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...”
That wasn’t exactly true. Remy had a medical degree—among others—she just didn’t regularly practice medicine. But she was all they had until someone more qualified entered the witness protection program.
Abigail muttered, “Maybe I’ll go talk to Sheriff Mason again. The military would have to fly someone in if there was a medical emergency. Why wait until it’s too late?” She glanced at Beth, looking her up and down but not meeting her eyes.
Like she was a specimen.
Beth brushed off the thought and shook her head. “I think I’m just going to go talk to Remy.” She tried to smile.
Abigail followed her to the front hall where Beth slipped on her shoes and wool coat.
“Some air and a walk will do me good.” She didn’t wait for Abigail to argue with her some more. She hadn’t been lying about needing air.
The walk to Remy’s would take twenty minutes, which was about the farthest distance between two residential houses if you didn’t count the outlying ranch or the farm. That was because Remy lived on the south side of Main Street, while Beth and her mom had been placed on the north side of town when they arrived. Now she lived in the same house, with her mother-in-law in the guest room.
Beth’s foot caught, and she almost tripped. Quickening her pace, she made it to the back of the gym, Sleight of Hand. She wasn’t going to hide in the studio room and dance right now. Maybe later today if she felt better. It wasn’t a work out, but there was something about ballet that always seemed to clarify her focus.
Today she ducked around the corner and leaned her back against the outside wall of the gym. Squeezing her eyes shut, Beth’s heart cried for her mother. She’d left Sanctuary early one morning to meet up with Beth’s father. And she never came back.
John had told her the grisly details, but she almost wondered if not knowing the details would have been better.
Beth put her hands to her thighs and leaned forward to suck in breaths. Her mom was never coming back. Only Pop’s God knew where Sam was. She’d always thought that if God loved someone that meant He would keep them safe. But He hadn’t kept her parents safe. Did that mean Sam was going to die, too?
Beth swallowed down the emotion and straightened. This wasn’t going to end if she fell apart. Losing it would not help the situation; in fact, it would probably make it worse.
Crossing Main Street at the east end, Beth could see the farm stretched out before the mountains. The idea was for Sanctuary to be as self-sufficient as possible, and Dan Walden, the farmer, was doing an excellent job growing produce year-round in his green houses. He also raised small animals. If it didn’t smell like compost over there, she’d have walked down the road to his farm weeks ago just to shake his hand.
The sun had peaked over the mountains, and the sky was blue. The air still held that January chill she was used to from living years in New York. Maybe one day she’d move to New Orleans, or some tiny beach town on the Texas coast. She’d sit on a bench in old lady clothes and tell all the younger folk about the years she danced on stage in New York and the time she was in witness protection. Of course, no one would believe her.
“Mornin’.”
Beth smiled at Hal’s aging biker face and grabbed his leather-jacketed forearms—complete with tassels. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Sight for sore eyes.”
He chuckled a deep, rasping sound.
“Walk me to the doctor?”
“Sure, darlin’.”
Beth slipped her hand through Hal’s arm. “How is the radio station treating you?”
He squinted toward the sun. “Did you know they call my music ‘golden oldies’?”
“The nerve.” She laughed. “It’s not old, its classic.”
“Quality is what it is.”
Beth smiled.
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
She glanced sideways at him.
“Okay, so you’re fooling most of them. But not me.”
Or Michael. “I know.” She pressed her lips together, and they walked. “I’m…okay. Well, not ‘okay’ exactly. But I’m okay.”
Hal snorted. “That’s what I mean.”
She squeezed his arm with hers.
“What do you need?”
She needed Sam. But she said, “Nothing.”
Too much would be risked if Beth didn’t finish this to the end. People’s lives, the safety of this town. Why did this have to be a WITSEC town? Every one of these people had been threatened enough, some of them horrifically. Regular people wouldn’t be less at risk, but she’d come to care for the residents of Sanctuary. Even the ones she didn’t know. Most went out of their way to share their condolences with her. She’d made friends with Frannie and Matthias, with Nadia Marie, the salon owner, and Andra, the sheriff’s wife.
After years of living in the back-stabbing, cut-throat world of professional dance and being the recipient of cold looks and snide comments, she hadn’t realized what good people were like. Or how they treated others. It was the first time in her life she felt part of something good and honest.
Now she just had to not get them all killed.
They stopped at the gate of Remy’s house, and Hal turned to her. “Want me to walk you inside?”
She kissed his cheek again. “It wouldn’t hurt if you asked Abigail out for coffee, or maybe even dinner. Give me a night off.”
