A Soldier's Honour

“It is when the smell isn’t a foggy stench in the kitchen. Go.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll try not to eat all the cookies before you get back.”

He dropped the beater into the sink with a clatter and dashed off, his feet pounding on the stair treads. Hopefully the promise of hot cookies would encourage him to keep the shower brief.

She flipped through the mail, part of her mind sifting through dinner choices to go with the cookies. The timer went off and she swapped out cookie sheets again. Returning to the mail, she’d decided on spaghetti for the speed and ease, as well as the sheer volume, when her hands landed on an envelope with an official government agency seal in the return address corner.

Seriously? Alone, she let loose an aggravated groan. As a contracts officer for the federal government, she’d heard about the breach of Military personnel records. Last week, it was all anyone could talk about at the office. Since she and most of her coworkers had security clearances at one level or another, they were aware their information had likely been compromised, as well.

This must be the formal confirmation that her information had been part of the breach. Good thing she’d taken precautions against personal identity theft years ago. Resigned, she opened the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper. Not an official notice at all, despite the proper agency letterhead. The two handwritten lines in the center of the page offered up a message far more sinister.

Your bank records don’t match your income.

Your secret will soon be common knowledge.

Blood rushed through her head, making her feel hot and cold simultaneously. She slumped to a counter stool, the single paper fluttering in her unsteady hands as she tried to bring her racing thoughts into logical order. She only had one secret and Caleb deserved to hear it from her, not some sneaky outsider with a gift for breaking through firewalls.

Addressing a threat like this was outside the scope of any standard identity-theft service. Clearly someone had discovered the banking discrepancy, courtesy of the support Caleb’s father sent her each month, but who would bother to look for something so benign in the first place?

She reached for her phone and snatched her hand back. Through the years, he’d practically begged her to call. Anytime, and for any need, his early letters and voice mails had vowed he’d be there for her and Caleb.

Did the two lines on the letterhead really warrant this phone call? Better to ask her attorney to reach out to him through the security office, except that wasn’t her primary concern.

Keeping her hands busy with the last of the baked cookies and then the dishes, she forced herself to think before calling anyone. First and foremost were Caleb’s rights and feelings. The people in charge of her clearance status already knew what the author of the note threatened to expose. Although the extra money might appear questionable to an outsider at first glance, an inquiry would quickly prove that everything was above board.

As a single mom with a daily routine leaning dangerously close to boring, she was hardly scandalous headline material. Good grief, her last promising date had been at least six months ago. None of the contracts currently on her desk were particularly sensitive. No one with any authority would care about her financial life or the private support agreement.

Why would anyone put in the effort to try to frighten her this way?

She dried the mixing bowl and measuring cups, stacked the cooling cookie sheets for Caleb to finish when they were done with dinner, the question stewing. Personally, her concerns revolved around how the news would impact Caleb and their extended family. Temper was a given, she’d known that deep in her heart for years. Her son would likely hate her for keeping the truth from him this long. Once he had the facts, she would be facing the very real possibility that Caleb would think the grass looked greener on his father’s side of the fence. And he was old enough now to speak for himself if his father—or his father’s family—pushed for custody rights.

Bethany scrubbed at her cheeks, wiping away a tear as it slid down her cheek. She would not let her mind run so far ahead and tumble off that particular cliff. She would think, assess and be logical about the next steps.

Officially, she supposed it was possible that this threat posed a real problem for Caleb’s father, putting a dent in that stellar career he had going. Yes, she would have to make the call.

Hearing the water shut off upstairs, she sighed.

It was time to tell Caleb everything about his dad and that side of his family. She couldn’t let him hear it from anyone else. Better if she and his father could do that together.

As she heard him moving around upstairs, she thought maybe the phone call to Caleb’s father would be a cakewalk compared to the challenge of hanging on to her son’s trust in the aftermath.

It was just past eleven when Major Matthew Riley and his boss, Major General James Knudson, walked out of the sports bar to meet the general’s driver waiting in the parking area. Shortly after setting up shop in the Pentagon, the general decided that the Monday-night football game would be a good weekly morale builder for his staff.

