Above Reproach Read online

  Above Reproach

  By

  Lynn Ames

  ABOVE REPROACH

  © 2012 BY LYNN AMES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN: 978-1-936429-05-9

  OTHER AVAILABLE FORMATS

  PAPERBACK EDITION

  ISBN: 978-1-936429-04-2

  PUBLISHED BY

  PHOENIX RISING PRESS

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  www.phoenixrisingpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CREDITS

  EXECUTIVE EDITOR: LINDA LORENZO

  COVER PHOTOS: PAM LAMBROS

  AUTHOR PHOTO: JUDY FRANCESCONI

  COVER DESIGN BY: PAM LAMBROS WWW.HANDSONGRAPHICDESIGN.COM

  Dedication

  To lightworkers everywhere—thank you for making the world a brighter place.

  Acknowledgments

  The seeds for Above Reproach were sown with the start of the Arab Spring. Watching the events of this transformative period unfold inspired me to look beyond the news headlines and to ask more questions. I knew I wanted to write about this extraordinary time in our history. The difficulty became writing a novel—which is a static document—about something that was on-going and ever-changing. Finally, I realized that to make this work, I would have to create a single event—a moment in time—and use the Arab Spring as a backdrop. And thus, the plot for Above Reproach was born.

  As with any thriller, there are so many details that must be factually correct or at least plausible. To Mary Tracy, who provided mountains of essential background material about the Arab Spring and the countries of the Middle East and North Africa; to Clair Bee, who taught me everything I know about pyrotechnics and the world’s least known and coolest technology toys; to my incredible sources in the US Marshal’s Service, the CIA, and the Army’s Military Police, for verifying facts and protocols—you all give my books the credibility that makes possible the suspension of disbelief.

  I am blessed to have what I think is the finest team in the history of novel-writing. To my beta readers who read through my manuscripts chapter by chapter during the creation phase and give me critical feedback—you have my eternal gratitude.

  To my primary editor, Linda Lorenzo, who looks forward with such relish to sinking her teeth into my manuscripts—may I never disappoint you.

  To the readers who continue to clamor for the next book—you make it all worthwhile.

  Happy reading!

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ADDENDUM

  About the Author

  Other Books in Print by Lynn Ames

  CHAPTER ONE

  29 June 2008 – Twelve Miles South of Baghdad

  It just figured the flipping incompetent, idiot of a president would pick the run-up to the Fourth of July to move this shit. Seventeen years. That was how long the crap sat in the middle of the desert. That was how long damn green recruits who barely knew which end of the gun to shoot loitered around, pretending to guard 3,500 barrels of yellowcake—concentrated natural uranium—the raw material Saddam Hussein could have used to create lethal nuclear weapons. Now, all of a sudden, the powers that be were scrambling around, trying to transport the crap out of the Middle East and into North America. Canada, to be exact.

  “Patriot Two, this is Patriot One. Do you read me?” The crackling of the radio brought Tony “Two Thumbs” Saldano out of his musings. He put down his binoculars and keyed the radio.

  “Loud and clear. Keep it down, will ya?”

  “The operation is a go. I repeat, the operation is a go.”

  “Roger that. In position and ready to rock ‘n’ roll.” Tony took one last look down at the convoy of large, canvas-topped trucks on the dusty road below, stubbed out his cigarette, and clambered down the embankment to where a truck, identical to the ones he’d been watching, waited. He threw open the passenger door and climbed inside.

  The driver, a scruffy-bearded, sturdily-built twenty-something in camouflage, looked at him expectantly.

  “We’ll wait here ten minutes to make sure everyone’s gone, then follow at a distance. When we hit this spot, here”—Tony flipped open his laptop and pointed to an elevated section of roadway on a detailed satellite image—“a truck exactly like this one will be waiting. That’s where I get off and you continue on your way. Make sure you step on it so you can catch up and slide into the convoy. If anybody asks why you were lagging behind, give ’em some bullshit about the gears sucking on this piece of shit.”

  The driver nodded.

  “When you get to Baghdad and they start unloading the barrels, that’s your cue to disappear. Got me?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Good.” Tony sat back to wait. If everything went according to plan, he would be back in this very spot by nightfall with a truckload of yellowcake, and the convoy’s load, including thirty barrels of useless material made to look like yellowcake, would be on its way to Diego Garcia and, ultimately, to Canada.

  10 February 2011 – National Security Agency Headquarters, Fort Meade, Maryland

  Sedona Ramos rubbed her tired eyes. It was ten o’clock Thursday night, and already she’d logged more than twenty-five hours of overtime that week. Not that that was anything unusual, nor did she mind. Sedona’s work ethic was part of the reason the National Security Agency recruited her so many years ago—that and the fact that she was tri-lingual and could pass for Middle Eastern, Latina, or Native American.

