Acts of Honor Page 2

  Sara stiffened. Foster had been thorough, and he’d investigated Steve, too. “Considering my brother is one of the most well-balanced human beings walking the earth, and his wife pulled that stunt and had him committed for thirty days because they’d had a disagreement about moving out of the state of Mississippi, yes. You’re damn right, it got to me. That there are laws on the books allowing that type of injustice should get to you, too.”

  “We all deal with injustice in our own way.” He let his gaze drift to the door. “You’ve taken blanket responsibility for every injustice to everyone and everything in your sphere of influence since the cradle.”

  He grunted. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re a victim of your genes. Maternal genes, or influence.”

  He’d be right. Sara’s throat went dry. Foster made her feel invaded, as if she had no privacy, not even in her thoughts. She fought the sensation, determined not to let him get the upper hand. Once he did, she was screwed, and they both knew it. “Goodness. Amazing that I warrant all of this attention from you merely because I’m a responsible adult. I suppose I should be flattered.” She rubbed at her temple with a long fingertip. “Instead, I’m asking myself why you fascinate so easily.”

  A tight smile threatened the corner of his lip, and he narrowed his eyes. “Actually, I bore easily. But you are your work, Sara. And that intrigues me.”

  Amused him, more likely, and that grated at her.

  “You’ve pushed me hard, from all sides—as thorough as a crack operative with a dozen years’ experience under your belt. At times, you’ve been persuasive, tenacious, and charming enough to have the devil caving in to you.”

  No way was she falling for this. Foster used praise just as he used people. “So the devil would cave, but you were immune. Now, what am I to make of that?”

  “Perhaps the devil enjoys luxuries I can’t afford.” He stared at her. “Perhaps the same is true for you.”

  He knew her as well as she knew herself. The realization spilled over her, burned and branded into her mind. She hated it, too. And she hated even more that he was right about her work and her personal relationships. She’d never verbalized it, or dared to focus her thoughts on it, but she did want a family of her own and someone to share her life with, yet she couldn’t have everything Brenda had lost. She just . . . couldn’t.

  Gruesome thought, but maybe Foster knew Sara better than she knew herself.

  Fighting not to wince, she shifted topics, heading for safer ground. “So what’s your problem?” Did she dare to hope, a guilty conscience? “Why do you need my services?”

  “First, some ground rules.” He straightened and stepped back from her desk. “Everything I tell you falls under patient/ physician privilege. I have not, and will not, grant you authorization to release any information I share with you. None whatsoever, under any circumstances, at any time, to anyone.”

  “I gathered that.” Sara met his gaze and saw the tension of an emotion she’d never expected to see in Jack Foster’s face. Fear. It tugged hard at the healer in her. “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’ve got an officer with scrambled brains, and I have no idea why or who scrambled him.” Foster stiffened, as if relieved and uneasy with revealing that. “He was on a mission—classified, of course—and went missing. Seven days later, he showed up at a secluded facility, and we have no idea how he got there.”

  “Could you clarify his condition? Scrambled, how? Is he a vegetable, psychotic, or what?”

  “He’s been diagnosed PTSD.” Foster grimaced. “I need to know what happened to him, why, who did it, how, and if he’s salvageable.”

  If he’s salvageable? Flabbergasted, Sara leaned back in her chair. “And you want me to make this determination?”

  “Yes, I do. Quickly.” Foster didn’t miss a beat. “This man has been on a lot of high-risk missions. He has Top Secret security clearance, and he’s having moments of lucidity. Frankly put, he’s a critical security risk.”

  Foster’s voice turned gritty, as if forced to speak, and the words burned his throat. “You have the highest success rate in the business, Sara. I need success. Until we determine the specifics I mentioned, every AID mission and operative working worldwide is vulnerable. I can’t afford to lose this operative without discovering the facts of his case.”

  “The patient is an AID operative?”

  Foster hesitated. “He is, but don’t bother checking on him. You won’t find any more on him than you found on me.”

  Not surprised that Foster knew she’d checked him out, Sara didn’t flinch. “Why is that?”

  “Because he’s one of my men.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. Her white lab coat bunched at her ribs. “Your men. Who are . . .?”

  Foster paused. “I head an elite group of specialized operatives called Shadow Watchers.” He gave her a chilly smile. “You won’t see that organization listed on any official documents. Actually, most military personnel don’t realize our group exists, and those who do realize it would never admit it to other service members much less to anyone outside of the military.”

  “I see.” An empty hole stretched and yawned in her stomach. She’d gotten into something deeper than expected. “What exactly do Shadow Watchers do?”

  “We perform a vital service in a system that requires checks and balances.”

  “Could you be a little less philosophical and more specific?”

  Foster answered without embellishment. “We spy on spies.”

  David had worked for Foster—as a Shadow Watcher. Suddenly, so much made sense. Except for the suicide. That would never make sense. David had been happy with Brenda, had adored her and Lisa. From all signs, he had been content.

  Had David’s death been suicide? An eerie feeling crept through Sara. She stared into the cool, detached depths of Foster’s eyes. Or had David been declared “unsalvageable”?

