by Jack July
When Jones screamed, Alder’s secret service team leaped into action, one covering the Speaker while the other drew his weapon and started scanning.
Meanwhile, Amy heard a crash from back in business class when her 6’2” 220-pound former Navy SEAL Uncle Jack sprang to his feet smashing his head against the console above the seats causing a chain reaction that dropped the oxygen masks from the ceiling. He burst through the curtains separating the two classes, rubbing a red mark on his head.
“Return to your seat immediately,” shouted one of the Secret Service agents. Jack momentarily ignored him, scanning the cabin. Amy was still glaring at Jones, who was whimpering while holding his wrist. Jack figured out what had happened. He returned to his seat and sat down next to Amy’s daddy, Leon. He was rubbing the bump on his head when Leon asked him, “What happened?”
Jack laughed out loud and said, “Looks like some ole boy in a suit took a run at our girl and, ah, it didn’t end well.” Leon sighed and shook his head.
It had been just over three years since 9/11, and most people were still on edge while flying. An air marshal ran up the aisle with his gun drawn. A few passengers screamed and prayed. At last, a flight attendant with more sense than the rest bent over Amy and the congressman and asked, “What happened?” Jones wasn’t talking.
Alder had finally shooed away his protective detail so he could investigate as well. He was just in time to hear Jones say, “You bitch, I think you broke my wrist!”
Amy calmly replied, “Call me that again and I’ll break something else.”
Carla Jo grabbed Amy’s arm and whispered, “Honey, this isn’t Afghanistan. You need to calm down.” To the whimpering congressman, she said, “Excuse me; I’m a nurse, sir. I can check that arm out for you if you like.”
Alder froze as he got a good look at Amy for the first time. “Petty Officer Braxton?”
Another flight attendant walked up. “There’s a call from the White House for you in the cockpit.”
“Thank you,” Alder said, and straightened.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the flight attendant said as she pointed at Amy. “I was speaking to her.”
Amy stood up gingerly, holding her aching side. Granny Patches called out to Amy, “Amy, if that’s Liz, you tell her Granny says hi.”
Amy nodded her head. “Yes, ma’am.”
Suddenly Granny had the full attention of the cabin. She smiled back at them and said, “The President told me I could call her Liz.”
The air marshal preceded Amy down the narrow aisle and opened the door to the cockpit. Amy took the phone the copilot held out to her.
“Petty Officer Braxton, this is Cynthia Maxwell, assistant to the Chief of Staff. President North wanted to give you a message. Do you have something to write with?”
“Does anyone have a pen and some paper?” Amy asked the flight crew. The captain handed her a spiral notebook and a pen.
It was the funeral arrangements for Petty Officer Matthew Oliver, a process the President had taken a personal interest in. Amy’s face tightened. President North had been very kind when Amy explained that her boyfriend had died in the helicopter crash that left her stranded in Afghanistan.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Miss Maxwell. “But I do have some good news. Your dog, Patsy Cline, went wheels up from Afghanistan this morning. You should have her in a few days.”
“Thank you.”
Back in the cabin, Speaker Alder was smoothing things over with Congressman Jones.
“I’m putting her in jail for assaulting a Congressman,” said Jones through gritted teeth. Aunt Carla Jo raised one perfect eyebrow, but did not comment.
Alder smiled, leaned in, and whispered, “Jonesy, I would rather tickle a tiger’s ass in a phone booth than fuck with that woman. She’s a decorated war hero. She also has the ear of the President. She would not have done this without good reason. You need to let it go, and I mean right now.”
Jones slowly nodded, his face paling, and Alder returned to the front of the plane just as Amy stepped out of the cockpit. “Speaker Alder,” the Congressman said, extending his hand. “Would you like to join me?”
