Return of a Hero (23 page)

Tearing his mouth away, Morgan looked deeply into her gray eyes. “I love you,” he rasped. “Never forget that….”

And he was gone. Laura sat down, her knees wobbly in the aftermath of Morgan’s claiming kiss. Phillips came over and sat down next to her as the van started up, ready to follow Morgan’s car at a safe distance.

“He’s going to be fine, Laura.”

“I hope so.”

Phillips smiled. “Morgan’s a soldier first, and he’s as tough and smart as they come. I don’t think many men can outfox him when the chips are down.”

The praise for Morgan’s abilities left her cold. “If he’s going up against men carrying weapons, he doesn’t have a chance.”

“You’re forgetting one thing.”

Laura chewed on her lower lip. “What?”

“He’s a Trayhern. That says it all.“

After parking the car next to a Mercedes-Benz and a BMW, Morgan got out. The manor where Young lived was an impressive three-story brick home with white columns in front, testament to its Southern heritage. Thirty-foot-high rhododendrons blossomed in pink and white profusion around the residence, creating a protective green wall.

The cries of birds filled the wooded area surrounding the manor, as Morgan sauntered up the brick walk. His senses were screamingly alert, and his nostrils flared to catch any unusual or foreign scents. In the large picture window he saw a tall, spare man with black horn-rimmed glasses watching him intently. That was Richard Hadden. Earlier Phillips had shown him pictures of the CIA agent. There was a dangerousness to Hadden. He had the face of a weasel with those dark, deeply set eyes, gleaming with a fanatical light.

Before Morgan could knock, General Paul Young pulled open the door. His jowly face was set, his hazel eyes narrowed and assessing.

“Come in, Trayhern,” he growled.

Morgan entered the spacious, highly polished foyer. Everything about the house bespoke understated wealth. Young was dressed in a gray cardigan, a white shirt and black slacks. His mouth was compressed.

“In there,” the general ordered gruffly, pointing toward the living room.

The hair on Morgan’s neck stood on end as he walked into the room filled with antiques and green plants. Hadden waited tensely, his hands knotted. Hatred flowed through Morgan as he studied the thin agent. He swung his attention to Young, who stood by the picture window after closing the drapes.

“Now what’s this all about?” Young demanded.

“Not so fast,” Hadden growled, advancing toward Morgan. “Let’s search him. I don’t trust—”

Morgan gripped Hadden’s hand as he extended it toward him. “And I don’t trust you, Hadden,” he snarled softly, holding the man’s glare. If the agent discovered the wire, the operation was doomed. Morgan tightened his fingers around Hadden’s wrist and pushed him away.

Rubbing his arm, Hadden backed off. “How do we know you aren’t armed?”

“How do I know you aren’t?” Morgan shot back. There could be a pistol in a holster beneath the agent’s green wool sport coat.

“Richard, relax,” Young snapped. He turned his attention to Morgan. “Now what do you want?”

“I’ve got my full memory back, General.”

Young’s brows furrowed. “So?”

“So I know that you and Armstrong lied to me about being a CIA mole in the Legion. I’m not really a mole, am I?”

The general reached into a humidor, then jammed tobacco into a pipe. “Nonsense. The CIA has a file on you. Legally you’re working for them.”

Morgan maneuvered around so that his back was to a wall and he could see both entrances to the living room while keeping an eye on the two men. “I want a new assignment. Living in the Legion isn’t exactly rewarding.”

“Money?” Hadden muttered. “Is that what this is about? You want us to pay you to keep your mouth shut?”

“What do I have to spill, Hadden?”

“Plenty!” the agent shot back, going over to a wing chair and sitting down. “Unfortunately, before Armstrong died he admitted he set you up.”

“You set me up, Hadden.”

“So what if I did? It was in the best interests of this country.”

Anger serrated Morgan. He put a clamp on it. “I have to hand it to you,” he told the agent. “That was a pretty creative answer for the way Armstrong and Young screwed up on sending my company to Hill 164.”

Rolling his eyes, Hadden muttered, “Look, Trayhern, a lot of good officers’ careers were at stake.”

“It was more than that,” Young growled. “Don’t forget, Richard, it was
your
decision and plan we reluctantly agreed to in sending Trayhern’s company in there in the first place.”

The agent waved his hand airily. “I wasn’t the only one who made mistakes on gathered intelligence data, Paul.”

