Shattered (11 page)

“Where are we going?” she asked, once they were out in the hallway.

“To Senator Sherman’s office,” the aide said.

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.” He ushered her into an elevator and pushed the down button. “I was just sent to retrieve you.”

He made her sound as if she were a bone someone had thrown to a dog.

Feeling like a student called before the principal’s office for some misbehavior, Kirby was racking her brain, going through everything she’d done since arriving in the city, when she had a lightbulb moment, remembering Rachel’s relationship to Sherman. Obviously, the senator was merely eager for news about his goddaughter.

The suite of offices was smaller than Kirby would have expected, given his stature in the senate. One wall was covered with the requisite “grip and grin” photo ops, showing him with movie stars, others she took to be famous people, some she didn’t recognize, others—such as the Dalai Lama—she did, and various world leaders, including Vasquez, who had, Kirby noticed, worn his dress white uniform for the photograph. Balancing out the rich and famous were photos showing the senator visiting U.S. troops overseas. A few such pictures she recognized as having been taken in the Green Zone.

The wall behind the polished oak desk was covered in plaques; a third wall held landscape paintings of what she assumed were Connecticut landmarks.

The Stars and Stripes flanked one side of his bark brown leather chair; the blue flag with the Connecticut state seal the other.

He rose when she came in, and came out from behind the desk. He was a tall man with a shock of silver hair that provided the proper air of gravitas. He was deeply tanned, suggesting a lot of time spent outdoors. His dark blue suit, with the flag pin on its lapel, appeared to be custom-tailored; his crisply starched shirt was white, his tie red.

“Doctor Campbell,” he greeted her, his voice deep and tailor-made for the lofty speeches for which he was famous. “It’s good of you to come.”

“It’s good of you to invite me, Senator,” Kirby replied.

Not that she’d been invited as much as dragged out of a hearing that meant a lot not to just her, but thousands of innocent victims of government. But since this was his office and he was Rachel’s godfather, Kirby was determined to remain polite.

Also, given his position, he might actually be more help than the members she’d spoken with earlier. As head of the Armed Services Committee, he undoubtedly had the ear of the president.

She didn’t want the U.S. military to invade Monteleón, which would only make matters worse, but perhaps if some sanctions were imposed, requiring Vasquez to share more of the oil wealth with all his countrymen . . .

“Please, sit down.” He gestured toward the two chairs on the visitor’s side of the desk. “May I offer you something to drink? Some coffee, tea? Soda?”

Having crawled out of her hotel bed in the dark at five this morning to go over her notes yet again, after a restless night spent chasing sleep, she was in definite need of caffeine.

“Coffee would be great.”

He pressed a button on his speakerphone. “Mrs. Hansen, would you please bring in a pot of coffee?” He glanced over at Kirby. “Sugar? Cream?”

“Just black.”

“Doctor Campbell takes hers black,” he reported.

After placing the order with the unseen Mrs. Hansen, he leaned back in the chair and studied her.

“How was your flight from Ciudad Libertad?” he inquired.

“Other than a longer-than-scheduled layover, uneventful.”

Kirby grew increasingly uncomfortable as he continued to study her with an intensity that was turning into a stare.

He began moving a gold pen back and forth from one hand to the other, his intense blue eyes on her face.

The pen kept moving.

Right hand. Left.

Then right again.

He was studying her. Looking for . . . what?

Kirby was relieved when his unblinking attention momentarily shifted to a middle-aged woman who’d entered the room, carrying two cups of coffee on a pewter tray.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hansen.”

“No problem, Senator.” She placed the tray on a table, handed Kirby a cup, and put the other on a coaster bearing the U.S. Senate seal on Sherman’s desk.

She didn’t say anything to Kirby, who also thanked her, but the deep look the staffer gave her before leaving the office, so similar to the senator’s, was unnerving.

Sherman picked up his cup, which looked particularly small and delicate in his large, tanned hands, and eyed her over the rim.

It was all Kirby could do not to squirm.

“I’ve read your service record,” he surprised her by revealing.

Of all the things she’d expected him to say, that wouldn’t have even made the list.

“Oh?” She took a sip of the coffee. “May I ask why?”

