Читать книгу: «Not Without Cause»

She’d given up everything for her country

A family and a husband, not to mention children, were not in her future and they never would be. She’d traded those things for adrenaline and power, and it was way too late to go back and make changes.

If she’d ever had a chance at having any of those things, it would have been with Haden. He’d been wild, but under the craziness there had been a rock-solid man she’d come to care for more than she’d expected. More than anyone she’d ever cared for before—or since. He’d been special and rare—one of those guys who caught you unaware when you’d decided no one else could possibly surprise you.

For a single second she wanted to walk away and ignore the decision she’d wrestled with for the past five hours, but she knew that wasn’t a real option.

If she didn’t take the job, then someone else would.

Haden was a dead man walking.

Dear Reader,

In philosophical circles around the world, debates have raged since Aristotle’s times over the “greater good” versus the rule of self-interest. What is best for society as a whole can sometimes differ from what is best for an individual. In other words, if the city wants to put a new highway through your backyard, the commuters will be thrilled, but you might not be quite as happy.

Extrapolate this argument into a life-and-death situation and you have the basis for THE OPERATIVES series and especially for Not Without Cause. The question I wanted to examine was this one: If a war could be ended by killing one individual—and thereby saving the lives of thousands—what should be done? Just to complicate matters, since I write love stories, I added another issue to the mix, as well. What if the someone who had to be killed was someone you loved?

Not Without Cause is the story of how two people come together, despite their opposition, and work to achieve what is best. In the process, their love grows even stronger and they realize how deep their feelings for each other—and for their country—really run. When the choices are this tough, nothing is easy.

I wanted the final story in THE OPERATIVES series to be a special one. I needed to write something that was entertaining but at the same time presented some questions that would make everyone think a bit. Our world is changing daily—hourly, in fact—and some very hard choices are being made. The sacrifices those decisions entail aren’t easy ones because they touch the rights and truths we all hold dear.

Meredith and Haden understand that emotions come with a price, and their willingness to pay that price is a testament to the power of love, be it their love for each other, their love for freedom, or their love for their country. Sharing their story with my readers is my way for sharing that love, as well. I hope you enjoy Not Without Cause.

Kay David

Not Without Cause
Kay David

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the men and women who have served in the United States military forces, present, past and future.

Thank you for your courage, your sacrifice and your dedication.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

Guatemala City, Guatemala

May 2006

JACK HADEN HAD the taxi driver drop him three blocks from his rented villa. Walking down the dimly lit sidewalk, scanning the gloom, his weapon handy, he found himself wondering how it would feel to have a regular job with two kids and a dog and a wife all waiting for him in a nice little home on a nice wide street.

What would it be like not to worry about someone following you and shooting you in the back? Haden had a hunch he’d never know, but more and more lately, the question had been on his mind.

The idea plagued him for a second longer, then he wondered why he was even wondering. He was forty years old and he’d lived on the edge since the day he’d left his mother’s home. If things ever did change, he’d probably end up restless, screw the nanny and start drinking like a fish.

Either way, he wasn’t going to have a chance to find out so why was he even thinking about it?

He turned down the street one block south of his house. Shadows clung to the houses and lay across the walls like woven chamarras. Guatemala City was always dark, even when the street lamps were on. Back in the nineties when the political situation had been even crazier than it was now, the powers that be had kept it that way for a reason, and although things had changed—slightly—the place was still blacker than hell, literally and metaphorically speaking.

Even in Zona 10.

Divided into sectors for ease of reference, Guatemala City had a personality of its own and each area had a unique flavor as well. Zona 10, where he’d had dinner, was upscale all the way and it housed the offices and shops the foreigners frequented. The restaurants were typically more expensive, the streets were generally cleaner and the neighborhoods were usually safer. A lot of the diplomats lived in Zona 10. He’d attended a party there last week at the French ambassador’s home. Haden wasn’t quite sure why he’d been included—except his name had gotten on a list when he’d first moved to Guatemala City and the list had been passed around. For years he’d had somewhere to go every night if he wanted. No one knew what, or who, he actually was and most of the time he passed on the invitations, but that night he’d been ready for some company, his mood overtaking his usual reluctance to mingle with expats who had little to do and even less to say.

