Sworn to Protect

by A K August

  If I didn't get her help, I'd probably be dead shortly anyway, then Annie would go after Anthony with a machete. She had a better chance of staying alive if she helped now, instead of Anthony shooting her before she carved him up.

  I couldn't call her directly, though.

  I bit my bottom lip thinking it through before picking up Anthony's landline and dialing Bleaker's Deli. Sharon picked up as I hoped.

  "Hey, Sharon, it's Katie."

  "Katie! Hi honey. We miss you. Want to talk to Richard?"

  "Not right now, was hoping you could do me a favor and call Annie for me? She should be at her office."

  "Sure…. But why can't you call her yourself?" I could hear the caution in Sharon's voice.

  "It's a long story, Sharon, and I'll come in for burgers and tell you all the drama, but for now I need you to give her a message and ask her to meet me at this address as soon as she can." I rattled off Anthony's address and waited while I heard Sharon write it down.

  "Okay. But you promise to tell me soon?"

  "Absolutely. Thanks, Sharon."

  I had no way to know if Annie would get the message right away or if she'd be able to leave work immediately. It could be minutes or hours. I had to stay occupied until she arrived so I didn't freak out. I outlined several ideas that all sounded like crap while I waited for Annie to arrive.

  Forty-seven minutes later, the doorbell rang. I peered around the corner and through the frosted glass of the front door to see the recognizable form of my best friend. I swung open the door as she raised her hand to knock, pulled her inside, and closed the door behind us, hugging her at the same time.

  The tears were back, partly over the loss of my relationship with Anthony, partly in relief that Annie was here, and partly in fear that I'd just sealed Annie's fate to mine, a little guilt seizing me.

  What's done is done.

  Annie and I had been through so many scrapes we could weather this. I pulled her deeper into the house, noticing her mouth gape open. "Nice place."

  "Thanks," I replied instinctively as if it were mine to be proud of. I gritted my teeth, anger with Anthony surfacing again.

  I pushed Annie down into the sofa and thrust the drink I had been nursing into her hand. "What's this for?"

  "You'll want it after I tell you everything that's been going on."

  She eyed me suspiciously but didn't say anything.

  I snuck a courage sip off the drink, put it back in Annie's hands and speed dated through the events of the past several weeks. I didn't sugarcoat or expound any detail, knowing Annie would ask questions where she felt she needed more information. I fumbled over my feelings for Anthony and choked up when I recalled the conversation he'd had, revealing the killer's name, the betrayal, and fear I now felt having been his pawn.

  I recovered and closed with the information I'd found linking Criterion and Dwyer.

  ANTHONY

  Rand Topher was fourth-generation, career-military, starting with his grandfather, who rose to General during WWII. Just shy of six feet with sandy blond hair, a perpetual five o'clock shadow, and juvenile wardrobe choices, he had a boyish charm that made you think he was a punk about half his real age. Gave him a wide-eyed innocence that belied his every-churning tactical brain. You could envision him as the real-life Sk8er Boi from the Avril Lavigne song, growing up to be a pop star that all the girls wanted, just not right now. Only Topher was almost forty. If you waited for him to "grow up," he'd be the teenybopper's grandfather. I always thought the Army should put Topher on their recruitment posters. Show him in his civvies, looking all geeky, next to a shot of him shirtless, kicking ass in Muay Thai. You'd get all the brainiacs signing up. That's what the Army needed, in my opinion, fewer grunts and a few more IQ points.

  Topher's text did say "us," I mused. I used the nickname Topher had attached to me after a thirty-six-hour surveillance gig. We'd set up cameras around the site and taken flanking positions to observe the comings and goings; then, for thirty-five hours, we waited for someone to show up. Whether you were standing and blending into the stucco shadows or lying prone under a bush or draped in camouflage on the rooftop, you had thirty-five hours of not leaving your post with very little space to maneuver and still keep your footprint minimal. So talking was all we could do. Turns out, Topher is a bit of a Civil War geek and fascinated with General Lee's tactics, how he could have won the war, been the George Washington of his time if only he'd been a little more patient. For over thirty hours, we heard all about Lee, the similarities he shared and differed from Washington and how Lee seemed to follow in Washington's shadow, even becoming chancellor at Washington College before the war.

