Broken Honor

by Potter, Patricia;

  “I thought you wanted him in office.”

  “He’s not as malleable as I thought. And now he’s trouble. Do it as soon as you find out what she has.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The phone slammed down.

  Amy straightened. They were passing Rock Creek Park. They should reach Georgetown soon. For a moment, she allowed her mind to wonder about Dustin. Two homes in very expensive places. She wondered where he’d gotten the money.

  She wondered if Irish had the same question. She moved closer to him, placing her hand on his knee. She felt the heat of his skin under the denim of his jeans. He glanced at her and gave her the crooked grin she loved. It was probably meant to be reassuring. She didn’t need reassurance when she was with him.

  It was only when … he wasn’t with her. Then she realized the emptiness of not having him in her orbit. She’d never really felt empty or lonely before. She’d always thought she had a wonderfully rich life. Now she couldn’t imagine living without him.

  Irish’s cell phone rang. He’d been forced to turn it back on. He had to know what was happening in Maryland.

  “Yes?” he said.

  She couldn’t hear the other end of the telephone, but she saw the frown on his face and the almost invisible slump of his shoulders.

  “What did you do with them?” His voice tightened.

  Then, “Well, it was worth a try. Thanks, Mike.”

  Irish put down the phone. “Everything went exactly as planned,” he said.

  “No one hurt?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “The … burglars were out-of-town talent. They received a telephone call. A voice they didn’t recognize offered ten thousand dollars if they burglarized a certain house and disposed of the people in it. They weren’t among the best Mike has seen.”

  “How did they get paid?”

  “They picked up the money in a locker at the train station in Baltimore.”

  “Are they lying?”

  “I don’t think so. Tag has a way of convincing people to talk.”

  “Tag?” she said incredulously.

  “Tag,” he confirmed.

  “What did he do with them?”

  “Called the police. They said they were Dustin’s friends, staying at his house. Came home, noticed a window open and the alarm turned off.”

  “But we don’t know any more than we did?”

  “Not immediately. There might be some string leading back to their employers, and now that Dustin is publicly involved, I think we can find substantial interest from the feds. Your Sally Eachan might also have something interesting for us.”

  She stared at him. “You planned that,” she accused.

  “What?” he asked innocently.

  “That something would happen in Dustin Eachan’s home so he would become more involved.”

  Irish shrugged. “He knew what we were after.”

  “Did he realize he would be in the headlines? He thought he would be involved only in your meeting someone from the opposition and planting the seed that you knew more than you did.”

  “He had to consider the possibilities,” Irish said.

  “But they did attack his vacation home,” she said. “They might go after his home here now.”

  “They used freelancers posing as burglars. I don’t think they would try anything at his Washington residence.”

  A ripple of apprehension ran through her. Although there had been an apparent effort to take or embarrass Sally earlier, no one had directly attacked Dustin. Until now.

  And Sally was at Dustin’s house.

  As if he sensed her change in mood, he speeded up. Within minutes they were in front of Dustin’s house. A light was on upstairs.

  Cars were parked tightly across the street. Irish parked across Dustin’s driveway, behind a car with official government plates.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  She watched as he went over to the car. In a minute, he was back. “Someone is lying in the front seat.” He handed her the cell phone. “Call the police. Tell them there’s an officer down. That will get them here fast.”

  After she made the call, he told her to call Dustin’s home number.

  It rang three times, then a machine answered. She shook her head. “No one answers.”

  The light upstairs went off.

  “Someone’s there,” he said. “I’ll go to the back in case they leave that way. If anyone leaves from the front.…”

  “I’ll press the horn,” she said.

  “Then get the hell out of the way.”

  They heard a distant siren. Without another word, Irish sped around the back.

  A minute passed. Or was it an hour? Then a muted noise, like a soft pop. A shout. The sound of sirens grew louder. Something was wrong. Amy took the pistol from her purse.

  He’d told her to wait. She hated stupid heroines in books. But what if Irish had been hurt? And Sally?

  A shot rang out, then another. She couldn’t wait. But could she even use the gun?

  She left the car and moved around to the back. One man was on the ground. Another was shooting. She saw Irish go backward and knew he was hit. The sirens were almost on them now. The assailant’s attention was on Irish, who’d dropped his gun. He aimed at Irish.

  Amy lifted her pistol. Her hand shook, and she used the other to steady it. She pulled the trigger.

  The man grunted and swung around, his gun still in his hand.

  Then they were surrounded by blue uniforms. “Get down, get down, get down.” The order echoed through the neighborhood.

  Amy obeyed. The man with the gun didn’t. He turned toward the police, still holding the pistol.

  A shot. Then another. A third. He went down.

  An officer came over to her. He looked at the pistol she’d dropped. “Ma’am?”

  She turned to Irish, who was kneeling. “He’s been hurt. Can I go to him?”

  “What happened here?”

  She ignored the question and darted toward Irish. It would take more than one officer to keep her away. Or two. Or three.

  She knelt next to him. “Irish?”

  In the light of the officers’ flashlights, he looked pale. Blood was dripping from his right wrist.