Still, the guy from Washington had taken him by surprise.

“So you work at the American Embassy, huh?” he’d asked, the bourbon in his hand obviously not his first. Their hostess had introduced the man to Haden as Brad Prescott, a communications engineer in town for work. “What are you, a spy or something?”

Haden had had a smart-aleck answer ready but at the last minute, he’d stuck with his normal cover story. “I wish! Nah, my job’s not that glamorous. I’m just a computer technician.”

Prescott had nodded, then stirred his drink with his finger and licked it with a sloppy motion. “Too bad,” he’d mumbled. “I thought you might know someone I know back in Washington.” He’d leaned closer, a whiff of cigarette smoke coming with him as his voice dropped in a self-important way. “He’s with the Agency and he’s a ruthless SOB. We’re partners in a little start-up venture I’m handling.”

Haden had pursued the conversation because he’d had nothing better to do. “Who is he? You never know, he could be my old neighbor or something.”

The tall blonde laughed in a condescending manner. “I doubt that. This guy doesn’t have neighbors or friends. He’s too rich for either, but I don’t think he’ll have that little problem much longer. I’m gonna help him out in that department.”

“Well, what’s his name anyway? Maybe I’ve worked on his computer,” Haden joked.

Prescott shook his head again. “Dean Reynolds with a computer? He doesn’t need a computer, he’s half machine himself!” Prescott had muttered something else then stumbled off, Haden watching until the man had been absorbed into the crowd.

He’d been with the CIA too long because Haden immediately assumed he was being set up. He’d studied Prescott for another hour, then followed the man when the party was over. Prescott had gone directly to the Marriott and as far as Haden could tell, had stayed there the rest of the night. The next day, Haden had paid his way past security and searched the engineer’s hotel room but found nothing.

Two days later, Prescott disappeared.

He was snatched right off the road in broad daylight. No one seemed to know where he was but rumor had it Rodrigue Vega’s men had been involved. When Haden had picked up that bit of gossip, his radar had pinged even louder.

For months, he’d been hearing snatches of information linking someone in Washington with a unique smuggling operation based in Guatemala City. If the rumors were correct, Haden didn’t even want to think about the possibilities. Taking dope and illegals over the border was one thing; slipping in terror and its providers was something else. One of the names out of Washington that had been mentioned as being behind the deal—Dean Reynolds—had surprised Haden. But not totally.

He didn’t trust Dean Reynolds. Not after that deal in Libya. If Reynolds, the director of the CIA, had somehow managed to hook up with one of the biggest crooks in Guatemala City, Rodrigue Vega, they would have a huge network of assets—of people and of funds—at their disposal. The results could be catastrophic, because neither man gave a damn about anything. Reynolds had hidden behind a screen of patriotic fervor for years, his power and influence growing to match his ego. Vega, once a petty thief, now part drug lord, part pseudo-politician, held tremendous power in Guate, especially within the vast communities of immigrants who made the city their home. Both men were greedy, egotistical and self-centered bastards the world would have been better off without. In Haden’s humble opinion.

Haden worked the pieces of the puzzle as he walked, but as usual, more questions than answers resulted from his effort.

Two minutes later, he turned the corner to the street where he lived. A movement in the darkness caught his eye and he checked his progress, his hand going to his waistband without conscious thought. When two hissing cats streaked by, he exhaled slowly, his fingers falling back to his side.

Had his meeting with Prescott been a coincidence? Had the engineer really been kidnapped or was he already dead? Had Prescott’s alcohol-soaked brain been behind the mention of his association with Reynolds or had the revelation been guided by something more sinister?

Haden approached the patch of light that revealed the gate to his courtyard. Pulling his key from his pocket, he unfastened the bolt set in the iron bars and stepped inside. Light from a lamp in his neighbor’s house fell through a tree in the courtyard and cast shadows on him as he continued forward. The sounds of a television down the street rippled through the cool night air. Deep in thought, he unlocked his front door, walked inside and closed the door behind him.