  Washington College, now renamed to honor Lee's contribution to the school, is called Washington & Lee University and is a huge rival of the University of Virginia, my alma mater, what W&L fans call "wahoos." And where I'm meeting Topher, who believes if he had been Lee, he'd won the war for the south.

  "Washington" was another DELTA member who'd since retired from the military but was still loyal to the Unit. When I asked to meet both, it was wishful thinking. I assumed Topher would bring Washington up to speed later, not that Washington would be able to help. But I looked at his text again; Topher said, "us."

  I walked into the Fireside at ten minutes to eight, glanced around the room, my eyes floating over a couple seated near the fireplace. Backpacks thrown on the floor next to their chairs, she wore leggings and a baby doll t-shirt that accentuated her curves in all the best ways, her long dark hair haphazardly pulled to the top of her head, tied off in a clip. She'd kicked off her sandals and tucked her feet under her, leaning in, enraptured with the guy sitting across from her. The guy was playing it cool in his cargo pants and his 'suicidal tendencies' t-shirt, one ankle propped up on his knee, an arm draped over the back of his chair while he sipped on a beer. They could be any college students, engaged in spirited conversation, challenging what they knew, believed. Based on the female's eagerness and the appraising yet non-committal stare in the male, it was a first or second date. You'd never know they could be parents to some of the students they lounged with.

  I got a drink, took it to the counter and slid into a barstool, looking out the picture window to the baseball field below. During the day, Fireside Café served sandwiches and small plates. When a game was on the field, you had to reserve the counter seats in advance, but it was a great view, inside an air-conditioned space, getting you out of the summer humidity where, after only minutes outside, you had sweat dripping down your back.

  Tonight the field was art. Pristine grass, mowed in opposite lines to give the outfield a striped look, the few lights angling off lush shamrock like a warm blanket. In a few hours, the temperature would drop, letting the moisture in the air settle, making the field sparkle. I sipped my glass, watching the crowd in Fireside mill around me, reflected in the glass. No one had entered since I arrived, and I couldn't detect anyone paying me special attention. I waited a couple more minutes before shifting my gaze in the window to the couple by the fire. The guy caught my eye, giving me a subtle nod.

  Looks like I was clean.

  I picked up my glass and went over to say hello. The girl jumped up from her seat, practically tackling me in a huge hug. "Anthony! God, it's been a long time."

  I smiled as I set her down and gave her a once over. "You haven't changed a bit, Missy."

  Topher leaned in for a shoulder bump and tapped the back, "Good to see you, brother."

  "How are things in the Unit? Everybody good?"

  "Same 'ole same. Trying to keep the world churning as usual." Topher shrugged. Being in the military meant sometimes you had to keep your mouth shut when a bureaucrat spewed nonsense and do jobs you thought were pointless or a waste of resources. But on the flip side, sometimes you got to do outstanding work, save the day, rescue the innocents, get rid of the bad guys and play with state of the art, super cool toys. It was a balancing act.

  Topher had been with The Un
it longer than most, still at peak condition, but I could tell he was weighing those pros and cons. He'd spoken of retiring and opening his own shop where he could pick and choose the missions. I couldn't imagine him leave the teams behind, but then again, there was a time I thought I'd be career-military. Things change.

  We didn't have time for social chitchat. I wanted to get back to Katie. I hated leaving her alone all day. Even though I had no reason to suspect anyone knew where she was, it was still my responsibility to protect her. Currently, I was over three hours away; if anything were to happen, never get to her in time. Plus, I missed her.

  "The name Criterion Partners come across your radar?" I asked, looking between Missy and Topher, who, between them, represented the viewpoints of both our military and civilian intelligence services. Granted, the CIA's focus was international and didn't operate on American soil. The NSA would be more appropriate to engage here, but ultimately the CIA was mandated to protect America and came across a lot of information on Americans who were undermining us from the inside through those foreign sources. Plus, I didn't have anyone in the NSA I trusted.