  The question begged to be asked, but Sara resisted. Foster wouldn’t answer, and it could be advantageous not to let him realize the question had occurred to her just yet. She pursed her lips, tilted her head. “Serious problem.” National security implications, integrity of ongoing missions, safety of all Shadow Watchers and regular AID operatives—those were but a few of the considerations and hazards.

  No wonder Foster always seemed wired too tight. Carrying around responsibilities this weighty would do that to any man. “What you’re telling me is that I cure your operative, or he’s deemed unsalvageable—without your finding out what happened to him.”

  “That’s correct. Certainly not our preference, due to the potential complications I mentioned, but our resources have been exhausted.”

  His resources hadn’t yet been tapped. Foster couldn’t risk alerting non-AID personnel or his superior officers that his missions weren’t secure. In his world of red tape, the man had to answer to someone, and his credibility would be shot. But she’d give him the lie. “So if I don’t do this, or if I fail, then that means you terminate this operative, right?” What else could unsalvageable mean to spies?

  Foster’s gaze slid away.

  Sara girded her loins and persisted. No way was she getting involved in this without knowing the full scale, scope, and consequences. “Am I right, Foster?”

  The blinds streaked slatted shadows across his face. “We prefer canceled.”

  “Damn it, just once would you call a spade a spade? Forget your military jargon and sidestepping semantics and just tell me the truth.” Sara glared at him. “I fail, and the man is murdered. Yes, or no?”

  “Yes.”

  The breath left her lungs. She’d expected it. But expecting it and hearing him admit it were totally different things. She studied Foster’s expression, his posture, his eyes. No remorse, regret, or apology. He would kill the operative. Reeling, she struggled to pull together a cohesive thought, settled for a mumbled, “I see,” and felt damn grateful for it.

  “I’m glad you grasp the gravity of the situation.”

  “It’s hard to miss.” Sara put the pencil down on her desk. Her instincts warned her to back off; she was in over her head. But if she did, then the operative would die. She had no doubts about that, nor any illusions. And then some other family would be in the position Brenda and Lisa were in, suffering the same hell they were suffering, wondering what they had done to make their loved one prefer being dead to living with them.

  David hadn’t committed suicide. He’d been canceled. Sara knew it as well as she knew she couldn’t condemn a man to death, or a family to hell. “So who is the patient?”

  Foster didn’t falter. “I can’t tell you that.”

  Typical. Just . . . typical. She squeezed her chair’s arms until her palms and fingers stung. “Then how am I supposed to treat him?”

  “Actually, you’ll treat five patients. He’ll be one of them.”

  “Five?” The man was arrogant and absurd. “I can’t take on five new patients at once.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Sara bit down on her temper, resisted an urge to shout at him. “Look, let me explain something to you. In therapy, I operate from a base of trust, and that takes time to develop. Without it, I have no foundation—and no hope for success. That aside, I already have a full caseload and a healthy waiting list, so what you’re asking me to do is utterly impossible.”

  “It’s possible,” he countered. “And your current patients won’t be adversely affected. You have my word on that.”

  Won’t be adversely affected? Was she supposed to feel grateful he wouldn’t cancel them to get them out of his way? “Not to antagonize you, Foster, but your record with me on trust-inspiring issues leaves a lot to be desired. What’s your word worth on this?”

  He didn’t so
much as blink. “Finding out the truth about David Quade.”

  Her throat went tight. Those were the ones. The magic words. The irresistible offer.

  And both she and Foster knew it.

  There was no way she could take her deductions on David to Brenda and Lisa without proof. Sara straightened in her seat. “It appears you already have a plan. Why don’t you just lay it out and let me see if I consider it acceptable?”

  “Fine.” He laced his hands behind his back, strode a brisk path between the bookcase and the door. “You’ll enter a facility under the auspices of performing a short-term research project on PTSD as a psychiatrist, Major Sara West.”

  “Major?” Sara grunted. “Forget it. Impersonating an officer would cost me my license, and you know how I feel about your military protocol and red-tape nightmare of a system. If I do this—and I’m not saying I will—then I want civilian status, total control, and full latitude—personally, and with my patients.”

  “Which is exactly why you’re heading the PTSD research project. The only person you’ll have to answer to at the facility is the director, and, of course, to me—though, obviously I won’t be inside the facility. You’ll have total control over the patients and therapy, but not over the facility. I can’t give you that, or civilian status. Not without exposing your cover.”

  “You honestly expect me to go in undercover?” She rolled her gaze heavenward, dragged her hands over her head. “For God’s sake, Foster. I’m not one of your spies, I’m a doctor. What do I know about covert operations? And what about my current patients, and my license?”

  “The cover is essential.” He sat down, leaned forward, and then linked his fingers, bracing his forearms on his knees. “I don’t know who is responsible for this, Sara. I can’t take unnecessary chances with my operative, with the other Shadow Watchers and AID personnel, or with you.” Foster lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Look, you wanted me to call a spade a spade. Well, here it is. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. You dislike the military and you resent its dedication to discipline, rules, and order. Yet every day of your life, you enjoy the personal freedom the military provides you.”

  “Excuse me, but it’s the Constitution that guarantees my personal freedom.”

