Broken Honor (45 page)

Minutes ticked off. Then an hour. Mike didn't move. Then he saw a figure snake through the shrubbery, then another, both headed toward the window that had been unlocked.

They were not as professional as he'd expected. Perhaps good help really was hard to find these days.

A true professional would have been suspicious, even of a window he knew should be unlocked. These guys weren't. He watched as one went around the side of the house, probably in an attempt to turn off the alarm system. Tag had rigged it so it wouldn't be that difficult. That should have made them suspicious, too.

It didn't. He watched as one man entered the house, then the second. When it was apparent no one else was following, he left the room and met Tag. “There's one watching in the back,” Tag said.

“Hopefully Sam has taken care of the driver,” Mike said. “Take the back. I'll take the window. Sam will take the front door.”

Tag nodded. He was the most successful of the three of them, but they had reverted into an unit where each knew where his—and the others'—talents lay.

Another moment, and Mike saw Sam moving toward the front. Tag signaled Sam with two fingers, then went to the back. Mike waited at the window. When two minutes went by, Mike lifted himself and quietly entered through the window the intruders left open.

He heard cursing above. The intruders had seen the dummy forms in the bed, maybe even the dummy in the chair in the other room. He stood just inside a door that led to the stairs. They would be down soon. Sam pressed himself against the wall next to the stairs. Tag appeared from the kitchen.

The intruders
were
amateurs, at least in Mike's opinion. Anyone with an ounce of sense would have left someone downstairs as lookout.

The cursing was louder. So were the footfalls coming down the steps. The room was dark, but he had his night vision glasses. The intruders did not.

As the third reached the bottom of the steps, Mike stepped out, jabbing his Glock into the man's side. Sam suddenly appeared at the back of the last man down the steps. Tag took the middle one.

“What the hell?”

“Call the police, Mike,” Tag said. “We've caught ourselves some burglars.”

Keeping his weapon on “his” intruder, Mike turned on the lights. The men were all dressed in black and wore ski masks. Tag used his gun to poke the mask off his target, then pushed it back down. “No wonder you wear a mask.”

Seeing an opening, the man swung at him. It was exactly what Tag wanted, Mike knew. As the man swung, Tag landed a blow in his midriff, then another on the back of his neck as the intruder bent over. Tag stepped back as the man spiraled and fell to the floor.

“Who are you?” one of the downed man's companions asked.

“We are guests of the high Department of State official whose house you have just invaded with illegal weapons. It's not only burglary but assault on a federal officer. And now, gentlemen, you can each take off your masks. We are going to have a conversation.”

Mike admired him. The federal officer bluff was a huge one. The intruder's face paled. He probably had a lengthy record.

Still, it was obvious he knew where the conversation was leading. “What do ya want?” he said morosely.

twenty-nine

W
ASHINGTON
, D. C.

Sally made the coffee, found an insulated mug, and filled it. She realized then that she didn't know what the agent liked in it.

She wondered whether Dusty ever got used to having bodyguards around him. She knew he often had security when he traveled overseas. The thought made her wonder again when he would be back. She wanted him. She needed him.

She took the coffee out to the car. That certainly should be safe enough with a real-life FBI agent outside. The window of the car was down, and she looked into the dark interior. The agent was slumped in his seat. She knew enough about first aid to check his pulse. Thank God, there was one. Then she saw the blood running from his head.

Panic seized her, and she froze in place. Her gaze darted around the street. All the houses were dark. She forced herself to move toward the nearest one, her throat too constricted with terror to scream. She had taken only a step or two when a figure stepped out from behind one of the large trees that lined the street. He put his arm around her neck, and his other hand went over her mouth. She felt him hesitate a moment, then move again, as if he'd made a decision. He dragged her back into the house and slammed the door shut with his foot. Another intruder appeared from another room. He must have slipped inside when she approached the car.

She could barely breathe. What a fool she'd been not to be more careful. She hadn't thought anyone would actually attack Dustin's home. And then she'd felt safe with the agent outside. Dear God, the agent. He needed help!

She slumped against her assailant for a moment as if she were fainting. He had to let go of her neck, and she spun around and kicked him in his crotch. Then she started for the door, screaming as she went.

A rough hand grabbed her and turned her around. She saw a fist coming at her and tried to squirm away. Pain slammed through her. She struggled to keep on her feet, then the second blow came. Everything went black.

“We have the Eachan woman.”

“Where are you?”

“In Eachan's home.”

“What about Flaherty?”

“I haven't heard anything yet.”

Hesitation. “Get the hell out of there. Now.”

“Should we take her?”

Hesitation. “You've been listening?”

“We managed a new tap on the telephone this morning. She said she had ‘something' to tell him.”

“Hell, that could mean anything.” A loud curse. “Find out if she knows anything. Then give her an overdose and leave her there. Make it look sexual.”

“That should be easy. She's a sexy number.”

“Get what you need and get out of there.” He paused. “Do you have something with you … to give her a nice long sleep?”

“Heroin?”

“That should neutralize Dustin Eachan. How is he going to explain a woman dead of a drug overdose in his house?”

“I thought you wanted him in office.”

“He's not as malleable as I thought. And now he's trouble. Do it as soon as you find out what she has.”

“Yes, sir.”

The phone slammed down.

Amy straightened. They were passing Rock Creek Park. They should reach Georgetown soon. For a moment, she allowed her mind to wonder about Dustin. Two homes in very expensive places. She wondered where he'd gotten the money.

She wondered if Irish had the same question. She moved closer to him, placing her hand on his knee. She felt the heat of his skin under the denim of his jeans. He glanced at her and gave her the crooked grin she loved. It was probably meant to be reassuring. She didn't need reassurance when she was with him.

