CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
With the comfort of knowing Nicholas’s security people were outside watching for anything out of the ordinary—like men with guns—Brooke sat on the sofa across from Monica and tried to see past the girl’s defenses.
Even though she’d been the one to call Brooke, Monica was still wound as tight as a drum and having a hard time telling Brooke exactly what was going on with her. A deep sadness lay in her eyes, which was understandable. But it was more than that.
“Are you still blaming yourself for what happened to your mom?” Brooke asked.
“No. Not really. Not now that I know all the facts, but I just . . . ever since my surgery, I’ve really been questioning a lot of things. Dad said you were a shrink.”
“Well, I prefer the term psychiatrist, but yes.”
“So you help people work out their feelings and problems, right?”
“For the most part.”
Monica bit her lip. “How much do you charge? I mean, I have a little bit of money, but . . .” She shrugged.
“Monica, I have no intention of charging you. I’m here to help if you want to talk to me.”
“Excellent.”
“I want to know—why me?” she asked, her voice low.
“Why you what, honey?”
Monica lifted her gaze and connected with Brooke’s. “Why did I get sick? Why did I need a heart transplant? Why do I have to take anti-rejection medications for the rest of my life? Why was my mom killed? Why did my dad take a job that requires him to be gone all the time and the only way he gets to come home is if there’s some family crisis? Just . . . why?”
Her voice cracked on the last word, tears cascaded down her cheeks, and all Brooke could do was stare. Heart transplant? Heart transplant?
Don’t react. Deal with the issue first.
With effort, she found her voice. “That’s a lot of whys,” she said. “I’m sorry you’re struggling so much.” She drew in a breath and prayed for the right words. “When one goes through such a major ordeal, it causes you to reevaluate. Think things through a little deeper. Ask why.” She smoothed the crease in her jeans while she considered what to say. “I can only share my experience with you and let you come to your own conclusions.”
“Okay.”
“I was burned in an explosion in Kabul. For a long time, I asked why. Why me? Sometimes I thought—and can still think on my low days—that it’s punishment of some kind. Like I did something wrong and God’s ‘getting’ me for doing whatever it was I did wrong.”
Monica’s eyes met hers. “I’ve thought that,” she whispered. “That God was mad at me and punishing me.”
“Is that why you didn’t want to bring him into this conversation? Because you’re kind of mad at him for letting this happen and you’re thinking he’s punishing you for something?”
The girl gave a slow nod. “That, and my mom’s death and . . . just all of it.”
“Well, the truth is, God doesn’t work that way. Do you know anything about the Bible?”
“Sure. I go to church and I’m in the youth group.”
“Okay, then do you believe the Bible and what it says about sin and corruption entering the world?”
“I guess.”
“Well, that wasn’t God’s original plan when he created mankind. Once man sinned, things all of a sudden were out of sync with a perfect God. As a result, things started going very wrong.”
“Like death and stuff?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately. Like death and stuff. And heart transplants and people who put bombs in restaurants that cause permanent scars, PTSD, nightmares, and all that. And sadly, things will continue to go wrong until Jesus returns to make things right again.”
“No one has it easy, do they?”
“Not many people, no.” Brooke spoke slowly, two words still weighing heavy on her mind ever since Monica had uttered them. “So you had a heart transplant?”
Monica nodded and sobs erupted from her. Brooke pulled the distraught girl into her arms, finally able to let her brain go to those two words. Heart transplant. Could it—no, it was a coincidence. Wasn’t it? But maybe not? “Monica, where did you have your surgery? What facility?”
Monica sniffled, then sat back and wiped her eyes. “Um, at a private facility about an hour from here called the Frasier Center. It’s near Lake Lure.” She smiled. “It’s not like a regular doctor’s office, it looks like a fancy hotel. I think the only surgeries they do there are organ transplants. At least that’s what I think I heard someone say.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Her blood pounded through her veins. No. She was crazy. It was just a coincidence. But still, crazy or not, she had to call Asher. Or Caden. Or someone.
“You know, Monica, there are a lot of people on the transplant list. The fact that you actually got one so quickly is amazing.”
“Yes, I’ve thought about that.”
