Secret Agenda

by Paula Graves

  The look she gave him made his stomach hurt. “Everybody tries to protect me, Evan, and I’m tired of it. I have to do this myself.” Her voice rose. “I have to feel it all, make it real, because the easiest thing in the world would be to pretend Vince was still alive somewhere, and any day now, he’ll come home. The pain keeps me sane. It keeps me tied to reality.”

  He caught her flailing hand, pulled her palm flat against his chest. He wondered if she could feel the rapid cadence of his heart beneath. “So you have to read those notes yourself.”

  She nodded. “He sent them to me. I’m the one who was supposed to see them.”

  He let go of her hand. “You don’t want me to see them.”

  “I just want to see them first. Alone.” She touched his chest again, her fingers warm. “Please understand.”

  A shiver skated up his spine as a new thought occurred to him. Did she suspect the same thing about her husband that he did? Did she fear what Vince Randall may have confessed in those notes, what complicity he might have had in the conspiracy that had taken his life?

  Would she try to hide her husband’s sins?

  He’d have to take that risk. Because she was right—Vince had sent the letter to her. He’d trusted her with whatever information he’d included in his notes.

  Evan would have to trust her, too.

  “I’ll go get our bags,” he said.

  * * *

  THE THIRD TIME THROUGH VINCE’S letter, Megan realized she couldn’t decipher everything on her own. When Vince had written these notes, he had expected to be coming home within a few months. His tour of duty had been nearly done, with no signs that the army was going to extend the tour for his unit. In fact, they’d come home right on time.

  Vince just hadn’t been with them.

  Too much of what she was reading was Vince’s shorthand, and she had a feeling that someone who’d been there with him in Kaziristan could make more sense of the abbreviations and acronyms. But Evan had gone to bed over an hour ago. Shouldn’t she just try again in the morning when he was with her?

  The sound of a door opening made her jump, reminding her just how long a day she’d already had. She turned to find Evan in the open doorway of his bedroom, leaning against the door frame. He wore black running shorts and a white tank top that hugged his lean, muscular torso like a lover. A tingle of female appreciation shot through her, head to toe.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said, watching her from the doorway. He nodded toward the pages. “Anything new?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I think so, but it’s like reading Greek. And I don’t speak Greek.”

  He walked toward her with a loose-limbed gait that sent awareness jolting through her. As he bent over her shoulder to look at the pages, his masculine scent filled her lungs, a potent combination of soap and something raw-edged and darkly masculine.

  “What do we have?” He sounded focused but tired, and she thought she heard a hint of a Southern drawl trying to creep into his neutral accent. Maybe being down here was starting to rub off on him.

  “The gist of what I’ve learned is that Vince had gotten wind of some hinky goings-on between some of the MacLear security forces and al Adar. He uses ‘aA” here, but that’s how he used to abbreviate al Adar in his letters home. He thought there was a middleman, someone Vince referenced as SDBR.”

  “State Department’s Barton Reid?” Evan guessed, his breath kissing her cheek.

  She glanced up and found him leaning so close that her forehead brushed against his cheek when she moved. He returned her gaze, his eyes dark with arousal.

  She turned her head away, flooded by desire so potent it made her dizzy. “That’s what I was thinking.” She cleared her throat. “Vince says he tried to talk to his brigade leader about what he’d seen, but ‘SDBR’ was in his C.O.’s tent when he arrived, in some sort of—what’s BSCJ?”

  Evan chuckled, the sound rumbling through her like summer thunder. “Big-shot circle—well, you can guess the rest.”

  That made sense. If Vince had found his commanding officer meeting with Barton Reid, then he might have come to believe the contact between Reid and the known terrorist target was sanctioned by people much higher up the government food chain. “If Vince thought the government was involved in secret talks with the terrorists who’d been shooting at him and his men, I don’t think he would just turn a blind eye and trust that they know what they’re doing.”

