The Marked Bride (Shadow Watchers Book 1)

by Vicki Hinze

  The office grapevine was operating at peak efficiency.

  Walking directly from Colonel Jackson’s office down the gray-carpeted hallway to her own office, Tracy realized that word of her defending Burke was already out. Sitting in their offices, her coworkers craned their necks and slanted her pitying looks, proving they knew she’d been tagged. The jovial moods of the attorneys behind her confirmed it. Their laughter rang out a pitch too high to be anything but relief that they had escaped the assignment.

  All of her training—every single course the Air Force offered and she was eligible to take: JAG School, Procurement Fraud, Program Managers Attorneys Course, Safety Officer’s School, and the Government Contract Law Symposium, a small coup for the junior-grade officer she had been at the time—and a hard-won reputation as a crack litigator—and it could all flush down the tubes because she was bright and media-attractive. That combination had gotten her stuck with defending Adam Burke at an extremely critical point in her career.

  Once, she might have vented her outrage to a coworker. But after Matthew’s death, Tracy had learned not to become emotional. So although she felt the others gawking at her back, she walked wordlessly to her assistant’s office, intending to go straight through into her own and privately rage at the walls.

  Janet stopped her. Her chin braced on the heel of her hand, she shot Tracy a look of pure empathy. “How about we skate out a little early, go stuff ourselves at El Chico’s, and gripe about how life sometimes just isn’t fair?”

  Drowning her sorrows at Grandsen, Mississippi’s sole Mexican restaurant—the only one worth its salt between Jackson and Hattiesburg—sounded like a great place for a good pout, but Tracy rejected it. “Sorry, fiscal year-end budget report is due in today.”

  “I see.” Janet sighed. “I promised myself I was going to keep my mouth shut and just let you dump out all your righteous indignation. But I can’t.” Tapping the mug’s handle, she put a warning in her tone. “Don’t do it, Tracy. Burke’s case will break you.”

  If she didn’t find a strong legal hook, it definitely would break her. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Tracy stared at her grapevine-attuned assistant. In her mid-thirties, Janet was about three years Tracy’s senior. The lines under her eyes and around her mouth proved Janet’s were high-mileage years, not that Tracy’s had been easy, and physically, they had little in common. Janet was petite, sleek, and trim; Tracy tall, and curved. While Janet had gleaming black hair and the exotic features of an Asian, Tracy fought with a wild mass of summer-streaked blond hair and, thanks to Scottish paternal ancestors, skin that tanned to the color of a pale rose. Her nose was slightly crooked, her deep blue eyes a little too far apart, and yet tossed together, the package wasn’t half bad. Janet’s was more perfect—especially her nose. Pert and straight, flawless even now, with her nostrils flaring.

  “File thirteen the sarcasm, okay? This doesn’t have a thing to do with confidence. We both know you’re good at what you do, but Burke’s case carries all the signs of becoming Intel-intensive and that’s no place for an Intel novice to cut her teeth. For heaven’s sake, Tracy. Colonel Hackett, Burke’s own boss, is pushing as hard as the rest of the honchos for four counts of murder and the death penalty.”

  “The death penalty?” That, Colonel Jackson hadn’t mentioned. Tracy frowned, upset but also grateful that Janet’s former Intel service still netted her the lowdown from on high.

  “Intel Rule Number Six. Compromised cover equals death. Figuratively, or literally.” Janet shoved her gold bracelet up on her arm. “Refuse the case. Just say no.”

  Tracy grunted. “I don’t even rate an office window yet. I can’t ‘just say no.’”

  “Claim you can’t be objective.” Janet licked at her lips, warming to her topic. “Everybody knows you’re as opinionated as a heart attack on everything—especially Burke’s offenses.”

  “That’ll certainly impress my superiors,” Tracy retorted, wishing she could say she had an open mind about Burke. But why lie? Janet had made another valid point, too. Tracy wasn’t up to defending this case. She met life straightforward and head-on. You play fair, and you deal honestly. If you deserve lumps, then you take them. But in an Intel-intensive case such as Burke’s, being straightforward and head-on could jeopardize missions and endanger lives.

