Broken Honor (46 page)

“Look, I'll answer any questions you have, but first I want to see my cousin.”

“An overdose of heroin,” the doctor said. “But we found her in time.”

“She doesn't use drugs,” Dustin said as he sat next to her bed. She was still unconscious, but his fingers intertwined in hers.

“We checked her arms. There were no needle tracks.”

Someone entered the room. “I'm Susan Etheridge, hospital spokesman, Mr. Eachan. Members of the press are in the lobby. They want to talk to you.”

Dustin looked at Sally's pale, battered face, the dark lashes sheltering her eyes, her limp hand. “No,” he said simply.

The door opened and closed again.

“How long will she be unconscious?”

“I can't tell you that,” the doctor said.

Grief—and guilt—coursed through Dustin. He should have been with her. He couldn't even imagine the horror she'd experienced. Had she been conscious when the narcotic had been injected? Had she known what was going to happen?

He leaned over. He ran his hand through her hair and touched her cheek. He loved her. He'd always loved her. He hadn't wanted to admit it because he thought it had been so damned wrong. But now he knew he would risk anything to keep her safe, to keep her happy, to keep her with him.

He willed a movement. The flicker of her eyes. He wanted her to know he was next to her. He didn't give a damn about his job, about some small country thousands of miles away. He didn't care about the family name. Hell, at this moment, he wished it was Smith.

Irish refused to stay the night at the hospital, although the doctor urged it. He was silent, though, after he saw some of the other scars on Irish's body. “You live dangerously, don't you?”

“I try to keep you in business,” Irish quipped as the doctor bandaged his wound.

Amy glared at him.

The doctor looked from one to another as he finished. “It's going to hurt like blazes. The bullet nicked the bone. I'll write a prescription.”

“I'll make sure he takes it,” Amy said.

The doctor nodded. “There's a slew of detectives outside. Want a few moments alone?”

Irish gave her the crooked smile that always affected her heart in erratic ways. “Thanks.”

After the doctor left, Irish touched her face in the gentle way he had. “Thank you,” he said. “I think you saved my life.”

“I barely hit him.”

“Hit is the operative word,” Irish said. “Enough to distract him. You're a pretty gutsy lady. Especially for someone who hates guns.”

She felt her face growing red with pleasure.

He bent his head and kissed her. Hard.

Gratitude?

Her lips parted, and she tasted him. She closed her eyes and uttered a prayer of thanks that he was here. Next to her. Alive.

Then she felt something wet on her cheek. Tears. She felt his lips wiping them away. She bit her lower lip. She didn't want to cry. She wanted to be brave and unemotional. Just like him. Not some teary-eyed woman.

“Ah, love,” he said, and his voice was ragged.

Not unemotional
. Her heart sang. She clung to him like an emotional woman. He hugged her tight like an emotional man.

Their lips met again, and they kissed like two people glad to be alive and in love.

“One of them is still alive,” said a detective. “He knows the other is dead, and he can be charged with murder as a consequence of a criminal act, as well as three counts of attempted murder, assault on a federal officer, burglary, and assorted other felonies.”

The detective, an FBI agent, and a member of the CID, along with two uniformed officers, sat in a conference room in the hospital. Amy and Irish refused to leave for the police precinct until they saw Sally Eachan. They had agreed to tell all they knew in what was called a “preliminary” interview.

“Why didn't you contact the police?” the detective said.

“We did. In Memphis. They couldn't help us. They said they didn't have the resources to protect Dr. Mallory.”

“So you decided to take matters in your own hands?”

“Not at all. We had an appointment with Miss Eachan tonight. We didn't know.…”

“I've talked to your office, Colonel. They've been trying to find you. Seems you leave chaos wherever you go.”

“Not him,” Amy said. “Me. He's just been trying to protect me.”

“And Mr. Eachan? What's his part?”

“He has no part. I sought him out after learning that his grandfather and mine served together.…”

Amy watched Irish as he told the story. The FBI agent took notes, then stopped the conversation and made a phone call. In thirty minutes, two other agents appeared, and Irish started again, quickly running through everything they knew or suspected.

