Broken Honor (19 page)

He chuckled. “Now I know where I rate.”

She turned and looked at him solemnly. The slight smile disappeared from his face. He disregarded the other shooters—mainly male—and put his hand to her face.

“It's not a joke to me,” she said in a voice that broke despite her best efforts. She turned to go, and he caught her arm.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Please don't go. This is important.”

Amy felt her face flush. She felt like a ten-year-old afraid of the dark, not a grown-up someone with such a deeply held antipathy for guns. Her mind flipped back to when she was a girl.…

“
Hold the gun. Aim it. Damn it, girl, can't you do anything?” Her grandfather's voice. Demanding. Querulous
.

She didn't want to. Her mother had hated guns. She'd learned to hate them
.

“
Do it, girl!
”

She pulled the trigger, heard the noise. Then dropped the gun in front of her grandfather
.

Four years later, he had taken a gun and killed himself. She'd walked in his study and found him
.…

The memory was too strong. Her hand lowered with the pistol in it. She almost dropped the pistol.

“Amy?”

She turned and looked at him. The memory flash hadn't happened two nights ago when Flaherty had shot the intruder. Why now?

She closed her eyes and willed herself to lift her arm again.

“Amy?”

His voice was both intrusive and welcome. How could it be both? But then she'd had so many contradictory feelings. Memories revived. Mostly bad. She'd thought she'd banished them into some mental trunk.

“It's all right,” she said.

“I don't think it is,” he said slowly. “Something happened.”

“A lot has happened,” she replied, wanting to change the subject.

“Will you try it again?”

“I know how to pull the trigger,” she replied.

“But will you? Can you?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly.

“Again,” he coaxed. “Don't worry about Bo. Concentrate.”

But she did worry about Bo. She hadn't wanted to leave the dog in the motel. They had taken him into the gun shop, which had a firing range in the back. The owner had agreed to let Bo stay in his office while Flaherty showed her how to use the weapon.

Anxious to leave now, she aimed once more and shot. This time she hit the edge of a leg. “Satisfied?” she asked Flaherty.

“Once more. Reload. Then we'll go.”

Amy swallowed hard, then shot one more time. She simply couldn't aim for the heart. She hit a cardboard leg, then, without looking at Flaherty, she reloaded just as he had shown her.

“Satisfied?” she asked a little bitterly, even as she realized it was unfair. He was trying to help her. He
had
helped her. He'd saved her life. But she still resented being forced into doing something that went against every fiber of her being. While she knew it wasn't his fault, he was the nearest target.

“No,” he said mildly, “but it will do. Let's get Bo and something to eat. Then I'll check and see if anyone has identified our John Doe.”

She handed him her pistol.

“Put it in your handbag,” he instructed.

“I don't have the permit.”

He looked at her for a moment. It wasn't condescending. More like patient. He expected her to do the reasonable thing. She really disliked him for doing that: forcing her to make a decision she didn't want to make.

She put it in her handbag. “If I drop it, and it goes off, it will be your fault,” she said.

He didn't smile. Apparently he'd learned that nothing about this was a smiling matter to her. “It won't,” he assured her.

They stopped in front of the counter and the clerk, who happened to be a dog lover, opened the office door. Bo wriggled with delight at seeing them. She knew from her own bruises that it must hurt. It was hard, though, for him to contain his exuberance as far as she was concerned. She leaned down and picked him up. “Time for a hamburger,” she told him.

He barked as if he knew exactly what she was saying.

“Thank you,” she said to the clerk.

He grinned. He was a big guy. He looked as if he walked out of a good ole boy white supremicist movie, but his smile was genuine and she couldn't help but return it. “How did it go, little lady?”

“She was a whiz,” Flaherty said.

Amy wanted to hit them both. “Little lady,” indeed. And “Whiz” wasn't much better.

“Now don't you forget,” the clerk said, “you need that permit. Until you get it, the gun belongs to the colonel.”

Amy suddenly knew it had not been for her benefit that he'd kept Bo. It was for
the colonel
, who Amy suspected was the clerk's ideal role model.

A model she'd been raised to distrust.

Irish stopped at a seafood market and bought two pounds of fresh shrimp, then went to a supermarket and disappeared inside while Amy sat inside the car with the dog. The doors of the car were locked, the windows up, the air-conditioning running. The pistol was in her purse.

Still, he hurried. He picked up some potatoes, some corn, butter, milk, and a few other items. After a moment's consideration, he added a six-pack of beer.

Then he hurried out. She was still there. No one appeared to be taking undue interest. Which was good. He wasn't at all sure she would use the weapon. She had disarmed one of her attackers, but she hadn't had to do more. Her obvious distaste for weapons, he surmised, must have come from her mother. Certainly not from her grandfather.

Still, she had tried. She would know what to do if attacked again.

They didn't say anything on the way back. She held her dog, and he concentrated on checking the traffic around him, though now he knew there was an easier way to track his movements than tailing the car.

He was only too aware of the rigid position of Amy's body. Firing the gun, for some reason, had affected her deeply. She hadn't wanted to do it. He sensed it had taken a great deal of willpower.

It was another facet of a complex person who fascinated him. She'd showed no hesitation in striking one of the attackers, especially after her dog had been kicked. She'd really not shown great sympathy for the dead man. She had shown fear, but he was only too aware that real courage came despite fear.

In twenty minutes they were back at the motel on the island. A yellow crime scene tape still blocked off her room.

He stepped from the car, keys in his hand. Amy didn't wait for him to open her door and scooted out, Bo right beside her.

Irish glanced around, then unlocked the motel door with his left hand, the fingers of his right on the revolver. He walked in carefully, looking first in the bathroom, then past the two double beds to the living area. No one there, but there was a figure sitting outside on one of the patio chairs.