  Tracy fingered Burke’s file. “I’m not surprised they’re pushing for the death penalty.” How could she be surprised? Even the compassionate Colonel Jackson thought Burke deserved to die. “But even if I were, I couldn’t skate out on this case.”

  “Now isn’t the time to be noble.” Janet let out a sigh that ruffled her spiky bangs. “I’m not knocking nobility. I wish we had a little more of it floating around. But don’t be stupid, Tracy. This is going to cost you big.”

  “Probably,” Tracy admitted. But she had to do it.

  How she’d do it, she had no idea. Not yet. Her sense of justice and trust in the system was at war with her disdain. Burke’s crimes were inexcusable. Heinous. Even a saint would be challenged to defend him with conviction. Yet without conviction, she didn’t stand a chance.

  Somewhere, somehow, she had to latch on to something good. Something she could build conviction on—and her case.

  “Tracy, think, okay? Is your nobility worth your life?”

  “My life?” Tracy grunted, and shoved a wild tangle of hair back from her face. “This is a case, my career and professional future, but it’s hardly my life.” Her garden. That was her life. Her garden and her memories.

  Janet rolled her eyes back in her head. “We are talking about your life. Literally,” Janet insisted. “Burke is Intel.” She tapped at her temple. “Lots of supersensitive stuff locked inside his head. And lots of creeps out there who’ll use anyone—even his attorney—to get it.”

  Her life. Literally.

  Tracy absorbed the gravity in silence. She’d known the risks when she’d joined the Air Force. True, she hadn’t expected to actually be called upon to take them, but that wasn’t the military’s fault. The recruiter had been honest. She’d been in denial—and eager to leave New Orleans, her ex-brother-in-law Paul’s domain. Yet Janet jerking Tracy out of denial changed nothing. She still had to do what she had to do. “I have no choice.”

  “Everyone has a choice,” Janet argued. “I’m living proof.”

  Frowning, Tracy poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the corner cabinet. Janet had left active duty and taken the civil service job as Tracy’s assistant—though she was overqualified for it—because she’d gotten tired of working Intel. She wanted a more normal life. One free of danger and intrigue. Because she had radically changed her life-style, she firmly believed anyone could choose anything at will. “Hear and listen, okay? I have no choice.”

  Realization dawned and gleamed in Janet’s eyes. Bracing her forearms against the edge of the desk, she sucked in a sharp breath and stiffened. “Oh, man. You got tagged to defend him. Word was, you volunteered, but you didn’t. You got tagged to defend the jerk.” Janet grimaced. “Who did it? Jackson? Higher Headquarters? Who?”

  “The baseline is I am going to defend Adam Burke. To do it well, I need Intel expertise and insight and I don’t have it. I need your help.”

  “Oh, no. No way. I’m done with danger, remember?” Janet sputtered a sip of coffee. “Stop looking at me like that. No way.”

  “You just said my life is at stake. The man’s incarcerated and bail is out of the question, so I don’t see how I could be in danger, but you obviously do. Doesn’t that prove I need you?”

  “It proves you should ask for different counsel to be assigned. Make the honchos give the case to someone with the credentials and experience necessary to survive it.”

  “The honchos have given the case to me,” Tracy said, deliberately flattening her tone to let Janet know this point of discussion was closed. “Help me, Janet. Please.”

  “You’re asking me to sign your death warrant. I won’t do it—and
I can’t believe you’d ask me to, knowing how I feel about this, and about Burke. Five minutes alone with him, and I’d fry him myself.”

  A lot of people, particularly ones in uniform, shared her feelings. “I’m going to defend him with or without your help. My best chance of survival is if you assist.”

  “Forget trying to put me on a guilt trip. I have no conscience. I’m Intel-trained, remember? Only rules and the drills survived my active-duty days.” Janet twisted a scowl from her lips and narrowed her eyes, staring at her long nails. “I’ve warned you, and that’s it for me. You go on from here and get yourself killed, and your blood is on your own hands, not on mine.”