“Do you know who your donor was?”
“No. My mom said it was someone my age and her parents wanted her to live on in me.” She swallowed. “But the whole thing made them fight a lot.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“Of course it is.” She huffed and crossed her arms. “They were fighting about me. If I wasn’t here, if I didn’t exist, they wouldn’t have been fighting.” Before Brooke could protest, Monica twisted a strand of hair around her finger and said, “Before I got to the point that I couldn’t walk, there was one night I couldn’t sleep and I went downstairs to get some water and maybe watch TV. My mom and dad were in the kitchen arguing. I turned around to go back upstairs and she whisper-yelled, ‘If you don’t, she’ll die!’ I realized then how serious my heart issue was and that I could really die.” She swallowed. “And I thought it might just be better for everyone if I did.”
“I see.” Brooke stilled to gather her thoughts. “You know why parents argue about their kids?”
“Why?”
“Well, there are a lot of reasons obviously, but in that situation, it’s probably because they were both terribly afraid they were going to lose you. That kind of fear makes parents crazy—and they can resort to fighting to deal with the stress. But it’s never the child’s fault, and you can’t take that responsibility on your shoulders.” A pause. “I worded that wrong. You can take it on your shoulders, but you really shouldn’t.” She gave the girl a moment to answer, but she seemed to be thinking.
Finally, Monica sighed. “Maybe.”
“What did your mom want your dad to do?” Brooke asked.
“I don’t know.”
A horrible thought popped into her head, but she had to ask. “How long after that argument did you get your heart?”
“A couple of months. I’d gotten a lot worse by then. Why?”
Two months? “That’s pretty quick to get an organ,” Brooke said. “You were very fortunate.” She pulled out her phone and stood. “Will you excuse me just a minute? I hate to do this, and normally, I’d wait, but I need to make a quick call, okay?”
Monica frowned, but nodded. “Sure. Of course.”
Brooke slipped into the half bath off the kitchen and dialed Asher’s number.
He picked up on the first ring. “Brooke? Everything all right?”
“For now. But I’ve just discovered something interesting about Captain Newell’s daughter.”
“What?”
“Her illness that he was so private about? She had a heart transplant.”
“What?”
“Yes, at—”
The door opened and she found herself staring at the weapon Captain Newell now held aimed at her head.
Asher frowned at the sudden disconnect and tried to call her back. It went straight to voice mail. He hung up and glanced at PJ. “Hey, I need to make a quick phone call. You mind if we pull over a minute?”
“Not if you pull into that McDonald’s and let me grab a burger and some fries.”
“Ouch. I didn’t mean to starve you.”
PJ shot him a grin. “You didn’t.”
Asher swung into the parking lot and handed PJ a twenty-dollar bill. “Get me some too. It’s on me.”
“Thanks, man. Be right back.”
While PJ loped to the door, Asher dialed Brooke’s number. Straight to voice mail. His gut started yelling at him that something was wrong. He tried again with the same result. Again, he hung up and stared out the window at the restaurant. A heart transplant? Monica? Newell had been so private about everything—he hadn’t known. He forced his brain to think back. The captain didn’t let himself joke around much with his unit. No one had really liked him all that much, but everyone respected him—and trusted him with their lives. And he came through every time he was needed. Eventually, they just chalked his personality up to the fact that he was who he was. And they accepted it.
Monica’s illness came on suddenly. He remembered the captain mentioning a bad virus. Had that triggered the heart issue? Probably, because not long after that, he flew home without a word. He’d returned a few weeks later, tight-lipped and hard-eyed. More so than usual.
Asher’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyway. “Hello?”
“Hello, little brother.”
“Nicholas?” He made a mental note to put the number in his contacts so he could ignore it in the future. Then felt guilty for the thought. “What’s going on?”
“I . . . uh . . . might have done something I shouldn’t have.”
It was so out of character for his brother to say something like that, that for a moment Asher was at a loss for words. He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
“Um . . . well, your lady friend, Brooke, asked me to drive her to Greenville. So I did.”
“You what!”
“Well, she asked me to.”
Asher slapped the steering wheel. “Do you not realize that her life is in danger? I can’t believe she would go off like that after all the precautions we set up to keep her safe!”