“I wanted to know what kind of person you are. And what type of soldier you were.”

“ ‘Soldier’ is a relative term, given that there wasn’t much opportunity to fire weapons while working in a combat support hospital.”

“True. Yet you did have firearms training in Iraq.”

“Although we were far safer than the medical staff working in the FOBs—forward operating bases—all the doctors in the Green Zone were required to learn how to shoot.”

“And you scored quite well.”

“I did okay. But there’s a big difference between being able to shoot well and being able to shoot someone.”

“Your commanding officer’s evaluations were consistently glowing.”

“You’ve spoken with Colonel Walsh?”

“Early this morning. The term ‘grace under pressure’ was used more than once.”

Kirby was beginning to suspect she hadn’t been brought here solely to chat about this man’s goddaughter. “I was merely doing my job, Senator.”

“The colonel also said you’d say something like that.”

He tossed back his coffee, put the cup down, picked up the pen, and began moving it back and forth again. “I’ve also been in contact with your supervisors at WMR.”

“Oh?”

Understanding that the senator was used to commanding the stage, Kirby bit back her impatience and curiosity and let him do so now.

“Everyone I spoke with who knew your work considered it superlative. And told me that you’re a remarkably intelligent, levelheaded woman.”

“That’s very flattering.” She decided not to mention the dinner with Vasquez, where she certainly wouldn’t have described herself as levelheaded.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” he said briskly. “And I have the sense it’s very true.” The pen went right again. Left. “I was also told that while you work very well with others, you have a tendency toward stubbornness.”

“I prefer to call it tenacity, sir.”

He didn’t return her slight smile. “I’m glad to hear that, Doctor Campbell. Because I’ve brought you here to ask for your help.”

“I see,” Kirby said, not seeing anything at all.

“It’s my goddaughter, Rachel.” His eyes narrowed. “I see you’re not surprised by the revelation that we have a connection.”

“Coincidentally, she told me that just the other night,” Kirby admitted.

A horrible thought occurred to her. “Is Rachel alright? Did something happen?”

“I believe she is, at the moment, as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

His face turned stony, his eyes hard, and now that she looked at him closer, Kirby could see the shadows beneath his eyes, hinting at a lack of sleep. This wasn’t good.

“I take it you haven’t watched CNN this morning.”

Not good at all. Her blood went cold as she braced herself for bad news.

“I was preparing for my testimony,” she said. “Then I was in the hearing, when your aide pulled me out to bring me here.”

“There’s no easy way to say this.” His deep voice, which had made him one of the senate’s most influential speakers, turned as harsh as his expression. “Rebels stormed the WMR clinic in Monteleón during the night and took Rachel hostage. They’ve broadcast a video, showing her tied to a chair, with armed men, their faces covered in scarves like the stinking cowards they are, holding a machete at her neck.”

“Oh, my God.” Kirby pressed her fingers against her temples.

“They’re demanding a million dollars from our government. Or they’ll, in their words, ‘declare her an enemy of the people’ and execute her.”

“But Rachel’s no one’s enemy. She even treated Jesus Enrique Castillo’s bullet wound.”

“Apparently, the bastard doesn’t understand the concept of appreciation. Because he’s accusing her of working for the CIA.”

The audacity of that accusation cleared Kirby’s head.

“That’s ridiculous. She’s the farthest thing from a CIA operative possible. Besides, the government doesn’t pay ransom.”

“Not since the Nixon administration,” he confirmed. “But that doesn’t prevent a private person from paying it.”

Kirby’s first thought was that people who paid the rebels ransom were actually perpetuating the kidnap-pings by making them profitable in a country where so many people lived below the poverty line.

Her next thought, coming a second later, was that if she had a million dollars she wouldn’t hesitate to hand it over right now.

“Are you talking about her parents?”

“They’re comfortable, but they certainly don’t have that sort of disposable income. I do, but given my position, not to mention her relationship to the president, if I pay it and the news gets out, it’s going to look to many as if the United States government has changed its policy on kidnapping.”

“Which would essentially put a target on the backs of every American visiting or working in an unstable country,” she said flatly.

“Exactly.”

