Buried Agendas
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Buried Agendas
“Suspense, romance, high-tension, pitch-perfect pacing. Donnell Ann Bell is simply a terrific storyteller.”
—Allison Brennan, NYT bestselling author
Other books by
Donnell Ann Bell
Betrayed
Deadly Recall
The Past Came Hunting
Buried Agendas
by
Donnell Ann Bell
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
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Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-563-8
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-469-3
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 by Donnell Ann Bell
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
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Dedication
To Irma Barnes and Margaret Bell (R.I.P.)
My constant encouragers.
Author’s Note
Although Buried Agendas is a romantic suspense and not a war story, one of the threads in the book involves a reconnaissance mission to recover MIAs in Vietnam. Because I wanted to write about an era in which 1,641 servicemen and civilians are still missing in action, Buried Agendas is written slightly in the past. For this reason, the crux of the story begins in 2004.
Prologue
Diamond Texas, 1997
SHE’D BEEN SUMMONED. On a day hot enough to make the devil pray for shade.
“Wonder if you’d be good enough to stop by at ten. There’s a matter we’d like to go over with you.”
With those words in mind, Diana Reid drove the bumpy, graveled stretch of County Road Five, sweating from a lack of air conditioning and an abundance of fuming. The desert scenery and kicked-up dust did nothing to improve her mood.
A prenuptial agreement.
She had no need of a college degree to know the purpose of the meeting. Despite all the nods and smiles the night of their engagement party, Brad’s family thought she was a conniving, gold digging, poor person.
All right. She’d admit to poor. As for the other unflattering adjectives, she’d offered to sign a contract. Brad had laughed, taken her in his arms, and said there wouldn’t be one. But if that were true, why had his father and grandfather waited until her fiancé returned to Austin to call?
The ’85 Fiat bounced over the cattle grate of the Rolling J Ranch, and, as Brad’s childhood residence came into view, Diana prayed the transmission wouldn’t slip.
She parked under a cottonwood tree, not even pausing as she normally did to admire the Jordans’ redbrick home. Complete with a wraparound porch, a five-car garage, tennis courts, swimming pool, and a servants’ entrance, the property ordinarily took her breath away.
But nothing was ordinary this morning.
Her mom had stressed self-reliance. Thanks to a degree in journalism, Diana was on her way. Even so, dealing with the Jordans on a contractual level made Diana feel very small.
Brad would explode. She’d come to sign the agreement, but she was certain of her love for Brad Jordan, rich or poor, and nothing would keep her from sharing a life with him.
Still, she had something to say to his family.
Gingerly, she pulled up on the door handle of the Fiat. The dented and rusty door stuck if not managed just so.
Thank God she’d be in a position soon to afford car payments. Newly graduated from the University of Texas, she hadn’t needed a vehicle most of her college career. Now, transportation had become her first priority, the second to put the Fiat out of its automotive misery.
The door whined, but she gained a small victory when at least it opened. Diana looked to the cloudless sky. Please be a sign.
Shaking her hair free of its clip, she crossed the yard, trotted up the steps, and rang the bell.
Chances were good that at least one person in the home would welcome her. Enriqué, the Jordans’ houseman, always met her with a big old bear hug. But when Brad’s grandfather opened the door, her smile vanished, and so, too, did her fearless demeanor. She twisted the MIA bracelet she wore in honor of her father.
“Diana,” the silver-haired man drawled, “thank you for coming. Let’s get you out of this heat.” Gallantly, he extended his arm and stood aside for her to enter. In the preliminary stages of stooping, Clayton didn’t have Brad’s height. But there was no denying the family resemblance, particularly when his deep blue gaze found hers and he smiled.
Did she dare relax? Could she have misjudged his tone when he called, or the endless stares throughout the years, or the night of the party?
“How about some lemonade, young lady? I could use a cold drink.”
“That’d be great.” Measuring him with distrust, Diana followed him into a kitchen the size of her apartment. Her gaze floated over Corian countertops and stainless steel appliances as she glanced around for an ally. Where was Enriqué?
As though she’d spoken the question out loud, Clayton poured a glass while saying, “I sent Enriqué on an errand. John got a call from the plant, and, of course, Neil’s helping Brad move his things back from school.
“So it’s just you and me,” Clayton added, handing her the cold beverage. “We’re tickled pink about graduation, by the way. Now Brad tells us he plans to go to law school.” Clayton’s eyes narrowed and he raised the glass in mock salute. “Guess we have you to thank for putting the notion into his head.”
Diana shrugged and sipped the lemonade. “Brad thought of law school all by himself.”