The first blow hit him across the shoulders.

The second one sent him to the floor.

The third strike filled his mouth with the salty taste of blood. He spit it out, then his vision went black.

CHAPTER ONE

A Starbucks by the Galleria

Houston, Texas

Late May 2006

“YOU’RE THE ONLY PERSON who can do this, Meredith. There’s no one else I trust.” Dean Reynolds tapped his paper coffee cup against the table and then looked up. “There’s no one else I’d even ask.”

Meredith Santera stared at the man sitting on the other side of the small, black table. Six years had passed since the last time she’d seen him and that meeting had been under decidedly different circumstances. They’d been in Dean’s office, with its perfect view of the Memorial Garden and the haze of D.C. in the distance. He’d had on a black suit, she remembered, and a red tie, his shirt so white it had dazzled her almost as much as the voice coming out of his speakerphone.

“Yes, Mr. President, she’s here right now.” Reynolds had winked at her, then waved his hand toward the phone. The seriousness of the situation overcoming her, Meredith had stuttered and stumbled and made a fool of herself, but the president had been gracious.

She sipped her coffee then put down the cup. “I was shocked when you called. I never expected to hear directly from you. We agreed—”

Dean leaned infinitesimally closer, his back ramrod straight. “I know what we agreed, but I couldn’t trust anything except a face-to-face on this one.” He seemed to force himself to relax and gave her what passed for his smile. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience for you to meet me.”

“Seeing you could never be anything but a pleasure, Dean. You should know that by now.”

Meredith patted the older man’s hand. He was the same age her father would have been were he still alive and the two men had always reminded her of each other with their similar military backgrounds, their staunch patriotism and their love of all things convoluted.

But she hadn’t wanted to meet with Reynolds when he’d called and obviously he’d sensed that during their short conversation. He’d said just enough to make her want to hear more but trepidation had come with it. Her father had passed away six months ago from a stroke and she missed him like crazy. They’d been business partners as well as parent and child, their relationship particularly close since Meredith’s mom had died while Meredith had been in college, a brain tumor taking her within months of its discovery. Since her father’s death, Meredith had questioned every decision she’d made.

Just as she was doing now.

She toyed with her napkin, folding the edges, then smoothing them, the metal grids on the table making a pattern from below. “I’m just not sure I can help you with this…situation,” she said reluctantly. “You may be talking to the wrong person.”

“I disagree and so does the man I report to. He wants you in on this and you and I both know why.” He paused. “It’s important, Meredith, or I wouldn’t even be asking you.”

“He” was the president but neither of them acknowledged that fact.

“I understand what you’re saying, Dean, but one of our own?” She shook her head at the enormity of what he was asking.

“I know…I know. It doesn’t feel right, does it?”

He sounded sad as he asked the question that needed no answer. “All I can say is that we have no other option. We have to stop these people. Think about 9/11. You would have done anything to prevent that disaster, just like I would have.”

“Are you talking about something that big?”

“Yes. Potentially worse. These aren’t migrant farm workers Jack Haden is smuggling from Mexico, Meredith. They’re terrorists from Syria. Every one of them is a member of Al Balsair.”

Meredith drew a deep breath at the name of the violent group. “That just doesn’t sound like the Haden I knew. Dammit, Dean, he’s the last guy I’d expect to get involved in something like this.”

Reynolds’s mouth tightened at her curse, just as her father’s would have. “My information is as reliable as information gets. Jack Haden’s turned and you have to take care of him. If you don’t, he’s going to help some of the worst terrorists alive get a free pass into the United States. I don’t want that happening on my watch, Meredith, and you shouldn’t, either. He’s a traitor.”

She gripped her cup and wished she had a flask of something—anything—that she could add to what was left of her coffee.

Jack Haden had been her boss at the Agency, but he’d been better in bed than behind the desk. Short and violent as a spring storm, their top-secret relationship had been chaotic and disastrous. Then Dean had called her into his office for that historic meeting and the Operatives, her team of specialists, had been born.