  “Do you want me to beg?” Tracy rifted a hand, palm upward. “Okay, I will. I’m beg—”

  “No!” Janet let out an exasperated groan. “I worked with Burke in Intel. I know how he operates. He’s a shrewd, smart operative, and I’m steering clear of anything to do with him. I’m telling you that the fallout is going to be explosive, Tracy. Burke will see to it, and I’m not eager to find myself buried in the rubble.”

  “But I need a background check on him,” Tracy persisted. “One that digs deeper than his manufactured personnel file.” Shoring up her courage, she voiced her real need; one that for a truckload of reasons she feared being fulfilled. “I need his Intel file.”

  “Are you crazy?” Janet screeched.

  “I’m desperate. To build a case I can live with building, I’ve got to find something good about this jerk. I need to know how his mind works. Who he is inside.”

  “He’s a coward. A ruthless, treasonous coward who got four good men killed. Operatives who were my friends.”

  They had been Intel and, at heart, Janet was still Intel. No one ever walked away and forgot the rules and drills or the camaraderie. They put their lives on the line together, depended on each other to survive, and nothing ever broke those kinds of bonds. Not duty, family, or even death.

  “I’m sorry your friends are dead, Janet. Maybe Burke did get them killed. Maybe he is a coward and in his years of service to this country he hasn’t done one thing good or right or made even one small sacrifice for someone else. But maybe he has. And if so, I need to know it.”

  Janet glared at her desktop, her voice tight and grating. “Intel records aren’t accessible.”

  “Ordinarily, they aren’t. But I know you. If you want his records, you can get them.”

  “Usually, I can get access. But I’m not going to do it. Not on this one.” Scowling, she focused on Tracy’s locket. “The man is guilty as sin. How can you expect me to help him?”

  No progress whatsoever. Those Intel bonds were tugging hard. Tracy reached across the desk and touched Janet’s hand. “Quit huffing and listen to me. If I fail to handle this case right, we all lose—you, your friends, the legal system, our country, and me. Don’t you see? The only way we can win is to do the best job possible for him.”

  “Don’t you see that it won’t matter what you do?” Janet stabbed her pen into its holder. “His fate has already been decided. The man’s crashed and burned, Tracy. He’s going to fry.”

  Tracy’s stomach soured, then filled with resolve. “Maybe. But he’s not going to fry before I give him a defense that doesn’t get me fried with him.”

  Janet gasped, stilled then dragged a frustrated hand through her hair. “Your promotion...”

  Tracy nodded, her stomach furling. “And I’m up for Career Status selection.”

  Staring at the mural of a window on the far wall, Janet finally riveted her gaze back to Tracy. “Okay, you can quit rubbing your locket,” Janet said. “I’ll try to run the background check on Burke—for you, not him.” She clenched her cup in a white-knuckle grip. “I wouldn’t spit on his grave.”

  “Thanks.” Grateful, Tracy let go of her locket, supposing she did rub it when in a crunch. It was her last gift from Matthew, one that held a cherished photograph.

  “That’s a pretty romantic habit for a sworn non-romantic,” Janet commented. “Rubbing the locket to remember him whenever trouble strikes.”

  It was anything but romantic. “I wear it to remember losing him, Janet. And so I never forget how much loving someone can cost.”

  “Good grief.” Janet slid her a sour look. “Talk about jaded.”

  “It’s not jaded.” Tracy let the pain of losing Matthew and their daughter, Abby, shine in her eyes. “It’s realistic.”

  “No,” Janet contradicted. Speculating had her irises flickering golden brown. “It’s safe.”

  “Oh, I hope so.” Tracy sipped at her coffee, praying hard that proved true. She had survived all the losses she could stand for one lifetime.

  “I’ll do what I can on the file—but no promises.” Janet flattened her lips to a thin coral line. “After what he’s done, there’s not a soul in the world eager to help Adam Burke.”

  The truth in that remark had Tracy frowning and heading toward her office.

  “Wait.” Janet called out after her. “Randall phoned. You should tell him about the assignment before he hears it somewhere else.”

  Janet too often fantasized that Tracy’s relationship with Dr. Randall Moxley was a heated affair: a ridiculous notion. Randall, a pathologist at the base hospital, was charming and a bit of a rogue, and he did love to playfully hit on Tracy. But if she were to hit back, the man would probably faint. He’d definitely run, which is exactly what allowed them to be friends. “I’ll call him when I get home.”

