Chapter One

The phone rang for the fourth time in an hour. With a growl, Dan hit the F4 key and directed the call to his headset, temporarily interrupting the uplink to real-time intelligence, Afghanistan.

“Ah, it’s… fourteen-thirty. You were going to break in ‘a little bit’ at twelve-thirty.”

“Dan…” Nick’s exasperated breath sounded like a radio squawk over the headset speaker.

Dan shook his head, willing away the remnant of a memory. His time in the field was over. Radio squawks were a thing of the past.

“Waiting for something to happen isn’t going to make it happen,” said Nick. “And it won’t prove your point. Especially if you pass out from low blood sugar before you hear it.”

“I’m not—” Dan sighed. “Okay I am, but I know I’m right on this one. It’s going to happen.”

Dan toggled the F4 key to go back to RTI. He hadn't had a choice but to admit to Nick what he was doing. But he’d never admit to Edgerton that he was waiting for the next bombing, which he knew was going to happen in the next several hours, at one of five targets. It wasn’t that he was willing it to happen exactly. More like willing it not to happen, as if his hyper-vigilance would somehow prevent the act. Bombs tended to mean loss of life. And Edgerton’d had the means to step up security in the projected areas but had opted not to. So an incident was about to happen. Dan’s analytical mind told him so.

And his gut screamed it at him. So he listened to the stream of real-time data on the ten-minute loop.

Trish leaned forward and tugged on a tuft of invasive beach grass. It came up on the second pull, and she dumped it into the growing pile of weeds. A trickle of sweat teased the back of her neck. It certainly was hot, even for July.

“Don’t know what you think you’re doing,” grumbled Mrs. Schmidt. She stood perhaps ten feet away, hands on her hips and staring at the discarded greenery with pursed lips. “I was letting the garden go natural is all. Beach grass is natural.”

“It’s also boring.” And Trish didn’t think Mrs. Schmidt would have deliberately planted the wild grass to save her life. The garden had been lovingly tended once. Trish moved a black and gray speckled rock. It was about the size of a bloated dinner plate, and the soil beneath it was packed down but dark and rich. She chopped at it with the edge of the trowel and then stirred it until it became loose. After that, she parted the dirt and set in some lavender then filled in the hole. “There. See how nice it looks against your white picket fence? This will bloom all summer and it’s got a really nice aroma.” She glanced over her shoulder.

Mrs. Schmidt dropped her arms to her sides and took a tentative step forward. “Well, I can’t pay for these things. Gardens are a luxury and my income isn’t what it used to be.”

Trish shrugged. “I had to thin my plants out. They were choking on each other.” She returned her attention to the garden, using the shovel to dig another hole. “So I’d have thrown them out anyway because I didn’t want to put a whole new garden in.” She set some blanket flower in place and mounded the dirt around the base. The red-orange and yellow pinwheel shaped flowers had barely wilted and they seemed to smile as they nodded their heads in the weak breeze.

Mrs. Schmidt sniffed. “Hrmph. I hope I’m not allergic.”

“Well, I hope so, too, because this’ll be really pretty, and that bee balm I put in by your mailbox will attract humming birds and butterflies. But if you are allergic, you can give me a call and I’ll come up here and pull it back out.” Trish pulled out another clump of grass and freshened the dirt with her garden trowel then replaced the clump with some of the daisies she’d brought along. “Unless you’d like me to stop, of course. I can still toss these in the trash.”

“Umm… Irene never threw her flowers out. She didn't like to waste them so she was always giving them away. Probably half the gardens on this street were started from her yard.” She leaned forward and peered over Trish’s shoulder. “I guess you might as well finish now that you’ve started.” She twisted her head and raked Trish’s face with an assessing gaze. “If you’re able, that is. I thought you had to take things easy… for the baby.”

Trish rolled off her knees and onto her rear end and studied her grumpy neighbor. So Mrs. Schmidt had known Gran. Thoughts of her grandmother brought on a smile. “This is actually very relaxing for me.”

It sure beat climbing the stairs and laundering bedding, and then standing in front of a hot stove, which was what Jay was doing for her at that very moment. She scooted forward and dug in the earth, chopping and loosening it until she’d cleared a triangular patch in the center of three fist-sized rocks. Several root segments of creeping myrtle lay in the bushel basket, the last of the plants she’d brought. These she spread at random and then covered the roots with some loose soil. “This’ll fill in and get kind of bushy but it’ll stay low, so you’ll have a nice bluish border.” She looked up and smiled as she stripped off her gardening gloves and wiped her sweaty hands on her Capri pants.

