Rogue Protector, page 2
Austin
Standing in the doorway of my empty apartment should stir more of a reaction. I want to feel…something. Anything besides this hollow, restless sensation that’s haunted me for weeks. Since the attack in Islamabad.
We were targets from the moment we stepped foot in Pakistan. For six months, my security team worked their asses off. Until the United States Ambassador showed up for an unannounced visit. We scrambled. Mistakes were made. And when we escorted her back to the Embassy, we were sitting ducks.
I got her and her teenage son out of their burning vehicle and laid down cover fire until two of her escorts got her to a mosque down the street that sheltered them.
But the second blast killed three members of my security detail and left Griff, the only one who survived, with permanent hearing loss and only half his left arm.
“Pritchard. I can’t feel my fingers,” he’d croaked as I’d dragged myself over to him and tried—despite three bullet wounds to my shoulder and back—to keep firing until help arrived. “Shit. I can’t…there’s something wrong with my hearing. It’s so quiet. Fuck. Am I dying? Don’t let me die, man.”
Every night when I try to sleep, I hear him. See him. His arm crushed under the remains of that heavy stone wall. Blood covering the left half of his face. The desperation in his eyes.
Outside of Ryker McCabe—a retired Special Forces detachment commander—and his team, Griff has the best damn instincts of anyone I’ve worked with in more than twenty years, and now…he’ll be lucky to ride a desk, let alone go out in the field again. Nothing will fix his hearing. And while I called in some favors to get him consults with the best prosthetic clinics in the country, it’s not going to give him back his arm.
He saved my fucking life. Shoved me out of the way of a collapsing concrete wall—only to be trapped himself. I wish my gratitude could do him a damn bit of good. But I’m out. Clarke pushed my retirement papers through while I was still recovering, and now…I’m a civilian for the first time in more than twenty years.
At least I kept my pension. Wren—Ryker’s wife and the best damn hacker I’ve ever met—carefully scrubbed every single piece of video evidence tying me to Venezuela and the fall of their government. Without her help, I’d be in a military prison right now.
Training won’t let me leave a single footprint on the carpet I meticulously vacuumed after I cleaned the place top to bottom, so I stand at the threshold, wishing I knew what to do next.
A couple of days with Mom and Dad in New Haven. That’s a given. Dad knows everything now. My sister, Dani, told him while I was in Pakistan. After she brought Trevor home for a long weekend.
Dad will hammer me with questions. Mom will bake brownies and tell me I need to eat more. I give it all of a week before I have to get out of there. I love my parents. Don’t think I could have asked for better ones. But I’m numb. Every damn day. The military is all I know.
Even with two Masters’ degrees, I’ve never worked in the private sector. And though some pompous ass named Smith from the CIA has called me every other day for a month, that’s the last place I want to go. Not after Gil’s death. After what happened to Trevor.
Hoisting my duffel, I stifle a grunt. One of the bullets tore through my rotator cuff. The physical therapist cleared me to resume all normal activities, but it still hurts like a son of a bitch if I move without thinking about it.
I need to go somewhere no one can find me. Dad used to talk about hiking the Maya Trail. He did it when he was eighteen. Came back and enlisted in the Air Force Academy after some transcendent moment of clarity.
I could get lost in Mexico. See if I find what I’m looking for. Escape. Purpose. Peace. Fifteen hundred miles? That’ll keep me busy for a while. Maybe by the time I’m done, I’ll know who Austin Pritchard, civilian, really is.
Chapter Three
Mikayla
After I secure the door to the greenhouse and step back into the air conditioned halls of the Smithsonian Environmental Research Center, I feel like I can take a deep breath again. The Blushing Note orchid only grows in high altitude climates with over seventy percent humidity, and the warm, wet air is hell on my asthma.
Almost a year ago, we obtained one of the plants for study—after contentious negotiations with the Mexican government—and I spend ten to fifteen hours a week now in conditions that could trigger an asthma attack with little to no warning.