“She . . . uh . . . well, you see, I discovered on the ride there that I rather like Brooke. I don’t know what she sees in you, but I like her, and on the drive back to Charlotte, I started thinking about it and realized I might have well and truly put her in danger and that’s why I’m calling you. Because while I might like to push your buttons, I wouldn’t want to see her hurt.”
“Where’d you take her?”
“To someone’s house. I think she said it was your captain’s house. The daughter called and insisted that she needed to talk to Brooke right away.”
“What!” He pressed his fingers against his eyes. “I don’t believe this. I can’t believe she’d be so careless.”
Nicholas cleared his throat. “Well, I might have let her believe that we had security around us—and . . . um . . . we didn’t. So, technically, she wasn’t careless. I was.”
Asher had no words. He couldn’t even make sounds.
“Asher?” The seriousness in Nicholas’s voice caught his attention and slowed his racing pulse. Slightly.
“What!”
“Is she really in danger?”
“Yes, Nicholas, she’s really in danger.”
“Then how fast can you get to that house?”
Hands held out to her sides, Brooke stepped past the sofa where Monica had been only moments before. “Where is she? Did you hurt her?”
“Of course not. I sent her upstairs,” Newell said. “Told her not to come back down until I asked her to.”
“Can’t have her see the gun, I guess?” Brooke was proud she was able to keep most of her terror from reflecting in her voice.
“Shut up.”
“Is she the reason you got started in trafficking orphans for their organs?”
He scowled. “Yes. Now out the back door.”
“You used the soldiers to transport them, didn’t you?” It was starting to click now. “Isaiah kept saying he didn’t know,” she said. “But that’s what he found out. He found out he wasn’t transporting kids to great homes in America, he was sending them to their deaths.”
“And he was going to blow the whole thing apart.”
“So you set him up, framed him to be labeled a traitor.”
“There was no evidence that he was a traitor, but he was supposed to be dead before that even became an issue. It was just something I had to use to get everyone in a hurry and to the café.”
She swallowed. “You were hoping the bomb would take them out?”
“After the plan we originally put into place went south.”
“Which was?”
“Michaels was supposed to be with his unit.”
“The explosion that killed those soldiers and nearly killed Asher and the others?”
“Yes, only when Michaels didn’t report with the others, we had to improvise.”
“By sending them to the café to find him.”
“Yeah. There was no way to call off the original attack once we learned Michaels wasn’t with the unit, so we had to come up with a different plan, which was to bomb the café. And you better believe that took some finagling. But even that failed.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Seems like you and Asher have nine lives or something. You both should be dead several times over.” He waved the gun at her and motioned her to the kitchen door. “Into the garage and then you’re going to drive us.”
“Drive where?”
“Where I say. Now, you might want to get a move on. If Monica comes back down, as much as I love my daughter, I won’t let her live if she sees anything that she could pass on to the cops. Understand?”
Oh, she understood, all right. And she believed him. “At least tell me where you’re taking me.”
“To see if Dr. Frasier can use you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Go!” His shout echoed and he sent a quick glance at the stairs.
Terror quivering through her, she stepped into the garage, worried Monica would come down to see what the shouting was about.
“There are people who know I’m here,” she said as he shut the door behind him. “And there are cops watching the house.”
“Really? I didn’t see any. They must have left.”
Brooke frowned, confused. “The man who brought me said there was a security detail with us.”
“Beats me. They’re not here now.” He jabbed her lower back with the weapon. “Get in the passenger side and climb over to the driver’s seat.”
Brooke did as instructed, her mind racing. Okay, she’d thrown a monkey wrench into things by being at his home. She wasn’t supposed to be there. He was improvising, trying to figure out what to do with her. Where to kill her? Most likely.
“Who’s Dr. Frasier?” she asked.
“A friend.”
Brooke clutched the steering wheel. He jammed the keys into the ignition and twisted. The engine purred to life.
“You’re going to leave Monica here alone?” she asked.
“Her aunt’s on the way. She’ll be here in about ten minutes. Long enough for us to get out of here.”