  “I don’t think we were negotiating with terrorists.” Evan pulled up a spare chair to the table where she sat. He scooted it closer to her and sat, giving her a thoughtful look. “I wish I’d known about Vince’s suspicions. I wish he’d told me. It could have changed everything.”

  “Like what?”

  “I would have come to you sooner, for one thing.”

  “Sooner than now?”

  “I put it off—” He pressed his lips to a thin line. “I thought Vince might have been involved.”

  It took a second to realize what he meant. “You thought Vince was working with the SSU?”

  “I couldn’t explain the sudden frequency of his trips to Tablis. And—” He paused, clearly reluctant.

  “And what?” she prodded.

  “Innocent people don’t get shot nearly as often as people who are doing things they’re not supposed to.”

  Anger rose like fever in her cheeks. “You thought Vince brought his own death on himself?”

  Before Evan could answer, a soft rattle above them brought them both to startled attention. Evan laid his hand on her arm as if to warn her to be quiet as he rose and moved toward the center of the room, his gaze directed upward.

  “Animal?” he asked.

  The noise came again. Muted. Furtive.

  Definitely not an animal.

  She shook her head and slid her Ruger from the holster still clipped to her jeans. Joining him where he stood, she spoke in a whisper. “Roof? Or attic?”

  “Attic.”

  “You need to be dressed to run. Now.” She bent and picked up her still-packed bag from where it lay by the sofa.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “We don’t get split up—agreed?”

  She nodded.

  His arm still around her, he led her to his bedroom. He hadn’t unpacked much, either. His bag lay open but mostly full, as if he’d anticipated having to make another run for it. “They’ll have disabled the car so we can’t get away easily.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. “My cousin Gabe lives just down the mountain. He can lend us his boat and we can cross the lake to my brother Wade’s place. He has a truck we can use.”

  He slipped a pair of black jeans over his shorts and quickly swapped out a black T-shirt for the white tank. Overhead, more furtive noises drove them to move faster. While she finished throwing clothes into his bag, he pulled a large black SIG Sauer P220 out of a hard-shell case and quickly loaded a clip of .45 ammunition. He fished a shoulder holster from his bag and strapped it in place. The Kel-Tec P32 in his ankle holster went on last.

  “What do you think they’re waiting for?” she asked, realizing she was clutching the roll of pages in her fist so tightly her fingernails were digging into her palm.

  “Maybe they’re hoping we’ll go to bed,” he murmured. “Better to catch us while we’re completely vulnerable. But I’m not sure how much longer they’ll wait.”

  “How do we get out of here? They could have the place surrounded.”

  “I’m sure they do,” he conceded, looking grim.

  “I can call my family,” she suggested. “Lots of backup.”

  “That just sets up a hostage situation,” he said. “We’re going to have to figure a way out ourselves.”

  “The last time the SSU came after a Cooper up here, they were lured into a trap. I’m not sure they’ll make the same mistake twice,” she warned.

  “We need to know what we’re up against,” he said. “Any idea how much space is in the attic? That c
ould tell us how many people are inside right now.”

  “Hold on.” Megan fished her cell phone from her pocket and dialed her cousin Hannah’s number. Hannah answered on the third ring, sounding groggy.

  Megan filled her cousin in on their dilemma, keeping her voice low and her words terse. “How big is the attic? How many people could it hold?”

  “Not many—three, tops, and it’d be cramped. There’s a big attic fan—we encourage people to use it during the milder months instead of the air conditioners—”

  “Like the one that Aunt Sandy and Uncle Jay used to have?”

  “Almost exactly,” Hannah confirmed.

  Megan glanced at Evan, who was watching her with curiosity. “Where’s the switch?” she asked Hannah.

  “In the master bedroom closet.” Hannah’s tone changed. “Oh, Megs, that’s bloody brilliant.”

  “Let’s hope it is.” She wasn’t sure what would happen next, but it would at least stir their intruders into enough action to reveal their presence.

  “What about backup?”

