Undercover Soldier

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Keep looking—discreetly,” he told Roy through clenched teeth. With nothing else to go on, Brody had to at least act as if he fully trusted Roy. The guy had been assigned by those in charge and had good security clearances. But that wasn’t always enough. “Ask whether there are any buses that went through the area when you lost her, or if anyone saw a cab go by.” Or she might just have hitched a ride with a stranger. What man in his right mind could resist a flirtatious woman as gorgeous as Sherra if she asked for transport?

  Which only added to her potential peril. Even if the people he was protecting her from had no idea where she was, that wouldn’t keep her from being harmed by some pervert rapist glad to give her the ride she’d asked for…and more.

  “Find her,” he finished and hung up. Assuming Roy was legitimate, Brody couldn’t completely blame him. Sherra was smart and determined. And Brody was furious with her.

  He was also furious that he didn’t understand enough of her instructions to be able to hack into all the company email. Some, yes, but his success so far was limited.

  He leaned back in his desk chair and stared at the computer monitor. He’d managed some hacking, at least. He had gotten into some fairly meaningless accounts of company underlings, and their messages over the past months only whetted his appetite to read their bosses’ correspondence.

  He’d seen questions about what had happened in Afghanistan on one of their current major projects.

  He had seen other questions about possible discrepancies in data about who’d been killed there.

  But the people whose accounts he’d gotten into were peons charged with finding information, not giving the orders that had led to what had happened. Or even securing the jobs overseas that had given rise to the discrepancies he had discovered and started investigating there.

  So far, he was stymied. But he had to get through, get more information—even faster, now, than he had planned.

  For now he had another problem.

  He had to find Sherra and make sure she stayed safe.

  * * *

  The weather was drizzly, not surprising for May. Watching cars speed past on the highway heading toward Washington, D.C., Sherra tried to keep her mind on how happy she was about her escape without admitting to the dreariness compounded by the weather that washed inside her.

  She’d been successful in getting away, but whatever lay before her wouldn’t all be pretty.

  Still, facing Brody’s wrath was better than hiding and not knowing what was going on. Or failing to help him and hearing about all that went wrong afterward.

  At least the cabby had a middle-of-the-road music station on. The soft rock helped to bolster her mood a bit.

  It was a good thing that she had been nosy—well, interested. She had wanted to see what Brody’s fake IDs had looked like, so she had sneaked a look at his wallet one night when he was in the shower.

  One Maryland driver’s license resembled hers, of course, for the address in Glen Burnie, Maryland, under his fake name of Bill Bradshaw.

  The other, Jim Martin, had a different address, in Washington—probably an apartment building, since it had a unit number.

  She had been wise enough to copy it down. She’d also copied Cousin Ray’s number from Brody’s smart phone, in case she thought she needed a bodyguard later. She had scrolled down Brody’s list of numbers to see who else was there, too—like herself.

  This taxi ride would cost a fortune but would be worth it. She just hoped she could be as resourceful as Brody had been and find a way to get inside to wait for him.

  She wasn’t fleeing him, after all—just his control over her life. And now she needed his help to get her life back.

  * * *

  Acting sick again wasn’t Brody’s favorite idea. But he was too keyed up to delve much more into the AFD computer system. He might make a mistake.

  One that could prove fatal.

  Instead, leaning forward, elbows planted on his desk, he called Crandall Forbes on the company phone system. He held his forehead tightly with the hand that didn’t grip the phone. There weren’t windows into Crandall’s office so he couldn’t see him, but acting sick would make his upcoming pretense easier to maintain.

  When his supervisor answered, Brody made his voice as nasal as possible. “Sorry, boss. I thought I was feeling better, but—” He started to cough.

  “Did you sort those latest resumes for the project in the Philippines?” Crandall demanded.

  “Yes, and there are a few that stand out. I’ll email them to you. I want to finish a couple more odds and ends today, too, but is it okay if I leave early?”

  It was just past lunchtime and Brody hadn’t had a break. Hadn’t wanted one. His idea of leaving early today would only involve his hanging around for less than an hour.

  “Yeah, go ahead. In fact, take a few more days and get over the damned thing.”

  “I think if I just go home and sleep for a few hours I’ll be fine to come in tomorrow.” He didn’t want to take more time off. He needed to be here for the best likelihood of prying into the upper echelon’s emails. But he left the door open just in case—since he didn’t know how long it would take to find Sherra and ensure that, this time, she really would stay in one place and remain safe. “If not, I’ll call and leave you a message. I really appreciate this. Sorry I’m being such a sickly wimp. I’m taking lots of vitamins and all so it shouldn’t happen again.”

  He wasn’t really sorry. That wimpy attitude fit well with who he pretended to be here in the human resources department of AFD. With luck, no one would ever suspect that someone as mousy and obedient as he appeared could ever hack into company records—let alone his real identity.

  They would find that out eventually, though. He would enjoy shocking them all when he’d figured out the identities of those he sought and had all the evidence he needed to put them away forever.

  He turned back to the computer. One more go at it, then he was out of here.