We’ve separated the plant five times, grafted it to other, hardier orchids, but so far, our successes have been limited at best.
You’re training yourself, Mik. Acclimating in case this grant comes through.
At least two or three times a day, I have to repeat those words to steel myself before I head in to take samples, care for the orchids, or supervise my grad students who are mixing different soil combinations, testing out different types of fertilizer, and handling the cross-breeding.
I rest my back against the cool, white plaster wall for a minute and force slow, deep breaths. My daily inhaler works wonders, but it’s not a cure, and if I have to use my rescue inhaler, I’ll be jittery and useless for hours afterwards.
Li, one of my graduate students, rushes down the hall towards me, an iced coffee in each hand. “Hey, Dr. Mik. I brought you a pick-me-up.”
I’m so grateful, I’d hug her if she didn’t work for me. She’s young—all three of my students are—but so bright, eager, and driven that most days, I leave her in charge of the greenhouse after I finish the morning run down of the day’s planned duties.
“You’re a mind reader,” I say before I take a sip. “And a life saver. I have a meeting with Dr. Lowenstein in fifteen minutes to talk about next year’s budget. There’s no way I want to do that without caffeine. Thank you.”
Li blushes and stares down at her bright red flats. “You were still sending emails at 2:00 a.m. I thought Corey was supposed to help you finalize the budget spreadsheets?”
“He had to fly back to Los Angeles last night,” I say. “Family issues.”
“Oh.” Li scuffs the ball of her dainty foot against the linoleum. No one talks about Corey’s home life, but everyone knows. His dad gets picked up for drug possession with intent to sell once a year or so, and Corey flies across the country to bail him out, then deals with the man’s verbal abuse for days.
“It’s all done and submitted now. Nothing to worry about,” I say as I force a smile.
At least I hope not.
Lifting her lab coat from the row of pegs outside the greenhouse door, she frowns, which is so out of character for her, I almost do a double-take. “I love this internship, Dr. Mik. When I graduate next year, I want to work here if there are any openings.”
“Oh, Li.” This is the most vulnerability I’ve ever seen her display. She and Isaiah—the third student I supervise—started dating six months ago, and they’re open and affectionate with each other when they think I’m too distracted to notice, but otherwise, they’re all business all the time.
My gaze drops to the iced coffee, and the corners of my lips turn up slightly. “I’d hire you in a heartbeat. Your work has been amazing from your very first day. I have to believe we’re going to get our full funding again. The work Brian Branch and his team at Johns Hopkins are doing shows real promise to help Parkinson’s patients. They’re depending on us. We need to continue this work. Keep breeding the orchid in our greenhouses, cross it with hardier varieties, do…something to keep it alive and existing in this world.”
I don’t need to tell her all of this. My sales pitch. It flows off my tongue so easily. Of course, I’ve practiced it in front of a mirror every night for a month. Now, the words are so second nature to me, I can’t stop once I start.
Li’s exceedingly polite, listening patiently until I realize what I’m doing and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m keeping you from your work. And the rest of your coffee. It’s Friday. Leave a little early. Go have some fun this weekend. And tell Isaiah to do the same.”
“Isaiah’s on his way in,” Li says, her cheeks pinking as she tries to hide behind her coffee cup. “I’ll let him know.”
I wish I felt comfortable reassuring her that she’ll find no judgment from me for moving in with him. I heard them talking a couple of months ago, agreeing they’d always drive in separately to “keep up appearances.” Her parents are even more conservative than mine from what I’ve gathered.
Raising my coffee cup and thanking her again, I head for my office to prepare for the meeting with Lowenstein. The drink helps steady my nerves, and the caffeine chases away the last of the tightness in my chest.
For the past two years, this orchid and its potential have been my life. I’ve seen the damage Parkinson’s can do to a person. My grandmother died from it, and just a few months ago, my mentor and boss revealed his own battle with the disease. Saving the Blushing Note and finding a treatment is more important to me than anything besides my family and friends. I can’t fathom a world in which I fail, and there’s no way I’m letting anyone take this work from me without a fight.