The night she’d informed Haden she was leaving the Agency, they’d had two hours of incredible sex, then afterward, when she’d revealed as much as she could about her plans, he’d thrown her out of his apartment. She’d been so unprepared for his reaction she’d ended up on his front porch clutching more of her clothing to her chest than she’d actually been able to get on her body.

She’d told herself the breakup had been bound to happen. Sooner or later, she and Haden would have killed one another. One would have shot the other or they would have screwed themselves to death. Sometimes, though, she wondered where the relationship might have gone. Haden had been an intriguing man with secrets that didn’t match the person she’d come to care for and the contrast had kept her interested far longer than normal. She would have figured him out eventually—but it might have taken her a lifetime.

“I brought Jack Haden into the Agency so believe me, this wasn’t an easy decision.” Reynolds toyed with the sugar packets. “I trusted him. But a lot of field officers end up this way. There’s money and excitement and deals to be made. South America is like a drawer full of candy to a smart guy like Haden, and he’s reached in and grabbed a handful.”

Meredith didn’t reply because she didn’t know what to say, a vague sense of discontent marring the loyalty she had always shown her mentor. “I just don’t know….”

Disapproval came into Reynolds’s pale gray eyes.

“I thought I could depend on you, Meredith. I helped you a lot when you were on the official payroll. I got you where you are right now.” He paused. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything you’ve done for me, Dean, and I never will,” she said slowly. “But Jack is one of us—”

Dean’s hand snaked out and captured her wrist before she could finish her sentence. She jerked her gaze to his face in surprise.

“He was but he isn’t anymore.” His voice turned fierce. His fingers squeezed painfully, then he released her and thumped the pile of black-and-white photos sitting on the tabletop between them. “This is what he’s become and you have a duty to see that it doesn’t go any further.”

Meredith picked up the photographs he’d already shown her, her hands shaking in spite of herself. The first one was a long-distance shot of Jack Haden and two other men. Their faces were grainy but clear enough. She knew who the terrorists were. She moved on to the second one. It showed Haden on a busy street kissing a dark-haired woman. According to Reynolds, the woman was a courier for Al Balsair. Haden had one hand around her waist and the other at her neck. The kiss was a serious one and it’d instantly reminded Meredith of the kind they’d shared. She swallowed hard and pushed the memory aside, her eyes going to the third shot. Obviously caught at a party, Haden had been snapped standing beside a blond man and they were engrossed in a conversation, oblivious to all around them.

She tapped the last picture, distracting herself from the one before it. “Tell me again about this Prescott fellow….”

“He works for a telecommunications firm out of Boston called Redman Cellular,” Reynolds said. “They’re bidding on a job to install a series of towers down there for cell phone communication. It’s easier than trying to get land lines to everyone. He went to Guatemala City two weeks ago. The last time his wife heard from him was three days later. Since then, not a word.”

“Have you talked to anyone at Redman?”

“I’ve spoken with Prescott’s boss several times.”

“No mention of a ransom?”

“He said no. He’s upset and worried, but at a loss to figure out what happened, or so he says. Everything seems normal on the surface.”

“But…?”

“But Redman Cellular’s name came through the system earlier this year with a yellow flag. The American companies that have contracts in the Latin quadrant are overworked and understaffed. They’re desperate to hang on to their deals so they’re sending people down there who aren’t anything but warm bodies. They don’t know what they’re doing, but their presence makes the locals think something’s getting done and it buys the companies more time.”

“But in the meantime, all anyone employed by Redman needs is a legitimate work visa and they’re free to travel between South America and North America. Regular round trips aren’t out of line—they’re expected.”

“Exactly.”

“Perfect setup for a mule.”

“You got it.”

Meredith shook her head in disgust. The bad guys made so much money here they had to have it physically transported to Latin America. The women and men who shuttled the money and goods back and forth were called mules. Lately, with all the advances that had been made in electronic eavesdropping, information and other pieces of intelligence were frequently hand-carried as well.