  Anguish filled her. He’d been wounded repeatedly on her behalf. She tore off a piece of her shirt and wrapped it around his wrist. “You never duck, do you?”

  His good hand clasped hers as he looked at the officer. “There should be a woman inside.”

  Three of the uniforms went inside. In a moment, one yelled. “We found her. She’s unconscious.”

  Another siren. Medics pushed her out of the way. Another ran inside.

  Amy clung to Irish’s hand as he refused a stretcher but agreed to go to the hospital. “Sally first,” he told the medics.

  They followed as the stretcher was carried from the house to the ambulance. Amy saw a too pale face. Emotion hit her then. Rage. Grief.

  She said a prayer that Sally would live, that the sparkling smile would continue to charm.

  And then there was the knowledge she—Amy Mallory—had shot someone. After seeing Sally, she knew she would do it again.

  Dustin was called out of the meeting. A Secret Service agent, along with a uniformed police officer and plain clothes detective, met him.

  He tried to mask his apprehension.

  “Sir, there’s been an assault on your home,” the detective said after displaying his credentials. “Shots fired. A woman—I believe she might be your cousin—is in the hospital.”

  “Where?”

  “Washington Memorial.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  The detective nodded. “We also got word from Maryland that intruders were captured in your house there. Had you loaned or rented it to someone?”

  Dustin nodded. “Yes, friends of mine.”

  “That solves one problem. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
>
  “Look, I’ll answer any questions you have, but first I want to see my cousin.”

  “An overdose of heroin,” the doctor said. “But we found her in time.”

  “She doesn’t use drugs,” Dustin said as he sat next to her bed. She was still unconscious, but his fingers intertwined in hers.

  “We checked her arms. There were no needle tracks.”

  Someone entered the room. “I’m Susan Etheridge, hospital spokesman, Mr. Eachan. Members of the press are in the lobby. They want to talk to you.”

  Dustin looked at Sally’s pale, battered face, the dark lashes sheltering her eyes, her limp hand. “No,” he said simply.

  The door opened and closed again.

  “How long will she be unconscious?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” the doctor said.

  Grief—and guilt—coursed through Dustin. He should have been with her. He couldn’t even imagine the horror she’d experienced. Had she been conscious when the narcotic had been injected? Had she known what was going to happen?

  He leaned over. He ran his hand through her hair and touched her cheek. He loved her. He’d always loved her. He hadn’t wanted to admit it because he thought it had been so damned wrong. But now he knew he would risk anything to keep her safe, to keep her happy, to keep her with him.

  He willed a movement. The flicker of her eyes. He wanted her to know he was next to her. He didn’t give a damn about his job, about some small country thousands of miles away. He didn’t care about the family name. Hell, at this moment, he wished it was Smith.

  Irish refused to stay the night at the hospital, although the doctor urged it. He was silent, though, after he saw some of the other scars on Irish’s body. “You live dangerously, don’t you?”

  “I try to keep you in business,” Irish quipped as the doctor bandaged his wound.

  Amy glared at him.

  The doctor looked from one to another as he finished. “It’s going to hurt like blazes. The bullet nicked the bone. I’ll write a prescription.”

  “I’ll make sure he takes it,” Amy said.

  The doctor nodded. “There’s a slew of detectives outside. Want a few moments alone?”

  Irish gave her the crooked smile that always affected her heart in erratic ways. “Thanks.”

  After the doctor left, Irish touched her face in the gentle way he had. “Thank you,” he said. “I think you saved my life.”

  “I barely hit him.”

  “Hit is the operative word,” Irish said. “Enough to distract him. You’re a pretty gutsy lady. Especially for someone who hates guns.”

  She felt her face growing red with pleasure.

  He bent his head and kissed her. Hard.

  Gratitude?

  Her lips parted, and she tasted him. She closed her eyes and uttered a prayer of thanks that he was here. Next to her. Alive.

  Then she felt something wet on her cheek. Tears. She felt his lips wiping them away. She bit her lower lip. She didn’t want to cry. She wanted to be brave and unemotional. Just like him. Not some teary-eyed woman.

  “Ah, love,” he said, and his voice was ragged.

  Not unemotional. Her heart sang. She clung to him like an emotional woman. He hugged her tight like an emotional man.

  Their lips met again, and they kissed like two people glad to be alive and in love.

  “One of them is still alive,” said a detective. “He knows the other is dead, and he can be charged with murder as a consequence of a criminal act, as well as three counts of attempted murder, assault on a federal officer, burglary, and assorted other felonies.”

  The detective, an FBI agent, and a member of the CID, along with two uniformed officers, sat in a conference room in the hospital. Amy and Irish refused to leave for the police precinct until they saw Sally Eachan. They had agreed to tell all they knew in what was called a “preliminary” interview.

  “Why didn’t you contact the police?” the detective said.

  “We did. In Memphis. They couldn’t help us. They said they didn’t have the resources to protect Dr. Mallory.”

  “So you decided to take matters in your own hands?”

  “Not at all. We had an appointment with Miss Eachan tonight. We didn’t know.…”

  “I’ve talked to your office, Colonel. They’ve been trying to find you. Seems you leave chaos wherever you go.”