“So you were involved in the burglary of Mr. Eachan's Maryland home?”

“Only in that we were staying there. Some buddies of mine were helping protect Dr. Mallory. They apparently walked in on the burglary in progress.”

Amy knew he was protecting his friends, possibly sacrificing his own career by not being entirely truthful. She had always insisted on the whole truth, black and white, and now she was seeing varying shades of gray. She decided to try to change the subject. “What about the man who was wounded?”

“We'll talk to him. He's in the hospital prison ward. I think, with everything we have, he might be willing to talk to us.”

“He should be guarded,” Irish said. “Now.”

One of the agents nodded. “I'll see to it.”

Irish looked at his watch. “It's four in the morning. I'm tired. I know Dr. Mallory is. We want to see Miss Eachan. Can the rest of this wait until tomorrow?”

Amy chimed in. “The doctors even wanted to keep Colonel Flaherty here. He needs rest. He's lost a lot of blood. And we're the victims here.”

The detective who apparently had jurisdiction looked at the others. The leading FBI agent nodded.

“Noon tomorrow,” the detective said. “I want your word you both will be at my office.”

“Make it two,” Irish said.

“Two, then,” said the detective as he rose from his seat.

Amy and Irish went down the hall to Reception, asked about Sally's whereabouts, then took the elevator to Critical Care.

They found Dustin pacing outside. “The doctor's inside,” he said.

“How is she?”

“She's still on a respirator, but the doctor thinks she'll make it. Thank God they left a syringe next to her so the doctor knew what he was dealing with. A few more minutes.…”

“I'm so sorry,” Amy said.

“Don't be. If it weren't for you, she probably would have died. They meant her to die,” he said with rage he didn't try to hide.

“Is she conscious yet?”

He nodded. “Just barely. Not enough to answer any questions.”

“We don't know what she found, then?”

“No, and at the moment I don't care,” Dustin said. “I just want.…”

His voice broke, and he turned away.

Irish was silent a moment, then said, “We're going to a hotel and try to get some sleep. The police want to talk to us at two. Perhaps we should talk first.…”

Dustin frowned. “Just tell them what happened. I intend to resign. Sally doesn't have anyone.…”

“Don't do anything too hasty,” Irish said. He held out his hand.

Dustin took it. “I'll call you on your cell phone if anything happens. No one can approach the house. It's taped off as a crime scene. I also asked that it be guarded.”

“Our friends should be in shock now.”

“I just hope it's over.”

“She'll be all right,” Irish said. “She and Amy have a lot in common. They're both resilient. And a lot tougher than they look.”

“She is, isn't she?” Dustin said wryly. “I always thought she was fragile … like a butterfly. She said I was like a drone bee.”

“I don't think she thought that at all,” Amy said, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. “Her eyes always said something else altogether.”

Dustin pulled out a credit card. “Use this when you check into a hotel. It's a State Department credit card. After today, I doubt they're in any position to go after you, but you might as well be safe.”

“And you?”

“A necessary expense,” Dustin said. “Use the name of John Smythe.”

“Smythe?”

“Our couriers use it sometimes. It's a little better than Smith.”

Irish thrust out his hand. “You'll be all right?”

Dustin took his. Their gazes met, and Irish saw something there he hadn't seen before. Uncertainty. Warmth. “Yes,” Dustin said. “You can find me here if you need anything.”

Irish still hesitated, then said awkwardly, “Tell Sally we'll be by tomorrow.”

Dustin nodded, then turned back to the door of the room.

Irish lay awake and looked at Amy. His wrist hurt like hell, and he couldn't sleep, but he didn't want any pills.

It wasn't over yet. They had won a number of battles, but he wasn't sure they had won the war.

He liked looking at her. She slept quietly. Her head lay against his arm, and her face was turned toward his. It wore a tranquil expression.