  * * *

  Sherra winced as she swiped the credit card through the cab’s reader. At least the D.C. neighborhood where Brody lived looked decent, and there were plenty of stores, including coffee shops, around. She could hang out there if she failed to get inside.

  “Thanks,” she said to the driver, took her receipt from him, and exited the cab.

  The building was bland-looking, which undoubtedly fit with Brody’s cover. Nothing elite for Jim Martin, the down-to-earth low-level employee trying to make ends meet on a peon’s salary, she supposed, paid by a major defense contracting company. He’d have to hide all his real skills there and play at being a nobody.

  One of those coffee shops, a national chain, was right next door. Another apartment building sat on the other side, and several matching ones stretched down the street.

  At least the drizzle had stopped, and although the air remained humid it was on the cool side. It was midafternoon, and only a few other people were on the sidewalk in this mostly residential neighborhood. Cars crawled by on the street, though. This was part of Washington, D.C., with all its crowded glory.

  Moving up the sidewalk, Sherra approached the glass double doors. She noticed the phone off to the side where visitors could call residents for entry.

  The resident she sought wasn’t home, but she scanned the list on the attached chart. Good. There was a number for the manager.

  She edged closer to the phone as a few people ambled down the street past her. She pressed the appropriate numbers and waited as the phone rang.

  “Building manager,” droned a female voice. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Sally Bradshaw,” Sherra said in a high-pitched voice. “I’m Jim Martin’s girlfriend. I don’t live around here, though, and just arrived from out of town. It’s a surprise. Could you let me into his apartment
?” She gave the number.

  “Sorry, Ms. Bradshaw. That’s against company policy. Why don’t you go next door for some coffee to wait? Better yet, call your boyfriend. Whatever works best.”

  What’d work best would be your cooperation, Sherra thought. But she’d known it was a long shot.

  “Thanks,” she said with no enthusiasm and hung up. Maybe she would grab a cup of coffee while deciding what to do next.

  “Ms. Bradshaw?” said another female voice from behind her—one with a Southern accent, so it wasn’t the manager she’d just spoken with.

  Sherra turned. Three people stood there—two men and a woman, whom she’d noticed walking down the street. She looked around, uneasy. Other pedestrians were nearby, and still a lot of cars on the street. Surely someone would help her if something was wrong.

  Why were these people standing there? Why had they paid attention to her name?

  “Yes,” she admitted tentatively.

  The woman took a step toward her. She appeared middle-age and wore a blouse with a frilly collar over a midlength gray skirt. She didn’t look threatening, but Sherra had been through enough lately not to feel assured by appearances.

  “My name is Mae Andrews,” she said.

  Sherra blinked. Andrews? As in the dead, other Brody?

  “This is my husband, Burl, and son Bobby,” she continued. “I know it sounds strange, but I just heard you ask about Jim Martin. We have reason to believe that he’s—well, it’s a long, strange story. Would you join us for a cup of coffee?” She pointed to the coffee shop. “We’re looking for some information, and even if you don’t have it you might still be able to help. Please?”

  Chapter 14

  “Are you really Jim Martin’s girlfriend?” asked Burl Andrews.

  The four of them sat around a small table at the coffee shop. Sherra had gotten a latte with lots of sweetener. She needed the energy pickup along with the caffeine.

  Mae had chosen an iced tea, and both Burl and Bobby had ordered brewed coffee. It seemed a toss-up who had poured more milk and sugar into it.

  Burl was a thin man, lots of wrinkles on his face that didn’t quite meet his receding hairline. Appearing to be in his sixties, he regarded Sherra expectantly while awaiting her answer.

  Unsure what to say, she responded with a question of her own. “I’d like to know what this is about,” she said. “Why are you interested in Jim?”

  “Because that’s not who he is,” Bobby responded bluntly. With thick glasses and ample, curly brown hair, he looked more like a computer geek than Sherra, or even her friend from CMHealthfoods, Miles, did. That didn’t mean he was one, though.

  “What do you mean?” Sherra’s heart hammered an uneven cadence inside her chest. Brody’s cover was blown, and by people who claimed to have the last name of Andrews?

  What if they actually were relatives of the Brody Andrews who had been killed? Did they know he was dead?

  Maybe these people believed the official, untrue story that Brody McAndrews was the victim—and that their son and brother remained alive.

  If so, she felt sorry for them.

  But still—what were they doing here? How did they know that the fictitious Jim Martin was involved?

  “We don’t really know what’s going on.” Mae, sounding depressed, stared at her paper cup. “If you know Jim, maybe you can help us.” She looked up at Sherra. “Who are you?” She had blond, wavy hair. Her eyes were light blue, surrounded by worry lines, and looked infinitely sad.

  “My name is Sally,” Sherra said. “And, yes, I know Jim. What do you want with him?”

  Burl half stood. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Look, Sally, we need answers, and you’re going to give them to us.” He’d been sitting beside Sherra and appeared ready to grab her. Damn. She’d thought she would be safe out here in public while she tried to figure this out. But she was way over her head in this situation. She needed Brody.

