Trap, Secure: Navy SEAL Security

by Carol Ericson

  Most women didn’t have Elijah Prescott for a father.

  Amy’s cell phone buzzed and she groped for it in her purse. She checked the display and let out a noisy sigh. “Hi, Sarah.”

  “Amy? Are you okay? Your message was weird.”

  Weird? Amy had a few other choice words about her predicament. “You don’t know the half of it, and I don’t have the energy to explain it. Can I crash at your place for a few days? I’ll even babysit for free.”

  “Of course you can stay here, but we’re leaving tonight for Florida. Cliff’s mom had another fall. She’s not doing well, so we’re taking the kids back for a visit. It might be their last.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I can house-sit for you.”

  “Is it Carlos?”

  Amy caught her breath. “What?”

  “Is Carlos calling you again? Don’t go back to him, Amy. That’s a dead end.”

  Oh, boy. Sarah had never spoken truer words. “Going back to Carlos is an impossibility at this point.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, even though I never suspected for a minute you’d take him back. There’s a new attorney at Cliff’s firm. Maybe we can all get together for dinner some night.”

  Amy drew in a quick breath. If he didn’t have deep blue eyes, a boyish grin, a fondness for knives and a penchant for engaging in high-speed chases, she’d have to pass.

  “Maybe. I’m on my way to your place right now. Is that okay, or are you too busy packing for Florida?”

  “We’re done packing. You can join us for dinner and then save us taxi fare to the airport by giving us a ride.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  Amy ended the call and dropped her cell phone into the cup holder. She could always count on Sarah. Sarah had been like a big sister to her when she’d volunteered at Amy’s middle school to tutor at-risk kids. Sarah was the one who had gotten Amy involved in the San Diego County Junior Lifeguard program.

  Sarah had saved her life.

  When Amy arrived at the house, she busied herself playing with the kids and avoided Sarah’s worried, questioning glances. Her face must have had Major Stress written all over it.

  When Cliff took the kids with him to pick up their dinner from the neighborhood Chinese restaurant, Sarah planted herself in front of Amy and placed her hands on Amy’s shoulders.

  “What happened to you? You’re jumpier than one of the girls’ Mexican jumping beans.”

  Amy’s shoulders sagged beneath Sarah’s light touch. She never could keep anything from her. Didn’t want to.

  As Amy recounted the previous day’s adventures and today’s car chase, Sarah’s soft doe eyes grew rounder and bigger.

  “How do you know you can trust this Riley character?”

  “Sarah, he saved my life more than once in the past twenty-four hours. I can trust him.” Amy dropped her lashes. “Besides, he’s moved on anyway. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”

  “That’s a good thing, Amy. You need to extricate yourself from this situation pronto.” She rubbed Amy’s shoulder. “Stay here while we’re gone. Are you done with lifeguarding right now?”

  “Yeah, yesterday was my last shift. That tower closes until next summer.”

  “When does EMT school start?”

  “In two weeks, and then I might start applying to fire departments.”

  “You can do whatever you set out to do. I’ve seen it.” Sarah jerked her head toward the front door as Cliff staggered into the room carrying a daughter in one arm and bags of take-out food in the other.

  Amy put her finger to her lips, and Sarah rolled her eyes. Amy knew Sarah would tell her husband everything, but probably not until they reached thirty thousand feet. That’s how far away Amy needed Cliff to be to avoid his interference. He’d taken on the role of big brother, always eager to pick up any cause of Sarah’s.

  Amy stashed her worries in the corner as she helped Sarah’s daughters navigate their food with chopsticks. Their squeals and giggles washed over her like a soothing balm.

  This glimpse into Sarah’s family life always created a small ache in the pit of her belly. But it made her more determined to find that for herself—if she could only banish one blue-eyed adventurer from her mind.

  While the girls brushed their teeth, Amy grabbed the dinner plates and stacked them in the sink. She waved off Sarah. “Go help the girls get ready. I’ll clean up when I come back from dropping you off at the airport.”

