Treason (6 page)

The monitors showed the private security guards arriving outside. Six men and two women exited from the two vehicles, splitting into two teams. One began searching the grounds. The other typed a code into the house's front door's digital lock and began sweeping each room.

A movement on a different monitor caught Brooke's eye. A familiar truck was turning into the driveway. Sergeant Walks Many Miles was also responding to the alarm. Miles had rented an apartment in Berryville to be near them. She would wait for him before opening the safe room door.

He parked his weather-beaten Ford pickup next to the security guards' vehicles and hurried up to the front porch. He was wearing the Marine Corps standard combat utility uniform (MarPat), better known as camo, with its dark green woodland design. From the day they'd first met in Mogadishu, Brooke had found him handsome. He was slightly under six feet with a muscular build that came from hard labor and daily runs as well as lifting weights in a local gym. Sergeant Miles enjoyed getting his hands dirty—repairing his truck or an old Indian brand motorcycle whenever he had downtime, which was rare. Some weekends, he did construction work for a friend. She liked his rugged looks, which included a broken nose—a testament to his violent childhood on the Crow reservation. His abusive, alcoholic father had regularly beaten him until Miles had become strong enough to knock out the old man and leave him bleeding on the kitchen floor. Being punched as a defenseless child had taken away any fear that he might have felt in high school when a gang of local white boys taunted him with racist slurs. He'd refused to turn away and had won more fistfights than he'd lost. The Marines had been his ticket away from the reservation, although his roots were still planted deep there. Now in his early thirties, he'd mellowed, but he remained a man whom other men instinctively knew would not shrink from a fight, a man who was unlikely to stop until he was either the last man standing or unconscious.

Brooke and Miles had developed a close bond in Somalia that could only be understood by their fellow combat soldiers. She trusted him with her life and he did the same.

“I didn't know you were on duty this late at night,” she said, flashing him a smile when she opened the safe room door.

“What makes you think I'm on duty?”

“You're wearing camos.”

“I sleep in my camos,” he replied, teasing her. “But clearly you don't.”

Brooke suddenly realized that she had darted out of bed without grabbing her robe. She was wearing a dark red, clingy silk pajama top and tap pants that left little about her figure to the imagination.

Sergeant Miles took it all in and he liked what he saw.

T
he girl was right. Someone was standing outside her bedroom window,” the head of the private security team announced when Brooke and Miles joined him in the kitchen. They had come downstairs after Brooke had tucked Jennifer back in bed and grabbed a robe.

“How's that possible?” Brooke asked. “The motion detectors didn't sound an alarm and turn on the outside spotlights and the digital recorders didn't show any intruders when I watched them in the safe room.”

“There's only one reasonable explanation,” the security guard replied. “Whoever was here peeking in that window knew how to bypass our alarms and detectors.”

“Which means,” Miles volunteered, “your security was breached. The intruder had to have been given inside technical information.”

“Again,” Brooke said, her voice now clearly irritated, “how is that possible?”

“I've already alerted our central office and if our people leaked that information, we'll hunt them down and prosecute them,” the security guard replied. “But there is another possibility.”

“Which is?” Brooke asked.

“That you have a leak in your organization and one of your people did this.”

“That's unlikely,” Brooke said. “I did share your plans with several security experts at the FBI and Pentagon, but they have top secret security clearances and have undergone extensive background investigations. It's unlikely they leaked anything.”

“Well, someone compromised the system,” the guard said. “Our people will be out first thing in the morning to make modifications to prevent another security penetration. Meanwhile, my team and I will spend the night here to make certain you are safe.”

“You and your crew can go home,” Miles said. “I'll be staying until morning.”

“No disrespect intended,” the guard answered defensively, “but one man can't do the job of eight.”

“There'll be two of us in the house, and I'd rather have one man I can trust,” Brooke said, “than a team that may have been compromised. You can station some of your team at the driveway entrance, but the only person I want inside my house tonight with me is Sergeant Miles.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” the security guard said. “I'll tell our company head that he needs to meet with you personally tomorrow to alleviate any fears you might have about our services.”