Mrs. Schmidt swallowed hard. “You remind me of her.” She shrugged and scraped her toe along the grass. “Your grandmother, I mean.”

Trish sat back again and tilted her head to the side. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I don’t remember you… from when I was living with her. But Dan said you’ve been here for — well for a long time.”

Mrs. Schmidt stared toward the beach, her eyes glazing into a distant expression. “We stopped visiting with each other a long time ago. Long before you came to live with her.”

“Why?” whispered Trish. Obviously the rift had caused a great deal of pain for the elderly woman.

“Irene was my best friend. We had our babies within a couple of years of each other. They played together right out there on that beach. My Johnny and her Nancy.”

“My mother!” A thrill chased along Trish’s spine. “I didn’t realize you knew her.”

Mrs. Schmidt nodded and for a moment, she compressed her lips into a stern line. “John and Nancy dated in high school even though he was two years ahead of her. Then John graduated, and he was drafted into the army.” She went back to staring into the distance with a heavy sigh.

This story was hitting ten on the bizarre scale.

“They wanted to get married… Johnny and Nancy. Before he shipped out… They could have done it, too. But Irene wouldn’t sign the paper. Nancy was too young, she said. Too young to be a bride waiting for her husband to come home from Vietnam.”

Vietnam! Trish closed her eyes. That was such a long time ago. Obviously something had gone wrong and they hadn’t ended up together. Trish’s mom had married Rob Keaton, her college sweetheart.

A gust of sea breeze pushed a white plastic bag across the front yard. As it floated by Trish, she caught it out of the air and rolled it into a ball.

Mrs. Schmidt shook her head and sighed. “It’s water under the bridge, I suppose. I wish I hadn’t gotten so angry with Irene. Sometimes, once you say words… you can’t find a way to take them back.”

“What — um…” Trish cleared her throat and tried again. “What happened to John?”

Mrs. Schmidt sighed and turned away from the beach. “You know… I made some lemonade earlier. Want to sit on the porch and have a drink?” She didn't quite meet Trish’s eyes as she stood there, wringing her hands.

It wasn’t lost on Trish that her question hadn't been answered. But some instinct told her not to push it. “I’d like that.” She dumped her garden trowel into the basket and rolled to her knees then pushed to her feet with a groan. Laughing, she bent and picked up the basket and moved it off the grass and onto the sidewalk.

“I’ll be right back. You can have a seat on the porch.” Mrs. Schmidt grunted as she side-stepped up the stone staircase. Then she disappeared through the front door.

So she was finding it hard to get around. Trish hadn’t considered that it might not be easy for the elderly woman to work in her garden or walk up to the B and B to return the picnic basket.

Trish climbed the steps and sank into one of the green metal chairs. It bounced as she moved, and though the seat had no cushion, it was surprisingly comfortable. She leaned back with a long sigh, enjoying the coolness of the metal through her thin blouse. If only it wasn’t so humid. She felt like she was trying to breathe under water. Closing her eyes, she drew a few deep, even breaths.

“Here you go. Hope you like it tart. I don’t use much sugar.” Mrs. Schmidt’s voice seemed to be under water as well.

Forcing her eyes open, Trish looked around. Mrs. Schmidt was seated in the other chair. When had she returned? A pitcher of lemonade and two tall tumblers had been placed on the round white table between them. Trish swallowed, thirsty enough to lick the sweat coating the outside of the glasses. “Umm, this looks delicious. Thank you.”

“Will I have to keep the flowers watered?” Mrs. Schmidt asked with her customary directness. Maybe she was worried about water consumption… or whether she could physically handle the task.

Trish shook her head. “Not so much, really. They’re in the shade for the hottest part of the day so probably just a quick watering every day will help them take hold. Either in the early morning or after the heat of the day is past.”

“Hmm. Where’s that girl of yours today?”

“She goes to day camp for military kids.” Trish sipped her drink. Tart lemony goodness splashed her tongue and exploded against her palate. “Oh, my, this is wonderful.” She took another drink.

Mrs. Schmidt’s lips curled upward for just an instant. It hadn't been much of one, and it hadn’t lasted long, but the elderly woman had smiled.

“You think your girl can handle coming up here after camp and watering my garden? I’ll pay her if she does a good job.”

Could Bella handle it? What was that supposed to mean? Trish tightened her hand around the glass and concentrated on reining in her temper. It wouldn’t help her cause to show her anger at the outdated attitude. Better to let Mrs. Schmidt see for herself.