“He’d left his hotel in Guatemala City for Panajachel,” Dean continued. “That’s on Lake Atitlán. It’s a big tourist destination, but he never arrived.”

“Who contacted you about the case?”

“Someone at his hotel reported the incident and the Guatemala City police took it from there.”

She leaned closer. “You don’t generally deal with things at this level. Other than the flag on Redman Cellular, what makes Prescott so special?”

“Nothing,” he said bluntly, “except that photograph right there.” He pointed to the one showing Prescott talking to Haden. “That was taken right before he disappeared. They both ‘happened’ to be at the same party. A few days later, Prescott vanished.”

She nudged the photo of Prescott to reveal the final one in the pile. It was a long shot of Jack Haden, sitting alone at a table outside a restaurant. Her fingers brushed the image of his face as if by accident, but the recollections that heated inside her were anything but casual.

Meredith spoke carefully. “Haden has always been well-liked at the Agency. I was surprised when I heard he’d transferred to Guatemala.”

Reynolds studied her face. Meredith stared back calmly. She was confident he had no idea she and Haden had been lovers. No one had been better than the two of them at keeping secrets. Even from each other.

Especially from each other.

“I was surprised, too,” Reynolds said finally. “I always thought Hades would close Langley down and turn out the lights after everyone else had gone.”

She smiled without thinking at the nickname but her expression changed as Reynolds continued.

“I find it hard to believe he’s involved in this whole mess, too, but he is. We have the photos and surveillance on the ground. His fingerprints were all over Prescott’s room. You can confirm that with the police if you like. The rest of the information I’ve given you is confidential, of course. But if you want to double-check it…” His voice was stiff and defensive.

“That won’t be necessary. You’ve shown me the photos. If you’re sure, that’s good enough for me.”

“I’ve never been more positive of anything in my life. I wouldn’t have called you if I’d had the slightest doubt.”

“Where is he right now?”

“Guatemala City as far as I know. He hasn’t been in the office for a couple of days, but he’s still in the country. I would have heard if he’d left.”

She sat quietly for a few seconds, then she asked the question she’d been holding back since Dean had called her two days before. “You have other ways to handle this.” Her eyes locked on his. “Why me?”

“You’re the best,” he said without preamble. “And that’s what I have to have.”

She started to interrupt, but he stopped her with an uplifted hand.

“When Jack’s disappearance comes to light—and it will—the investigation will be very thorough. The people in D.C. who work these kinds of details will turn Guatemala upside down trying to figure out what happened. I can’t have any loose ends pointing back to me or, God forbid, the president.” He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. “Can you imagine what would happen if the press were to learn the U.S. president had sanctioned one of his own men? The Agency would be destroyed and no one would care that we’d saved ten thousand lives in the process.” He stared at her without blinking. “You’re the only person who can do this and do it right. If any mistakes are made, we’ll all go down, the country included. You’re the only person in the world I can trust to do this right.”

His confidence in her was reassuring. For a minute, she felt as if her dad were sitting beside her. “And Prescott?”

He crumpled his coffee cup, the action holding a finality. “Prescott’s a civilian. If something happens to him, it would be unfortunate, especially if he’s innocent. Try to bring him back.”

Her words came out with difficulty. “How do you want it to happen?”

“I don’t really care,” he said coolly. “But if I were you, I’d find out if Haden knows where Prescott is before you take care of…things. Other than that, it doesn’t matter. You’re the professional.”

TELLING HER MENTOR she needed some time, Meredith left without giving Dean Reynolds a firm answer. She turned in her rental car at the airport, found her terminal and sat down, her thoughts a lot more convoluted than they had ever been before.

She’d loved working at the CIA and felt as if she’d been made for the job, but that had been the trouble, according to Reynolds. She’d been so good—“born to it,” he’d said, “the kind of agent we get once in a lifetime”—it was felt her talents were being wasted at her post in D.C.