Miles escorted him outside and returned with a large black bag that he'd retrieved from his truck. He found Brooke waiting in the kitchen dressed in a red sweatshirt with “USMC” stenciled across its front and a pair of denim jeans. She had her Beretta holstered on her belt.

“How's Jennifer?” he asked, as he removed a M4A1 Close Quarter Battle Receiver—a modified assault rifle with a shortened barrel—from his bag.

“She's sleeping. Doctors told me yesterday her recovery has been truly miraculous. I just hope this doesn't set her back. She's a hero.”

“So are you, and not only because of what you did in Somalia last year and yesterday at the National Cathedral. I don't know many single women in the Marines who'd be willing to take care of a fourteen-year-old girl with a traumatic brain injury and post-traumatic stress, especially one who isn't even her blood.”

“I promised her father, remember?”

“Yes, I do. I was there.” Lowering his voice, he added, “But I also remember Gunter Conner
wasn't
a hero. What he did in Mogadishu cost American lives.”

“People make mistakes.”

“People died because of his arrogance. You know that.”

“I hated him when I first realized it,” Brooke replied softly. “But he saved my life and I made him a promise. I can't walk away from Jennifer because of a screw-up by her father.”

“Thirteen Americans died in Somalia because of him. That's more than a screw-up.”

For an awkward moment, neither spoke as Miles continued removing items from his bag.

Brooke said, “I'll make coffee.”

“I can do it.”

“No! I tasted your coffee on the flight back to the States, remember?”

“Yeah, you said it was a bit strong.”

“It was undrinkable.”

He laughed as she sorted through a stash of individual serving cups for her Keurig machine.

“There's something I need to tell you,” he said. “I want you to hear it from me, not someone else.”

From the inflection in his voice, Brooke sensed this was serious. She immediately suspected it was about their futures. After returning from Somalia, Brooke had gotten her uncle to pull strings so she could shift from being a military attaché to working in the Marine Corps Intelligence Department at the Pentagon—a stateside job that allowed her more time with Jennifer. But Miles still worked for the Marine Corps Embassy Security Group and was overdue for an overseas posting.

“I'm returning to Somalia,” he said, “and I'm not certain how long I will be gone.”

“Somalia? When are you leaving and why are you going there?”

“You've been interviewed so many times by reporters that you're beginning to sound like one,” he quipped.

“Somalia doesn't make sense for an embassy posting. After the attack and election, we shut down everything but a couple of front offices. Our embassy there is primarily for show. We all know that now. A few Somali locals hired to process visas while our U.S. ambassador and staff live and work in Kenya. There's no need for Marines in Somalia, and besides, I don't think a certain general there would welcome you back.”

“General Haji and I are not friends, although I suspect he would prefer me coming back to having you return.”

She handed him a cup and sat down at the kitchen table with her own.

“I'm not going back as part of embassy security,” he said. “I've quit the Marines.”

“What! That's not possible.”

“I'm out.”

“But you bleed Marine. And if you're not a Marine, then why are you going back to Somalia?”

“My new employer is sending me there.”

For a moment she stared blankly at him. Miles had always planned to be a lifer, and he wasn't the type who would do well working for a private defense contractor. Suddenly, she understood. “You've joined SAD, haven't you?” She was referring to the CIA's secretive Special Activities Division, a covert paramilitary unit. “But why? Why leave the Marines for the agency?”

“Two reasons. Both related.” He took a sip of coffee and said, “This isn't very strong.”

“Who cares about the damn coffee? We're talking about your life.”

“Funny,” he said. “I've actually rehearsed telling you this over and over again, and each time I did it, it sounded good in my head, but now, I'm not so sure how to say it.”

“Just say it.”

“The first reason I quit is because I was offered a chance to be part of a six-man team with only one mission: to hunt down and either capture or terminate the Falcon. As long as he is alive, you and Jennifer will never be safe, even here in your Virginia hideaway. Tonight proved me right.”

Reaching across the table, she touched his hand and said, “Thank you, but we're not your responsibility, and I don't want you sidetracking your career because you're worried about us. I can handle this.”

“I know you think you can, but you'll need help. All of us do, and that brings me to the second reason, which is a bit more difficult to get out, but something I want and need to say.”

