Navy SEAL Security

by Carol Ericson

  “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?”

  Am
y 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 slumped 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, 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.

  He placed his hands on his knees, lifting his shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me your father was involved in dealing drugs?”

  Amy’s jaw dropped. He suspected her of…something, something more than just being the daughter of an imprisoned militia leader. “Wait a minute.”

  He quirked one brow, but his jaw hardened. “I have all the time in the world.”

  “Do you think I had something to do with Carlos’s plans with the Velasquez Cartel?” The words spoken aloud sounded wild, crazy, but this stranger in the expensive getup didn’t even crack a smile.

  “You have to admit, it’s a coincidence. Daughter of a former drug dealer involved with another drug dealer, dead bodies in her house, drugs on her beach.”

  “I wouldn’t call my father a drug dealer.”

  “Defending him?”

  “Never.” She slammed her palms against the picnic table. “That’s not what I meant. Dear old Dad was involved in all kinds of illegal activities. He used the militia front to make his endeavors sound more noble or worthy, but really he just led a cult and engaged in criminal behavior to get money to keep it going.”

  “And one of those illegal activities was dealing drugs.” Riley rubbed a hand across his face and closed his eyes. “What do you expect me to think?”

  “I don’t expect you to think the worst of me. I gave you the benefit of the doubt when I stumbled across you on the beach after you’d just killed a man.”

  He clenched his eyes briefly before opening them. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt if you start coming clean.”

  “I am clean.” She spread her hands in front of her as the lie tumbled from her mouth.

  “Why didn’t you say anything about that cigarette holder we found in the storage unit with your father’s initials inscribed on it? You recognized it immediately, didn’t you?”

  Amy pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re good.”

  “My contacts are good. Did you rush out here to San Miguel to find out if your father had snuck out to facilitate another drug deal and happened to drop his holder?”

  She snorted. “Obviously not. I wanted to find out if anyone had those cigarette holders.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “He told me to leave it alone.”

  “Maybe he’s looking out for your welfare.”

  Amy laughed, tipping her head back to the sky. “That would be a first.”

  “Someone needs to.”

  Her head snapped forward, and she huffed out a breath. “I think I’m capable of looking out for myself.”

  “In normal circumstances, but these aren’t normal circumstances.”

  “My life has never consisted of normal circumstances. I’m accustomed to drama.”

  “I know.” Riley brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Foster care must’ve been tough.”

  Amy squared her shoulders, her lips twisting into a halfhearted smile. “It was no picnic, but I got through it—with the help of my friend Sarah.”

  “Good, and now you’re going to get through this with my help.” He chucked her under the chin. “For the first time in your life, maybe you should listen to your father. Stay out of this.”

  “If he’s telling me to butt out, it’s for his own good, not mine. I think I have a right to know who nominated me to be Carlos’s cohort.”

  A crease formed between Riley’s eyebrows. “So you do think your father is mixed up in this?”

  “I’m not sure if he’s involved directly, but he may know something.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He told me not to get involved, didn’t he? Why would he care otherwise?”

  “Do you think he knows where the cigarette holder came from?”

  Amy caught her breath and grabbed the material of Riley’s dress shirt. “He said something about my siblings.”

  Riley reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He flattened it out on the picnic table, running his finger along the creases. “Is this your family?”

  Amy peered at the picture printed in muddy colors from a laser printer. Her gaze scanned the women and children in the photo and tears pooled in her eyes as she pressed her locket against her chest. Those other women had been like second mothers to
her, but the U.S. government had ripped her away from them.

  One fat tear rolled over her lower lid and splashed on the page. “Th-that’s my family. My father’s other wives and their children. I was my mother’s only child. Those are my half siblings.”

  “Are you in touch with any of them?” Riley blotted the circle of moisture with his thumb.

  “No. Social Services took me away from the others because I had a different mother. When I was a child, I had no opportunity to reach them. When I became an adult, I had no desire.”

  Riley’s finger traced along the back row of children in the picture, along the taller kids, the teens. “You must remember them.”

  She flicked at the faces with her finger. “Maisie got the hell out, Ethan was an SOB, Rosalinda married a Mexican national…”

  “Ethan?” Riley swept the photo from the table and held it close to his face.

  She wrinkled her nose. She hadn’t thought about Ethan in years. “Ethan was the oldest and a bully. He idolized Dad.”

  “Did he smoke?”

  “Smoke?” Her heart skipped a beat. Could it really be that easy?

  Riley smacked the photo with his hand. “If he smokes and admired his father, he just might have a cigarette holder with his initials—E.P. Just like Dad.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amy caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and her dark eyes widened. She choked out, “Do you think my half brother is working with Carlos?”

  She had to be one heck of an actress if she was really involved in all this. Riley didn’t give a damn about Eli Prescott or Ethan Prescott for that matter. A rush of warm relief had flooded his senses once he’d determined that Amy was as unaware and baffled by Carlos’s nefarious connections as she appeared to be that first night on the beach.

  As they peeled back every layer of the onion skin, Amy’s danger from the Velasquez Cartel grew stronger. Had her own half brother set her up? Did they want something from her now?

  “What do you know about your brother, Ethan?”

  “I know I didn’t like him. He bullied the rest of us and worshipped Dad. He almost wanted a confrontation with the Federales. I guess he hadn’t counted on the Mexican government cooperating with the FBI.”