  I didn't expect them to answer me; it was more of a conversational opener. They'd absorb what I could tell them before responding on how they could help. I may walk out of here tonight without getting any feedback until they could check out everything on their end. I hope that wouldn't be the case. After my conversation with Mark today, the clock was ticking.

  "Mark Tennyson is the CEO of Criterion Partners. Mark gave Scott Dwyer a job after the military, at my recommendation. Dwyer killed Senator Hart's chief of staff, Jonathan Colby. I got video. He did it. I questioned Mark about Dwyer's whereabouts, but he lied to me. First said Dwyer hadn't worked for him in over a year, then tried to tell me he'd disappeared five weeks ago—two of which he was supposedly on holiday and then never came back to work.

  "I don't know if Dwyer was acting on Mark's orders, but Mark knows something, and he's trying to distance himself. If Mark's in it deep, he'll start to cover his tracks now that I've opened the box.

  "There's a leak in the FBI. Less than twelve hours after a witness brought the video in and it was uploaded to our servers, someone tried to kill her. She's off the grid, for now, only my boss and I know where she is, but you know how that goes, it's temporary.

  "I went to college with Mark, we shared some classes, went out for beers. I knew him pretty well, a hustler. He's built his company into a DC powerhouse—communications, PR, lobbying, recently private equity. They play both sides of the fence, may have Senators in their pocket. I thought they were fairly clean, at least by DC standards. But now, something's fishy, and I think it could get ugly."

  I let out a deep breath as I observed the reactions from Topher and Missy. Neither seemed surprised at the information. The question remained whether they could help.

  Missy spoke first. "Criterion has been referenced a few times as a potential information broker from some foreign sources, but we've never had direct confirmation of what type of information has changed hands." She looked over to Topher.

  "They haven't been on our radar, but we can look into it." His look to Missy communicated something else he didn't want to say. I waited for one of them to fill me in.

  Topher finally looked at me. "We were tracking staff members of Senator Hart, including Colby, before his death."

  That was not what I expected him to say, and he read the shock on my face. "We've found connections to approvals from Senate Appropriations and certain vendors pre-positioning to act on those decisions. We haven't been able to draw solid lines or prove anything, but it reeks of insider trading, so we looked into it and narrowed our search to three Senator's offices that could be the source. Hart is one of the three. We've theorized that Colby was the source, and he wanted out, or he discovered what was happening and was going to spill. Either way, they had to shut him up."

  I chewed on that information, it made sense, but which version was accurate? My uncle could shed some light on that. "I can talk to Hart, get a sense of what he might know. I'd like to think he'd tell me the truth, but even if he doesn't, it may point in the direction we should focus."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  KATIE

  Annie didn't say anything during my soliloquy, but at the end, she drained the glass and sunk back into the sofa dazed. I spoke for ten minutes. Annie was comatose for another five before she stood up.

  "Where's the computer?"

  I led her to the den, and she grabbed Anthony's laptop, turning it to the side, where she pulled up a chair. I sat down in front of my computer. Annie started typing, talking out loud.

  "You tried Dwyer and Anthony, what about Dwyer and DC?"

  She got a hit on the first try. I felt like an idiot. "Here's Dwyer in civilian clothes, smiling for the camera, arm around a guy named Patrick Thompson."

  "WHAT THE FUCK!"

  I recognized Patrick. He worked front desk security at Criterion. I'd seen him the morning of the all-hands meeting, as I entered the building, and right before I left for my interview with Colby. I pushed back from the desk.

  I was pacing again. "Patrick Thompson is security at Criterion."

  A link from my company to the killer. How high did this go?

  Annie goes back to work. "Searching Criterion and Dwyer doesn't come up with anything. Searching Dwyer and security doesn't amount to anything. Dwyer probably doesn't maintain a social media presence; he'd want to stay as anonymous as possible.

