Force of Fire (The Kane Legacy) (5 page)

Mark flipped shut the lid of
his briefcase and closed down his secured computer. Batten down the hatches.
File cabinets locked, desk cleared, wastebasket emptied. Only the door lock
remained.

Sealed tight like sardines, all
of them.

It was called a 'secure'
environment. Even the cleaning personnel had top-secret clearances. Nothing was
allowed in that hadn’t been scanned and nothing was allowed out that hadn’t
passed the litmus test of security. Professional papers, articles, any written
documentation could not escape without a green light from the censor’s watchful
eye.

It was an unimpressive granite
building on the east side of the Potomac, motion-detecting cameras swiveling
above every door. On Family Day, when significant others of the workforce were
allowed to 'tour' the facility, non-staff members were summarily confined to
the lobby.

Mark thanked God he was an
analyst and worked on the seventh floor. The technical shop, which comprised
most of the facility, hailed no windows at all.

It was a bit restrictive, but
one got used to it, much like sailors ultimately adjust to the confines of a
submarine. Only problem was, at the DOS, there was never any shore leave.

Mark switched off the light and
pulled the door to, setting it firmly in its casing. It had been years since
he’d gone under cover. Years since his weapon had served as anything more than
a reminder of
who
he’d once been. He needed to believe
he was still capable, still among the best of the best.

He opened his billfold and
tucked away his security
passcard
, wondering vaguely
if he’d have occasion to use it again.

Ana was harshly tossed back
into the cool isolation of the room. The door slammed shut with a resounding
echo and a jingled rustling of keys. Then there was silence, a stilted,
creeping silence that made its way up her spine and nestled in beneath the
bandages covering her eyes. What, in God's name, did all this questioning mean?

Her abductors hardly believed
her when she insisted she knew nothing of this
archivo
azul
. She wondered what was so sacred about this
'blue file.' Something with such sinister potential, that she, a U.S.
Government contractor, would be kidnapped? And Joe – Oh God. She felt her
legs collapse in a heap below her.

He had tried to warn her. Had
come to her hotel the very night of her arrival.

The compromise he’d insisted on
was an alternate route, a less-traveled road along the northwestern mountains.

She recalled with a shiver the
sharp crackle of gunfire dissecting the jungle air, the sound of his bulky body
hitting the ground in her wake. There was a dull ache inside, something
resonant yet turbulent. She pushed the tumultuous feelings aside, her thoughts
reeling to her father.

What in God’s name did he have
to do with any of this? Her father – it just didn’t make sense.

She tried to envision his face,
see him as the old man he’d been when he’d died. But her memories revolved
around a younger man, lightening streaks of gray just starting to ribbon his
hair. A uniform decorated with meritorious service awards disappearing behind a
closed office door.
Two arms too busy with paper work to
embrace the needs of a tender, five-year-old girl.

Ana drew her legs out from
under her and bent them up to her chest. She rested her sweat-stained brow on
the trembling shelf of her knees and thought hard, the bristly twine still scraping
against her wrists and ankles. Suddenly, something in her mind jogged. The
short man, El
Dedo
, kept pressing her about the
study, her father's study. His questions were so precise. How could he know,
how would he know the exact location of her father's things? Then it struck her
.

Just last summer, her mother had been burglarized.
The break-in itself had been traumatic, but the invasion of her father’s
private room had broken her mother’s heart. Ana had worried about her mother,
already in her seventies, living alone in that big house, even before the
robbery.

Afterwards, she had tried to
insist her mother move to some place smaller, more manageable. But her mother
would hear nothing of it. She loved her home of more than thirty years and
intended to stay. She needed the space to accommodate her older daughter,
Emalita
, and the grandchildren when they came to visit. And
some day, she
persisted,
Ana would have a family and a
house of her own. Then she would understand why her mother could never leave
this place and its host of happy memories.

Still, Ana was unable to shake
the feeling her mother was wrong to stay there. Something was going to happen
in that house, something so horrible it woke her from her sleep in panicked
screams.

Up until now she’d dismissed it
as irrational fear.
The worries of a pent-up day.
Concern over her mother’s mushrooming illness. But now she saw it had been none
of that.
None of that at all.

Ana felt the sobs welling in
the raw center of her throat. Her worst nightmares were coming true.

Isabel stood on the highest
rung of the ladder checking the tiny pear-shaped bulbs. Last night there’d been
an unexpected frost but, from the looks of things, her crop had survived. It
was a glorious spring day in Delaware, the sunlight warming the slight stoop of
her shoulders. She knew she was shrinking in her old age. Shriveling like a
prune, she laughed, adjusting the brim on her wide straw bonnet.

Isabel wiped a hand on her
denim trousers, bringing her fingers to her cheek for reassurance.
No, still as smooth as silk.
Her mother’s lesson to avoid
the sun had preserved her well. It was the Spanish way, at least for her
generation.

She smiled up at the sun,
squinting her eyes against the glare making its way through the swelling
branches. She’d have quite a harvest this year.
More than
enough for preserves.

At one time, she’d found the
hot and tedious work satisfying. But that was when she’d had Emi and Ana at
home to help her. After they’d gone, and after Albert – especially after
Albert – she’d found less and less joy in the ritual. Though he’d never
really helped to begin with, Albert at least had been quick to offer a
compliment on her tasty preserves.

He was such a hard-working man.
All those hours at the University, so much travel. Of course, the new language
lab never would have gotten off the ground without him and she was proud of the
fact that it now bore his name.

The wind kicked up with a hefty
gust that shook her footing on the ladder and sent her hat whirling to the
ground. 'Oh, I suppose you’ll live,' she said, glancing up at the fruit and
climbing down. She judged from the position of the sun that it was almost six
o’clock.