Hell
. He knew who it was before the figure rose and turned around, although Irish could have sworn the newcomer couldn't have seen them from his position.

Amy had walked in behind him, carrying the bag of groceries. She stopped abruptly at seeing the man at the patio doors.

Irish sighed. He placed the Glock on a table. “Don't worry,” he said. “It's my boss.”

Her eyes widened, but she merely nodded as she set the groceries on the table.

Irish went over to the door, and unlocked it. He went out, closing the door behind him.

“Doug,” he acknowledged. They had been on a first-name basis since they were classmates at West Point. The fact that now Doug Fuller was a bird colonel, and Irish only a lieutenant colonel hadn't affected that, even when Doug had become his commanding officer after Irish returned from Kosovo.

“Obviously,” Doug said, as Irish limped across the patio. “You didn't answer your phone.”

“I'm on vacation.”

“That's why I'm getting calls nearly every day from every law enforcement agency in the southeast?”

Irish winced. “I'm sorry about that.”

“That's it?”

“There's a lady in distress.”

“That I believe,” Doug Fuller said. “Now let the police handle it. It's not your job.” He paused. “I've had some calls from Washington. You have a new assignment. A command position has just come open. In Hawaii,” he added with a grin.

It was one of the dream assignments in CID. At one time, he would have grabbed it. Even if it was a desk job. But now … it didn't seem so important. There was the ranch … and Amy.

“I have more days of leave left.”

Doug stared at him as if he'd just turned purple. “It's being canceled.”

“I can't leave her now. It might be my fault she's in danger. The police won't give her protection.” He turned back and looked in the window. Amy was putting away the groceries. “There've been three attempts on her life.”

Doug hesitated. “I'll ask for FBI protection.”

“There's no evidence of a federal crime.”

“Damn it, Irish. Neither of us are being given a choice. Orders are orders. Why in the hell do you think I flew to this godforsaken place? You'll face a court-martial if you don't return.”

“I can't, Doug.”

Irish could see Doug look inside the room. “She must be one hell of a.…”

“Lady,” Irish finished. “And she is. I would have been killed if she hadn't elbowed a bad guy.”

“Gratitude, guilt, or lust?”

Irish grinned. “A little of all three.”

Doug didn't smile. “You're risking everything.”

“I'd rather risk my career than Amy Mallory's life.”

“I'm going to have to meet this paragon.”

“It's not only Miss Mallory,” Irish said, belatedly trying to be circumspect. “It's my grandfather. His name was put into question in that report.”

“No accusations were made.”

“They were implied,” Irish said, “and I can't help believing that what has happened to Miss Mallory stems from my inquiries. If so, someone is afraid of what further investigation might find.”

“You might find that your grandfather was responsible,” Doug said.

“Then so be it,” Irish said. “If he was, I wouldn't protect him. But I can't believe it. He pounded honor, duty, country into me.” He paused. “Give me a few days.”

“You know what you're asking,” Doug said softly.

“Yes.” It was difficult for Irish to answer. They had a lot of history between them, and he didn't like putting Doug in this position. He didn't see another choice.

“All right. I'll say you've left Georgia. I expect you to do that. God knows how they know, but headquarters heard about the killing last night.”

“By the way,” Irish said, “who called you about my transfer?”

Doug hesitated again, signed. “General Wade.”

“Kinda sudden, isn't it?”

“I'm told Colonel Banner was in an accident.”

Irish stilled. “An accident?”

Doug nodded. “He wasn't killed, but he's critical.”

“Hit and run?” Irish guessed.

Doug looked at him. “How.…”

“A professor who had some of Amy Mallory's papers was involved in a hit and run a week ago. He wasn't so lucky.”

“Go to the feds. You can't do anything alone.”

“I don't trust anyone now,” Irish said. “You have to admit my reassignment is pretty surprising. Someone very high-level is making things happen.”

From the look on Doug's face, Irish knew he thought the same thing.

Irish held out his hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I owe you.”

“It's your ass. I didn't see you.”

“Come in and meet Amy.…”

“I think it's better if I don't.”

Irish nodded. “How's Judith?”

“Sad. Our first is off to college in eight weeks.”

Irish felt a slight ache in his heart. He'd been to dinner several times at Doug's house. His kids were boys, twelve, fifteen, and seventeen. There had been an affection between the parents and children that had touched him, that had almost made him question his choices. Almost.

And Doug might be risking his career for him.

“I'll be off, then,” Doug said. “Try to keep in touch and be back at the base on the twenty-first.”

“I'll be there.”

“Take care, Irish.”

“Yes, sir.”

Amy wished she could hear from a distance. She wasn't above snooping, but it would be pretty obvious if she opened the door, and her hearing wasn't good enough to go through glass.

Yet she realized from Flaherty's expression that it had gone the way he wanted it to.
And what was that
?

Would he stay with her?

Bo had gone over to the door, looking like a lovelorn suitor. So much for loyalty.

Amy wondered about starting to boil the shrimp. Would there be two of them? Or three?

Then she saw the man in uniform leave. Flaherty stood where he was for a moment, then opened the door and came inside.

“We have to leave tonight,” he said.

“Why?”

“I've just been reassigned,” he said with his lips quirking in that appealing way. “They want me immediately.”

“Then.…”

“I talked my commanding officer into giving me a few more days. But he made it clear we shouldn't stay here.”

“A reassignment?” Amy was trying to keep up with what he was saying.

“A command post. There's an opening because of a hit and run.”

That did soak in. “Oh, my God,” she said.

“Doug is an old friend. He won't tell anyone he saw us. But we have to get out of here.”

“The police?”

“I'll see about getting your laptop and boxes. There's really no reason to hold them.”

“Supper?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “We'll leave immediately after.”