  The family bustled out of the house, and Amy took their minivan to drop them off. When she arrived back at the house, she double-checked the locks on the doors and windows. Couldn’t be too safe when you had drug dealers on your trail.

  Maybe now those drug dealers had just one trail to follow—Riley’s. A sprinkling of goose bumps raced up her arms, even though if anyone knew how to take care of himself, Riley did. He knew how to take care of her, too.

  Enough. She smacked her hands together, the sound echoing through the silent house. And enough of this hand-wringing over her fate or, worse, leaving it to Riley to sort out. When did she ever wait for someone else to take action?

  She dumped out the contents of her purse and snatched her cell phone. She scrolled through her contacts and selected the one she dreaded the most. Placing the call, she paced the length of the family room, avoiding dollhouses and a railroad track.

  She held her breath as the man on the other end answered the phone. “San Miguel Federal Penitentiary.”

  Chapter Seven

  Amy Prescott was a liar.

  Riley ran his finger along the smooth cigarette holder and then tapped it against his palm. Amy knew something about this holder and for some reason had decided to keep that information to herself.

  He should’ve figured this seemingly innocent bystander had secrets. Maybe Carlos hadn’t been an ex-boyfriend but a current one, and Amy was not only his lover but his partner in crime.

  Which made the kiss in the car even dumber. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, and he took another gulp of coffee to wash it away. Amy should’ve realized you never lie to a liar.

  His cell phone vibrated and he slid it open. “Do you have something for me, Chet?”

  Chet whistled. “You have yourself a doozy. I sure hope this is professional and not personal because you need to stay far, far away from this girl.”

  Riley clenched his gut as if expecting a blow to the midsection. So Amy had played him all along. “Professional. Go ahead.”

  “Do you remember Eli Prescott?”

  Riley dug his fingers into the arm of his chair. This was gonna be bad. “No.”

  Chet snorted. “Yeah, I guess you’re a young ’un. Before your time.”

  “Well?” Riley gritted his teeth. Chet Bennett, the seasoned CIA agent always had to lord his knowledge over the younger guys. Riley hated owing the man favors, but Chet could conjure up information with the snap of his fingers.

  “Elijah Benjamin Prescott was a militia-style survivalist in Idaho. When things got too hot in the States, he high-tailed it to Mexico and set up shop there. The Mexican government didn’t mind too much until old Eli started making deals with some of the drug lords. Then the Mexican government decided to cooperate with the FBI, and the two agencies raided the compound.”

  “Amy Prescott is related to this man?” Riley hoped the words came out casually despite his dry throat.

  “Amy Prescott is his daughter.”

  Riley grunted, his fingers almost drilling holes in the fabric of the chair. So Amy and Carlos had had a deal with the Velazquez Cartel, and the situation had gotten a little too hot to handle. She had used him to get away.

  “It gets better.”

  At the sound of Chet’s smug voice, Riley wanted to punch him. He wanted to punch someone or something.

  “Your Amy was at the compound when the fibbies raided it. Eli had no intention of going down without a fight. Amy’s Mexican-born mother was killed during the raid, and her father was arrested.�
��

  Riley’s anger shifted from Amy to the clods who had raided the compound. Amy must have been a child when this happened. “When did this all go down?”

  “Let’s see.” Chet clicked a few keys. “The raid occurred over fifteen years ago.”

  “What happened to Amy?”

  “Relatives took in the kids if they wanted them, but Amy’s relatives didn’t want anything to do with crazy Eli’s spawn. She went into the system.”

  No surprise Amy didn’t trust law enforcement. “Kids? Amy has siblings?”

  “I guess. But it would take a geneticist to figure out the familial relationships at the compound. Eli had multiple wives. Amy’s mother was just one of three or four.”

  Riley satisfied himself by punching the cushion next to him. What Amy went through didn’t justify illegal activity, but she’d had a helluva time growing up.

  “If you like, I have a picture I can send you of Eli with his very extended family.”