  “Send out the alarm,” Megan said quickly. “But tell them to be careful. It could easily turn into a siege situation with hostages.” She looked up at Evan. “Us.”

  After she hung up, she crossed quietly to the closet and eased the door open. Inside, she saw the oversize switch that would turn on the enormous fan in the attic.

  “You’re going to turn on the fan?”

  She nodded. “Ought to stir up a little action up there, don’t you think?”

  “Then what?”

  “Backup’s coming—if we can hold ’em off—”

  “No, wait.” Evan shut off the bedroom light, plunging the room into darkness. Megan felt more than saw his movement across the room to the windows, which were covered by lined curtains designed to block light from outside. He inched one curtain aside, letting in a sliver of pale moonlight. “Will these windows open or are they painted shut?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted, moving to stand by him.

  “Let’s hope they will,” he said. “We’ll have just one chance to make this work.” He stepped closer, the warmth of his body enveloping her, giving her a strange sense of calm. As if whatever they were facing could be conquered as long as they stuck together. She hadn’t felt that sensation with anyone else since Vince’s death, not even her family.

  “I see movement,” he whispered.

  She looked through the narrow opening. A dark figure darted through the woods, edging closer to the house. A second moved into position nearby.

  “We need a distraction—something to draw them around to the front,” Evan said, his voice tense with sudden excitement. “Ever made any firecrackers from scratch?”

  She grinned up at him, already reaching for her Ruger. “Matter of fact, I have.”

  Within five minutes, they’d pried open five bullet casings and emptied out the black powder inside. Using some clear plastic tape Megan found in the kitchen drawer, they built thirty small firecrackers, using pieces of string as fuses.

  “Tape them together in three sets of ten,” Megan suggested. “We can put a longer fuse on one in each set and soak it with lighter fluid. I think I saw some in the kitchen when I was looking for the string.”

  “Good idea,” Evan said approvingly. “We’ll put one string on the back porch, one on the side porch and leave one popping in the front room.”

  “Put them in pans—make ’em rattle even more.” She was grinning, despite the fear. Nothing more satisfying than doing something—anything—to get yourself out of a mess.

  “If they decide to come down and check on what we’re up to, this could all be for nothing,” Evan warned as he weaved the longer fuse through the string of firecrackers.

  “We probably need to make more normal sounding noise. Run the shower, maybe. Turn on a television.”

  “Good idea. Stay right here.” Evan disappeared for a moment across the short hallway into the room with the bunk beds. The television came on, the volume low but easily audible. One of the late-night talk shows she never watched. He came back into the darkened bedroom. “That ought to give them a little pause,” he said.

  “I think we have to hide what we’re doing,” she said. She’d given their plan a little thought while they were making the firecrackers. “Maybe you can go on the back porch and make a lot of noise. Turn on the hot tub, pretend you’re going to take a soak?”

  He looked down at her, his eyes gleaming in the light seeping into the room from the television in the other bedroom. “I think they’d find you more distracting in a hot tub than me.”

  “Well, since neither of us is actually going to get into the hot tub, you do it. I’ll put the second string on the side porch, then text your phone from the front room and we’ll light them all at once. Then we run to the bedroom and when the first firecracker goes off, I’ll turn on the attic fan and scramble the guys upstairs. Sound like a plan?”

  “If the guys guarding the window don’t make a move toward the other side of the house, we may have to take them on ourselves,” Evan warned. “Are you ready for that?”

  She’d never killed a human being before. But she’d been hunting a time or two. She was good with a Ruger, and if they could take out one or both of the outside guards, she could probably do some damage with one of those rifles they were carrying around. She raised her chin. “I’m ready.”

  Evan grabbed a towel from the master bath—for his hot tub cover—and they headed to the dark kitchen for the rest of their supplies. Feeling around the cabinets, Megan found some shallow metal baking pans to hold the firecrackers. She took two and gave one to Evan. He slipped the pan, the kitchen match and flint, and his firecrackers under the towel.

