Undercover Soldier

by Linda O. Johnston

  When he had learned it was Sherra Alexander, he’d almost choked his resource for lying. Only, the guy had proven it.

  And Brody recognized it couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “First, tell me what you’ve been up to, Sherra.” He attempted the most innocent look possible as he watched her reaction.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Brody.”

  “Not at all. I’m interested.”

  She stood so suddenly that the chair nearly toppled backward onto the floor. “This isn’t a damned get-acquainted date, Brody. You broke into my apartment. You grabbed me. Scared me. And now you want to hold some kind of squirrely flirtatious conversation instead of answering—”

  He stood almost as abruptly and approached her. She stood her ground as his chest almost touched hers. Bad idea. Not with her firm, prominent—sexy—bust so close that the proximity got his internal juices simmering once more.

  “You work with computers, Sherra,” he said through gritted teeth as he glared down into her dark, flashing eyes. “I know that. I also know you’ve hacked into federal records. If I notified the right people, you’d be arrested for cybercrime or espionage or even worse.”

  Her stare wavered and she paled a little before squaring her shoulders again. “Why didn’t you tell them, then?” she demanded.

  He scowled. How much could he divulge without making matters more complicated?

  “Is that coffee ready yet?” he asked to momentarily diffuse the situation.

  She blinked, then shrugged. “Sit down. I’ll pour you a cup.”

  In a minute, they were squared off across the table once more. It was time. He had to tell her enough to get her to listen—and to heed what he said.

  He took a sip of the strong coffee from a large, white mug that matched hers. “If you promise not to divulge anything I say here to anyone, I’ll tell you a story, Sherra.”

  “And if I say I promise, you’ll trust me?” She sounded scornful.

  “I have to trust you,” he said. “You know I’m alive.”

  Her eyes caught his again. She nodded thoughtfully. “There is that. Tell me.”

  He didn’t need to tell her everything, like the reasons he had done what he’d had to. But he did explain that he’d been surprised, while stationed in Afghanistan as a U.S. Army lieutenant, to meet a private whose name was similar to his—Brody Andrews, instead of McAndrews. They had become friends despite the difference in rank.

  Then, one day, they had been in a convoy that was destroyed by an improvised explosive device.

  No need to explain to her that although it appeared to be armed by a local group of insurgents, it had actually been set up by someone from the U.S. who was supposed to be on their side. Or that he had anticipated some kind of attack by that someone.

  And definitely no need to tell her how angry Brody was that his friend had been blown up instead of him. How guilty he felt.

  How he intended to bring down those who’d caused it. Fast, hard and permanently.

  “Brody Andrews was killed,” Brody said. He opened his mouth to continue, but Sherra interrupted.

  “I knew it. The news reported that it was you.” She stopped for an instant and he saw her swallow, as if in pain. “I wanted to learn more,” she continued. “How it happened. Why it happened.” Her eyes met his again. “Whether you suffered.”

  “I—” he began, but she didn’t stop talking.

  “But when I looked into it there were so many inconsistencies. ID numbers that didn’t match—or were played with—and more. Oh, Brody, I was so relieved to think it wasn’t you, but I needed to learn the truth. To find out why your death was reported and why no one else seemed to have caught the discrepancies—or whether I was all wrong after all. I—”

  “You kept poking your nose into things that didn’t concern you,” he said coldly, ignoring the flood of warmth that had passed through him when she’d expressed her relief. It meant nothing—only that she’d been on a computer quest that had started to bear fruit. Not that she cared about him any longer—no more than he cared about her.

  That had been over when she’d dumped him around the time they graduated from college. He’d refused to listen to her before that and get out of ROTC. Instead, he’d remained in the program and gone into the army as soon as he graduated.

  “You’re right,” she said sadly. “They didn’t concern me. But—”

  “But your hacking concerns both of us. There was a reason why things were set up to appear that I was killed instead of Brody Andrews. And now, thanks to you, the wrong people may be aware of the truth. You have to stop, Sherra. Now.”

  Her expression took on the stubbornness that had once been so familiar to him. But then she relaxed.

  “You’re right. At least to some extent. I don’t have to try to find out whether you really died or not, since I know now that you didn’t. I can stop looking into that.”

  He had to be blunt but couldn’t give her all the information that would definitely convince her to listen. “You need to give up your hacking, Sherra. Now. In fact, you should stay off the internet altogether—at least from here, where you’re alone. The wrong people are looking for you and can track you.”

  She laughed, as if he had just told a joke. “But it’s my job to use the internet, and I often work from home. I’m not hacking. Not exactly. And I’m not about to give up my internet access just because you say so.”

  “Yes,” he said forcefully. “You are.”

  “You’ve got to tell me more. What’s really going on, Brody?”

  He couldn’t divulge anything else critical, not even the important things that had led to his discovery of her hacking.

  For one thing, he was currently not Brody Andrews any more than he was his own, presumably dead, self. He was undercover, working for the government contractor that might have been responsible for “his” murder.

