Solemn Duty (1997) (7 page)

Perkins felt the effect of the icy stare and realized he'd better say nothing more. He just nodded. Eli stepped closer, keeping his hold on the man's eyes. "Get somebody to warm you up. I won't need it. I'll be back in exactly fifteen minutes."

In the clubhouse, Eli put. On a dry shirt and accepted another bottle of Gatorade from Millie. "Nice folks ya'll have in the club," he said with a mocking grin.

Jerome handed his brother a pair of dry socks. "Rod's a lawyer, what' d'ya expect. He moved here a couple of years ago from New York. We put up with him 'cause his wife is a local and active in everything--a real class act."

"She married a Yankee, Jerome. What kind of class is that?"

Millie said, making a face.

"She's still class in my book, okay? Look, little brother, he's good. I wish I could tell ya he had a weakness, but he doesn't.

He's won the singles event for the last two years. He's a baseline player, so don't look for him to come to the net He's got a strong forehand and a sizzlin' two-handed backhand, and he was serious when he said he'd try and make it quick."

"We'll see about that." Eli stood up.

Millie groaned and shook her head, seeing the ball pass just beyond Eli's reach for the winner. "It's going to be worse than I thought. Rod's won four straight games."

Jerome smiled. "Don't count Elly out just yet. I think he's been feeling him out He's had three easy put-sways, but instead put the shots deep in the corners to make Rod run. I think we're about to see Elly drop the hammer on him."

"Hon, Eli is good, but he's exhausted, there's no way."

"Watch and see."

A small woman wearing a stylish light cotton dress and flowered straw hat walked down the steps from the clubhouse toward the stadium court looking for a man she thought she knew all too well. It was all there in the file. Although Agent Ashley Sutton didn't know what Eli Tanner looked like, she knew his type. He was definitely a Rambo. His record reflected a man who had volunteered and successfully completed the Army's and FBI's toughest training courses. He'd jumped out of perfectly good airplanes, eaten snakes, been shot in Vietnam, and shot twice during assignments with Bureau's special tactical units. It was clear he was a man who loved to be in harm's way but didn't know when to duck. He would be tall, heavily muscled, have a crew cut, and be square-jawed. He would be like the jocks at school or the muscle-bound idiots at the Y who spent more time looking at themselves in the mirrors than pumping iron. He'd have that confident strut of all the tactical team agents. And he would most assuredly think he was God's gift to women.

Stopping on the landing, she began her visual search of the small crowd that was intently watching the tennis match.

She'd called the number on his leave form, but got an answering machine in his brother's home. The message said the Tanners could be contacted at the country club. The receptionist at the club desk had told her she didn't know Eli Tanner but that a Mr. Jerome Tanner was a member of the club and she thought he would be watching the singles competition finals on court one.

Ashley finished searching the spectator's faces on the far side of the court and stepped down to continue her search among the chairs on her side of the court. Seeing the two together would clinch it, she thought. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out Jerome Tanner had used his influence with his old cronies to have his younger brother assigned to the resident office. It was the only explanation for the sudden move.

The "good ol' boy" network had worked its voodoo magic again. Despite the rules, the secret society of the "good ol' boys" always managed to make end runs around the system.

The collective gasp of the spectators broke her train of thought and she looked toward the court. A very tall, handsome blond man was running toward an obviously well-placed ball. With surprising power, the blond hit the sphere like a bullet toward the opposite court in what looked like a clear winner. But his opponent, a short, well-built man positioned close to the net, lunged and hit the ball back to the opposite side of the court. Again the blond put on a burst of speed and managed to get his racket on the ball, but it was a weaker return.

The short man attacked with a vicious overhead slam and put the ball into the opposite corner for a winner. The sedate crowd came alive with loud applause.