He stared down at his coffee for a moment to steady his nerves and then looked directly into her dark eyes. “I want you and Jennifer to be my responsibility. I hope you know how I feel about you, about us, and as long as I was in the Corps, we'd always be a major and a sergeant and we couldn't be together. I can't accept that. Staying in the Corps is not as important to me as being with you.”

“Sergeant,” she said, slowly pulling back her hand.

“Brooke, I just told you that I resigned from the Corps because I've got feelings for you. Strong feelings. If you're going to reject me, at least call me Miles.”

“Miles,” she said, “I'm not rejecting you. But I have a teenager now who depends on me. I have to think about Jennifer too.”

“And I'm sitting here knowing that, aren't I?” he replied. He studied her face, searching for a clue. To him, she was the most beautiful woman on earth.

“Your timing is lousy,” she said, diverting her eyes.

“There will never be a perfect time for us,” he answered, retaking her hand. “I love you, Brooke, and I deserve to know how you feel. Do you still have feelings for that man who sent you flowers in Somalia? The one you were involved with when I first met you—the French diplomat. Or do I have a chance?”

“No, I don't care about him now. But I did. I thought we'd be married. Then I discovered he already was. He had two children and I didn't even know it. He broke my heart.”

“I'm not married. I don't have children. And I promise I won't break your heart. I'm in this forever, as cliché as that might sound. It's real.”

“I don't want to rush things,” she said, rising from the table. “Let's take it one step at a time.”

“Big steps or small ones?” he asked, standing and approaching her.

“How about medium-sized ones?” she replied, smiling.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her. It was their first embrace and it was electric. All thoughts of the intruder who had found his way outside Jennifer's second-story window were momentarily forgotten.

“Tell me,” he said, “if I've just made the biggest mistake in my life quitting the Corps. Tell me if I've made a fool of myself just now kissing you.”

“You haven't made any mistakes, Walks Many Miles. I'm in love with you too,” she whispered. “I realized it when we were in Somalia. You're exactly what I want in a partner. But I'm afraid.”

“I already told you that I'm not like that Frenchman.”

“That's not what scares me. I lost my parents during 9/11. Jennifer has lost her brother, mother, and father because of terrorists, and you know the Falcon has threatened to murder everyone I care about in revenge for what happened in Somalia. I just don't want to make you a target.”

“That's my choice,” he said, “and if it comes to it, you know I'll do whatever is necessary to protect you and Jennifer.”

He pulled her close again.

Some two hundred yards outside the house, hidden in trees at the edge of the clearing, a thin man was looking through Swarovski field glasses into the lighted kitchen window. He'd timed how long it had taken the security guards to respond after Jennifer had seen him outside her bedroom window and screamed. He'd carefully noted how many guards had been deployed, what weapons they were carrying, and how they'd been dispersed at the house. He'd watched a Ford truck arrive after the private security guards and a man dressed in military garb enter the house. Now, through the binoculars, he saw the light in the kitchen go dark and then a light in Brooke's bedroom illuminate.

He'd seen enough. Lowering the field glasses, he wove his way through the woods in the half-moon light. After walking about two miles, he reached a county road where his wife, Aludra, was waiting in a parked car. He startled her when he appeared from the woods.

“Akbar, did you see the child?” the woman asked.

“Yes, Aludra.”

“And the woman Marine?”

“Everything was exactly as we were told, but the girl saw me and screamed before I could enter her room. I had no choice but to leave.”

“How did she see you? You were told how to avoid the sensors.”

Without warning, he slapped her.

“Do not question me again. Do not think you can act like some Western whore because we are now in America.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, wiping blood from her lip. “I was concerned about you. I thought the information you were given might have been wrong. That you were walking into a trap.”

“Our source is loyal to the Falcon. He will not betray our cause.”

“Yes, but he is an American. Someone important in their government. Someone they trust.”

“Which makes him more valuable to us.”

“But if he betrays his own people, is he trustworthy?”

Akbar raised his hand as if he were about to strike her, and she averted her eyes and looked downward in submission.

“The information about the sensors at the house that he provided was accurate. The girl simply woke up and saw me before I could enter her room and end her life and the life of the American whore who is protecting her. Let's go. I need to report what happened here.”