“Surely you’re not going to sit by and do nothing.”

Kirby couldn’t believe that both the leader of the free world and the powerful senator many considered a shooin to be the next president could actually be helpless in such a situation.

“Of course not.” His brow furrowed at the idea she’d even think such a thing. “We merely need deniability. And a few degrees of separation.”

He picked up his phone and pressed a button. “Please send Mr. Tremayne in, Mrs. Hansen.”

A moment later, the office door opened and a tall, dark-haired man entered.

From his well-tailored chalk-striped charcoal suit, crisp snowy shirt, subtly striped rep tie, and spit-polished black shoes, he could easily have passed for a K Street lobbyist.

And although the last time she’d seen him he’d been sporting long hair and a beard, and had been dressed in native garb, Kirby immediately recognized him as that Special Ops leader who’d shown up at her refugee camp on the Pakistani border.

Somersett, South Carolina

The landing was rough, with a couple of bounces, but at least we stayed on the runway, Shane considered as the single-engine, high-wing Cessna Skyhawk taxied toward the hangar.

“That was pretty good,” he said.

“Better than last week,” the forty-year-old attorney said proudly.

“Absolutely.” Last week a too-sudden twist of the controls had sent them into the weeds. Another few yards and they would’ve landed nose down in the marsh.

“So, when do I get to solo?”

“Let’s talk about that next week,” Shane suggested. “After you nail a three-point landing the first time around.” They’d circled the field three times, having been forced to pull up at the last minute the first two tries.

As he climbed out of the Cessna, he viewed the BMW parked on the tarmac. Not that he could have missed it, given that the car was fire-engine red and the ex-SEAL standing next to it was six-foot-five.

Shane led his student through the postlanding checklist beginning with chocking the main wheels and tying down the wing and tail, and ending with locking the door.

“So,” Quinn McKade said as the lawyer drove away in a gold Lexus, “how long are you going to keep this up?”

“Keep what up?” Shane asked, knowing the answer, since they’d had this discussion countless times before.

“Teaching idiots with more money than sense how to fly these little-bitty toy planes.”

“The Cessna’s no toy. And its name just happens to be synonymous with ‘light aircraft.’ ”

“Yeah, but yours isn’t. Or do I have to remind you that it used to be synonymous with big aircraft?”

“Nobody’s paying me to teach lawyers to fly Chinooks,” Shane said with a shrug. “Besides, this gets me back in the air. I happen to like flying.”

“What a surprise. Since you just happened to be the best SOAR jockey I ever flew with.”

“That was then.” Shane made some notes in the training book. “This is now.”

“Damn, that’s profound. When you’re done with that pen, can I borrow it to write that down so I won’t forget it?”

“Or you could just kiss my ass,” Shane said mildly.

“You’re wasting your talents. ‘The first thing to remember is these are called wings,’ ” Quinn said in a singsong voice that sounded ridiculous coming from a guy his size. “ ‘The second thing to remember is that it’s important to have one on each side.’ ”

“It’s not that bad.” At least he was flying. Granted, in a plane his granny Garrett could’ve flown, but life in the air was always better than being stuck 24/7 on the ground.

“Maybe not. But it’s not that good, either.” Quinn, who’d always been the easiest-going guy—in or out of the military—Shane had ever known was clearly frustrated. As he was every time they had this conversation. “I can understand why you didn’t want to stay in the Army—”

“I joined to fly.” He’d given up a lot for that. Including a Navy commission. “Once I couldn’t fly, there wasn’t much point in staying in.”

“The Army was willing to work with you on getting back up in the air again,” Quinn reminded him.

“Yeah. Bad enough you guys had to drag me up a goddamn mountain. What if I crashed in a battle zone and something went wrong with my prosthesis?”

“Probably the same thing that would happen if you crashed in a battle zone and one of your teammates shattered a leg. You’d all work it out. The way we did up in those mountains.”

He had a point. And one Shane had thought about a lot lately. But, having made the decision to separate with a medical honorable discharge, he couldn’t exactly turn back time.

“It’s not like you’re an invalid,” Quinn pressed his case. “You’re always beating me at b-ball.”