“No, but your faulty decision making cost my men’s lives,” Morgan whispered, wanting to advance across the room and beat the living hell out of the smug agent.

“Look, Trayhern, it wasn’t my fault you lived. Word came back that you’d survived with brain damage.” A catlike smile crossed his mouth. “The two tough military geniuses were panicking. Armstrong and Young were ready to throw in the towel, until I came up with the idea of altering your past. And it was pure brilliance on my part to place you on assignment in the French Foreign Legion. You were out of sight, out of mind, and the American public accepted you as the scapegoat.”

Morgan held on to his disintegrating self-control. “What about Lenny Miles?” he ground out.

Hadden shrugged. “He was a junkie. I couldn’t pin the rap on him. He was too unstable. So I had the interrogation officers scare the hell out of him and make him sign a confession that you were at fault.” He scowled. “The hophead disappeared stateside three months after we discharged him. He’s probably dead in some back alley by now.”

“Quick, clean and simple,” Morgan said, hatred vibrating in his voice.

The general lit his pipe and puffed hard on it. “Look, we’re sorry it had to be you. But that’s the past, Trayhern. What is it you want now? A new billet? More money? Tell us, and we’ll get this settled. I can’t afford to have you loitering around in the U.S. Someone might recognize you.”

Hadden got to his feet, his hand moving inside his sport coat in one smooth action. “Don’t move, Trayhern,” he snarled as he held out a Walther P-38 pistol with a silencer on it.

“Richard! What the hell are you doing?” Young exploded.

The agent grinned. “Hands up, Trayhern. I’m sure Miles is long dead. Now it’s time to get rid of the last survivor of Hill 164. You and I are going for a long walk behind the general’s house.”

Slowly Morgan raised his hands. His heart thudded hard in his chest. He watched Hadden advance on him, a lethal look in his squinted eyes. “You kill me, and you’ve got murder on your hands,” he whispered.

Young cursed. “Don’t do this, Richard! Dammit, I don’t want any more blood spilled!”

“Shut up, Paul. You’ve always been the squeamish one about Operation Eagle.” He waved the pistol to the right. “Down that hall, Trayhern. Keep those hands above your head. Any dumb moves, and I’ll shoot. Move!”

“Tell me something,” Morgan snarled, “you ever been to Brazil?” He knew the code word for help would bring Phillips and his people on the run. But would it be soon enough?

Startled by the question, Hadden laughed. “Pal, I’m not interested in discussing travel plans with you. Get moving!”

How long before Phillips and his people could arrive? Morgan slowly turned, in no hurry to leave the house. Even if they did get here in time, that was no guarantee they could save his neck. As he walked down the shadowy hall toward the rear door, his mind swung sharply to Laura. My God, she had heard this conversation—she was in the van with Phillips and his team. All her fears had come true.

“Open the door,” Hadden growled. “And hurry up!”

Sunlight poured through the trees bordering the well-kept backyard. The beauty of the daffodils, tulips and hyacinths contrasted starkly with the terror Morgan felt. The lawn sloped toward a dirt path that went through a heavily wooded area. Hadden jabbed the barrel of the Walther into his back as they headed toward it.

“Get moving or I’ll blow your head off right here!”

Increasing his pace, Morgan entered the woods. By the time Phillips arrived, it would be too late.

“Why are you doing this?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t want any loose ends. I’ve got my pension coming in two years. I’m not jeopardizing my neck for yours. No one will know the real story behind Hill 164. You’ll die the traitor the public thinks you are, Trayhern.”

Hatred twined with anger, and the word
traitor
grated across Morgan. In one swift motion he turned, lifting his right leg and aiming the toe of his shoe at the pistol Hadden held. He saw the agent’s eyes widen, but it was too late. The tip of his shoe met Hadden’s arm. The Walther discharged, the shot muted by the silencer.

“Sonofabitch!” Hadden screamed as the pistol flew high into the air. He lurched after it.

Morgan tripped Hadden, throwing himself on top of him. They landed hard on the path. Hadden struck upward, the punch connecting solidly with Morgan’s jaw. He tasted the salt of blood in his mouth. Parrying a second blow, he doubled his fist and smashed it into Hadden’s sneering face. Pain soared up his wrist and into his arm. There was a sharp crack. Hadden screamed, blood flowing heavily from his broken nose.

