The safe return of Ham Carhill had been the clear-cut objective of the mission.
It had been a success. Not a mistake, not a failure, she reminded herself.
The telephone rang, startling her. She reached for the extension on her bedside table without sitting up, her stomach churning.
“I’ll expose you for the traitor and fraud you are.”
Mia bolted upright, bile rising in her throat. She thought she recognized the voice on the other end but couldn’t be sure, didn’t dare commit herself. “Who is this?”
“If you’re the wolf guarding the henhouse, I’ll find out. Mark my words.”
“Excuse me—”
“You have very little time to make things right.”
Click.
Mia dropped the phone onto the floor and half fell, half rolled, off the bed and ran into the bathroom, dry heaving as she leaned over the toilet. Nothing came up. Finally, she placed her forearm on the cool tile wall and leaned her forehead against it, trying to clear her mind, soothe her thoughts.
She had enemies. More than one no doubt thought her a fraud and even a traitor. But a wolf guarding the henhouse? Her?
She returned to the bedroom, kicking off her heels and kneeling on the fuzzy rug on her narrow-board floor, feeling under her bed for the phone.
Her caller ID registered only Private Name, Private Number.
She climbed back onto her bed, sitting cross-legged in the middle of her pale blue chenille coverlet, no thought now of a hot bath and cold milk.
Major Brooker should have arrived in Washington by this time for their morning meeting. But he had no reason to make such a call. Technically, he’d volunteered for the Carhill rescue mission. He’d been asked to volunteer, but he could have refused. President Poe had involved himself—Mia suspected he had his own agenda with Brooker.
Poe hadn’t asked her how she’d figured out that the Brookers and the Carhills were neighbors and that Ethan would recognize Ham, which made him perfect for the rescue job. The president had stayed away from details. Something about the army major, who’d had an awful year by anyone’s standards, seemed to have resonated with Poe—he was totally untroubled by any of Ethan’s exploits since his wife’s death.
Subtext. Connections. Mia had pushed them aside and focused on getting Ham Carhill to safety—nothing else.
“You want your guy. You need to send Ethan Brooker….”
A voice on the other end of a telephone. A confidence. A hope, she had thought, pushing back the memory of just how easily she’d succumbed to that hope.
Every time, it was the same. Male, sincere, urgent and anonymous.
“Your guy’s being held by some ex-con who has a thing for a blond, female marshal.”
The same voice. The same sincerity and urgency.
The man on the other end had first called her over the summer, providing her with information that had led to the arrest in Miami of illegal arms-traffickers with Colombian ties. Then he’d put her in touch with Ham Carhill as a potential informant. But Ham had proved to be so much more, a true genius at clandestine work.
In retrospect, Mia knew she should have flown to Bogotá herself and met Ham in person, or had him fly to Washington. Smarter yet, she should have asked for help from people better suited to handle operatives.
But she’d continued to take the anonymous calls, and now she had to pay whatever the consequences might be.
She crawled stiffly out of bed and turned on the tub in the small, adorable bathroom, scooping out lavender salts and sprinkling them under the hot running water. She’d postpone her meeting with Ethan in the morning and see if she could find out more about what really happened down in Colombia.
In the meantime, she’d have her bath, after all.
Wendy seemed to put all her concentration into choosing a Lake Champlain Chocolates truffle from the box she’d brought with her, stuffed at the bottom of her tote bag, but Juliet knew her feelings were hurt. Her niece was sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of the futon couch, the television off, the street sounds—traffic, the occasional siren—the only real distraction.
“I’m saving the coffee-flavored ones for you, Aunt Juliet.” Wendy managed a halfhearted smile. “Dad says you drink more coffee than all your brothers combined.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if I did. I need to cut back.”
She picked a truffle and handed the box up to Juliet. “Your turn. I’ve got a raspberry one. You can tell by the marks on the tops.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You just reminded me—I didn’t check the ingredients. Actually, I’m scared to. I mean, if truffles aren’t vegan, what do I do then?”