Radclyffe - Word of Honor

Renee caught the look of concern that flashed across Valerie’s face for a fraction of a second before her usual impenetrable expression returned. They all tended to forget that the commander was human, because they looked to her as their foundation. Her sense of duty was absolute, the clarity of her belief never cloudy, and her certainty of the right course never in doubt. She epitomized what every young agent dreamed of being—brave, honorable, and just. And for those who’d seen battle, like Renee, her strength of purpose helped them cast aside their own disillusionment and disappointment. Cam helped them believe that justice would triumph. And in all of this, she stood alone, and that, Renee realized, was unfair. Sometimes they all needed to let her be human.

“I’m going to get the morning reports together for the briefing,” Renee said as she rose. “See you in a few minutes.”

She closed the door gently on her way out.

Cam stared at the closed door for a moment, then sank into her seat. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Sorry.”

Valerie moved her chair closer until her stocking-clad knees just barely touched Cam’s dark blended silk trousers. She rested her fingertips on Cam’s thigh. “You needn’t apologize to me.”

“What are the chances that he’ll give up?”

Valerie considered lying, because Cam looked tired. More than just tired, she looked soul-weary. At one time, Cameron had escaped her pain and loneliness by taking refuge in Valerie’s arms. She had comforted Cam then, and by doing so had found her own solace. She had nothing as simple to give now, because that door were closed for both of them. So she gave her what she knew Cam needed most. The truth. “He won’t give up. He might have had some rational plan before September—some reason, at least in his mind, for what he was doing. I don’t think that’s the case now. He’s a fanatic, and Blair is a symbol of everything he seeks to destroy.”

“Why go after her and not her father?” Cam asked, as if there were some reason to insanity.

“I don’t know,” Valerie said. “Perhaps because she’s more real than her father. The presidency is an institution as much as a person, but Blair is a living, breathing woman. Her loss would strike at the heart of people.”

The pain in Cam’s chest at the thought of Blair hurt was real, as acute as the bullet that had torn into her flesh and spilled her blood out onto the sidewalk in front of this very building. When she looked at Valerie, agony swam in her eyes. “If I find him, I’ll kill him. No questions asked.”

“Yes,” Valerie said calmly. “If you do, and it comes to that, I’ll make sure it appears totally justifiable.”

“Just like that? Your total support, even if I’m wrong?”

“You’re not wrong. We both know he’s guilty. He’s a murderer and a traitor.”

“What about the law? What about justice?”

“Justice,” Valerie said contemplatively. “Justice is often so much simpler than the laws we create to define it. There isn’t a member of this team or Blair’s security detail who would question the rightness of eliminating him.”

“That makes us vigilantes.”

“No, that makes us soldiers, and make no mistake, Cameron, this is war.”

Cam placed her hand over Valerie’s. “I don’t want you or any of the others to jeopardize yourselves for me.”

“That’s an order you can’t give.” She smiled as she threaded her fingers through Cam’s. “Or I should say, you can give it, but I doubt that any of us will listen.”

“Some leader I am,” Cam muttered.

“That’s exactly right.”

The door opened and Felicia Davis, a statuesque African American woman who looked as if she should be gracing the pages of a fashion magazine rather than hacking into databases, said, “The team’s assembled and there’s a message for you, Commander.” Her gaze flickered down to their joined hands and then away, her expression never changing. “Do you two want more coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Cam said, continuing to clasp Valerie’s hand lightly. “We’ll be right there.”

“Good enough.”

Valerie waited until they were alone again, then asked, “Does Blair know just how badly you need her to stay out of the public eye right now?”

“No. And I’m not going to tell her.”

“Why not? If she knew what this was doing to you—”

“No. Everyone who has ever loved her has asked her to give up something, and I’m not going to be another one.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to find him and make sure he’s not a problem.”

Cam smiled grimly. “I have a feeling if we don’t, he’ll find us.”

Chapter Three

“Ricky, why don’t you bring us up to speed on your frontrunners,” Cam said, addressing the newest member of her team. Ricky Sanchez, a thirty-year-old with curly, dark hair, an olive complexion, and bedroom eyes, had most recently been stationed in the Southwest with the ATF. He’d run a number of operations with the DEA when their territories overlapped. Drugs and firearms often went hand in hand, and both were popular commodities with the paramilitary groups for use in financing their operations. The patriot organizations served as conduits between drug runners from Mexico and South America and dealers in the States, and the money they made brokering the goods went for guns. The guns were valuable assets when negotiating with foreign terrorists, who very often had money but no ready access to weaponry. Sanchez was as close to an expert on the patriot organizations as could be found, and when Cam offered him the opportunity to come over to her team, he jumped at it. Married with two kids, he’d been urged by his wife to get out of the field, and every agent knew that antiterrorism was the hot place to be now.

“The patriots have no central organization—no ruling hierarchy,” Ricky said, lounging back in his chair. He wore boot cut jeans, a wide leather belt with a hammered silver buckle, and scuffed hand-tooled Tony Lamas. “These guys have too much ego to actually work together. They all want to be in charge.”

He leaned forward enough to push several keys on a small laptop computer and an image projected on a wall-mounted monitor. Head shots of three men, ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties, appeared. All were clean-shaven, with short, military-style haircuts and flinty stares.

“From left to right—John Jamieson, Robert Douglas, and Randolph Hogan. The White Aryan Brotherhood, the Soldiers of God, and the Homeland Liberation Front. These three are the most radical of the patriot leaders—they like to make noise about taking back America for the Americans, meaning white men—but we haven’t been able to put them anywhere close to the guys who took down the Towers.”

“What about Matheson?” Cam asked. “Any connection to him?”

“We’re looking for one.” Ricky shrugged. “These guys are camera shy, and they rarely communicate by anything other than disposable phones or face-to-face meetings. Even then, they usually send their second or third in command.”

Savard cut in. “On the other hand, the hijackers weren’t particularly careful about covering their movements after they entered this country. The FBI has a fairly complete picture of where they lived, where and when they took their flight training, and the routes they took to get to the airports. Somewhere along the way, they crossed paths with the team that hit the Aerie. There’s no way it could have been coordinated the way it was without someone organizing it here. We just need to find the intersection point.”

Cam nodded. “I agree. We know Matheson sent that team to Manhattan to hit Blair. They were his hand-picked boys. Which means he knew the timetable for the hijacking. I can’t believe he would have let anyone else orchestrate this thing. We need to backtrack his movements.” She looked to Felicia. “Somewhere, he left a bit of paper. He used a credit card for gas, paid for dinner, spent the night in a Motel Six. Got a parking ticket. He might be elusive, but he’s not invisible. Find out where he’s been in the last four months and put him with one of Ricky’s guys. Or one of the hijackers.”