  “Not him,” Amy said. “Me. He’s just been trying to protect me.”

  “And Mr. Eachan? What’s his part?”

  “He has no part. I sought him out after learning that his grandfather and mine served together.…”

  Amy watched Irish as he told the story. The FBI agent took notes, then stopped the conversation and made a phone call. In thirty minutes, two other agents appeared, and Irish started again, quickly running through everything they knew or suspected.

  “So you were involved in the burglary of Mr. Eachan’s Maryland home?”

  “Only in that we were staying there. Some buddies of mine were helping protect Dr. Mallory. They apparently walked in on the burglary in progress.”

  Amy knew he was protecting his friends, possibly sacrificing his own career by not being entirely truthful. She had always insisted on the whole truth, black and white, and now she was seeing varying shades of gray. She decided to try to change the subject. “What about the man who was wounded?”

  “We’ll talk to him. He’s in the hospital prison ward. I think, with everything we have, he might be willing to talk to us.”

  “He should be guarded,” Irish said. “Now.”

  One of the agents nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  Irish looked at his watch. “It’s four in the morning. I’m tired. I know Dr. Mallory is. We want to see Miss Eachan. Can the rest of this wait until tomorrow?”

  Amy chimed in. “The doctors even wanted to keep Colonel Flaherty here. He needs rest. He’s lost a lot of blood. And we’re the victims here.”

  The detective who apparently had jurisdiction looked at the others. The leading FBI agent nodded.

  “Noon tomorrow,” the detective said. “I want your word you both will be at my office.”

  “Make it two,” Irish said.

  “Two, then,” said the detective as he rose from his seat.

  Amy and Irish went down the hall to Reception, asked about Sally’s whereabouts, then took the elevator to Critical Care.

  They found Dustin pacing outside. “The doctor’s inside,” he said.

  “How is she?”

  “She’s still on a respirator, but the doctor thinks she’ll make it. Thank God they left a syringe next to her so the doctor knew what he was dealing with. A few more minutes.…”

  “I’m so sorry,” Amy said.

  “Don’t be. If it weren’t for you, she probably would have died. They meant her to die,” he said with rage he didn’t try to hide.

  “Is she conscious yet?”

  He nodded. “Just barely. Not enough to answer any questions.”

  “We don’t know what she found, then?”

  “No, and at the moment I don’t care,” Dustin said. “I just want.…”

  His voice broke, and he turned away.

  Irish was silent a moment, then said, “We’re going to a hotel and try to get some sleep. The police want to talk to us at two. Perhaps we should talk first.…”

  Dustin frowned. “Just tell them what happened. I intend to resign. Sally doesn’t have anyone.…”

  “Don’t do anything too hasty,” Irish said. He held out his hand.

  Dustin took it. “I’ll call you on your cell phone if anything happens. No one can approach the house. It’s taped off as a crime scene. I also asked that it be guarded.”

  “Our friends should be in shock now.”

  “I just hope it’s over.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Irish said. “She and Amy have a lot in common. They’re both resilient. And a lot tougher than they look.”

  “She is, isn’t
she?” Dustin said wryly. “I always thought she was fragile … like a butterfly. She said I was like a drone bee.”

  “I don’t think she thought that at all,” Amy said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Her eyes always said something else altogether.”

  Dustin pulled out a credit card. “Use this when you check into a hotel. It’s a State Department credit card. After today, I doubt they’re in any position to go after you, but you might as well be safe.”

  “And you?”

  “A necessary expense,” Dustin said. “Use the name of John Smythe.”

  “Smythe?”

  “Our couriers use it sometimes. It’s a little better than Smith.”

  Irish thrust out his hand. “You’ll be all right?”

  Dustin took his. Their gazes met, and Irish saw something there he hadn’t seen before. Uncertainty. Warmth. “Yes,” Dustin said. “You can find me here if you need anything.”

  Irish still hesitated, then said awkwardly, “Tell Sally we’ll be by tomorrow.”

  Dustin nodded, then turned back to the door of the room.

  Irish lay awake and looked at Amy. His wrist hurt like hell, and he couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t want any pills.

  It wasn’t over yet. They had won a number of battles, but he wasn’t sure they had won the war.

  He liked looking at her. She slept quietly. Her head lay against his arm, and her face was turned toward his. It wore a tranquil expression.

  They’d not made love this morning. She obviously feared hurting his wrist. He knew she was emotionally and physically exhausted. They just needed to be together, to savor the presence of the other without any demands, to revel in the warmth of each other’s bodies, to relish just being alive. They hadn’t needed words.

  They hadn’t, he realized, needed them for a long time. She was as much a part of him now as any of his appendages. He couldn’t imagine breathing air that she didn’t breathe, or living a day without seeing her, or sleeping without her at his side.

  He put his arm on hers. He really didn’t want to sleep. He hadn’t worked out a way for them to be together.

  He could give up the military. He had little doubt that after the past few weeks, he’d effectively destroyed any chance of promotion. He had more than twenty years in, and he could retire—but to what? His ranch in Colorado was fairly isolated. It would be impossible for her to find a comparable teaching position.