Still, she’d been surprised by Reynolds’s support. The Agency was a place where it was every man for himself. Reynolds was an uptight, by-the-book patriot lawyer who’d been the Director of Operations for years. He’d survived four presidents, two wars and a terrorist attack at the CIA’s headquarters eight miles outside downtown D.C. He didn’t hand out favors easily.

At the conclusion of Meredith’s third year, though, Reynolds had pulled her into his office and pushed a laptop computer across his desk to her. Open on the screen was a written report, the pages of which vanished after she read each one. In the corner there had been a drawing of a small black box. She’d understood what that meant at the end—when the words Classification: Black Box had flashed across the screen, then disappeared.

She’d had no idea there was a level of secrecy within the Agency designated as black box. A class so far above the others that it was described only as silent. When Dean had explained the protocol, she’d been speechless.

“You’ll have to be fired from the Agency,” he’d said. “And you will have to leave in disgrace. No one can ever know that the Operatives have the president’s blessings. If anyone did find out—” He’d stopped abruptly and broken their eye contact. After a short pause, he’d continued. “If they find out, it would be bad, very bad, for all concerned.”

In a daze of disbelief, she’d almost laughed out loud at that point, the old joke about “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you” coming to her. One look at the older man’s expression, however, had sent her amusement fleeing. She’d gone home and agonized over the opportunity but in the end, she’d agreed, the patriotism running through her too strong to resist the pull of performing a service this special for her country. She’d thrown in only one condition—she wanted her father’s help. A former Navy intel man, he’d been quickly approved and even welcomed into the circle.

The Operatives had come together shortly after that. Handpicked by her father and cleared by Meredith, the three men on the team each had their speciality: Stratton O’Neil was a sniper. Jonathan Cruz used his hands. Armando Torres was a doctor, and no one understood exactly how he did what he did.

Meredith’s weapon of choice was the knife.

They were assassins and only a handful of people knew it.

Of those, fewer still knew the whole truth: Every hit they’d ever made had been a sanctioned one, vetted and cleared by the president of the United States himself. The secret was buried so well that even the men on the team didn’t know. At least, not officially. They’d guessed by now, she was sure, but nothing had ever been said about their status.

Haden had not been included in the group who knew these facts. He thought the Operatives were mercenaries, plain and simple. A year or so after she’d been “fired,” she’d run into him at Heathrow. He’d been on his way to the Sudan and she’d been going to Hong Kong. She’d wanted desperately to avoid him, but escape had been out of the question. He’d started straight for her the second he’d seen her.

“I hear you’ve a very rich woman,” he said without preamble.

“I make a living.”

His eyes had turned hard and glittery. “A real killing?”

The double entendre had left her trembling on the inside but she’d smiled. “You could say that.”

He’d shaken his head in disgust and walked away. Watching him leave, Meredith had understood, in a way she hadn’t before then, that her former life was truly over. All she had left was her job. Everything else had been sacrificed for her country.

With the motivation of a higher purpose guiding their actions, the Operatives had proceeded to make the world a safer place. She’d never felt a moment’s doubt about their goals until today when she’d looked in Dean Reynolds’s eyes and heard him say Jack Haden’s name.

Watching a 747 angle into its berth twenty feet from where she sat, she sighed heavily and admitted to the hesitation she’d felt during her meeting with Dean. She didn’t doubt his intel but something just didn’t feel right.

Her doubts plagued her the whole flight home. She knew the Miami airport better than she knew her own backyard but when she got in late that night, she got lost pulling out of the parking lot. Finally, she found the right road and she headed home.

Turning into her driveway at midnight, Meredith parked inside the garage and lowered the door. When it was completely down, she unlocked the car and retrieved her overnight bag from the trunk. Once inside, she flicked on the lights and turned off her burglar alarm, then she went through the house with her blade at her side. Her actions were routine but they weren’t taken lightly. A price had been on her head for years.

She finished her check and came back to the kitchen. Laying her knife on the countertop where her cell phone already rested, she leaned her hip against the cabinet and closed her eyes, her mind occupied with the images and sensations Dean’s proposition had brought back to her.