Fifteen minutes later, I knock on Dr. Howard Lowenstein’s door, my heart beating a little too quickly for my liking. No matter what, I’ll still have a job come January. But the Smithsonian studies all kinds of plants, animals, and insects in danger of going extinct, and I could easily be assigned to work on endangered sea grass in Florida. While I’d do it without question—all endangered species need to be protected—I just know my work with the Blushing Note will make a real difference for so many people. If we can just get that grant…
Focus, Mik.
“Come in!” Howard calls, and I cradle my tablet to my chest, all the recent test data ready and waiting if I need to justify keeping all three of my grad students on this project. I’ve played the what if game time and time again, asking myself all the questions I think Howard—or anyone else on the board—will throw at me.
“Mikayla, it’s good to see you,” Howard says with a warm smile. “Put that tablet away. You won’t need it.”
Hope tugs at the corners of my lips as I shove the device into my messenger bag. “Does that mean we have our funding for the next year?”
My boss waits for me to sink into the chair across from him. “The budget decisions won’t be made for another week, but I think I can safely say yes. I cannot imagine any reason why you wouldn’t get full funding next year.“
“You’re killing me, Dr. Lowenstein. If the committee hasn’t finalized everything, why call me in?” My fingers are tingling, as are my cheeks—they always do when I’m excited or nervous—and I force a couple of deep breaths.
“Is your passport up to date, Mikayla?” His brown eyes twinkle, and he pulls a piece of paper from under a folder on his desk.
“Y-yes. Why—? Oh! The fellowship? Please tell me we got it!” I’m practically vibrating now, anticipation racing up and down my spine, but Howard just sits there, the paper clutched in his hand, a wide smile on his face.
I want to shake the man, because he’s letting me jump to all sorts of conclusions that might be totally wrong, except he’s my boss and that would be totally inappropriate. “Tell me!” I say, leaning forward and squinting to try to read the embossing on the letter.
Lowenstein laughs, a rich, deep belly laugh, and slides the paper across the desk. “The Mexican government just approved VISAs for you and your team, and the money from the World Horticultural Society was wired to the Smithsonian today. Congratulations, Mikayla. You and your grad students have three weeks to study the Blushing Note orchid in the Chiapas mountains. The grant will fund a full mobile lab unit, hotel rooms in San Crisóbal del las Casas, meals, and incidentals. All yours. You earned it.”
I jump up before he finishes his sentence, hugging the acceptance letter to my chest and beaming, tears pricking my eyes. “Oh my God. I can’t tell you what this means to me. I have to call Dr. Branch at Johns Hopkins. And tell my students.”
The long list of everything we have to do runs through my mind, and I start pacing the small office. “When do we leave? When can we leave? Do I have to make the travel arrangements myself? What about the Mexican government? Have they detected any poaching activity lately? If so, will they authorize additional patrols? How do we send samples back here?”
Howard shakes his head and chuckles. “Slow down, Mikayla. We’ll talk about all of that on Monday. The final details are still being worked out with the authorities. For right now, go celebrate with your grad students. Oh, and make sure everyone has a valid passport. That’s the most important thing. Ideally, you’ll leave within the next three weeks, but the exact date is up to you.” Pushing to his feet with a groan, he offers me his hand. Despite the early-stage Parkinson’s he was diagnosed with last month, his grip is strong, and his eyes clear. “All of your hard work is paying off. I’m not naive enough to count on any sort of treatment from the Blushing Note to be available in time to help me, but because of you and your work, there’s hope for the next generation. You deserve this honor more than I can say.”
“I couldn’t have done any of it without you. Thank you for believing in me.”
“You made it easy. Now get out of here! Go celebrate.”