Ashley smiled to herself. She liked to see hard work pay off, and it was clear the sweaty, short player, who was obviously older than his opponent, was trying very hard. His looks reminded her of Steve McQueen in his prime; he had that lithe, rangy look of a big-game cat-not a lion or leopard, but more like a cheetah. He was probably five-eight--perhaps -nine-- and like a cheetah, had a thick chest, narrow waist, and heavily muscled legs. She should have used the pause in play to search the crowd for Mr. Macho Rambo, but there was something about the cheetah that intrigued her. He had a definite presence about him. Perhaps it was the unusual premature gray hair that contrasted so starkly with his tanned face. No, that wasn't it, she thought. It undeniably had something to do with his looks, but it was much more, it was his elegance. Yes, she thought, the word was unusual to describe a man, but it matched him perfectly. It was the way he held his head and moved with no wasted motion, and the way his eyes were always steady and focused. He was a man who was in complete control of himself, she thought. Turning, she spoke to the elderly woman seated beside her. "Excuse me, do you know the score?"

The woman motioned to the tall player. "Rod Perkins is up four to two in the first set."

"Thank you," Ashley said, feeling angry at herself. Hearing herself speak had been like being hit with cold water. She hadn't come to watch a tennis match. She had a job to do, and that was find Rambo, give him the envelope, and tell him he'd been assigned to the resident position. As if he didn't know already, she thought. His good ol' boy brother and he would act surprised for her benefit, but they knew. The sound of the blond hitting his serve drew her attention involuntarily back to the court. The ball was just a blur, but the cheetah pounced on it with a blistering forehand that swished by the shocked blond before he could even get his racket back. An attractive middle age woman five chairs down and a row back rose up and shouted, "Yes!"

The crowd applauded again, this time even more loudly.

The onlookers began shifting toward the edge of their seats; the momentum of the match had changed. Ashley, too, felt the intangible air of excitement building, and despite her good intentions, found her eyes glued to the tall player as he hit another blinding serve to the cheetah's back hand. Cheetah chipped the ball back, barely clearing the net and the blond had to sprint to try to return it. In a dead run, he just got to the ball and popped it up, but the cheetah was waiting and smashed it in an overhead that hit the alley line.

The blond shouted, "Out!"

The crowd murmured and the attractive woman stood and hollered, "No way! It was on the line!"

The court judge seated in the elevated chair leaned over his mike. "The ball was in, Mr. Perkins. The score is thirty, love."

The crowd erupted in applause, and the blond tossed down his racket and shouted angrily, "That was out, damnit! Are you blind?"

Again the judge leaned over the mike and spoke in a monotone. "Thirty love, continue play, please, Mr. Perkins."

Ashley forced herself to look over her shoulder and begin to search the intense faces. She heard the sound of the serve, but didn't flinch; she had her control back, she told herself. A pinging sound told her the cheetah had returned the blast, but again she kept up the search. The crowd applauded and the voice of the attractive woman five chairs down called, "yes!"

Where are you, Agent Tanner? Ashley asked herself. Come on, I know you're here somewhere sitting by that good ol' boy brother of yours. You're forty-seven-years old and Jerome is at least fifty. Where are you, damnit?

"Forty, love," the court judge said.

Unable to concentrate, Ashley spun around just as the blond served another bullet, but the cheetah attacked the yellow blur and smacked it back toward his opponent. Too surprised even to move, the ball hit the blond's right shin with a resounding smack.

The crowd erupted in applause and the attractive woman rose again, her raised fist clenched. "That away, baby!"

The elderly woman seated beside Ashley chuckled and leaned over. "Millie sure is enjoying this. I must say I am, too.

Her brother-in-law is quite good, isn't he?"

Ashley nodded and' glanced at the woman, who was still standing. "The way she was yelling, I thought she was his wife."

"No, that's just Millie, she's a dear girl who doesn't particularly care for Rod. He's a northerner you know?"

"No, I didn't realize, but I certainly should have guessed it"

Ashley tried to contain a smile. I'm definitely in the Old South, she thought as she looked back toward the players, who were taking their break before changing sides. The cheetah, toweling off his racket grip, smiled at his sister-in-law. Ashley couldn't help but smile, too. It was an easy smile, as if he did it a lot. It was a good smile for a man, genuine and natural, like that of a small boy.