  All week she’d been plodding her way through hundreds of pages of top secret, intercepted, Arabic-language phone and Internet communications from Iraq. The last electronic file in the queue finished downloading.

  “That’s odd,” Sedona said to the empty room. She scrolled through the document one more time. Unlike all the other files, this one identified by name neither the analyst who compiled the initial report, nor the individual who requested it. Instead, in the places where that information should have been, was a pair of numerical sequences. That was something Sedona had never seen before. “Huh. Well, let’s just see what you are.”

  She clicked to open the document. A chill ran through her. “Never a good sign,” she mumbled. When her eyes alighted on the three satellite images tucked in the middle of the pages of text, she understood why her blood ran cold. “What the hell? Activity at Tuwaitha? We were done with that place three years ago. Shit, I was there when we locked the gates for the last time.”

  Heeding her instincts, Sedona popped in a flash drive and copied the entire file, ejecting and pocketing the drive once the operation was complete. Then she hustled over to the series of file cabinets where a clerk would have logged and stored the correspon
ding physical documents as insurance against any electronic malfunctions. She thumbed through that week’s files until she found the batch that pertained to Iraq. Although she paged through the series three times and searched adjacent batches of files, there was no matching physical file, a clear violation of protocol.

  “Too weird. Looks like maybe someone’s coloring outside the lines.”

  As if to confirm her suspicions, when Sedona returned to her computer, the screen was blank and there was no trace of the images or the surrounding pages of text. “What the fuck is going on? I know I left the file open.” She sat down and stabbed at the keys, trying to find it on the server or on her hard drive. It simply had vanished. “Think, Sedona. Breathe and think, damn it.”

  The sound of the elevator opening down the hall and running footsteps startled her. “There shouldn’t be anyone else in this part of the building at this hour.” The pieces started to fall into place, and Sedona’s heart pounded harder. She had logged into her computer with her regular username and password. Whoever this was, they would be looking specifically for her. “You can’t stay here, sweetie. You’re a sitting duck.”

  She grabbed several things off her desk and shoved them into her briefcase, then darted around a corner just as several figures dressed all in black appeared at the entrance to what Sedona and her co-workers affectionately called the bullpen. Somewhere, someone killed the lights. Sedona, who had spent most of her career in hot spots in the field, realized the implication—the intruders had night vision goggles. “Shit.” Perspiration dotted her brow and her pulse hammered in her ears. She took stock of her surroundings.

  As the appointed fire drill coordinator for the floor, Sedona knew every exit. She removed her shoes, tucked them into her briefcase, and quietly slipped into her boss’s office, since it was farthest from the elevators. Once inside, Sedona felt along the wall until her fingers found a seam. She pushed in, and a section of the wall popped open to reveal a stairway. She sprinted down the stairs and, at the garage level, opened the door a crack to make sure no one was waiting for her. Satisfied she was alone, she dashed to her car, threw the briefcase in the passenger seat, and peeled out of the garage.

  Sedona’s hands were shaking on the wheel as she drove along the highway that would take her north. She didn’t have a definitive plan; she just knew she needed to disappear. Whatever had happened back there, it wasn’t good.

  When she reached Baltimore a short time later, she pulled into a convenience store parking lot. She went inside and used the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and paid cash to purchase a pre-paid cell phone. Then she got back in her car and used the phone to dial a familiar number.

  “Dex? It’s me. I’m in trouble and I need your help.”

  “Anything, love. What do you need?”

  “Can you keep an eye out for any unusual activity at my place?”

  “Hold on a sec, love. I’ll have a peek right now.”

  Sedona heard the scraping of a chair, Dex’s footsteps, and the sound of him whistling. She imagined him peering through the living room blinds that faced her house. Several moments later, he was back.

  “Holy shite, kiddo. What are you into?” He sounded shaken, which only made his Irish brogue thicker.

  “Why, what’s going on?”

  “There are three black SUVs in front of your place and some guys outside who make the Hulk look like a midget. What’s this all about, then?”

  Sedona closed her eyes tightly as panic welled up in her chest. “Listen, Dex. If anybody asks you, tell them you haven’t spoken to me all week and you have no idea where I am.”

  “Well, that would be the truth, now wouldn’t it? So, where are you?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Dex, please don’t…”

  “I’ll accept that you can’t tell me about what it is you do or who you work for, Sedona, but these men don’t look like they’re fooling around here. I can help you, but only if you level with me.”

