your boss that Seth got sick or held up, and he won’t be needed in the office till later on.”

  “I don’t know…how I’m supposed to do that,” Tori said. “He’ll probably get mad—really mad.”

  “And I don’t rightly give a damn. You’ll figure it out.”

  Tori nodded her head reluctantly. “What should I do about Seth?”

  “Nothin’. Let him come on in as scheduled.”

  Another reluctant nod. “Okay…what about me? Should I come in, too? As scheduled?”

  Beatrice turned and headed for the door. “Hmm. Good catch, there. You might want to delay your Monday morning commute a little. Things could get rowdy.” She went to leave but halted when a thought hit her. “Oh, Tori. One more thing, a favor. Head back upstairs. You’ll find a thin pile of papers on the edge of Doug’s desk. It’s an addendum to our ongoing operations outside the fence. As of a minute ago, they’ve been approved for dissemination. Please see to it that they are distributed appropriately to our teams. Enjoy your weekend.”

  Chapter 8

  Trout Run Valley

  Hardy County, West Virginia

  Saturday, January 8th

  Lauren arose from bed hours before dawn. Shrouded by her bedroom’s darkness, she slipped off her flannel pajamas and let them fall to the floor. She located a pair of 5.11 Tactical pants on the edge of her bed, a gift from her bearded friend Santa, and an expedition-weight wool crewneck, the type typically worn as a base layer by skiers beneath their parkas. She’d chosen this one because it was both breathable and warm and would keep the valley’s near-Arctic early morning temperatures at bay, even when worn as a single layer. But it also permitted freedom of movement; she could articulate her arms in all directions with very little restriction.

  She tiptoed her way to the front door in her socks, careful not to create any unnecessary noise. Lauren then knelt and laced her boots, tied them in double knots, rose, and efforted the door open. Out she went into the cold darkness, slowly at first, allowing time for her eyes to adjust organically. A small day pack of supplies clinging to her shoulder, she jogged a parallel route with the driveway to the gate and the road beyond.

  Lauren hadn’t brought her sidearm along and had left her pocketknife at home. She’d done this on purpose, preferring not to have any weapons on her person. She didn’t want to risk what she was about to do escalating beyond the point of no return.

  Richie’s actions had been inexcusable and, for all Lauren knew, had been done for no other reason than to spite her for having refused him in the past. Things he’d said had been overheard, subsequently misinterpreted, and had ultimately caused more harm than good. She and John were no longer a couple. She’d reflected on how it had gone down and had thought of him every day since their breakup. It couldn’t be helped; John was all she knew, all she had known. He had been the only person Lauren had ever furiously loved, the only man to whom she had willingly and consensually given her heart. Even so, John had slipped away from her almost as effortlessly as he’d drifted into her life.

  Richie had acted as a catalyst, a facilitator at best, but he hadn’t been the root cause. Lauren knew she was the one solely at fault. Richie’s actions had added more fuel to the fire, but hers had set it alight, and finding a way to smother it now didn’t seem possible.

  Her feet carried her along Trout Run Road until the point of making a right-hand turn into a rural subdivision of previously abandoned homes, several of which had been converted into barracks for Richie, Neo, and the remaining members of Dave Graham’s unit ordered into the valley. The group had been prepared to assemble a temporary encampment and sleep in bivouacs or canvas tents inseparate of the elements, but Michelle wouldn’t hear of it. If permanent shelter was available, they were to use it, no questions asked. It was the least the valley’s residents could do in return for delivery and distribution of much-needed supplies and provisions and its newly bestowed security detail.

  Richie, as one of the unit’s junior NCOs, or noncommissioned officers, had taken the first house on the right along with a handful of other soldiers. On fire watch this morning was Private Second Class Will Sharp, a twenty-something infantryman Lauren had met years ago while training at Point Blank range. Will had been one of Richie’s friends at the time, but he’d never made a habit of openly admitting it. The two clashed over practically everything. Richie’s moral compass had always been skewed, whereas Will’s had remained fairly calibrated. He was also easy on the eyes and had a set of charming mannerisms that Lauren appreciated, but Will had always given off an air of reservation for reasons she hadn’t yet deciphered.