Amy smiled and motioned to Carla Jo that she would be sitting in the front. Alder gave her the window seat. She might have objected that she needed an aisle seat to stretch out her bad leg, but the front row of first class had more than enough space for her. Maintenance personnel started moving down the aisles to stow the oxygen masks properly, and the flight attendant announced it would be about twenty minutes before takeoff.
Speaker Alder whispered in Amy’s ear, “I was in the Sit Room with the President during the battle of Khawak Pass. I saw what you did. You have become very special to many people. You can relax now; I promise you I won’t allow anyone to annoy you again. Sorry about Jones. He’s an ass.”
Amy had been instructed never to acknowledge Khawak to anyone, for any reason, so she ignored that part. “Thank you, sir. I really just want to rest.”
There was a slight commotion behind them. “Amy!” called Aunt Carla Jo. The Secret Service agents had stopped her. Alder waved her forward and they let her pass.
“Speaker Alder, nice to meet you,” she said politely. She handed Amy a pill and a bottle of water.
“What’s this?”
“Something to help you relax. Try to get some rest, okay?”
Amy nodded. The flight attendant brought her a pillow and a blanket. She leaned her head against the window while staring blankly across the tarmac, certain she would never get to sleep. But with undisturbed peace and the Xanax, she was out before the plane pulled up its landing gear.
CHAPTER 3
November 19th, 11:00 A.M.
CIA covert operative Tatiana Aziz sat in a large, comfortable seat inside a federally owned Gulfstream 4. The sunrise accelerated and bright light suddenly burst through the starboard windows as the plane gained altitude, nose pointed southwest. She was on her way to Alabama to complete a mission she had started in Afghanistan months earlier: recruit her best friend, Petty Officer Amy Braxton, into the CIA.
T, as she was known in the small community of CIA operatives, was a classic Mediterranean beauty of Lebanese decent. In her early twenties she could easily have graced the cover of most fashion magazines. Now she was 33 and she hadn’t lost much. Not that she cared. Beauty was just another arrow in the quiver of tools she used to execute her missions. Along with being master of weapons, explosives, self-defense and situational tactics, she was Georgetown educated and spoke four foreign languages: Russian, German, Spanish and three dialects of Arabic.
Those who knew her professionally were frightened of her. She was cold, calculating and personally unapproachable. Any heart and soul she may have had was brutally removed as a child. She was the lone survivor when Palestinian commandos butchered her family. She had survived by sheer luck. Seeking privacy so she could listen to the religiously frowned upon music of Madonna on her Walkman, she’d hid outside in a hole washed out under the wall that ringed her family’s compound. In the calm after the attack, she entered their home. The sights and smells she experienced while walking through her house among the beheaded and eviscerated bodies of her mother, father and five brothers and sisters never left her. They were as fresh to her as the day it happened.
Her love life was as utilitarian as the weapons she carried. She kept a half-dozen or so lovers at any one time, Special Ops men she met on various missions. Two basic criteria shaped her choices. First, they had to be as cold and hard as she was. She wanted no hangers-on or lovesick puppies. Second, they needed to be able to keep their mouths shut. Those who met her standards were rewarded with the explosive passion she rarely released outside the bedroom.
There had been, however, one man who penetrated her iron façade. He’d done it without even trying. He was FBI agent Brandon Bolin.
Boli
n’s North Carolina State football scholarship had paid for his criminal justice degree. Smart and dedicated, he quickly climbed the ranks in the Charlotte North Carolina police department to become a detective the tender age of 28. His stellar record and a couple of high-profile cases had drawn the attention of the FBI.
He was gifted with the ability to see complex situations and simplify them, and was also an outstanding interrogator. He treated criminals almost tenderly, with kindness and respect, while he pulled out confessions to crimes they hadn’t even been charged with. Some said he could make you a friend as he charged you with murder.
Years ago, T had been paired with Agent Bolin while investigating a Russian mafia infiltration into America. Russian Jews working within that criminal network had set up a stronghold in Miami. The agents were given a leadership target. It seemed straightforward, but it wasn’t. As they executed the mission, they found that the Russian mafia, unlike the structured Italian Cosa Nostra, was made up of loose, often informal networks. They were decidedly more difficult to track. Still, Agent Bolin pulled it all together, impressing the hell out of Tatiana.
