Not Without Cause. Kay David

      Prescott shook his head again. “Dean Reynolds with a computer? He doesn’t need a computer, he’s half machine himself!” Prescott had muttered something else then stumbled off, Haden watching until the man had been absorbed into the crowd.

      He’d been with the CIA too long because Haden immediately assumed he was being set up. He’d studied Prescott for another hour, then followed the man when the party was over. Prescott had gone directly to the Marriott and as far as Haden could tell, had stayed there the rest of the night. The next day, Haden had paid his way past security and searched the engineer’s hotel room but found nothing.

      Two days later, Prescott disappeared.

      He was snatched right off the road in broad daylight. No one seemed to know where he was but rumor had it Rodrigue Vega’s men had been involved. When Haden had picked up that bit of gossip, his radar had pinged even louder.

      For months, he’d been hearing snatches of information linking someone in Washington with a unique smuggling operation based in Guatemala City. If the rumors were correct, Haden didn’t even want to think about the possibilities. Taking dope and illegals over the border was one thing; slipping in terror and its providers was something else. One of the names out of Washington that had been mentioned as being behind the deal—Dean Reynolds—had surprised Haden. But not totally.

      He didn’t trust Dean Reynolds. Not after that deal in Libya. If Reynolds, the director of the CIA, had somehow managed to hook up with one of the biggest crooks in Guatemala City, Rodrigue Vega, they would have a huge network of assets—of people and of funds—at their disposal. The results could be catastrophic, because neither man gave a damn about anything. Reynolds had hidden behind a screen of patriotic fervor for years, his power and influence growing to match his ego. Vega, once a petty thief, now part drug lord, part pseudo-politician, held tremendous power in Guate, especially within the vast communities of immigrants who made the city their home. Both men were greedy, egotistical and self-centered bastards the world would have been better off without. In Haden’s humble opinion.

      Haden worked the pieces of the puzzle as he walked, but as usual, more questions than answers resulted from his effort.

      Two minutes later, he turned the corner to the street where he lived. A movement in the darkness caught his eye and he checked his progress, his hand going to his waistband without conscious thought. When two hissing cats streaked by, he exhaled slowly, his fingers falling back to his side.

      Had his meeting with Prescott been a coincidence? Had the engineer really been kidnapped or was he already dead? Had Prescott’s alcohol-soaked brain been behind the mention of his association with Reynolds or had the revelation been guided by something more sinister?

      Haden approached the patch of light that revealed the gate to his courtyard. Pulling his key from his pocket, he unfastened the bolt set in the iron bars and stepped inside. Light from a lamp in his neighbor’s house fell through a tree in the courtyard and cast shadows on him as he continued forward. The sounds of a television down the street rippled through the cool night air. Deep in thought, he unlocked his front door, walked inside and closed the door behind him.

      The first blow hit him across the shoulders.

      The second one sent him to the floor.

      The third strike filled his mouth with the salty taste of blood. He spit it out, then his vision went black.

      CHAPTER ONE

      A Starbucks by the Galleria

       Houston, Texas

       Late May 2006

      “YOU’RE THE ONLY PERSON who can do this, Meredith. There’s no one else I trust.” Dean Reynolds tapped his paper coffee cup against the table and then looked up. “There’s no one else I’d even ask.”

      Meredith Santera stared at the man sitting on the other side of the small, black table. Six years had passed since the last time she’d seen him and that meeting had been under decidedly different circumstances. They’d been in Dean’s office, with its perfect view of the Memorial Garden and the haze of D.C. in the distance. He’d had on a black suit, she remembered, and a red tie, his shirt so white it had dazzled her almost as much as the voice coming out of his speakerphone.

      “Yes, Mr. President, she’s here right now.” Reynolds had winked at her, then waved his hand toward the phone. The seriousness of the situation overcoming her, Meredith had stuttered and stumbled and made a fool of herself, but the president had been gracious.

      She sipped her coffee then put down the cup. “I was shocked when you called. I never expected to hear directly from you. We agreed—”

      Dean leaned infinitesimally closer, his back ramrod straight. “I know what we agreed, but I couldn’t trust anything except a face-to-face on this one.” He seemed to force himself to relax and gave her what passed for his smile. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience for you to meet me.”

      “Seeing you could never be anything but a pleasure, Dean. You should know that by now.”

      Meredith patted the older man’s hand. He was the same age her father would have been were he still alive and the two men had always reminded her of each other with their similar military backgrounds, their staunch patriotism and their love of all things convoluted.

      But she hadn’t wanted to meet with Reynolds when he’d called and obviously he’d sensed that during their short conversation. He’d said just enough to make her want to hear more but trepidation had come with it. Her father had passed away six months ago from a stroke and she missed him like crazy. They’d been business partners as well as parent and child, their relationship particularly close since Meredith’s mom had died while Meredith had been in college, a brain tumor taking her within months of its discovery. Since her father’s death, Meredith had questioned every decision she’d made.

      Just as she was doing now.

      She toyed with her napkin, folding the edges, then smoothing them, the metal grids on the table making a pattern from below. “I’m just not sure I can help you with this…situation,” she said reluctantly. “You may be talking to the wrong person.”

      “I disagree and so does the man I report to. He wants you in on this and you and I both know why.” He paused. “It’s important, Meredith, or I wouldn’t even be asking you.”

      “He” was the president but neither of them acknowledged that fact.

      “I understand what you’re saying, Dean, but one of our own?” She shook her head at the enormity of what he was asking.

      “I know…I know. It doesn’t feel right, does it?”

      He sounded sad as he asked the question that needed no answer. “All I can say is that we have no other option. We have to stop these people. Think about 9/11. You would have done anything to prevent that disaster, just like I would have.”

      “Are you talking about something that big?”

      “Yes. Potentially worse. These aren’t migrant farm workers Jack Haden is smuggling from Mexico, Meredith. They’re terrorists from Syria. Every one of them is a member of Al Balsair.”

      Meredith drew a deep breath at the name of the violent group. “That just doesn’t sound like the Haden I knew. Dammit, Dean, he’s the last guy I’d expect to get involved in something like this.”

      Reynolds’s mouth tightened at her curse, just as her father’s would have. “My information is as reliable as information gets. Jack Haden’s turned and you have to take care of him. If you don’t, he’s going to help some of the worst terrorists alive get a free pass into the United States. I don’t want that happening on my watch, Meredith, and you shouldn’t, either. He’s a traitor.”

      She gripped her cup and wished she had a flask of something—anything—that she could add to what was left of her coffee.

      Jack Haden had been her boss at the Agency,