  She started to move away from him, toward the front room, but Evan stopped her, his fingers warm and firm as they closed around her arm. Turning her to face him, he whispered, “Good luck.”

  She gazed up at his dark shape in the shadows of the kitchen. “You, too.”

  He bent his head toward her, catching her by surprise. His lips covered hers, hot and sweet and maddening. Clutching the pans and the firecrackers more tightly to her chest, she kissed him back until the creeping madness threatened to derail their plan entirely. She pulled away, fighting the shakiness taking hold in her arms and legs. “I’ll text you when I’m ready.”

  As she hurried to the side porch, she heard the back door open. Evan was going outside, making a show of starting the hot tub. She heard the water turn on and eased the side porch door open, sliding the pan through. She left it open a crack and hurried to the fireplace for the lighter. She put the firecrackers in the pan and thumbed on the lighter. It made a soft hiss and filled the area in front of the door with a soft, golden aura. She pulled her cell phone out, typed in Evan’s number and the message Go.

  Then she touched the flame to the fuse.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bending over the pan of homemade firecrackers, Evan lit the long matchstick. With a hiss, it flared, lighting up the dark porch for a second. He took a deep breath, touched the flame to the fuse and dashed out of the kitchen.

  He nearly ran into Megan as she bolted toward the bedroom. He caught her as she stumbled, pressing his nose into her wild curls, breathing in the warm herbal tang of her shampoo. It had become a familiar scent, he realized, a part of the fabric of his existence over the past two days.

  He parted from her with reluctance, heading to the window while she dashed toward the closet. He waited in breathless silence for the sound of the first firecracker going off.

  Even though he was expecting it, the loud bang from the other room made his heart jump. He heard Megan’s soft exhalation by the closet. There was a muted click and suddenly, from over their heads came a low, rumbling roar.

  More firecrackers exploded, coming from three different sides of the house. Overhead, there were thuds as whoever was in the attic reacted to the whirling fan blade now chopping only inches from thei
r heads. Behind him, Megan padded quietly into place, bending down to pick up her bag and his.

  Outside the window, Evan saw movement. The two men in the woods were running off, one heading to the back of the house, the other toward the front.

  “Now,” he whispered to Megan, pulling the window open. It moved soundlessly, to his relief.

  He pushed the screen out. He couldn’t hear it hit the ground over the sound of the firecrackers. He turned to Megan and lifted her over the sill, bag and all, then handed her his bag. He climbed out the window and pulled it closed behind him.

  “Go!” he whispered, taking his bag. He slung the canvas strap over his shoulder and raced after her into the woods.

  They had about a fifty-yard head start and the advantage of Megan’s familiarity with the mountainside. But it didn’t take long for their pursuers to realize they’d been tricked, and about halfway down the mountain, they heard the sound of bullets hitting the trees around them, though the sound-suppressors on the intruders’ rifles muted the shots.

  “This way,” Megan growled, grabbing his hand. She took him over a sudden drop of about five feet, landing like a cat on both feet. He hit more awkwardly, his left ankle twisting.

  Luckily for him, they weren’t going much farther. She pulled him with her into a small hole in the rocky face of the mountain and flattened her back against the cave wall.

  “We should be okay if they don’t have dogs,” she breathed. “Did you see any dogs?”

  “No.” He wiggled his ankle, testing it for injury. It was sore but it seemed to function well enough. “We can’t hole up here forever.”

  Her elbow dug into his side as she pulled something from her pocket. Her cell phone—the display panel lit up, bathing her face with blue light. She punched in a number and typed Are you out there?

  A few seconds later, her phone buzzed a text reply. East of the cabin. Is that gunfire?

  She responded with an affirmative. We’re west of the cabin, holed up. Can you draw them off?

  The affirmative response was followed quickly by the sound of gunfire to the east. They heard the sound of footsteps crashing through the underbrush outside the cave, closer than expected. Evan’s racing pulse ratcheted up another notch.