Staring out the window of the jet as it swept through clouds, she thought about him. Bolin had never looked at her body, never sexually. He always focused on her eyes, always listening and learning. His professionalism intrigued her at first, then it started to annoy her. She dropped hint after hint that she was interested in him, but he was clueless. He wasn’t like her typical Adonis military man, although he was certainly in good shape. She craved the little things about him, like the smile he had when he was mildly amused; it made a little dimple in his cheek. He was the only man she had ever met that picked up on and appreciated her dry, sarcastic humor.
When the Russian mafia mission was over, she had invited him to her house for dinner. After the meal, she excused herself and took the most terrifying chance she had ever taken. After touching up her sparse make-up and adding one more dab of the PCFM red lipstick, she unzipped her dress and let it hit the bathroom floor. Then pulled the clips from her shiny, jet black hair, leaned forward, shook it out, flipped it up and watched it fall across her shoulders and down her back. She took a deep breath, then used every ounce of her sensuality to stroll into the dining room like a wild jungle cat, high heels clicking off the hardwood floor. A thousand dollars in custom French lingerie hugged every curve and bolstered her courage as she purred, “How about dessert?”
She smiled every time she thought of the look on his face when he finally figured it out.
They both took three weeks of leave. She flew him all over the world in a private jet she borrowed from a Polish billionaire she knew well. He tried to play it cool, like any man would, but she could tell he was awed by her connections. No matter where they went, they never needed money.
More importantly, though, he stripped away the cold mechanical exterior she wore professionally to find the vulnerable woman beneath. Her trust was rewarded, as they grew closer, building a relationship during those three perfect weeks. Slowly, he became her world. She was still what she was, an assassin, but Brandon made her feel feminine and whole. Thoughts she had never entertained in her entire life began to seep in. Marriage, babies a home and family of her own danced in her head, no matter how she fought it.
And then, suddenly, only nine months after it began, it was over.
Congressman “Honest” Abe Goldman compromised their mission. He had an affair with a reporter, Cassandra Blake or the name her Russian parents gave her, Irina Slavina. She was the daughter of a Russian mafia captain who was also retired KGB and understood the value of having Brandon Bolin’s real name. In true Russian mob fashion, they didn’t go after Agent Bolin. They killed his parents, but not before they tortured them. He found them in the basement.
One month later, after an intense investigation, Agent Bolin returned the favor. He waited on a park bench, disguised as a homeless man. Congressman Goldman strolled past, as Bolin had expected. When Goldman was close enough, Agent Bolin emptied a .45 into his chest. Brandon would have escaped, but a beat cop got off a lucky shot. It shattered part of Brandon’s ankle. He could have escaped by killing the cop, but he surrendered. He was unwilling to harm a fellow law enforcement officer just doing his job.
By the time T returned from a black op in Iraq, Agent Bolin had pleaded guilty. The trial was all but over. In exchange for his guilty plea and to allow the cover up of the extenuating circumstances behind the congressman’s killing, Bolin was given life in Leavenworth.
Tatiana worked every angle she could think of to get him out, including putting a team together to break him out. He refused to even try to escape. He looked her in the eye and told her with force and conviction, “I’m a lawman. I have broken the law. I took a chance by taking the law into my own hands. If this is how it ends, this is what I deserve. There is nothing left for us to do. I’m very sorry.”
She saw him one last time during a visitor’s day. He asked two things of her. First, find out who killed his parents and ensure justice was done. Second, she was never to return to visit. He decided to be as cold as he could when he said, “Forget about me, move on, I know I have.” She had already set the wheels in motion to find the killer, but Brandon’s second request? That was impossible. She knew he didn’t mean it and she continued to write him letters, first reasoning and them begging him to reconsider. At last, she went back to the prison to visit. He refused to see her, and her letters all came back marked return to sender.
