Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy)

by Rosa Turner Boschen

  'And, if you stumble, Mark, they'll cut your legs so damn short you'll never dance again.'

  Mark walked the corridor back to his office lost in thought. Who will cut your legs so damn short you'll never dance again? For some reason Mark suspected it was the DOS and not the LPP. And for another reason that wasn't quite clear, Mark had a hunch Cromwell believed himself to be the one locked out of the show.

  But how could he think that when he was the one calling the shots? The implausibly lunatic shots? What had gotten into him? Nothing about this case was by the book. Cromwell had said his interest in Ana's safety was personal, but how? This was the tip of the iceberg. Somehow, there was more. If Mark could only unlock it.

  Pete Jarvis led Joe through the inner sanctum of the DOS operations center. The commotion assaulted them the moment they passed through the reinforced, soundproof doors. Against the far wall, large-screened monitors braided with lime green coordinates sat in a neat array beneath an impressive continuum of topographical maps. Analysts sat furiously punching keypads, some of them wearing headphones with mikes attached. Sound bites ripped out of radios, irregular electronic bleeps punctuating the air. The large octagonal table in the center of the room was littered with operations orders for their current mission, an exercise in the Arizona desert featuring a simulated chemical weapons attack.

  Joe had experienced enough real life scenarios to be impressed but Jarvis seemed enthralled with the environment as he showed him around. Even though Joe had the highest clearance available, as a DOS outsider, he was not allowed to venture through the building unescorted.

  At least the kid seemed to have some enthusiasm for the job. Seemed to know where everything was in this whole damn shop, every specialist by name.

  Besides, it was better than being trailed by the copper-haired woman whom he’d been assigned in the lobby. Joe didn’t know what she did for a living other than follow people around. Probably some non-essential function, one of those federal employees who didn’t have to come in on snow days. There’d been plenty of days when Joe had wished he’d been non-essential. But it was always during the ice storm of the century that his 'critical skills' were needed. Lucky for him, it never snowed in Costa Negra. He shivered at the thought of being penned in an igloo with her. She was probably not more than fifty, with a slender build, but had obviously gotten too much sun. It showed in her crinkly brow and the little lined bags under her eager eyes. He even thought he’d caught her stealing a glance or two at his tail. But then, maybe he’d imagined it. His tush wasn’t what it used to be, after all.

  'Come on,' Jarvis said. Joe realized he’d been staring blankly at the same wall map for several seconds. 'Gonna take you to my cubicle. Got some road maps you and Mr. Neal might find handy.'

  Joe shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, walking after him. He did a little swivel with his hips, stealing a quick glance over his shoulder. Maybe they could use a little tune up but the buns of steel still carried their weight.

  Denton was still in Mark's office, browsing through the Washington Post. Cathy leaned into the file cabinet behind him nursing a paper cup of coffee. He looked up from the crossword puzzle as Mark entered the room and dismissed the secretary with a nod of his head.

  'Okay, Denton,' Mark said, 'you're in.'

  'In what?'

  'Part of the team – what can I say?' Many things came to mind but he thought better of each of them. Denton folded the paper and dropped it onto the coffee table, his expression dazed. 'We leave tomorrow at thirteen hundred from Washington National. Get your packet from Cathy on your way out.'

  Scott rose to his feet in slow understanding. 'Whoa, hold on a minute. You've got this all wrong. I never said I'd –'

  Mark had started toward his desk but whirled suddenly on his heels and shoved a finger in Denton's face. 'You listen to me, you bleeding-heart wuss! The life of a woman, a woman you supposedly once loved, is on the line. We're short-staffed and can use your connections.'

  'Wait a minute. I was promised –'

  'Forget what you were promised. This is not a question of choice.'

  'Bullshit. I have rights. This is America, for crying out loud.'

  'No sir, this is the DOS. And whatever rights you had,' Mark said with a jerk of his chin, 'you gave up when you walked through that door.'