  Foster’s eyes blazed. “Try exercising it without us.”

  Valid point. She didn’t like it, but historically speaking, she couldn’t deny it.

  “We’ve served you, Doctor. Now, we need your service. That military operative is one of many who provide you your freedom. If you won’t assist for David or for the sake of your country or under your oath to heal, then do it for him. Make it personal. Hell, it is personal. Every day of his life, this operative sacrifices for you in ways you can’t begin to fathom. Simply put, Sara, you owe him.”

  Foster orchestrated this deliberately, to make her feel responsible for the operative. Even knowing it, the tactic worked. That infuriated her. “I do not owe him, or you. I haven’t asked anyone in uniform to do anything for me.”

  “No, but you certainly haven’t objected to all we have done.” He thrust out his chin. “You’ve benefited from our sacrifices, Doctor. That’s a fact.”

  “Sorry, this mind-set doesn’t wash with me.” Her palms were damp. She pressed them flat on her desk blotter. “The draft has been abolished for a long time. Everyone in the military freely chose their career, just as I chose mine.”

  Foster lifted and then set back down her nameplate. It thudded against her desk. “Think, Sara. Whoever did this to him is dangerous. Human life means nothing to him. Do you think for a second a person capable of deliberately destroying a man’s mind would hesitate to kill you or thousands of others like you?”

  “Him.” Sara picked up on the pronoun. “You said him. So you do have an idea of who is behind this.”

  “Him, or her, or they,” Foster replied. “Likely they. And if I had any idea who was behind this, would I be here?”

  He wouldn’t. And her deduction proved true. This was a serious problem. For the country, the operatives, and now, for her. If overt, she’d be an assassin’s target. If covert, and discovered and exposed, she would be canceled. Some choices. Either way, if she got caught, she was dead.

  But what if you don’t get caught? You find out about David, get Brenda and Lisa straightened out, save an operative’s life, and you live.

  And Foster owes you.

  Sara rocked back and forth in her chair, absorbing, reading between the lines. “What you’re telling me—underneath all the God-and-country-and-duty talk—is that once I’m in, I’m on my own.”

  “Totally. No support and, if you blow it, no knowledge.”

  If exposed, definitely canceled. She looked up at Foster. For the first time, she saw complete, unvarnished truth in his eyes. And she hated it most of all. It scared her in ways she’d never been scared. Her throat muscles quivered, and she swallowed hard. “I don’t have a choice about this, do I?”

  “No.” Foster softened his voice. “I wish I could give one, but I can’t. If you refuse, I’ll manufacture whatever evidence it takes to have your license revoked. You’ll lose everything, Sara. I know you won’t believe it, but I regret having to issue this ultimatum. I oppose force and do all I can to preserve freedom.”

  “You stand here and say that, knowing your ultimatum will cost me everything?”

  “Yes. For the greater good of a nation, I’ll sacrifice you.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You, or many, many others, Sara. In my position, which would you choose?”

  She’d choose the lesser of the two evils. She’d choose to sacrifice herself. What else could she choose and still live with herself? “I’d look for another option.”

  “There are no other options.”

  True, or he wouldn’t be here. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to know. Her mouth dust-dry, she lashed at her lips with her tongue. “Will I be canceled?”

  “The moment you become a risk. Yes, you will.”

  At least he was honest about it. Still, the concept was difficult to grasp. This had been just another normal day. Now, there was nothing normal about it. “And if I don’t become a risk?”

  “Then no good would be served by canceling you.”

  Sara studied him. Foster was worried; his forehead was sweat-sheened. If he’d had any other way of resolving this, he never would have come to her. She wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but if there was a snowball’s chance in hell she could help Brenda and Lisa, then Sara had to try it. God knew, helping them her way, she’d failed again and again. Foster’s insight about David could give her what she needed to succeed. She didn’t relish the idea of losing everything she had worked for, either. Especially her life or that of the unknown operative. And she had sworn an oath to heal. A damn shame they hadn’t added, “when it’s convenient.”

  Obviously, whoever had written the oath hadn’t crossed paths with Foster.

  Okay. Okay, she’d do it.

  Something flashed in Jack Foster’s eyes. Something dark and evil. “No,” she said before she could change her mind. When it came to a battle between logic and instinct, she went with instinct every time. “I’m sorry. I understand your dilemma, but I can’t help you. Find yourself another doctor.”

  “I can pull you in, Sara.” Foster stood up. “I’d prefer not to have to do it, but when it regards a matter of national security, I have the authority.”

  Yet another threat. Enough was enough. “Look, you do what you have to do. My gut’s telling me you’re not playing straight with me, and until it tells me differently, I’m refusing. You want to make my life miserable? Pull my license? Fine. Go ahead. I’ll deal with it. But I won’t have you jeopardize my reputation and my life when you’re bent on playing the very games with me that you warned me against playing with you.”

  “What games?” Foster elevated his voice. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

  “You’ve told me everything you want me to know. There’s a difference. Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t held out on me.”

  He looked away.

  “Good grief, Foster. Your body language has been screaming at me since you walked through my door. It’s still screaming at me now.”