His eyes widened.
“You’re not going to take one for the team and help me out?”
“I’m not sure, ah…” He coughed. “That my lady friend would, ah, approve exactly.”
Beth laughed, delighted the man had found someone. “How long has this bee
n going on? Who is she?”
“Ah…” His gaze searched the street.
“Maybe you can buy me a coffee and tell me then. You could bring her.”
He swallowed. “Maybe.”
Beth knocked on Remy’s door, the smile still on her face. The people here, the sunshine, it all helped to chase away the darkness and the memories of the mother she’d never see again and her father, who had never missed seeing whatever new show she had danced in.
When Remy didn’t answer, Beth turned the handle. No one locked their doors in Sanctuary, except the store owners. Although entering someone’s house was at-your-own-peril. The mayor’s wife had been murdered a few months back, before Beth had come here. The pastor had been killing people for years, and he’d nearly killed Frannie, too.
Statistically, the future wasn’t too bright.
“Remy?”
She knocked on the wall as she walked down the hall.
The living room was empty, the coffee table covered with open books and scattered papers. At the back of the house, the dining room had been converted into an office with a bank of computer monitors. The tower under the desk hummed, and papers had been tacked all over the walls. Remy’s precise sprawl was over nearly every inch of the room from floor to ceiling. Calculations?
Remy was face down at her computer.
Beth nudged her shoulder. “Hey, doc.”
Remy sucked in a breath and straightened, mumbling. “You kissed me.”
Beth laughed. “Good dream?”
Remy pushed her frizzy red hair back from her face and blinked at Beth. “Oh, it’s you.”
“You seem disappointed.” Beth glanced around. “Not exactly a sterile examining room.” A wave of nausea crested over her, and she put her hand on her stomach.
Remy jumped up, returning seconds later with a bottle of water. She broke the seal and handed it to Beth.
Ice cold liquid tumbled down her throat, easing the ache in her stomach. “Thanks.”
“Morning sickness?”
Beth shrugged. “Wrong time of the day. I always threw up closer to lunch.”
Remy’s lips twitched in a smile. Her glasses lay on the desk, discarded along with a balled up tissue and an empty mug. Without her glasses, Remy’s eyes were an unusual shade of green. “Something you ate?”
It was going to sound crazy if she admitted she thought her mother-in-law might be trying to kill her.
“Food poisoning will work its way through your—”
“Okay, now I feel sicker.”
Remy smiled. “Drink plenty of fluids, and I’ll come check on you later tonight.” Swishing her mouse back and forth on the desktop, Remy typed faster than Beth could keep up. She pulled up a calendar and then entered a note for that day. She turned back to Beth. “Everything okay otherwise?”
Beth thought for a moment. “Everything is still the same.”
Remy nodded slowly. Then she brushed off whatever she’d been thinking and smiled. “Want to hear the heartbeat?”
Beth grinned. “Yes.”
Remy crossed to a desk on the opposite side and pulled out a hand-held monitor. No matter what happened over the next few weeks, if this baby boy’s life was put in danger, Beth would call Sam and get out. She’d been taught every life was precious, but this baby was in her. Sam’s baby was in her.
And there was no way she was going to let him get hurt.
**
Snowflakes clung to his beard and hair as he climbed the hill, the backpack snug against his back. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, his lips dry and chapped.
Nearly there.
The rim of the mountain was almost a mile above the basin below, firmly entrenched in January snow. At the top, his eyes scanned every tree, every bush, but he saw nothing. Swinging his backpack around, he drew out a sensor and waited for it to boot up.
As soon as the display lit up, it began to beep with a proximity alarm. Motion sensors. Heat sensors. This place had it all.
But he was prepared.
**
An hour later, three hundred miles away in an air force control room, an alarm went off.
“What’s that?”
Ensign Darren Hall, whose wife was pressuring him to start their family before he was ready, and who’d had way too much to drink the night before, glanced at the screen. This was the most boring job in the world; monitoring a science experiment on Idaho wildlife for the Department of Agriculture. He was supposed to have been flying fighter jets, but he’d failed the medical exam.
Darren shook his head and took another sip of military strength coffee. “Don’t worry about it. Probably just a deer.”
Chapter 4
Sam drove the rusty truck into his home town just before seven in the morning, down familiar streets to Pop’s old church. Just being here made the ache in his leg ease. The knit beanie touched his ears and eyebrows, but he’d still have to be careful about who saw him. He was a fugitive—but only if someone actually saw him, and the world realized he was alive.