  Scott tried to slip by Cathy without retrieving his packet but she stayed on him, insisting Cromwell wanted a minute of his time. A minute he could do. But the DOS seemed to be asking a whole hell of a lot more.

  They couldn't really do this, could they? Scott had signed an agreement of confidentiality with the DEA and, besides, that was over nine years ago. He'd get his father to call a lawyer; that's what he'd do. If ever he needed his father's influence, it was now.

  Cathy led Scott to Cromwell's office and instructed him to sit in one of the empty chairs facing the large mahogany desk. She waited there until a staid older gentleman entered and took his seat.

  Scott was immediately thrown by his presence. What was driving his sense of imbalance?

  Although he was sure he’d never met George Cromwell, there was something eerily familiar about his eyes. Not the color, the expression. It was an accustomed feel, a spine-tickling sense of recognition.

  No, that was ridiculous. It was just that Cromwell made him feel inferior, like so many people did. And he resented every goddamned one of them.

  Scott waited a long while for Cromwell to say something. He finally looked up from some papers on his desk and began. 'I realize you're not too excited about accompanying Mr. Neal on his mission.'

  'To be honest, the idea terrifies me. I care about Ana, really I do. But the thought of getting tangled up in DOS affairs –'

  Cromwell’s face was mortar-like. 'What is it that troubles you most, Mr. Denton? The idea of being shot at or having to pull the trigger yourself?'

  Scott's pulse was racing; he was finding it hard to breathe.

  Where was this coming from? What was the point in bringing it all back now? He cleared his throat but his voice came out weaker than intended.

  'I don't fire guns.'

  Cromwell expertly withdrew an envelope from his top desk drawer. His tone was steady. He seemed to know he was in the lead.

  'Ah, but once you did. And with quite disastrous results.'

  Scott could feel his palms go moist and clammy, the perspiration build at the back of his neck.

  'If you’re referring to the accident –'

  'I see. The accident.' Cromwell looked up, squinting his eyes, as if trying to discern the truth. 'What a nice way to put it.'

  Panic gripped him by the throat, throttled by the old man’s eyes.

  'I was cleared of any wrongdoing.'

  Cromwell looked through his glasses. 'That very well may be, my boy. Past is past, after all. At least that’s how we like to keep things here at DOS. Now, some of those other groups around town aren’t quite so discriminating. Take the Justice Department, for example.'

  Scott dug his fingers into the arms of his chair. Maybe if he sat very still, it would all go away.

  'Something bothering you?'

  Scott could feel the pressure building inside his head. It was a horrific tingling sensation beginning at the base of his skull.

  He sprang to his feet. 'Look, I don’t know who you are or what this fricking DOS is supposed to be. But, I do know one thing – I have rights!'

  Cromwell raised his brow and returned to the envelope on his desk, extracting some legal-looking documents.

  'Rights? Hmm, let’s see. Oh, yes. That’s something like when one no-good, drug-snorting college kid cops a plea with Uncle Sam to inform for the DEA?'

  The revelation sent Scott sagging back into his chair.

  Cromwell returned the papers to the envelope and tightened its clasp. 'You are correct, Mr. Denton. U.S. citizenship does afford you certain rights. In this case, I’m granting you the right to choose.'

  This old geezer tho
ught he was God.

  'A: You cooperate fully, or B: You wind up in jail, where your shameless tail should have landed ten years ago.'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ana lay motionless, the small oxygen fan circulating just above her head. It would have been a blessing, she realized, to still be blindfolded. The low wood slats of the ceiling hung inches above her nose. She knew she couldn’t sit and that screaming would be futile. The stinging cotton wedged into her cheeks made it difficult to even breathe, much less swallow. The tiny battery-powered lightbulb at her feet was little consolation, serving only to make her more aware of her dismal surroundings.

  She was being smuggled. A very big prize.

  Through the walls of the crate she heard dock noises clanking in the background: the unfettered sound of steamships pulling out to sea. The slow steady whinny of a fork lift shimmying its way across the floor.