“Bella waters my gardens for me all the time. And she helps me pick the vegetables.” She sipped again, giving Mrs. Schmidt time to digest what she’d said.

“Think if I gave her a dollar a day she could come over and water my garden?”

“I’d have to ask her, but if she wants to, I have no objection.” And of course Bella would want to. Not even for the money, but just for the chance to do something helpful.

More cooling wind whipped in from the Atlantic. The newly planted flowers fluttered and bent. Only slightly wilted from the transplanting, they were now a bright splash of color in an otherwise dingy front yard. Trish finished her lemonade.

“Thank you,” muttered Mrs. Schmidt. “For the muffins, and… for planting a garden.”

Trish blinked. She’d begun to wonder if Mrs. Schmidt knew how to say the words. She swallowed the last of her lemonade before she replied. “It was my pleasure.” Smiling, she set her glass on the table. “I should get going.”

“Hold on. I’ll give you a lift.”

Confusion clouded Trish’s mind and she squinted at her neighbor, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

“I’ll give you a lift,” repeated Mrs. Schmidt, standing and shuffling to the steps. She paused at the top and raised an eyebrow. “On my golf cart.”

Trish felt her jaw go slack but she was powerless to close her mouth. Why you old fraud… can’t return my basket because you can’t get up the street to my house, huh?

When the phone rang, Dan stretched and rubbed his temples. That was probably Nick. They were already two hours over their duty shift. He paused the data stream and answered the call.

“Major Conway.”

“You going to spend the night at your desk or get started on your seventy-two?” asked Nick slowly.

When had his friend begun to tiptoe on broken glass? Dan heaved a sigh. “I guess waiting for it to happen won’t stop it. Give me a second to close out.”

“Good call. Meet me out front.”

Dan terminated the connection and began the process of securing his computer station. His finger hovered in the vicinity of the F9 key, which would exit the RTI program. Should he listen to one more loop? His hand trembled but finally he stabbed the key and shut down the program. Then he closed out the computer.

Blowing out a long breath, he shoved his chair back and stood. “Come on, Jack.”

The shepherd maneuvered himself into position.

“Major Conway.”

Dan started at the sound of Edgerton’s voice. “Yes, sir.”

“I wanted to thank you for your diligence on the troop analysis for Operation Ferret. Nice job, son.”

Son. Right. As if. Edgerton should stick to his retentive PC attitude. Dan’s fuse began to sizzle but he pushed back his temper. “Just doing my job, Colonel.”

“It was a good job.” Edgerton cleared his throat. “I was impressed with your breakdown for the hierarchy of need by the locals. Addressing the most pressing needs will give us a surer footing to gather the information we need from them.”

Psychology one-oh-one. Dan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And don’t feel bad that apparently you missed your call on Asim Al’alim.” Edgerton clapped Dan on the shoulder. “We all want to get him, son. He’s just too elusive.” He cleared his throat again. “Well… I saw you’re up for a seventy-two. I hope you enjoy your holiday.”

“Thank you, sir. I plan to.” Dan waited for Edgerton to leave the office before he released his pent-up breath. Then he grabbed Jack’s harness, pausing to lay a hand on his computer terminal. Good, no hum meant it was off and secured.

“What took you so long?” asked Nick when Dan made it to the front of the building.

“Last minute visitor,” muttered Dan as they reached the car. He opened the door and set his laptop and briefcase on the rear floor then let Jack into the back and flipped the seat in place. “Edgerton decided to drop by my office to tell me what a great job I did on Ferret.” He dropped into the front seat and sagged into the leather upholstery. “And he felt the need to commiserate on my missed call about Asim Al’alim.”

“No kidding? The guy’s a—” The Mustang roared to life. “We are Oscar Mike and leaving him behind for the next seventy-two,” announced Nick with a laugh as the car lurched forward.

Yes, on the move, and heading home to Trish and Bella for the holiday. Dan sighed and leaned back against the headrest. They passed the front gate without having to wait for a million cars in front of them to go through a Charlie Search. As they skirted Jacksonville and headed toward the ocean, Dan lifted his face to the cooling breeze and allowed his temper to finish its wind-down.

“Man, can you snore!”

Nick’s words drilled into Dan’s mind like an alarm clock going off. Had he fallen asleep? Crap, he hadn't slept through a car ride since he’d been about ten. What was the matter with him lately?

“We’re in your driveway,” said Nick before Dan could ask. “So what’s going on? Sleeping okay?”

“Yeah!” Dan answered quickly. Then, realizing it had been too quickly, he sighed and shook his head. “Not always.”

