Torn Loyalties

by Vicki Hinze

  She did. And that he took no pleasure in deceiving her was clear. But could she trust her reading of a man who’d thoroughly and completely deceived her? “You knew how much trust mattered to me. You knew, and you took my medal anyway. How could you do that to me?”

  “I did what I had to do. You know how these things work.” He grabbed the bars, curled his fingers around them until his fingertips turned white. “Step into my shoes. What would you have done?”

  “I don’t want to step into your shoes. I took a leap of faith on you, and it was hard, but I did it. And now—splat. That’s what I got for trusting you.”

  She stepped away, turned her back to him. “Just go away, Grant. I don’t want to see you right now. I don’t know if I ever want to see you again.”

  “It’ll take a while for you to come to grips with this,” he said. When she didn’t respond, he whispered, “Madison, look at me. Please.”

  She tried and failed to hide her pain but glanced sideward at him anyway. The urge to cry overwhelmed her. She bit down on her tongue to hold back the tears. He would not get that, too.

  The regret in his voice touched his eyes. Again he silently mouthed a message. Crawford is dead. Murdered. Trust your instincts. Aloud, he repeated, “Have you eaten?”

  Her heart threatened to shoot out of her chest. Her pulse throbbed in her temples. Crawford was dead. They’d killed him. That meant she was the only one left seeking the truth, and now they had removed her as an obstacle. Would they kill her, too? “No, I haven’t eaten today.”

  “I’ll get you some lunch.”

  “You’re guarding me?” She let out an exasperated sigh. “Of all people, you?”

  “Me and Major Beecher. One or the other of us will be with you at all times. No one else.”

  “Why do I need constant monitoring?” She threw up her hands. “I’m in a locked cell with no windows, underground, in a facility few know exists. Where exactly am I supposed to go?”

  “Nowhere.” He mouthed, Think.

  Confirmed. She was inside the Nest. Lord, help her. Confused about Grant and totally out of sorts, she stilled. The threatening tears burned the back of her nose and crept toward her eyes. Refusing to let him see her as weak, she turned her back to him. “Go away, Grant. Just go away.”

  He sighed. “I’ll be back.”

  Should she take that as a threat or reassurance?

  Unsure, she closed her eyes and squeezed the medal and stone in her pocket so hard she half expected them to fuse, and said not a word.

  * * *

  Major Beecher stood at the end of the corridor near the observation desk. “Well, she didn’t take a swing at you. That’s good news.”

  Grant grunted, clearly not happy with the situation.

  “She was definitely shocked to see you.” Beecher rubbed his full jaw, then folded his hands over his broad chest. “She had no idea you’d infiltrated her agency and were still active duty.”

  “She knew.” Grant dropped into a swivel chair. “That I’d infiltrated Lost, Inc., anyway. She didn’t know I was still active duty.” He sighed again and pulled out his cell phone, dialed Miss Addie’s Café and ordered Madison’s favorite—chicken salad on whole wheat—and a Reuben for himself. He looked at Beecher. “Want anything?”

  “Nah.” Beecher lifted a brown bag. “Wait. Key lime pie.”

  Grant made it three, put it on his tab and said he’d have someone pick it up.

  Beecher got on the phone and sent one of his guys out, then arranged to meet him in front of the outer facility’s main headquarters building.

  “Thanks.” Grant stowed his phone. “Man, this is some kind of mess.”

  “It could be worse.” Beecher glanced at the monitors.

  Madison was the only person in the cellblock. That, too, worried Grant. It would be irrationally easy to make her disappear. “How?”

  “I could have shot her last night. What was she thinking, tromping in the woods like that?”

  “You saw her?” Madison’s stealth skills must be getting rusty.

  “I heard her—well, I heard her sweatshirt tear. I didn’t know what it was then. I made enough noise to warn anyone in a five-mile radius I was there but I didn’t actually see her until she was in her Jag driving away.”