Isabel folded the ladder and
leaned its metal frame against the tree. She scooped her hat off the ground,
feeling the stiffness in her back and wondered how she’d ever lug those
brimming baskets into the house.

'
Mama
, here, let me
help!' A seven-year-old girl came bounding toward her across the years. Isabel
set her hands on her hips, savoring the memory...

Ana’s thick hair was braided
neatly in pigtails, her striped polyester shirt matching the new lime green
shorts her mother had bought her. She was smiling broadly, her missing two
front teeth forming a charming window to the cavern of her mouth.

'Anita, I think this one’s too
heavy for you.'
'Oh no,
Mama
, I can carry it. I’m a very strong
girl!'
Yes, you are, thought Isabel
.

She
had been lucky with her children; both were tough, independent women.
Emalita
a little
less so perhaps.
But she was married now, so that lifted some of
Isabel’s burden.

Ana, on the other hand, was
still adrift in Washington. She had Scott, of course. But from Isabel’s
perspective, that whole relationship was a waste of time.
Nine
years together and still no marriage proposal.
It was a bad sign.

Ana was a beautiful,
intelligent woman. Dozens of men would snap her up at a moment’s notice. And
yet Scott had waited almost ten years. Isabel was glad Albert had never met
him. It would have been uncomfortable. The young man was simply too
anti-establishment.

Isabel sighed, gazing up at the
big screened
porch that had housed many a tea party
when Ana and Emi were young. She and Albert had waited many years for those
girls. It was ironic how at first they’d put it off. Waiting for him to get his
degree and her to finish school. Waiting for Albert to get established, earn
tenure,
give them the security they needed to begin a
family. And then when they were finally ready, the real waiting began. Isabel
did not have her first child until she was thirty-eight. Not unusual by today’s
standards, but a rarity then.

Anita was born five years
later. It was just after they moved into this house. Now Emi had children of
her own. It wouldn’t be long before the twins would be old enough to enjoy some
of
Abuela’s
homemade lemonade and some nice
shortbread cookies at the same sun-dappled table where her girls once shared
tea.

Isabel turned and smiled out
over her garden. Stout boxwoods hugged flowerbeds, laid fresh for spring. She
and Albert had built this place.
Brick by brick, rose by
rose.
Together they had tilled the early barren soil until it had
yielded life. Together they had walked the back garden path, dodging but not
avoiding all of its thorns. But even for those she was grateful. Those less
than perfect times had shown her she was alive, made her heed the wealth of her
fortune. And Albert had been at the very center. He lingered here still –
beyond the frame of every door, in the honest smell of new grass. This house
was every bit his as it was hers, and she would never leave him. Despite what
Ana said.

She would die first.

Mark jogged the leaf-strewn
Alexandria bike path, his thighs swinging into steady, early morning rhythm. A
clinging mist rose off the water and spread itself thinly against the purple
horizon. He really didn’t have time for a run, but he had to go – to
clear his head.

Camille had been waiting, as
promised. But this time, their lovemaking, as good as it was, hadn't seemed
good enough. Every time Mark had shut his eyes there had been three of them in
the room. Ana haunted him.

He broke a sweat at the
five-mile mark, remembering the pulsing beat that had engaged him and Camille
the night before, her long legs wrapping around him, drawing him into a world
that was safe and recognizable.

He’d first met her at the
Kennedy Center. She was standing at the bar abutting the enormous glass wall,
the curve of her back dipping low in the V of her red sequined dress, yellow
hair spun tightly above that swan-like neck.

Mark introduced himself,
offering to buy the second round of drinks. Later, just when the party was
heating up, he took a chance and asked her back to his place.

The attraction between them was
immediate, the intimacy of that first warm night together sensational. Yet he
never could get beyond the feeling something was inherently wrong with their
relationship.

Camille lived in a world of
glitz and spectacle. He led a quiet life, in part because his line of work
demanded it, in part because it matched the reserve of his character. As chief
fund-raiser for the Smithsonian, she was always on the move, constantly
infiltrating new social circles, cozying up to the big wallets who could fund
her cause
.

Mark hated being her escort on the
endless cycle of society parties. It was all so superficial, so political, just
so Washington, he thought, as he rounded the leafy bend to Mount Vernon.

He paced the front lawn of the
alabaster house, striving to catch his wind. If only there were a way to make
things right, a way to make it work. But he couldn’t change who she was any
more than she could change him.

Perhaps he’d been trying too
hard, trying to make what they had into something it never could be. Or perhaps
he was being unrealistic, seeking that which couldn’t possibly exist. At
thirty- nine, he’d seen enough of the world to know what was out there and what
wasn’t. And what
wasn’t was
the part that was starting
to bother him.

Mark settled his lanky frame into
a creaking rocker and gazed out over the tumble of hills spilling toward the
water. His moments at this pre-dawn perch were numbered. Before long, a
security officer would drive him from the serenity of George Washington's great
columned porch.

But for now Mark seized the
stillness of the moment to reflect on the fiery crimson ball rising over the
river, and the disconcerting illusion of Camille.

Camille looked into the mirror
and adjusted the Italian scarf draped artistically across her shoulder. Things
with Mark had gone reasonably well. Reasonably well, that is, despite the fact
he hadn't seemed all there. But that happened when he got wrapped up in a case.
Nothing to worry about, just the nature of the job.
That impossible job that made him at once so intriguing yet
unavailable.

Usually, he liked to talk about
things. Work in general. But last night there had been a wall of silence
between them. Last night, he’d said nothing. Nothing as he’d sipped at his
glass of Chablis, nothing as he’d looped his wrinkled clothes over the back of
the chair, nothing as he’d climbed into bed and slipped his longing hands under
her nightgown.