Stranger in my Arms (22 page)

CIA Headquarters…Langley, Virginia

L
eaning back in his chair, Merrick pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes were burning from nonstop reading. The terrorist act of September 11 had changed the course of action for securing America's borders and its citizens.

He'd spent the past week reading about new and updated security protocol that had been put in place within days of the horrific destruction of the World Trade Center.

Merrick forced his concentration away from what he'd mentally recorded to that of his wife. He and Alex had celebrated their third month of marriage the night before. Even though she professed she wanted a quiet dinner at home, he overrode her protests and took her out to one of her favorite D.C. eating establishments.

Alex was now in her second trimester and without warning her nausea had vanished along with her lethargy. The gradual changes in her body made her pregnancy more obvious. Her face was fuller, as were her breasts, and she'd lost her waistline.

She'd contacted the National Trust, applying for a transfer to the southeast region; however, her request was denied because there were no liaison positions available. Alex existed in a blue funk for one day, tendered her resignation, then called a real estate company to set up an appointment to show her properties for their new home.

He'd been at the Company for a month, and his time was spent reading and sitting in on meetings—meetings that were of no interest or consequence to him, meetings with low-level clerks with years of seniority. He'd come back as an intelligence training specialist and so far he hadn't trained anyone.

The phone on his desk rang, and he sat up and picked up the receiver. “Grayslake.”

“Mr. Ashleigh would like to see you in his office—
now.
”

Merrick hung up without verifying whether he would or wouldn't comply with the assistant director's directive. Shirt cuffs rolled up over his wrists, top button on his shirt undone and tie hanging loosely around his collar, he walked out of his closet of an office to a larger one at the end of the hall.

“Go on in,” drawled a woman whose face was reminiscent of an overripe pumpkin.

Merrick met her intimidating gaze with one of his own as he brushed past her desk. He entered Carl Ashleigh's office silently, startling the man with the cold, pale blue eyes.

Carl waved a hand toward a chair facing his desk. “Sit down, Grayslake.” Waiting until Merrick was seated he laced his fingers together atop a stack of papers. “I know you've been waiting for me to assign you to a training class, but I'm afraid that's not going to happen for a while.”

Crossing one leg over the other, Merrick rested his elbows on the arms of the chair. “How long is awhile?”

“At least another six months.”

Merrick did not visibly react to the response that he had come back to work to sit around, collect a government check and do absolutely nothing.

“Why did you bring me back now if you knew there wasn't a position for me?” What he wanted to tell Ashleigh was that he could've stayed home with his pregnant wife to await the birth of their first child.

A band of red crept up Ashleigh's neck to his face and hairline. “I have a position, but it's not what you'd requested.” A hard edge had crept into his voice.

Merrick leveled a gaze at him. “What do you have?”

Ashleigh paused, hoping to make Grayslake uncomfortable. He knew about the man's pretty, young wife, and that they had a baby on the way. He knew everything there was to know about Merrick Grayslake except how to unnerve him.

“How's your marksmanship?”

Merrick didn't blink. “With what? Pistol or rifle?”

“How about a PSG-1?”

A muscle in Merrick's jaw jumped. “One shot, one kill.”

Every branch in the military used snipers: the SEALs, CCT, and Army Rangers. And although they all had their respective sniper elements, there was one school that stood out from the others: the United States Marine Corps Scout Sniper School.

“We need a sniper instructor, and because you're Scout Sniper Qualified, you're the perfect candidate.”

“
You
want
me
to train agents to become snipers?”

Ashleigh shook his head. “Not me, Grayslake, your
country.
”

Merrick's cold smile never reached his eyes. “Because you put it that way how can I refuse?”

It'd always been the triumvirate: country, Corps and mission. The trinity would always be there, but along the way he'd added family.

“Do you still have your rifle?”

“Yes.” He'd stored his rifle in a special case, and hidden it beneath the floorboards in a closet in West Virginia.

“I recommend you dust it off and start practicing.”

“When do exercises begin?”

“The first Monday in January.” Ashleigh knew he had to keep Merrick busy until he received word that Operation Backslap was ready to be executed.

Merrick nodded. He had about two weeks to bring himself up-to-date on the rigorous ten-week-long course broken down into three phases—land navigation and marksmanship, stalking techniques, field skills and fire rehearsals—and the last that encompassed everything from communications to surveillance performance.

“How many will be in the class?”

“Five.”

Uncrossing his legs, he placed both feet on the floor. “I'll be ready.”

That said, he pushed off the chair and walked out of Ashleigh's office. Sniper training wasn't what he wanted to do, but it was better than sitting around doing nothing.

 

Merrick placed Alex on her side on the thick, thirsty towel covering the bed, then took his time drying her body. It'd become a nightly ritual for them to share a shower. She let out a moan when he kneaded the muscles in her legs.

“Am I hurting you?”

She smiled, not opening her eyes. “Are you kidding? It feels wonderful.”