  First, though, she needed information. “What answers are you looking for?” she asked sweetly.

  Mae sighed. “We need to know where our son Brody is.”

  Although Sherra tried not to move even an eyelash as she waited for more, she was trembling.

  “My brother was in Afghanistan.” Bobby looked as angry as his dad. “We’ve been told he’s back in the States on a super secret mission but we haven’t heard from him. We want to make sure he’s okay.”

  “I got an email from someone in the government,” Mae said. “It said Brody was undercover here in the D.C. area,. We probably shouldn’t have, but after we still didn’t hear from Brody we hired a private investigator to try to find him. He told us he’d learned that Brody was using the name Jim Martin and that he lived right here. We were just about to try that apartment building when we heard you mention that name.”

  Sherra decided to tell them that the Jim Martin she knew couldn’t be the same one. This family, their claims and the amazing coincidence of their timing didn’t feel right to her. Not that she was an expert on clandestine stuff. But she knew someone who was.

  “That’s very interesting,” she said noncommittally, then glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m supposed to meet someone in a little while and I’m going to be late. Excuse me for a second while I call and let him know.”

  She stood abruptly and walked away. If these people were the real Brody Andrews’s family, she could be blowing things for her Brody. If not, he needed to know about them. She walked outside onto the sidewalk and watched them as she drew her personal smart phone out of her purse. Under these circumstances, maybe Brody would forgive her for not telling him about it. Or not. It didn’t really matter.

  She pressed in his number as the people at the table continued to watch her.

  * * *

  Where the hell was she?

  Brody had dashed from AFD to Sherra’s condo and let himself in the same way he had the first time. The place was empty.

  He stood in her kitchen now, looking for any indication she might have come here and run off again. But as far as he could tell no one had been here since they’d left.

  He sank into a kitchen chair to think but was too edgy to stay still. Instead, he rose and hurried down the hall to the bedroom she used as an office. No sign of her presence there, either. He booted up her desktop computer but had no idea what to look for.

  He also had no idea where else Sherra might flee to after leaving the safe house. Maybe she had left the area altogether. Gone to Baltimore-Washington Airport and taken the first flight to Fiji or wherever.

  He should never have allowed her to keep one of her own credit cards, but she’d promised to use it only in an emergency. How easy could that be when she didn’t have her own ID with her? And even if her driver’s license in the name of Sally Bradshaw got her somewhere, she didn’t have a passport.

  Damn! Didn’t she know how much danger she was in? She had to—she had been attacked right here.

  Which might, he reasoned as he sat down at her computer, be exactly why she wasn’t here now.

  Where else would she go?

  He made himself breathe slowly as he scanned her computer files, but nothing seemed helpful. He wanted to kick himself for leaving her without a phone—only, he had done that for her protection.

  His phone rang, vibrating in his pocket. He grabbed it and pulled it out.

  He didn’t recognize the number. The first thing that ran through his mind was that someone had Sherra and was calling to gloat.

  Someone who might already have harmed her…

  “Hello,” he answered abruptly.

  “Hi, Bill,” said a sweet, familiar voice that made him stand so abruptly that the chair flew backward behind him.

  “Sally. Where—”

  “Do you happen to remember Jim Mar
tin? I’m right outside his apartment building, and there are some people who claim he may not be who he says he is. Their name is Andrews, and I’m having coffee with them at the shop next door. I—”

  “Stay right there,” Brody demanded, pushing the button to turn off the computer and dashing for the door. “In public. With people around. I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Brody drove like a maniac along the beltway from Bethesda toward downtown D.C. He had to get back to the apartment he was renting. Fast.

  Could they really be the Andrewses? What was Sherra telling them?

  He grabbed his phone and pushed in the number for Michael Cortez. He spoke to his commanding officer daily to keep him up to date. Now, he was the one who needed to be brought up to date.

  “What’s up…is it Jim today?” The captain had answered right away, his tone full of good humor. As if what was going on wasn’t damned serious.

  “Right. I need to know immediately if you or one of your staff can find out where ‘my’ family, the Andrewses, happen to be right now. Check with Ragar—he mentioned they were nosing around. As I recall, my parents are Mae and Burl and I have a brother.” Once he had known he was going to have to assume the other Brody’s identity for a while, or at least make it appear as if that Brody had been the survivor, Brody McAndrews had done his homework. Learned that the other Brody had grown up in Atlanta. Where he had gone to school. Who his family members were. When and where he had enlisted.

  He’d nailed the basics, in case anyone ever interrogated him to confirm his identity.

  He was fortunate it hadn’t happened before. Now, he wasn’t certain whether he would have to pretend he had no idea what the real Andrews family was talking about—or make sure that, whoever they were, he brought them down before they could hurt Sherra or him or his cover.

  “That’s right. Bobby. I’ll talk to Ragar and have one of my guys do a quick recon on them, too. Why do you need to know?”

  Brody filled him in quickly on Sherra’s escape from the safe house—and her call to him.

  Where had she gotten a phone so quickly? Was it one of those limited-use things from a convenience store?