They'd not made love this morning.
She
obviously feared hurting his wrist.
He
knew she was emotionally and physically exhausted. They just needed to be together, to savor the presence of the other without any demands, to revel in the warmth of each other's bodies, to relish just being alive. They hadn't needed words.

They hadn't, he realized, needed them for a long time. She was as much a part of him now as any of his appendages. He couldn't imagine breathing air that she didn't breathe, or living a day without seeing her, or sleeping without her at his side.

He put his arm on hers. He really didn't want to sleep. He hadn't worked out a way for them to be together.

He could give up the military. He had little doubt that after the past few weeks, he'd effectively destroyed any chance of promotion. He had more than twenty years in, and he could retire—but to what? His ranch in Colorado was fairly isolated. It would be impossible for her to find a comparable teaching position.

Unlike Tag or Mike, he didn't want to spend the rest of his life protecting fat cats or investigating wayward spouses. He wanted the clean air and blue skies and snow covered mountains of Colorado.

He wanted
her
.

How much could either of them give up for the other without eventually destroying each other?

thirty

W
ASHINGTON
, D. C.

Sally woke in stages. Her throat hurt. Her cheek ached. Her world was heavy, foggy. She flitted in and out of consciousness, trying to open her eyes but finding it too much of an effort. She was conscious of a hand holding hers, though. It felt good. Safe.

Then fear came. Through the fog she saw the large man coming toward her while another held her. Her face stung. Her chest ached. She remembered the pain of the blows. The angry face as she refused to answer questions. She kept saying there was nothing to find. She knew he wouldn't let her live. She'd seen his face. And their grandfather's message was the only thing that could pinpoint her murderer, that could save Dustin and the others.

Rage had twisted her tormentor's face like some fun house mirror.

“The police are going to find you in your cousin's bed,” he said as he raised a needle and plunged it in her arm. “Beaten. Dead of an overdose. He'll have a hell of a time explaining it.” He smiled. “You'll feel very good for a few moments,” he said, “but it will be a very few minutes.”

Dusty. That was the worst of it. Sinking out of consciousness, knowing that Dusty's life would be destroyed.

“No,” she screamed hoarsely.

The hand tightened on her hand. “Sally, it's Dustin.”

She tried her eyes again. Part of her didn't want to leave the cocoon she was in. But now nightmares were intruding. “Dusty?” She barely recognized her own voice. It was hoarse. But it was audible. She was alive!

Her eyes finally opened. He was leaning over her. “I didn't tell them,” she said.

“Tell them what?”

“Didn't tell him 'bout … Grandfather's letter.”

“To hell with any goddamn letter.” His hand practically squashed hers. He leaned over and kissed her gently.

Some of the heaviness lifted, but she still felt … drugged. “How …?”

“Colonel Flaherty and Amy got there, apparently just after they injected you. One of the men who attacked you is dead. The other was shot. He's in the hospital here. The police want to talk to you as soon as they can. There's one just outside the door.…”

Sally felt the fear again. It bubbled up inside, and she thought it might burst inside her like a huge boil. Her fingers clasped his. “Don't go away.”

“I won't,” he said in a tone she'd never heard before. It … quavered. Even trembled. She felt an enormous tenderness that he was so affected. “I really
am
all right.”

As if to show him, she tried to move, and then felt as if a sledgehammer slammed across her. She couldn't stifle a cry. Her face hurt, and she lifted her fingers to touch it. One cheek was swollen and a bandage covered an area near her cheek.

“God, Sally.…” He started for the door.

“No,” she said. She didn't want him to go.

He returned, but he used her buzzer. In seconds, a nurse was beside her. “She's awake. That's wonderful.”

“She's in pain,” Dusty said hoarsely.

The nurse frowned. “She shouldn't have anything.”

Sally nodded. She didn't want anything. Not until she told Dusty what she had to tell him.

But she couldn't. The nurse was there, and what Sally wanted to say had to be said in private. She waited impatiently as the woman took her blood pressure, then her temperature, before hurrying out of the small cubicle with its one wall of glass.
Intensive care
. With sudden horror, she realized how very close she must have come to dying.