“I’ll just bet he did.” Clayton frowned. “You know, his daddy’s not happy. He’s ready for those boys to get started and run the company side by side. But the idea’s growing on me. The Jordans could use a politician in the family.”
In spite of her nerves, Diana smiled. “Who said anything about politics?”
The old man cleared his throat. “Did I say politician? I meant lawyer, of course. Let’s step into the office for a spell.”
Unwilling to prolong the inevitable, she followed.
“John wanted to be here,” Clayton said. “But you know how it is when you run a business the size of Jordan Industries. Some things can’t be helped.” He stopped. “Lord, you’re pretty. Dark hair and eyes just like your mama. No wonder my grandson’s taken with you. Bet lots of men are.”
Heat rose up her neck and face. “Mr. Jordan, why am I here?”
“I wanted to get to know you.”
“We’ve had plenty of time to get acquainted. Why now?” With growing suspicion and resentment, she placed the glass on an end table and folded her arms.
Ignoring the false praise, she followed his movements. There on the desk, she saw it. A Pendaflex folder. Her intuition hadn’t failed her. “I take it that file’s for me, Mr. Jordan?”
“And direct.” He shook his head. “Another admirable trait. Yes, this file is for you. Frankly, I’m surprised you’d gathered as much.”
“I anticipated you and Brad’s father would want me to sign a prenup agreement.” She stepped closer. “I’m ready. Do you have a pen?”
“You have it all figured out, don’t you?” Clayton lowered himself into the chair behind the desk. His gaze turned stony and any semblance of warmth disappeared.
At the evil pervading the room, Diana resisted the urge to rub her arms and back away.
“In a way, you’re right,” he said, removing a file marked “Classified.” “I’m using this dossier to protect my family. Since you’re such an advocate of being direct, I think I’ll do the same.” He opened the file. “I’m not asking you to sign a damn thing, because as long as I live, you’ll never marry my grandson. For years, I’ve stomached the tales of your daddy’s war hero status. Hero, Diana? You’d be wise to take a seat. I’m prepared to tell the world differently.”
Chapter One
Eight Years Later, 2004
DR. ELIZABETH Garcia exited exam room three of El Paso’s Good Shepherd’s Emergency Room, leaned against the wall, and tried to remember the last time she’d slept a solid four hours.
She closed her eyes. A brief siesta, that was all she needed.
“Liz, there you are,” Dr. David Stanton said. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I need you.”
Her hand moved to her stethoscope as she opened her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Border patrol brought in another one. Agents can’t get him to talk, and I’ll never understand him.”
“Same rash?”
“Worse. He’s in trouble.”
Running with David, brushing past hospital personnel, Liz summoned her calm. David had to learn to communicate with these people. But now wasn’t the time to stress to her East-Coast-educated husband about the value of learning Spanish in a Texas border town. Drawing the curtain aside, she acknowledged the agents, then noted the Hispanic man’s thrashing body along with his cherry red, sweating complexion. A bitter odor, not distinguishable as one of the hospital smells, but one she’d noticed in two other patients, filled the enclosure.
David restrained the man by placing a forearm across his shoulders, and applied oxygen. “Temp’s one-hundred and four. I ordered a tox screen and a D5W IV.”
Liz nodded and referred to the chart. Pulse was rapid, blood pressure two hundred over one-forty.
The overworked nurse wheeled in the IV pole. Liz donned gown and gloves and threaded the catheter into a vein. “Sophie, get me ten milligrams of Diazepam.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied and immediately left the room.
“Señor, comé se llama?” Liz asked.
The man continued to struggle but didn’t give a name. Dammit, he was worse off than the others. With David still restraining him, she touched the patient’s forehead and found it hot to the touch. She pried open an eyelid. His pupils were dilated.
Next, she unbuttoned his shirt. When the cloth separated, she saw an oozing rash making his skin look like the consistency of raw hamburger. It covered his skin and ran the length of his torso. Far worse off than the others.
“Oh my God,” one of agents said.
At the raised voice, the stranger became agitated. The movement whipped him into a paroxysm of coughing, and he began choking up bright red blood.
The nurse entered with the syringe, and David picked up scissors and cut away the detainee’s pants as Liz injected the drug into his thigh.
“Masks and eye protection, stat,” David ordered, and then to the agents he said, “This man’s not going anywhere. You’ll have to leave.”
Without argument, the operatives abandoned their charge.
David helped Liz tie her mask.
Leaning close, she switched to Spanish. “Señor, help me. What do they call you, and how did you get this way?”