  The fabric sample found on the bush Talbot had shown him. “What do you think will happen to her?”

  Worry and regret filled Beecher’s eyes. “They don’t have a lot of choice, Grant.”

  “She wasn’t spying.”

  “She was—just maybe not for the reasons or with the intentions they first thought.”

  Beecher knew far more than Grant suspected he would. Talbot obviously had briefed him, too. “You know why she was out there?”

  He nodded. “Not that it’ll make any difference.” Beecher looked over at the monitors.

  Grant followed his gaze. Madison hadn’t moved. Still stood with her back to the cameras in the center of her cell. Was she crying? He couldn’t be sure, but why else would she stand so still for so long with her back turned?

  Beecher pursed his lips and his close-cut hair caught the strong overhead light. “They wanted the David Pace case closed and forgotten. Except for her, it has been.” He let out a little grunt. “They’re not going to let her put a wrench in that. I can’t see it happening.”

  Neither could Grant, which meant Madison could be stuck here forever.

  “Better accept it.” Beecher rocked back in his seat. “She’ll probably never see the light of day again.”

  Every muscle in Grant’s body contracted at once. Thinking it and hearing it said aloud were two different things. His stomach roiled. “That’s not right.”

  “Or fair,” Beecher agreed, hauling himself to his feet. “But it is what it is.” He hitched his pants, then pulled his hat from where it had been tucked under his belt and seated it on his head. “I’m going to pick up lunch. Be right back.”

  Beecher took the elevator, and Grant returned his gaze to the cell monitor recording her every move and word. Madison still stood back to the cameras—but there was a slight movement at her side. Rubbing something inside her pocket... Her medal or his rubbing stone?

  Half surprised she hadn’t hurled either or both at him, Grant stood up. He couldn’t sit here knowing she was hurting and do nothing. He couldn’t let them hold her here until she died of old age, either. Snagging a soda from the small fridge tucked under the counter against the back wall, he put in a request for bottled water, then walked the soda down to Madison.

  Just outside her cell, he stopped at the bars. “Lunch is on its way. There wasn’t any cold water on hand—I’m getting some brought down—but I brought you a soda.”

  She glared back at him, her gaze as hard as carved stone.

  He passed the can through the bars, mouthed, I’m going to tell Mrs. Renault. See what she can do.

  Madison took the can, turned her back and whispered, “She knows—and don’t you dare make me sorry I trusted you with that.”

  “Madison, I—I—”

  “You what?” The venom in her voice was at total odds with the hurt in her eyes.

  Knowing he’d put it there upset Grant more than he could put into words. He had been a warrior, trained to bury his feelings and keep his mouth shut since he’d been an adult. Talking about feelings was hard for him. Almost impossible, but that hadn’t been such a bad thing until now. Now, he needed to verbalize for her and for himself, but he couldn’t.

  No man can serve two masters.

  He could honor God by honoring his oath or honor Madison. He couldn’t honor both. “I—I’ll bring your lunch as soon as it arrives.”

  “Whatever, Grant. But don’t do anything to hurt Mrs. Renault.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.�
�

  She looked back at him. “Is that the truth or another of your lies?”

  If words could lay a man low, he’d be below the white tile floor. He frowned. “Go ahead and judge me, Madison. I’ve earned it.” Apparently she needed a little more time to come to terms. He couldn’t fault her for questioning his honesty. After all, he’d earned her doubt. In her shoes, he’d be so frosted at what he’d done the cell bars would be dripping icicles.

  Done was done, and all he could do now was forge ahead. The question in his mind was two-part. What did Mrs. Renault know about Madison’s detainment, and what had she done about it?

  Talbot putting her in an adjoining cell wouldn’t do a thing for her or to help Madison. And that Mrs. Renault had once been the wife of the Nest commander wouldn’t be enough to spare her.

  Both women could be in even greater jeopardy. What could Grant do? Could anyone get them through this intact?