  The dreaded call came through from Colonel Jackson’s office just before the end of the duty day at 1620—4:20 p.m. Burke had officially been charged with four counts of murder.

  The alleged threats remained classified information, and adding that bad news onto the heap had Tracy depressed to the gills. She drove to her suburban home in the Gables subdivision, pulled into the driveway, and stared at the three-bedroom, two-bath cookie-cutter house she called home. The windows were dark, the house empty, and she wondered how long she would live here after she lost Burke’s case, failed to get Career Status, and they kicked her out of the military.

  Janet thought the house felt cold, and Tracy agreed. It did. But that hadn’t been an accident. It was a deliberate warning: Don’t get too comfortable. You’re a guest here for a time, and you won’t be invited to stay.

  Realizing that warning extended to herself, Tracy harrumphed and tapped the garage-door opener on her visor. Maybe she had become jaded. Morbid, too.

  The garage door slid up, and she drove inside. It was at times like this that she missed the perk of having a husband to talk to about her troubles. Before Matthew’s death, that’s how she’d always found her legal-hooks. She missed feeling close to a man, too, but she’d resolved to move mountains to avoid losing someone who mattered too much again. Even spending Christmas alone, as isolating as that felt and as insignificant to anyone else as it made her feel, didn’t make her want to let anyone else matter. Thankfully, those lonesome times were countered by other times, such as when Janet was nursing her weekly broken heart. Then, Tracy felt grateful for the reprieve.

  Catching the scent of vanilla potpourri, she locked the kitchen door behind her, then changed into a pair of soft jersey slacks and a baggy T-shirt. Feeling the locket against her skin, she recalled Janet’s reaction to it. She clearly considered Tracy an emotional cripple. But Janet couldn’t understand. She hadn’t lived through loss. Tracy wasn’t a cripple, she was a survivor. And for a survivor, she was content. Satisfied. Happy.

  Liar.

  Bristling at her conscience’s tug, she opened her bedroom door. Okay, a survivor wouldn’t ignore the holidays as if they didn’t exist. But last year, she’d made progress. She still couldn’t make herself decorate or put up a big tree, but she’d bought a mini-tree a foot-tall, pre-decorated and put it on the kitchen counter. Okay, she’d set it outside the back door three days before Christmas, but it’d made it into the house for nearly twenty-four hours. That progress proved she was a nearly con
tent satisfied, and happy survivor.

  At least she had been, until the Burke case was dropped in her lap.

  Slipping on the Winnie-the-Pooh slippers she always wore when she needed an attitude, she admitted that sometimes she did feel slightly crippled. But only slightly, and considering her past, that wasn’t bad.

  She walked down the short hallway to the kitchen, snagged the phone, then called Randall. Waiting for him to answer, she stared down at the twin Pooh heads on her slippers’ toes and again heard her dad’s voice: When the world’s kicking your tail, hon, kick back. Just make sure you’re wearing steel-toe shoes.

  Randall answered, sounding as if he had a mouth full of toothpaste. “What?”

  “Don’t you sound chipper?” Glancing through the huge windows to her garden, a sense of calm settled over her. It was her refuge. Her candle in the window. “Most people say hello before biting your head off.” Tapping the faucet, she filled the teakettle.

  “Mmm, let me guess.” His sigh crackled through the line. “She’s had a bad day.”

  “She’s had the ultimate bad day.” Tracy set the kettle on the stove to heat and then told him she’d be defending Adam Burke.

  Ten minutes later, after Randall had given her every reason conceivable to God and man why she shouldn’t take Burke’s case, Tracy began wishing she hadn’t called him. “Would a little sympathy and commiserating be asking for too much?” The teakettle whistled. She filled a mug plastered with Mickey Mouse’s smiling face full of hot water. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “You do something crazy and you expect sympathy? What kind of friend does that?” Randall paused, cleared his throat, and tamped down his temper. “Look, I understand you feel obligated to defend the man, but get a grip. You’ll be committing career suicide. Claim a conflict of interest. Tell them your personal feelings hinder your ability to defend Burke.”