  The sound grew louder, then something hit the side of the crate with a bruising force. Her torso slammed into the opposing wall on impact, then settled back into place. She was again laying on her back, wrists fused together by the snake-like rope that burned its way up her forearms. The light at her feet flickered and went out. Then she felt herself moving up, up into the terrifying darkness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mark sat watching Camille across the tabletop at the cozy Middle Eastern restaurant near Dupont Circle. She had taken him here for a reason that had far more to do with his return than the fact he was leaving here tomorrow. Leaving again, as he always did when things got a bit too close. He’d never planned it that way. He’d just been lucky. Lucky enough to preserve what they’d had for the past three years.

  The waiter poured Mark’s wine and set the carafe down on the table beside the orange candle. Camille asked him about Costa Negra, but there was so little he could say. Their conversation had become awkward, both of them making stupid jokes and remarking on the latest political scandal. He was usually at ease in her company, but tonight there was an edge in the air that goose-pimpled his skin as they dined outdoors under a quarter moon.

  She suggested they go for coffee. He agreed, hoping to leave that uncomfortable feeling behind him. But it followed him to the upstairs book cafe where they dusted their Cappuccinos with powdery cinnamon.

  Camille introduced the topic casually, talking about what a good three years it had been, especially this last one. They’d gotten so close. He’d really opened up to her. She felt she knew him now. Him, and what he wanted. She wouldn’t cling. Would never cling. Had her own life and interests, after all. She knew it wouldn’t always be easy with the two of them traveling. But they had something – something worth keeping. Maybe it was time they thought about making a commitment.

  'Commitment?' Mark was taken aback, and it showed. He flagged down the waitress and ordered a second cup of coffee. A sheen of moisture draped across Camille’s soft blue eyes. Mark waited until his coffee was served, then pushed the cup aside. He had to work to keep his voice from breaking. 'Camille,' he said, taking her hands in his atop the small porcelain table, 'I had no idea.'

  'No idea?' She gently withdrew her hands. 'How could you? The signs have been there for months.'

  Signs? Signs? But, surely she didn’t mean... Mark felt guilty, responsible. He searched for the words, wondering how he could have missed it. He had thought their arrangement comfortable, mutual. But now he could see he was wrong, had been wrong from the start.

  'I don't know what to say.'

  Her voice was low, hopeful, her twisted lips trembling. 'Say you'll marry me?' Even though the conversation had been building in this direction, he was thrown. Marry her? How could he? He wanted marriage, longed for the freedom its stability would bring. His heart was a sail flapping in the wind, a gale really, and he’d searched a lifetime for that one woman who could tie it down, make him sail straight.

  He looked at her, his eyes revealing the answer.

  Camille lowered her head and raised a napkin to the corner of her eye. She swallowed resolutely, then looked up, newly composed.

  'Oh well,' she said with a brave smile, 'nothing ventured, nothing gained.'

  She swirled an extra packet of sugar into her coffee, trying to act as if she’d expected this outcome all along.

  She was as beautiful as ever, sitting there sipping her cappuccino with elegant aplomb, her artful fingers placed lightly around the steaming cup. How much simpler things would be if only he could lie to himself.

  But honesty was the one thing he had left. 'Shall I drive you home?' he asked, finally forcing the words.

  'If you don’t mind,' she said, her saddened eyes misting, 'I'd like to go to your place one last time.'

  He escorted her to his car and carefully ushered her into the seat.

  It was a long, quiet drive across the Potomac. He knew from her silence that she meant it. There was no way to fix it. No turning back.

  When they got to the door of Mark's brick townhouse, Camille opened her purse and took out a slender key.

  'Use mine,' she offered, gracefully returning his key so he wouldn't have to ask for it later.