  Sedona swallowed hard. Dex had been her best friend since she moved in across the street from him almost fifteen years ago. He was dashing and debonair, and as gay as she was, which took all the awkwardness out of their relationship. But this was a line she could not cross. It was her sworn oath. Beyond that, not knowing would keep him safe.

  “Stay away from the windows, Dex. Don’t answer your door. I’ll call you when I can.”

  “Sedon—”

  She didn’t hear the rest, as she disconnected the call. The first thing she needed to do was get rid of her car and get herself somewhere safe so she could have time to think—time to regroup.

  “What the hell did I get myself into?”

  “She’s in the wind.” The man in black turned in a full circle in Sedona’s living room as he spoke into a cell phone.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “There’s nothing here to find.”

  “Well then, find her! Eliminate her and make it look like an accident.”

  Before the man in black could respond, the line went dead.

  The Marriott Marquis was bustling, which was exactly the reason Sedona chose it—a large, well-lit, well-respected hotel in the middle of Times Square in New York City, arguably the busiest city in the world.

  “Hide in plain sight.”

  The bus ride from Baltimore had been long and tedious, but it gave her time to sleep and to regroup. Sedona hefted her briefcase and duffle bag on the bed. She’d removed the “go bag” from her trunk when she sold the car to the used car dealer in Maryland. “God, I hoped I’d never need this.”

  She sighed and unzipped the bag. In it, she kept hair dye, scissors, two pairs of fashionable jeans and tight sweaters, one pair of dress slacks and a silk blouse, a blazer, a pair of heels, a lightweight overcoat, sweats, a pair of sneakers and socks, bras, panties, a full toilet kit, a pair of eye-color-changing contact lenses, and ten thousand dollars cash. She nodded in satisfaction, glad that she’d listened to her mentor all those years ago.

  Sedona still could hear Dominic’s scratchy voice in her ear as he stood beside her at the firing range. “Listen, kiddo, there aren’t many guarantees in this life, and certainly not in this line of work. But one thing you can always count on is that someday the shit’s gonna hit the fan. When it does, you damn well better be ready to duck and run. A ‘go bag’ is part of your insurance policy. So, I want you to pack one when you get home tonight and put it in the trunk of your car. Always make sure it’s on top of whatever other shit you’ve got in there so you can grab it without looking and skedaddle. Trust me, it could save your life one day.”

  “I wish it had saved yours, my friend.” Sedona’s eyes welled with tears as the agony of loss clutched at her heart. Sometimes, it crept up on her silently; other times, it hit her like a freight train. Today, it simply stared her in the face, daring her to flinch.

  Instead, Sedona closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She pictured herself walking down a path lined on either side with beautiful flowers. Monarch butterflies opened their wings to the start of a new day. A pair of hummingbirds joyfully flitted around her, and a pair of hawks circled protectively overhead. She envisioned a white light surrounding her—enveloping her in its protective embrace. Archangels, angels, ascended masters, guides… Thank you for your constant presence in my life. Archangel Michael, I ask for your help now. Please grant me the courage to face whatever is happening, and protect me as I battle the unknown.

  “Dominic, I know you’re with me. I’m going to need your experience and insight. I have no idea what I stumbled into, but it sure stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  “No kidding. Watch your back, and don’t trust anyone in the chain of command. You’ve got to go right to the top, kiddo. No middlemen. And since when do you use my full name?”

  Sedona’s eyes popped open. The president? Dom wanted her to go to the president of the United States? Was it possible she’d he
ard him correctly?

  She strode into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. When she looked in the mirror above the sink, her mother’s reflection stared back at her—the sleek, long black hair, the deep dark eyes, the olive complexion, the prominent, high cheekbones, and the dimple to the left of her mouth…there was no mistaking the resemblance. As a youngster, Sedona had endured the cruel taunts of the kids at her school.

  “Your mother is a freak, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “She’s a hippy who dropped too much acid.”

  “She’s possessed, and so are you. We should do an exorcism, like in that movie.”

  And it wasn’t just the kids—it was their parents too.

  “She’s a sorcerer. She even named her child after some New Age commune. No wonder the girl isn’t normal.”

  “I don’t want my kids near that house. That woman is mentally ill. She ‘sees’ the future? ‘Talks’ to dead people? She’s crazy.”

  “Don’t pay them any mind,” her mother would say, when Sedona came home in tears. “They don’t understand what they cannot see. Their vision is so limited. What you and I share, it’s a gift.”

  “I don’t want it. I don’t want it.” Sedona would put her hands over her ears, run to her room, and slam the door.

  Eventually, her mother would come into her room, sit down on the edge of the bed, and rub her back. “Someday, sweetheart. Someday you’re going to embrace all of who you are and be grateful for having been chosen.”