Breathing hard, Morgan threw the agent onto his belly and pinned one arm behind his back. The Walther lay only a few feet away from them, to the left of the path. Hitching up Hadden’s arm until he screamed in pain, Morgan eased off the agent, using his foot to bring the pistol within reach. Gripping it, he loosened his hold on Hadden’s arm.

“Get up,” Morgan rasped, straightening and backing away. “Hands behind your head, Hadden.”

The agent crawled slowly to his knees. Glaring at Morgan, he staggered to his feet, doing as he was instructed.

Morgan wiped the blood from his lip and chin, and jerked his thumb in the direction of the manor. “Let’s go back. The Justice Department is waiting for you.” He grinned, even though it hurt like hell.

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Hadden stumbled up the path, weaving unsteadily.

“Our entire conversation was taped, Hadden. I’m wearing a wire.” Elation soared through Morgan at the agent’s gasp of disbelief. They made their way out of the woods and climbed up the expanse of lawn.

Just as Morgan stepped onto the patio, he saw Phillips and two of his men, dressed in flak jackets and armed with M-16 rifles, come bursting through the rear door. Relief showed on Phillips’s face as he gestured to the men to halt.

“You okay?” he asked Morgan, surveying Hadden grimly.

“Yeah, just a split lip and some loose teeth.” Morgan pushed the agent toward the men with the rifles. “Take him into custody.” Glancing at Phillips, he said, “I think we got enough on tape to throw the book at them.”

Grinning, Phillips gave orders to have Hadden handcuffed and read his Miranda rights. “You did a damn fine job, Morgan. With this evidence I believe the senator will be able to make a public press statement about your innocence.”

“No hearings?”

“Doubtful. Even if Young and Hadden refused to admit to their part in Hill 164, this conversation will incriminate them. Come on, I’ve got one anxious lady waiting for you in the van. We wouldn’t let Laura come in with us under the circumstances. She’s about ready to throw a shoe.”

Morgan nodded, taking a handkerchief from his back pocket and holding it to his lips. “I’ll bet she is.” Hesitating at the door, he turned to Phillips. “Do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Give me a little time to calm the lady.”

Smiling, Phillips slapped him on the shoulder. “You got it.“

Laura stood by the van, her hands gripped in a tight knot of fear. She’d heard over the taping system that Morgan was alive. When she saw him appear out the front door, she flew down the brick walk.

Morgan halted, opening his arms to her. With a muffled cry, Laura threw her arms around his neck. Laughing softly, he embraced her tightly.

“I’m okay, little swan,” he murmured, inhaling her delicious scent.

Laura’s breath came in huge gulps. “I was so frightened—”

“Shh, so was I, sweetheart. Everything’s fine. Believe me.” And Morgan gently pushed her away just enough so that she could see he was all right. Tears shimmered in her blue eyes, and he leaned down to kiss them away.

“You’re hurt.”

“Just scratches.”

Shakily she touched his injured lip. Blood had splattered across his sport coat and shirt. “I was so afraid, Morgan.”

“I know,” he said, caressing her mussed hair. He gave her a slight smile. “It’s over now.”

Swallowing her fear, Laura nodded. “Does Phillips think there’s enough information to clear your name without a hearing?”

Morgan nodded. “Plenty. The senator will probably call a press conference as soon as he can, and I’ll be vindicated.” Laura looked clean and untouched after the violence that had surrounded him minutes earlier. Cupping her chin, Morgan smiled down into her eyes, now lustrous with love for him alone. “What do you say we go home, call my folks and then plan the rest of our lives together?”

Laura smiled through the tears and slid her hands upward, brushing the cheek with the scar. “I’d like that.”

“I love the hell out of you, Laura.” Morgan put his arm around her shoulders, and they walked back to the van. The singing of the birds took on added meaning for him, and so did the bright April sunlight. It was spring, the time of year for new seedlings to sprout, for flowers to poke their heads above the wintry, barren ground and blossom. New beginnings, he mused. He gazed tenderly at Laura, who returned his look with love.

There was so much he was grateful for because of her presence, her loyalty and her undying belief in him. Leaning down, Morgan kissed her temple. “You know what? I’m going to enjoy spending the rest of my life telling and showing you just how much I love you.”

Sinking against him, Laura closed her eyes, the terror receding, to be replaced by hope. She felt his strength, his protection, where she was concerned. Meeting his warming gaze, she whispered, “Let’s go home. We’ve run the last of this gauntlet together. The first day of our life is about to begin.”