  “I can’t tell you here,” he said—true as far as it went. “I came here to convince you to go to a safe house with me. No internet access there, and I can be sure things settle down before either of us returns. If you come with me now, I’ll tell you more.” Not everything, but maybe this would convince her.

  “You’re lying, Brody.” Once more, Sherra was on her feet, glaring at him. “I don’t know what your agenda really is, but I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  That’s what you think. “Okay, then,” he said. “Like it or not, if you won’t come with me, I’m staying here with you. That’s your only other choice. And you’d better decide right away.”

  Chapter 2

  Once upon a time, Brody staying overnight was part of the fairy tale that was Sherra’s life with him.

  Of course she had recognized even then that there was always strife in fairy tales. Ogres and wolves, other creatures or monsters that stepped in to make it appear as if there would not be a happily-ever-after.

  But in actual fairy tales, happily-ever-after came true. Unlike in real life.

  And that was what Sherra lived.

  She took a long sip of coffee. Then another. It didn’t matter whether she drank a lot of caffeine this evening since she wouldn’t sleep well tonight anyway.

  But before she even attempted to sleep, she needed to try again to send Brody packing. No matter how much that hurt.

  “There’s a third choice, Brody,” she said as she studied him. “You can just leave.”

  “Not going to happen,” he responded stubbornly.

  He sat tall in the chair across from her. His shoulders appeared even broader than she remembered in the black T-shirt he wore.

  And those eyes of his—they used to turn her on by a sideways glance. Even more when he stared straight into hers, like he did now.

  She forced her mind to change direction. Her
gaze, too.

  Years ago, when they’d started out as freshmen together at the university, she had hoped they would marry on graduation. By the time their college careers ended, she knew only too well that they’d never be together that way.

  Right now, she needed to focus on the hurt she’d felt—and the fact that, despite his wild and scary claims, he had no right to be here.

  “Look, why don’t you just give me your phone number and email address and other contact information.” She spoke brightly, keeping her tone level and remote, as if she conversed with someone she’d met at a bar and intended to walk away from in a few minutes. “I’ll stay in touch. Maybe we can get together again soon, grab a dinner or drink.” Not true, of course. Once he left, she would put him out of her mind again—or try. “Right now, I want to get to bed.”

  His eyebrows rose, and she felt herself flush.

  “So you need to leave,” she continued without acknowledging the eruption of heat that shot through her at the possibility that he purposely misread what she’d said. That he liked the idea of going to bed with her…again.

  “And like I said, not without you,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if they discussed the temperature predicted for the next day in the D.C. area. “Just because I can’t tell you details about some of the dangers you’ve created doesn’t mean they aren’t real. For one thing, I’m not about to let you get hurt. So, if you won’t come with me, I’m hanging out here till you do.”

  “Dangers I’ve created?” Sherra kept her tone soft but let her anger show.

  “Let’s just say you’ve activated them. They were pretty mild around here before you started hacking into the wrong websites.”

  “Then there are right websites to hack into, some that won’t activate the dangers you’re alleging?” She was proud that she wasn’t shouting, but speaking with her teeth gritted surely made it clear he wasn’t improving things between them. “What are you talking about, Brody? Maybe if you stopped being so secretive and explained what you mean, I’d listen to what you’re saying.” Listen, yes. Give up her ability to get onto the internet to do her job—and try to figure out what was really going on—never.

  “I can’t, Sherra. And the fact I can’t should give you a good hint why. But it doesn’t matter. You can’t get on the computer here, not now. And I’m staying to make sure you keep off it. And to ensure that you remain safe.”

  Yes, she could guess why he wasn’t explaining. Unless he was playing some absurd game—definitely possible, of course, but she’d no idea why. His attitude suggested he had a duty to be quiet. Some kind of official mandate from a government organization, maybe? If so, which branch and why? He’d been in the army. Was he still?

  Was his reported death some kind of cover-up, or part of an official operation?

  She wanted to know. Had to know. But she was sure that asking more questions would get her nowhere.

  She stood. “Do what you want.” A tremor of apprehension shot through her. She didn’t really know Brody any longer. Was it safe to have him here?

  For the most part, she didn’t believe he was here to harm her. If so, he could have done it before, when he’d first grabbed her. But who knew?

  “I brought my dinner home,” she continued. “I don’t have enough for you. There’s bread in the refrigerator if you want toast but not much else. I’m going to eat in the living room. There’s a reality TV show I want to see tonight. You can sleep on the sofa there after I go to bed.” She glared back into his gleaming hazel eyes. “That good enough for you?”

  “It’ll do.”

  * * *

  Hanging out on the sofa was, in fact, Brody’s best alternative at the moment. Before she’d come home, he had scoped out Sherra’s apartment to look for points of vulnerability.

  The main door into the rest of the condo and the sliding glass door onto the balcony off the kitchen were both visible from the living room. So was her office door, so he could make sure she didn’t sneak in there.