  “Sure.” Riley rattled off his email address. “Is Eli still alive?”

  “He’s at the San Miguel FCI. He’ll never get out, though.”

  Riley thanked Chet for the information and ended the call. He sprang from the chair and buried his fingers in his hair as he wandered toward the window.

  Just because Amy had a criminal, drug-dealing father didn’t necessarily mean she’d cooperated with a criminal, drug-dealing boyfriend. Could all be just some weird cosmic coincidence.

  He powered up his laptop on the coffee table and accessed his email. Chet’s message scrolled by, and Riley opened it and clicked on the attachment.

  The picture filled his screen—a tall man, holding a long cigarette, with his hair pulled back in a ponytail standing among a group of women and children. Riley counted four women and nine children.

  He peered closely at the screen, running his finger along the faces of the children. It hovered over the smiling face of a young girl with long brown hair, long legs and dirty bare feet. Had to be Amy.

  He skimmed over the remaining children. Amy looked about ten years old in this picture. Some of the other children were younger, and some looked to be in their teens.

  Riley shifted his attention back to Eli Prescott and squinted at the long cigarette he held in his hand. Why was it so long? Looked like the ones FDR used to smoke.

  His pulse ticked in his jaw while he reached for the cigarette holder. He saved the picture to his computer and opened it with a photo editor. Then he zoomed in on the object Prescott held carelessly in his right hand while his left rested on top of a child’s head.

  Eli Prescott had a cigarette holder—one exactly like the one Riley cradled in the palm of his hand. A weird cosmic coincidence?

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Amy raced up the 805 freeway with the cool air-conditioning blowing on her face. She’d made this journey before and had never found what she was looking for. She didn’t know what to expect this time. Maybe some answers.

  She pulled up to the gate of the San Miguel Federal Penitentiary and handed over her driver’s license. The guard at the gate held it pinched between two fingers, as if he feared contamination, and tipped his dark sunglasses down on his nose.

  He muttered, “Prescott.”

  Amy met his gaze with an unflinching one of her own. If he wanted to tar her with the same brush as her infamous father, it wouldn’t be the first time. Wouldn’t be the last.

  She narrowed her eyes. “You done checking out the freak?”

  He shrugged and handed back the license. She snatched it from his fingers and tossed it onto the passenger seat as she accelerated through the gate toward the gray buildings.

  A red balloon sailed over the barbwire gates, incongruous against the drab backdrop of the prison. Amy tracked it until she lost it over the line of trees. Had one of the inmates had a birthday party?

  The pen had an administrative building outside the main prison gates, but Amy had never been inside. Her visits took place in the bowels of the prison. No balloons there.

  After running the security gauntlet, Amy perched on the edge of a plastic chair in the visiting room. She jumped each time the door behind the glass panel buzzed.

  On the fourth buzz, a tall, lean man with close-cropped gray hair shuffled into the room behind the barrier. As his blue gaze alighted on Amy, a wide smile split his craggy face.

  Amy scooted her chair closer to the glass as the guard led her father to an opposing chair. With a hammering heart, she picked up the red receiver first and waited while Dad settled into his seat, his movements stiff and jerky.

  “Hello, Amy. It’s been a while.”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “You look good, healthy. Tall like me and pretty like your mother.”

  He remembered which child belonged with which mother? Oh, yeah. Her mother was special. She’s the one the Feds murdered. She pursed her lips. She never talked back to her father. The man scared her—always had.

  “You look...different.”

  His hacking laugh turned into a cough, and the guard brought him a cup of water.

  “You mean old.”

  Amy didn’t refute him. The tall, vigorous man who had controlled his cult with an iron fist now walked with a shuffle and stoop. His hair, once pulled back into his trademark ponytail, now lay like a gray cap close to his skull.

  She lifted a shoulder. “Different.”

  “What brings you here? Of all my children, I believe you resent me the most. Of course, you were Loretta’s only child, and she babied you a bit. I know her death hit you hard. You shouldn’t blame me, Amy. Put the blame on those hot-headed FBI agents.”