  "Searching Security and Criterion gives us social media accounts on twenty people who claim to work in security at Criterion. We need to cross-reference any of them with Dwyer. The more connection we can get with Dwyer and Criterion, the more we can assume he worked there."

  We made a list of the names, and I took half as Annie looked into the others. We found sixteen that had at least one picture of Dwyer; the oldest was about four years ago. "I'd say Dwyer probably worked at Criterion, whether he still does, that's harder to tell. He may just like to stay in touch with friends. Without getting access to Criterion's computers, there's no way we can be sure."

  "Okay, then I need to go to Criterion and see what I can find."

  Annie scoffed. "You're a mid-level employee at best. Your login security will be limited to files you need to access. You'd need to get on an executive computer or someone in IT."

  I snapped my fingers. "VPN!"

  Annie looked confused but intrigued.

  "I'll send an email to IT, letting them know my computer has issues connecting to the VPN and I want them to look at it. It's perfect. I'm known to work offsite a lot, so I'm always accessing the VPN."

  Annie didn't like it, gave me a hundred reasons why it was crazy and dangerous. Her voice played over in my head as I approached the office: What if Dwyer does work there and sees you come in the building? He could shoot you on site. You'll need to search the files; the IT tech isn't going to hand you his login or give you access to his computer. How are you going to manage that?

  But we don't have any better ideas.

  I repeat that in my head as I pushed through the heavy glass door of Criterion's office and tried not to shriek when Patrick Thompson smiled and waved to me from the security desk. I swiped my badge to access the elevator bank. It was in the system; I'd entered the building.

  I pressed ten and resisted the urge to flee the elevator as the doors closed. For all I knew, Dwyer could be waiting for me on the tenth floor.

  Play dumb, Katie. Watson whispered in my ear. Women did it all the time when they need to outsmart the men. This was just another example. I was a damsel in distress, clueless how technology worked, twirling my hairs in my fingers.

  I drew the line at smacking on my gum. That was just tacky.

  Tedd, the IT guy, was at his desk when I rounded the corner. We'd met a couple of times when I had security or software updates and had to bring my computer in. He liked me, asked about my projects. Kind of a shy guy, he blushed last time I saw him
when I commented that he was looking buff and confirmed he'd been working out.

  I handed my computer over and pulled a chair up alongside, asking if he could explain what he was doing, so perhaps I could eventually learn this stuff. He smiled and pushed up his glasses as he clicked through my programs and checked out the history, cache, and disk fragmentation. I'd cleared out everything and ran diagnostics on my laptop before bringing it in, so there would be nothing logged in Criterion's system of what I'd been doing. I looked for the moment when I could ask a question, then swung my arm out quickly, knocking my strategically placed coffee into Tedd's lap.

  I jumped up and fawned over Tedd, grabbing a few tissues and dabbing them near his groin, which had him pushing his chair away and scrambling out of the room, mumbling something about the bathroom and being right back.

  I watched until he'd rounded the corner, then pulled a USB drive from my pocket and inserted it into my computer. It was an unexpected boon to the plan. Tedd had used his admin login to access my computer directly instead of mirroring my computer to his. This helped in two ways. One, I'd already set up search criteria on my laptop, so I didn't have to waste time crafting that on Tedd's and two, if I ran out of time and couldn't delete the history of the search or copied files, it would be on my computer and not Tedd's. It would still get noticed, but bought me some time to get out of the building.

  I triggered the search and kept my eyes on the screen, but ears open to anticipate sounds of Tedd returning. It may be a while; when I grazed his groin, I could feel him swell, which accounted for his quick retreat to the bathroom where he'd be battling not just the image that he pissed himself but the embarrassment. I gave him a max of three minutes before he returned. I hope I didn't need that much.

  Files started popping that included the name "Dwyer" or "Scott Dwyer." I copied them on my USB as fast as I could; I didn't have time to sort or pick and choose. The search concluded, a total of 150 files returned. I get them all on my USB and cleared the history window just as Tedd came back.