It was only when … he wasn't with her. Then she realized the emptiness of not having him in her orbit. She'd never really felt empty or lonely before. She'd always thought she had a wonderfully rich life. Now she couldn't imagine living without him.

Irish's cell phone rang. He'd been forced to turn it back on. He had to know what was happening in Maryland.

“Yes?” he said.

She couldn't hear the other end of the telephone, but she saw the frown on his face and the almost invisible slump of his shoulders.

“What did you do with them?” His voice tightened.

Then, “Well, it was worth a try. Thanks, Mike.”

Irish put down the phone. “Everything went exactly as planned,” he said.

“No one hurt?”

“Nope.”

“Then what's wrong?”

“The … burglars were out-of-town talent. They received a telephone call. A voice they didn't recognize offered ten thousand dollars if they burglarized a certain house and disposed of the people in it. They weren't among the best Mike has seen.”

“How did they get paid?”

“They picked up the money in a locker at the train station in Baltimore.”

“Are they lying?”

“I don't think so. Tag has a way of convincing people to talk.”

“Tag?” she said incredulously.

“Tag,” he confirmed.

“What did he do with them?”

“Called the police. They said they were Dustin's friends, staying at his house. Came home, noticed a window open and the alarm turned off.”

“But we don't know any more than we did?”

“Not immediately. There might be some string leading back to their employers, and now that Dustin is publicly involved, I think we can find substantial interest from the feds. Your Sally Eachan might also have something interesting for us.”

She stared at him. “You planned that,” she accused.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“That something would happen in Dustin Eachan's home so he
would
become more involved.”

Irish shrugged. “He knew what we were after.”

“Did he realize he would be in the headlines? He thought he would be involved only in your meeting someone from the opposition and planting the seed that you knew more than you did.”

“He had to consider the possibilities,” Irish said.

“But they
did
attack his vacation home,” she said. “They might go after his home here now.”

“They used freelancers posing as burglars. I don't think they would try anything at his Washington residence.”

A ripple of apprehension ran through her. Although there had been an apparent effort to take or embarrass Sally earlier, no one had directly attacked Dustin. Until now.

And Sally was at Dustin's house.

As if he sensed her change in mood, he speeded up. Within minutes they were in front of Dustin's house. A light was on upstairs.

Cars were parked tightly across the street. Irish parked across Dustin's driveway, behind a car with official government plates.

“Stay here,” he said.

She watched as he went over to the car. In a minute, he was back. “Someone is lying in the front seat.” He handed her the cell phone. “Call the police. Tell them there's an officer down. That will get them here fast.”

After she made the call, he told her to call Dustin's home number.

It rang three times, then a machine answered. She shook her head. “No one answers.”

The light upstairs went off.

“Someone's there,” he said. “I'll go to the back in case they leave that way. If anyone leaves from the front.…”

“I'll press the horn,” she said.

“Then get the hell out of the way.”

They heard a distant siren. Without another word, Irish sped around the back.

A minute passed. Or was it an hour? Then a muted noise, like a soft pop. A shout. The sound of sirens grew louder.
Something was wrong
. Amy took the pistol from her purse.

He'd told her to wait. She hated stupid heroines in books. But what if Irish had been hurt? And Sally?

A shot rang out, then another. She couldn't wait. But could she even use the gun?

She left the car and moved around to the back. One man was on the ground. Another was shooting. She saw Irish go backward and knew he was hit. The sirens were almost on them now. The assailant's attention was on Irish, who'd dropped his gun. He aimed at Irish.

Amy lifted her pistol. Her hand shook, and she used the other to steady it. She pulled the trigger.

The man grunted and swung around, his gun still in his hand.

Then they were surrounded by blue uniforms. “Get down, get down, get down.” The order echoed through the neighborhood.

Amy obeyed. The man with the gun didn't. He turned toward the police, still holding the pistol.

A shot. Then another. A third. He went down.

An officer came over to her. He looked at the pistol she'd dropped. “Ma'am?”

She turned to Irish, who was kneeling. “He's been hurt. Can I go to him?”

“What happened here?”

She ignored the question and darted toward Irish. It would take more than one officer to keep her away. Or two. Or three.

She knelt next to him. “Irish?”

In the light of the officers' flashlights, he looked pale. Blood was dripping from his right wrist.

Anguish filled her. He'd been wounded repeatedly on her behalf. She tore off a piece of her shirt and wrapped it around his wrist. “You never duck, do you?”

His good hand clasped hers as he looked at the officer. “There should be a woman inside.”

Three of the uniforms went inside. In a moment, one yelled. “We found her. She's unconscious.”

Another siren. Medics pushed her out of the way. Another ran inside.

Amy clung to Irish's hand as he refused a stretcher but agreed to go to the hospital. “Sally first,” he told the medics.

They followed as the stretcher was carried from the house to the ambulance. Amy saw a too pale face. Emotion hit her then. Rage. Grief.

She said a prayer that Sally would live, that the sparkling smile would continue to charm.

And then there was the knowledge she—Amy Mallory—had shot someone. After seeing Sally, she knew she would do it again.

Dustin was called out of the meeting. A Secret Service agent, along with a uniformed police officer and plain clothes detective, met him.

He tried to mask his apprehension.

“Sir, there's been an assault on your home,” the detective said after displaying his credentials. “Shots fired. A woman—I believe she might be your cousin—is in the hospital.”

“Where?”

“Washington Memorial.”

“Can you take me there?”

The detective nodded. “We also got word from Maryland that intruders were captured in your house there. Had you loaned or rented it to someone?”

Dustin nodded. “Yes, friends of mine.”

“That solves one problem. Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you say?”