  Will was standing sentry at the edge of the driveway, and Lauren slowed her pace, adding caution to her steps. She clicked her tongue to garner notice, then called to him in a succinct, forced whisper. “Will!”

  The soldier snapped to attention, his head yoking in Lauren’s direction, NVDs soon finding and locking on to her. He held up a halting hand at first and took a quick look around before warily waving her in, his other hand meeting his chin, index finger perpendicular to his lips.

  Lauren made her approach. Still whispering, she asked, “How goes it? All parties counting sheep?”

  “Yeah, that’s affirmative,” Will said with a quick nod. “No one’s set to rise for at least two hours.”

  Lauren peered away from him, to the house. “Perfect.”

  Will studied her. “It sounds as though Lauren approves.”

  “I do. Very much so.”

  “Well, that’s good, and I’m glad, I guess. This is a bit difficult for me to gauge. You never told me what this was all about.”

  “I haven’t for good reason.”

  Will angled his head inward. “And that reason is?”

  “Plausible deniability,” Lauren crooned. “It’s better you don’t know.” She slipped her pack off and reached inside, extracting three packs of Marlboro Light brand cigarettes, each one encased in shiny cellophane. “Anyway, per our agreement. A deal’s a deal.”

  Will stowed his night vision and leaned in, taking hold of the prize. “Damn, you weren’t kidding, were you? Where did you get them? And please tell me there’s more where they came from.”

  Lauren grinned. “I know someone with a doomsday stash who’s recently given up the habit. It’s no bottomless pit, though. Supplies are limited.”

  “Ration protocol it is. Rest assured, I’ll cherish each one of them,” Will said, then sent Lauren a careful glance as she knelt and dug into her pack once more, removing a camp stove and matching isobutane canister.

  She mated them, placed a titanium cup over the burner, and filled it with water from a Nalgene. She then twisted the gas valve open and lit the burner to a gentle hiss. Rising, she caught Will’s stare. “What? Do you think it’s too loud?”

  He gestured to the contemporary fire-starting device in Lauren’s hand. “No, it’s fine. But I could use a light.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  Lighter in his grasp, Will unwrapped the cigarette pack and tore the foil from the top, then placed the filters to his nose. “Goddamn. They’re probably stale as hell, but they smell great.” He lit one up between his lips and blew out a puff of smoke. “Yep. I was right. Undeniably stale…but otherwise, damn near orgasmic.”

  Lauren giggled at the remark, vetoing when Will went to hand her back the lighter. “Keep it. I have plenty
.”

  He smiled and nodded, then pocketed the Bic. “So, what’s with the stove? Are you making hot chocolate for us?”

  “No, sorry. Didn’t bring any…I just need some warm water.”

  “For what?”

  “For…a while.”

  The young soldier smirked. “Riiight. Okay, come on, time’s up. Level with me.”

  “About what?”

  “About this whole…thing you’re doing. It’s borderline shady, a little cloak and dagger, and I’m growing suspicious. Shoot me straight, it’s about Richie, isn’t it?”

  Lauren turned away. “We have some unfinished business.”

  “That was a roundabout answer, but it sure sounded like a yes.” Will cradled his rifle and took another drag. “And I’m guessing however you’re planning to finish the business you have with him can’t be good.”

  “You’re two for two.”

  Will rolled his lips together. “Lauren, listen. Nearly everyone who’s encountered him knows he’s a weasel, and I have no doubt he’s been a thorn in your side.”

  “He’s been far worse than that,” Lauren said. “What he did this time…was unconscionable. It’s caused me and someone special to me a lot of pain…and he deserves some pain of his own.”

  “Pain, huh?” Will studied the burning stove, then scanned her head to toe. “You don’t have anything on you, do you?”

  “That depends.”

  “Weapons?”

  Lauren shook her head. “No. No weapons.”

  “What do you have in the pack?”

  “Items befitting the benign category, nothing dangerous. Water, snacks, extra layers…gloves.”

  “What kind of gloves?”

  “Just…gloves. Got to protect these hands,” Lauren said, beaming.