Linda Howard - Kill and Tell

"What type of nursing do you do?"

She gave him points for actually knowing there were different types. "I work on a hospital surgical floor, but I'm thinking about going back to school and getting my master's, maybe specializing in trauma." Saying the words aloud, however, seemed to solidify them, and she knew she was going to do it. One eyebrow quirked. "Isn't that like ditching a desk job for front-line duty?"

"You're in the trenches yourself," she pointed out. "Besides, I want to know more, do more." She tucked a curve of hair behind her ear, half turning toward him, her normally serious expression bright with intensity. "I want to know what the latest procedures are, the newest drugs and treatments. I don't want to change a surgical dressing, I want to apply the pressure that stops the bleeding." She didn't know why she was telling him, a virtual stranger, all of this, but there was something about him that made it easy to talk. Odd, because they certainly hadn't started off in a buddy-buddy mode. Maybe it was because he seemed really interested, or maybe it was just a relief to get her mind off Dexter. Maybe she was punch-drunk with fatigue or riding a sugar high from all the soft drinks he had poured down her. He pulled into the parking lot of a small country church, empty and dozing in the fierce afternoon heat. To the side, beneath the sheltering limbs of massive live oaks, was a well-tended cemetery. Karen looked at the graves and felt her insides tighten again. She had managed to forget for a few minutes, but the respite was over. She squared her shoulders and got out of the car.

"Someone will be here in a few minutes," Chastain said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses as he walked beside her toward the cemetery. "If you like the plots, you can do the paperwork this afternoon." She drew in the thick, heavy air, feeling as if there wasn't enough oxygen in it. She was already dewed with sweat, and she thought longingly of another one of those icy soft drinks, sugar overload or no. Chickens cooked at a lower temperature than this. She was at least half done herself. Chastain's hand settled on her back again, as hot as a brand. This wasn't real, she thought, staring at the fuzzy tangle of Spanish moss draped from the trees, swaying in a nonexistent breeze. Just this morning, she had been sleeping in her darkened, air-conditioned bedroom. Now she was roasting in New Orleans, picking out a burial plot for the father she hadn't seen in years until the ME had popped in a video of him on an autopsy slab, and she was being baby-sat by a tough-looking cop who didn't like her but who, for reasons of his own, was being very helpful.

No, it wasn't real. It was a nightmare, but nightmares, like all dreams, eventually came to an end. Langley, Virginia

Franklin Vinay, the deputy director of operations, habitually worked late. He enjoyed the hours at his desk when his staff had gone home, the phone mostly stopped ringing, the demands on his time lightened. It was then that he plowed through the mountain of papers that landed on his desk every day, trying to stay one step ahead of the country's adversaries—whoever the hell they were. It had been easier during the Cold War; everything had been clear-cut, the enemy known. He was afraid the fragmented former Soviet Union was more dangerous now than it had been before, without experienced hands at the many helms. China worried the shit out of him, but the current administration was more interested in making money than in protecting the country's security. Any jackass with half a brain now could find out how to make a bomb, America's so-called allies were happily selling arms and technology to anyone who could raise the money, and military capability was at an all-time low. It was a recipe for disaster, and he spent the long hours at his desk trying to keep the mixture from boiling over. A quiet knock on his door interrupted him, and he sighed, closing the file he was reading. "Come in." He expected the door to be opened by a junior staffer pulling long hours, too, but instead, a familiar homely face poked into view. "Thought you'd still be here," Jess McPherson said, easing into the room and closing the door behind him. "I've got some bad news." Jess and the DDO went back a long ways, so long that there was no formality between them. He knew the look on Jess's face, and his guts tightened. "What happened?"

"Rick Medina's dead. His body was found in Mississippi," McPherson folded his long, lanky body into a chair.

"Ah, shit." Profound sadness was in Vinay's voice. Rick Medina was a legend in CIA circles, but more than that, he had been a personal friend. There weren't many of the old group left; everyone now was into technology, forgetting that the best satellite and the best computer couldn't replace that most basic of sources, a man in place. Human intelligence, HUMINT, was at the core of every good decision Vinay had made. "What happened? Was he working?"

He hoped to hell not. Rick had never been regular CIA; instead, he had been a contract agent, which meant he regularly hired his services out to other customers, meaning other countries. With Rick, though, Vinay had always had faith none of his other jobs had jeopardized the security of his country. Other agents weren't as particular, but Rick Medina was, simply, a patriot. Then, too, there were other considerations.

"Nothing for us," McPherson said. "The buzz I'm getting was that he was handling something personal. The local cops have tagged it as a robbery/murder, but shit, I can't see Rick getting caught flat-footed by a punk with a cheap twenty-two."

"That's what killed him? A twenty-two?"

"According to the report. Two shots in the heart. A couple of kids found him in his car, hidden behind some bushes in an old abandoned quarry. His wallet was lying on the seat beside him, empty. Cash and credit cards gone."

"Convenient, for identification purposes." Vinay chewed on his lip. "Almost too convenient."

"Yeah, I know. It doesn't feel right to me, either, but like I said, he wasn't working for us, so I don't have a clue what he was really doing. For all we know, this was nothing more than pure damn bad luck, and a sorry-ass punk accidentally got off some good shots."

"What about Rick's weapon? Was it found?"

McPherson shook his head. Vinay hadn't really expected an affirmative answer. No piece of street shit would pass up an expensive weapon such as Rick Medina carried. Nor would they be able to pick up a thread on the serial number, because Rick would have made certain no weapon could be traced back to him.

"Where's John?" McPherson asked softly.

"On assignment."

"You gonna tell him or leave him in place?" Any assignment John Medina was on was, by definition, crucial.

"Tell him. I trust his judgment." Not only that, only a fool would withhold from John the news of his

father's death.

"Tell him to give me a call," McPherson said, rising to his feet. Vinay gave his old friend a searching look. "Jess? You know something you haven't told me?"

"No, but John might. And if he goes after whoever did Rick, well, I'd consider it an honor to help."

Chapter 8

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Karen slept so deeply that when she woke the next morning, she felt slow and thick-headed, unable to get stirring. Her eyes felt gritty, and her pillowcase was damp. Dimly, she remembered crying during the night, surfacing briefly from sleep and feeling overwhelmed with despair and loss. Finally, she dragged herself out of bed and stretched, feeling every muscle pull and reluctantly come awake. She opened the curtains and stared out at a blindingly bright day; she could already feel the heat pulsing against the window. Thanking God for the efficiency of the Marriott's air conditioning, she stumbled to the shower and let cool water pelt down on her, dispelling more of the mental cobwebs. She had just finished blow-drying her hair when she heard the phone ringing. Pulling her robe around her, she dashed into the bedroom. "Hello?"