  He seriously doubted it.

  And that worried him most of all.

  * * *

  Three days later, Madison struggled to hold on to hope. Sitting on the floor in the center of her cell, she finished her prayers, and confident the flashbacks haunting her would abate, she opened her eyes.

  Grant stood just outside her cell.

  “What do you want?” She tried to keep the bite out of her tone. During her time here, he’d tried reassuring her not with words but with actions that he was doing all he could do. Beecher had been distant and withdrawn, but there when needed. It was clear: any help for her would come from Grant.

  He beckoned to her, and hesitantly she approached the bars.

  “Do you need anything?” Hiding his actions with his body, he passed her a scrap of paper.

  She slid it into her pocket. “Other than to get out of here? No.” She showed him her medal. “You see this?” Holding it up so the camera would record it, she looked at the medal. “I’m an honored veteran. You’re holding me here as if I were a criminal. Someone will have to answer for this, Grant Deaver. Do you hear me? I’m not going to disappear. I have family and friends who won’t rest until they find me.”

  “The odds of that are none,” he said softly. “Accept it, and you’ll make peace with a lot less agony.”

  She glared at him. “I’ll never accept it.”

  “Be careful, saying things like that. It narrows their choices, and makes your future more bleak.”

  He was right about that. She despised it, but facts were facts.

  “Did you look at your Purple Heart?” he whispered, his back to the cameras, his voice barely audible.

  She cut her eyes left, telling him no, she hadn’t.

  “Look.”

  She turned her back, whispered, “Where’s Mrs. Renault?”

  “Underground. I can’t reach her.”

  Madison looked back at him. Fear flashed in her eyes. “Maggie?”

  Her best friend, Maggie Mason, a profiler for the FBI and landscape artist. He shook his head.

  “Find her, Grant. Please.”

  “Trying.”

  She turned away. “Are you? Really?”

  Catching her glance, he let her see the truth in his eyes. I promise.

  She believed him. Whether or not she should, she couldn’t tell, but she did. Trust your instincts. She whispered, soft and low. “Try harder.”

  He blinked once. Yes.

  “Read, then destroy the note.”

  She blinked once.

  He stepped back. “What day is it?” she asked.

  “Monday.”

  “Night or day?”

  Guilt covered him like a coat. “Monday night,” he said, then glanced at his watch. “Seven o’clock.” He unstrapped the band, stepped close to the bars and passed her his watch. Who is Janet Hardy?

  Madison searched her mind, mentally reviewed her files. “Never heard of her. Why?”

  “Later.”

  She took the watch and then hid it in her pocket. “Thank you.”

  “Read the note—and trust me.”

  Did she dare? Did she? She couldn’t say. Maybe after she looked at her Purple Heart and read the note.

  He didn’t wait for a response, just headed up the center aisle until he disappeared from her sight.

  Madison waited an hour before easing the note and her medal out of her pocket. Her thoughts ran wild. They had been wild since her detention, but Mrs. Renault out of touch for three days? That had to be Talbot. There was no other explanation. The man was in love with her and had been since her husband’s death—maybe before, but if so he’d kept his feelings to himself. Which would prove stronger for him? His love for her or his loyalty to his nation? Could he find a way to reconcile both?

  She and Grant hadn’t, but then Grant hadn’t been in love, just doing his job and getting sucked into it personally a little too deep. Deep enough to help her maybe, but not deep enough to love her. And boy, did knowing that hurt.

  Disheartened, she sat on the floor, facing the cot and short brick wall that afforded her bathroom privacy, her back to the cameras.

  She unfolded the scrap of paper—and heard raised voices coming from the end of the hall. Startled, she crammed the paper and medal back into her pocket and strained to hear what had caused the ruckus.

  FIVE

  “I can’t let you go down there, sir.”

  Grant squared off at the vice commander. Beecher kept his seat at the observation desk, watching closely but not getting involved.