“That’s because, despite your obvious height advantage, you could be the poster guy for White Men Can’t Jump. Hell, an eight-year-old Girl Scout could probably beat you at a game of horse.”

Shane didn’t add that the additional spring from his titanium and carbon-fiber sports prosthesis helped out by giving his jump shot a bit more bounce than he’d had before the crash.

Quinn slapped a hand nearly the size of a baseball mitt against his broad chest. “I’m wounded.”

“Just calling them like I see them. Besides, I’m a damn good instructor.”

“I’ve not a single doubt you are. But when was the last time you had an adrenaline rush?”

“It’s obvious you’ve never landed with a student pilot at the controls,” Shane said dryly.

“How’d you like a real job?”

“I told you, if I’m not willing to fly birds for the Army, I’m not flying them for Phoenix Team.”

“Look.” Quinn blew out a breath. “Discounting the fact that you’d make enough to buy your own planes, hell, even a helo if you wanted one, I wouldn’t be out here asking if it wasn’t important. Like, for the good of the country.”

Just as he was the most easygoing guy Shane had ever met, Quinn McKade had never been prone to exaggeration.

“Next you’ll be putting on a pair of shiny tap dancing shoes, singing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’ waving Old Glory, and baking me an apple pie,” he said. But, dammit, he was curious.

“You’ve heard of Senator Sherman.”

“Sure. Head of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

“Well, his goddaughter, Rachel Moore, is a medical relief doctor. For WMR.”

Dammit. The other man knew Shane owed his life to Kirby Campbell, who just happened to work for WMR. Not that he felt obligated to the entire organization.

The hell he didn’t. Which was why a sizeable donation to the organization automatically came out of his checking account every month.

“Good for her. And this should concern me, why?”

“I guess you haven’t watched the news today.”

“I’ve been a little out of touch. Like, at five thousand feet.”

“Well, the good doctor’s been taken hostage by rebels in Monteleón. They’re demanding a million dollars’ ransom.”

“Shit.” Shane raked a hand through his hair, which, while not as short as he’d worn it in the military, still didn’t reach his collar. “So, for that amount of money, I guess they know who she is?”

“Not yet. They’re asking for the money from our government. Who they’re accusing of propping up President Vasquez’s corrupt government.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Shane said. “Since everyone knows the CIA helped get rid of his predecessor. And that was even before they struck black gold, which definitely vaulted the country into national-interest category. But she’s an innocent civilian. What makes them think Uncle Sam’s going to open the vault to get her back?”

“They’re accusing her of being CIA.”

Shane thought about that for a moment. Given that there were spooks working all over the world, including the ones who’d shown up with that bird in Pakistan, it wasn’t an impossible scenario.

“Any chance it’s true?”

“No. Zach’s spent the morning on the phone, talking to a lot of people who know her well. She’s actually not a real big fan of the CIA, since, like you said, they’ve had their fingers in the Monteleón pie for decades. Though scuttlebutt at Langley says the current agency station chief went down there with a new broom a few months ago and began cleaning house.”

“Good luck with that.”

“There’s more. The doctor just happens to also be related to the president. Ours, not Vasquez.”

Shane whistled. “That’s one helluva can of worms.”

“Which is why Sherman called Phoenix Team. We’re going deep, midnight black on this one, and if we’re caught, needless to say, we’re totally on our own. The government will deny all knowledge of our involvement, which would be true, since the senator’s acting as a private person, not a member of congress.”

“A distinction that wouldn’t fly all that well if the press got hold of it.”

“Exactly. Which is why we can’t screw up. And in order to make sure we pull it off, we need the best bird jockey in the business. Who would be you . . .

“Oh, and before you turn me down again, there’s one more thing you might be interested in. Zach just called from D.C. He’s bringing back a new member of the team who’s familiar with both the country and the players.”

He paused, looking like a guy who’d just drawn a royal flush in a world championship game of Texas hold ’em.

“Well?” Shane asked. “You going to tell me who it is?”

“Doctor Kirby Campbell, who missed being captured in the raid only because she happened to be in D.C., testifying to a senate subcommittee.”

Shane didn’t have to think twice about it. “Count me in.”