  Camille always made things easy. Mark let them in and offered her a drink. 'Yes, but tonight I think I'll take wine. Better yet, do you still have that bottle of Cordon Negro I bought you?' She didn't have to explain what she meant. Mark knew. In many ways they shared an unspoken understanding, a comfortable familiarity. But Mark didn't want to be comfortable. He needed a relationship to consume him, excite him, in a way no other one had. He’d been flying solo for so long now that on the bleak days he wondered if it would ever happen. At times, he tried to convince himself that he should give up the dream, stay with Camille and just settle. The only problem was, he wasn’t the settling kind.

  So they drank to the good times and to each other, to the future and what – for each of them – that might bring. And then, they held each other and danced a long while to the old World War II tunes they loved. Tommy Dorsey wailing soft and low. I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places… Bing Crosby soliloquizing the moon. Moonlight becomes you…

  Slowly, the dancing led to one soulful lasting kiss, and then another, the second deeper, stronger than the first.

  Before they knew it, they were upstairs undressing by the light of a street lamp invading through the bedroom window.

  Mark stopped her, taking her by the shoulders as she was about to unhook her bra.

  'I want you to know this means something,' he said, needing to have her hear it.

  'I know it does,' she said softly, dropping her chin so he couldn’t see her eyes. 'I just wish it meant more.'

  He couldn’t answer, so instead pulled her to him where he sat half-undressed on the bed.

  I wish I could be here for you always, he wanted to say. I wish I could be that man you’re looking for. If he closed his eyes, maybe he could be that man – if only for tonight.

  He reached for her yellow-gold hair and pulled her on top of him, struggling against the single tear that gave him away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  'Anita, get up and get your grandfather some salt.' Ana looked down at the table. Something was wrong. 'Anita!' Her mother’s voice came clearer now. Harder. 'Yes, Ma–' She stopped herself. She’d been working against it for weeks. 'Mother.' She stood with an awkward jolt that sent knees knocking into wood, linen cloth flooding her legs.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong. She looked up with a start. Her grandfather was seated before her. A handsome Spaniard with an impressive gray moustache. An admiral’s uniform, gold braid decorating his shoulders. No, it was a photograph.

  He raised his glass of Rioja in her direction. A half-empty bottle with a Spanish label nested on the table between them.

  'Papacito,' her grandmother said, lightly nudging his arm. 'I have told you and told you the salt is no good.'

  No, impossible.

  'Anita!' her mother demanded.

  'Sorry, Mama,' she found herself giving in.
The kids had teased her in grammar school. By the time she’d entered the eighth grade, she’d decided to rid herself – of all of it.

  Mama had been among the first to go.

  She pushed out from the table, still feeling the fear there at her feet.

  'Anita had a suitor today,' Emi taunted, as she walked toward the kitchen.

  Emi sat, a tall waif, beside her grandfather. She had the innocent eyes of a doe, with a plump round mouth and breasts that had developed to match.

  Ana’s thirteen-year-old body was still a pancake in comparison. She cut her sister an angry glance.

  'A suitor?' her father bellowed from the corner. She couldn’t see him clearly above the candelabra’s glare. His voice was a deep baritone. 'What’s this about a suitor, Ana?'

  She easily found the salt on the kitchen counter. The back door was open, a gentle breeze filtering in through the screen with the evening light. She gripped the salt shaker more tightly, wanting to flee.

  'Ana, your father’s talking to you!' Her mother called. Honor thy father and moth er. It was the first rule in this house.

  She obediently came back into the dining room, unable to take her eyes from her grandfather. She set the salt down beside his glass, then tentatively took her seat at the table.

  Her mother’s face seemed fresher, less burdened than she remembered. 'Who was the young man?'

  Ana turned a scornful eye toward her sister. 'David. David Browne.'

  'Browne?' her mother asked with expectation. 'He’s the lawyer’s son. Is he not?'

  'Lawyer, shmawyer,' Emi said. 'His dad sells cars.'

  'New or used?' Papacito groused. It was the first time she’d heard his voice and it came as a

  shock. It was low and gravely from too much American whisky and probably one too many cigars.