  “Get out of my way, Deaver.” Dayton’s face flushed red, and the veins in his neck bulged.

  “I can’t do that, sir. I’m under direct orders from Commander Talbot.”

  Surprise flitted across Dayton’s face. “Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, sir.” Grant had been given orders and he hoped to goodness Beecher had, too.

  “Is that a fact?” Dayton looked at Beecher.

  “Yes, sir.” Beecher stood up, moved to Grant’s side.

  “Fine.” He turned on his heel, strode the short distance to the elevator and nearly put his fist through the wall punching the call button.

  Grant looked at Beecher, who nodded.

  Neither said a thing, but words weren’t needed, and for the first time since Talbot had summoned Grant to his office and told him Madison had been detained, Grant was more worried about what Dayton would do than Talbot.

  Beecher passed Grant the red phone. It was a hotline directly to the commander. “Better let him know Dayton’s coming.”

  Grant nodded, sure as certain Talbot had been expecting this call for three days.

  Talbot answered. “Yes.”

  “Vice Commander Dayton just tried to get in to see Madison. We didn’t let him. He wasn’t happy, sir.”

  “Is he on his way here?”

  “He didn’t say, but he was plenty ticked when he left, sir. I’d be expecting him.”

  “Thanks for the notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Grant, wait.”

  He put the phone back to his ear. “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you give Madison the note?”

  His throat went thick. “Yes, sir, I did. Right before Dayton came down.”

  “So she did read it?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I heard the elevator chime, so I headed back to the observation desk.”

  “You’ve got her on monitors. Ask Beecher.”

  Grant turned to him. “Did you see her read the note?”

  “Her back’s been to us the entire time, but I suspect she did.”

  “Apparently read, sir,” Grant said into the phone.

  “Good.”

  The line went dead.

  Gr
ant hung up the phone.

  “Hate it for you, Grant,” Beecher said.

  “Yeah.” The situation kept getting worse and worse. “Me, too.”

  * * *

  Madison read the note on the scrap of paper. Midnight tonight. Use worry stone to break lightbulb. Vent. Right. Up two. South. Wait for guard change. Woods. Run. Don’t come back. 99% sure they’ve got RR. Trust me.

  RR? Renée Renault. A streak of pure fear shot through Madison’s body.

  She read the note again, committed it to memory and then ate it. So Mrs. Renault had confronted Talbot about Madison. Otherwise he wouldn’t have detained her. How could Madison go and sacrifice Mrs. Renault? Did Grant have a plan to get her out, too? Talbot wouldn’t hold her at the Nest, not with her history here. These troops respected and loved Mrs. Renault because she loved them. Someone would help her.

  Hadn’t Mrs. Renault nurtured Madison and agreed to work for her because Madison’s vision for Lost, Inc., would help her military family? She didn’t have to work; she’d chosen to guide and support and help Madison fulfill her vision, and Madison would never abandon her—and Talbot would know that. Just as Grant knew that confined to this cell, Madison wasn’t in a position to help either of them. She had to get out to do either of them any good. He’d told her repeatedly he’d been trying to locate Mrs. Renault. His worry had seemed genuine. But Madison knew better than to trust appearances with him. He was an accomplished deceiver. That she knew for fact.

  Was this note a setup? An attempt to get her to escape so they could shoot her? Was that the plan? Or was Grant genuinely fearful for her and Mrs. Renault and trying to help them? And who was this Janet Hardy he’d asked her about? How did she fit in? Madison had never even heard of the woman.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, I wish I knew what to do.

  Seeking comfort, she pulled her Purple Heart out of her pocket. The pink stone came with it. She pushed it under the edge of her slacks at her thigh. The fabric buried it. Then she rubbed the medal. What should have been smooth felt rough. Something had scratched it.

  She lifted it in front of her body, careful to keep it out of the camera’s line of sight. The medal was indeed scratched, but it hadn’t been an accident.