  For once she didn’t come here to relive the past, to get answers as to why he seriously messed up her childhood. The present concerned her now. The present and that silver cigarette holder in the storage bin.

  She waved her hand at the glass as if to dispel the image there. “Are you involved in any illegal activity on the outside?”

  His tired blue eyes brightened as he shifted his gaze toward the guard. “Why do you ask? I’m in here paying my debt to society—no more, no less.”

  “Do you still use those silver cigarette holders with your initials?”

  “In here?” He shook his head. “I still smoke, but they wouldn’t allow me to have a cigarette holder inside. You remember those, huh?”

  “I just saw one yesterday, and it had an E and a P engraved on it.”

  His gaze narrowed and he hunched forward. Amy automatically shifted away from the glass. She could feel his presence emanating from behind the glass like a snake preparing to strike.

  He whispered into the phone. “You saw a silver cigarette holder with my initials?”

  Amy nodded and swallowed hard as her childhood fears assailed her once again. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  “Where?” The word came out like a breath of chilly air. She almost expected the glass to ice over and crack.

  “Let’s just say it was at the scene of a crime.”

  “Someone probably copying my style. Why do you care?” He shifted back in his chair, crossing an ankle over his knee.

  “I care because that someone got me involved in a dangerous situation, and I want to know who and why.”

  “You didn’t really think I’d made an escape from my current digs, did you? Even I can’t manage that.”

  “Of course not, but maybe you know someone who might have a cigarette holder with your initials, someone who would want to copy your style.”

  “Maybe you should’ve kept in touch with your half siblings over the years, Amy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Leave it alone, girl.” He settled the receiver in its cradle and pushed back from the table.

  Amy dug the phone against her ear as her father held out his wrists for the cuffs and slipped through the door, escaping her questions once again.

  She banged the receiver into the cradle a couple of times, and then slum
ped forward, resting her forehead against the glass. Did she really believe she’d get anything out of the man? Apparently, the FBI hadn’t gotten much out of him after his arrest. What chance did she have?

  Sighing, she stumbled to her feet and pressed the call button next to the door. After a loud click, the guard in the hallway swung open the door, and she followed his ramrod back in his pressed khaki shirt down the long corridor.

  She shoved her hands into the pockets of her billowing skirt and filled her lungs with fresh air, blinking in the radiant sunlight. The squeals of the children in the picnic area near the administration building conjured images of just another day in the park, but the barbed wire and armed guards told a different story.

  Would these children return here as adults seeking answers to unfathomable questions? Would they walk away empty?

  The gravel crunched beneath her flats as she walked toward the parking lot. Engrossed in her own pathetic musings, she nearly collided with a tall man in black slacks and a snowy-white shirt.

  “Making your escape?”

  She jerked up her head and choked. “Riley!”

  “Quick, I’ll drive the getaway car.”

  “What are you doing here?” Amy rubbed her eyes as if she couldn’t believe the vision shimmering before her in the desert heat—Riley, all six-foot-something of him, decked out in sharp black slacks and a white dress shirt tucked neatly into the pants, emphasizing the trim waist flaring into a set of broad shoulders.

  He cleaned up nicely—damned nicely.

  She wedged her hands on her hips and dug her heels into the gravel. “Have you been following me?”

  “Didn’t need to. I had a tip you were headed out here today.” He grabbed her arm. “Let’s sit down at that picnic table under the tree. The guards won’t mind.”

  “H-how did you know? You know about my father, Eli Prescott, don’t you?”

  He brushed off a spot on the bench and waved her to sit. “I’m in the information business, beach girl.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “After I left you yesterday. Could’ve bowled me over with a grain of sand.”

  Riley straddled the bench and Amy swung her legs over and leaned on the attached table. Riley still maintained his easy manner, but a new wariness had crept into his blue eyes. Heck, that always happened when people found out her identity, but she couldn’t suppress the stab of disappointment that Riley followed suit.