Hours later, Liz was the one who felt sick. David withdrew the crash cart, drew the sheet up over the man’s face, and met her gaze.
They walked into the physician’s locker room, and by tacit agreement, removed their masks and gowns and gave each other space.
David was the first to break the silence. “What did he tell you?”
Eyes welling, she lifted her head.
His arms went instantly around her. “Lizzy, we did everything—”
“I know,” was all her tight throat could manage. “Can you take my patients for the next couple of days?”
“If you need me to, of course. But these things—”
“I’m not falling apart. His name was Hector. He had a wife and children.” She slipped a T-shirt over her head and threw on her jeans. “After I serve his death notice, I’m making a stop to talk to an old friend in Diamond.”
“All right, but at least tell me why.”
“Those strange rashes we’ve been seeing”—Liz slammed the door to her locker—“I’ve discovered the connection.”
Chapter Two
BRAD JORDAN WAS beginning to think of sunrise as the normal start to his day. He pulled his Navigator into the mayor’s reserved spot at City Hall, his fiancée’s words echoing in his brain. Go back to billable hours, Brad. People think twice when a man’s time is expensive.
She had a point. During his three months in office, he’d been called in lieu of the fire department, as a substitute for directory assistance, and one constituent had even insisted he come out to repair a water main break.
He’d run on an open-door policy to replace an eighteen-year incumbent who had not. Obviously, the voters of Diamond were intent on Brad keeping his word.
The call that had roused him today wasn’t a nuisance call, however. Liz Garcia hadn’t made them when they were kids—as a practicing ER physician, she wasn’t likely to make them now.
“The earlier the better,” she’d told him. “I have to be back in El Paso by noon.” So, at 5:45 a.m., he slid his key into the rear entrance of City Hall’s glass-enclosed, wrought-iron door, making enough noise to alert the night watchman as he stepped inside.
Weapon raised, Wiley rounded the corner, a shock of white hair falling into his eyes. “Who’s there?”
Brad raised his arms, noting the security guard’s trembling hands. “It’s me, Wiley, Brad Jordan. You want to put that thing away.”
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Mayor.” Wiley made two attempts to holster his weapon and finally succeeded. “What in tarnation are ya doing here so early?”
Brad held back a sigh. The night watchman had been on the city’s payroll a lot of years. Never late, never sick, he was, however, fading in his ability to do this job. He was also mere months from retirement and from earning a full pension. Something Brad would never deprive him of—that was, if he had any choice.
The federal government had created the Department of Homeland Security after 2001, and law enforcement and government buildings had been in flux ever since. Recently, Brad had received notice from the Texas state governor that in the upcoming months, all government buildings under Brad’s jurisdiction were to be retrofitted with metal detectors, cameras, and enhanced security. All necessary, he agreed.
All he could hope was that Wiley would be happily enjoying his golden years by the time the policies took effect.
Brad walked with Wiley as far as the security counter, then paused. “In a few minutes, I’m expecting a woman by the
name of Dr. Elizabeth Garcia to stop by.”
“This early?”
“This early. When she gets here, direct her to the elevator, then to my office on the fourth floor. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t shoot her.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. Mornin’, Mr. Mayor.”
“Good morning to you, too, Wiley.” Smiling, Brad headed for the stairs.
A short while later, three sharp raps yanked him from a planning commission report.
“I’ve been out in your reception area, knocking,” Liz called from the doorway. “Want me to have a look at those ears while I’m here?”
“Wish somebody would.” Brad rounded his desk and pulled her into a hug. For as long as he’d known Liz Garcia, she’d worn her hair long. The shorter style brought out her warm onyx eyes. “Nice ’do.”
“Thanks.” She circled his office. “Nice digs. Do they expect you to live here?”
He grinned. “Sometimes I think they do.”
Her gaze roved over the mini-kitchen beside a cherry wood conference table, passed the matching bookshelves, and paused at the tax-payer-bought artwork. Brad hoped she wouldn’t ask for a tour. She’d discover how right she was. He was still incensed at the money the former mayor had spent renovating this office over the years—all on the backs of the taxpayers.
Admittedly, Brad had put the bathroom to use. Complete with a marbled steam room and mirrored walk-in closet, it was an ostentatious nightmare. Nevertheless, with the hours he’d been working, he’d turned the space into a makeshift gym, even hauling his weights into the space from the ranch—using his own money, of course.
Leading Liz to a wingback chair, he asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“Not for me, thanks. I hated to wake you.”
“I couldn’t have gone back to sleep if I wanted to. You said you have a problem that concerns me?” He returned to his own chair behind the desk.