  It wasn’t as though he would sleep much anyway. He didn’t know how soon the enemy would act to learn more about Sherra’s computer hacking.

  He wasn’t especially hungry but would need to keep up his strength. He watched as Sherra retrieved the bag she had left on the hall floor. Putting it on the counter, she pulled out a sandwich and a small container of salad. She tossed him a defiant look as she stomped back down the hall to the office door and returned with the wineglass.

  “Have any of that for me?” He didn’t smile at the surprise on her face. He’d been all beer and the hard stuff when they’d been in college, but he’d considered wine a drink for women only.

  Now, he appreciated a good vintage wine occasionally, even if he preferred a dark, tasty beer.

  Without saying anything, she pulled a matching stemmed glass from a cabinet above the counter to the right of the sink. He enjoyed the view as she had to stretch a bit to reach it, pulling her clothes taut against her curvaceous body.

  Making his own body react.

  He immediately quashed any thought of what it had been like to make love with the smart, gorgeous woman. But it wasn’t memories he feared. It was anticipation of starting something up with her again.

  Couldn’t happen.

  “Thanks.” He took the glass from her. She opened the refrigerator, removed a bottle of wine, and handed it to him. It was a Napa Valley vintage, one he had heard of but had never tried. He studied the label, poured a little into his glass and sampled it. Sweet, fruity and, yes, too light and feminine, but he’d take what he could get.

  A little, anyway. He was already exhausted. He didn’t want to do anything to mess up his awareness. Coffee trumped wine.

  Sherra carried her dinner into the living room through a doorway off the kitchen. He watched her as he removed a loaf of her company’s seven-grain bread from the fridge along with some mayo. After a short hunt, he found a small, round chunk of Gouda cheese. Not his first choice, but he put together a sandwich. He stuck the knives he’d taken from her into the sink. There were more in the drawer anyway, and he no longer thought she was about to stab him. Then he joined her in the living room.

  She had decorated it sparingly, a combo of starkly modern with comfortable country furniture along with classic prints on the walls. It felt as multilayered as he had always considered Sherra. Lots of versatile levels to get to know.

  He had gotten to know only a few of them despite how long they had been together. The last layers had been unmoving. Impenetrable, yet needy. Impossible for maintaining a relationship.

  She’d turned on a reality show, one of those chases through exotic countries.

  He’d been to exotic countries. Had had his fill of them, though he knew there was a good chance he’d do it again. Like his dinner and the wine, watching this wasn’t his first choice.

  But watching Sherra enjoy it was.

  She glanced toward him as he took a seat on a fluffy-looking yellow-print chair at the end of the coffee table that paralleled the couch where she sat.

  There was plenty of room on that couch, which was of a shade of yellow that went well with the chair. Not surprising. Sherra had always had a sense of style.

  People on the TV whispered loudly, plotting their next move. He paid no attention to them. He had plotting of his own to carry out—for instance, keeping vigilant. Watching the windows off to the sides of the TV. Drapes were drawn across them, which was both good and bad. The wrong people wouldn’t be able to see in, but neither could he see out to make sure things stayed safe.

  At least this was the second floor. It wouldn’t be easy for someone to show up either at the windows or on the balcony without being seen in this densely occupied residential neighborhood.

  The team on the television dashed off in a car. Time for a commercial.

  Sherra
, who’d been nibbling on her burger, laid it on a napkin on the low table in front of her and pushed the mute button on the remote. She had turned on lamps on both sides of the couch, and she appeared even more beautiful, and somehow fragile and sad, under the soft light.

  “This is so…well, ridiculous, Brody,” she said. “If you’re going to be here, we should at least talk to one another.”

  “Fine. What do you want to talk about?” Dumb question. Not that he had ever learned—entirely—to read Sherra’s mind, but he’d been able to read looks on her very expressive face.

  At the moment, she appeared exasperated. Irritated.

  And beautiful and beguiling and sexy…

  He forced himself to erase that last from his consciousness. Or at least he tried.

  “You know what I’d like to talk about.” She sat straighter on the couch.

  She’d crossed her long, slender legs before. Her uncurling them now made him remember what it had felt like, years ago, to stroke them… .

  “Why does the world—or at least a lot of it—think you’re dead, Brody?”

  That abruptly got his mind back to business. “That’s—”

  She obviously could tell what he was going to say and continued hurriedly, “Okay, you’ve already said you can’t talk about it. What can you talk about? Do your parents know you’re alive? The rest of your family? Did you decide to do this yourself, find a way to flee the battlefield and make it look like you were dead? Because the research I’ve done shows a lot of anomalies, Brody. That Brody Andrews in your unit was not a lieutenant but a private. He appeared to survive that IED attack that supposedly killed you, but despite some detailed records that almost made sense, there were inconsistencies afterward, not only in ID numbers but also in accounts of what happened. If you wanted it to look like you’d been the one to die—and I don’t understand that—it’s not really clear, and—”

  “At least you’re not denying that you hacked into supposedly secure Department of Defense websites,” he said drily.