“Where am I going? ‘To see Dr. Frasier’ doesn’t help much.” Brooke bit down on the inside of her lip to keep from giving in to the panic crushing down on her.
“I’ll give you directions.” He pressed the button for the garage door. It rose and he pointed. “Go.”
Brooke whispered a prayer, put the SUV in gear, and stepped on the gas. With a sick feeling, she realized no one knew where she was except for Asher’s brother. And even if he told Asher, all the captain had to say was that he wasn’t there and didn’t know where she’d gone. Of course, Monica could tell a different story, but Brooke doubted the captain would give the girl the opportunity. “How did you get involved in this?” she asked. “Monica?”
“Yeah. Give me your phone.”
She didn’t bother to argue, just pulled the device out of her pocket and handed it to him. He powered the phone down and tossed it out the window. “Michaels messed everything up,” he muttered.
“How did he find out you were involved?”
“He didn’t know I was, I don’t think. All I knew was that he got stuff off Madad’s computer.”
“And you panicked.”
“Something like that.”
“Why set him up to be a traitor if you were just going to kill him—and all of the innocent people in there?”
“Wasn’t going to kill him. Not at first. But then I couldn’t take a chance someone would believe anything he said.”
“Ruining his name would taint anything he said against anyone else. It would look like he was simply trying to get even with those who discovered he was a ‘traitor.’”
“Turn here.”
She did and continued to drive slightly under the speed limit, trying to figure out how she could alert someone while keeping her panic under control. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. “What are you going to do with me?”
He shot her a sideways glance. “I’m still figuring that out.”
“Right.”
He was going to kill her. He had nothing to lose by killing her and everything to lose by letting her live. It was just a matter of when at this point—which was probably why he was so willing to answer her questions. “How did you convince Hamilton and Ricci to be your hired killers?”
“Their personalities never did fit with military life. I could tell that right off. They were always getting into scrapes with other soldiers. I noticed they would do pretty much anything for money and figured killing wouldn’t bother them. It didn’t.”
“So, was that you at the hospital? Did you kill Hamilton?” Another sideways glance and this time no answer. “No, you couldn’t have. You weren’t here. How many killers do you have working for you?”
“Not enough, obviously, if I had to come home to take care of everything.”
She frowned at the odd answer. “You came home because your wife was killed.”
“Shut up and drive.”
Brooke shot him a glance. “You had your wife killed, didn’t you?” she asked, almost unable to wrap her mind around it.
“Oh, for the love of . . .” He sighed. “It was the only way I could leave Afghanistan immediately to take care of everything that was falling apart on this end.”
“Did you love her?”
“Of course I loved her!” His throat worked. “But sometimes you have to sacrifice the one for the good of the many.”
“For the good of the many?” She scoffed. “For the good of saving yourself, you mean.”
His fingers closed into a fist, and for a moment she thought he’d hit her. He must have thought better about it and relaxed his hand. “And all of the other lives we’ve saved.”
“While pocketing exorbitant amounts of money.”
He laughed. “You think those families care about that? All they care about is getting an organ for their kid.” He paused. “It’s the kids that bring in the most money. Desperate parents. When I saw that look in my wife’s eyes when Monica needed a heart, I knew. It’s been very profitable.”
“Until someone figured out what you were doing. Then it became cleanup time.”
“Yes, but we won’t be shut down for long.”
“What about those kids? The orphans? What about their lives? Their hopes and dreams? Why is it okay to kill them like they’re nothing?”
He shot her an odd look with his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. “Because they are nothing. By taking their organs and letting someone else live—someone deserving who’ll grow up to be something other than a terrorist—we’re giving those children meaning and purpose.”
Brooke swallowed. He was completely twisted, so caught in his evilness he was blinded by it. “Everyone was created for a purpose. Even those orphans—and it wasn’t to be murdered. Cut up and used for parts. They weren’t born to make you and others rich.”
“Sacrifice. We all have to make sacrifices.”
“You’re not making sacrifices, you’re leaving behind collateral damage. Innocent victims. People are dead because they were simply born in the wrong place at the wrong time—or married to the wrong man.”
From the corner of her eye, she could see the muscle in his jaw flex.
“Like I said, shut up and drive.”