I float out of his office feeling like my entire life finally makes sense. The ten years I spent in college. All those hours writing my dissertations. Fighting my way into this job—beating out a dozen other applicants—all of them men—and finding a home here. Colleagues who support me. Students as zealous as I am—if not more. And then, my partnership with Brian. Branch and learning I had a chance to make a real difference…
So many times, I was rejected or dismissed out of hand because of my last name—Salim—my boobs, the color of my skin, my parents’ refugee status.
Now, it’s all worth it. Practically skipping down the hall, I head for the greenhouse to tell Li and Isaiah. It’s too bad Corey’s across the country, because I’m taking the other two out to celebrate.
Chapter Four
September
Austin
The cool, damp air of the Grutas del Malmut cave system is a welcome change from the heat of Palenque. The cave floor is slippery and wet in spots, and I take my time, running my hand over the rough rocks that bear the shape of long-extinct beasts, and planting my feet carefully with each step.
There’s something visceral about this place. Something real.
For almost three weeks now, I’ve hiked my way along the Maya Trail. Old temples, ancient settlements…history. People who lived and loved and fought and died, were forgotten and rediscovered again. Yet, even here, I don’t feel like I’m real.
My entire trip has been full of real experiences. Ones that make me wonder if I ever want to go back to the United States. What the hell would I do? Work for the CIA? I can’t take another job that asks me to sacrifice so much. That puts other people in danger.
For the first time since Gil died, I feel something akin to peace. It’s not. Not truly. But it’s closer than I’ve been in five years. Maybe even longer.
What if I stay?
Losing myself in Mexico feels...right. My Air Force retirement pay is enough to make a good life here. I could find a job—something simple. Handyman. Though I don’t know much about construction. Gardener? I know even less about plants. But I could learn.
I spend hours in the cool, dimly lit caverns until I realize a life without responsibilities just isn’t me. I’d last a month. Maybe two. Hell, I already spend my days pushing my body to its physical limits and my nights drinking just enough to fall into bed and keep the nightmares away.
Less than two minutes after I emerge from the cave, my cell phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check the screen. Fuck. Trevor’s the last man I want to talk to. Every time I think about him, I see Gil’s face. Feel his blade slicing across my chest or driving deep into my thigh. But I have to answer. I owe him that much.
“Trev. Been a while.”
“Whose fault is that?” Trevor’s voice holds an edge I haven’t heard in a long time. Not since we were teenagers. “Dani’s called you half a dozen times in the past few weeks, and you’ve ignored her every fucking time. Sent three or four word text messages back. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business,” I snap and pull the phone away from my ear so I can end the call.
“You’re hurting her,” Trevor says, and that’s enough to keep me on the line. “You know his fucking birthday is next week. And Dani wants—needs—the only brother she has left to get on the phone with her and have an actual conversation.”
“Shit.”
“Shit is right. She’ll be home in two hours, and her phone better ring in under four. You hear me?”
“Yeah. I do. I’m sorry, Trev. I haven’t been in a good place.” Finding a bench under some trees where I can watch kids kicking soccer balls and families enjoying tacos and gathering around fire pits, I stretch my legs, the tight muscles reminding me I’m getting...older. Too old to keep running away from my problems.
“You don’t think we know that? That I know that?” His irritation fades, leaving only weariness in his tone. “You went to Pakistan because of me. You got hurt because of me. You were driven out of the Air Force and JSOC because of me.”
“No.” The single word escapes, harsh and rough, and I slam my hand down on the wood slats. The gesture stings my palm, but the pain is better than feeling nothing, so I do it again.
A woman passing by with her young daughter shoots me a look, and I blow out a long breath. “You’re not...wrong. But you’re not right either, Trev. For years, JSOC was all I wanted. Hell, they groomed me for it. And I probably would have made National Security Council or even Secretary of Defense one day if I’d actually wanted it. But I didn’t. I haven’t for a long time. Pakistan was a shitshow, and yeah. I went there to avoid a court-martial. I was damn lucky Clarke didn’t decide to hold a grudge. But I knew what I was doing when I left my post and flew to Venezuela. And I don’t regret a goddamn thing. You and Dani—and Mom and Dad—you’re my family.”
