The Hunted. Rachel Lee

ensure that Mercator was doing everything by the book, so Pentagon Inspector General teams would never have reason to challenge the company on anything he’d been involved in.

      But he also had a daughter. Like many employees, he kept a picture of his wife and their child on his desk, a reminder that his job was a means and not an end in itself. First-time visitors to his office often commented on how beautiful both were, and his chest swelled with pride each time. They were beautiful. Stunningly, amazingly so.

      He might be a mere “bean counter,” as other parts of the company referred to the huge staff of accountants and lawyers, but bean counting was essential to the company’s life. Absolutely essential, he often thought, for if the government noted any discrepancy in the billings, they might be audited, and while the audit continued, the government could refuse to pay the company’s bills on suspect contracts. He might be a cog in the wheel, but he was an important cog.

      He sat in his small cubicle, matching bills of lading with contracts and invoices. He also maintained completion tallies, so he could report on the accounting status of each of the contracts he managed.

      But he had been too diligent. He’d tumbled into a snake pit, one his conscience would not let him ignore. Every time he looked at the face of his daughter, he felt the jolt of his discovery anew.

      “Alton?” One of the women in his group appeared at his doorway with an armful of papers. “These bills of lading are all verified as to contract. The preliminary invoices are clipped to them.”

      “Thanks, Cecile. Just put them in my in-box.” He had to check over all the prelims, then make any necessary adjustments.

      She did as asked, gave him a flirtatious smile and sashayed out of the cubicle.

      He returned to the file he was pretending to examine and tried to calm himself. The increased security at the plant, begun only a few days ago, had unnerved him. As yet the changes were minimal, but given what he knew, and that he had shared it outside the company, he was sure that every new edict was aimed directly at him. He felt as if he were wearing a neon sign.

      His computer dinged at him, and he turned to check his mail. His heart stopped.

      We have reason to believe there has been a security violation at our Colorado Springs facility. All briefcases and purses are subject to search, and all telephone calls will be randomly monitored. Other measures may be instituted as deemed necessary.

      Thank you for your cooperation.

      Neils Ingram, Facility Security Officer

      “Jesus,” he whispered, then looked swiftly around to ensure no one had heard. He skipped to the next e-mail, something less likely to give him a heart attack, and pretended to read it.

      His heart slammed so hard and so loud he was certain someone else in the office must have heard it. But outside his cubicle, nothing seemed to change. Phones still rang, voices could be heard talking quietly, the copier thunked away in the nearby copy room.

      The e-mail could be about something else. Of course it could. He hadn’t taken anything out of the facility. He hadn’t made a single phone call from the office or home about this. He hadn’t even used his own computer here or at home to send information.

      If they had tumbled to the leak, there was no way they could trace it to him. No way. Besides, who would think that kind of a leak could issue from some cog in the accounting department?

      Gradually calming, he forced himself to begin looking through the invoices on his desk, as if he were working industriously. He was safe. He had ensured that with his caution. Even his nosing around in inventory was so far in the past now that the computer audit trails had probably been erased. They would be investigating persons closer to the activity than a mere accountant.

      A half hour later, he was almost back to normal. But he had decided he wasn’t going to do another thing to help that reporter. She had enough information now. Let her do her own work. He’d done his by tipping her off.

      When Jerrod returned to pick up Erin, he found her sitting outside the library with a visible bubble of empty space around her. That was hardly surprising, given the angry scowl on her face. The students milling around had obviously seen it, too, and had instinctively kept her at a safe distance. He didn’t have that option.

      “Come on,” he said. He figured she would tell him what had ticked her off if she wanted to.

      When they reached the parking lot, she looked around. “Where’s your car?”

      He pointed. “It’s the white one. I couldn’t take a Bureau vehicle for this. Especially since it has a LoJack and we could be tracked.”

      “And yours?”

      “Nothing trackable. Just your basic four-wheel-drive Suburban.”

      This one was smaller, with a gray cloth interior, much better suited to the hot Texas sun. Not to mention that it was fully equipped with his collection of Willie Nelson CDs.

      “What did you tell them?” she asked, as they pulled out of the campus lot and started north on Congress Avenue. Here Austin still reflected its small-town roots, from the days before zoning. Houses and businesses met and mingled, and the trees were old and grand.

      “Who? You mean, my bosses?”

      Her hands clenched into fists on her lap. “Who else would I mean? Did you tell them about me?”

      “No. I’m not telling anyone anything they don’t absolutely need to know.”

      “Then how can you get away?”

      “I have a certain amount of leeway when I’m investigating something.” He braked at a stoplight and looked at her. “What has you so upset?”

      “I was reading about white slavery.”

      “And?”

      She looked at him, and her blue eyes seemed to burn. “I’ve never seen anything so twisted in my life.”