“Asim Al’alim? Or something closer to home?” Nick had always been astute.

“Asim Al’alim’s part of it. I know he’s about to strike. Today I was monitoring for any small mention of suspicious activity.” He pushed the button on his watch.

“Nineteen twenty-two,” responded the digitized voice.

“It’s already the Fourth in Kabul… almost oh-four-hundred. Most of Asim Al’alim’s explosions have gone off at the start of market day… oh-seven, maybe oh-eight-hundred.”

“You’re thinking they use the day or days preceding the attacks to set them up? That the bombs are in play ahead of time?”

“It makes sense.”

Nick’s voice turned wary. “So what have you been listening for?”

“Nothing… everything. Anything that fits the pattern of randomness.” Dan shrugged as helplessness stirred a nest of fire ants in his gut. “If we’d had boots on the ground in the prospective target areas…”

Nick let out a long whistle. “We might have seen the drop, maybe stopped it.”

“One way or another, we might have changed the script,” murmured Dan, knowing without the tactical support, they’d changed nothing.

“What do you do now?”

Dan considered his options. At home, he simply didn't have the resources or the clearance for the steady stream of real-time intelligence. He could listen to the AP wire but he was painfully aware that bringing home work closed him off from the family night after night. That was wearing thin with Trish. And if he was honest, it was taking a toll on him as well. So he made a tactical decision of his own.

“I’m going to enjoy my seventy-two.” He located the door handle and pulled it.

“Cookout on the beach tomorrow?” asked Nick.

“That was the original plan if memory serves.” Dan closed the door and gave it a light tap. “Come on, Jack. R and R time.”

Laughter and voices of the male variety filtered through the open back door along with the aroma of some kind of southern fried food and the bready smell of… biscuits. His mouth watered.

“I had no idea you all were such accomplished cooks.” Trish’s delighted laughter made him smile.

Lina hooted. “Ha! Some of us are accomplished! Some of us skate through by pilfering recipes.”

Dan paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“I beg your pardon,” said her husband, his voice tinged with mirth. “I borrowed your recipe for fried chicken and improved on it with a secret ingredient.”

Now there was a man after his own heart. A warm feeling tugged Dan’s lips into a smile. Maybe having guests for the holiday wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“You changed it. You didn’t necessarily improve on it.”

“Are they always like this?” asked Trish.

“You should see them at the annual chili cook-off,” said Greg with a chuckle. “You’d never know they were married. Secret ingredients, secret shopping trips, cooking at midnight…”

“I can’t imagine being that competitive with Dan,” murmured Trish, so softly Dan had to strain to hear. “We balance each other in so many ways… It’s like we harmonize and create the perfect melody.”

Dan’s smile widened as he yanked on the back door. The savory, buttery aroma strengthened when he stepped inside, and his stomach reminded him that he’d consumed an energy bar for lunch.

“Danny!” Trish’s feet slapped across the floor, signaling her approach.

“Hey, babe! Sorry I’m late.” He lifted his computer and briefcase onto the counter. Unfamiliar resistance surprised him and he faltered.

“Sorry! My fault,” murmured Lieutenant Fiskar, brushing against Dan’s arm. Something rustled, a plastic bag maybe. Then Fiskar stepped away. “All clear.”

A tingle of awareness crawled along Dan’s spine and his chest tightened. Swallowing against the unfamiliar sensation, Dan pushed his things the rest of the way onto the counter with a mumbled thanks.

“We have southern friend chicken tonight with an Italian twist,” said Trish, easing against him and sliding her arms around his waist.

“I knew I smelled something good when I came in.” Dan dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Where’s Bella?”

“Ashley took the girls to the beach. She left a note for Nick to meet them there and then they’ll join us for dinner. Start the holiday early. Ummm…” She wiggled in his embrace as though trying to get comfortable. “And you are late. Is everything okay?”

To Dan’s surprise, it was. It had been from the second he’d heard her laugh through the screen door. He nuzzled her ear. “Just some pre-leave loose ends that needed tying up.”

The screen door banged behind him and Dan jerked.

“Uncle Kevin, I found a horseshoe crab and I touched it!” shouted Amelia.

The tinny cry of a baby came from somewhere near the kitchen table, where apparently a monitor had been set up.

“And that’s my cue,” said Lina, chuckling. A chair scraped across the floor and she left the room with barely perceptible footfalls across the floor.

Life… beautiful, unpredictable. Going on in the good old American way. Dan sighed. Such a life needed to be protected at all costs.

Chapter Eleven