Arranging the event was Matt’s first official task as the general’s adjutant. It fell to him to locate a bar willing to accommodate their group and convince the staff members they’d enjoy it. Several weeks into the season, the effort seemed to be working. No one grumbled about the outing and a few spouses had started showing up as well, with the general’s encouragement, since no professional talk was allowed.

From all walks of life, everyone in the office had a different home team and creative methods of disparaging that team’s rivals. The inevitable jokes and teasing had given them common ground and sparked lively conversation and debate. It was the first of many excellent lessons in management and leadership Matt was filing away for the days when he assumed command of an Army battalion.

“I always feel a little guilty when I root against the local team,” the general said. Barrel-chested, with a long, confident stride, he stood a couple inches taller than Matt, who was six-one. His gaze continuously scanned his surroundings, proof that lessons learned in combat didn’t fade easily.

“Isn’t the phrase ‘When in Rome’?” The night had turned crisp while they’d been inside the bar, and Matt turned up his collar against the chilly breeze, and then tucked his hands into his pockets.

“It is,” Knudson replied. “You know, the Army has sent me all over the world, and I’m still the little kid from the West Coast who wants to stand up and do a wacky touchdown dance when my team comes through.”

“Wouldn’t mind seeing that,” Matt joked.

Knudson gave him an assessing glance. “You’d plaster that all over the internet.”

“No, sir,” Matt said, earnestly. “I’d only send it out as an internal memo.”

The general’s booming laughter carried through the clear night as they approached his car. “Need a lift home?” His driver hopped out of the front seat and opened the door for him.

“No, thank you, sir.” Matt pulled out his cell phone. “The app says my ride is only a few minutes out.” His one complaint with his Washington, DC, assignment was leaving his treasured, newly restored 1967 Camaro in a parking garage six days out of seven and letting someone else do most of the driving.

“Tired of my company already?”

Squealing tires interrupted Matt’s reply and headlights momentarily blinded him as a car barreled toward them, narrowly missing parked cars. Matt and the general came to alert and the driver moved into a protective position.

Matt shoved the general into his car through the open rear door, cutting off Knudson’s bellowed protest. “Stay low!” He barked the order at his superior officer and closed the door.

Huddled behind the protection of the car with the driver, Matt told him to call the police.

“On it,” the driver replied.

“Good.” Matt reached for his sidearm before he remembered they weren’t armed and this wasn’t a war zone. He didn’t have enough information to decide if that was good or bad news. The car had screamed past them, but was turning up the next closest aisle. Matt popped up long enough to confirm an escape route and hopefully get a license plate number.

An object hurtled through the air, forcing him to duck. He swore. The police would need more than the make and model of the dark sedan to track down this idiot. Black or dark blue cars with four doors were far too prevalent in this area. The erratic driver might as well be invisible.

A loud crack sounded when the object the driver had thrown hit the windshield of the general’s car before bouncing to the pavement near Matt. “What the hell?”

Tires screeched again and Matt peeked over the top of the trunk just enough to glimpse the sedan speeding away, taking the most direct route to the main street that looped around the hub of restaurants and stores. Thankfully sirens were close.

“Should I stay or go?” the driver asked.

“I’d feel better if you waited for an escort back to the general’s house.”

With a nod, the driver scrambled into the car and started the engine. He must have told the general the threat was over, because the back door flew open, nearly clipping Matt’s knees. Knudson lunged from the car. “What was that, Riley?”

“I’m not sure, sir.” He held out the object that had been thrown.

It was a baseball with a note scrawled on the side.

You will pay.

The ball wasn’t new. Grubby and battered, with several stitches popped, it looked as if it had been through as many campaigns as the general. Matt wasn’t an investigator, but he didn’t think this would give the authorities much to go on.

Emergency lights spilled over the pavement, glaring off the nearby cars while Matt, General Knudson and the general’s driver relayed every detail they could recall about the incident to the responding officers from both the Alexandria, Virginia Police Department and the Metropolitan Police from Washington, DC, who turned out after hearing who had been attacked.

The team from Alexandria sealed the baseball into an evidence bag and labeled it. Based on their grim expressions, it seemed they weren’t confident an old baseball thrown by an unseen assailant in a nondescript car was much to work with either.

“Drunk driver maybe?” One officer wondered aloud.