“What on earth did you do today?” The muscles in her calves were tight as fists.

“I did a lot of walking up and down staircases. One house had an attic and a basement, so that was four flights.”

“Do you really want a house that big?”

“The question should be, do
we
need a big house, Merrick.”

“Do we, baby?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“There's going to be only three of us.” Sonogram pictures showed one baby—a girl.

“Three for now. What about in a couple of years? I don't want to decorate a house, then leave it when we outgrow it.”

His hands moved up her thighs. “How many babies do you plan on having?”

She moaned again. “As many as you plan on making.”

Lowering his head, he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. “Realistically, we could have one every year until you're about forty.”

“That's madness! There's no way I'm going to have ten kids.”

“Why not? We could name them Pull Out, Quick on the Draw, Rhythm. That is, if we decide to use the rhythm method, Oops, my bad.”

Alex couldn't help herself as she burst out laughing. It wasn't often that her very serious husband displayed his wicked sense of humor.

Merrick removed the towel and lay down next to Alex, his chest against her back. He placed an arm over her waist, his hand cradling her rounded belly.

“Don't make any appointments for house tours this weekend.”

“Why not? I thought you'd want to go with me.”

“I can't because we have to go to Bolivar.”

Alex stiffened. “For what?”

“I have to pick up something.”

“Can you identify what the something is?”

“It's a sniper rifle.”

Alex threw off his arm and sat up, but he eased her back down to the mattress. “What the hell do you need with a sniper rifle, Merrick? You told me that you sit at a desk. Do you plan to go into the office and shoot up the place? Or perhaps you're thinking of becoming another D.C. Sniper.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Enlighten me, Merrick. Please tell me why you need a weapon that can make someone's head explode with one bullet.”

“There will be some things I can tell you, and others that I can't because they're classified.”

“Is this sniper business classified?”

“No. I've been assigned to facilitate sniper training.”

“Why you, Merrick?” Her voice was softer, calmer.

“I was a sniper in the Corps, and the Marine Corps has the best sniper program in the world.”

“You're just going to do training?”

“Yes, Ali.”

She covered the hand over her swollen belly, whispering a prayer of thanks. Alex didn't know what she would do if Merrick put himself in danger. “I'm sorry I went off on you.”

He kissed her damp hair. “I can think of a way for you to apologize for jumping to conclusions.”

“How?”

He kissed her again. “Sit on me.”

“You really like it when I ride you?”

His smile was dazzling. “I love it.” Merrick loved when Alex became the aggressor in bed.

Alex sat up and straddled him as he supported his back against the headboard. Together they found a rhythm that took them to heaven and back. Leaning into Merrick, she pressed her full breasts to his chest, rested her head between his neck and shoulder and counted the strong steady beats of his heart. There was never a time when they made love that they hadn't become one with each other.

T
he chiming of the telephone roused Merrick from a deep sleep. Reaching out in the darkened bedroom, he took the cordless instrument off its cradle before it disturbed Alex.

“Yes,” he whispered into the receiver.

“You don't know who I am, but I know all about you, Merrick Grayslake.” The distorted voice of a man speaking fluent Spanish came through the earpiece. It was apparent whoever had called him was using a device that scrambled or distorted the voice.

“Who are you?” Merrick asked in the same language.

“I can't tell you that. Not now.”

“What do you want?”

“How would you like to avenge your mother's murder?”

Merrick depressed a button, disconnecting the caller. “Sick bastard,” he whispered as he practically slammed the instrument down on the bedside table.

Fluffing up his pillow, he tried going back to sleep, but sleep was elusive. The caller knew his name, his home phone number and knew that he was fluent in Spanish. If the man hadn't mentioned his mother perhaps he wouldn't have been so disturbed.

There had been a time when he would've given anything to glean a modicum of information about Victoria Grayslake, but that time had passed. It took more than forty minutes before he finally fell asleep for the second time that night.

 

Merrick hadn't sat down behind his desk yet when his phone rang. He picked up after the second ring. “Grayslake.”

“Don't hang up on me again or you'll be very, very sorry.”

It was the same person who'd called him at home. “Are you threatening me?” Merrick asked softly. Whoever had rung him the night before knew he worked at the CIA. He was glad the call had come in at the Agency because it would be easily traced.

“No, I'm not threatening you.”

“It sounded like a threat to me,” Merrick countered.

“I need to talk to you.”

“You're talking now,” he said sarcastically.

“What I need to tell you shouldn't be recorded. I know every call you make and receive is recorded. And don't try to trace this number, because the phone will be in the garbage as soon as I hang up.”

“What do you want?”

“I want a number where I can call you without the government listening in.”

Merrick's curiosity was piqued. “I'll get a phone that's unlisted.”

“I'll send you a phone you can use.”

“When?”

“I'll have it delivered to your post office box in West Virginia. It'll be waiting for you when you get there.”

“How…” Merrick's voice trailed off when he heard the break in the connection. “Who the hell are you?” he said aloud.