“Let justice be done,” Brandon had told her in that last visit. She saw that it was. That man who gave the order to have Brandon’s parents murdered? He spent his last hours with T, a fine selection of power tools and a blowtorch.
As for Cassandra Blake, T planned a special mind fuck. Posing as a Hollywood agent scouting for a sitcom actress to play a reporter, T played on every vapid, narcissistic cell in her body. She praised her nonexistent talent and her surgically enhanced blonde looks as the greatest thing since Marilyn Monroe.
By the time T was finished with her, Miss Blake did get to play a role. Her leading man was a 14-foot gator in the everglades. Her screams of terror as her bound body slid under the brackish water for the last time amused T. Miss Blake did have an encore, as a steaming pile of alligator shit on a riverbank. It was an Emmy Award-worthy performance.
Suddenly, T realized she was over an hour into the trip and hadn’t done any of her prep work. Dammit, I really need to focus, she thought, irritated at herself. Her sat phone chirped at her.
“T,” she answered.
It was her handler, Adele Harris. “Are you aware of a missing child report for a Kristy Ann Wilson?”
“No, I haven’t heard of that one.”
“It fits the pattern. They were bold. Took her in broad daylight, right off the street, not more than a block from home. Last seen two weeks ago. Maybe you want to go take a look, talk to her parents.”
“Yes Ma’am. Give me an address.”
“I’ll email it. Oh, one more thing. Petty Officer Braxton will be in West Memphis tomorrow at Matt Oliver’s funeral. You may want to catch her there. I’ll send you the info on that too.”
“All right, thanks. How are things with my team?”
“The director hasn’t seen the list but he’s gonna have a stroke.”
“Liz said whoever I want.”
“Mm hm, sometimes she forgets who she’s talking to. Be careful jerking his chain. I love you honey. … Be safe.”
“Love you too Adele, bye.”
T didn’t waste any time. She got up and walked to the cockpit. “Hey, Rocky.”
The pilot turned, grinning with white teeth in a rugged face. “Yes, Ma’am?”
“Change of plans. We need to go to Cape Girardeau Regional.”
“Roger that.” He put on his headphones and started making calls to get clearance.
T returned to her
seat and strapped in just before she felt the plane bank to the north. The mission and her duty came first. Always. But Tatiana thought this one could accomplish something else, too. The challenge would be to blend her plan into the mission without affecting the outcome of either.
She had waited six years for an opportunity to spring Brandon from prison. Six very long, lonely years.
CHAPTER 4
Amy walked in the door of her childhood home and went straight to her room. It looked untouched from the day she’d last been there, nearly two years ago. She dumped her duffle bag out on the floor and began to sort her clothes. Back to real life, she thought. First she needed to do laundry. I need a dress, a black dress. The church service and the interment were in two days. As it was, she’d have to rush to get there. Her family, happy to have her home, would just want to sit and talk. She didn’t have time for it.
After changing into civvies – a t-shirt and jeans from her closet – she walked back through the living room with an arm full of laundry only to find Granny, Daddy, Joseph and Carol all waiting for her, milling around uncomfortably. She was so used to being alone and doing her own thing that it took a minute to figure out what was going on. Clicking back into family mode would take some time. More time she didn’t have.
Daddy stopped her as she walked through the living room and said, “Honey, why don’t you sit down and relax for a minute.”
“I can’t, Daddy. I have to get ready to go.”
“Go where?”
She realized that they didn’t know about the funeral or even what Matt had been to her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Daddy. Let me start this load of laundry and I’ll tell y’all what’s going on.” She smiled as she heard herself speak. It didn’t take but a minute at home for her thick southern accent to come back. After starting the washer, she picked up the phone to call her Aunt Carla Jo.
“Hey, you got time to take me dress shopping?”