A man rose up beside the woman and barked toward the cheetah, "You need another dry shirt?"

The cheetah shook his head and grinned as he motioned toward his feet "I just need a pair of younger legs."

Ashley smiled again. She liked the way the cheetah didn't take himself too seriously. His attitude was a stark contrast to Blondy on the other side of the court. He had on his game face and was staring at the cheetah as if he wanted to tear his throat out. Get a life, Blondy, Ashley thought. Cheetah may lose the match, but he's got you beat in the game of life. . .. Okay, that's it! I'm getting back to business now. It's time to find Agent Tanner and carry out my mission.

Ashley was about to turn and begin her search again when the court judge spoke into the mike. "Score is Mr. Perkins, four, and Mr. Tanner, three. It is Mr. Tanner's serve."

Ashley's face paled as she abruptly swung her head toward the court in disbelief. No, it can't be. I must have heard wrong.

Twisting in her seat, she touched the elderly woman's arm.

"Excuse me, but what did the judge say the older player's name was?"

"Tanner, dear. Eli Tanner. Millie introduced me to him this morning before he and Jerome played doubles in the second round. Such a gentleman. He's in the FBI, just like Jerome was. The heat getting to you dear? Your face is so flushed."

Not sure what he was supposed to do, the waiter stood at the side of the crowded table holding a tray of drinks. Millie saw his dilemma and quickly picked up the two first-place trophies to make room. Setting down the tray, the waiter motioned toward the bar. "Dr. Fielding sends his congratulations to all the victors."

Jerome waved toward the balding man seated on a bar stool.

"Thanks for the drinks, Harry. Pull up a chair and join us."

The doctor smiled and slid off the stool. "I'm sure I'll hear all about how you single-handedly won the finals in doubles."

A woman in an expensive warm-up seated beside Jerome rolled her eyes. "You're right, Harry. Jerome was just telling us for the fifth time how he carried Eli in that third set."

Jerome stood and made an overhead smash motion. `degTell her, Harry, I do it all the time. I faked the miss to get John and Colin out of position."

Harry shrugged as he brought up a chair. "If you faked that miss you ought to get an Academy Award." His gaze settled on Eli. "Young man, you played well despite your brother's valiant attempt to lose. However, I must tell you that I especially enjoyed your singles match with Rod. Coming back and winning the first set when you were four down was something to see. I'm afraid you took the heart out of Rod after that. I don't recall Rod's winning a single point in the second set."

Eli dipped his chin. Thank you, sir, but I'm paying the price. I can't get up from this chair."

"As your brother's physician, I offer you a bit of advice.

Beer. Drink beer until you can't feel anything. Tonight I guarantee you'll be able to sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow, your head will hurt so bad you won't even notice the aches, pains, and soreness of the match."

Directly behind their table, Ashley Sutton sat alone on a plaid couch facing a television. Hearing the outburst of raucous laughter from those around the table, she cringed. Pa-lease.

Will they ever stop with the jokes and the gloating? She'd been waiting for her chance to deliver the envelope, but as yet had been unsuccessful. After the match, the Tanners and the other players had retired to the clubhouse for the awards presentation, dinner, and the retelling of war stories. The women doubles champions were especially loud, and one of them, a buxom redhead wearing a very short tennis skirt, was falling all over herself trying to get Special Agent Eli Tanner to notice her. It was sickening, Ashley thought as she nursed her second gin and tonic and pretended to watch the Braves game. She had by then gotten over her shock at her mental image of Agent Tanner being so far off base. Well, not that far off, she thought He might not look like Rambo, but she knew behind that impish smile there was still a conniving good ol' boy and macho man of the worst kind.

At the victory table, the partner of the redheaded vixen stood and pointed at her gold Rolex. "Sorry, fellow winners, but I've got to get home to hubby; it's getting late. It's been fun."