Was someone trying to mess with his head? Was he being set up? Not given to episodes of paranoia, he sat down and went through a mental recall of places he'd been, people he'd met and situations wherein his identity might have been compromised.

He had lots of questions and no answers. At least not one until he went to Bolivar.

 

Merrick turned up the heat to the highest setting as he navigated the winding West Virginia roads. “Better?” he asked Alex.

“Much better.” She'd tied a cashmere shawl tightly around her neck and shoulders. “This is one year that I'm really looking forward to spending a week in Florida.”

“Let's hope the cold weather doesn't go any farther south.”

Winter had come early to the East Coast with below-freezing temperatures from Maine to Georgia. Only Florida had been spared.

Alex turned and stared at her husband's profile. “Are you sure you're not going to be able to take off Christmas Eve?”

“Baby, let's not start that again. I told you we'll probably shut down early, but I can't take the day. Barring airport delays, I will be in Florida before midnight.”

He and Alex had celebrated Thanksgiving in Mississippi with Tyler and Dana as their hosts. It'd become an impromptu family reunion with the second generation of Coles, Kirklands, Delgados and Lassisters coming together under one roof. Gabriel's date, Summer Montgomery, was now his fiancée.

Pushing out her lower lip, Alex pouted as she'd done as a child when she couldn't get her way. “Stop it!” she screamed when Merrick reached over and tugged on her lip.

“Stop pouting. It's not going to get me to change my mind.”

Her expression brightened. “I can think of something else that will get you to change your mind.”

Merrick gave her a sidelong grin. “Not even that!”

She gave him a saucy smile. “We'll see.”

“In another couple of months we're going to have to stop the calisthenics.”

Alex lifted her eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because your belly will get in the way.”

She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “Don't be so parochial,
mi amor.
We can always do it doggy style.”

Merrick opened his mouth and closed it just as quickly, stunned by his wife's bluntness. “You've got to stop reading those books.”

“What books?” Alex asked innocently.

“The ones you hide in the basket with the towels.”

“They're how-to books for pregnant women. And I don't hide them. I read them whenever I'm in the bathroom.”

“I've seen the pictures and they're just plain nasty, baby. You'd have to be a contortionist to execute some of those positions.”

“Where are you going?” Alex asked when Merrick took a route that led away from their home.

“I have to stop at the post office. Do you want to come in with me?”

“No, thank you. I'll wait in the truck. Can you please pick up some Christmas stamps? This weekend is as good a time as any to do Christmas cards.” Alex had brought boxes of cards and several needlecraft projects with her to pass the time in Bolivar.

A quarter of a mile later, Merrick parked in a lot behind a row of stores, not bothering to turn off the engine; he got out and went into the post office. Inserting a key into his box, he took out several pieces of junk mail and a small white box addressed to him. He lingered, opening it. His mystery caller had sent four disposable cell phones, each with a thirty-minute limit.

Pushing the phones, no larger than an iPod or thicker than a credit card, into the back pocket of his jeans, he discarded the box and returned to the parking lot. The serial numbers on the back of the phones were sequential. That was a clue in attempting to trace where the phones were purchased, and by whom.

Merrick hoped the man wouldn't contact him until Monday because he wanted to enjoy two uninterrupted days with his wife.

 

The smell of baking apples wafted throughout the second story as Merrick opened the door to the bedroom he used for storage. He removed a footlocker and steamer trunk, then went to his knees and pressed gently on the edge of a wooden floorboard. It lifted easily. He did the same with another, then another. Concealed under the floor was a large oaken case that contained his coveted PSG-1 that had been made to fit his body's dimensions.

He opened the case, staring at the smooth stock and the various scopes. If the Corps's slogan was “the proud, the few,” then he had become an expert marksman with a deeply ingrained understanding of what it meant to be a sniper.

Merrick opened the footlocker and removed several automatic handguns and ammunition; the closet floorboards had become the perfect place for concealing his arsenal of weapons. Where, he thought, would he be able to conceal the cache of arms in the Arlington condo?

Alex had embarked on a house-hunting campaign, while he'd assumed an attitude of indifference toward the undertaking. However, the day of reckoning could not be put off too much longer. They had to move, and he had to find a place in which to totally secure his weaponry.

Merrick had knelt down to replace the floorboards when he heard movement behind him. Turning around, he saw Alex standing in the doorway to the bedroom, her gaze fixed on the holstered automatic handguns. She glanced up, her expression a mix of fear and revulsion.

Rising slowly to his feet, Merrick closed the distance between them. He reached out to touch her, but Alex took a step backward. “
Querida,
please.”

Alex shook her head. “No, Merrick. Don't ask me to understand. I don't like guns, especially in my home.”

“I'll make certain you'll never see them.”

She gave him a long, penetrating stare. “You do that. I came up to tell you that dinner is ready.”

Merrick watched her leave, unable to do or say anything that would convince his wife that the cache of weapons posed no threat to her.