In the past twenty-four hours he’d been in a helicopter, three different airplanes, and then smuggled into the country with a dummy passport in a false name.
Tommy was the one who’d done wrong, and yet Sam couldn’t help feeling like a criminal. His head was still reeling from the implication of all this being connected. The president and Susan had been murdered and Sam discredited and nearly killed, all within weeks. He couldn’t imagine what Beth was going through.
But Sam couldn’t go to his wife without fixing all this first. The memory of his dead brothers and the savage way they had been killed demanded justice from Tommy. The mystery surrounding his in-law’s deaths had to be unraveled.
As much as Sam might wish it wasn’t the case, working with Ben was the only way that was going to happen. Beth would be safe with his mom in the meantime. He didn’t know how Grant had convinced her to go to Beth, but he was glad his mom was helping. Hopefully she was helping.
Sam turned off the engine and pulled his hood up over the beanie before climbing out.
The old wooden door creaked. Sam pulled a breath through his nostrils.
Pop, Bibles, and musty air. He limped through the foyer into the sanctuary, where a middle aged man, dressed as a minister, swept the wood planks between the front row pews and the podium. He paused and looked up. Dark eyes, not the compassionate gaze of a servant. “Can I help you?”
Sam would give him the benefit of the doubt, since he probably looked like a thug in comparison. “I’m looking for Watson Myerson.”
“Isn’t everyone,” the man grumbled. “I’m the new pastor.”
Sam’s insides froze.
“Did you know the old guy?” The man came over, his hand stretched out. As they shook, the pastor’s eyes turned assessing. Not something Sam had seen in his grandfather’s dealings with parishioners. But this guy was new. Maybe even just out of seminary, despite his age.
But Sam wasn’t here for answers to that. His pop had been in this church almost every day, serving for nearly fifty years. Where had he gone?
“You could say I knew him.” Sam swallowed. “What happened to him?”
“Had a heart attack in his chair.” The new pastor jerked his thumb toward Pop’s office.
Sam stared at the closed door, unable to even process the emotions running through him. Pop was…gone? As in, dead? No, that couldn’t be right. In every scenario he’d ever run through in his head it had been Sam who was killed—sent home in a box for his grandfather to bury.
He’d never expected to outlive the old man.
“At least he never heard about his grandson. Have you seen the news?” The new pastor lifted his chin. “A traitor to America—for real. His teammate, who he tried to kill, too, has been all over the talk shows the past few days.”
Sam gritted his teeth and turned aside. “Mind if I look around?”
“What did you say your name was?”
Sam glanced back at him. “I didn�
�t.” He took a step toward Pop’s office. Would it look the same, or had this man gutted it and donated Pop’s lifetime collection of theology texts and knick-knacks to thrift stores?
Sam wasn’t going to leave here without paying his respects, or without grabbing the old man’s Bible if he could.
He got two steps before the new pastor lunged. At the last second Sam saw the long blade of a knife come toward him.
He slammed the man’s wrist then hit his jaw with a left hook.
The minister stumbled back to wipe blood from his mouth. “I’ve been waiting weeks for you, since I stuck that old man with a needle.” His Yankee accent dissolved into the harsh edge of a Russian national.
Sam jumped at him. He hit the man square in the chest with his shoulder. They both went down, Sam on top. An explosion of breath expelled from the pretend minister’s lungs. Sam hit him, over and over again.
The Russian threw Sam off, and both men wasted no time getting back on their feet
Sam came at him again with a punch combination Tura had taught him. The events of the last few weeks had left him physical and mentally drained, but he didn’t let it stop him. Or slow him down. He pushed aside the pain in his leg and the peripheral thoughts in his head. This man had killed his grandfather. Did he think he was going to kill Sam, too? He would be harder to take down than an old man.
He kicked out, sprawling the Russian to his back. Sam’s breath hitched. “Who hired you to kill my grandfather?”
The Russian laughed, blood soaking his teeth. “You think I tell you?”
He kicked at Sam’s legs. Sam brought a low punch down to the side of his head. He pinned the man down and punched him again. And again.
“Sam.”
The sound of another voice arrested him. A voice that held so much authority, the way Pop’s had. He should have figured.
Sam sat back on his ankles, his knees straddling the Russian. Ben strode into the room, hands tucked in his pockets. Jeans. T-shirt. No gun that Sam could see. That was okay, Ben could borrow one of Sam’s if he was here to help. Though they wouldn’t be killing this guy anytime soon. They had to get answers first.
Sanctuary Breached WITSEC Town Series Book 3 Page 4